But how do they know?

Tornado E: But I want a baby girl!

Me: Why?

Tornado E: Because I want to dance with her when she gets older!


Me: Well, it’s probably going to be a baby boy.

Tornado E: How can you tell?

Me: Well, the doctor took a special camera and looked.  She’s pretty sure it’s a boy.

The Husband: Probably?  Pretty sure?

Me: Shut up.  They make mistakes.

Ok, maybe I’m not as resigned to this boy thing as I pretend to be.

But the next person to ask if I’m disappointed, I’ll punch in the face.  Luckily they have only asked my mom, who waves them off with a “Of course not, she’s having a baby.”  But then Christmas is coming with all that family.  This may be an interesting family get-together.

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The News

If I had known what the ultra sound room looked like, I would have insisted on a time in which my mom and the boys could have come.  It was roomy with chairs for six with a big flat screen hanging on the wall, hooked to the ultra sound machine.  It was impressive.  Baby delivering was lucrative.

As we started it, the doc asked, “So what do we want?”

The Husband: A Girl!

The Doc:  Then I’ll call her a she until we know.

I rolled my eyes and concentrated on the blurb that turned out to be my baby.  And the little stinker was kneeling.  The med student engaged us in conversation where we mentioned we had two boys already.

Med student: What do they think?

Me: Well, the two year old has no idea what train wreck is going to hit him.  The four year old is pretty excited.  First he wanted a girl.  But then he wanted a bald baby.  So if it’s a bald baby, it has to be a boy.  He decided we’ll name him Kevin.  Or Elephant.

Med Student: Kevin?  Like from Up?!

Me: I guess so.

Doc:  It looks like Kevin is going to be a good name.  More socially acceptable than Elephant.

The Husband: Are you sure?

We stared at the screen as she moved the instrument around for a good picture of the boy parts.

Doc: Well, I checked several times to make sure that wasn’t the umbilical cord.  But that defiantly looks like boy parts.

Yup.  They sure did.

We watched in silent as she studied the heart and head, explaining what we saw.  Tears formed in my eyes, but I forced them back.

As we left the office with all the pictures, The Husband turned to me.

The Husband: I’m really disappointed.  I totally thought this was a girl.  What are the odds?  Don’t worry, babe, we can always adopt or try again.

Me: I think this will be the last pregnancy.  I don’t know if I can take more vomiting and peeing my pants.  I’m a little disappointed too.  But we really have to rush because I have to make chicken and dumplings at my mom’s.

I told my family as I prepared dinner.  Then when everything was cooking, I called my BFF, who rambled on about her day until I mentioned I went to the doctor.

BFF: Damnit.  I should have called you.  It’s on my calendar!  Well?!

Me: It’s a boy.

BFF: Oh, honey!

Me: I know.  It’s ok.  I only wanted to cry a little bit.

And then I cried.  I cried for five minutes straight.  As my BFF told me it was ok to be disappointed, that it didn’t mean I was a bad mom or that I wouldn’t love the baby any less, it was ok.   I stopped.

Me: So I’m a mom of a troop of boys.

BFF: Yup.

Me: It’s going to be fun.

BFF: Yup.

And I felt better as we talked.

I always pictured having a daughter, even as a child.  But what do I need a girl for?  Someone who would bake and cook with me.  I never wanted to be in the kitchen when I was a kid, unless it was baking.  My brother learned to cook at my mother’s side.  I learned after I left the house.  Did you know there’s a wrong way to eat a tomato?  Someone to shop with me?  I hate shopping, except with certain people.  In college someone would drag me to the mall, and I would sit with the boyfriends (with a backward nod and How’s it going) as I nearly died of boredom as the girl tried on thing after thing.  Play faeries with?  Actually the boys love Tinker Bell.  They love my little pocket toys and my faeries.  I guess I’ll be buying the Tinker Bell movies for Christmas.  Doing a little girl’s hair?  I hate doing hair.  As a little girl, I would cringe as my mom put the dead hair she pulled out of the brush in my hands, and that was after begging and sobbing not to make me hold it.  To teach someone to wear make-up?  I only wear make-up at grown up events.

As I talked to the BFF, I told her what I (and she) believed.  God gives us what we need; not what we want.  How easy would it be to raise a feminist girl?  A tomboy and princess all rolled into one?  Easy.  (So says the woman without daughters.)  But I have to raise feminist boys.  Boys that will go through a stage that girls are yucky, a stage where girls are stupid, a stage when girls are just to mess around with.  I get to crack heads and teach manners.  I have to be stronger to prove women are strong.  I also have to bone up on my sports skills so they know exactly how a girl throws.  (In my peak, I could throw a softball with one bounce from the back of centerfield to home plate.)  I have my work cut out for me, but I plan on raising the good guys that any mother would be proud to call son one day.

I think I cursed myself.  I said on some radical feminist blog that it’s an adult that makes a toy gender specific.  What makes a car a boy toy?  What makes a doll a girl toy?  Then I turned around and told my pen pal that I couldn’t find any craft kits for boys because they were all about making jewelry and spa stuff.  My pen pal asked, “Wouldn’t your boys love making sparkly jewelry?”  Damnit.  Yes, they would.  Just like Tornado E would be thrilled with a Tinker Bell doll.  And wings.

As my BFF and I began to end our conversation, she giggled.

Me: What?

BFF: The Husband was sweet to be disappointed.  But I think he wanted you to have a girl because he thinks the boys are for him.  (pause for breath)  What he doesn’t realize is they are all for you.  Besides boys are closer to their mothers.

I smiled.  She was right, as usual.  Didn’t I just read a book about this?

That night as The Husband crawled into bed, he tried to cheer me up because he hadn’t realized I was so over being sad.

The Husband: Babe, you’re going to one protected woman.

I smiled as I pictured myself surrounded by three strapping boys.

Me: Don’t you forget it.

The Husband: Hey, I’m one of them!

Sure, you are.

Thank you to all the wonderful people who commented on A Dark Secret.  You rock my world and made me feel so much better.  I’ll answer everyone later today, but I thought I would get this up for my East coast readers.

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A Dark Secret

I have a secret.  It’s buried deep within me.  I don’t want it out.  But I think you’ll understand.

When I decided to get pregnant, I spent months agonizing over the decision.  I weighed the pros and cons.  I knew I wanted another child.  But was it practical?  Was it a need?  Was it a smart decision?  We’re in a rental home, and The Husband is rebuilding his business in a time of economic down turn.  I had my hands full with the boys.  I had other issues that I should be deal with.  But I still wanted that child.  It didn’t seem logical.  In fact, it was quite illogical.  Stupid as I made my list of cons.  I hate doing something stupid.  But there it was a calling to have another child.  A strong desire that I had only felt once when working towards college and picking the unpractical degree of Creative Writing.

So then I asked the really hard question.  Did I want another child or just a daughter?  If it was a daughter, then I might as well start saving for adoption.  I began research over adoption, foreign and domestic.  I continued to analyze my want.  In the end, I realized I wanted another child.  I be perfectly happy with another son.

So after months of praying, thinking, meditating, I told The Husband, who had no idea I was going through such a mental crisis, that I truly wanted another child.  He was already on board.  But since I couldn’t deny a little girl would be nice, I decided to naturally switch the odds in my favor.

Tomorrow I’ll find out if I did.

And I’m nervous.

What if I wasn’t really honest with myself after all that soul searching?  What if I truly wanted a daughter so bad my heart bled with want?  What if I’m disappointed that it’s a boy?

I wasn’t disappointed with the first two pregnancies.  I thought I could always have another.  With Tornado E, we found out the moment he entered the world and the doctor checked.  My mom and The Husband were so sure he would be a girl, but he was a boy.  I was so excited that I kept saying “it’s a boy” over and over again.  With Tornado S we decided to find out just so we could have everything ready.  The Husband, Tornado E, and I stared at the screen as the technician rolled the instrument over my belly.  She announced, “It’s a boy.”  The Husband asked if she was sure.  She was very sure.  I said, “We’re still buying a play kitchen.”  The Husband was worried I would be disappointed, kept watching for signs that I didn’t love the baby enough.

Any mother would find that preposterous.  How could I not love my baby to the fullest extent of my heart and beyond?  Boy, girl, it doesn’t matter.  It’s my baby.  So I know that if the little bean is a boy, I will love him to the point of breaking my heart.  And thanks to Raising Boys Without Men, I feel more comfortable with the thought of raising men who won’t run off and forget their mom.

But what if tomorrow there is just a moment of disappointment?  Just a slight part of a second where I realize I won’t have a daughter.  I think I will cry for that moment of doubt.  But to make it worse, what if The Husband sees that flicker of disappointment across my face?  Because he won’t understand.  He’ll always wonder if I don’t love my third son as much as the other two because he was another boy.

This is why I hate opening up presents in front of people.  Sure, there are things I truly want, sometimes expect to get.   But there’s that brief moment of empty disappointment over realizing you didn’t get what you want.  Sure, you’re extremely ecstatic that you got this awesome present from people who thought about you and love you, but it wasn’t really what you wanted.  Your voice sounds fake to your own ears as you thank them.  The disappointment fades off as you brag about the gift to other people, but you always wonder if the givers ever knew you weren’t really excited those first few minutes.

Part of me doesn’t want to know tomorrow.  There’s a chance hope will die.  But in its place will be love and excitement.  I wish I could know without anyone there, without worrying about what I feel or say or think or look like.  I just want to absorb the fact.  If I thought The Husband would understand, I would ask if they could just put it in an envelope for us to look at later, and then I could open it without anyone there.  But The Husband is super excited.  He hated waiting to find out Tornado E was.  I don’t think I could sell him on the envelope idea.

Doubt about God, Heaven and Hell, the brilliance of Shakespeare, I can handle.  I don’t know if I can handle doubting myself.

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Berry Pie

Let’s go over this again.  How many pregnancies have we been through together?


So really you should know by now when I ask with a manic glint in my eyes for something specific, like a berry pie.  I mean a berry pie.  I would settle for a cobbler or a tart.  But I NEED the berries and the crust and NOTHING else.  It’s not my fault.  I’m not usually like this.  Sure, when I send you out for dessert, I expect something with chocolate, but you don’t understand that because you’re not a big chocolate guy.  I settle for what you bring.  Except when I’m pregnant.

So when you rush out to bring me my berry pie, I’m grateful.

But don’t get hurt when I look crushed, when I start to cry, when I see that you brought me a fresh fruit tart . . . with kiwi with the berries . . . with cream . . . with a crust that isn’t quite like a pie crust.  I know you tried.  I know you searched.  But I also know when I mentioned the frozen dessert section as a second resort that you waved me off saying you’ll just go to the pie section.

Don’t laugh when I start to cry in disappointment.  I’m emotional and irrational, and I cry at the drop of a hat.  I’m pregnant!  You try growing a baby, having your body morph in strange ways, be a washed in a sea of hormones.  See how normal you are.

Yes, you did the right thing bringing me a slice of tart to try since I ran away in tears, softly closing the bedroom door when I wanted to slam it (but the boys were sleeping). 

But don’t act hurt that I’m crying.  Of course, I’m going to yell at you.  I just vomited a bit because I started coughing because I was crying.  I can’t even have a good refreshing cry without that stupid cough making me more miserable.  I’m trying not to lose my dinner here with all those healthy vegetables and milk.   

Yes, I’m a big enough person to admit that I’m emotional and appreciative and that I shouldn’t have snapped at you.

But don’t act like I’m a basket case as I whip up a small berry crumble.  I would have done it before if I had the almonds I like using to make a bottom crust.  Yes, I’ll stay up late enjoying it.  Yes, the tart was fine.  You can have as much as you like.  You know what would go great with this crumble?  Vanilla ice cream.  No, we don’t have any.  But I know the stores aren’t closed yet.

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I promise you it’s not the plague; it’s allergies

I need to go on a rant here, and it might just be too much information for some of you.  So if you want to slink away now, I won’t hold it against you.  I’ve been thinking about this rant for some time because I’ve got no one in real life that can truly understand, and I figured since I know so many moms online, maybe someone will understand out there.  Besides some of my most favorite bloggers are open and honest about their TMI stuff and their embarrassing shit.  And I want to be like them.

About six weeks ago, Tornado E came down with a cold.  A nasty little thing that knocked him down for almost a week.  Fever, chills, runny nose.   You might remember me mentioning I had it before committing radio silence for a week.  Fever, chills, runny nose, and a cough that sounded uncomfortably close to a smoker’s cough.  Sweet.  Not only did I feel like crap, people looked at me like I had the plague.  All I needed was a couple of boils, a hood, and a bell to ring and call out “Bring out your dead.”  Since I’m a responsible pregnant mom, I didn’t down a bottle of Nyquil like I would have and been done with it.  No, I suffered for a week before my OB/GYN appointment, where my doc told me what I could take and that there was a list of medicines on the website if I ever needed to look anything up.  Sweet!  I was on the mend.

Except the cough.  Which lingered.  And lingered.  And by God, it’s been five f-ing weeks.  About three weeks in, I searched, scoured the website, and you know what.  There was no list of medicines.  So after a day or so, I called.  And low and behold, they told me what to take for a cough.  Sweet!  Now I was on the mend.

Except my allergies hit.  After going eighteen years without allergies, moving to CA for another ten, and returning home, I have allergies in my home town.  Are you kidding me?!  Now my nose runs like a faucet because I can’t take the good stuff.  And I still have that damn cough as I try to hack out a lung.

I was probably out of morning sickness danger for over a week before it dawned on me the only time I vomited was when I had a real bad coughing attack after lying down.  Just yesterday a coughing fit sent me running to the toilet where I dry heaved for five minutes as I pissed my pants because that’s what I do when I’m pregnant and vomiting.  I piss my pants.

Oh, and it gets better.  If it’s a powerful coughing spell, I piss my pants.  Sometimes it’s just a little; sometimes it actually does wet my pants.  Then I can’t make up my mind whether I feel like a four-year-old learning to potty train or a ninety-four year-old losing my faculties.  Either way it’s extremely embarrassing.  In the beginning it was so bad that I wore a heavy day pad (Thank you to whatever blogger mentioned that) so I wouldn’t pee in public.

Now I know this is partially my fault.  I should have been doing my kegel exercises.  I did push out Tornado S without contractions, so that was bound to loosen things up.  But I never remember to do them.  It’s on my list of things I should do, but tend to forget.  It’s pages after file all the old business papers and organize Tornado E’s school work, but it is before the-husband-feels-neglected-because-of-the-morning-sickness-I –should-really-give-him-a-bj.  Yeah, I don’t think I’ll get around to that either.

So I figure I should just keep drinking cough syrup and popping allergy pills until it is all gone away, not (my original plan of) stopping as soon as I start feeling better, leaving the rest up to the immune system.  Because hey, they’re losing the battle there.  I hope the little bean can forgive me if there are some side effects, like a lower IQ, the need to watch professional wrestling, or sixth finger.

Wish me luck.  And thanks for listening.                                 Um . . . any one there?

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Yesterday’s lines

I know what you’re thinking.

Fae! I thought now that you had more energy you wouldn’t abandon your blog again until the day the baby came unexpectantly and you didn’t trust anyone to handle the blog for you.  I mean, Wednesday you actually took the time to write an extra post on Tuesday to schedule when you were helping out at Tornado E’s school because KathyB! And CK made it sound like so much fun.  What gives?

Oh, you had no idea I was at Tornado E’s school because I hadn’t written my Thursday blog?  Ok, so obviously I talk to myself.  I also answer myself, and today in the grocery store I actually started talking to myself out loud, which was a little disconcerting because I couldn’t blame it on “talking” to the boys because they weren’t there.

Yesterday you could find me with the boys and my saintly mother, standing outside in a line of a couple of hundred people waiting to get my N1H1 flu shot.  I wouldn’t be so bitter if my phone hadn’t told me it was going to be 78 degrees, partly cloudy.  We hit a record of 92 without a cloud in the sky.  78 is a long way from 92.  I choose to wear jeans because they fit me better.  Stupid phone.

My mom called me yesterday.  Are you going to get the flu shot today?  She didn’t have to specify which one because I knew there was only one she was concerned about.  The one that nearly 40 percent  of pregnant women were dying from?  Yeah, that one.  We were all concerned because the week before my county ran out of vaccines in one day, and they got a fresh shipment in on Monday.  But when I called to ask questions like, how do I prove I’m pregnant if  I’m barely pregnant and can my son get it if he has a fever, I was told no, my son couldn’t receive the vaccine if he had a fever within the last 24hrs.  Where did Tornado S get this mild fever?  I have no idea.  So I decided against going down to the ball park where they were giving away health.  Besides I wasn’t sure at this point if I had a cold or allergies because I was still hacking stuff out of my lungs.

I assured my mom I would call the health department to see if they had any more injections.  The news had reported only a shipment of 500 came in on Monday, and I was sure those would be gone.  But as luck would have it, they still had some left.  Since The Husband likes to walk on the dangerous side of health, he stayed home to work as my mom volunteered to come help me with the boys.

The clinic started at one, so we thought we would get there an hour early.  We knew we wouldn’t be the first ones in.  Both my mom and I assumed we wouldn’t get out of there until 2:30 or 3.  I packed lunch, toys, juices, books, crayons, paper, and the double stroller.  My mom brought their official tailgating chairs.  Smart mom.

We settled down at the end of the line of about two hundred people, mainly family.  As one gentleman asked, why can’t they give these out at school?  Here.  Here.  Most of these kids were missing school.

Tornado S slept.  Tornado E was bewildered and went to join another family, seeking their chips instead of the healthy snacks I brought.  Luckily the mom was a good mom and asked if Tornado E could have any before she gave him any.  I said no and dragged Tornado E back to eat some lunch, promising him a treat if he did well in line and getting his vaccine.

A half hour before the start of the clinic, workers rolled out large trash cans filled with ice and bottled water to hand out to the line.    Fifteen minutes later, the workers walked the line handing out pens, cardboard, and forms.  When the worker got to me and asked how many I needed, I replied three.

Three kids?

Two kids, and I’m pregnant.

Like I have mentioned before I don’t look very pregnant.  So for the occasion, I wore my most pregnant-looking shirt, and I brought my last ultrasound.

Oh, Hon, how are you doing out here?  Do you need more water?  Do you need to be in the shade?

I’m fine.  Really, I am.

My mom and I filled out the forms.  The line condensed.  Then they asked for all the pregnant women.  I was assured I could bring my boys, and we followed.  We heard they wanted to get us delicate conditioned women out of the sun.  We were moved past the beginning of the line and through the open gates.  Due to the massive amounts of people wanting the H1N1 vaccine and the low quantity of the vaccine, my city moved all their clinics to one of the spring training baseball fields.  We waited in line overlooking a pristine ball field.

Tornado E: Mommy, what are we doing?

Me: We’re waiting to get our vaccines, remember?

Tornado E: Mommy, I think we’re in the wrong place.

Me: What do you mean?

Tornado E: We’re at a baseball field.  We should be at a doctor’s office.

Me: (laughing) You’re right, but so many people want this, they moved it in a big area to allow everyone to get it.

Tornado E: Oh.

Then the line of pregnant women and their families moved.  We realized we had been shown to the front of the line, before the clinic even officially opened.  My fears of not getting my vaccine were unfounded.  We were registered and escorted into the mad house that was giving the vaccine.  Tons of tables and three nurses behind each were crammed into a room much too small for the purpose.

First things first.  The pregnant woman needed her shot.  And it hurt like a bitch like these things usually do.

Then the nurse escorted us over to another table for the boys to sniff their vaccines.  Tornado E was a pro.  Tornado S had to be held down and was pissed off, trying to cough and gag it out.  Hopefully he’ll be more cooperative in four weeks.

We were done.  It was 1:30.  Really?  That was fast.   As we walked to the back of the parking lot, where we found the first parking spot, Tornado E started getting upset.

Me: Tornado E, baby, what’s wrong?

Tornado E: I didn’t get a shot.

Me: No, you got the spray.

Tornado E: But I didn’t get a shot.

Me: You don’t like shots.  Why would you want one?

Tornado E: If I don’t get a shot, I don’t get a treat.

Me: (hugging him) You still get a treat.  You did great in line and getting your vaccines.

Tornado E: Oh.  Can we get Eegee’s?

Me: Yes.

So we did.  And for those of you that haven’t had the pleasure of an Eegee’s, imagine a virgin margarita with hunks of lemon or strawberry mixed in.  Mmmm.

To make matters worse on publishing, The Husband’s laptop has decided every once in a while not to find a server.  Awesome.

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Tornado S’s Second Ultrasound

I’m sixteen weeks along.  And I remember what defined my sixteenth week along with Tornado S.  It was his second ultrasound.

I made chicken fried rice for dinner one night because The Husband had brought home a rotisserie chicken home the night before that we didn’t finish.  Tornado E loved fried rice; it was one of the few things he would eat with vegetables.  But that night he picked out all the chicken, refusing to eat it.  Weird.

Back then, I hadn’t figured out DVD time, so Tornado E would hang on me demanding my attention.  This meant the kitchen went unclean, the food left out, and, of course, I hadn’t figured out to clean as I cooked.  The kitchen was a disaster, but at least I was spending quality time with my son.

I turned on our gas fireplace and played with Tornado E on the ground.  The Husband didn’t return my calls, so I had no idea when he would be home.

About Tornado E’s bedtime, I vomited.  Barely making it to the bathroom.  Weird.  My morning sickness always hit in the morning, unless I ate too much for dinner and went to bed right away.  My morning sickness always let me know with plenty of time to hit the toilet.

As I placed Tornado E in his crib, I nearly vomited on him.  Weird again because I usually never vomit twice on the same day.  I finish tucking Tornado E in bed, beginning to worry.

I went downstairs to clean.  I wasn’t feeling right.  It was too hot.  So I went to turn down off the fire, but Tornado E had made off with the gas key.  I couldn’t find it anywhere.  I tried to use priers to turn it, but I just didn’t have the strength.  I ran and vomited again.

This time I dialed The Husband over and over until he answered his phone.  Only his administration assistant answered.  And I knew he was at the bar with his employees.


Me: Hey.  I’m busy taking care of Tornado E in the day.  Is The Husband there?  I need to speak to him.


Me: Yeah.  I know.  But really, I need to speak to The Husband.  Now.


Me: Admin.  Please hand the phone to The Husband.  NOW.


Me: Fine.  Tell The Husband to call me as soon as he can.  Alright?  Can you do that, Admin?  Can you tell The Husband to call me right away, Admin?


Me: Right.


God, I hate dealing with drunks.  If The Husband didn’t call me- I went and vomited again.  Now I was really scared.

I went into the kitchen to clean up, to take my mind off of things.  But as I looked at the chicken carcass, the dirty dishes, the vegetable trimmings, I got sick to my stomach again.  I turned around and ran into the office, digging through my stack of pregnancy pamphlets the doctor’s office gave me.  I pulled out the one that told me what were emergency symptoms or not.

Vomiting.  Vomiting.  Vomiting.  Here.  “If you vomit more than four times an hour, go to the emergency room immediately.”  Well, it’s been four times in two hours, so maybe I’m safe.  Oh wait-

Make that five times in two hours.

I called The Husband again, getting his voice mail.  Again.

Fine.  I’ll take Tornado E and go with out him.  Crap.  I had to wash his car seat today because he spilled juice all over it.  I pulled it out of the washer and threw it in the dryer.  Chanting cuss words all the way.

I vomited again, getting it in my hair and on my clothes.  I turned on the shower, waited for the warmth and walked in.  I cried as I peeled off my clothes, as I washed my hair, as I washed my body, wondering what was wrong with me.  Why was I all alone?  I got out of the shower and got dressed.  I felt the vibration of the garage door.  THANK GOD!

I rushed out of the room to hear Admin’s drunk voice.  I turned around and slammed the door.  Are you f-ing kidding me?

A minute later the door opened.

Admin came bouncing in and threw herself at me in a bear hug.  I’m going to kill her.

Admin: FAE!!! You’re not mad at me!  Are you?!

She gave me a pout.  I took a deep breathe.  I was to weak to kill her.

Me: No.  (breath) But I’m sick.  I need to go to bed.  I need to talk to my husband.

Admin: Oh FAE!  You can’t be sick!  You’re pregnant!  Get some rest!  I’ll get The Husband!

She bounded at the room, and I was eternally grateful I didn’t own a gun.

Minutes passed.  No husband.  I turned off the lights.  The door opened.  The Husband swayed into the room.  F me.  I am going to kill someone!

Me: Did you drive?

So help me God, if you drove, I will kill you right now.  Screw the need of a father figure for the kids.

The Husband: No!  We got a ride.

Breathe.  Calm down.

Me: Where were you?

Perfect, Fae.  Let’s interrogate him while he’s drunk and you’re pissed.

The Husband: We went out for a beer.

Me: More than one beer.  Why didn’t you call back?

The Husband: Because Admin answered the phone.

Me: Did you think that when I called your phone, that I might just want to talk to you.

The Husband: Admin didn’t tell me you wanted to talk to me.


Me: Why didn’t you come up sooner?  Something is wrong.

The Husband: I was hungry.  I ate the fried rice.

Oh God!  The Fried Rice!  It was poisoned.  I have food poisoning!  Crap!

Me: Oh, crap!  I think there’s something wrong with the rice.  I think I have food poisoning.

The Husband: Why didn’t you tell me earlier?

Me: When?  When you didn’t answer the dozen times I called?  When you didn’t call me back after Admin answered?  When you didn’t run upstairs to see me when you got home?  When was I supposed to tell you?

The Husband: I’m sleeping in the other room.


He stormed out.  I went to bed.  Then I jumped up to vomit.  I needed to go to the hospital.

I went down stairs where the fire was still roaring, the kitchen was still a disaster, and now the Admin was snoring on the couch.  I pulled out the almost dried car seat cover and struggled to put it on.  I ran to vomit again.  I heard The Husband vomiting in the other bathroom.  I waited for him.

Me: I have to go to the hospital.

The Husband: Ok.  Let me know how it goes.

He headed to our bedroom.  The son of a-  Wait.  He can’t drive.  I have to drive.  I can’t show up with a drunk, food poisoned husband and a toddler.  Fine.  I picked Tornado E up from the crib and placed him on my side of the bed.  I punched The Husband awake.

The Husband: Wha-

Me: I’m going to the hospital.  I’m pregnant with food poisoning.  I’m putting Tornado E in bed with you.  Please comfort him if he wakes up.

With that I left.

The emergency room was quite empty, which surprised me as the last time I was at an emergency room at night it was crowded.  Granted this was a Tuesday, and the last time was Sunday night.

I had a great nurse that diagnosed me quickly and stuck me with an IV to pump liquids back into me.  It wasn’t long before I was chattering, and he had to run and find extra blankets for me.  He brought out the little machine to get Tornado S’s heartbeat.  He couldn’t panic.  After looking for the sound for five minutes, the nurse started to worry.

Nurse: Don’t panic.  You’re not that far along, so it’s a little hard to find.  I’ll schedule an ultrasound for you.  Don’t worry.

I smile.

Me: I’m not worry.  How often to do you get a chance to use that thing in here, any ways?

He smiled back.

Nurse: Not often.

He wheeled me in to get my ultrasound.  It turned out everything was fine.  Though they kept me there until I went through two bags of fluids.  It was 5am by the time they let me leave.

As I got dressed, I had to sudden urge to vomit again.  I ran to the bathroom and purged the last of whatever was in my stomach.  I also peed my pants.  Great.  I snuck back into my room and waited to catch my nurse.  He came minutes later.

Me: Hey, um, is there a phone I can use to call my husband?

Nurse: Sure.  Sure.

Me: Um, yeah, I peed my pants when I vomited, and I need him to bring me another pair.

Nurse: Oh.  OH!  Ok, hold on.  I can get you a pair!

He ran off.  Well, he was a little squeamish for being a nurse.  He returned with a pair of scrubs, and I thanked him from the bottom of my heart.  They turned out to be the most comfortable pants I have ever owned, and I loved them.

So I left with a prescription, new pants, and instructions to rest all day.  Hahaha.  I had a toddler waiting at home that would be up in two hours.

I went home to catch a nap, then got up to go to the pharmacy and the grocery store to grab some fluids.  I had left Tornado E with breakfast and cartoons as The Husband slept like a hibernating bear.  I laid on the couch all morning watching cartoons with Tornado E.  About noon, I called a friend to see if she could take Tornado E to the park after his nap, so that I could sleep all afternoon.  Tornado E’s naptime was a blessing.  My friend picked up Tornado E and willingly took him to the park.  As I slept, The Husband woke feeling great.  And guilty.  He scrubbed the kitchen until it sparkled.  I can count on one hand how many times he’s done that in our marriage.  A friend called him out on it too because as the guy said, “The Husband knew he was in the dog house.”

And the stupid key, we didn’t find it for two weeks.  I had to go hunt one down to buy, which took three days.  And just so you don’t think I’m the world’s worst cook by poisoning my family, my doctor assured me it must have been the chicken wasn’t cooked right and that we didn’t eat the undercooked meat next to the bone until I pulled it off and stuck it in the fried rice.  We never bought chicken from that store again.

While those hours rank up there as one of my worst, at least I got a great pair of pants out of it.

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Tornado S’s first ultrasound

When I was pregnant with Tornado E, I got one ultrasound.  The twenty week one; the one that I told the nurse we didn’t want to know what he was.

With Tornado S, I had three.  During Tornado S, I realized my doctor wasn’t one to schedule unwarranted tests, which included ultrasounds.  But I didn’t figure that out when I went to get the first ultrasound.

I was about twelve weeks or so pregnant.  It’s hard to tell for sure with Tornado S because he came 11 days early and was 8lbs and 11 ozs.  He was fully cooked.  Someone (me) missed counted.  But since they couldn’t catch Tornado S’s heartbeat, my doctor sent me to get an ultrasound.  No big deal, right?

I had a friend who was waiting for her green card to get a job (A Canadian married to an American and it took over a year.  Go fig), so she had nothing to do during the days.  I asked her to come with me to help with Tornado E.  She actually took part of more pregnancy stuff than The Husband.

So she came with me and Tornado E.  We went into the little room.  And we watched in amazement to see them pick up that little bean on the screen.  Wow.

The lab technician assured me everything looked great, and that she would pass on the results.

It took two more visits to the doctor’s to learn what he feared.

He measured my stomach and smiled.

The Doc: Oh, good.  The little one finally grew enough.  I was getting worried about how small the baby was.  Everything is perfect now.

Um, was I supposed to worry?

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Baby love

Since I had some money to burn and we were out of toilet paper, I thought we might as well go buy some cleaning supplies and groceries.  You know, fun stuff.  We were at Wal-Mart, America’s favorite place to buy junk or my last resort to save a penny.  The boys were having a good day.  Then we saw them.

Triplets.  About a year old.  Each in his/her own wagon, hooked together to make a train, pulled by the grandma as the mom paid for the stuff.  And Tornado E was in love.

We happened to all walk out together and through the parking lot.  Tornado E, riding on the cart like a fireman, kept waving and calling out “Hi, Babies!  Bye, Babies!”  The babies were enamored by Tornado E, smiling big smiles.  Tornado S was amused for a moment and then moved on.

As luck would have, we were parked next to each other.  Tornado E asked if he could say hi to the babies, and I gave him consent, reminding him to give them some personal space.  He then proceeded to have a long discussion with the mom and grandma over all kinds of things.  I finally roped him back, saying they had to go, we had to go.  The grandma smiled at me and told me her youngest talked like that to everyone too.

I tried to buckle Tornado E into the car, but he was trying to get away.

Tornado E: Mommy!  Mommy!  I have to tell them something!  I have to tell them that I’ll come to their house today to help them with the babies!

Me: But Tornado E, you have school today.

Tornado E: Mommy!  I have to tell them I can’t come over today!  I’ll tell them I’ll come over tomorrow!

Me: That’s sweet of you, baby.  But look they’re busy getting the babies in the car.  We’ll tell them the next time we see them.

I only hope that Tornado E wants to be this helpful with his own baby.

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Popping Out

When I was pregnant with Tornado E, I was caught off guard with the baby bump.  After months of waiting and not seeing it, I didn’t notice it until I looked at pictures I had just taken the weekend before and saw my gut popping out over my jeans and under my once-cute shirt.  It seemed that only a little while before did my belly button popping out looked cute.  Now it looked like a beer belly.  I went shopping that day.

With Tornado S, I was a little busy with Tornado E, my own personal tornado, to pay attention to how I looked.  Every day I showered quickly, dressed quickly, threw my hair in a pony tail quickly after getting Tornado E dressed.  I had forgotten that after the first child, the subsequent pregnancies pop earlier and earlier.  One busy morning, I finished packing for the trip Tornado E and I were taking to my parents’ house.  I took a quick shower and got dressed in a cute outfit because I had an OB/GYN appointment before we flew out.  I turned for an inspection in the mirror when I screamed in horror.  My gut had popped.  At that moment, the door bell rang, and when I demanded that my ride, my hip fashion-forward friend, tell me why she didn’t notice this problem last week, she was as surprised to see the gut as I was.  I ran upstairs to quickly change, knowing I wouldn’t have time to repack the clothes and would have to buy more in Arizona or use my dad’s closet.

This pregnancy I was determined not to be caught off guard.  I watched.  I waited.  I had been warned that you pop with the third pregnancy the moment you found out.  Imagine my surprise when I still had not popped at the end of the third trimester.  But then last week I was taking a shower, and I noticed there was more of me to scrub.  I popped.  I popped up, not low.  It looks like a donut gut versus a beer belly.  Just enough that I wish I made those shirts that said, “No, I’m not fat.  I’m pregnant.”  Since fashion has changed to long shirts to cover post-baby-bellies, I have a few weeks before I have to pull out the maternity shirts.  But at least I’ll be watching.

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