Just say no to clear heels!

While we don't know for certain that we're having 2 girls, the clues are pointing in that direction so far. And I'm terrified.

I'm terrified of a lot of things that my kids will more than likely face in their lifetime: overly dramatic friendships, drugs, broken hearts, speeding tickets, the possibility of a learning disability, embarassment, peer pressure, a lack of adventure, and the list goes on.

I'm already stepmom to a son and daughter, and they're as different as night and day. Even seeing the differences and challenges with males and females, I can honestly say that I have no gender preferences. True to the cliche, I just want healthy babies.

However, I am still fearful of having girls. There seems to be a lot more pressure raising "ladies". I've often heard it said that when you have a boy at least you only have to worry about one penis, but when you have a girl, you have to worry about everyone else's penis. What does that do for my worry level if we're having 2 girls on top of the daughter we already have. Exactly how many penises does that mean I have to worry about with 3 daughters (Or is it peni?? What is the plural of penis exactly?)? No wonder my poor father lost his hair after being dad to 5 girls. Yikes!

Here lately though, my greatest fear for them relates to their career ambitions. I'm sure I'll encourage them to follow their passions and never set limits. They can be lawyers, teachers, vets, soldiers, nurses, or whatever. I don't care. Just please don't be strippers.

True, there are far more seedy professions than stripping, and I mean no offense to those in that "calling", or those who have relied on it to make ends meet. Nonetheless, I'm fearful that these 2 kiddos may be destined for clear heels with slits for tips.

Why such a a gloomy prediction you may ask?

Because I've become a dancer since I've become knocked up. If I were interested in dancing to Debussy's Clair du Lune I wouldn't be so worried. I might even predict that I could be birthing some ballerinas.

But that's not the music I'm drawn to lately. I'm constantly in the mood for booty music - you know, hip hop that makes you want to move your hips and shake your tush. The problem is that I'm not such a great dancer, so I only do it when I feel like no one is watching....typically while I'm driving down the road. Please pay no attention to the crazy lady in the white Murano "gettin' down" on JR Allen Parkway. I can just imagine these 2 ladies inside my belly shakin' it like the baby in this video:

When I was younger, I had no shame in dancing wherever/whenever - living room, homecoming dance floor, hotel ball room, truck tail gate, or bar table tops, you name it...I probably graced its' surface with my dirty bare feet and unoriginal moves at some point in my youth. I've developed a greater sense of reality and limitations since I've aged though. I'm not the best dancer. I still love to dance. I just prefer not to do it while others eyes are watching. I shouldn't care, I know. They say "dance like no one's watching", but I struggle with that anyway. Maybe I would've struggled with it more when I was younger, too, if I didn't often have a drink in one of my hands waving in the air off beat....ahhhhh, the college days!

I don't want to wish bad things on my kids, but maybe the genetic combination of my reluctant dance moves and the hubs' refusal to do anything with his feet other than kick a clutch will destine the twins to a life of bad rhythm and two left feet....then they'll have no choice but to say no to clear heels!

Here's hoping........

Mayan predictions

Friday, December 21, 2012 was supposed to be the end of the world.

That is, according to the Mayans.

Confession: I didn't really begin my Christmas shopping until after the 21st, but it had nothing to do with the Mayans. It had everything to do with me caving from pure exhaustion each evening after work and not wanting to barf in the aisles of Macy's.

I hadn't done any shopping, but I also wasn't stocking up on bottled water and prepping my gas mask, either. I simply don't put stock in the end-of-the-world predictions that some theorists perpetuate. I fully believe what the Bible tells us about the end of the world:

But about that day or hour no one knows, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father. As it was in the days of Noah, so it will be at the coming of the Son of Man. Matthew 24:36-37

Besides, death is a part of life. It is guaranteed. Why fret over the whens and wheres of it? Why not just live our lives and thank God each day we get to wake up and do it again? I'd rather continue on with this approach and risk my death in apocalypse than build a bunker in my back yard and eat spam every day for years on end.

Even still, I was thoroughly entertained by all of the stories of people who were raiding the local walmart for cans of pork 'n' beans and bottles of Dasani. I even heard a caller on the radio discussing his mother who went into hiding in her basement for the week leading up to the 21st. She hadn't done any Christmas shopping either. But she was prepared for the end of the world as she sat there in her flame retardant suit complete with oxygen source. Maybe it's unkind of me to make light of something that some believe so fully in, but I couldn't help but  laugh. My favorite laugh came from a weather forecast for the week of the 21st.

There it is. Stormy and cloudy with high's in the 40's throughout the week, but then a chance of asteroids and fire with a high of 1250 degrees on Friday the 21st!

The weatherman isn't always right. Turns out the Mayans aren't either.

But I have to admit there was a moment on the 21st when I thought they might have been correct about one thing - asteroids.

Because I had 'em.

In my bum.

Gross and TMI, I know. Stop reading here if discussion of bodily functions is too much for you to take.

Asteroids had become my code word for constipation after our dog Brody had a serious bout with it a couple of years ago - something about the beginning sound of the word, plus the vet's repeated phrase "impacted bowel" made the term asteroid come to mind. And it's stuck ever since then.

My husband and I watched as he tried his best to poop in the yard to no avail (the dog, not my husband). He'd hunker down and look like he was about to go, but then scoot a few feet further in a squatted position with tail in the air to try some more. We both giggled a little at the sight of it. But after a couple days of this, the poor guy looked miserable each time he tried to go. His legs were shaking from pushing so hard. The joke wasn't funny anymore.

We took him to the vet where they attempted to manually remove the asteroid from his tush. Only, Brody wasn't taking the invasion willingly. He fought them - he's very bum conscious; he won't even let other dogs hump him, except Moo, but she's a girl, so I guess he's your typical male. So the vet muzzled him. I tried to help hold him and console him, but I couldn't lie and tell him it was gonna be alright. He knew better. We both did. I'd been there before at the OB. The vet wasn't elbow deep exactly, but it was painful to watch, so I know it had to be painful to poor Bro. In the end, he could only remove a small portion of the impacted asteroid...and it looked like it had bone in it.

We were busted. We'd long been giving our dogs thick bones from boston butts to chew on - not chicken bones or anything brittle that would crack and tear their insides up. Neither Moo or Bro had ever had any trouble digesting anything until then. Apparently all of those bones caught up with Brody that time. He stayed at the vet receiving fluids for a bit and waiting for the asteroid to pass. But it never did, so we took him home.

The next day with no relief in sight, the hubs thought it'd be a good idea to "grease the runway" like he's done for human patients before. So off I went to the grocery store in search of only 2 items: a box of douche and some KY jelly. That poor cashier was horrified when I came through the line. Bless her. I might have stopped long enough to reassure her that I wasn't a prostitute and fill her in on our plans to violate our dog, but there's just no good way to tell someone that story, you know?!

When I got home, we emptied the bottles of douche and filled them with the KY. Then we lured poor Brody near with treats. I hugged him tight to the ground while the hubs lifted his tail and went to work greasing the runway. We were both in the heat of battle....I was wrestling an alligator and the hubs was in the line of fire. But we eventually got a whole douche bottle of KY up Brody's tush and released him into the wild. He ran like his tail end was about to explode. In truth, it probably was.

As we watched him over the next couple of hours we noticed that his shaking legs were calming down more and more as he tried to pass the asteroid. And eventually, he got it out!

I thought of Brody, my karma for giggling at him, and the Mayans on the 21st as I sat there with my own case of asteroids. 

Again, gross I know, but this is one of those things that aren't readily discussed when you're pregnant. And it needs to be. It's disturbing on so many levels, any amount of mental preparation (not preparation H, but you might need that, too) is helpful. So I'll tell you if you've never been pregnant before and plan on doing so in the future:

You're going to get asteroids.

It is miserable. It's just one more symptom to add to the list of unpleasantries that your body will introduce to you. It is the ultimate lesson in losing control. Like me, you've probably been in control of your bowels since you were at least 2 years old. So, to see this control yanked from you is infuriating and humiliating all at once. It doesn't help that the rest of you probably doesn't feel well either.

The constipation is more than likely due to the increased amount of iron you're taking in prenatal vitamins. Apparently swallowing something that turns your gut into concrete is still healthy for the fetus - so keep swallowing that concrete, lady! They say that drinking plenty of water, exercise and prune juice help - assuming you feel well enough to venture away from the toilet you're yaking into to climb onto the treadmill and that your stomach can tolerate the water or prune juice long enough for it to work its' magic. For some people, there are few things you can do about it except grin (or grimace) and bear it.

My poor husband had to grin and bear it, too. He typically calls me a "poop ninja" - only he doesn't say it in those same nice terms - because I'm a pretty private person. So why write about something so personal and embarassing, you may ask? Well, it's over and done with now....the "ice has been broken" so to speak. So why not laugh about it? I'm willing to risk some humiliation in order to add some humor to the warnings I'm trying to issue to preggos-to-be.

And on this occasion, after nearly 2 weeks of suffering, the poop ninja's need for privacy went out the window. I was desperate and pleaded with him for advice - he's a nurse, not asteroid remover, though I'd seen him work magic in this department with Brody. To save what shred of dignity that remained, I made him leave the house and go drink a beer with the neighbors, but only after he gave me detailed instructions on how to use an enema.

*Warning: Ouch. No bueno. A hot shower doesn't even completely wash off the embarassment, but it helps to remember that you're a human and this is just one of those human things.

Although in my case, the hubs was merely a consultant, turns out he might actually deserve the title "asteroid remover" because by the morning of the 22nd I finally felt some relief. I was asteroid free.

I was so thankful that they were gone!

And that the world didn't end....it felt like it might for a minute there.