It's That Time Again....

20 weeks!  As compared to Gracie:

And Katie:

Biggest yet, I think?  Hard to tell! If I weren't so lazy I'd line them all up, but that's the closest we're getting.  Gracie was the mushiest, for sure, and I look the leanest with Katie, which is funny because I gained the most with her.  I forgot to mention yesterday that this baby is BIG- measuring a full week ahead on almost every measurement, with these huge, gangly legs and feet almost as long as his legs.  It'll be interesting to see how that goes as we move through this.  Especially since I already feel like my tailbone is perpetually bruised, and based on how his head already was yesterday, I'm not expecting that to improve until after he pops out.

Of course, we could speculate about whether I am carrying this baby like a boy or a girl or more like Katie or Gracie but OH WAIT WE ALREADY KNOW HE'S A BOY.

So instead I'm just going to look at the pictures and just ask myself how similar he is to each of the girls.  The pregnancy is already a lot more like Gracie than Kate, except Now! With more vomiting! And nausea!  And irritability!  And you know what else is awesome?  you know how pregnant women are supposed to have thick, shiny, amazing hair?  I am currently half bald.  The hair still in my head is brittle and frizzy, like I had one too many perms and then didn't get it cut.

In other words: Stosh is going to be the easiest baby ever.  I JUST KNOW IT.

That Really Does Happen

Back when we found out the caboose was on the way, I told Stephen it was up to him whether or not we found out the sex at the 20 week ultrasound.  He kept telling me he didn't know if he really wanted to know or not.  I sort of assumed he'd decide he wanted to know, but I wasn't sure.

Our twenty-week ultrasound was supposed to be Tuesday afternoon, but a last-minute work change bumped it to this morning, two days later.  It was all kinds of stress getting down there- height of rush hour traffic, Stephen had to drop G off at preschool, so we had to drive separately, ugh.  It sucked.  We were both late- I was just a few minutes late, but S got stuck in extra-hideous traffic and didn't get there til after the tech started scanning the baby's head.  She asked us if we were finding out, and I looked to Stephen.  He told me to decide.  Seriously?  Yes!  He swore he did not care, either way was fine.  Ok, I said, we're not finding out.  I love the anticipation, I love the big reveal in the delivery room, I love everything about waiting to find out.  It's so awesome.  I highly recommend it.

Anyway.  She continued scanning, and absolutely everything looked perfect.  Of course, just like every other ultrasound we've had, there were certain shots she couldn't get for anything.  This time, the baby's face was smashed firmly downward, and no matter how hard we all tried, there was just no imaging that baby's lips.  She got a partial shot (and omg so freaking cute, the little nostrils, come out here so I can eat you!), but finally gave up.  At that point, we'd seen everything, Stephen left to get Gracie from school and I sat with the strip of awesome ultrasound pictures the tech handed me, waiting while she had the peri double-check the images.

I don't know how long Stephen had been gone when I finally started looking at all of them.  Face, hand, profile, gender shot...WHAT.  Yep.  I couldn't even pretend it was something else.  Butt, partial femur, and plain as day, dangly boy parts.  When my heart started beating again, I started frantically assessing the situation.  I needed to tell Stephen.  I did not want to tell him over the phone.  What the FUCK, how did this HAPPEN???  oh my god, it's a boy.  it's a boy!  obviously.  So, so obviously (he clearly has my modesty, is all I'm saying).  The tech came back in the room and cheerfully told me everything looked fine, and I just needed to come back for one picture of the baby's lips.  Laughing freakishly (I mean, really.  this totally insane, mirthless but neverending laugh-like noise), I handed her the strip of pictures and said, "Um.  What's this?"  Grasping at straws- ANY STRAW- that I was wrong (although I knew I wasn't, because, see again: so obvious.  and anyway, even if she hadn't screwed up like that, the full-body profile shot right next to it clearly shows the cord, and the baby's junk totally separate, so it would have been ruined anyway.  it was destined, written in the stars.)  She immediately flushed, started stuttering, and looked like she was going to puke all over the room.  "Um, ok, wait, is this your name??"  She asked.  NICE TRY, SWEETHEART.  Still making that completely freaky laugh-sound, I said, "Yes.  That's my name.  And I actually know what it is.  It's, um, kind of obvious."  And she looked like she was going to cry, and said, "Oh my god.  I have never done this before.  I have never, ever done this before.  I can't believe this.  This has never happened.  Oh my god."  And while she was saying that, she tore off the gender shot and crumpled it up in her hand.  I said, "well wait, give that to me!  My husband wasn't here anymore when I found it!" And she snapped her head up and said, with eyes like saucers, "Don't tell him!"  Then I started laughing for real and said, "I can't do that!  Honestly, it's okay.  I swear.  It happens!"  And she said, "Not to me, it doesn't!  Oh my god!"  At which point, I couldn't take it anymore.  Seriously, woman, you could have told me something far, far worse than the sex of my child at this ultrasound.  So I looked her straight in the eye and said, "Ok, seriously?  This ultrasound scares me half to death.  I barely slept last night.  I KNOW that you can find awful things here.  He is healthy and really, really, REALLY, that is all that matters.  OK?!"  Because, honestly.

So then I went to check out and schedule the follow-up, completely and totally in a TIZZY.  I can catch up with Stephen!  I can meet him at school while he gets Gracie and show him the ultrasounds then.  Maybe I should stop and get a blue cupcake like when people do the gender reveal that way!  (and if we were going to find out, wouldn't that have been fun?!)  Blue balloons?  GET ME TO HIM NOW.

...So naturally he called about five minutes after I got in the car.  And it alll spilled out.  "I was racing to get to you because I didn't want to tell you on the phone but I have to tell you that she messed up when she gave us the pictures and the very first picture on that whole strip of pictures was the gender shot and..." "WHAT IS IT????"

"...it's a boy."

"it's a BOY?" (when you imagine this, please hear his voice going up a full octave on the word boy.)

"yes.  it's a boy."

We toyed with the idea of keeping it a secret from everyone, but then we wanted to tell Gracie and honestly, how the hell am I supposed to keep a story like THIS under wraps?  Girl, please.

And, you know...I am so excited the baby is a boy.  It's the cherry on the icing on the cake.  I am HUGELY relieved that the baby looks healthy.  I know very well that many people leave those ultrasounds with their heads spinning and their hearts broken.  But damnit, that's not how I wanted to find out.  I didn't WANT to find out ahead of time.  I would have been okay with it, but it's not my first choice.  And my absolute last choice was to find out by myself, after Stephen left, and miss out on the look on his face when he first heard he was going to have a son.  The good thing is, I don't tend to perseverate on things, so I will probably never mention this again.

18 months

You know how, once your kid hits about two, and especially when they're behaving badly in public, everyone and their brother will walk up to you and say, "Just wait.  Two isn't terrible. Three is the REALLY terrible age.  Nobody tells you that."  Which, A) thanks, it's really helpful when the kid is acting up to be told this is nothing, and B) ...dude.  Seriously.  EVERYBODY tells you that.  I have no idea why people seem to think this is some big fat government secret.

ANYWAY.

My point being, everybody tells you three is bad.  After two kids, though, I now believe that 18 months is the secretly difficult age nobody tells you about.  Neither of my girls have been particularly good company at this age.  Tantrums, hitting, screaming, all of it.  And, I mean, yes, of course, it's also a super fun age, because it's when they start to get so clever and mischevious and you can see the gears turning in their brains as they figure out how things work and they're still chubby enough that you want to eat their cheeks.

Katie IS 18 months old.  She is the little girl with the little curl.  She tilts her head back and giggles from the depths of her belly.  She runs away every. single. time. she sees me holding clothes and makes me chase her all over the house to get her dressed, laughing the entire time.  She climbs on EVERYTHING- the toilet, the kitchen table, the windows- the kid is a monkey.  And when she's mad?  Well, let's just say they can still hear her in our old neighborhood, as she flips herself backwards and wills the tone out of every muscle in her body.  It is, um, it's something else.

Sometimes I forget she's only eighteen months old, because she understands every single word we say.  She doesn't talk much, but I think it's just because she's stubborn and doesn't feel like it.

She still only has six teeth!!  wtf?!  I don't know.  She looooves junk food.  She does not love vegetables.  And...shhhhh....she seems like maybe she is possibly learning how to sleep like a normal human.  I have thought this before and then she was all, yeah, psych, make with the 4am Wonder Pets, lady, pronto.  But really, it's abbout time and I do think we are getting there.

She obviously has no way of knowing how much her life will change by her second birthday.  And much  more than I did with Gracie, I worry about how she'll react when there's another baby in the house.  She already doesn't like to share my attention- if I"m putting Gracie's shoes on, she come over and crawl into my lap and hug me and try to keep me from paying attention to anyone but her.  She's like a cat.  Sooo, yeah, that should be interesting.  I actually keep thinking, I can't wait for her to turn two, because Gracie was such a fun two year old, but then I think, oh, but things will be so different and I want to sop up every last drop of just the two of them between now and then.  So even though I'm not always great at it, I'm working hard at not wishing the days away.

Except when she's boneless. 

Preschool!!!

I realize this is a big fat cliche, but how is it possible that my little colicky, angry ball of scream is big enough to go to SCHOOL?  Actual, real school, where other big kids go, where she learns things and gets homework (which is optional but earns her a STICKER if she does it)?  HOOOOW???

She was really excited for her first day.

It is probably not normal, how much I love this picture.

She actually really was.  She just hates having her picture taken with a white hot rage.  Until she's in the right mood.  You know, when you totally can't see her cute outfit.

I mean, okay, this is really cute, but come on.  See above.  I'm just saying.

These pictures were actually taken on her orientation day.  That was...interesting.  Because once we got there, AGAIN, with the picture-taking.  I had met with the staff a week earlier, to talk about her seizures, and when they mentioned there would be pictures, I said, ohhh, yeah.  She HATES that.  Just to warn you.  And I hoped maybe she would be in the right mood for it, but alas.  She was not.  And when the secretary wanted to get just the totally perfect picture, the kid lost her patience.  And started running in circles around the room.  And tried to knock the cross off the wall.  And the holy water.  It really was one of my top parenting moments.

But it's all been better since then!  Her first week was a smashing success. She sang the ABCs and did art projects and something about the teacher letting her choose a book? Or something?  The details are fuzzy, because she doesn't really like to recap such things for me.  The one nugget I did get today was when I asked if she ate her snack, and she told me, "Oh, yes!  I had yogurt raisins and pretzels and apple juice because that is what you sent me!"  Which, in case you can't figure out from the context clues, I ALREADY KNEW.  Sigh.  But she lights up when she talks about school, and even though there were many, many children clinging and screaming at drop-off today (and LOTS of echoing off marble walls), she repeatedly pushed me away and told me good bye.  Um, okay?  Honestly, it was great.  So not complaining.

Katie had some fun while G was in school, too.  She made a beeline for the playground and we spent half an hour running around, climbing stairs and sliding down slides and jumping on the bouncy bridges and having a generally awesome time.

********

There is so, so much I didn't blog about, with all the craziness around the move.  The move!!  Ahhh.  It went as smoothly as any move possibly can, and we are so happy here we can't even believe it.  We keep saying to each other, "hey, guess what?  we live here now."  

We ate all kinds of food that didn't involve chick peas that I never got to tell you about and now I know you are SO SAD!  But don't worry, I took one picture! 

roasted edamame and carrots!  A reasonable hit.

I am no longer so nauseous that I wish for death.  It is a welcome change.  I have only gained seven pounds at 17 weeks, which is really fine but low for me so I am addressing that by eating burritos multiple days per week and tonight, eating an entire box of butterscotch pudding.  I don't even LIKE butterscotch pudding.  WTF? I do not know.  This baby mostly adores fried potatoes with ketchup and Mexican food.  But apparently also pudding. Old lady pudding.

And also Katie is 18 months old now.  There is just too much to say about that, so she gets her own post soon.  Tomorrow, maybe? I hope so.  Let me just give you the tease now: she has the gross and fine motor development of a 5 year old and the intellectual development of, well, an 18 month old.  It is just as awesome as it sounds.  And trust me, she agrees, with the screaming and the arching and the boneless and the TOTAL PISSED-OFFED-NESS for many hours of most days, except on days when she actually sleeps, when she is the happiest, most sunshine-y child you could possibly imagine. I'll let you guess how often she DOES actually sleep.

let's just say the Vincent Price bubble beard is....apt.  Right now she's plotting how to get me to wear a cursed tiki doll around my neck.

And also we are moving.

Because really, what else is going on in our lives?

Seriously, yes, it is always a stress to move, but this is so, so, so good.  We NEED to move.  This neighborhood is just...not working.  It's just not what I thought it was (I can't necessarily speak for Stephen, but I know he's been dying to get out of here even longer than I have.)  We are going to be in a much more residential neighborhood, closer to our families, better schools, our church, etc.  This is a GOOD thing.

...but if wouldn't be me if I weren't overthinking the bejesus out of it, and being hormotional on top of it isn't helping (because although this pregnancy feels shockingly similar to Gracie, I am shocked- SHOCKED- by how maudlin and weepy I have been.  And as someone who is maudlin and weepy at baseline?  It's just ugly.)  I know I've covered this before.  And I'm not sure I can explain it any more clearly than I already have.  Except maybe that it's not about the house, even.  I mean, it IS- like I said, this is where we became parents, and that's no small thing.  But before we ever knew Gracie was coming, before we were married or even lived together, Stephen lived in an apartment around the corner.  And we used to drive around the neighborhood and point out all of the Victorians with big porches where we imagined we might live one day.  It was the perfect neighborhood, halfway between work and family, still close to the fun, young neighborhood where I lived and Stephen would eventually move.  I didn't just think we would live here, I thought we would make a life here.

And SERIOUSLY- let me just say again that this is all silliness, because this move is SUCH a good thing and SO necessary, and such a massive relief and will eliminate so much stress and frustration and bring us so much happiness.  When I try to put my finger on it, I don't think I'm sad as much as wistful.  Because, sorry, but I have to quote Liz Lemon for just one second, I swear (I'm already being completely smurfy so WHY NOT), when she and her boyfriend decide to have a baby together and she says to herself, "Life is finally happening!!"  This neighborhood was where life was finally going to happen.  And now life IS happening and I could not be happier (well, I would like to sleep a bit more.)  So even though the neighbors sucked and the garage got tagged and the mice made themselves comfy here, and even though this is not where our lives will still be, this is one of the places where our lives started*, which is worth remembering.  (also: YIPPEEE!!!!  we're moving!!)  (* the other place is the condo where we lived before G was born, but I don't even NEED to celebrate that place because it was awesome and celebrates itself and we only moved because it was too small.)

not visible in picture: 42 metric tons of plastic, board books, and dog hair.

Hello There, I am still alive.

Which the vast majority of you know, but for the scattered handful that did not: Hi.  I'm still alive.

It's been a crazy few months.  Gracie had her overnight EEG, we learned a few things, we increased her meds. 

You can tell this was a far less traumatic experience than her first EEG, since her "pretty blankie" (heavy quotes) is wrapped around her head not to look like a turban, and not by accident (as I really suspected), but because she was pretending to give herself sticky wires.  So, yay?  She has to have another EEG in a month, so hopefully we are on the path to this just being like a visit to her much-adored pediatrician.  I know some people find it so sad when their kids find things like this to be routine, and I have to say I do not get that.  Maybe because Gracie didn't just fight us, she kicked and screamed and bit and looked wildly around the room for an escape, and why the HELL would I want that to continue?  Why WOULDN'T I want this to be routine? 

So anyway.  Since then, she's had one small staring spell, but has not had a grand mal seizure for six weeks and THAT is something, right there.  I still snap my head around anytime she sighs heavily, gorans, or, you know, makes any kind of odd noise, but fortunately, I'm not greeted with blue lips and clenched fists lately.  So to say things are much, much better is the understatement of the century.

So why haven't I been blogging?  True story: you know how sometimes when you're pregnant (if you've been pregnant), you find yourself intensely repulsed by peanut butter, or ketchup, or strawberries?  About six weeks ago, I found myself utterly incapable of even opening this page.  Looking at the link in my drop-down menu made me dry-heave. 

That's right: the caboose is on the way.  And has brought with him/her THE worst morning (HA bullshit misnomer) sickness of any of my pregnancies.  And in addition to near-constant gagging, an inability to drink plain water or even THINK about touching food that isn't an eggo waffle or Progresso 99% fat-free minestrone, apparently this baby has a blog aversion. Who knew.  But now that I am only sick in the evenings, and am once again able to handle food products, I am also finding myself able to blog again.  Which is good because I would really kick myself if I didn't document any of this.  IT'S JUST BEEN SO FUN.

Seventh Verse, Same as the First

Gracie had another seizure saturday morning.  I can't get into what that one was like, except to say that I'm reasonably sure she was at least partially conscious for part of it and nobody should ever have to stand helplessly by while their child's eyes widen in terror, over and over again.  Though certainly plenty of other people have.  Nonetheless, I'll be ready to buy that brain bleach whenever they come out with it.

Every. Fucking. Time. I let my guard down and think we have this squared away, this happens.  First, the facial, oh, it's probably Bell's palsy.  OK, no it's not, but her MRI is fine.  OK, one seizure, but her EEG is normal.  Fluke? Who knows.  Two more seizures, ok, we have to treat her.  OK.  Lots of kids have seizures and need to be treated and outgrow them, some really quickly.  Two MORE seizures.  OK, she just needs a higher dose, and a boost, we started her really low.  Now I am out of excuses.  Now I am petrified and my mind is going places it shouldn't go because nothing good can come from it.

The seizure guru is meeting with us tomorrow, in advance of our video EEG on friday.  I would prefer to wait until friday, rather than putting G through the trauma of two separate hospital visits, but multiple people seemed to think that there might be some benefit from coming tomorrow, so fine.  I'll come.  And we'll see.

I desperately, desperately want her EEG to show something, anything.  For the doctor to say, oh yes, of course, she just needs this drug instead, and we'll revisit things in a year.  And send us on our way.  I am worried it will be entirely normal and we will not know a single thing more than we know right now, and we will just have to throw darts at the dart board and hope we find something that works.  

I desperately, desperately want Gracie to stop having seizures, to never feel that terror again, to never miss another playgroup, and to start preschool in the fall without worrying that she'll miss a day a week, or worse, be seizing too much for them to even let her attend. 

And I desperately want to sell our house and move because even though I am still pissed off at God, I told him I would stop asking to sell our house if G was okay and she is decidedly not so He owes me.  If he's not going to help her stop seizing, then he should at least help us be closer to our families and the Y and her hopefully new school in the fall.  He owes her that much.