First Images of Baby Michael Phelps

Alright, I can't pass this up. I peed a little when I saw it and it's not because I just had a baby.

Product Placement

I swear, he dressed himself today. What can I say, kid's got style.

PS. And yes, this is post-Aussie Boob Doctor.

E is for Engorgement

Now I know this may be shocking to some of my 3.5 readers, mostly because you are all single and/or newly married and not yet contemplating the giant, insane leap into parenthood at this moment in time, but I feel it is my sworn duty to scare you with the truth before you partake in it yourself and cry foul at the horrendous nature of what befalls you post-pregnancy. It's my pleasure, my sisters did it to me and I honestly thought they were being dramatic. Ha HA HAHAHAHAHA. How oblivious I was.

Here's how it goes:
A. You get knocked up. (You're all, YEAH! This is so fun!)
B. You travel through pregnancy and it goes really well. (You're all, what are these people bitching about, this is great!)
C. You have the baby. (You're still, this is still amazing! Everyone is exaggerating the pain and etc.)
D. You try to breastfeed. (This doesn't go so well, but you're not horrible at it, so you're okay. YEAH!)
E. Your "milk comes in". (This should be called, "Your breasts swell to the size and weight of giant bowling balls, they're hot and sore as hell, and whatever progress you made with your baby convincing him that they are for nourishment and contain lots of yummy milk goes flying out the window when he takes one look at them and tries to run back into your uterus for fear of suffocation by mammary gland".)
F. You try every trick in the "Breastfeeding Your Baby" 2 page guide they give you in the hospital. Yeah, thanks for teaching me where my breasts are located, aside from that, you are completely useless.
G. You call lactation consultants, La Leche League, your neighbor's best friends mother, anyone who has breasts and might be able to help you. All turn up empty.
H. You start negotiating with your baby, "If you learn to do this, you can eat anytime you want, for as long as you want, anywhere you want, until you're old enough to enter a retirement village if you'd just meet me halfway here."
I. You finally reattach your brain to your nerve endings and get a breast pump to relieve the pressure which has quickly achieved 'Erupting Volcano' status.
J. You give in and meet with the scary Australian Lactation Consultant.
K. And voila! She's got him breastfeeding faster than Michael Phelps can win 8 gold medals.
L. You quickly take back everything you ever said about Australians. In fact, you're nominating Australia for a non-existent 'Country of the Year Award' and contemplating moving the entire outfit Down Under in support of Aussie Lactation Consultants.

The Flying Placenta

I forgot to tell you about the "Flying Placenta". So after being awake for about 24 hours and enjoying approximately 20 some hours in labor with vise grip contractions I successfully deliver my 8 pounds of baby and am feeling a tad bit, shall we say, cocky? I'm no longer concentrating on whatever creative venture the OB doc is working on down below but am transfixed by the little creature on the warming table across the room. He's amazing. He cried for a little while but once G went over to him and grabbed his hand, he immediately stopped. G and I are just staring at each other, tears running down our faces, in complete silence. I'll remember that moment for the rest of my life.

And then the lovely OB who incidentally was a stand-in OB for my OB due to the fact that mine went on vacation at 8am in the freaking morning on the day I delivered, but I digress. Anyway, Stand-in OB snaps us out of the moment by informing me that now, now I get to deliver the placenta. Wha? Something else has to be delivered? As in, I have to push again and enjoy that whole lovely scenario one more time?

Well, hell. I'm not going to half ass this placenta pushing job, not after I just had the world's most beautiful baby boy, so look out. I'm going to knock this placenta push out of the park, yes Ma'am. So I gear up, take a huge deep breath, and push with all of the might left in my pelvis and ass. And out flies the placenta, straight into the gut of my Stand-in OB, squarely knocking her back a good 6 inches, I shit you not. She was mid-sentence giving me pushing directions and my Flying Placenta knocked the breath straight out of her. She was definitely surprised, and me? I was all, hell yeah woman. That's how you push a placenta out, biotch. (Only I wouldn't call her a biotch, I'd say Ma'am, yes Ma'am. After all, she's the one sewing my vijay-jay back together. And FYI: don't piss off that lady).

And just because I can't stand keeping this beauty a secret from the world...

WHEW!

Wowsa. So, let's recap, shall we? A week ago today I went into labor at approx 1am. Woke up the husband who quickly shat himself and then proceeded to be the most supportive, most attentive, most loving, most amazing labor coach anyone has ever seen or heard tell of. I'm so in love with him right now, it's kind of offensive.

We made it to the hospital about 7am and proceeded to attempt to ignore my contractions until my body said, "Hold up a motha f-ing second, do you realize WE'RE IN LABOR NOW?" To which I replied, "YES, I CAN SEE THAT". To which my body replied, "WELL STOP F-ING AROUND THEN AND GET ME DRUGS". To which I replied, "Yes Ma'am". Yes, my body has made me her bitch.

So at 9 or 10a I got my epidural. Yes, Jesus, yes. And I had the best nurses all day who constantly backed me up and during an integral decision making process really stepped up for me, which I kind of heart a lot. Around 4p my contractions weren't progressing so they started me on pitocin and at 9p I was fully dilated and pushing!

Griffin came into this crazy world at 10:01pm and he is BE-A-UTIFUL, and very smart and witty. My life since then has been all boobs and stitches, but there is so much to write about that I'll be busy posting until he's 18.

Upcoming posts include: "E is for Engorgement", "Colace and I: A Lovestory", "Excluded Verses from Rock-a-bye Baby", and "The Art of Breastfeeding: WTF".

Off to obsess over that baby...

Still Warming the Bench of L & D

Sorry for the misdirection: I have not posted due to being too fracking busy at work rather than due to the onset of labor and delivery of the fetus who will aforeto now be named, "The Boss". Less as a credit to The Bruce, and more because he refuses to let anyone else tell him when to be born, so as to assert his independent streak nice and early on in life. Enter: My Offspring.

And FYI, according to my weekly emails, he has now surpassed the size of a small watermelon. I'm sorry? SMALL WATERMELON? Shut your mouth when you're talking to me.

And FYI #2, quote of the day from my OB to the husband, "You didn't know when you married her you were marrying a lazy uterus, did ya?" Eh hem, Madam. Please. If he knew half of anything about me when he married me, the least of his problems was a lazy uterus. He'd be more than happy with just a lazy uterus. It's the rest of the psychosis lathered emotional temper tantrum marinated in sarcasm that he could do without. But at least you can crack jokes about my GIGANTIC STOMACH better than you can assist me with going into labor. Danke.

If you need me, I'll be running up and down our steps carrying the air conditioner. Also, if you need any furniture moved or your landlord beat up, give me a ring. I just so happen to be in the market to kick my own ass.

Oogles and Oogles of Googles

Alright, hand to the Bible, I admit it. I google myself.

Not like a hundred times a week or anything. No, more like once or twice a month, tops. I'd also like to state for the record, that I do not believe there is anything wrong with this hobby of mine. I'm simply tracking my exposure to the masses. That is, if there was exposure. Because so far? Non-exposed = me. Not only am I not exposed to the masses, neither is my maiden named self, my nicknamed self, nor my initialed self. I guess I'm cooler than I thought, because I'm underground. Get it? Only the coolest bars and restaurants are super secret and underground. So, now I'm really excited to be amongst such great company as La Esquina and the Private Dinner Club of Brooklyn. I'm hot, ya'll.

I would also like someone to invent a google-yourself-counter that will then be published by name and everyone can see how desparate people are to be famous by how many times you google yourself in any given day. This would be hilarious. Then they should also publish the person's email so we can all email them and try to help them figure out what is missing in their lives, ie social interaction. So Internet, get on my idea. Thank you very much. And I'll take royalties for it too. Because I'm UNDERGROUND and underground people take royalties on all kind of shit. It's a fact.

What the Hell?

I don't know what kind of whack job these hormones are doing to my system, but I just started balling while watching the YouTube video of Christian the Lion. The same YouTube video I've seen a hundred times, the same one that has lame Whitney Houston music to it. In no way has the video been altered since I first saw it, maybe oh about 2 years ago. People, what is going on here? I normally have the emotional range of a parakeet. Nothing makes me cry. I think I've cried about 3 times in my life. (Maybe 4, but the end of The Facts of Life was very hard on all of us. Don't deny it.)

Let's tick off my world sphere as of late:
1. I'm bitchy as hell (I readily admit this but in no way does that excuse the truth behind what I've been bitching about for the past week).
2. I'm an emotional wreck (see above).
3. I'm eating everything I can get my grubby paws on, including the freezer burned mystery foods in the back of our freezer. Yum.
4. I'm Bloaty McBloatitoad and her sister Swollen McSausagetoes all in one.
5. This whole situation stinks of PMS and I have happily gone without Ye Ol' PMS for about 10 months now.

I call foul.

Does this mean I'm getting close to labor? Cause that would be AMAZING. Let's get this party started right and quickly.