A sliver of my liver

Speech therapy day. Intrepid cooperated and Gutsy only did when Fruit Loops became available as a bribe. He likes doing the 'S' sound a lot more than the 'F' sound. I think that may be because the 'F' is taught by pretending to be an 'angry cat' making the 'Ffffffff!' sound, while the 'S' is learned by putting a snake finger puppet on one's finger and racing to a Fruit Loop while saying 'SssSSSsssss!'

Food and snakes. The way to any boy's heart.

I'm incredibly uncomfortable. In fact, the only thing keeping me from crying right now is the fact that I'm trying to put some funny into my day by writing about it here. I'm serious that this blog is a sanity-keeper. What tiny bit I have left in the dankest, most cobwebbed part of my mind is being kept alive by forcing myself to have a sense of humour.

I'm sick of the contractions that come and go whenever they feel like it when I still have over four weeks until my due date. I'm tired of the effort involved in walking, climbing, lifting, bending down or just about anything else a 30-year-old woman (despite the wrinkles and white hair) should be able to do. And tonight, I got a nice big bout of sciatica just to bring me to the peak of dismal. I can't get comfortable no matter what I do at this point and I'm generally just pissed off and tired. I was fed up with the gremlins long before I would normally be, and only half-noticed how well-behaved they were at the chinese buffet tonight (we went out because Geekster was running late and the mere thought of cooking nearly brought me to tears).

My husband said to me just a few minutes ago 'It'll all be over soon, honey..... Funny how that's the same thing we say to dying people.'

Tact, thy name is Geekster. But he made me laugh and that's a good thing right now.

Anyway, I want to have this baby as soon as his lungs are developed. Any time now, InUtero Boy. Mother is growing impatient to check you for horns and a tail.

Incidentally, the placemat at the chinese buffet informed me that, as someone born in the year of the dragon, I'm not going to going to get along with those born in the year of the dog (2006). In other words, the fact that I'm being driven absolutely insane by my inner spawnling is just a precursor to what's going to happen after he's born.

I'd like to thank the makers of the chinese buffet zodiac placemats for warning me of the inevitable animosity between my youngest child and I. I'll line up a boot camp and some counseling well ahead of time thanks to your knowledge.

Two good news items to report:

1. My doctor has informed me that I do not yet have ICP, the awful liver condition that not only raises the chance of a stillborn baby to 5%, but also causes severe itching all over the mother's body. I had it in my pregnancy with Intrepid and started showing signs (itching in the palms and feet - one of the earlier indicators) last week. I called and had a blood test ordered, which shows that while my liver levels are elevated, they're not nearly at dangerous levels. Horray! That buys us some time at the very least. I may not develop full ICP this time, or might only get it when we're good to go for an induction (which I'm not keen on, but will do to lower the risk to Jackson the Contraction).

2. The Sister reminded me that she is taking Gutsy out tomorrow for a few hours, giving me some much-needed relaxation time. I believe I'll bring Mrs. Wailing some type of beverage and cuddle Baby Wailing until I need to go back home and wait for Intrepid to get off the bus. If I stay home I will likely clean, as my nesting is in full swing (ironically when I'm at my worst to do chores of any kind).

You know, if I had a paying job I'd probably still be working right now. Ew. I can't even imagine having to be nice to people in a place of work, even for money. I can barely be nice to the dog right now. I'd yell at the weeds in my front yard if I didn't think someone would take my children away. One or two more pregnancies and I'd become the local crazy cat lady for the rest of my days. Three is a nice, even number.

Er. Yeah.

Bitchingly yours,
The Maven

My name is Peanut Butt

That isn't actually my name, just in case you weren't sure. I am carrying a little (big?) peanut and do have more than enough butt to speak of, but I could think of many better titles for myself. I was trying to come up with a name for today's entry and was thinking along the lines of 'Gutsy's First Day Fiasco' or 'Waddling to Preschool Takes Effort' and frankly wasn't happy with my lack of originality. Then, out of the playroom I hear 'My name is Peanut Butt' followed by endless giggles and decided that was just as good as anything I could have come up with.

Mr. Peanut Butt himself had his first morning of school today. I have proof in pictures. He's so bad he's cute, isn't he? That's what I tell myself when he stands out so starkly from the other, better-behaved children (the ones I call 'the drones' - again just to eleviate my discomfort. Putting little children down to make myself feel better is one way to a happier Maven).

One thing about Peanut Bu - er, Gutsy - is that he doesn't put on a facade for anyone. If he doesn't like what you're doing you'll know. If he doesn't want to talk to you he won't. The teacher told me today that when he doesn't agree with something he just frowns at her. There was an unspoken 'He's much easier to deal with than his big brother at this age' glance between us. An understanding of mutual respect - a sharing of previous war wounds. Intrepid was every teacher's nightmare back in the day. I was seriously considering a basket of valium for his kindergarten teacher. A gift that keeps on giving!

The Gutster had a fairly good time once he let go of my leg and agreed to let Grandma take him back into the classroom. I stood in the hallway with teary first-time mothers and remembered how lost I felt on Intrepid's first day. Ah, the good ol' days. Back when I was a good mother. Hey, I really was a good mom once upon a time, I swear! Had I met anyone who nicknamed her children, oh, say, 'the Gremlins' I would have been disgusted. How disrespectful! Mothers like that should be dragged out into the street and beaten with plastic rulers.

In other news, Intrepid's teacher wants him to learn 'Oh, Canada' on the piano for school assemblies. His kindergarten teacher - the school's resident pianist - has retired (a few years early, I'm gathering, because of the psychological damage from spending her days with children who's awful parents call them 'Spawnlings' in blog posts. That or she has to go to rehab for a valium addiction). I'm glad he's going to learn something new, because as much as I love hearing him practice piano and pick his own songs, I'm getting rather tired of 'I Love You Just the Way You Are' by Lionel Ritchie. I shudder at the thought of him playing it for another few weeks.

The children are fighting again. We've come a long way from snickering over 'Peanut Butt'. I love being a stay-at-home-mom, but I really could use some anything-but-home-mom time tonight. Maybe I'll grab a 12 step meeting and a latte. I have the patience of a toddler on a sugar high right now and I think the distraction is needed. There's only so much nesting or blogging a woman can do.

Tomorrow is speech therapy day. Friday is payday. Life is good. Pass the valium.

InUtero and Maven hit the doc's office

We didn't 'hit' the doc's office, per say. As in, my minivan is still very much dent-free, thankyouverymuch. However, we did go for our first weekly visit, during which I was swabbed for Strep-B (nothing like a Q-tip being jiggled in places where no Q-tip should go), had two fingers uncomfortably inserted into my nether regions and my fundal height was measured not once, but twice, just to make sure the doctor wasn't seeing things.

Stats at 35 weeks gestation:

• I am 1cm dialated. My cervix is lower but still firm. Thus, the contractions are happening just to piss me off and make me eat my feelings.
• I've gained 4 pounds in two weeks (see above). I've also gained a bit of swelling in my ankles. Between InUtero and I, we're blimpin' out (this is a lot like 'pimpin' out', which would be a good thing, except that it isn't so good and I only gave it a catchy name to make myself feel better about how fat I'm getting).
• The Thing That Ate My Waist has indeed eaten my waist along with my stomach, lungs and pretty much everything else in that area. My uterus has grown 4cm in the last two weeks, bringing it to the 'full-term' size of 40cm. I can't remember how big I was with the other two, but probably just slightly smaller. Who wants to bet this will be the biggest spawnling yet?
• Blood pressure is sitting nicely at 110/70 and there are no scary things in my urine. As a former winner of the preeclampsia raffle, I'm always happy to hear this.
• No word yet on my liver function results. Basically I'm starting to show signs of ICP, which is not a terribly fetus-friendly condition, so I asked the doctor for a blood test last week. It may result in an early induction if I have it, but we'll play it by ear. The important thing is that the boy is growing and continuing to make my life hell while his lungs finish developing. But he's very active during the day and sleeps through the night. I might have to make him my favourite for that alone.

I see the doctor again next week, unless my liver function tests come back high. I'm keeping my fingers and toes and swollen ankles crossed that I sail through the remaining weeks with no major complications.

In other news, I can finally start showing off my beautiful family thanks to the digital camera Geekster gifted me with for my birthday. I need some way to document the wrinkles and white hair, so why not something with half-decent picture resolution? I've created a Flickr account, which is public but so far has very few pictures in it. It's disorganized and crappy, but it does the job for now. Everyone who has the displeasure of my regular company knows I'm not terribly organized and rather sloppy in some areas (including my looks as of late - what do you expect from a miserably huge pregnant chick?). Heck, just take a look at our family pic and it's pretty apparent (note how happy Gutsy is to be photographed).

Here are the Gremlins, adorable as always. They get by on their looks, I tell you. Don't let the innocent eyes fool you.

Enormous me (two days ago, at 34wks 6 days) and a closeup of InUtero Boy (same day).

Finally, my attempt at art (with a more willing subject in Sir Gutsy of Bitchingham than during the family photoshoot). I really want to put that one up on the wall, but that would involve having it printed up at a store and walking around looking for the right frame. Keyword: walking. Nuh-uh. So for now, it's my desktop background.

Where are the gremlins while I'm blogging, you may ask? Why, they're in the backyard, blowing up an air mattress and pretending they're camping. They're actually getting along. That means they're not fighting. It also means that I get to sit here mostly undisturbed for a few minutes and type out a post. Will wonders never cease?

Tomorrow is Gutsy's first day of preschool. Egads! I'm sure I'll have a lot to say about it after he's done. My mother seems to think that we can send him off and go have breakfast while he happily adjusts to preschool. Ah, grandmothers. They're so sweetly naive, aren't they? I think I may have to show up early at pick up time to count the black eyes and teary children running into their parents' arms. If I bring my camera I could make a really neat collage for his scrapbook.

Intrepid is doing great in grade four. He has the same teacher as last year (which is good because she adores him and we don't have to go through any awkwardness with titles and salutations as we're already on a first name basis). He's been throwing around a bit of attitude at home, but who isn't these days? I'm pregnant and thus automatically moody. Geekster gets to deal with me, so he has bitchiness rights, too. Intrepid started school and is adjusting to getting up at 7am again. Gutsy is, well, Gutsy. That about sums it up.

It's too quiet in Ye Olde Backyarde. I'm going to have whip (slowly and painfully climb) upstairs and see what's going on. Maybe Intrepid managed to blow up the air matress with Gutsy inside. Stranger things have happened around here, after all.

Jackson the contraction

I swear I'm going to call him that when he's born. The little stinker will NOT leave my uterus alone. There were a couple of hours today when the A&E 'Crossing Jordan' marathon I was so enjoying was being interrupted every seven minutes by stomach tightening and cramping. How can I follow plot line when I need to breathe through these damn things on a regular basis? How distracting!

Then I had to breathe through my stirfry that Geekster had so nicely prepared for me. Where's the justice? First I get sidetracked from a great show, then an excellent meal. And for what? Am I birthing a baby right now? No. I'm sitting here having more contractions, but irregular and not terribly productive as far as I can tell. I'm only 35 weeks tomorrow, so I know I have at least two or three more weeks to go. I'm being very optimistic in my predictions, too. I have to be for my sanity (I realize you may question whether or not I have any sanity left. Remember: I'm trying to think positive right now. I will go into labour early and I am still somewhat sane. Positive.)

But, hey! We had a wonderful night away at the Westin. We ate steak, we shopped for digital cameras and baby bassinets and woks, we had a nice brunch, we went for a swim, we scouted out potential neighbourhoods to move into next year... We received no 'Oh my Lord and for the love of all that is holy, please save me from your heathen spawn!' phone calls from The Madre. In fact, she told us off for coming home two hours earlier than expected. She was busy doing laundry and organizing the baby's room. The children were - get this - well-behaved (I think she's lying) and were kept too busy to miss us (she didn't elaborate on 'busy', but I'm guessing by tying her up and throwing things at her). I'm thinking of building her a wing in our next home and having her move in. We might not have room for the bowling alley or the extra garage space for the Bentleys, but I think it would be worth it to have someone so useful around.

Oh, and her friend, The Penguin, left me a cake and ice cream so we could have a proper celebration upon our return home. She's a health care professional, so she was probably thinking that my children would suffer from post traumatic stress if we didn't celebrate my 30th birthday with them. Too late, Tux. They're my children so they can't possibly end up emotionally healthy. That would involve good genetics and parenting, neither of which is a reality over here. If you saw how many parenting books I have (next to the dozens of self-help books lining my shelves) you'd know they don't have a hope in hell of coming out of childhood unscathed. Parents who know what they're doing don't need to buy parenting books. The rest of us are wasting our money because they probably won't help anyway.

The only downside to our mini-vacay was walking. The pool noodle has been replaced quite unexpectedly with what I believe is a mace. Poor Geekster had to slow his 6'2" self down quite a bit. His long legs were going at more of a shuffle than a walk to accomodate my waddling. I was on the verge of tears more than once but maintained a grin as much as I could. It was our special time away, after all. I can't go ruining it by being a whiny pregnant girl, right? Smile through the tears and all that. What's this 'honesty' thing I said I was going to pull off in this new decade I'm in? How quickly one forgets...

I was asked twice in less than 24hrs if I was having twins. I fielded more 'WOW! Any time now, eh?' comments than I can remember. I was ready to punch the next person who looked at me with that sympathetic stare. Yes, I'm uncomfortable, ok? Yes, I want this baby out of me yesterday for purely selfish reasons. No, I'm not a good mother who wants her baby to bake for as long as he needs to. It's all about me, damnit. ME. Feel sorry for my baby who has to grow up with someone so self-centered. And he's the third baby, which is even worse. Poor little guy.

Rant over. That feels better.

*ahem*

So I'm thirty now. I think it's finally sinking in. My 20's were pretty good to me, though. I had two babies and grew most of a third, got married, bought a house, finally passed my driving test (third time's a charm), finished a heavy-duty lactation course that earned me a pretty certificate for my wall, and made a bunch of mistakes that I actually learned from. That's a fairly full decade, don't you think? I had no room for anything else, which is why I had to turn thirty. You can see how these things happen.

I have an awesome new camera that contains pictures of the very pregnant Maven. I'll upload them ASAP. I just have to walk upstairs, grab the camera and the cables, then make my way back down here, get under my desk, plug in the cables, sit down at my desk, install the software and upload the pictures.

On second thought, maybe I'll do that in about five weeks. Or, better yet, maybe I'll bribe my children with cake for breakfast and make them do it all for me. Everything but the sitting part. I'm pretty good at that.

Countown expired: Oldness Imminent.

Dear lord. I'm thirty years old. That's three decades.

Thanks to everyone who's called and emailed and posted a happy birthday. I'm touched in a special way (but not that special or I might not respect you in the morning).

Thac0 sent me a card. If the squirrel/cat/gopher/thing had a bigger stomach and had slept half the night on the couch with her arm stuck under a preschooler, that would basically be a good representation of me. Meanwhile, Jobthingy sent me this card, which pretty much looks exactly like me. Also, I can't keep my mouth shut and I'm loud, so overall I give it an 8.5 for style.

I know I've been a neglectful Maven the last couple of days, but it's been chaotic. For example, while running errands this morning, I was listening to a CD I hadn't heard for a while in the van. The first song to come on was from Mr. 50 Cent. At first I thought I could really relate to it.

Go shorty, it's your birthday!

Damn straight it's my birthday, Fiddy.

We gon' party like it's yo birthday

Um, if by 'party' you mean 'We gon' drive up in your minivan to the hospital, have your blood taken for a potentially serious liver condition you had in Intrepid's pregnancy and thought you might not get again but are starting to show symptoms of, then we gon' stand in line to get your license renewed', then yes, we are most certainly partying it up, yo.

We gon' sip Bacardi like it's yo birthday

If by 'Bacardi' you mean a half-decaf with two cream procured by my baby daddy, Geekster that I sipped for about an hour this morning before waddling around the city getting poked (not in a good way) and paying for the right to drive, then yes. I'm way too old, pregnant and a lush to be sipping anything else, baby.

'Cause you know we don't give a f*ck
It's not your birthday!

Now I'm just confused. If we're going to party and sip alcoholic beverages, why do we suddenly not care? You obviously cared enough to write a song about it. Oh, Fiddy, you remind me just how anciet and uncool I am. Not to mention that this is playing in my minivan.

Ahem, anyway... It's been a good birthday, other than the running around this morning. The Madre is here, jamming with Intrepid and Gutsy (she plays a mean guitar). When Geekster gets home we're going to go check in to the hotel and pretend we don't have children for about 24hrs (other than the constant reminder of a moving, rolling, cervix-whacking bowling ball in my stomach) . Gutsy was thrilled that grandma was here until he realized she was not pitching the tent in the backyard and that they were not camping under the stars. He pouted until he found the craft supplies and sugary cereals she brought over. Then all was forgiven.

I would have posted yesterday, but it was even worse. I won't even go into detail because it's too traumatic on my pregnant psyche. A whirlwind of non-stop driving and appointments. Not exactly the way I wanted to spend the last day in my 20s, but would fate have it any other way?

So I'm thirty. Old, but not ancient. I won't be ancient until I'm 40, according to Intrepid. Horray! Ten more years to save up for my walker. Or maybe I'll get one of those motorized things and scowl as I try to run down little kids on the sidwalk.

Hey, everyone needs a hobby. Even old people.

8:30am and I'm already stressed

Intrepid's first day of school. I was so well prepared, I swear. This was going to be an insanity-free first day experience. It was to be better than any other year (where everything was done last minute, I was up until the wee hours writing his initials on every pencil, blurry eyed and frustrated).

I had everything sharpened, labelled and ready by the door.

I made his lunch yesterday afternoon and stuck it in the fridge.

I asked him to lay out his clothes for the big day hours before bedtime.

We were set. This was going to be a stress-free re-integration.

The four of us arrived at the bus stop 10 minutes early to make sure we could all see him off for his big day.

The bus didn't come.

We waited 10 minutes after it was supposed to show up. No bus. 5 more minutes. No bus.

We jump into the van and head down to his school (we only have 10 minutes to get him there at this point). Chaos ensues. Everyone's stressed. Nobody knows what's going on. My perfect planning falls apart.

It's now 8:36am. Intrepid has hopefully found his class. Geekster is hopefully almost all the way to work. Gutsy is watching Dora and I'm blogging. I'm also in a bitchy mood now.

Hey, I tried, right? *shakes head*

I'm going to go drink my coffee and pout now. I need a hug, although it would require someone with grotesquely long arms to do the job. Applicants may apply via comments. Please send arm pictures.

In which The Maven admits to being cheap and easy

I am the ultimate discount shopping whore.

Since resigning as mayor of Daycareville, I've had to keep things pretty low key in the shopping department. Intrepid's school supplies came up to $70, not including his backpack or clothes. That was after paying $100 in school fees and $512 in school taxes. I'd roll over in my grave if I were dead (which probably won't be too long as I'm quickly approaching the golden years).

I stopped in at the dollar store today and spent a whopping $14.16. I bought toothbrushes (as of this morning, both Geekster's and my dental instruments have been contaminated with Ivory soap in Gutsy's attempts to earn another 'merit badge' by making the bathroom sink sparkle), the last of Intrepid's school supplies, some baby socks, wash cloths and hooded towels and two toys. Gutsy wanted a claw of sorts and Intrepid decided on a flashing Spongebob pin. I don't get the pin thing at all, but I figured it will take up very little precious landfill space, so it's not the worst thing he could buy and forget about in ten minutes.

Off to the thrift store next, where I bought ten items of clothing - six for Intrepid and four for InUtero Boy - for $24. This included a beautiful pair of Gap cargo pants for $2.99, which deserves a celebration all on its own. A parade, perhaps.

I'd like to say the boys were really well behaved when we were out. I'd like to write about how they followed me around quietly and didn't touch a thing without asking first. How they didn't bump into other people, other people's carts or dive into clothing racks. That I didn't have to resort to telling them they had to put their hands on the counter and not move a muscle until I was done paying. That idle threats weren't used to coerce them into the van and back home at the end of our excursion. That at no point in the shopping trip did I question why I had gone out with them in the first place.

However, the last time I saw a pig, it hadn't sprouted any wings. Besides, it would make my nicknames of 'gremlins' and 'spawnlings' rather ridiculous, wouldn't it?

I think I know why they're like this. When they were nothing but little souls searching for their future parents, they put us in the 'maybe' pile and revisited it later. They probably sat around narrowing down the contestants.

'Well, these ones are rich, but they'll want us to play golf and wear sweater vests during the holidays.'

'Nah. No good. How about these ones? They fight a lot, but there's always beer in the house that can be easily accessed during our rebellious years.'

'Sounds too rageful. We might have a hard time stopping drinking after we leave home. Hmm... These people seem pretty normal. Oh, hang on a sec.... What's this about him spending a lot of time with his pet sheep when she's sleeping? Er..'

'Stay away from guys who enjoy the company of sheep at any time other than wool collection, I always say. Hmm, that leaves these ones, eh? He's some geeky computer guy and she's.. well, she's undecided. She's a social worker.. No, wait. No. She changes her mind. She ends up being a lactation consultant.'

'No, you didn't flip the page, stupid. She takes some of the courses and then doesn't go back to school to get a degree because she gets sidetracked. Again. And again. Wow, she really can't make up her mind, can she? And then she... blogs? Daily?'

'Haha, what a loser!'

'Seriously.'

'Ok, so she's a loser, but she does want to stay home and raise us. That's good, right?'

'Definitely. Nobody else is going to put up with us. There is no family member strong enough, no daycare worker paid enough. She's going to have to stay home. At least it'll give her time to figure out what she wants to do. And uh... BLOG!'

'LOL!! You kill me.'

'I might later, actually. You wreck my PSP after mom and dad make me let you use it on my bunk bed.'

'Ouch. Sorry about that.'

'Yeah, I'll hate you for it in a few years. Anyway, off I go. They're about to have unprotected sex thinking that pregnancy happens to other people. Not terribly bright, these two. But if it's between them and the sheep guy...'

The Madre's caring nature shines through

I called The Madre at around 6:30pm and asked her about these pesky contractions. They'd been going on all day and were getting worse over the last couple of hours. Neither of us thought it was time to panic yet, so I put my feet up, drank a great deal of water and relaxed for a bit. Slowly but surely, they left me like a john after leaving money on the nightstand (no experience with this by the way. However, in hindsight, if my previous boyfriends had left me money when they dumped me I might have been able to start my own college fund).

So my dearest mother calls me back at around 8:30 and the following conversation ensues:

The Madre: how go the contractions?
Me: Not too bad now, thanks. I'm resting and they seem to be getting less frequent.
The Madre: Good, good. Hey, while you're resting, why don't you put your feet up in front of the computer and write a blog entry?
Me: *speechless*
The Madre: I mean, I just re-read yesterday's post. It's time for something new.
Me: *sputter* But mom.. I've been contracting. I thought I might be going into preterm labour.
The Madre: Yeah, yeah, but you're not, which is good. Get to blogging!

I think it might be time for a Madre intervention. Is there such thing as a blog addiction? Blogaholic, perhaps? Or maybe I'm the blogaholic (says Geekster) and she's the family member of the person with said affliction. She might need Bloganon while I go to Blogaholics Anonymous. Regardless, she's starting to frighten me.

However, in keeping with our highly unhealthy mother-daughter relationship, here I am posting a blog at 10:30pm for no other reason but to avoid yet another phone call tomorrow morning asking how I'm feeling but only because she wants to get on with finding out why I didn't post in my damn blog.

People say we're a lot alike. That scares me more and more every day.

In other news, Intrepid has learned the fine art of positive reinforcement when dealing with a three-year-old. He came with a grand scheme: he started a 'learning club for kids', which is really nothing but a glorified sweat shop. He spent part of the evening making 'merit badges' out of cardstock and sticking them to Gutsy's fire chief hat every time the little guy did what Intrepid wanted him to do. He got him to pick up his toys and clean the bathroom, among other things.

In fact, I found Gutsy scrubbing the upstairs bathroom counter with Geekster's toothbrush and a bar of soap. Yummy. I soaked both our toothbrushes just in case and will go out and buy new ones in the morning. I'm debating telling Geekster unless he comments on a soapy taste in his mouth while brushing his teeth tonight. Maybe the minty toothpaste while hide the evidence.

Geekster told Intrepid how impressed he was by their new club and suggested that perhaps he, Intrepid, might also want to earn some badges alongside his brother. 'No,' replies Intrepid. 'I'm the manager of the club, so I don't do any work. Besides, it's basically just a big scam to get little kids to tidy up without having to fight with them. It would be a good tool for parents, don't you think?'

It was at that point when I realized my son will be a self-proclaimed parenting guru, writing novels like 'How to Con Your Child Into Submission' and 'Ten Easy Steps to Beat Child Slave Labour Laws'.

Anyway, if everyone could send 'baby stay put' vibes over the next couple of weeks it would be greatly appreciated. While every (sane) expecting mother dreams of birthing prior to her due date, six weeks early isn't exactly what I had in mind. I'd like InUtero Boy to know how to breathe and eat before he gets here. Minor things, I know. Call me picky. At any rate, he needs another week or so in there before I'd be confident that those two things would be a reality. Besides, I'm going away this weekend and he has no right to come early and ruin my plans. So there.

Countdown to Oldness and Wrinkles: 4 days.

Maybe I should name him 'Braxton', not 'Jackson'

I'm still recovering from the trip to the cottage yesterday. It was anything but relaxing, to be honest. Thankfully, the gremlins enjoyed themselves tremendously and were well-behaved as far as they go. My contractions stopped this afternoon and I think InUtero Boy will be staying put for a while longer (at this point in the game that's still a good thing).

Friends may call or stop by to inquire as to the details, but I'm going to keep them off my blog so as to not start any extended family drama (even though I highly doubt anybody involved reads my crap). The Maven doesn't like drama much these days and has no time for it. However, I would like to publicly thank my mother for helping out so much yesterday. I owe you coffee and the joy of my company. Rejoice, for you have earned it.

I was just going to say that I slept like a baby last night, but then I thought about it.

Who on earth made up such a stupid saying? Have they ever met a baby? I'm guessing it was a childless man who decided it was a good comparison. One of those uncles you see twice a year who brings gifts at Christmas chosen by the woman at the toy store because he has no idea what kids are into, having not been one in years and dreading the thought of raising any. He probably showed up to a family gathering one afternoon, took one look at his peacefully sleeping, infant neice (the one who had been up all night screaming and rendering her parents to sobbing blobs of despair) and thought to himself 'Gee, I wish I could sleep like that'.

No, I did not sleep like a baby. I slept like.. Let me think here... a young woman in a low-stress career who has no children and no spouse who snores and who went out with her friends to a nice restaurant the night before, had a couple of glasses of wine, went home to watch something funny in her bunny slippers and passed out around 11pm. I slept like her.

Nothing beats the 'My Saturday really sucked' blues like a trip to the chocolate factory. A good time was had by all. We left with a bag so heavy that Geekster didn't want me carrying it, yet it only cost is $19.14. I won't mention what the gas cost was because it ruins the economic part of my brag.

I have about two pounds of Reese's Pieces that we bought for a whopping $2.97. How can you beat that? Of course, the transplant of the new heart I'm going to need in a few years due to eating large quantities of discounted candy might ruffle the feathers of my 'savings' theory a little.

I sat down a lot today and timed frequency and duration of contractions (while eating chocolate and watching the National Geographic channel). They weren't terribly regular, but they were there. Mostly Braxton-Hicks, but with a few painful ones thrown in for added scare. The chocolate and documentaries made it more bearable and an afternoon nap seemed to get rid of them altogether. The boys were mostly quiet while I slept and Geekster decided that his virus thingy wasn't as bad as me birthing a baby in the freezer section, so he went out and got our groceries.

This week is going to be slightly hectic. There's a meeting at Gutsy's preschool on Tuesday evening that I'm going to attend. A 'parents information session' for the newbies. I went to two of these when Intrepid was at the same preschool, so it probably won't be terribly exciting. Still, I have to set up a time to get together with the teachers to explain the boy's hearing loss and what that will entail. They're just going to love me. I'm one of those 'these are my child's needs and I expect they will be met' type of mothers. Of course, I don't say it in that way, but the implication is there. Frankly, I don't know why teachers like me so much. All of Intrepid's previous ones are always chatting me up when I go to his school for any reason. Despite my I-might-as-well-be-demanding-Evian-water -and-white-leather-couches-in-my-dressing-room ways, they still stop and talk to me. Maybe they're scared that I'll call another meeting if they snub me. That seems a likely reason.

Intrepid starts grade four on Wednesday. He's terribly excited and so am I. It's good that it's happening this week, as I was just contemplating a new tradition in our house:

Chloroform Fridays. It's a great concept, you see. Everyone gets a nap (whether they like it or not).

It would go well with Velcro Wall Wednesdays. I always thought that would be fun, too. I just need to find a big enough wall and velcro strong enough that they can't unstick themselves without my help. We could call it 'strength training'. Physical education, if you will. They'd only be up there long enough for me to have a bath, anyway. I'm sure any child protection social worker would think that's perfectly reasonable.

I just got another contraction for that. Shame on me for saying what other mothers are thinking (and if you took offence to my ideas, it's only because you're jealous that you didn't come up with them first).

Thursday is our first meeting with a new speech pathologist. We're now going private, which I'm miffed about for reasons mentioned in a previous post. The whole class issue really gets me down. Equal rights for all and blahdittity blah blah. Nobody's listening to me anyway. We're all way too self-centered in this generation to think of others. We only do it when people like Oprah tell us to, or if they make it easy, like accepting Tsunami donations at the Starbucks drive-thru. A latte and a clean conscience is a great way to start your week.

Friday is when the countdown to oldness comes to a close and I turn the big 3-0. I don't want to talk about it. I'm not ready yet. However, I will place the counter in here for good measure:

Countdown to oldness: 5 days.

I'm going to go play some lame computer game, eat some candy and pretend I'm still young and hip. But first I have to close the blinds so I won't see my minivan laughing at me in the driveway.