i mooed.

So, I had taken the Am.bien, The Castor Oil, and shoved the Evening Primrose Oil up there. And all I had to show for it was flushed away in an instant. After dosing myself with some more Evening Primrose Oil, I went back to bed.

I woke up two hours later, a little after 5 a.m. And I hurt. I felt like I was coming down with the flu or something. My back hurt. My belly hurt. My legs hurt. My... well, that hurt, too.

I heaved myself up, rolled out of bed, and tripped to the bathroom. Apparently the effects of The Castor Oil Treatment were over. Nothing was happening.

But I really, really hurt.

I thought about calling my midwife to tell her I was really, really hurting, but seriously? I truly believe that if you call your midwife at 38 weeks, at five in the morning, to tell her your vagina hurts? It's like hiring a hit man. FOR YOURSELF.

So I took some deep breaths, and tried to relax my hurty self, and it was 100% ineffectual. I went back to bed, but it hurt to lie down. So I heaved myself back up, rolled out of bed, and went back to the bathroom, because leaning over the sink and swaying back and forth felt a tiny bit better than laying down.

Have I mentioned I am occasionally stupid?

I was there, swinging on the bathroom sink for a few minutes, and I stopped moving, because I was hearing a really weird noise. I listened hard, trying to figure out what in God's name was making that noise.

Ummm, yeah. It was totally ME. I was moo-ing.

It was at that moment, when I heard myself baying like a freaking cow, that my light bulb blazed on.

I was having a baby. RIGHT EFFING THEN.

I stood there and made two plans. Plan A: I would wake up The Mister. If he jumped out of bed, I would call his mother to tell her to run up the street to stay with the children. If she answered the phone, we would go to the hospital. Plan B: If The Mister did not jump right out of bed, I would get in the tub and call our neighbor who is the OB Nurse Manager and tell her to let herself in.

We went with Plan A. The Mister and Miss O got up, my MIL charged up the street, and we flew to the hospital. I tried again to reach my midwife so she could, you know, be there for the delivery. It was the longest car ride of my entire life. And I've made the trek to FLORIDA from here, people.

It was 6:00 a.m.

The Mister raced into the hospital to get a wheelchair for me. And he even had the nerve to make me sit down in it. I was really not excited about this, because hello, there's a baby head between my butt bones right now, dude, and sitting makes it worse.

He wheeled me to Labor and Delivery, where Nurse Sunday Driver lollygagged her way to a room. The room that was not sanitized or reset after the previous delivery. So she lollygagged her way down to the one that was furthest away.

My water broke. They hefted me out of the chair, and I leaned forward on the bed while they took my wet clothes off.

This is how we're going to do this, I said. I am going to have this baby right. NOW. Standing here. You are going to catch.

Oh, no, honey, Nurse Lollygagger Sunday Driver said. I have to check you.

You. Do. NOT NEED TO CHECK ME I HAVE DONE THIS BEFORE I AM PUSHING NOW.

Oh, no, honey, you need to get in bed. I have to check you before you can push.

And then she knocked my punk ass in bed. And she checked me. And she actually seemed surprised that I was, indeed, seconds from giving birth.

A flood of Emergency Room staff rushed the room, the same guy who had his hands in my places on my anniversary. Dude stood at the end of the bed, tilted his head to the right, stared at the gaping orifice in front of him and said the stupidest thing I have ever heard in my entire life.

Ahh, ummm, I'm gonna need you to not push.

I sat up. What?

Yeah, don't push.

I refrained from calling him Dr. Fucker because my 6 year old daughter was standing by my left shoulder, and I'm a good mother like that. Instead, I said, Right. This is me, not pushing. I took a deep breath, put my chin down, and pushed Elliott's head out. Also, I pushed out a rogue family of hemorrhoids that were residing in my ass. It was a family the size of the Duggars, mom, dad, 19 children, one daughter-in-law and one grandchild. Not that anyone counted or anything.

Then, Dr. Please-Don't-Have-A-Baby-I've-Already-Handled-Your-Vagina-Once-And-That's-Plenty-For-Me-Thanks, well that guy told me to slow down. BECAUSE LET'S MAKE THIS LAST LONGER SO WE REMEMBER IT BETTER?!?!?!

He stood there and watched my no-longer gaping orifice, which really, I don't blame him, if I were faced with a vagina with a face I'd stare, too.

MAYBE SOMEONE CAN GIVE ME A HAND WITH THIS? PULL THE BABY OUT A LITTLE?

Dr. Please said he wasn't able to do that.

So I pushed again and launched my third 9 pound baby into the world, twelve minutes after arriving at the hospital. I really hope someone caught him, and that he didn't land right on the bed, because that would be crappy. Somewhere in the three minutes between when I got on the bed and pushed him out, my midwife arrived. It was a well-attended birth.

did i even tell you about when sweets was born?

No? Well, then mah peeps, settle down for story time.

Sweets was due April 9th, I think, honestly I don't remember. Yeah, yeah, gasp and stuff. None of my kids were born on their due dates, and I don't remember any of the due dates.

I only remember being VERY overdue with Miss O. And Wee Man. And HB. Except we didn't actually know when I joined the pudding club with HB, but I am absolutely positive I was horrifyingly overdue.

By the time the last week of March rolled around, I had been having contractions for hours every day. Sometimes they were in a pattern, and could be timed, other times they were comparable to being randomly whacked in the belly with a baseball bat. Good times, y'all, good times.

On Friday, March 27th, I was 38 weeks into it, and ended up going to the hospital for a labor check. They sent me home with an Amb.ien, the Drug of the Blessed, and said maybe I just needed a good night's sleep.

So, being the good girl I am, I took my Am.bien, and hopped on the computer to do a little research into The Castor Oil Treatment For Babeh Removal. Castor Oil is handy for speeding things up a little if you find yourself sort of in labor.

Also, it makes you crap your brains out.

Naturally I took a responsibly-sized dose. And then I applied two Evening Primrose Oil tablets to my, ummm, cervical area. (Evening Primrose Oil helps you to become dilated and more effaced if you find yourself sort of in labor.)

I was planning to engage in the sort of activity that got me in that situation in the first place, because that helps, too, but I'm a cheap date and the Ambi.en knocked me out.

I woke up at 3 a.m. and crapped my brains out, but I was not in labor. Not a flipping contraction in sight. I was very disappointed. I applied two or three more Evening Primrose Oil tablets, because I had an enormous bottle, and they were expensive-ish, and why be wasteful? And then I went back to bed.

I was very disappointed.

so that happened.

Elliott slept all. night. long. last night.

It was amazing, almost.

He was out like Christmas break winter holiday when I went to bed. Usually he's in between sleep sessions when I turn in for the night, so I get my pj's on, climb in bed with him, and fall asleep nursing him. Then he wakes up two hours later, we switch sides, and I fall back asleep nursing him. Then he wakes up two hours later, we switch sides, and I fall back asleep nursing him. Then he wakes up again two hours later, we switch sides again, and I fall back asleep again, nursing him. Then...

Dude loves him some boobies. For real.

Usually I wear a bra to bed, because oh my word, have you seen me? I have a set. And a hard-working set they are. I should really look into being a wet nurse or something because, well, I could.

But last night, I was so. very. tired. I've been wearing a bra practically nonstop for nearly seven months. If you've ever done this, you know it gets all hot and itchy in there and no, I haven't worn the same bra continually for seven months, please, people, give me a little credit.

I took the thing off. And I got me a handy dandy toddler sized prefold diaper, folded it neatly, and put it in my shirt. BECAUSE THEY LEAK, that's why.

At 2 a.m. I realized I had wet the bed.

I was soaked from my chin to my belly button. I find it hard to imagine I would have been less pleased if I had actually wet the bed in the conventional manner.

So, I did the only logical thing I could think of at two in the morning: I took off my wet shirt, and put on a dry one.

And I changed my diaper.

have you heard of juvenile dermatomyositis? read on.

I read this post on a number of blogs I frequent, and contacted Kevin of Always Home and Uncool to offer up my little corner of West Blogoslovakifornia, as part of his effort to raise awareness in the blogosphere of juvenile myositis, a rare autoimmune disease his daughter was diagnosed with seven years ago. The diagnosis day also happens to be his wife’s birthday.
*

Our pediatrician admitted it early on.

The rash on our 2-year-old daughter’s cheeks, joints and legs was something he’d never seen before.

The next doctor wouldn’t admit to not knowing.

He rattled off the names of several skins conditions — none of them seemingly worth his time or bedside manner — then quickly prescribed antibiotics and showed us the door.

The third doctor admitted she didn’t know much.

The biopsy of the chunk of skin she had removed from our daughter’s knee showed signs of an “allergic reaction” even though we had ruled out every allergy source — obvious and otherwise — that we could.

The fourth doctor had barely closed the door behind her when, looking at the limp blonde cherub in my lap, she admitted she had seen this before. At least one too many times before.

She brought in a gaggle of med students. She pointed out each of the physical symptoms in our daughter:

The rash across her face and temples resembling the silhouette of a butterfly.
The purple-brown spots and smears, called heliotrope, on her eyelids.
The reddish alligator-like skin, known as Gottron papules, covering the knuckles of her hands.
The onset of crippling muscle weakness in her legs and upper body.

She then had an assistant bring in a handful of pages photocopied from an old medical textbook. She handed them to my wife, whose birthday it happened to be that day.

This was her gift — a diagnosis for her little girl.

That was seven years ago — Oct. 2, 2002 — the day our daughter was found to have juvenile dermatomyositis, one of a family of rare autoimmune diseases that can have debilitating and even fatal consequences when not treated quickly and effectively.

Our daughter’s first year with the disease consisted of surgical procedures, intravenous infusions, staph infections, pulmonary treatments and worry. Her muscles were too weak for her to walk or swallow solid food for several months. When not in the hospital, she sat on our living room couch, propped up by pillows so she wouldn’t tip over, as medicine or nourishment dripped from a bag into her body.

Our daughter, Thing 1, Megan, now age 9, remembers little of that today when she dances or sings or plays soccer. All that remain with her are scars, six to be exact, and the array of pills she takes twice a day to help keep the disease at bay.

What would have happened if it took us more than two months and four doctors before we lucked into someone who could piece all the symptoms together? I don’t know.

I do know that the fourth doctor, the one who brought in others to see our daughter’s condition so they could easily recognize it if they ever had the misfortune to be presented with it again, was a step toward making sure other parents also never have to find out.

That, too, is my purpose today.

It is also my birthday gift to my wife, My Love, Rhonda, for all you have done these past seven years to make others aware of juvenile myositis diseases and help find a cure for them once and for all.

To read more about children and families affected by juvenile myositis diseases, visit Cure JM Foundation.

To make a tax-deductible donation toward JM research, go to www.firstgiving.com/rhondaandkevinmckeever or www.curejm.com/team/donations.htm.

a blissful benefit

I love coffee. And I loves me some Blissfully Caffeinated.
Congrats to you and Mr. C., and also bourbon-sugar soaked kisses, from the tall and the short of us here at the dayton time.

baby cereal: this is how we roll ***now with updates!***

Here's a little tip for all you baby food feeding people out there. Lean in close, because I'm gonna tell you a secret:

Baby food is a colossal rip off.

If you have a blender or a food processor, a stove, a pot and some water at your disposal, you can make baby cereal for wicked cheap. We have the sweet Mennonite Bulk Food Store Hook-Up. Today, I made brown basmati rice cereal, barley cereal, and oat cereal.

You can't beat the price.

This here's barley.

Put it in that there food processor.

Or blender.

Just don't put so much in the blender.

Because it will get all crabby with you.

And it will refuse to do a good job.

Trust me on this one.

Turn on your food processor.

Go fold laundry or something.

See how there's still chunks of barley?

That means it's not done.

Go fold some more laundry.

Or something.

When the barley (or rice, or oats, or millet)

gets all powdery and flour-ish,

it's done.

Also, please do not make me tell you

that sticking your hand in a

food processor is

STUPID.

Moving on.

Bring a couple of cups of water to a rolling boil.

Whisk in a half a cup or so of the powdery, flour-ish grain.

Be certain to pay attention.

Because if this sucker boils over,

you are going to regret it.

Trust me on this one.

Continue to watch your the pot boil.

Whisk often.

Nobody likes burnt baby food.

Again, trust me on this.

When it's thick and resembles

porridge

it is done.

Please don't make me tell you that

you shouldn't feed your baby

boiling hot porridge.

Really, Holmes.

Happy baby.

***UPDATE/ADDENDUM/ETC.***

1. Sarrah asked if I made the pot for the whole week. My answer: sort of. I make a pot and put it in a canning jar. We scoop out a meal for Elliott, and pop the jar back in the fridge. I make more as needed because it's really quick. And if you make porridge right before baby's mealtime, and you have frozen cubes of fruits and veggies, you can throw one or two into the hot porridge to cool it down before feeding it to your babe.

2. I make lots and lots of ground grain at one time. Last night I ground a quart jar of rice powder, a quart jar of barley powder, and a quart jar of oat powder. My main reason for this is because I do not want to have my food processor on my counter any more than necessary. I keep the grain powder in quart canning jars in my fridge, but it stores very well in the freezer, too.

we like to help. so click, scroll, click. it's that easy.

A local credit union is having a Pay It Forward contest, where they gave away $10 to anybody who came into the credit union and made a video saying which charity they were giving their $10 to, and why.

TRANSLATION: Bank gives money to people who give it away and make movies.

please vote for video number four.

After all the videos were made, a supersecret panel decided on the top ten most compelling causes. Those ten videos have been posted HERE, and the credit union wants everybody to vote on the best video, which will win $1000.

TRANSLATION: Lots of people were not as interesting as 10 that were interesting and compelling, you get to choose who is best.

please vote for video number four.

As it happens, I know most of the people in the videos, and I'm also going to tell you who to vote for.

please vote for video number four.

Susan, who on a normal day I call Sue, but it's only been the last four or five years that I've been able to call her by her first name without being a little nervous because she was my ____th grade teacher, and in my head her first name is still Missus.

Sue has a real heart for the soldiers in the military. Her sister was in the military, maybe that's how she became involved in the first place. I don't know. But one of the ways she supports soldiers is by collecting golf balls.

Stop scratching your head.

please vote for video number four.

When they have time off, some of the soldiers like to play the Desert Driving Range. Except they can't go retrieve the balls because the area surrounding the bases are filled with land mines. Not superconducive for playing fetch.

please vote for video number four.

Sue collects golf balls and mails them to soldiers in Iraq. And that, my friends, is cool. And if all 135 of you that get me in a reader, and the 67 of you who follow my blog via the googles voted, that'd be 202 votes, and plus me, it's 203 votes, and maybe she would win.

please vote for video number four.

And that would be pretty cool. Thanks, y'all.