Wanna Know A Secret?

A funny thing happens when you find yourself pregnant for the third (or more) time, and your other children are both boys*.

Suddenly the pressure is on. Everyone you know begins to send pink baby dust your way. 

Random strangers on the street smile at you knowingly and say "Trying for a girl?"

Even though we've only recently announced our pregnancy, we've gotten everything from "PLEASE have a girl!!" to "You DO want a girl, right?!"

Well since I was asked, I will share my heart's desire.

What I want…… What I really really really want…..

Is to stop throwing up. Seriously.

If we have a boy, it's going to be awesome!! 

If we have a girl, it's going to be awesome!!

As far as the sex of this baby goes, boy or girl, it doesn't matter to me. I am just praying for a strong, healthy, full-term baby.

The boys however, do not share my enthusiasm.

Alex would like a sister. He figures, he's got a brother, why not a sister to complete the set.

Spain would like a robot. Robots are awesome! They walk funny, and sometimes dance. oh, and the best part; THEY'RE ROBOTS!!!

*I have no doubt that this happens in families full of girls too.

Older Than You Know

The other day I was chatting with my neighbor, Kate. 

Kate was super excited, because she had just met our newest neighbors. They had just moved in to the house next to Kate's "And the best part," Kate gushed "She's 25! Someone who's FINALLY my age. Well closer anyway."

Admittedly, Kate's still not old enough to legally drink, so it's kind of like asking Alex how old he think someone is.  Everyone is either; 1) younger than him. 2) his age. 3) The crypt keeper.

Okay, not really. He doesn't know anything about the crypt keeper. Now that I think about it, he probably doesn't know what a crypt is.

The point is, I don't appreciate being thought of as "old". I have been SEVENTEEN for years. Years, people!

Most people believe me without question. 

I remember when Alex was a baby. Strangers would approach me in the grocery store and ask if it was hard being in high school with a baby. I would be aghast that they would dare to make such an assumption, and quick to let them know that I was in fact, NOT a high school student. I really can't pinpoint when, or even why, but at one point I figured I should just embrace it. 

And that's when I became seventeen indefinitely.

(Me and my mom. Taken in May. My youthful looks come honestly!)

In the last year I've been asked if I was the boys' babysitter (and what my rates were). And my personal favorite, while ALONE at the hospital I asked for directions to the allergy clinic, the person behind the desk refused to give me directions for anything other than the pediatric clinic.

Unfortunately, as Alex gets older it makes it harder for me to tell people that I'm seventeen. He'll gasp and yell "MAMA!" 

When an older child calls you "mama", people have a harder time believing you're not old enough to drink. 

*sigh*

Sometimes kids ruin a good thing.

I can only assume that when Kate did the math (8 year old + 2 year old + sews(?!) + makes cheesy 90's references), she came up with the only logical explanation….

I'm 84 years old.

Sometimes It's A Need!

I never had real pregnancy cravings while I was pregnant with Alex or Spain. Oh sure, certain things sounded good, but I was never consumed by the overpowering desire to consume the object of my thoughts.

Until now.

Between my extreme morning sickness and my inability to drink most fluids, I've had to be very careful to stay hydrated. One evening, I realized a popsicle would be a fantastic treat for me. I waddled to the freezer and was slightly dismayed to see that we only had mixed berry popsicles. My pregnant senses do not like mixed berry flavored anything. 

I added popsicles to the shopping list, then took my customary place on the couch. 

Fast forward to bedtime. I couldn't sleep. My every thought was consumed by popsicles. I could all but feel my lips wrapping around the frozen piece of nirvana. My dreams were filled with me begging Sweet Husband to bring popsicles home after PT, and in one dream I remember crying because he only brought home four teeny tiny popsicles. FOUR. 

In another dream, I realized that I had a giant bald spot on the top of my head, but I didn't really care because Sweet Husband had brought home boxes of popsicles for me. 

By the time Sweet Husband got up for PT, I had asked him to grab popsicles on his way home no less than eight times. In my mind it was set in stone. As Sweet Husband walked past me on his way out of our room, I grabbed his arm like a woman possessed and rasped "Don't forget the popsicles!". It could have been my pregnancy induced dementia or the fact that I had been waking up all night long, but in the darkness I could see confusion sweep across Sweet Husband's face. 

"What?" He asked. In a moment of lucidness, I realized that I may not have vocalized my need for popsicles in reality. 

"Please stop by the store and get some popsicles on your way home. Not a ton of them, just two or three boxes."

He nodded, probably doubting my mental awareness.

The hours ticked by as I waited for him to return home. I fell into short sleeping fits, where once again, popsicles taunted me in my dreams. I was so thirsty, but I knew I couldn't drink anything in the house without spending the next half hour purging every trace of it from my body.

Finally, after an eternity, Sweet Husband arrived home. I groggily worked my body into an upright position, I slowly, made my way to the kitchen, I opened the freezer to see that Sweet Husband had arranged the popsicles by order of nausea-inducing properties (I LOVE HIM!).

I selected my popsicle and trudged back to bed, where I snuggled myself under the blankets and finally tasted the sweet frozen nectar.



(The first one stayed down. Every popsicle since, has not.)

Helpful Household Hints

Today's Helpful Household Hint comes from Alex.

To properly wash a sippy cup, one must first remove the lid.

Throwing up is hard to do.

I know, I dropped off the face of the blogosphere, but I promise that I have a really good excuse.


Hyperemesis Gravidarum


That's right. Baby #3 should be making an appearance next Spring.

I wish I could say that the last few months haven't been that bad, but the truth is that they have been hell. However there were a few positive things that came out of it… You know, besides a baby.

1. I can say with absolute confidence, bulimia is not for me!
     In fact I would be very happy if I never had to throw up again.

2. Weeks of bed rest meant I got to catch up on some reading.
     My 13 year old sister very sweetly lent me several of her books, so as an added bonus I feel caught  up in the popular topics found in the YA book section.

3. Weeks of bed rest also gave me some time to catch up on some knitting.
      Aren't these booties sweet! I made them for a friend who will be welcoming her baby any day now.

4. I had the most restful vacation ever!
     Sweet Husband took me to see my mom (sometimes a girl just needs her mom). I spent two weeks laying on her couch and throwing up. Seriously I barely moved. The part that made it amazing though, was that I didn't have to worry about where the boys were and what they were doing. I could be sick and miserable, and have complete confidence that they were safe.


At this point, I feel confident that I am harboring a baby (YAY) And not just one too many croissants.

Exercising can be hazardous

So Sweet Husband found a bakery by our house that makes glazed croissants.

Let me just say that again. Glazed. Croissants.

That take everything flaky, beautiful and majestic about a croissant and then put doughnut glaze on it. 

I don't have enough words in my vocabulary to tell you how much I enjoy these. 

They're better than unicorns people.

Sweet Husband being the sweet husband that he is, started buying a box of these every time he made a grocery store run. I felt like a kid at Christmas time, and I made sure to do my part and eat at least a few of them, every time they appeared.

But, then my pants starting getting a little tight. I sadly resigned myself to the fact that I needed to start working off these croissants before everything in my closet got too tight.

I dusted off the workout DVDs, grabbed a set of weight bands and got to work. 

Three weeks into sweating off the croissants, tragedy struck. 

My band snapped. While in use. 

The rubbery tube of doom wrapped itself around my upper torso, shoulder and face leaving angry red welts in it's wake. 

I spent the rest of the night icing my injuries and letting Sweet Husband take care me.


I should probably take up yoga.