Offended.

As I slowly approach a milestone birthday, I have been thinking a lot about various aspects of my life. It's just sort of a where I thought I'd be by now versus where I actually am kind-of-thing. I'm also trying to decide where I'd like to be in the future, and what steps I should be taking now and along the way to get there. One of the things I've been thinking a lot about is my current job and my future career aspirations. I don't necessarily know what I want to do when I grow up, but I do know that I don't want to do what I'm doing right now for the rest of my life. The job I have now is fine, and I like the people I work with, but it's a job I just ended up at. I work with my mom; I started working at the company because somebody went on vacation and my mom suggested to the office manager that if they needed temporary help, I might be interested. One thing led to another, and I became a permanent part-time employee, then a full-time employee. I think I do the job well, but it's not a job I ever set my sights on or have any real interest in making a career of. As I form my goals for the next few years, I know that getting a new job is on the list, but I also know that is going to be something that requires some careful planning and all the other hard work that goes into finding a new job. I didn't necessarily see it happening in the next year, or maybe even two.

The other day, I was at a company social outing and some of my co-workers and I were discussing the different temperaments and talents of our children. It's funny how kids from the same parents can turn out so differently. I just so happened to be sitting at the same table with my mom, who will testify to the fact that I was a pretty darn good kid. At one point, one of the people I support turned to me and jokingly asked something to the effect of, "So when did your mom make you learn to type?" I don't know that I can adequately explain how that one question turned my stomach and will serve as the as the one singular moment in time when I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was time to get a new job. Maybe I'm kidding myself, but I think my skill set goes so far beyond "stellar typist" that I would never even think to add that to the list. I mean, doesn't everybody know how to type these days? I don't want this to sound hokey or arrogant, but I feel like I really have the ability and potential to great things in my lifetime and that comment really solidified the notion that those great things will not happen at my current job.

Just because they're made of leather...

Dear Dimwits of the Office Building:

Do you need another breaking news bulletin to inform you that flip flops are not appropriate attire for WORK? Unless you work at the beach or perhaps the community pool. And since I happen to work in the same building as you, I'm almost certain you don't work at the beach (although I have never seen what's on the third floor...also, in case you were wondering, since we are not allowed to swim in the fountain, it does not constitute a swimming pool). Seriously, people. It doesn't really matter how much you overpaid for your flip flops or how luxurious the material is from which they were crafted. They are still flip-flops. The end.

Kristentatious

P.S. While I'm doling out work-related fashion advice, might I recommend that you introduce your skirt to your knees. Or at least the bottom of your underwear.

When I cook...

Ya know, I really haven't been doing too much cooking over here at the house of Kristentatious in the past couple of years. I mean, sure, we eat, but it's mostly heat and serve crap that I know is absolutely horrible for us. But in terms of making a meal where the actual components of the meal have to be cooked separately, I'm sorely out of practice. I made dinner on Saturday night and the kitchen was pure chaos for an hour. I timed everything wrong. I didn't know how long things needed to cook, so I kept asking Chris every few moments (have I ever mentioned how much he loves when people ask him cooking questions?). I was intermittently chopping veggies and checking on things on the stove, so instead of putting the sharp knife down, I would walk around with it. Blade side up, pointing outward toward the doorway to the kitchen. You know, just in case anybody ran up to me (as some people in this house are prone to do), they'd be greeted first by the blade of a sharp knife slicing into some part of their body. Yikes. In any case, it's like I told Chris: everything tastes good in the end, but the middle part is not unlike a Julia Child skit from SNL.

Four-year-old funnies

OK, so this actually happened a while back, most likely when Big E was still three...don't sue me. I just remembered tonight, though, and didn't want to forget it again since it's priceless. Anyhoo, a while back, Eric and I were talking about something we did while I was pregnant with Ella. Eric remembered the event, and recounted it to me, telling me that he was there, mommy was there and daddy was there. Where was BabyElla? he wanted to know. So I reminded him that she was still in my tummy at the time. So he went on to explain to me that, oh yeah, BabyElla was in my tummy for a while, but then I went to the see the doctor and then she came out of my tummy. Then he paused, thought about it for a moment and asked, "Mommy, where's the door?" You know...the door that babies come out of. Lucky for me, I have a six-or-so inch scar across my *ahem* bikini area to prove that the BabyElla's "door" is in a place that allows me to avoid an awkward conversation with a three-year-old.

Just when I thought things couldn't get any worse...

I've been having a rough go of it lately. It seems like every time I turn around, I get another piece of bad news or something else negative (or costly) unexpectedly happens. I'm trying not get all down and "poor, poor pitiful me" about it. It is what it is. And, truthfully, some of it shouldn't have been all that unexpected--if only I had given it a proper place on my radar and not learned to tune out its annoying, constant blip. Just about every day for the past few weeks, I've woken up and told myself, "Hey, at least there's nothing else in my life that can possibly go wrong!" but then--just like that--something else happens. Today, for instance, I couldn't find my keys. And I couldn't go to work because I couldn't find my car keys. Anywhere. In fact, the last time I can remember seeing them was at the Tampa International Airport, coming out of the security area. And I remember thinking, "Oh, I better put those some place safer so I don't lose them!" (up until that point, they had been in the pocket of the hoody I was carrying with me in case it got too cold on the airplane). Unless they mysteriously turn up, we'll either be forced to share one set of car keys (which gets complicated), or pay around $200 to get a new set of keys (I only know the cost because I've lost a set of keys for this car before). [Update: apparently I can pick up a new transponder key and keyless entry remote on e-bay for around $40, inclusive of shipping. Then it's just a question of how much the dealer will charge me to program them for my car. Still, it's not like going to the hardware store and having a new house key cut for a couple of bucks.]

I'm actually at the point where it's starting to get funny. For real. If anything else goes wrong, I'll probably just starting laughing. That's where I'm at. Truth be told, I've been lucky that the things that have gone wrong have all been fixable things that have just come at an enormous expense to us, and have not been at all health related. So, at least we have our health.

If life truly is a journey, I feel like I had climbed halfway up the mountain and then tripped and fell about two thirds of the way back down. Not only do I need to wait for all the wounds to heal, but then I need to get back up and cover all that distance again. It kind of sucks, but like I said before, it is what it is. As Maya Angelou so eloquently put it, "When you know better, do better." Now it's time to do better. It's hard, though, because at this particular moment in time, I feel like I have nothing to look forward to. It seems like it's going to take a lot of hard work to get back on track. I'm sure that once stuff stops going wrong, and I have a couple weeks of sanity, it won't seem so bad after all. But for right now, I just don't know. It's hard to get a clear perspective while I'm still in the thick of it. But speaking of Journey, I'm going to listen to Don't Stop Believin' now. Maybe it'll make me feel better.

Low mom on the totem pole

Even though our evenings are generally hectic and somewhat crazy around here--tyring to get everyone fed, bathed, played with and in bed at a decent time involves great stratergery--I like to get the kids (or at least Eric, as his bedtime is later) outside to play with the neighbors whenever we have a chance. There are several other kids on the block who are youngish, with Eric and Ella being the youngest two of the bunch. The next closest kid is only a couple months older than Eric, and they will be in kindergarten together next year (!). It's also nice to talk to my neighbors and find out all the juicy gossip on our block (and, oh boy, does our block have some juicy gossip!). I'm noticing, however, that I don't get to do much talking with the neighbors, due to my status as what I like to call "low mom on the totem pole." Basically, as the mom with the youngest children, it becomes my job to police the activities of all the other children who are being mean to or taking advantage of my child because he's the youngest, while all the other adults stand around drinking and shooting the shit, oblivious to the fact that their, say, six-year-old daughter is telling my four-year-old son that as a punishment for talking when she was trying to talk, he has to lick the sidewalk chalk off the sidewalk, and not to talk to her until he has done that. Then, when Eric politely tells her, no thanks, I do not care to lick the sidewalk, she looks to me for help in enforcing her punishment. Sorry, sister, ain't going to happen. This is not the first time I've noticed this phenomenon. In fact, I have a set of cousins whose children are close in age to mine, and gatherings at their houses always turn out like that as well. Many parents seem to think that as long as some adult is near their child, they are off-duty and free from the cares of parenthood. Except, when eight sets of parents do that simultaneously, and suddenly it's me and 14 kids between the ages of 2 and 7, I can only police so much. And I don't particularly care to tell other people's kids what to and what not to do. In any case, I'm ready to change status. To second-lowest-mom on the totem pole.

This place needs some help...

I've been avoiding coming anywhere near my blog in the past year or so because it makes me sad to know that I don't have the time to keep up with it like I used to, or like I'd like to. I really miss writing here. I also feel really bottled up. I need some blog therapy! But, life has changed. Life will do that, you know. I have less free time. Almost zero time to myself, which is hard to cope with sometimes. Also, when Ella was born, the computer room became her bedroom, so computer use is extremely limited. I desperately need a laptop, but it's really not in the budget at the moment. So, I'll wait. So, what's the point of me saying all this? I don't know really. Just venting, I guess. I wondered aloud to Chris yesterday, if I became a freelance comedy writer (how, I don't know), would I be able to write off a laptop, comedy classes and writing classes? That would be pretty cool. I just need to find someone who wants to pay me. If I had my druthers, I'd sit all day in Starbucks, sipping coffee and carrying on with witty banter. ( I do realize that I'm giving myself an awful lot of credit here). Here's what I want to know: how do I get that job?

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, here's what's new in the Kristentatious household: Ella is about to turn one! Can you believe it? I can't! She's really like a little person. Almost walking. Almost talking. Getting lots of teeth. And tenacious as all getout. She's very determined to get what she wants. She can also be very patient when she needs to be. As Eric puts it, "She starting to be a big girl because she's trying to walk and trying to talk English!" If those are the requirements, I'm starting to be a big girl myself!

In other news, and to prove just how much help I need, it's March! Yay! And my Christmas tree is still up! And I have no idea when I will ever find the time to take it down! Seriously, this is how my day goes:

6:20 wake up. (Lately, Eric has taken to getting up at about 6:22 instead of 7:15ish, like he used to, so I don't even get time alone in the morning). From 6:20 to about 8:15 a.m., there is a frantic flurry of activity, in which I get ready for work and get the kids ready for daycare. Pack the kids into their Arctic gear, then pack the kids in their arctic gear into their carseats. Usually, around 8:25, we are pulling out of the driveway (although it should really be earlier). Depending on how the morning has gone so far, Eric either is having a fit about something, or he's playing 20 questions with me, each question starting with, "Mommy?" Then Ella will shout in babese, and he'll shout back at her. "Mommy, we're talking to each other! Isn't that cute?" Then I drop the kids off at daycare, and head to work. At 5:00 p.m., I turn around and do it all backwards. When we get home, around 6:20, Chris and I go into the whirlwind of feeding, playing with, and occasionally trying to bathe, the kids. Ella goes to bed around 7:30. Eric's bedtime routine starts shortly thereafter, with him generally being able to hose us into keeping him up until at least 9 (although bedtime is 8:30). Then Chris and I collapse in a heap. Yup, that's about the size of it.

So, if you're ever wondering why I don't blog more often, or call more often, or email more often, believe me, it's not because I don't want to. I desperately want to. I'm just bogged down.

Well, OK, folks. Eric's playing with broken glass and Ella has a plastic bag over her head. Time to start drinking...

In which I reveal the quote of the week

A certain sadness has overcome me, folks. My three-and-a-half year old sweet little boy has become...image conscious. My best guess is that it stems from something that one of those nasty little nose pickers from daycare said to him, but I don't reckon I'll ever know the exact origin.

Anyway, it started like any other day...me running around like a psycho hose beast, Eric watching PBS Kids Sprout while sitting 6 inches from the TV and Ella screeching her head off from her crib while I dig through a mountain of unfolded laundry to find that damn matching sock...but this past Wednesday will forever live in infamy (or perhaps just famy). I gathered some clothes for Eric to wear, then I chased him around the house trying to dress him, finally wrestling him to the floor in the kitchen. I started pulling his old clothes off while he took a look at the clothes I had in store for him. Then he spotted them. The Scooby Doo underpants. "I CAN'T WEAR SCOOBY DOO UNDERPANTS BECAUSE SCOOBY DOO MAKES ME CUTE!" he informed me, indignantly.

It was one of those moments where, as a human being, you want to laugh, but as a parent, you know you shouldn't. He was so upset. And we were running so late. Anyway, I convinced him that nobody would be able to see Scooby Doo, and he could wear better underpants tomorrow (Power Rangers or Transformers apparently would have been acceptable options).

That night, when I was putting him to bed, we were having a discussion about the state of things. It was a pretty deep, revealing conversation. The long and short of it is that Eric now prefers to be cool, not cute. Personally, I'd settle for either of those, but I think I fall short. Perhaps I need to start wearing Scooby Doo underpants.

I Heart Steve.

And also, may the holiday fun begin!

I always knew I was cool...

elebrating 20 years of excellence!

On Saturday evening we took Eric and Ella to a carnival near our house because, according to my husband, I have a thing for Carnies. It's true. I do have a "thing" for them, but the thing is that I think they're gross. Whatever. Anyway. As we walked through the festival, Eric became more and more excited about going on rides, and Chris became more and more adamant that he wouldn't let his children anywhere near any of the rides. "Would YOU let them ride these death traps?" he asked me. I mentioned that as a child, I rode on many a Tilt-a-Whirl and lived to tell the tale. As an adult, I rode the Zipper and got clocked in the head by my co-rider's cell phone. "And besides," I told him, pointing to a sign displayed by the carnival company, "we have nothing to worry about because they're 'elebrating 20 years of excellence!'"

But hey...guess what:

And also, who let this lunatic on the ride?

And even though she didn't meet the height requirements, here's little princess pigtails (who, might I add, is only 6 months old, but no longer gets carded when she tries to get into bars...):

It's kind of like juggling chainsaws.

A friend of mine who has one child recently posed this question to me: Is having two kids twice as much work as having one kid? My immediate instinct was to say no, of course not--when you're already doing the work of taking care of one kid, you just need to tweak your routine a little bit to take care of two. But then, the more I thought about, the less sure I was of that answer. I mean, to be quite frank--and keep in mind that I love my children so much it hurts--taking care of an infant is soul-sucking; the gratification is long-delayed and the thanks you get is minimal to non-existent. It's hard to go from being an independent human being whose routine is so ingrained that it would be nearly impossible not to survive from day-to-day, to being needed every moment of every day for years on end. But you start to get used to it. And just as that last little sliver of self you had a death grip on finally slips out of your clutches and flails madly around the room like an untied balloon, mocking you until it finally collapses into a sad pile on the floor, your baby will start to be a little more independent and need you less.

Rather than rejoicing as you are able to piece yourself back together, you will instead find yourself lamenting the fact that your baby no longer clings to you, helpless. And the more time that passes, the harder it is to remember exactly how difficult those first several months were. Suddenly, you'll stumble upon a pile of tiny clothes and realize how much your child has grown and you'll find yourself actually wishing that you had another tiny little person who would fit into those tiny little clothes. And there you have it...by the time you realize how hard it is to raise a child, it's too late to do anything about it and just when you finally get used to your routine, your baby starts asserting his independence.

So, getting back to the question of whether two kids are twice the work, allow me to use an analogy. Imagine you were to step out onto the highway at a time when traffic is really moving along. You immediately get hit by a car. Does the second car that runs you over hurt twice as much? No, because you're already used to the pain. OK, OK, I'm sure that's not what anybody wants to hear. In reality, something that occurred to me in the first week or so of being a parent to two kids was that I already knew what I was doing the second time around, so I was far more efficient at parenting. If I had been half as efficient with the first as I was with the second, I would've gotten way more done. But now, instead of taking care of the baby and having free time to stay on top of house work, etc., I have time to take care of my older child. Some days it's not bad at all--I tend to one kiddo while the other one sleeps or keeps himself amused, and they just trade mommy time all day long. On other days they both need me NOW all day long, and it's not so much fun. But it's totally worth it.

My new favourite photo

I took this in Michigan this week...

Therefore I am...

...busy, tired and probably a little depressed, but also hopeful and optimistic.

...sarcastic, but I like to think my sarcasm becomes me.

...lucky to have a wonderful family and fabulous friends.

...looking forward to not being the only mother in my group of best friends.

...excited to be enrolled in an improv class this fall.

...sick of eating frozen pizza.

...thinking of getting a new hairstyle.

...waiting for Godot.

...in desperate need of a muse.

...feeling nostalgic. I always feel nostalgic this time of year--starting a new school year always felt like a chance for a new beginning, and I kind of miss that. Although nothing ever turned out as I imagined it would. Nothing ever turns out as I imagine it will. That's all part of the mystery of life, I guess.

...always curious about what might have been and what's to come.

...fascinated by bright lights and shiny objects.

I think...

-I have the cutest kids ever (but it's possible that I'm biased...no, probably not)
-Mondays suck
-that I punct.u.ate better than the average bear
-I should work out more (or at all for that matter)
-and I would like to eat healthier too, but I'm too lazy (busy?)
-I need to get out more
-freshly cut grass smells nice
-all Hummers belong to men who are trying to make up for, um...shortcomings
-flip-flops are the best
-Starbucks is laced with crack, and also too expensive
-smart is sexy
-BTO is the poor man's Foghat
-karaoke is fun
-it's getting to the point where I'm no fun anymore (I am sorry)
-I'm too worried about what other people think about me
-I amuse myself far more than I amuse anyone else
-the Muppets ROCK!
-it's time for bed!

I rock!

No, seriously--I do. Stop laughing. I mean it. Here, look:

See? That's me and my (husband's) Les Paul. I was either playing the Alphabet, the Rainbow Connection or I Used to Love Her. Who could tell, really.

OK, OK, stop the presses. Eric just woke up. This is the conversation we just had:

Eric: Are we going to school, Mommy?

Me: In a little while, Eric.

E: But first I have to eat breakfast?

M: That's right, Eric.

E: And I'm going to watch TV for a little while? And then get my dressed on? And then hurry up because we're late?

Apparently, in his eyes, our morning routine involves the element of being late. It's funny because it's true. Well, sort of. Every morning I tell him to hurry up so we're not late because he's just so damn pokey. I think it's a 3-year-old thing, honestly. But the fact that he schedules time in his morning routine to hurry up becase we're late just makes me laugh. And, also, "get my dressed on?" Seriously, I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried. But what do I know--I'm the parent who's teaching him to sing Why Does the Sun Shine just so that I can hear him say words like "incandescent" and "nuclear" (which, might I add, he pronounces correctly, if only because I'm a stickler for that sort of thing...E: New-cue-lar. M: Say it right, Eric, or Mommy's going to lock you in the basement again! Just kidding--I would never do that to my baby boy. Not before his fourth birthday, at least.)

I've fallen (behind) and I can't get up.

First off: shall ye never know the amount of work that goes into working full time out of the home and raising two children, one of whom is an infant. Secondly: if you are familiar with such atrocities, let's commiserate.

Moving right along, it's Friday night, my kids are sleeping, my husband is sleeping and I, too, should be sleeping (after all, it's after 10:00 p.m.). Instead, I am blogging. Because it's been so damn long, you know. And also, I am drinking. Budweiser. Yum. Or something like that. I might even go so far as to say that I'm eversoslightly buzzed. So, this blog entry--this one right here--shall be ever so very random. Welcome! And, also, enjoy!

Ella!

And also, Eric (on his 3rd Birthday)! (Oh, and me too.)

Let's see...what else... Oh--did you know that the sun is a mass of incandescent gas? Hmm...probably. In other intesting news, my parents will be babysitting my children overnight tomorrow night! Date night! We might even stay out past nine! Crazy!

Recently, it has occurred to me that I'm becoming quite lame. I remember being younger, and thinking that old people "just didn't get it" and that I would never become like that. But, sadly, I'm already starting to "just not get it" and I'm not even in my 30's yet. For instance, this shaggy hair that the teenage boys are so fond of--what is the deal with it? Maybe 5% of the boys sporting this do are able to pull it off. It's the cool, hip haircut, and I just don't see why any 13-to-18 year old boy would willingly--purposely, even--make himself look so atrocious.

And also, I am increasingly finding myself resisting new electronic devices, and this simply must stop. On the one hand, I do not require a blackberry, and have been getting along just fine without one. On the other hand, I picture every middle-aged woman I know and her reluctance to learn how to use anything remotely electronic. I've always had a knack for that kind of stuff, and I don't want to wake up one day and realize that my technological skills have not advanced since 1998 (oh wait--that happened this morning...).

Crap. I have the hiccups. And, sadly, it's way past my bedtime. But, it's been fun. Thanks for the memories.

It's opposite day...Eric style

Hi. My name is Kristi and I have an almost-3-year-old who often times says and does cute things, although you'd never know that if you've been reading my blog lately. In any case, this is just a cute story about language development.

The English language sure is a funny one...so few rules, and so many exceptions to them. I always get a kick out of mis-conjugated past tense words. "I eated all my cereal!" or "I putted my napkin in the garbage can." But my favorite thing from this week is what I'll call "creative opposites." For instance, earlier this week, Eric and I were playing games using his blanket. At one point, he laid on the floor and covered himself from head to toe with the blanket. He wanted me to pull the blanket off of him, so he peeked out from under it and said, "Mommy, tuck me out!" Then this morning I was sorting some clothes in his closet, trying to pull out all the spring/summer clothes that he (hopefully!) will be wearing soon. There was a shirt that I thought might still be too big, so I asked him to try it on, which he did. When he'd had enough of that shirt, he told me, "OK, I want to try it off now." He's a pretty cute kid. :)

The Sprout Has Come Out (and with a bang, I might add)

On March 6, 2007, at 6:02 a.m., the Kristentatious family welcomed Eleanor Grace (Ella) to this world. At birth, she weighed 7lbs, 5oz, was 21.5 inches long, and had blue eyes and a full head of dark brown hair.

The story of her birth is approximately the polar opposite of what I expected it to be. With Eric, I had an easy, normal pregnancy, followed by 437 hours of labor, a relatively quick delivery (~1 hour of pushing), and a speedy recovery. With Ella, I also had an easy, normal pregnancy, and in terms of labor and delivery, I expected much of the same, only faster. Well...come to think of it, I guess I was right about the faster part.

I'd like to start by mentioning that it didn't exactly help matters that my doctor told me at my 38 week appointment (2 weeks before my March 5th due date, for those who aren't thoroughly schooled on the pregnancy calendar) that she didn't expect me to make it another week, and that she could do unpleasant things to me which she felt certain would send me into labor within 48 hours. I politely declined. However, from that point forward, I was almost constantly convinced that I was either in labor or on the verge of being in labor. But anyway.

At my March 5th appointment, she told me that I was absolutely ready to pop at any moment, and asked if I was interested in scheduling an induction. The benefits of scheduling an induction would be that I could pick a date or a doctor of my preference and plan childcare for Eric accordingly, without needing to call my parents in the middle of the night. I decided to schedule an induction to deliver with that doctor, because she was the doctor I had seen on 90% of my visits, and 2 of the other 3 I had only seen once. It just so happened that she was on call the next day, so she scheduled me to start my induction at 7:30 the next morning (March 6th).

Well, as fate would have it, the Sprout decided that she would like to come on March 6th, but on her own terms. I actually began having contractions on the evening of the 5th, and around 3:00 a.m. on the 6th, I decided it was time to call the doctor. By the time I got Chris up and we got ourselves ready to leave, it was about 4:00 a.m., and my contractions were very consistent at about 5 mins apart, and unpleasant, but very far from the absolutely excruciating contractions that I endured for several hours with Eric.

By the time we got to the hospital, parked, got into the ER (which is where we were directed to enter the hospital), and endured several of the stupidest questions ever from the ER receptionist person, it was about 4:30 a.m. Someone from Labor and Delivery came down to retrieve me, and brought me to the other side of the hospital and upstairs. I changed into the lovely hospital-issued attire and got into my bed, where my nurse proceeded to ask me questions pertaining to my entire medical history starting from conception, it seemed like. By the time we finished with that, it was probably 5:00 a.m., maybe a few minutes after.

The nurses went to call the on-call doctor from my practice to find out how she wanted them to proceed. Her orders were to get me an IV, get me an epidural, start me on pitocin to intensify my contractions, and have the on-duty resident OB come in and break my water. After that phone call, I'm sure she went back to bed and figured the next doctor on the rotation, who would be in at 7:00 am, would be delivering my baby.

And thus, the flurry of activity began. A nurse came in and started me on an IV of a saline solution which had been refrigerated. Anybody who has ever had a refrigerated IV pumped through them could tell you that it is not the most pleasant experience. I immediately began shivering uncontrollably. The nurse promised me that it would be done in no time, and as soon as it was, I could have an epidural. Another nurse came in and threw some pitocin into the IV cocktail as well. A few minutes after that, maybe between 5:30 and 5:40 a.m., some dude I had never seen before came in to break my water. The nurse reached into her bag of tricks and handed him something that looked not unlike a knitting needle. He pulled my blankets off of me, which of course made me shiver even more, and went about his business, while I turned my head, deciding it was probably better not to watch.

This is where things turned sour. I felt a rush of liquid, which I could only assume was my water breaking, but the doctor kept pushing and poking. A few moments later, he asked if I had ever been diagnosed with placenta problems--placenta previa, specifically (or a placenta that covers the cervix, essentially blocking the baby's escape path). I was initially diagnosed with that, but it supposedly resolved itself by 20 weeks. Meanwhile, he's still pushing, poking, putting lots and lots of pressure on me in a most uncomfortable fashion. Then he announced, "I don't like the looks of this one bit. All I'm getting is a whole lot of blood." He ran to get the ultrasound to check the baby. She was fine--stable--but then he began barking out orders in a tone that said, "We needed to have this baby out of her 5 minutes ago." "CALL HER DOCTOR NOW! GET HER TO THE O.R.!! GO! GO! GOOOO!!!" The nurses rushed me out of the room, ramming the bed into everything in their path. I heard someone tell Chris to stay put and someone would be back to instruct him further.

I don't remember a whole lot from the O.R., but I do remember that it seemed like there were 20 people in there, all poking or prodding me with something, and all stepping on each other's feet. I do remember someone trying to start another IV and not being able to find a vein. Somebody else instructed her to put it anywhere she could. I also remember being so freaking cold that I was literally convulsing on the operating table. Occasionally somebody would hang their head directly over mine and tell me that I was doing great and everything would be OK. I heard the Dr. announce that baby's vitals were stable and everybody needed to CALM DOWN and SLOW DOWN. Then he changed his mind and decided that they needed to go right away--whether or not my doctor was here. Next I heard someone announce that my Dr. had arrived. She ran over, said hi, and told me that she was here to do a c-section (no shit). "Has she had her spinal?" she asked. I heard the other doctor tell her, "No, we've got to knock her out." Cue the anesthesiologist. She hung her face over my face, introduced herself, and told me that she would be putting a mask on me and someone would be tapping my throat so that I didn't vomit. Once I was out, they would have the baby out in 3-5 minutes--closer to 3 if they could help it. Then she dropped the mask onto my face and 3...2...1...curtains.

The next thing I remember is hearing someone announce that my temperature was 97 degrees, and then she draped me with heated blankets, which felt sooooo nice. Chris came in and told me the baby had been taken to the NICU and that she was stable and doing well, but that she had lost blood and they were taking every possible precaution to ensure the best possible outcome. Even though she came out breathing on her own, they intubated her to reduce the strain on her body. They also inserted a catheter into her umbilical cord, and started a couple of IVs to give her various medicines. Then he explained what had happened, as the doctors had told him. Basically, I had malformation of the placenta (which wouldn't be noticeable by ultrasound unless someone was specifically looking for it), which caused the 3 blood vessels that form the umbilical cord, to grow out of the placenta, completely exposed, and then turn and come back into the placenta, and come out once again as a completely normal umbilical cord. And these three vessels, which basically are property of, and the main blood line to, the baby until birth, happened to be lying directly between the amniotic sac and the cervix--so basically there was no way the baby could have been born naturally. I was also told that I was very lucky to be at the hospital when my water broke, as immediate medical attention may not have been possible otherwise, and I very well may have lost the baby.

As it turns out, of all the things that could have happened to the baby during such a traumatic birth, none of them did. She is perfectly normal and healthy. We are feeling very blessed right now. And sleepy. I can't forget sleepy.

Doing my civic duty...

Well, I can't say I didn't jinx myself.

A few months back (late September or early October?), while I was over visiting with my parents, my mother got a jury summons in the mail. It was for November 6th. "Oh. I've never been summoned to jury duty before," I told her, and then went on to explain that maybe I had been, actually, but I was in college, living out of the area. And that was that. Until a few weeks later, that is, when I received my very own jury summons, also for November 6th (apparently the county of Cook, unlike the county of Kane, where my mom lives, doesn't believe in ample warning).

As it turned out, my summons was for "Standby Jury Duty," which meant I had to call the evening before to see if I was needed. I wasn't. However, it seems that if you are not selected for jury duty at that time, your name goes right back to the top of the list of potential jurors. So, a month and a half later, I received another summons--not standby this time--for jury duty on January 22nd.

So, that was Monday. I arrived and checked in, drawing a panel number at random from one of those large popcorn tins--panel 3, whatever that meant. I showed up promptly at 9:00 am, as requested on my summons, and I sat there in awkward silence with 70 or so other people for the next half hour, until someone finally spoke to us. It seems that they wait until 9:30 to give us poor saps a chance to get lost and find our way back to them. Anyway, they showed us some dumb video about how important we were, and then explained how the day was going to go: we were going to sit there in more awkward silence for now. If and when our panel number was called, we would be escorted to a courtroom, where we may or may not be chosen for jury duty. She also explained that it was entirely possible for us to have to sit there in awkward silence until 4:30 p.m., without ever being called. Alrighty then. Sounds like fun.

The movie and explanation ended around 10 a.m. I had brought a book, but instead I mostly sat there and zoned out. At 11:30, the Deputy came into the waiting room and called panels 3-10 down to the courtroom. It was a total of 48 people, from whom they would be selecting 14 people--12 jurors and 2 alternates. I guess the possibility also existed that if they exhausted all 48 people without finding their 14, they could have requested more people from the waiting room.

At this point I'm thinking, OK, I have less than a 1 in 3 chance of being chosen based on the number of people from whom they are selecting. On top of that, I work for a law firm, am related to and friends with lawyers, am 8 months pregnant, and am visibly (and audibly) suffering from a bad cold. I'm the worst of the bad choices, right? How could these people not take pity on me?

When we arrived in the court room, the judge explained to us what was going to happen, and what was expected of us. He then told us the name of the lawsuit and read the charges involved. At that point, it was a little after noon. He decided that he would read the first group of names that they would interview as prospective jurors and have those people come sit in the jury box. I was the third person called. When the jury box was full, he excused everyone to lunch, telling those in the jury box to return after 45 minutes, and the rest of the crowd to return in and hour and a half.

We returned and did our interviews a little while later. It turned out that maybe I wasn't exactly the worst of the bad choices, but I still didn't think I would be selected. I guess I tend to assume that the population at large is living on the right side of the law, but apparently that isn't always the case. I was surprised that 3-4 people of that original group of 14 either currently had lawsuits pending, or didn't know if their lawsuit was still pending. Although, of those pending lawsuits, only one was criminal (apparently the guy had "a whole slew" of charges against him, including criminal trespassing and disorderly conduct). Then, of course, there was the Chinese restaurant owner, who has lived and owned a business in the US for over 20 years, and raised his teen aged children here, who proudly proclaimed that his English was "no very good." That seemed like a convenient excuse to me. But I digress. After interviewing all 14 of us, we were excused for another short break, and would be selected or released upon our return.

I returned with my fingers crossed, but I was the first name selected. The judge explained that the trial would start on Tuesday, and that he hoped it would be wrapped up by Thursday. So, if anybody has been looking for me, that's where I've been all week. Interestingly enough, I don't seem to know of anybody who has actually had to serve on a jury before. I certainly don't know anyone who has had multiple consecutive days of jury duty. So, as much as being an interesting tale, I guess this is also a PSA for what you might expect if you receive a summons for jury duty.

I have to say, I find the trial process interesting. What's kind of annoying is that at this time, we still have not been instructed as to who the alternate jurors are. So, when we go into deliberations tomorrow, 2 people will not be needed. I feel like, at this point, I would be annoyed to find out I was an alternate. I guess I will know tomorrow. And then, when the trial is over, I'll be able to share all the sordid details. Until then, you shall just have to wait with bated breath.