The Disorganized vs. The Pack Rat Part 1

I am not an organized person.

I mean, I LIKE organization.

I LIKE to have my kitchen appliances in my kitchen.

I LIKE to have my shampoo on the shelf in the shower.

I LIKE to have my clothes in my closet.

Mostly. Except the half of my clothes that are upstairs in my son's closet because I DON'T HAVE a closet. The point is, organization is great, it just doesn't exactly come natural to me.

I'm the fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants, procrastinate until the last minute which is exactly when I do my best work, a 'what-do-you-mean-you-won't-skip-work-to-go-hiking-through-the-woods-with-me' kind of spontaneous person.

To some people spontaneous is synonymous with irresponsible.

But really, I am *NOT an irresponsible person. I get the kids fed, I keep them clothed, warm, and watered, er, I mean bathed. I get them to school on time. And don't get me started on the benefits of having a scheduled baby. But trust me, these are LEARNED behaviors for me.

*and by "not" I mean "mostly not". There have been occasions I've forgotten to have the kids use the toilet before we leave the house, take the cookies out of the oven on time, or buckle my poor unsuspecting baby into the evil swing that doesn't actually latch the tray tightly...

I'll never forget the moment it dawned on me as a newlywed that I would actually have to cook and provide meals THREE times a day EVERY day for someone. Nine years and 4 more people later and I'm still shocked at times by how OFTEN these people all need to be fed! I mean, really, three times a day, EVERY day?!

Someone shoot me now.

Or get me a dishwasher.

I'm the kind of person who has a *messy desk.

*and by messy I mean it looks like a tornado hit it. And then came back for a second round.

But I'm also the kind of person who knows exactly where something is on that same messy desk. It doesn't bug me, usually, to have all this disorganization happening. My husband would NOT call me a detail-oriented person.

For some reason, this always becomes more apparent in the car.

We'll be driving down the road and have a conversation like this:

Hubby: "What's that noise?"
Me: "What noise?"
Hubby: "That annoying little rattling noise."
Me: "Rattling? I don't hear any rattling."
Hubby: looks aghast and proceeds to fish around in the console until he makes the pennies stop bumping up against the sunglasses. "THAT rattling!", he'll exclaim as he settles back in his seat and lets his shoulders fall back down from his ears.

Huh. It IS a little quieter, I'll think to myself, realizing that the same rattling noise has probably been a constant fixture in my car for WEEKS. I don't notice those things.

Or when we are driving around with some of the extended family and someone will make a remark like, "I like the color palate on that house.", or "They really need to mow their yard!", or "What do you think of that style of garage door?".

These questions and statements jump at me like a cat on a mouse! Up until that very moment I hadn't even noticed any of those things, let alone formed an opinion about them!

"Uh. Uhm. Er. Uhhh..." Think, think, THINK! What DO I think about that garage door? It has windows. Do I like the windows? Are there too many windows? I wouldn't want my messy garage to be seen by passers-by through those windows, so maybe I don't like all those windows. Maybe fewer windows would be good?

... and by then the conversation has moved waaay beyond THAT garage door and I feel like a figure skater in the middle of a rink while Apolo Ohno zips past like he's going for gold.



Thank you, Apolo.

Now and then I think back to being a kid and having my brother always telling me to be observant and specific while we were driving. He'd pop up with these random questions here and there to get me to be more observant.

"What did that sign just say?", he'd ask, or "What color was that car that just passed us?"

"Er, um, blue?", I'd respond. Sometimes I'd actually know what the sign said, mostly because I'd been down that road a million times since I was four and could finally see over the edge of the door and out the window. This was, of course, before the carseat era. Thank goodness I wasn't subjected to that. I'd have been in a booster seat until High School.

Maybe he knew something about me that I didn't realize yet.

The point to all this? Disorganization doesn't bother me. I hardly notice details, unless it's something in the realm of art or literature/grammar/english, and even then, I couldn't tell you the "rules" of what makes it right or makes it ugly. It just feels right or it doesn't to me. I'm wired to notice things in that realm.

But here's the problem: Upon arrival at my new house on Christmas Day 2001, I stepped in and began the process of "moving in". I'd open a box, look around, open a drawer, think to myself "this'll do fine for these! I can reorganize this later!" and in whatever it was would go. Nine years later most of that stuff is in exactly the same place as it was then. Or worse, it has been shuffled from one closet to another to the basement to the back room to...

Yeah. We ran out of room to shuffle things to. SOMETHING must be done!

But this disorganized half of the marriage is exactly that: only HALF the problem!

You Might Be A Mother...

In a tribute to Jeff Foxworthy's "You Might Be A Redneck...", let me introduce you to:

You Might Be A Mother:

If you have ever wondered why your hair is departing from your head like herds of lemmings but your legs look like forests and your eyebrows look like bushes, you might be a Mother.

If you've ever peed on a stick, photographed that stick, scanned that stick, tweaked, retweaked, inverted, and uploaded those pictures to a site called canyouseealine.com, you might be a Mother.

If you've ever been loudly praised for your bowel movements in the Target restroom while a chorus of snickers drifted under the stall doors, you might be a Mother.

If you've ever cleaned "floaties" out of a bathtub, you might be a Mother.

If you've ever spent the night being puked on repeatedly and still gave comfort and kisses while silently gagging, you might be a Mother.

If you've ever used the restroom with a baby on your lap in an airplane lavatory, or with a sleeping baby in the sling on your chest, or with a toddler watching, you might be a Mother.

If you've ever realized that you've been paged ("mom. mom. mom. Mom. MOM. MO-OM!!") for the past 5 minutes straight because you didn't "hear" them, you might be a Mother.

On the other hand - If you've ever "heard" the way-too-quiet silence of a child in another room, you might be a Mother.

If you really, really love Magic Erasers (even if they don't remove permanent marker from cabinets), because you've spent so much time with them, some crayon marks, and the walls of your house, that you've "bonded" you might be a Mother.

If you've ever fed the dog by opening the door to the car and letting her in the back seat... you might be a Mother. (or maybe I should say Father on that one?!)

And finally...

If you've ever wondered how on earth your heart can still beat when it's been chopped into 4 little parts and is running around on 8 little legs outside of your body, you might be a Mother.

Emmy Turns 5!

Emmy turned 5 on the 13th.

She was so excited about taking pink cupcakes to school for her class on Friday. I thankfully did not have to take 60 cupcakes for the whole school this time, only 18. Just enough for K-2, their teacher, and the teacher's aide. I made only 3 dozen this time. And a cake. So I had extras for the actual birthday gathering Sat. night. But we'll get to that.


I had baked the cupcakes Thursday morning, but then when the day turned out to be gloriously beautiful I couldn't bring myself to spend the afternoon frosting cupcakes and a cake. We stopped on the way home from school and went on a hike instead. It was a fantastic way to spend the afternoon.

And then we got home. And everyone was tired and hungry, the kitchen was a mess and my surfaces were covered with cupcakes, a cake, frosting supplies, dirty dishes, etc. I didn't get to the part about frosting the cupcakes until after the kids were in bed, and by then, I couldn't find the pink sprinkles I'd bought just for these cupcakes.

I look high. I looked low. I found no such sprinkles. I even went to Emmy's room and clumped around in the dark trying to find them by feel and sound. I picked up a few things with the right shape, but they didn't sound like sprinkles, so I tossed 'em back to wherever they came from.

I gave up eventually and dug out the white sprinkles from the week before.

I mean, it's not like there wasn't enough pink anyway, even without the sprinkles. My girl is a pinky girl from the word go, so I'd planned on all kinds of pink things for her birthday:

A new pink silky dress,

pink pudding,

pink juice,

pink whoppers,

(which are actually quite good!)

Pink candles...
You get the picture, right?

But while my precious little girly-girl loves her pink blankie, her pink dress, her pink ballerina tutu and everything else pink, she also loves a certain cartoon character named Diego.

Diego is an Animal Rescuer.

No joke. That's what he calls himself.

And Emmy... well, Emmy loves only one thing more than Pink: Rescuing Animals.

Well, bugs, anyway. She hasn't really come across any big critters to rescue yet, but I am SURE those days are coming and my house will be filled with bunnies, squirrels, cats, mice, and anything else she can get her little paddies on.

So a few months ago she decided that she wanted a "Diego" cake for her 5th birthday. She talked about it non-stop. She wanted to carry the cake pan around with her after we found one at the store. She told everyone she was getting a "Diego" cake for her birthday.

And then it came time to decorate Diego. Diego, of course, was made from pink strawberry flavored batter.

I should have seen it coming.

Or maybe I should have just decorated Diego while Emmy was in school. But no, no I had to involve Emmy in the process, and the next thing I knew, Diego no longer needed to be decorated with a dozen different shades of frosting.

No, Diego now needed to be... pink.

With pink sprinkles.

You know, since her pink cupcakes had gone to school with *gasp* white sprinkles instead of pink and now there was a whole bottle of pink sprinkles just waiting to be used on some poor unsuspecting confection.

I talked her into letting his hair be brown.

I'm not sure that really helped, though.

I really did put on a number 3 tip and outline his face, hands, feet, and even his rescue pack. But in the end, when everything is the same shade of pink it doesn't really look like I did anything of the sort.



Emmy took great pleasure in helping.... by putting on the "missing" pink sprinkles that she came up with just in time for this activity!

And so, without further ado, I'd like to introduce you to:

Pepto Man!

That's okay, sweetie. He tasted just as good whether he looked like Diego or not!

Happy Birthday, my little Emmy-Anne!

Joshua's 7th Birthday

Early Friday morning I climbed the creaky stairs to Joshua's room, where, not surprisingly, he was already awake, laying in bed listening to one of his Your Story Hour favorites.

I turned off his tape and crawled in next to him on his bed. I told him the story of the day he was born in the kitchen, early, early in the morning when it was still dark like this. I told him what he was like when he was 2 and had a yellow fuzzy blankie that he'd pick the fuzzies off of and roll them in a ball under his nose while he sucked his thumb.

And I told him he still needed to go to school. Which he was pretty much okay with since he got to take all those pretty blue cupcakes to give to his friends. All 61 of them.



We got up, had breakfast and got ready for school with the added bustle and excitement of knowing it was Big Brother's BIRTHDAY! The night before I'd enlisted Colby's help to figure out how all 5 dozen cupcakes were going to be transported in the same car with 4 kids. Not an easy task. His super great idea? The wrapping paper bin! Sweet! I quickly rummaged it out from under the wardrobe in our room, dumped out the wrapping paper and took a look.

It was nice and flat, 2 ft. long and had a lid. It looked like it would fit about a hundred cupcakes in it! Until I started placing them ever so gingerly onto the paper lining and discovered it only held about 40. Hmm.. The rest went into a gift box.

The next morning during all of the rush to get ready for school and in the car on time, I thought it would be no problem at all to open the back hatch of my suv and carefully place the box right in the back. While Colby held the baby and the kids sat at the table eating their breakfast, I ran out into the snow to open up the back of the car and clean out the junk to make room for the cupcakes. A great big armload of junk later and I was ready to carry the big bin out.


I placed it carefully on the floor, making sure not to tip them together, and slowly lowered the hatch down over them.

But it didn't shut.

Not even close.

I left the cupcake bin precariously balanced there and ran in the house.

"It doesn't FIT!!", I croaked out to Colby.

"Did you fold the seat down?", he asked calmly.

Out I ran, back into the snowy pre-dawn darkness. I gingerly placed the bin on the ground and folded down one half of the split back seat. Hmm. Looked a little... Sloped.

I tried placing the bin on the folded down seat but my cupcakes started sliding down the hill and running into each other.

"Aaaack!!!", I shrieked as I pulled them back off the seat and returned them to the snowy ground. Back in the house I ran.

"It's not working!", I yelled through the kitchen to where Colby still sat in the living room calmly watching the morning news.

"Did you fold the seat up?", he asked.

"Fold the seat UP? No, I just folded the seat DOWN!", I replied, confused.

"I'll come out in a minute and straighten it out for you.", he said, still sitting calmly in his seat.

I glared at him for a minute from the rug in the kitchen where my snowy boots dripped.

"Fold the seat down, fold the seat up, can't I just take the seat OUT for heaven's sake?", I muttered as I turned back around to go outside. I had cupcakes outside on the GROUND. I couldn't just leave cupcakes on the ground, people.

The kids by this time were done with breakfast and had taken up running through the house like they'd already had the inevitable birthday sugar rush. Two of them were still barefoot, only one had had their hair combed, and coats hadn't even been thought of.

I dashed back out to the car and tried to figure out how exactly the seat was supposed to "fold up". There are about 5 levers on the back and under the seat in question, and none of them are printed with detailed instructions on what function each performs. A few bad guesses later and I'd figured it out, folded the seat up, and finally slid the cupcake bin into place. It didn't look very promising. It looked like it STILL wasn't going to fit.

My husband walked around the back of the car to find me standing in the snow wringing my hands. He screwed up his eyebrows at me for a second, then eyed up the bin, the hatch, and the location of the latching mechanism.

"It doesn't fit! It's not going to close!", I wailed.

At that, he reached up, grabbed the hatch and gave it a good downward fling.

SNAP! It latched.

"There you go!", he said as he strolled away.

I opened up the window and looked down inside. Sure, the lid was buckled up just slightly, but the cupcakes were all safely inside. I placed the other box on top and quickly scrambled to get the rest of the crew in the car and on our way.

Joshua got to sit in the front of the car, which was a first for him.

"Mom", he said, "I'd like to ride in the front of the car from now on, please."

"Sorry, son, you have to go back to riding in your seat in the back after this ride."

"Why?"

"Because it's always safer for little kids to ride in the back of the car, not the front."

"Mom. I'm NOT a little kid anymore. I'm SEVEN. I'm a big kid!"

*sigh*


Yep, son, you are a big kid now. I'm not sure exactly when that happened.

I am so proud of you and the young man you are becoming.

Just... slow down a bit, okay?


His big gift - a lego pirate ship like Daddy's.

The Morning After

So one of the big reasons we chose to go with a hospital birth instead of a home birth was one we didn't make public until, well... now.

At this particular juncture I can think of about a dozen tangents I could totally go off on regarding subjects of discussion surrounding this particular choice, but I'll spare you all the gory and analytical details and just tell the story:

The morning after Evelyn was born, or rather, the same morning but about 7 hours later, my nurse came and prepped me for surgery. I walked down the hall, into a cold O.R. and climbed up on the narrow little table.

"Dangle your feet down on the sides and hunch your back over.", they said. At this point I was trying not to be annoyed by ANOTHER needle in my back since the nurse had mistakenly removed my epidural catheter immediately after Evelyn was born, rather than leave it in place to use for this surgery as planned.

The needle in the spine thing went quickly and soon I was lying flat with my arms strapped to boards. I began to get a little nervous as I watched them scrub and prep my belly.

Um, I REALLY don't want to watch this!, I kept thinking until finally one side of a blue screen went up and then the other. Whew!!

My nurse stood beside me, the anesthesiologist at my head, doctor at my waist. All was ready.

"YEOOWWCH!!", I yelled out.

The doctor leaned her head over the blue wall.

"You felt that?!", she asked.

No. No, I just screamed that out randomly to make you jump. Like it's April Fools' Day or something. Good grief.

"YES! Yes, I DID feel that, and it HURT!", I said in the most matter-of-fact voice I could muster.

So they added more drugs to the catheter in my spine and waited a few more minutes.

Following that was a series of pokes and prods to determine what parts of me still had feeling and what didn't.

My belly button DID. Instantly the operating table tilted backward and the blood rushed to my head.

My left leg DID. My right leg, however, was dead as a doornail. Whizzz! Went the operating table machinery again as it tipped my head further down and to the left. Good thing I'm strapped in, I thought as I looked up askew at my nurse.

She had a worried look on her face. This did NOT help my state of mind.

"Can you feel this?", the doctor asked me again for the umpteenth time.

I'd had it. So help me I was going to get off this table and back to my room and...

Oh wait. My legs were not cooperating and my arms were strapped to boards.

Right.

I looked up at my nurse.

"I can still feel it a LITTLE BIT," I said with a wobbly voice as tears escaped from the corners of my eyes. "and I don't WANT to feel it AT ALL."

Suddenly there was a deep voice in my ear saying, "Just breathe through your nose..." as a mask went over my face.

I Don't Want to breathe through my nose I want you to tell them all to forget it and take me back to my room and ....



Aaahhhh....

Nitrous oxide.

Wonderful stuff.

Next thing I knew I was in a bed with my nurse watching over me and there I stayed for another hour while I slept it off. When I went back to my room where my sweet little baby girl waited in the arms of her daddy, I was hoping to be able to take care of myself pretty well since he needed to get back to the other kidlets.

Instead, I spent the next 6 hours with my right leg completely numb and useless. I couldn't get up to use the bathroom or even scootch over on my bed to get my cup of water off the table next to it. Well, maybe it was better that I couldn't quite reach my water.

The next morning my hubby came back and the kids all said hello to their new baby sister.

And we went home.

The six of us.

Complete.

Pride, Paralysis, and Fear

I thought all my body would need to get kicked into high gear was to have my water broken. I mean, really. A week late, lots of prodromal labor, fourth time mom, desire to be up and active. I'd have gone straight for the pitocin, but then they make you stay strapped to these monitors and machines and I was NOT thrilled about that.

So my midwife broke my water and we waited for things to really start happening. Turns out, I got a nurse who thought I needed to be strapped to the monitors for 40 min. out of every hour anyway, so there went my big plans to be ACTIVE.

I'll help you all out here by shortening this up considerably. Here's how it went:

At the midwife's office the day before: 2 cm
Upon breaking my water: 3 cm
6 Hours later: 4 cm
*started pictocin*
6 Hours after starting the pitocin: 5 cm

Yes, that's right. 12 hours after beginning the induction, I'd progressed only 2 cm.

Six HOURS of pitocin induced contractions and only 1 cm of progression, even though the dosage was increased at half hour increments.

At that point, if I hadn't already had my water broken, I'd have stood up, ripped all the crap outta my arm and off of my belly and WENT HOME. But I couldn't, really. I was on the clock, half of my go time was gone. I had 12 more hours before they started pushing for a c-section and at the rate I was going I was going to need a few more days to get the job done.

The worst part of it was that I *thought* I was really close to transition.

Nope.

Contractions every 2-3 min. lasting 60-90 seconds, controlling my breathing, concentrating on relaxing every muscle, focusing, and still nowhere near transition.

I had to stop fighting the pain, somehow.

I sat there in the rocking chair, bawling for a few seconds in between contractions, internally swearing like a sailor, when I finally pushed the call button for the nurse.

"Can I have... (gulp)... an epidural?" I squeaked out the question not really sure if I was more scared to get one or to NOT get one yet. I mean, this was ME we were talking about. It's not like I hadn't gone through this all before (well, minus the pitocin) for Waaay longer with Joshua. And there was going to be this needle.

In. My. Spine.

Who DOES that?!

"You sure can, sweetie!"

My nurse lit up like a Christmas tree. Before I could begin to second guess myself she'd called the troops in and they began to set up. Twenty minutes after I asked for it, I was beginning to feel some relief. Thanks to being short, the process itself took a bit longer than usual, but after hearing many stories of women waiting HOURS for their epi, I was really glad it happened so fast.

My blood pressure was already low to begin with and I'd set off the alarms more than once earlier in the day, but within minutes of the epi it dropped and set off the alarms again. The nurse gave me something in my IV to stabilize it, but it fell several more times over the next hour.

After that, things grew quieter, calmer, the nurses came and went, leaving the lights down so we could rest. I actually slept in between contractions, which spaced out to 8-10 minutes apart. I was discouraged. I felt like everything was out of my control now, instead of just the timing of labor coming on.

Colby went to sleep.

My mind felt numb.

I wanted to pray, but there were no words.

A few more hours drifted by.

Then the shaking began. Uncontrollable, knee-jerking spasms. I thought I was going to throw myself off the bed! I mean, usually I just puke a few times and I'm done with it, but this transition was totally different. And a lot longer than 20 minutes.

I was checked. 8 cm.

An hour later I was checked again. Still only at 8. Which, by the way, seemed to me to feel pretty much the same with our without an epidural. From transition forward I felt immense pain during contractions and pushing was every bit as painful as every other time I've done it.

Somewhere along the line I began to feel as if I were standing at the edge of a cliff. I had to jump to the other side but it seemed like a long way across. I had to cross; there was no way around it. But I didn't feel like I could.

I began to feel the pull of that irresistible current. I was drifting out to sea. The riptide had its hold on my body. I fought off the need to push, telling myself at first that I fought it because I was not fully dilated. But twenty minutes later when I was still hyperventilating and fighting it off harder than ever, my midwife began to realize something wasn't right.

I never looked at her. I couldn't break my focus away from my husband's eyes. All I could hear was his voice, trying to keep me calm, trying to help me through this fight going on inside of me.

Somewhere in my soul I watched a reel that played three scenes over and over: my little boy laying in a hospital bed with tubes and wires everywhere and a big red line down his little chest where his broken heart had been fixed; my midwife telling me I'd lost the baby and the look on my husband's face as I spoke those words to him; and pictures of our friends' precious baby lost at full term.

Bad things really do happen. I'm not immune. My children are not immune.

I was afraid.

"Lisa, you're at 10 now, you can push!", my midwife said, hoping I just needed that little bit of info to move on.

"I don't WANT to PUSH!" I huffed out in between hyperventilating breaths.

There was a flurry of activity and some unspoken communication between Colby and the midwife. Next thing I knew his hands were on each side of my face, his nose inches from mine as he said, "Hon, you need to push NOW or I'm going to have to push FOR YOU."

I stood on the cliff and jumped, not knowing where I was going to land. Not believing it was really going to turn out okay.

It only took two pushes till she was up on my chest, looking up at me with big blue eyes.



She was here. She'd made it.

We'd made it.

"Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Jesus.", was all I could think to say.

I didn't know fear could cause such paralysis. I'd never been afraid of giving birth or the pain. I'd always trusted both in my body and the outcome.

If I were to admit it, I'd even have to say I'd had a hard time understanding those women who WERE afraid of birth and pain and complications.

This time the innocence was gone.

Every birth, I think, is a spiritual journey. For me, this one took me down a new path, one that taught me not to judge, not to make assumptions, and not to take pride in something that is truly God's and His alone: giving life.

Bad Timing

"Now THIS is bad timing.", I muttered to myself as I walked out of my midwifes office at forty-ONE weeks pregnant.

Epic bad timing.

Earlier that morning my mother-in-law, sister-in-law, and nephew had packed up their stuff and headed back to Indiana after staying for a week. To help with the new baby.

Except there WAS no new baby.

I mean, for most of my pregnancy I'd been in this limbo-like state of wondering if I were REALLY going to have another baby. It seemed a bit like a dream in some respects, so maybe it was all... In My Head.

"Psychosomatic. I'm sure of it. I'm never going to have this baby and I'm going to be pregnant FOREVER!", I said through clenched teeth as I wriggled myself into the much too small space between the seat and the steering wheel.

Since the day I stared down at the digital pregnancy test wondering whether it could possibly be telling the truth or not, I'd counted, calculated, and recounted the calendar days till D-Day. I'd known EXACTLY what calendar date the counting should begin, factored the average gestation of each of my previous children, took into account the varying cycle lengths, and used every online due date calendar available.

Not one of my previous children had varied from my calculations for more than a day.

Until now.

Now I was standing there at 41 weeks pregnant, relatives fleeing like june bugs from a duck, and my mom not scheduled to fly in for another week. (Really, I'm not blaming any of them, I'm so thankful for the help each one of them provided for the time they were here!)

All I could picture was the weekend flying by just like every other day of the last 3 weeks: with constant, timeable contractions that did nothing. Then I'd finally go into labor late Sunday night, have the baby in the wee hours, then have my husband go home, get the kids, and drop them off on his way to work.

With me.

AT THE HOSPITAL.

I had to figure out something, and quick.

So early Saturday morning we dropped the kids off with Grandpa J. and headed in to the hospital for a non-stress test, which is standard operating procedure for anyone a week or more past due. But we brought the hospital bag anyway, knowing the recommendation would be to stay and be induced.

My fluids were low. My midwife was on call. The hospital bed stood at the ready, with the big spa tub waiting.

I mean, it's not like I was terribly miserable. Not like with Emmy. I knew this wasn't a 9 lb. baby, though my midwife was worried anyway about having a previous 9 pounder at 40 weeks. I wasn't all 'PLEASE LORD let me DIE before going another day PREGNANT!!!' like that.

I could have gone another week.

But still. It was getting tedious.

Mostly the comments and questions were getting tedious.

How many more days would I have to hear things like:

* "How are you feeling today?" PREGNANT.

* "Aren't you having ANY contractions?" YES. Yes, I am. CONSTANTLY. But they just don't seem to want to intensify and get down to 3 min. apart so I can go to the HOSPITAL.

* "Can't you produce?" WELL, Obviously I CAN. Just not on cue, apparently.

* "Are you a horse?" Um, WHAT?!

Took me a while to figure that one out. Like, two days later when I realized that there had been a full moon on the night of that particular question... But yeah, at the time, I FELT like a whale and being CALLED a horse didn't help my state of mind.

So yeah, back at the hospital.

I stood there looking at my midwife and I made a decision I never thought I'd be faced with making: I chose to be induced.