Let us peruse some photos

Yesterday I "accidentally" made an enormous pot of elbow macaroni, and then felt some sense of obligation to make good use of it. So I made a tremendous vat of homemade macaroni and cheese, straight out of Paula Deen's "I'm gonna put 10 pounds apiece on them heifers" playbook. I did this at 2:30 in the afternoon, already having planned chef salads for dinner, and ate a pound of it for no justifiable reason. Today I woke up longing for Swiss Cake Rolls, and deemed it easier to bake myself a pan of chocolate chip cookie bars than to cleanse myself and my child, get in the car, go to the store, and buy a package. And then I ate a whole row, albeit a short row. In summary, I have reached the highly pathetic phase of pregnancy marked, in my case, by extreme fatigue and 9 x 13 pans full of sin. Really, I could go on and on. But is anyone even reading this anymore?

I'm just going to show you some pictures from recent K Family outings and shit. Because if I don't do this, I'll be stuffing some gargantuan pasta item full of ricotta in a matter of minutes.

Now, I'm gonna start this off with some highlights from an event known as the Clean Sweep. In case you don't feel like clicking on my link (although you really should if you don't have my entire blog cataloged in your memory), the Clean Sweep is an event in The Woods that is unrivaled in terms of its trashtastic trashiness. Essentially, you can put anything on your curb and some waste management people will haul it away. I have to admit that this event has lost a bit of its luster for me since I got slightly hipper to the whole green scene, but it's still pretty darn funny to see what a bunch of Woodsrats will put out for trash pickup on this holiest of holy days. This year, Phook, Grandma J and I set out with high expectations. Due to the price of scrap something-or-other (I don't know which metal(s) it is that is in high demand...steel perhaps?) we had a lot of competition out on the junk circuit with people cruising around picking through and pillaging pretty much every trash pile. We saw the usual smattering of toilets and destroyed lawn furniture. I stole a wooden chair for my sister's boyfriend per his request. And then there were the highlights. The first highlight was a bonafide organ out on the curb, which is something you don't see every day:

And my personal favorite item of junk this year was this pile of milk jugs dressed up like dogs. Who could part with these?

Now let's move along to the fact that Phook received a pair of sunglasses from her uncle, and when she consents to wearing them for more than 2 seconds, which happens only rarely, she looks awesome:

Now let us revisit our pre-Mother's Day trip to the zoo, which resulted in a sweet shot of Phook as a polar bear.

And here we have the Phook creature being ticklishly assaulted by her father during said zoo visit:


Later that day, Phook got to try out a trike at her great-grandma's house. Despite being tall-ish for her age, she is short legged like her father, so the whole pedaling thing is not yet happening. (Big K and I are the same height and my inseam is 4 inches longer than his, if that tells you anything).

Now, this past weekend, the Family K, Auntie Hode and her boyfriend Uncle RFL, and the Grandparents J went way, way, way up north to Copper Falls State Park for some Memorial Day camping fun. Phook rode the entire 4 hour trip in the back of the trailer, guarding her basketball aggressively:

Now, as it turned out, the weather forecast was off by a good 20 degrees in the wrong direction on our first evening there, so we ventured out to buy Phook an appropriate hoodie for the remainder of the trip. Being in the North Woods, the only option available was a boys size 3T, but hey, at least it will still fit this fall. And then she kind of wore the thing for the rest of the trip, as evidenced by these photos. Here we have an extreme close-up of the child. This shot was taken before she decided to defy me by running into the road, completely diced out on her face while running at full speed trying to get away from me, and implanted gravel into her entire forehead:

Here we have the beast and her father enjoying some woodland waterfall-filled hiking:

And here in a moment of quiet contemplation involving a really large sandbox:

Which was promptly followed by her wanting to do something I vetoed, which was promptly followed by her throwing herself to the ground backwards, as is her preferred method of displaying her extreme displeasure these days. (This picture is posted as a special tribute to Melinda and Cletus, for reasons I don't have to explain to the rest of you.)

So anyhow, that's what we've been up to. In the baby/mama health department, for those of you interested in these matters, the kidney stone has been quiet for two weeks as of today. I have another kidney ultrasound tomorrow to make sure nothing is plugged up or other nonsense. I am also starting to have frequent non-stress tests on baby to ensure that my blood pressure--which is holding steady--is not pissing off the child in it's uterine home. Tomorrow we also get to have a sneaky peek ultrasound of the creature to make sure the fluid levels are okay and to check on his/her size. I am excited to spy on the thing, and kind of nervous that tomorrow I'll be putting up a post telling you all that the baby's weight is currently estimated at 14 pounds. But, yeah, I haven't puffed up like a blowfish or started having visual disturbances yet, so that's positive. This baby will technically be full term (37 weeks, that is) in 1 week and 3 days, so my inner panic has calmed considerably. Of course I am hoping for a nice rump roast of a 40-weeker, but now I feel like good outcomes are decidedly on our side, which makes it easier to roll with things.

The one thing I have spent probably less than 45 seconds contemplating during this pregnancy is the fact that I actually have to physically give birth to Circus at some point soon. Odd how my brain hasn't even opened that trap door for me. Shit, though. That's going to hurt. I had almost forgotten about that part, and now it seems like it is totally bound to happen. And on that note, I need to go eat another row of cookie bars. Word.

Unlike Hillary Clinton...

...I know when my goose is cooked. Dudes, I do not like to feel as if I have limitations. Historically speaking, I have powered through a lot of ridiculous fatigue, pain, and commuting to get otherworldly amounts of shit done in unreasonable timeframes. When I'm dying of exhaustion, I just go get some more stamina from my bank of intrinsic motivation and press on. However, I'd like to officially notify the planet that I am now tired, limited by my own body, and tired.

This past weekend, Auntie Hode and I decided to make a pilgrimage to Chicago for the Green Festival. This past weekend, I turned 34 weeks pregnant. (For those of you who don't live by a pregnancy calendar, that would be getting pretty close to cracking open the 9th month.) So on Saturday morning, I rose at 6 a.m., which is very early for me. I cleansed myself, did a few last minute chores and packing, and Hode and I were on the road a little after 7 a.m. We breakfasted. We traveled. We paid godforsaken tolls. We hit a shitload of traffic. There was road construction. There was a lot of very aggressive lane-changing driving on the part of our fellow motorists. As we rolled into the city around 11 a.m., I knew that all my energy stores for the day were fully depleted. And the day had not yet begun.

Alas, I tried to find some energy somewhere in the pit of my kidney stone-infested trunk, and found that the price of public parking near Navy Pier was quick to remind me that I am a powerless being having control over absolutely jack shit. (I will note that I have not felt the kidney stone since last Thursday night. Apparently it is being a shady bastard like my last one.) I had on a pair of aesthetically devastating sandals with a cushy footbed that I had always found to be ridiculously comfortable. They were the walking shoes I had packed for the weekend. By the time we'd walked a few blocks from our parking spot to our destination on Navy Pier, I knew I had a blister on my little toe. I think I had to make about 9 stops to pee just getting down the pier, as the capacity of my bladder is diminished to the size of a shot glass, at best, and this problem is wildly exacerbated by walking (a.k.a. bouncing a fetal head up and down on my sad bladder).

Finally, we got to will call and got our tickets. We then meandered around the exhibit hall checking out the wares of the green vendors. Hey, I enjoy wandering around exhibit halls checking out wares, and this was no exception. But there were so many PEOPLE in there. And I did not like it. My sister, who is a high school teacher, has developed the ability to put her head down and weave through human traffic as if she has a special cape that allows her to squeeze through cracks like a bat. I am an unwieldy pregnant woman who is used to wandering about aimlessly in comparatively wilderness-like spaces. So, essentially, there were many times when she got about 15 yards ahead of me in 30 second time periods. My legs and feet felt like I had walked 50 miles at this point. Aching, blistering, crying.

We pressed on for awhile and eventually deemed it necessary to have some lunch. We had faux-meat gyros. They were not bad. Then we purchased some nice earth-friendly items at various booths. Most excitingly, I got some reusable bags for produce for my grocery shopping excursions. Then we went to a talk by John Perkins, and it was good. His basic point was that you're making decisions with every dollar you spend, paying a little more for good-for-the-planet stuff is an investment in the future, tell companies that you are or are not buying from them because of their corporate practices, etc. I agreed with everything he said. And then I felt kind of like an asshole because my ability to "vote" is really disturbingly limited right now, and often that means I am buying store-brand stuff from villainous corporations in order to even attempt to make ends meet. So there was some beating of self. But at least I was there, at least I care, at least I am trying. That's what I'm telling myself, anyhow.

Then we went to a talk by a guy on the Economics of Happiness. He had a really shitty powerpoint and didn't know his audience. Hosedog fell asleep. I sat there and watched my belly do acrobatics. We made a few last passes through the booths and headed out of there around 4:30. All in all, it was a nice thing to do and a cool thing to have done. Hode got a lot of books and materials for her classroom, it was motivational and educational, and I got some free samples of organic kid snacks. However, at this point, my cooked goose was already burned. I was so tired. I could easily have thrown myself down on a bench on Navy Pier and let seagulls shit on me with reckless abandon while I took a good 6 hour siesta. Instead, we walked back to the car, now with more blisters.

When I was younger, particularly during my high school and college years, there was nothing more exciting to me on this earth than entering or even driving through a gigantic city. I'd have fantasies about someday living in an apartment way up in the sky and being a fancy city chick. Those days are so, so, so, so, so, so, so over. While walking in a crowd of humanity back towards the car, I honestly felt sensory overload from the incessant honking of horns, brakes squealing, sirens blaring, idiots in front of me talking to their friends about how they got hit by a car 10 years ago and lost their short term memory, etc. My brain was revolting and I felt distinctly like my mother, who gets pissed when she's within 15 miles of an interstate. I just wanted to throw myself on the ground and curl up into the fetal position and rock myself into oblivion. And nothing, really, was even happening. I was just walking down a busy city street with a bunch of other people. And it felt like a situation from which I needed to escape after already spending the day in traffic, in crowded exhibit halls, in lectures. I am embarrassed to admit that my townie ass has fallen this far, but oh it has. (I'm sure there are city dwellers among my readership who would feel a similar sense of discomfort in my quiet, limited stimulus environment.)

So we got back to the car, I started playing with my blisters, and Hode started navigating the traffic. Rush hour on a Saturday is not something I am familiar with, but apparently it happens. It took forever to get back out of town on I-90. We were staying in Shaumburg for reasons that I swear have nothing to do with IKEA. It took a good hour and a half to get there. We had dinner reservations for a crab house restaurant out there for 6:30, and it became apparent at some point that we would not have time to check into our hotel and prepare ourselves for dinner beforehand as we had planned. At this point I busted out the concealer in an attempt to cover up my under-eye bags and promptly got a giant smudge of it on my white shirt. So then I changed shirts in heavy traffic, blinding truckers and motorcyclists and other innocents with my ginormous midsection.

Finally, we found the restaurant. The area was wildly busy and we parked 9 miles from the door. Or maybe it was 50 yards. At this point I was so far past catatonic that I couldn't have told you my middle name. And the belly. The weight of the thing. From walking around all day and traveling and nonsense and whatever, it was just so hard to move. All the muscles holding up that giant uterus were just, like, fuck. They were done. My entire abdomen just ached. I'm not talking about contractions or cramps or other things of that nature. I am talking about pure fatigue. People, as is well documented on this blog, I am a very, very large woman. I am tall. I have a large frame. I am muscular. I may be more draft horse than human. I have gained about 15 pounds during this pregnancy so far. I've actually weighed more when not even pregnant. So toting around this baby should not be that hard for me. I mean, I have some very wee friends who have gained 40, 50, 60 pounds when pregnant. On a frame that could fit into my femur. I cannot even imagine what pregnancy feels like for a non-equine woman. Ladies, I salute you. Because at this point I feel like I am hauling around the most tremendous burden on the planet. Most of my associates are admitting that I am at this point far larger than I was even on the day I delivered Phook, so it's not all my head. But, dude. Walking through that parking lot, I just wanted to scream, "Oh god, someone please carry this thing for me...just for a minute!!!" No one was available.

So we got in the restaurant, we were seated, we ordered the family style crab feast. To make a really pathetic story short, I couldn't even eat. The stomach was apparently crushed into a wee remaining corner of my abdomen and was not interested in accepting more than a cup of clam chowder, half a crab cake, one crab leg, and a few bites of vegetables. This is not how I roll when in a crab house. No. I typically assault the sea. Luckily Hode was able to pick up a lot of my slack and the meal did not go to waste. But I felt terrible about it. And the other thing. We were seated in a booth-like unit, and I couldn't really fit behind my side of the booth. So I was sitting in an awkward posture actually trying to suck in my sore belly through this whole thing as well. As we waited for our check, I lamented this to Hode, who regretfully informed me that it was a non-affixed table between us, and she could simply pull it a foot towards her to open up plenty of room for my midsection. Lord have mercy.

We went outside to find it raining a bit. Hode went to get the car and I flattened myself on a bench. There had been a wedding in a private area upstairs in the restaurant, and the bride and her minions were dicking around on the bench opposite me. They were bursting with energy, as people are on the high of their wedding day. I was trying to sap some of it out of them, but to no avail. People were coming out of the restaurant and casting piteous gazes in my direction. I was in that pregnant lady pose where you can't close your legs anymore so while you are technically in a seated position you're actually more stretched out flat with your legs cast out askew in front of you. Basically, I was a giant animal holding a to-go bag full of the key lime pie we were too full to eat that came with our meal. Woe, woe, woe.

So Hode picks me up, and we spend 45 minutes trying to find our hotel, asking directions multiple times of non-native English speakers and finding ourselves further mired in the business park/mall mecca/lodging bonanza that is that chunk of Schaumburg you can see from the interstate. We were nearly killed in what I will call a stoplight misinterpretation moment. I swear my own body was held securely in place by my safety belt but the baby kept going. I'm lucky that Circus wasn't shot straight out into the window of some whackass strip mall store. At last we found the joint. I went in to register with my maternity pants sagging miserably around my ass. Hode informed me that my ass was hanging out, and I informed her that my concerns were elsewhere. I stumbled into the place and the 12-year-old night manager checked me in. When I asked him where the best place to park was to access our room, he said, "Around back." We drove around for awhile and eventually got to the opposite side of the hotel. Upon entering through a haze of smoky revelers and rain, we discovered that the elevators immediately to our right, which we were to take to our room, were approximately 4 feet from the front desk I just checked in at. We had driven all around this joint trying to find a parking place and shit only to discover that we'd saved ourselves a walk of a distance I could literally hop. I almost bit the 12-year-old. Anyhow, we found our accommodations to be more than acceptable. I popped my crop of bulging water blisters and promptly crashed the fuck out, amidst my woeful apologies to my sister for being the most pathetic clown to ever slither her giant belly over the crust of the earth. My goose, friends, was cooked.

Now, yesterday's time in Schaumburg was chill and good. And in stark opposition to the principles espoused by our friends at the Green Festival. With absolutely no premeditation whatsoever (cough, avert gaze, cough), we spent the morning at IKEA. Dude. I had been there once before and holy shit. It's a retail city. A retail city that is really good at convincingly pointing out things you "need" that you had never before even considered purchasing. I didn't go gonzo, but Phook ended up with an easel and the cutest Phook-sized wicker chair you've ever seen, as well as some organizational components for her closet. If I had several thousand expendable dollars and a complete lack of conscience, I could easily blow through it in a morning at IKEA. To top off our organizational bonanza, we went to The Container Store nearby. Now, I'd only fantasized about going to one of these stores...never had I had the good fortune to enter one. Honestly, they had a lot of neat shit, but I was surprised by the prices. There were a lot of things I would have considered buying if they were 30% cheaper and if my neighbors in Illinois didn't decide to apply a 9% sales tax. Instead I just got two of those slacks hangers that hold 5 pairs of pants each, a laundry bag for washing delicates, and a travel case for toiletries. Hosedog went slightly more to town, because she's crafty and shit and had some organizational goals. We finished up our excursion with some burgers and hit the road. On the road, I dozed and marveled at my girth. We made it home without incident.

All in all, it truly was a good little getaway, despite this self-pitying retelling. A last childless hurrah before some intense child-centric happenings here in the House of K. I am glad we went. I am just kind of licking my wounds here. I was essentially fully tackled, if not knocked the fuck out, by the exertion of riding in a car, walking a couple miles, eating a grain-based meat product, turning my brain on to semi-intellectual thought for a couple hours, and guiltily walking away from $23 onesies made from organic cotton. Woof.

And now, my feeble attempt at a point. I would hereby like to state for all those who know me and think I would never admit to such a thing that I am tired, done, tired, done, tired, done, and incapable of functioning at my normal level of perseverance. If you want me to do something, whether it be a social obligation or bending to sniff a flower, I'll think about it long and hard and possibly get back to you. Or maybe just ignore you because I'm too tired to even respond. Hauling this abdomen around and making sure Phook doesn't eat any broken glass are pretty much the only things I'm able to commit to for the foreseeable future. Consider yourself warned. And you know what, I'm pretty cool with that declaration. Maybe in my old age I am gaining just a shred of wisdom. Whether it be pathetic or not, there you have it. "Everything" is officially scratched off of my to-do list, possibly for the first time ever when there weren't medical orders involved. I'm guessing the planet will not collapse upon itself. How about that?

Analyze This

There's this thing that has been on my mind lately. I've hesitated to blog about it because I'm guessing pretty much every mom about to bring a second kid into the world goes through this or some related psychological discomfort, and that makes me feel all cheesy. But, dude, I am so worried about what I am doing to Phook in having this baby. Man, I have spent the last nearly 20 months doing pretty much nothing other than doting on this kid. Prior to that, I incubated her for 9+ months, and was pretty preoccupied by that concept as well. Prior to that, I spent a long, long while trying to get pregnant. Essentially, I have been focused on the creation/gestation/birth/raising of one Phook since August 2004. That's a long time, especially when we're talking about the laser-like focus these things have had from me.

So now the Circus is coming to town. I want a baby, oh I do. I started itching for another kid when Phook was as little as (gasp!) six months old. We held off until she was the ripe old age of 1, and then Big K sneezed one day and impregnated me while I was doing dishes. Or something like that. So I am excited to meet this person I'm harboring. I'm excited to hold that tiny bundle. I'm excited to touch the tiniest of tiny clothes. The baby smell. You know, all the fuzzy bunny baby stuff that smart-mouthed profane clowns such as myself don't often admit to reveling in. That's not the point though. The point is, damn it, what about Phook?

When she was born, I just nursed her and stayed in bed with her at whatever hour seemed like a good time to lie around. I occasionally put her in a swing and did some shit or took a walk, but I really, really just rolled with the flow of Phook. Neither this baby nor I will have that luxury. This baby is joining the established Phook show, and the Phook show is going to have to make some adjustments for Circus as well. Essentially, I know I won't be able to spend so many hours sitting around just staring at this new kid, so I feel bad about that. I understand why birth order does what it so predictably does to people. But more than that, it boils down to a particular scenario I keep imagining. And then I'll let you go ahead extrapolate all the related scenarios that stem from the basic problem it presents. It goes like this: I am sitting in the rocking chair, nursing the ever-suckling creature that is the newborn Circus. And Phook wants to sit in my lap. And Phook can't fit in my lap. And Phook starts crying, not in a bratty way but in a really sad toddler-distress-call kind of way. And I start crying. And I can't stop because even though Phook will never remember this moment, I always will. Oh Jesus, I'm practically sobbing just writing that. I mean, dude. I just love Phook on such a disturbingly intense level and I care so much that she knows this. I don't really give two shits if she doesn't get what she wants in terms of an extra snack she is begging for or some off-limits object she feels like smashing, but if she wants my love or snuggles, she always, always gets it. There is no later. I will always spoil with love. So how do I do that once Circus is here?

Oh, all the moms of multiple children of the world will say that you love them all equally, maybe differently, but equally. There is plenty of love to go around. Everyone adjusts and everyone's deepest needs will ultimately be met. But from where I sit, giant with a very wanted baby but in love solely with Phook, the upcoming adjustment period is one terrifying proposition. Now, Big K is confident that Phook will transition easily and she will be just fine and this will be solely my trauma and not hers. I wish I had such bold beliefs. But I know Big K feels a version of this too. The other night he was adjusting the infant car seat from its maximum size from when Phook outgrew it back down to the newborn size. And he was like, "I feel weird. This is Phook's stuff." That is most definitely the man version of what I am experiencing, whether he knows it or not.

So the other night I had a dream. And despite the fact that I think most people find their own dreams fascinating and the retelling of others' dreams wildly boring, I'm going to share it with you. First I should note that when I was pregnant with Phook, particularly early in the pregnancy, I had a shitload of weird dreams. Not about babies, but about my house. More specifically, my house being destroyed. Fire, flood, tornado, you name it. I was saving my cats and my grandmother's depression glass cake plate every night of the week. Big K, having some random knowledge of dream analysis, informed me that the home represents the self in dreams. So he said I was worried about what would happen to me after I had a baby. What would be left? Would the real Big W be destroyed? I think I know the answer now that I will still exist, albeit in an altered state, but at the time apparently I was freaked out about the whole concept. Fair enough. At the beginning of this pregnancy, I dreamed primarily about Barack Obama trying to seduce me at a county fair with a falafel (which I know is a food but which I otherwise cannot define) and promises of a high rise apartment in some big city, while simultaneously offering the same promises to that awful country chick who got booted off American Idol awhile ago, but whatever.

So the pertinent dream. I woke up in the middle of the night in the context of the dream and noticed that the ceiling in our bedroom looked weird. Upon touching it, I realized it was totally waterlogged. I was freaking out, losing my mind about how our house could be taking on water when we'd just had a new roof put on last summer, and generally going batshit crazy. Then I woke up Big K and he determined that the only way to save the house was to smash through the soaked ceiling and a wall to find the source of the water. So he did this, and it opened up like a secret passageway to this enormous additional part of our house. At first it just looked like there was some fishing tackle stored in the insides of the wall, but then it turned out we could actually enter the new area he'd just cracked open. (I'll note that in real life, this space would be one story above our front yard and is certainly not any real structure, so I'm not going to bash in the wall in real life just to check.) So we went in this place, and there was all this random shit in there. Not like diamonds and money and stuff, but two big corner desks, some nice mattresses, and this giant system that automatically sucks all the dirt from your house through vents so you don't have to vacuum. And I just had to unclog this duct in the thing and it automatically started vacuuming my house out. So it was all totally whackass shit in there, obviously. The dream basically went on from there with us exploring all this shit in this giant gymnasium-sized space we had opened up, with Big K saying things like, "I always wanted a desk like this."

So I woke up in the morning rather comforted by this dream. I am interpreting it as a message about how something that initially looks like a disaster and feels impossible may actually be the key to something really rad. Not necessarily puppies and kitties and wonder bathed in light, but certainly something I'm happy to find. And if we are applying the tenet that the home is the self in dream analysis, well maybe this dream was telling me that just when I think I'm full and my walls are about to crumble, I get to open up a whole new part of myself that I didn't even know was there. Just because it's full of fishing tackle when I'm not much of an angler isn't necessarily something to cry about either. Maybe the dream was saying there are new joys out there for me and for us that I hadn't even considered. Or maybe I am just destined to be a bass master.

Normally, my dreams involve so much convoluted shit that I just dismiss them after a hearty chuckle. But I'm gonna take this one and hold on to it until I have a baby to hold instead.

How was your Mother's Day?

Because, seriously, I think that when the fairy who comes and bestows blessings and curses on newborns stopped by my bassinet back in the hot summer of 1979, she decided that I would be one of those people struck down by pain and random ailments at really inopportune times. For example, she apparently determined that I would, nearly 29 years later, wake up suffering from excruciating kidney stone pain at 1 a.m. while 33 weeks pregnant on Mother's Day. Dude, dude, and dude.

So it was 1 a.m. on Sunday. I woke up for one of my standard nightpissings and the usual snack. I handled these matters, and limped back to bed with a big bad ache on my left side. I thought it must have been from carrying a diaper bag all day at the zoo, where we had taken Phook on Saturday. And then I remembered giving Big K the diaper bag to avoid just such a scenario. So then I assumed it was the onset of preeclampsia, and by about 2 a.m. I was online, hunched over the laptop and googling which side of your body it is that hurts like a bitch when your liver starts tanking. Turns out it's the right. And then I remembered my fun with a kidney stone last summer, and realized the pain I was in was growing to resemble that trip through hell just a little bit more every minute. I then commenced moaning and wailing and writhing and wishing for a swift end, all with the added fun of Circus pounding away at my inner parts.

Eventually, Big K woke up a bit and I told him what was up. He asked if he could be of assistance and I told him some nice massaging counterpressure would really be nice. He put his hand on my side and promptly passed back out. Oh, he woke up a couple more times and made similar attempts, but I never got more than a 30-second massage out of Captain CPAP. Around 5 a.m., just as I was fully forgetting that I was the host organism for a lovely little infant and getting ready to go drink some Drano, I decided to call the hospital. I called OB, since apparently if you contact the ER or general on-call docs when you're knocked up, they're just gonna get all weird on your ass, assume you're in labor and they're about to be sued, and you're gonna end up right back at square one, at best. So OB called the doc on call for my doc, and she called me back. She didn't seem to question my self-diagnosis on the kidney stone and pretty much told me to drink a lot of fluids, take the pregnancy-safe lameass meds I already have for my back pain, and call my doctor on Monday morning. All chill like that. I realize that was probably medically reasonable, but I was hoping for something more along the lines of, "Come right on in and I'll shoot you myself."

So I died for a few more hours, and then at 8:00, Big K got up and looked online and read somewhere that vibration can help with kidney stone pain. So he rolled me over and shoved one of those back-massager things that hook to a chair under my back and went downstairs with Phook. After about an hour or so of being assaulted by the thing, I finally passed out. The pain had subsided somewhat. At some point I called my mom and Big K called his mom and informed them that I would not be roasting a chicken on their behalf. I woke up a bit after 11:00 and moved my show of pathetic nonsense down to the couch. Phook read me some books and shit. I eventually ate some applesauce. I spent a good deal of time feeling bad for myself. My mother-in-law and brother-in-law came over. I napped on and off. Phook trashed the house. Big K did the dishes. The pain came and went, generally improving as the day wore on. I eventually decided to launder myself in my whirlpool tub, what with the vibrations it has to offer.

By the time I went to bed last night, my side pain had pretty much gone away and was replaced by a raging headache that I battled all night long and am still attempting to stave off now. With my first kidney stone, I had an attack on May 19, the pain went away until late June and then returned with a vengeance, and I ultimately had the thing surgically removed in July. So there is no telling how this will go. I might be fine for a day, a week, a month, or I may be passing a kidney stone while I give birth. As the proud owner of a urine-collection hat for the purposes of collecting 24 hours worth of my own urine for occasional protein screenings during pregnancy, I've just been peeing into that and then examining the output for a stone. Let me tell you that that is awesome when you're already pushing fluids and pregnant and waking up 49 times per night to pee. Like I'm cogent enough to handle a flimsy piece of plastic full of bodily waste. For all I know, I passed Alcatraz last night and totally missed it.

I do know that when I went to bed last night, my husband informed me that if I was going to spend another night moaning, I'd better be asleep and dreaming of him. And if I was awake, I "had better keep it down to a dull roar." I informed him that his punishment for making this statement was that I'd be blogging about it. Specifically, I said, "Good one fucker, that's on the blog," which he of course appreciated immensely.

I'm supposed to call my regular doctor today to see what she wants me to do. Honestly, I just don't want to deal with an additional medical consideration on top of the pregnancy. On account of my high blood pressure and the fact that things got a bit dicey with Phook and I partied on bed rest for a month before her birth, I have to have a bunch of extra tests to make sure Circus is still happy in his uterine home. Specifically, I have to go in for weekly NSTs starting this Thursday. I have to have an ultrasound at 36 weeks to measure the kid and the amniotic fluid level to make sure my placenta isn't bitching out. I have to collect my urine for 24-hour periods and store it in a jug in my fridge the entire time and then have it analyzed for protein. Throughout the pregnancy, my blood pressure has held steady (top number is high, bottom number is a solid 80, which is keeping my doc cool) and my protein has not been bad. My doctor religiously checks me for swelling and so far I am doing great on that front. So all this shit is just preventative peeking in on the kid to make sure he/she is happy. But, honestly, it stresses me out. Of course it will be nice to have those reassuring hours of listening to the heartbeat during the NSTs and seeing the kid on ultrasound when he/she is nearly fully cooked, but knowing that at some point things could turn up not okay and I might be whisked into the slicer dicer for a c-section is not a thought that helps me sleep soundly. And then there are the logistics of making the hour-long roundtrip, getting someone to watch Phook, waiting endlessly for my always-late doctor, and blah, blah, blah. Of course a little inconvenience is a very small price to pay for a healthy baby, but it can still make me wallow a little bit.

So, yeah, I don't know how this whole kidney stone gig is going to alter my already slightly less-than-ideal prenatal medical situation. I swear to you people that I have been paying close attention to my hydration level. And while I have definitely been keeping myself busy with baby-readying tasks, I am not recklessly avoiding my well-being in the process. If my feet and legs get really sore or tired, they go up. If I need a break, I am taking it. So, yeah, whatever. Who knows. After the first stone turned out to be comprised mostly of calcium, I had a bunch of tests done to make sure various things were working correctly, and they were. So, I'm gonna blame it on that blessing/curse fairy that shows up with her stinking wand. If you see her, can you let her know I'd like to have a chat?

Things Which Circus Act Shalt Not Be Named

Okay, as this baby thing approaches, things are probably gonna get a bit more babycentric around here. You know, it's like rapidly approaching and shit. So the new creature is on my mind a lot these days.

Now, with this post, I'm going to venture into dangerous territory. I am going to discuss baby names. Surprisingly, I've found that people can get pretty hostile about this. You know, mad that someone else took their name. Mad that someone commented on a name they were going to slap on their kid. That sort of thing. But I'm still gonna yammer about it, because I just choose not to learn some lessons. I guess I do understand why it's a sensitive topic. Naming one's child feels like a huge responsibility, especially once you really have to do it. At least I think it is. So when your chosen name gets ripped on, scoffed at, overused, or otherwise mistreated, it can kinda suck. But anyhow.

Now, Phook's real name is not actually Phook. It is short. It is uncommon. But I don't think it is weird. People seemed wishy washy when I shared it prior to her birth, but nearly everyone professed to love it once it was slapped on a person, probably out of obligation. Her middle name is my middle name which is my grandma's name. It is short. It is moderately common. It means a lot to me. All in all, I love Phook's name. Big K and I had a girl name picked out for about 3 years before she was born, and we just slapped it on her, as simple as that. And it works.

Now we have to name again. And having done no gender reconnaissance, we have to come up with both genders again. We have finally settled on names. Which means I can discuss the ones we aren't choosing. You're gonna think I'm a nutwagon. And that's cool.


Girl Names

• Circus will not be named Zelda. You think I'm just being cheeky. But I am not. I love the name Zelda. I've had a Zelda Fitzgerald obsession since sometime mid-highschool when my awesome English teacher introduced The Great Gatsby by telling us all about old F. Scott's craziness and that of his wife. I've since read a ton of biographies about her and collected wacky quotes from her and otherwise pined after her. And I would really love to name a little girl Zelda. Her maiden name was "Sayre" and I actually think that is a cool name too. I have never even suggested either of these possibilities to Big K. After a decade or so, you come to know your significant other enough that you know which things are just better left unsaid.
• Circus will not be named Pepper. This weekend, we saw the movie Iron Man. And Gwyneth Paltrow was the character Pepper Potts. And sitting there in the theater I totally wanted to scrap the chosen girl name we picked and go with Pepper instead. I think that is a totally awesome name. I pitched it to Big K, and he actually agreed. But we have our Circus girl name chosen. Now, if Circus is amazingly a girl and we have yet another kid and we end up with a string of 3 girls, we may actually pull this one out of the hat. But I wouldn't tell you if that happened anyhow. I'd just come up with some jackass pseudonym and leave it at that. I just like the idea of a wild-haired child named Pepper. So be it.
• Circus will not be named Flannery. This was always my #1 girl name for the past 10 years or so of daydreaming, up until it came down to actually naming Phook. I love this name. Yes, Flannery O'Connor is the inspiration. Perhaps it's bad form to name your kid after someone who can cook up whackjob short stories like that, but she's right...a good man IS hard to find. I think Flannery is a beautiful name, plain and simple. Big K liked it too, but was concerned it sounded too uppity. (This is his primary concern about names after he's established that there isn't an obvious (or even not so obvious) nasty nickname to be derived from the name. There will be no fancypants names for the K children.) So there will be no Flannery.

Boy Names

• Circus will not be named Thatcher. Oh my, friends, I could weep just telling you that. I want, so, so, so, so badly to name a boy Thatcher. I love this name so much. I have thrown myself in front of Big K begging for this to be our chosen boy name. He will not budge. It will not happen. I have even busted out my patented sports announcer voice and introduced "Thatcher K......." in booming tones as the starting defensive lineman for the Oakland Raiders like 83 times. (That almost always works on Big K...giving him the name as part of a grand starting lineup and then following it up with the wild cheers of the crowd.) But he won't budge. He says it is too Ivy League. Prissy. Or something. But oh man this is my favorite boy name. Even more favorite than the one we've chosen for Circus, should a boy name come into play. I am weeping.
• Circus will not be named Cooper. If Phook had been a boy, this was our chosen boy name back in the dark ages of 2006. I still like this name, but it has fallen in our esteem since Phook's birth. I think it's because it has become at least somewhat popular. There are many popular names that I like just fine, but this one feels like it is becoming a bit...dare I say it...trendy. I fear the trendy name. I don't mind a classic name that a lot of people have...like Elizabeth or Jake or something like that. But I fear the should-be-odd-but-is-ragingly-popular name. For example, I'll cite Aiden. This is a great name. I really like it. A couple years ago, some Aiden's started showing up on the scene. Now it seems like 9 out of 10 little boys I know are named Aiden. I don't know if Cooper is going to go intergalactic like that, but I'd be sad if it did. So it seems like too much of a popularity risk. It's a great name, but the thought of all his papers marked "Cooper K" just like all the Jenny [insert last initial here]'s of my class makes me a bit nervous.
• Circus will not be named Carey, Aubry, or Ashley. Okay, fine, I admit it. I love girly boys names. I know this is a pretty wildly unpopular viewpoint, but I absolutely adore these traditionally female names as boy names. Like Ashley in Gone With the Wind. They seem so hugely romantic to me. And I argue (to Big K) that a boy with a somewhat feminine name will end up very masculine and hardcore skullcrushing out of necessity. I would like to have a tough-but-sensitive son with a girlish name. I probably don't need to go into why this won't happen in our home.

So, there. Those are my personal losses in the name department. I recognize that I am officially off my rocker in terms of some of my fantasy names for children. What can I say though, friends? My first name is a funky spelling of an already rare name. My sister's name, which shall remain undisclosed because even her first name standalone makes her wildly stalkable, is just about as far out there as names get, although I love it and it suits her perfectly. My paternal grandmother was named Vendla and I have an aunt named Verna, and those aren't exactly run-of-the-mill handles either. So perhaps I have some nonconformist notions about names. But really, what's not to like about a name like Zelda? It rules.

So our soon-to-debut kid has names selected for it, and they are none of the above. Like Phook, both the boy and girl names are slightly unusual but not weird. Like Phook, both middle name selections have namesake significance. (And actually, our girl first name has a backwards namesake significance too.) People will probably say they like the names, and then maybe snicker to their girlfriends that they suck. But that's cool. Big K and I both really love the names we have picked and we're sticking to them. (Although I have to admit that I fear just a pinch that while I'm busy attending to things like delivering a placenta Big K will be off signing a birth certificate for a son he has clandestinely named Maximus or Charlemagne.) But, yeah.

In other totally ridiculous and unrelated news, I can't stop thinking about garden gnomes. I read this article in my Organic Gardening magazine (or something like that) about garden gnomes and now I spend at least 17 minutes per day thinking about getting a gnome. Today I received a catalog with a giant concrete gnome on the front and took it as a sign...but oddly the gnome was not an object for sale in the pages of the garden goods catalog. But I take that as a sign too, because gnomes are supposed to be mysterious and illusive creatures. Anyhow, the article I read talks about keeping your gnome in a protected place in the depths of your yard, because people often steal gnomes to "free" them. Man. How awesome. I mean, do I really need a gnome on my property from either an aesthetic or financial perspective? No. But I don't think I'll really sleep all that deeply until I get my paws on one. I realize that garden gnomes are pretty high ranking on the scale of tackiness, but dude. Maybe this is a rare pregnancy complication talking? Who knows. But my birthday is July 17. I think I'm gonna ask for a gnome.