The Post in Which I Whine. A Lot.

*cue super sad violin music*

I went to the doctor again today. Apparently when you make it past your due date, they make you come in twice a week. That's a lot. The short version is that gone are the high-flying days where they would induce you just because you were close to your due date, carrying a big-ish baby, and about to have a very public meltdown. Now it seems it's healthier for everyone involved to keep the baby in your belly as long as you can. It's kind of like a contest. And while the baby stays in and keeps growing into a toddler, they hook you up to machines and make you have expensive tests to make sure the baby is still okay.

In case you're wondering, they really don't care if mommy has public meltdowns. Trust me. I speak from embarrassing experience.

So we continue to wait. And wait. And wait. I have a million things that need doing, but only enough energy for about 2 of them. And my poor kids. You know, the ones that are already here. They are very anxious to block this whole pregnancy from their memories. And did I mention that my hands go numb? Yeah, that's a fun part of my pregnancies.

The point is, donuts are my friend.

So that's my poor, pitiful life right now. I need another nap just thinking about it. Hope your part of the world is going well. I'll unveil the most darling baby quilt in another few days. It takes long to quilt with numb hands.

*end super sad violin music*

40 + 1

40 weeks and 1 day. 

Someone help me.

Just in Case you Wondered

I am still here. I am still pregnant. To say that I hope she comes this week is a huge understatement. My hands are slightly puffy, as are my ankles. And getting up from sitting requires an involuntary "Ooomph." Curly has begun giving my belly a stern talking-to before he heads to work each day, telling baby it's time to GET OUT. Clearly this little one listens as well as her siblings.

On tap today is to clean all the sheets and dirty towels, get laundry caught up, and clean the kitchen. And go into labor. But once the sun goes down, this little chica can sit tight. I hate the idea of going into labor in the middle of the night. It worries me so.

PSA

Remember when I talked about my kids being sick? And how it was awful? And the worst week ever? Well, I was wrong. I mean, it was awful and a pretty bad week. But things can always get worse. Much, much worse. 

When I took Ginger to the doctor, she prescribed a steroid for her cough. We dutifully began the prednisone on Wednesday night, and a second dose Thursday morning. By Thursday evening, Ginger had been replaced by her evil twin. I took a video of her screaming at me and sent it to my mom with the note, "This is why people drink." Thursday night my inlaws arrived, and on Friday morning, with just 3 teaspoons of steroids in her little body, Ginger snapped. She screamed, she kicked, she hit. She sassed and she refused to say "sorry" and "please." Curly put her in time out. In order to get out, all she had to do was tell Mommy "sorry" for screaming and being rude. 

Ginger refused.

For two hours, my baby screamed and yelled and said things like, "I do NOT SAY SORRY!" By noon, I joked that she must have Roid Rage. By the Saturday evening, after enduring two days of massive temper tantrums, throwing toys and kid-size furniture, and mean talking by a 3 year old, we were convinced. We stopped giving her the medicine and waited for Ginger to come back to us. 

When she laughed on Monday, the first time in days, we all rejoiced. My inlaws breathed a huge sigh of relief that their favorite grandchild was not actually possessed by the devil. Then we all agreed that I should have gone to medical school, because I rock at diagnosing.

I also rock at quilting, even though I haven't had the energy much lately. I made this for a customer and mailed it off yesterday:

Pattern is Ruby, Pearl, and Opal from the Moda Bake Shop.

So there you go. A cautionary tale about the overuse of steroids and a pretty little quilt. What more could you want on a Wednesday?