Wasn't it just the day before last Tuesday?

Subtitle: The Return to the Blog

I'm pretty sure it was the day before last Tuesday where I thought to myself, "Man, I'm tired. I'm just going to take some time off from writing the blog."

Baby boy was three months old.

Three frickin' months old! And now he has chest hair and is fretting about taxes.

Okay, so maybe time hasn't flown that much, but somehow--between the day before last Tuesday and today--7 months passed.

Slagathor (who now also goes by Lo' Dog as a result of a 4-year-old's totally awesome aural misunderstanding of one of his many other nicknames) is now 10-months old. He has 8 teeth, with which he deftly decimates Cheerios, fingers and--much to my total dismay--the occasional nipple. Now that smarts.

He's a crawling, cat-chasing machine that chants, "Mamamamama." Though, to be fair, he usually chants it while staring at the cat. But at least it's looking like his first word won't be the f-bomb, and we're pretty proud of that (plus it still gives me time to clean up my language, and ain't that a fucking relief).

He's also quite recently, suddenly and with no explanation, started sleeping through the night. Which means I now wake up with more energy than Richard Simmons in a tiny-short store.

There is quite likely a direct relationship between this whole sleep thing and return to the blog thing.

So, if he starts waking up again, y'all are totally fu...err...fricked.

At the Halloween party, there were twelve Cookie Monsters. And one Elvis.

Lo' Dog loved his first Christmas. Next year, we may even put gifts in the wrapped boxes!

Peek-a-boo: Take 3,204,622

The Great Toy Experiment

Doggie Rattle: Baby toy or tiny terror? You decide!

Eau de Blaaaaarf

The baby just puked between the couch cushions. Again.

No wonder our house permanently smells like baby cheese.

Slaggy X LIVE! (Pre-recorded)

Dun, dun, duuuuuun!

Here is Slaggy's worldwide premier in a little movie I call Infant Airplane: Playing Baby Roulette. In this particular instance, I did not lose at Baby Roulette (read: I did not end up with a mouthload of baby cheese).

But, we all know it's just a matter of time.

And yes, I do sound like an idiot in the video. My theory is that babies don't smile at your goofy noises, they smile at the ease in which they can turn you into a cooing doofus.

Oops...

Yesterday, I made a day trip without the boy while baby daddy watched little Slaggy. Since I wasn't going to be SM3's primary food source for several hours, and because I was required to be semi-coherent after a sleep deprived night, I indulged in an obscene amount of caffeine.


Apparently, I severely under-estimated the amount of time required for my body to fully process this caffeine and I inadvertently fed the baby a late night knocker latte which resulted in a) a nearly sleepless night and 2) I'm so tired I forget.

Oops.

Note to self...

Do NOT put a freshly fed baby on top of a nice clean pile of laundry. Alright, off to redo some laundry...

Yarrrrrr!

To hell with teaching the little Slaggy X III things like "talking" or "using the bathroom." I mean, really, when will those things ever come in handy in real life?

A sweet pirate impression, on the other hand (hook?), can really get you places!

Guess what Easter Bunny!

I just ate your face! That's what.

Constant Vigilance: It's pointless.

I just got firehosed. Again.

For those of you not in the know, being "firehosed" is the result of the following actions:

1. Having a baby boy.
2. Baby boy destroying his diaper, thereby requiring a swift costume change.
3. Opening up his nice, warm, and incredibly goopy diaper to the cool air.
4. Cool air gracing his baby boy junk.
5. Baby boy deciding that cool air on his junk means, "PEE! NOW! EVERYWHERE*!"

*Everywhere includes, but is not limited to: Your face, his face, the dog's face, the wall, the ceiling, the ceiling of another room, the outfit he is wearing and, most definitely, the outfit you were going to change him in to.



Baby Daddy hasn't been firehosed yet. He thinks this is because he's much more vigilant than I when it comes to covering the baby wang. I think this is because he's been lucky.

"You've got to use the washcloth," he says.

"I do," I say.

"It's all about constant vigilance," he says.

"That's impossible. There is always a moment of vulnerability," I say.

"Constant vigilance," he says.

"You just wait. Karma is so going to kick your ass," I say.

This is when Slaggy X III interjects with a knowing smile followed by, "PPBBBBBLLLLLPPPPBBBBBLLLLL." And because he's a baby with few words and much to say, he emphasized his comment by exploding it out of his diaper, through his pants, and all over Baby Daddy's shirt.

"Constant vigilance," I say.

Lesson learned: Beware of this face.

74 Hours...

Guest post from the new dad:

Momzilla is feeling good and has energy that comes in spurts. She even ventured out to the momma and baby store for some mean deals on momma and baby stuff.

Slaggy X III is 3 days old now. He makes smacking kisses when he’s hungry, smiles before he farts, and can’t get enough of the sacred milkjugs. I think he likes the Talking Heads. And farting.

Weapon X prepares to blow off some steam

The Hound and Cat-dog (or is that Dog-cat?) have adjusted nicely. The Hound seems to know that he has a new little buddy to watch out for.

The napping is world class.

Being a dad is awesome. There’s tons more to say, but awesome pretty much sums it up.


Thanks for all of the well-wishes.

BLADOW!

Slagathor has landed!

Launch began at about midnight on Friday, continued through a completely sleepless night, and ended at 7:55pm Saturday evening.

There were smiles. There were tears. And there was a big ass placenta. Oh, and there was a baby. This baby:



Weighing in at 7lbs 8oz and measuring a lanky 21 inches, Slaggy has arrived, complete with a mini-pompadour. We've nicknamed him Logan Xavier (Weapon X!), but we all know his real name will always be Slagathor Megatron, the Third.

Needless to say, we're all tired, healthy, and very very happy. It's time for us to do a little bit of sleeping and a lot of eating, but a full report on the entire adventure is forthcoming.

Until then...

Game on!

Slagathor has decided he's done cooking and ready to make his way into the world. We're headed to the hospital. So, uh, BRB and stuff.

Game on!

Miss Pregnancy.

I think I'm going to miss pregnancy. Now, this isn't to say that I'm not chomping at the bit to once again sleep on my belly, enjoy the oddly appealing taste of a dirty martini, or fit into a normal pair of jeans without exposing the top few inches of my butt crack. But, there are definitely some things I'm gonna miss.

• Stretchy maternity jeans. I never realized how much of my life has been wasted zipping and buttoning my jeans over all these years. They have all the ease of sweat pants, but don't scream "I've given up on life!"
• Cake. It's awesome. I don't know if it's ever tasted this awesome before, or will again, but for now, every bite is like a forkful of butter magic.
• The other day I was folding laundry when I saw a stain on one of my preggo tank tops.
  It was a ring from the bottom of a cup and was positioned exactly where the top of my belly is. As I looked through my tops, I saw that nearly all of them are stained in the exact same manner. I'ma miss the convenience of my 24hour bellyside table. For that matter, so will my cat who has deemed this spot her new perch.
• Need your bags carried or a seat on the bus? No problem, Miss. From salespeople to complete strangers, they all revert back into a 1950s-esque mode of chivalry.
• My belly is poor man's television. It wiggles. It thumps. It routinely reenacts every scene from Alien where the alien is just about to bust out of the stomach. Yup, my belly is currently more entertaining than a ball of really shiny foil.
• Realizing that I can grow people.
  
• Being able to walk up to a complete stranger and have a bite of their food.
  
• Not having to hold my gut in. Ever.
• More back rubs than I'll ever have again in my life.
• The anticipation.

and lastly...

• Having knockers. Man, they were cool while they lasted.

Look at Mah Belly!

I began this blog with the following picture of my belly at 8 weeks, knowing that one day that body would seem like a distant memory.



It turns out, that day is today. Except, instead of feeling like a distant memory, it feels as though that body never really existed and I always have and always will be wearing my squirming yoga ball. It's odd to know that a year from now, my bulbous belly will be just as surreal seeming as the body that could once slip through crowds unnoticed.

Here I am, at 38 weeks - big, bulbous, rotund, huge, and very, very happy to be so.






And finally, it's Preggo Flashdance (with dog)!



As you can tell from my naval nose-cone, the missile is ready to launch. The countdown says we're at three days, but we'll see when Slaggy decides to rear his head which leaves us with one big question:

Will he be born with a pompadour? Or with a pompadour and sideburns?

Warning: Hijinx Have Never Been So Gross.

No, I'm not in labor and this story isn't about playing placenta darts. I've been sick this past week with an upper respiratory infection, so in lieu of posting or doing anything remotely productive, I've been in bed going stir crazy.

Which brings me to last night...

(The following is the grossest story ever. Or if it's not the grossest story ever, it certainly is up there. So, fair warning and read at your own risk.)

After five days of congestion, my chest was finally starting to clear a bit last night. I nodded off around 10pm only to wake up a half hour later with that familiar feeling of impending doom.

The type of doom that sounds like, "Oh shit. I'm gonna barf! NOW!"

I waddled out of bed as quickly as I could, which wasn't quick enough.

"BLLAAAAAARFFFF!"

I now know the meaning of projectile vomiting and am very thankful we have wood floors. Stepping over my massive puddle of puke, I raced to the bathroom and immediately sat down to begin simultaneously crapping my brains out while puking in the tub. Multitasking at it's best!

It occurred to me that this would be easier a) without a big yoga ball attached to my belly and b) if I had eaten something that would fit through the bathroom drain.

While I was busy being the human party favor, I hear the worst noise possible (and given all the noises that were happening inside the bathroom, this is really saying something):

"Slurp. Slurp. Sluuuuurp."

"What the? OH! Boudreau, no! NO!"

I had awoken to my body exploding from all ends. My dog, on the other hand, woke up to an unexpected floor dinner.

Gross.

After spending the night expelling everything that even thought about going into my body, I'm finally starting to keep liquids down. The docs say everything is cool, even if a little miserable. I can't help thinking that once I do kick this bug, I'll feel like a million bucks - pregnant or not.

Four more days left. Cross your fingers for a quick recovery or a late baby. I am.

In semi-related news, I got a brilliant idea last night (pre-pukage). Now that I'm so close to my due date, it seems every email I get begins with, "So, if you're not in labor yet..." In my moment of brilliance, I decided to create an automatic email response to let people know when I was in labor. It'd be all nice and typed out, and when the time came, all I'd have to do was turn it on.

Except, moments of brilliance are often accompanied by complete brain farts. The message was left on last night. Naturally, my mom, aunt and sister in law all ended up emailing me, only to receive the very innaccurate response of, "I'm in labor!"

My aunt told my grandma, who told everyone (which is her job as Cheif Family Networker). My mom told the lady at Blockbuster. And my sister-in-law passed along the good news as well. After all, this is the moment we've all been waiting for.

So, today has been spent calling family members up and pulling the proverbial, "Psyche!" In one of those funny moments where I'm equally grateful and impressed by our families, I realized that not one of them (not even mom) was pissed that they didn't receive a call. They were all just happy for us.

They have now been assured and reassured that when the time does come, they sure as hell won't be finding out by an automatically generated response.

The trials of pregnancy

...have luckily been limited to incessant urges to pee (even when the tank is empty), perfecting my waddle, and realizing that my width is now narrower than my girth.

So, screw the trials of pregnancy. Instead, I offer you my pregnancy trials.




Now kids (and preggos), don't try this at home. As for me, I've spent way more time hopping around on a bike than, say, jogging. I think I would have been scared shitless to go for a jog while that pregnant, whereas I still felt right at home spinning around on a bike. Go figure.

With around 10 days left to go, I am officially too huge, bulbous, rotund, and the latest adjective addition: nose coney, to do this kind of riding. But, as is the way of life, it's only a matter of time until things change.

Bucket full of babies.

I just got back from yet another birthing class.

All I can say is that you haven't really lived until you've seen a 60 gallon bin filled with fake babies.

Practice Makes Perfect!

The other night, I woke up at 3am to the sound of my dog (in bed) making the following sounds:

"Hoooorfff."

"HOOOORFFF!"

"HOORBBLGHGHGH!"

In my sleepy stupor, I had no idea what was going on, but I knew it wasn't good. Luckily, Ryan and his newfound fatherly instincts knew exactly what was going on and gave the dog a hefty boot to the butt just in time for him to throw up on the floor.

Of course, since this was the same vomit that the dog had thrown up, and then re-eaten earlier that day leading to this awkward conversation:

"Honey, did you clean up the dog barf?"

"No, I thought you did."

"Eww..."

So, we got a 2 for 1 special on dog barf cleanup service that day.

While I went back to sleep, Ryan cleaned up the floor and put the dog back in his own bed.

To me, this seems like damn good practice for the future. Of course, we should also start practicing squealing, "Oh! Isn't it ADORABLE!" while running for the camera to fully capture the experience.

Breathing is complicated.

This is a direct quote from our birthing class:

Instructor: "Okay, everyone. Now we're going to practice the 'strong blow' breathing technique before moving to the 'soft blow.' Ready? One, two, three...CONTRACTION!"

Preggo: "I find that I'm getting a little dizzy doing this"

Instructor: "Well, are you breathing in before breathing out?"

Seriously. What would we do without this information?

Nesting: Now with more sticks and dirt!

"You know, this isn't what most people consider nesting."

This was my neighbors comment to me upon seeing the 15 tons of dirt sitting next to our house and the mini excavator perched in our driveway.

"We're building a pump track in our back yard," I explained. Apparently, this didn't explain anything at all, so I tried another route.

"The way I figure it, as fun as those bouncy baby swings are, I can't fit in one. This is for me to play on."

Finally, my neighbor got it.

For those who are not completely and totally and unreservedly obsessed with all things biking, a pump track is like a tennis court, except it doesn't suck. It's a small track full of rollers and berms that you ride to your heart's content (or until you collapse with exhaustion, which normally happens in 15 minutes). It's like being able to surf your backyard.

We'd been trying to create a backyard pump track by hand for quite a while (and by "we," I mean "the man beast"). It turns out that moving a zillion tons of dirt by hand is both difficult and demoralizing. When a friend of ours came to town, a friend with an expertise in building pump tracks, we realized this was one helluva opportunity.

It was time to bring in machinery and a big ol' pile of dirt and Git. 'Er. Done.




We had a plan, a big machine, and a few good friends to help out. Since I'm way the hell knocked up and useless when it comes to moving dirt, I've taken to making beer runs. It turns out that few things draw dirtier looks than a preggo in a liquor store with a case of PBR under one arm and a set of tallboys in the other. I figure, since I'm getting the dirty looks anyway, next time I'll ask, "Do y'all know a beer that won't clog Junior's bottles so quickly?"

Alright. Let the games begin! Below is a game we like to call, "Oh shit! The mini-ex is going to tip! No, wait. It's all cool."


Eat your heart out, Johnny 5.


After a warm day's work, a chill set in and we woke up to a beautifully snow dusted track. Still soft and under construction, the frozen snow made a perfect canvas for first tracks.


In just a few days, big piles of dirt became flowy waves.


Of course, some people are more adept at riding those waves than others.

Watching these folks (like Jason here) dance their bikes along the track triggers this insatiable curiosity within me. I always wonder the same thing. How much practice will it take for me to do that too?

I hope to find out, sooner than later.

Our back yard pump track started out as a joke. Somewhere along the line it became a fantasy that began to seem like a good practical idea. And though I'm officially too pregnant to ride the track, I find myself perfectly content just staring at it. I picture riding it for the first time with the baby on the patio. And then I picture him riding it for the first time on his first obscenely tiny bike.

And that's about when my placenta tree planting neighbor walks out and says to me, "You know, this isn't what most people consider nesting."