….are on the menu for our homecoming night. I’m too overcome with emotion to say much besides thank you.

She will need surgery within a couple of weeks but she looks great. I have never been happier or more relieved. Vicodin has nothing on this.

Welcome to the world sweet girl. It’s a better place with you here.

Amelia Grace Sherrick Harks
4:27pm, January 28, 2009
7lbs, 13oz.
21″ long

Baby and Dad are doing just fine.

Mom is still an asshole.

*Defying all laws of time and space, the last month of pregnancy is significantly longer than the previous 8.

*All of the issues (nausea, sleepiness, vomiting, utter bat-shit craziness) that plagued you during trimester 1 will rear their ugly head yet again. Only it’s less charming this time.

*(especially if it’s your first baby) You’ll imagine each and every twinge to be the Start Of Labor and probably end up in L/D more times than you’d think only to be told that you’re not even contracting.

*After you have this baby, you’ll agree that nothing feels like labor except for…well, labor.

*Ending up in L/D and being sent home will make you feel more embarrassed than you’d imagine would be a logical reaction.

*Speaking of “logical,” you’re not. And you haven’t been for a long time. You won’t know how nuts you are until after the wee one comes and you realize that you no longer have any urge to clean the toliet with a toothbrush.

*Leaking pee will become a new and disgusting way of life. And you’ll occasionally think it’s your bag of waters breaking. It’s probably not. But, take it from me, get that fucker checked out.

*If you’re like me, the hospital bag you pack will go largely untouched, so don’t freak out. They’ll usually give you free ickle bottles of shampoo and the lot. Use these and then THROW THEM AWAY. Sure, you’re in L/D or Mother/Baby, but it’s still a hospital. And hospitals = germies.

*You will finally tire of talking about this baby because all that you can think about is how ready you are for this to be over.

*The fears of labor will quickly be replaced by the fears of never having this damn baby.

*Having wee feet kicking your internal organs and trying desperately to seperate your ribs from your spinal cord is just as charming (and painful) as you imagine it will be.

*Did I mention how off the rocker you are? Because you TOTALLY are.

*Once you hit 37 weeks, people will check in on you daily with one annoying question: have you had that baby yet? You may very well want to smack them.

*People will start snickering when you walk into a room. Presumably because you now look like Grimace. Or a Weeble.

*You will start to moan and groan every time you have to change positions. And you will be acutely aware of how dumb you sound and how feeble you now are.

*Try as best as you can to rest and revel in the attention people are paying to you right now. Because once that baby gets here, swollen and stitched up vagina and all, no one will give a flying crap about you. Just the baby.

*Your breasts are going to develop a mind (and body!) of their own. They will be equally as painful now as they were back in old trimester 1.

What am I missing, party people?

I’m off to L/D to have professional people tell me that I’m peeing on myself. Can my life get any more glamorous?

First a bit of housekeeping: If you’ve left me a comment and it hasn’t gone through, please don’t worry, don’t fret! I have installed a handy new (and highly aggressive) new filter, to sift through the 600+ spam messages I get daily. I can search by name, so if it’s blocked you, send me an email and I’ll fix it.

For the first time since those nasty, worrisome first trimester appointments, where I waited to confirm whether or not I was having yet another miscarriage, I dragged The Daver to an OB appointment. Honestly, it was more for the camaraderie than the Support Of My Husband. Because these appointments? Fucking boring.

Yes, Internet, o Internet, it’s true: I’ve finally reached the point in my pregnancy wherein I have to go to the OB each and every week. And while I’m blissfully thrilled that I am a) almost done gestating my last crotch-parasite and b) almost done gestating my last crotch-parasite who appears to be HEALTHY, going weekly to the OB has gotten a bit dull. But that doesn’t stop me from finding and embracing the asinine.

Like this nugget ‘o’ weirdness.

I noticed today, after two entire pregnancies with this particular OB practice, that the disposable wax-covered Dixie Cup where I am to place my urine (side note: how are hugely pregnant women supposed to put their pee in said cup WITHOUT pissing on their hand? If you can do this, please don’t tell me. I might die FOR SHAME that I am THE ONLY pregnant woman on the planet who regularly pees on herself), has a label on it.

On that label is not only my full name, patient ID number, two things I’d expect to see there, but my address and phone number. I mean, in case it’s lost or something and they want to return the pee to it’s creator? Because I assure you that although I might bear a striking resemblance to Howard Hughes I do not want it back.

I related this story to The Daver, who was bored to near tears waiting for my appointment, and in that time I was able to kill about 10 minutes of waiting time, while my doctor presumably more interesting things with his other patients.

Because despite my accident-proneness these days (did I tell you that I fell the other day? Yeah, totally did. On my knee. Which I did NOT tell you, likely because I am ashamed at each and every new injury that I get. There’s only so many times you can talk about various ailments before you turn seemingly into a crotchety old woman complaining about her hemorrhoids and indigestion), I apparently qualify as a Boring Pregnant Woman. Beautiful words to hear, right?

Until you wait half an hour for a 30 second appointment wherein you ask the doctor if “it’s time to have the baby, yet?” And he laughed merrily at me, reminding me that I had several more weeks of this to go.

Which is probably a good thing, because I have fuck-nothing done for this wee one’s arrival. No clothes are washed in my fancy new washer, no car seat is installed in my car, no nothing. Eh, we can wing it, right?

Right.

And here, o Internet, is my question for you: what is your policy on blog trolls? Do you get them? Do you delete the comments rather than publish them? Does a troll have the right to have his or her voice heard if it’s nothing but inflammatory remarks that they make? Inquiring minds want to know!

Earlier today, with my eldest in tow, my husband and I trooped off through the freezing rain (have I mentioned that I’m still not certain that we haven’t moved to a nicer climate? Because I TOTALLY DON’T KNOW WHY NOT) to get our 3D ultrasound. And I’ll admit it to you, dear Internet, I was nervous. I’m not really certain WHY I was nervous, but I was. I guess it’s probably in part because my OB’s office wouldn’t authorize this frivolous un-medically necessary and because I’ve been sick as a dog this week, waking every couple of hours only to go right back to sleep.

(insert joke about regression into newborn state being an obvious indicator of how my not-so-brilliant mind works)

Either way, I was full of The Nervous.

What if she was now a he, like that Lou Reed song? Would I put my son in a dress in order to make use of all the pretty ickle dresses I’ve been hoarding? Would he hate me if I did that? Would I even care?

Turns out, it was all for naught. My daughter, in all of her spread-eagled glory, showed us that definitively yes, we were having a girl. And not only a girl who is completely immodest, but a girl who looks just like her father and her middle brother.

Dave certainly cannot deny parentage of his children, that is for sure.

It…smiles!

Yes, sir, that’s my baby. Chubby edible delicious cheekies and all.

And, as a completely off topic veer, I’d like to thank my good friend Emily from Wheels on The Bus for nominating me for a blog award.

Two of them, in fact. Neither of which I will actually win, because, I’m just not a winner and because the competition is brutal, but if you’re so inclined to vote for your Aunt Becky, click on the bubblely thing on my side-bar.

And if you do, I will totally kiss you. With tongue, even.

Thanks, Em. I’m so flattered, I could pee myself. Oh, wait, I just did.

30: Posts completed (however worthlessly) in the name of NaBloWhatever

5,476: Times I swore that I would “give up the damn ghost, already” and stop posting every day because it was a gigantic pain in the puckered pooper.

0: Times I actually didn’t publish something of some worth, and without (I proudly add) using the cop-out Post Pictures of my Kids posts that I do so badly

1: “Awards” won last year during NaBloWhatever

1: Day blog was down last year during same month due to some technological problems I don’t pretend to understand or care about.

0: “Awards” received despite having won one last year thanks to blog breakage

2: Thanksgivings celebrated, with or without requisite good cheer.

0: Times people mentioned caring about lack of good cheer, leading me to believe that Chubby and Surly is the way to handle all holidays.

1: Thanksgiving celebration canceled due to inclimate weather.

357: Meatballs consumed happily by yours truly during our White Trash Thanksgiving

5: Different doctors seen this month, thereby rendering me a Freakshow of Epic Proportions

89: mg/DL result of glucose tolerance test suffered through at 29 weeks pregnant.

12: donuts consumed within a 36 hour period, that had I not had a mouth available for that purpose, I might have rubbed all over my body, which makes the results of my GTT even more amazing.

5: bloody noses that nearly sent my pathetic-y freakshow ass to the ER for cauterization.

2: shirts that I have left that cover my huge self, leading me to actually have to purchase additional clothing despite the fact that barely have 2 months left of my pregnancy and don’t plan on requiring them again.

1: time I had to Mark All As Read on my Google Reader in order to regain my sanity.

2,377,976: approximate amount of spam messages that I had to moderate before tossing them ruthlessly to wherever deleted blog spam goes. Blog Spam Heaven?

Thoroughly rejected ideas for posts today include, but are not limited to, the following topics:

*Animals; special focus on my particular animals who must follow me around trying to sit on my (lack of) ass after I clearly inform them that no, in fact, I am in no mood to have a cat make love to my leg. No matter how cute or charmingly they attempt to rub my face with their paws. Or shine their butt-hole in my direction, perhaps hoping for a sniff?

*Toddlers; emphasis on why mine insists upon taking a massive crap about 10 minutes after he lays down for the one, one hour long nap he takes each day. Re-emphasis on the fact that this child never! sleeps!

*Holidays; extra-specially Thanksgiving which is perhaps on par with Fourth of July and/or Columbus Day in terms of Becky’s Level of Enjoyment. Which is only very, very slightly more enjoyment than a coffee enema. But with bonus turkey!

*Tags at the bottom of the post. Mainly, why do I not understand anything remotely technologically oriented? After one marries a geek, you’d assume that the knowledge would, by miracle of osmosis, pass through the air while we sleep, and for that you would be wrong. Plea to Internet At Large to explain this phenomenon.

*Shipping Costs for the presents I am too lazy to go out and purchase. Reiterate why laziness is completely justifiable touching particularly on:

-Ample girth and lack of abdominal muscles with which to support large breasts and (one can only assume) thick skull.

-Mention moon boot, but emphasize the delicious codeine pills that go along with it

–Asshole Willful toddler who happily would run far, far away from his (frightening) mother given the slightest opportunity

-Not-so-jokingly bring up birth control options after baby is expelled from her comfy home in my ribcage.

-Finish with a complaint that shipping costs ought to include oral sex from hot delivery drivers. Bemoan lack of hot delivery drivers, and make a pledge that Someday When I Rule The World, all delivery drivers will be smokin’ hot and provide oral sex as a bonus!

*Apologize profusely that comments may have been inadvertantly deleted due in no small part to the 400+ spam messages that I moderate daily.

*Ask The Internet if NaBloWhatever is as annoying to them as it is to you.

On Thursday of last week, I contacted my OB about my Crohn’s flare-up and was (surprisingly) immediately referred to see a new GI doctor, which was far more than I’d expected. I expected a conversation in which I was told to pretty much “suck it up and put on your big girl panties,” but I was taken seriously. I was even able to make a next-day appointment at this new GI doctor!

So, I allowed this fantasy of being Taken Seriously by medical professionals to comfort me all that night and the following morning. Finally, I said to myself, I might get some relief from this pain! I might get some meds that will work better than the Suck It The Hell Up approach that I’d adopted for so long (just because I haven’t been in an active flare-up for awhile doesn’t mean that I have the colon of someone less diseased than myself), and I allowed myself to have some real hope that conditions Down Below might improve.

My poor husband was dragged with me to my doctor’s appointment, because I was feeling awfully weak and didn’t want to chance driving. When I’m in active disease, I don’t like to leave the house having eaten anything. This reduces the likelihood that I’ll get stuck somewhere and crap my pants in public (easily one of the most shameful things I can imagine, and something I’ve thus far avoided). This also, especially while pregnant and starving, makes for a really woozy experience, in which I may or may not black out for awhile. Ah, the things we do to avoid humiliation, eh?

We were called back to meet this new doctor, and I was impressed immediately by the fact that like most other specialists, he sat down and actually listened to me. After giving my extensive history and reiterating my symptoms for what felt like the 45th time that day, I directed him to the back of my chart where all of my old charts, labs, and diagnostic findings had been stashed. I was lucky, it appeared, that although my old GI doctor had changed practices, I’d miraculously been referred to the exact same practice.

Ergo, my chart was still intact from years ago.

He poured over them, worry creasing his brow, and reported back that he wasn’t too sure that he agreed with my old doctor’s assessment of The Situation. The pathology from my upper and lower GI indicated Crohn’s, but the other tests appeared to be more on the normal spectrum. My symptoms still matched Crohn’s, but as I was pregnant, he wasn’t thrilled with the idea of prescribing huge doses of medication without a definitive diagnosis.

(Complete aside here: with many medical diagnoses, there is no Golden Standard test (s) that indicates 100% for sure that what someone is suffering from is SPECIFICALLY. It’s often a collection of various puzzle pieces that make a more cohesive, but still tentative, whole. Which can lead, of course, to misdiagnosis, which is always frustrating.

I remember reading a study that found that people who had been told that they had cancer, but later found that they did NOT have cancer, became quite depressed. It happens, I’m certain in other cases as well.)

So, my new GI doctor, advised, he would write a lab order for drawing about a thousand different types of blood tests to see what they showed now. There was, he said, a new test that could say more definitively if I had Crohn’s or not. BUT (there’s always a but, isn’t there?) this test was relatively new and would take many weeks to process as it had to go to a special lab in California.

Fine, I replied, thinking that the last thing I’d wanted to do was to add more meds to my regime, especially while pregnant. Shit, I get upset when I have to take a Benedryl to sleep at night, because I’d just rather not chance it while incubating.

But, I asked, what on earth can I do about the pain? Crohn’s or not, meds or not, I needed something that could provide me with some sort of relief. If the pain was bad enough to send me wobbling to the doctor, it was bad enough that I needed the comfort in knowing I could relieve it somehow.

Except, not so much.

He didn’t feel comfortable prescribing codeine for me, but I could call my OB! And beg for (barely) narcotics!

Great.

Why did I bother coming here to be told this? Why did I drag my wobbly self out to essentially have the buck passed directly back to someone who had no real experience with GI issues (my OB)?

In the long run, it’s absolutely going to go down as something that is Worth It, but for then, for Friday, for Saturday, for Sunday, and for the next couple of weeks, I can’t help but be upset. Sure, potentially not having Crohn’s is a wonderful, wonderful thing, of course it is! That’s GREAT news.

But then…what the hell IS IT? If it’s not Crohn’s, which I’d had meds that worked for back in the day before I could afford to be on them, then what the hell is wrong with me? Crohn’s, while crappy (punny!), was still something that I could control on the meds I can now afford.

And even more importantly than that, how I can I feel better right now? How can I control the cramping and the pain and the frequency and the general malaise that comes along with it? Because I was given jack shit to help with anything. Hell, my OB didn’t even return my call asking for a codeine script!

So while it will be Worth It someday, when I have an answer–which is likely NO real answer, if this is not, as I was told, Crohn’s–I can’t help but be the sad sack crying just a little bit into my sleeve while waiting for blood work. Because at this point in time, I could give a flying poo about any diagnosis, I just want some relief.

Which is, of course, harder to come by than even I’d expected.

/end flagrant whinging.

Thank you to everyone for the positive comments both on Melissa’s friend–whose name I don’t say because that bitch is totally insane enough to Google her own name, hell, she probably has a Google Alert on her name, which, hahaha!–and about my Crohn’s. I don’t tend to like to dwell on things like this that just suck, no matter which way you cut it, and over the years, I’ve gotten so used to the symptoms that I often forget (until I flare up) that other people don’t live like this.

I’m thrilled that you like my new layout. I never did manage to snag a web designer, so this is a template that was tweaked by my darling The Daver to fit what I needed it to. I’m pretty thrilled by how it turned out. And for those of you who mourned the loss of my kitty cat picture, have no fear: Daver read your comments and WITHOUT ASKING went and put it back. Check the sidebar.

So, what do you think of the new design? Honestly, do you heart it as much as I do?