Oh and as always, the request line for you to tell me something you’re dying to know more about is up and running. Holler in the comments if you want me to tell you the story of whatever burning question you might have for me.
The running joke here at Casa de la Sausage has always been that Alex is trying to kill me. We’ve joked about it since I was pregnant with him, and I think it’s pretty apt. Alex’s aggression makes me look like a wee pussy-cat (not a Pussy Cat DOLL, however) and makes me giggle, since I’m still bigger than he is. FOR NOW, I must remind myself.
This was proven to be completely true last night. But, because I am a nice Aunt Becky I’ll start at the beginning for those of you playing along at home.
When I was pregnant with Alex, I was sicker than I’d ever been before from Crohn’s, from hangovers, from anything else ever. I had a condition called hyperemesis gravidarum, which I had not had with Benner or I may not have had another one. I was very, very sick.
Finally around 20-odd weeks later, during the glorious second trimester, it abated somewhat, and was replaced with such severe depression and anxiety that I could barely function. I also ended up in L and D because I thought that my water had broken.
Turns out that thankfully I had just peed my pants, which may not be the most glamorous diagnosis, but I assure you that my mortification was very, very minor when I got this diagnosis.
With the third trimester came a whole new set of problems. Did you know that sometimes your ribs spread when you’re pregnant? I sure didn’t. But it hurts like a fucking bitch. It also made sitting up for any stretch of time completely impossible, so I spent much time laying on my side.
At 32 weeks, I gracefully did the splits when I was washing the kitchen floor, something I have never, ever done before and wound up again in L and D for monitoring. Then my Crohn’s kicked in and I became possibly the most miserable person on the planet.
35 weeks found me back in L and D because I thought, once again, that my water had broken. Again with the peeing of the pants. Suddenly the old castor oil induction started to sound pretty damn good. As did a coat-hanger (to break the amnionic sac).
36 weeks found me back in L and D because my darling son had, for once in his uterine life, taken a nap. This child was so active that I could fulfill my hourly kick counts in about 10 seconds. He just never stopped going.
Finally at 38 weeks, I called and begged my doctor to induce me. My Crohn’s was acting up majorly, my ribs hurt every time I took a breath (I would guess in my professional opinion that he actually broke a couple of them). The pain went above and beyond a minor inconvenience.
When he was born, he was quite a demanding asshole. He nursed 14-20 hours a day, sometimes as much as 18, and while that sounds awesome to someone like me who had convinced herself of her inability to breastfeed, I assure you that it got old very, very quickly.
In fact, until he was 10 or 11 months, I couldn’t safely go anywhere without him for more than an hour. I’d go out only to get called back by The Daver who couldn’t take him screaming for me anymore.
Until he was 11 months old, his intense need for me to be at his beck and call like a wee ickle dictator who poops his pants persisted into the nights. Where he would be up every 1-3 hours looking for a breasticle snack.
Alex’s first year and all his time in the womb I consider to be a write-off. Great kid, sweet personality (mostly), you really don’t want to get on his bad side or you will hear about it for the rest of the day. I love him fiercely and would gnaw off my own arm if I needed to for him. He’s great, really, he is.
But last night, last night he proved to me once and for all that this bitch better start watching her damn back.
I’d gone up to bed around 11pm and was laying there reading with the fan blowing in the mostly cool spring air (I have this thing about needing air blown onto my body while I sleep. And since I can’t hire someone to do this, I’m stuck with a box fan), when I started obsessing about something I had needed to get done on the main floor. I knew that I’d probably done it, because I almost always do it, and I’ve never found that I’ve forgotten to do this, but I just couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Eventually I realized that I had better go and check to make sure I’d done this task or I wouldn’t be sleeping for awhile, as my mind would churn like a broken record until I was certain. You thought I was being funny about this OCD stuff, didn’t you?
I heaved my aching calves (not the cows, dumb-ass. I’ve repeatedly petitioned for a calf of my own, but Dave won’t hear of it. Nor will he hear of a baby cheep–chick–, a goat, or a parrot) out of bed and when I opened the door to our bedroom, I was hit by a wave of…something.
It smelled like…something familiar. But what was it? I trouped downstairs sniffing the air (I have an amazing sniffer) and began prowling through the main floor. Not coming from the garage, the garbage can, outside. While I was sniffing and trying like hell to place the scent, it dawned on me.
What I was smelling was gas! Not farts, I wouldn’t have gotten out of bed for farts, but natural gas.
My house reeked of natural gas!
I hurried over to the stove (the one source of gas on the main floor) and sure enough, one of the burners was tipped slightly on, which over the course of several hours had filled up the house with natural fucking gas. I hadn’t noticed it sooner because I’d been sitting in it, so my nose had acclimated to it, but since our bedroom had been well-ventilated and I’d come from there, the smell had bowled me over.
Who the hell had been so stupid as to leave the burner partially fucking on?
My darling son, Alexander, who pulls himself up on the oven door and fiddles with the knobs is who. I didn’t realize because I am a complete moron, that he could actually tilt them to do anything at all.
Needless to say, there are 4 large knobs now sitting on my counter, only to go back on when we need to use a burner.
I’m thinking that the dog kennel that we have in the basement, unused by the dog that lives with us, is going to come in very, very handy. Until he hits puberty.
Any of you have near misses like that? Anything that you should have probably kicked the bucket for but somehow escaped unscathed?