Motherhood Uncensored

Today we celebrate our service to this country with strep throat

If motherhood was a slot machine, then I hit the jackpot yesterday, or whatever you call it when all three of my kids have fevers at the same time. 

It was sort of like the time that all three of them pooped in synchronicity - all on separate toilets and diapers, mind you.

Thankfully, this time the only thing pouring out of them were the cacophony of whines.

Ever since Margot won the award for first ear infection in the family, I now have the unexplained-fever paranoia, which has led to at least one completely pointless pediatrician visit. And that time, she didn't even have a fever, or at least she did but it miraculously went away by the time we battled Atlanta traffic and did the 50 minute pilgrimage to our pediatrician.

You'd think after three kids I'd have figured out how to use a thermometer.

So, after a few days of a low-grade fever, no snots or boogers of any kind, and a couple of other kids with a cold, I figured I should take her in to see the doctor.

Except it's Memorial Day. And I was supposed to leave tomorrow for a work trip. And my military pilot husband doesn't have any personal days.

I guess that's what today is supposed to be.

So, it was either leave for my trip and let my sitter take the kids to the pediatrician while I was gone, or figure out a way to get her seen today. 

And the look on my husband's face indicated that today would be a really good idea.

As luck would have it, urgent cares require a minimum age of two to be seen, so the emergency room it was, which is usually just slightly less awesome than getting an enema except that I remembered a pitch I got awhile back from a company called InQuickER where you can basically pay a fee a hold your place in line (well, unless your kid's hand is falling off - then you should just go).

Hi. Brilliant.

That meant I arrived, walked in, and was seen immediately. 

In fact, it was so awesome that I brought Drew back later to do the whole thing again after Margot was diagnosed with strep throat. 

Thankfully, the older two kids are fine, save the low grade fever and chest congestion for Drew and a mildly red throat for Quinlan.

And we're fully stocked with antibiotics, generic Tylenol, yogurt, and anti-bacterial wipes.

I ultimately decided against the work trip, even though I could have probably used the hotel room without children, among other things.

But I have decided that it if my little third child needs to be first at anything else around here, she needs to pick something other than illnesses.

Let's just hope we put an end to this streak before college. Or, God help me, high school.

The big pregnant girl

Last night I called my husband in a panic after the uterine pain I was experiencing would not go away. It had started after I ran two miles at the gym and had been playing with the kids in the pool for a couple of hours, which as of late, has been an almost daily occurrence.

But this time, something was very different.

I thought maybe it was because I really had to pee, but even doing that twice did nothing. And I had a feeling that if I could just rest and get my feet up, it might go away.

Except it just so happened to be dinner time.

I reluctantly called the on-call OB at my midwife's office, who gave me the most nonchalant "yeah, whatever" response, which was both somewhat comforting and extremely annoying. 

"So, um, how do I know if I should come in?" I asked her.

"Well, if you go into labor and start bleeding," she responded, ushering me off the phone.

Okay then.

After finishing up bedtime, a hot shower, and yet another viewing of the Sex and the City movie, it finally subsided with me laying on my right side and then my stomach.

But not before I had a shed a few tears about my own stupidity and carelessness.

And to be quite honest, my vanity.

I should know better than to lug my kids around the pool for two hours which is probably what did me in. But worse, I should be ashamed at being so completely obsessed with not becoming GIHUGO, the enormous pregnant woman. 

Sadly, I know her well.

For my first couple of pregnancies, I didn't care about what I looked like. And while I didn't eat crappy foods the whole time, I ate a lot. And sort of worked out, if at all.

And I gained about 65-70lbs.

With Margot I didn't work out at all and tried to watch my food intake and I still gained 55lbs that turned out to be really hard to lose.

So this time, I really wanted to do better. Gain less. Eat less.

But alas, my desire to be the not-so-large pregnant woman has become a slight obsession. And I go to the gym every day with the hopes that I won't look like my husband's pet giant.

When I gained the weight with Margot, I realized then that I just wasn't one of those people who could wear their same size clothes, just in maternity sizes. I get big all over - my back expands almost instantly, as does my butt. It's just how things are.

But I was really hoping that with my weight loss, and subsequent careful eating and workout schedule, things would be different.

But they're not.

And it's not worth me jeopardizing the health of my baby just so I can fit into those size 8 maternity shorts that are sitting in my drawer.

So after a week of feeling like I'm in that first trimester catatonic sleep haze and the incident last night, I'm taking it easy.

I'm still going to work out, and play with my kids.

But I'm not going to obsess over the scale. Or think about what size I'm wearing. 

I'm just a big pregnant girl. And there's nothing wrong with that.

The confusing etiquette of Facebook

I had no qualms about ditching my Facebook account a few years ago when they started banning breastfeeding photos and verrrrrry reluctantly returned last year for Cool Mom Picks and Mominatrix.

It's still so weird, and often times very hard to explain, that social media platforms are now job requirements.

Indeed, I've had my fair share of issues with Facebook, not just due to my husband's whole friending debacle, but also that it's like a big incestuous pool of your entire life for everyone to swim around in.

Babysitters, mothers-in-law, your ex-boyfriend from college that you gave one too many blow jobs to all in one virtual place, reading about all your business at liberty. I realize that I make my living on the internet, often times sharing very personal information, but it's actually pretty well edited, especially compared to the often uncomfortable Facebook sharing of every single morsel of every single day including location, save where your took my last shit.

It's a little disturbing.

Besides, isn't that what Twitter is for?

Now when I hopped back on the Facebook bandwagon, I did the whole "search for everyone I ever knew in my life" rite of passage when I rejoined, which is always a fun time killer, especially when you get to see how all those assholes in high school and college did not age so gracefully.

And it can be pretty cool to connect with people that you would have otherwise never seen or talked to again. 

But then you get down to the whole friending thing, which is more like "acquaintancing" or "notBibicallyknowing" or "formerlyBibicallyknowing." 

Whatever. It's confusing.

Now I could really care less if someone friends me or not. Maybe it's because Facebook is work for me, or because I don't give it that much weight in the long scheme of my life, but I just don't care.

If someone pings me to friend them, and I know who they are or we happen to have some mutual friends, then I'll probably reciprocate.

Sure, it can be a little awkward when a friend's husband or people that I think I know but I'm not sure how I know them requests to friend me, but then I just let them sit in my inbox until I decide what the heck to do.

Are my other friends friends with them? Are these potential friends' mutual friends interacting with them? Can I really waste this much time deciding whether to be friends with someone on the internet?

Can I use the word "friend" any more times in a sentence?

Of course, it always depends on how they use Facebook, which you won't actually know until you friend them.

Do they just update cute little anecdotes about their kids, interesting links, funny photos, that sort of thing? Or are they the type to update every 14 seconds, tag you in GOD AWFUL pictures from 1994, or, worst of all, send you "gifts" or as I call them "gifts that are so not gifts and shall therefore be deleted?"

And then, do I really want them to know any more of my business?

So, friend me or not, I'll live.

Too bad that's not always the case with everyone else.

Facebook blocking is now being used to spite and backstab.

"Oh please, please! Don't take away my access to your interesting updates about your garden!"

Whether it's because you refuse to friend them or you did something to piss them off in real life, the way to really get people back apparently is to block them on Facebook.

I much prefer the old awkward avoidance myself.

And apparently if you don't wish to friend them on Facebook (which I have actually done, especially with certain family members), then they take this as an offense of epic proportions.

It's this whole "I know you, or I knew you once, or I know people who know you sort of and so you must give me access to your business, damnit!" that's a little confusing.

Shit people, that's why I write a blog.

What's your Facebook etiquette policy?

{This post is syndicated at Blogher.com - got more thoughts about Facebook as part of your job, please share them!}

I thought "Bath" was a town in England

The serious business of silly bandz

I knew this whole silly bandz insanity was serious business when my daughter lost one in the pool and acted like someone had just cut off her arm.

Thankfully, I discovered that silly bandz do, in fact, float (eat your heart out, Mythbusters!), and after scouring the entire pool for a 20 cent light pink rubber band shaped like a fairy, all was again right with the world.

Oh the things you will do for your children.

Now I wasn't actually aware that this was a national craze until a few days ago when I decided that we'd give them out as the party favors for my daughter's in-school summer birthday party celebration.

Yes, we must not forget to throw the all important school party for those poor children whose parents decided to do it in September or October and screw them out of a birthday celebration. Seriously, that's why I LOVE the damn July birthday. No party at some jumping palace of germs and doom with 30 school friends required.

But alas, I signed up for "prizes" and figured that because my daughter comes home with a new silly band almost every single day, they'd make a better prize than the bags of sugar or kazoos.

So silly bandz it was.

Mommy is brilliant! Mommy is the coolest! Mommy has no freaking clue what she just got herself into because silly bandz are a national craze and no one seems to actually be able to keep them in stock!

Well, except for suburban Atlanta, who has several stores, including two that start with "Wal" (ahem) and by 10am yesterday morning, we were fully stocked with 100 knock-off silly bandz. Or "character" bandz. Yeah, whatever. They're bright rubber bands shaped like dinosaurs and cars. I'm not doing some silicone sniff test and color analysis to make sure they are the real damn thing.

I have to say that I was a little disappointed that they were so easy to find because I was ready to knock some little bitches down for those things. Or at least pay out the nose for a bag of rubber bands.

On sale? 2 packs for $5? WTF!

Lord knows I'm willing to fight for the right to support my daughter's participation in a ridiculous trend. Well, so long as I don't get any more holes in my distressed light wash jeans and stains on my maternity romper.