double dipping

I have to admit I'm doing something I didn't think I would do, because the hippie, granola type girl gene pretty much skipped me, but I'm doing 'group' prenatal appointments. They like to call Centering Pregnancy.

My husband likes to joke that it's the future of universal health care, where women lie side by side, legs spread wide, as the midwife scoots down the line in her rolling chair, checking every one's cervix in 5 minutes flat.

Not really.

I chose Centering Pregnancy because it meets on Saturday mornings, meaning my husband doesn't have to take off any work nor do I have to take my children to OB appointments, which yes, I have had to do.

Turns out kids remember.

A few months after mine, at Henry's well check appointment, he breaks into sobs as the doctor tells him to get dressed into a gown because he was worried they were going to 'poke something in his butt'. So, I try to avoid having to take my kids to OB appointments. Lesson learned.

Honestly, I thought it would be cool to meet other pregnant women who are due around the same time for some monthly mommy talk. They also told me that there would be snacks in Centering Pregnancy and well, who can say no to snacks at any OB appointment that won't be tagged onto your medical bill?

Only the snacks were served in a clear plastic tote labeled 'Mini Pads'.

So, some of the things I enjoy about this group OB care thing are:

-I get to take my own blood pressure and weight, meaning I can cheat and write down something better than the 1lb. per week corresponding to the number of weeks I am, in my medical chart.
-The 'OB table' isn't a table at all, but a cot, in the corner of the room, where everyone can get the scoop on your lady business.
-I was going to be the most experienced pregnant person in the room with three deliveries under my belt, until I was shown up by the midwife assistant who has 6 kids and is a single mom, now I'm just a slacker.
-The clinic is remodeled from a former grocery store where they haven't yet taken off some of the sticker on the sliding glass doors, one of them saying 'we accept food stamps'.

Gosh, now that I know they accept food stamps for labor and delivery, I'm wondering if the hospital will also take coupons?

Double coupons, anyone?

make me smile

You entertained the dental assistant with your silly antics, taking off your shoes the moment Henry sits in the chair and we settle in across from him. You show her your puppy socks and ask her if 'she has any puppy socks?'. With her response, you tell her that 'she should get some puppy socks'.

You bubble over with the thrill of having tiny paper water cups at your disposal to fill up, over and over and over again.

She asks you 'how old you are' and you reply with your sweet, little voice 'tou an a haf'. You continue the conversation talking about how you first wanted a princess cake, then a 'Spon Bob' cake and how you have settled on a Spiderman cake (for the time being). You told her you have a birthday list and she smiles.

You are always making people smile. I admit, not always me, but you do make me smile. A lot.

When it came time to pick out a prize for doing so well, you scoured through the box filled with fuzzy rings, paper tablets, shiny coins and (OMGosh, please don't pick that) brand new pencils. You picked this:



A clown nose. Most fitting, for sure.

conversations in my head

So, January was lots of fun. I got to meet 50 or so bloggers in life real. It was amazing, really amazing but here are some conversations I had going on in my head:

At Cupcake 10:

-OMGosh, I can't believe we are sitting around the counter in the kitchen, surrounded by food, the entire day.
-Will people notice that I have my jeans unbuttoned?
-Are people thinking 'Wow, Anti-Supermom is much fatter in real life than I expected'
-Are people also thinking 'Anti-Supermom is a lame-o, going to bed at 10:30 at night, geesh!'

At the Minnesota Blogger Volunteer Event:

-I'm sorry if I'm wincing as I talk to you while you eat your spicy lettuce wraps
-I'm also sorry if I'm uncomfortably holding my stomach in fear that I might throw up into your glass of white wine.
-Yes, I did just steal your chair - I thought you were socializing, stop making me feel bad.

So, I'm *not* (I hope) fatter than you expected, I actually really like food, wine and people, I can usually handle staying up until midnight or so and yes, I still prefer to sit over standing for long periods of time, the real deal is I'm pregnant.

Baby number 3 (or pregnancy number 4, however you want to look at it) is due August 28th. Thanks for following me on this adventure of taking care of 5 kids, 6 and under 4 days a week (pray for me!).

And I do appreciate not losing any followers (for the past 2 weeks at least) because I haven't been the best bloggy friend. A friend visits your bloggy neighborhood and says 'hi', I promise I will again, after the thought of being on the computer and staring at a 7" screen stops making my stomach hurl.

Hugs and all that sappy stuff,
Anti-Supermom and baby!

practical

Over the course of 15 years of Valentines together (minus a few where we were 'on a break', arguing or resisting the commercialism of said holiday sticking to a budget) my husband has figured out that I'm a pretty practical girl that likes well, practical things. Please forgo the mushiness of sappy greeting cards of footprints in the sand, couples walking hand and hand into the distance... you get the picture.

So, what do I get from Henry this year:

Picked out by my six year old, even after much pressure from my husband that 'maybe a simpler card would be more suitable', Henry insisted this was the card for me. (I imagine it must have been the 'tougher love of correction' and the 'rougher love of hard truth' that spoke to him.)

And what did my dearest get me this Valentines Day, a practical potted plant of tulips.

He knows me so well.

knowing

I don't want to blog about this but if I don't, I can't move forward. I can't think of anything else. It's been consuming my thoughts and squeezing my heart until it aches.

A mother is suppose to know.

There is an over-diagnosed, over-medicated problem that I never wanted to be a part of, but here I am contemplating if Henry has ADD. I've heard what his preschool teacher said last year 'he dazes off like he isn't listening... you have to repeat instructions to him several times'. I get it, I do, but he's only 6 years old. He's a boy. Boys are just like that.

Right?

I don't want to be another one of those mothers who thinks labeling the problem fixes it.

And now we are getting emails, the same story. "He talks too much... he doesn't listen... please work with him at home".

We are. We have never *not*.

Maybe we as a society are expecting too much from school aged children, cramming into their little brains all that they can before SAT and 'school' progress reports, hoping that our children can stop acting like children during the hours of 9am-3:30pm and start remembering that school is their job.

Here I am confident that we made the right choice for Henry going into an immersion school, because it's more physical, there is more movement, he gets to get out of his chair, but then I get crushed by another voice: 'maybe it's the school's problem, not Henry's'.

Maybe they are right.

A mother doesn't always know.

WW - further proof

My kid is a weirdo. Seriously, what 2 year old like V-8?

it gets better

I walked into Wyatt's bedroom this morning, wondering why he was still asleep at 8:30am. I peered over his bed to see him wrapped up in this yellow and black Iowa Hawkeye blanket naked (cue the bad flashback to college days). He held between his arms, pajamas; snuggling up to them like it was his favorite blankie. But it gets better...

Underneath his naked body was his diaper, ripped off as he commonly likes to do these days. Not just any diaper, one filled with poop. Besides him, in his bed, is a dirty wipe, that I can only assumed he grabbed from his changing table and decided to 'clean himself up with' after such a messed was created. (Yes, my child is one for personal hygiene). But it gets better...

He kept telling me that he needs "new pajamas". I'm insistent, "No, it's time to get up, you need to get dressed". He continued on about 'new pajamas' as I continued on pulling off all the sheets, the blankets, surveying the bed for poop. But it gets better...

I throw the bundle into the laundry and return to his room to pick out some clothing for the day. Wyatt is still standing behind me yapping on and on about 'new pajamas'. I rolled my eyes and opened his underwear/pajama drawer. On top of all of his previously clean pajamas and underwear is his pajamas from last night, the ones that he took off after he pooped in his diaper. See, he successfully managed to cover his pajamas in poop too, take them off, put them back into his drawer and pull out the clean pajamas that he was snuggling with this morning when I found him.

I turned around to look at Wu, he looked at me with his big, blue saucer eyes and casually said "see, new pajamas!"

The two's...

it does get better, right?