I need to change the name of this blog to “Every Other Month.”

A whole backlog of pregnancy misadventures, home invasions, thefts, dedications of firstborn children to God, etc. etc.

But first, it’s time for blog readers to play Web MD again.

Let’s run down the list one more time:

Since Dec. 2008:

Three (3) pregnancies

One (1) birthed child

One (1) boggy uterus

One (1) surgical removal of tumor

Nine (9) months of breastfeeding

Three (3) months of no sleep

Nine (9) months of motherhood

Two (2) months of regular exercise

One million (1,000,000) days of sick. WTF?!

My mom says that bodies are like mules, and if you push them harder then they want to be pushed at the moment, they just sit down. This is her official diagnosis for what I like to call The Vapors.

Ever since Molly was born, (In fact, it began the morning she was born) periodically my ears will start ringing, my eyes will cloud over with white, and I will crumple onto my knees or back or, when it’s really bad, I’ll have to lie down completely.

I’ll sit there for a while until I can move again. Then I’ll get up and feel uneasy the rest of the day while people tell me I look pale and sickly.

I know what you’re thinking.

“Go to the doctor.”

But here’s the thing. I don’t have a family doctor. I have a boob doctor and an OB, but no geneneral practitioner. So when I call around for one, they say, “Come in and do paperwork and we’ll try to get you on the schedule in 2-3 weeks.”

I say, “Meh. Forget it.” And then I do. Until the next episode of The Vapors.

I’m sure it has something to do with blood pressure dropping, a poor diet, little exercise and the adventures of mommyhood/pregnancy.

Has anyone ever heard anything like this before?

Anyway, I’m going to go to the doctor in a few weeks, and I’m going to try to start living like I’m growing another person (prenatal vitamins are probably NOT a cure-all) but in the meantime, I am curious.

Does this sound familiar to anyone? How long have I got to live?

The good news is that I’ve met my deductible for the year, so I can have as many free brain surgeries as I want between now and December. Who wants to go to the ER with me?

In all our Zoarian wonder

Two anniversaries in a row. Two birthdays. Two pregnancies! I have GOT to stop this perpetual pregnancy stuff!

Although sober, we managed to celebrate six years of domestic bliss showing off our 8-month-old to a crowd of … what did we call them … oh, yeah, Old White Nerds at the Zoar Harvest Festival in the historic village of Zoar, Ohio.

Zoar. Zoar. Zoar.

We could not get over it. And neither could the inhabitants of Zoar.

Some sort of separatists who lived in a commune. We didn’t quite nail that down.

Anyway, if there’s a fiddle, a brew tent and turkey legs, you can pretty much guarantee I will be there. Things like Ye Olde Blacksmithy demonstrations are the icing on the cake. The whole thing really made me miss the Paul Bunyan Festival. And the fall.

There is a memory carved into my mind involving two young parents, pushing  a stroller along the gardens, engaging in a lengthy debate (over hand-cranked ice cream, of course) whether a town TRULY needed a broomsquire, and how low on the rank and file such a position would be in the village of Zoar. This is my relationship with my husband. And for that, I am thankful.

Six years. One-and-a-half kids. A strange assortment of animals and 10 acres later … I could not be more happy to share this wild ride with you, kiddo. I wonder where we’ll be six years from now?! Perhaps we’ll have sent 14 broomsquires back to college to learn a real trade?

Next weekend we’re pawning off the kid and riding bikes up to a yet-to-be-determined Holmes County B&B. Maybe I’ll sneak in a glass of wine for my 28th birthday!

Is there any month better than August? If so, I don’t want to know about it.

Generally, moments before naptime, there will be tears followed by maniacal laughter, followed by more tears and then some maniacal laughter.

Here’s the latter.

Shortly after this clip ended, I was able to get some work done.

God loves a webcam.

hittin' the sauce.

Aunt Christy's beer is the best beer!

aaaaaaaand ... I think I'll barf in it now.

Cutest Future Bobcat if I ever saw one!!

I’m thinking about you.

Love,

Mama

ps - Thanks for letting me eat the Chinese earlier today.

she is shaping up to be a fantastic blogger

This child has decided that sitting down is for babies. And while we’re at it, so are NAPS!

She is crawling over, pulling up, standing. Plopping down, crawling over, pulling up, standing.

All day long it’s go go go. She literally has been trying to fall asleep standing up so that the excitement won’t end. The attempts usually end with a loud crash, and a few exhausted cries before she gives up. Little monster!

She’s even figured out how to follow us from room to room, and when she catches up with us, the excited squeals that yip from her tiny body convince me that I really really really need to get a video camera. STAT!

She is priceless.

My mom said it’s unusual that Molly never commando crawled. I don’t really know what that is or means, but I know we are in no way babyproofed–nor did we think we would need to before 8 months. When you think about it, though, is there really any point in those plastic outlet cover things when there are hot live wires are dangling from every ceiling?

And what’s the point of keeping the toilet lid locked when she could just take a good ol’ fashioned tumble-down into the basement if she takes one or two healthy steps to the right?

We don’t even have a dishwasher, so her antibodies are already through the roof.

Amiright? Amiright?

Just kidding mom!

Not really but kind of!

Anyway… Ready, Set, GO!

She keeps appointments.

She doesn’t lie about when my ultrasounds are scheduled.

She doesn’t send me Downtown when I should be in Dublin.

And she’s going to ultrasound my uterus at least three times –twice in the first trimester.

She.

Is blowing my effing mind.

We have our first ultrasound Thursday to see if we have another one of those tentatively live babies.

Molly demanded carbs. Bland, starchy carbs. I pretty much survived on Bob Evans’s noodles ‘n mashed taters, mac ‘n cheese, and a mandatory bagel every morning before 9 a.m. or bitch would make me kiss porcelain.

This Baby wants noting to do with that. This Baby demands spice. This Baby HATES Subway and Walmart. I’m not sure if that makes it automatically cooler or what the deal is.

While feeling particularly nauseous one morning, I went with what I know and I toasted up a bagel and slathered on some cream cheese. One bite of that, and it was over. The upchucking commenced.

So I started eyeing my lunch.

And then I ate chili.

Chili.

At 9 a.m. in the morning.

Thank God no one was there to smell as I warmed it up un the ol’ microwave. It was the best thing I’ve ever tasted.

I was in Walmart with a cart full of groceries when This Baby decided that I would be UPCHUCKING NOW!–so I abandoned my cart, hauled Molly to the ladies and did my business. When I came out, the friendly folks at Walmart had removed my shopping cart of its contents, and the thought of re-shopping filled my stomach with such queasiness that I just had to abandon my plan and go home empty-handed.

That’s way more dramatic than anything Molly ever did. She made me throw up in a Tim Horton’s once, but that’s about it.

Also, this baby hates bacon. Even mentioning the word bacon will send life into a tailspin.

What gives, baby?

you're going to what now?

So this is a new feeling.

I’m combining the paralyzing fear of having a miscarriage with the paralyzing fear of what will happen if I DON’T, i.e., a baby.   I’m learning all new ways to be afraid!

The reaction to our news has been entertaining. Everything from the way-too-honest, “Your body is going to be ravaged  beyond repair,” to the joyfully naive outbursts of “Yaaaaaaaaaaaaayyy! Another baby and it doesn’t matter at all how close in age they will be because … BABY!” There are also quite a few people, particularly men, who are confused why an old married couple with a 7-month-old baby would be having sex at all. My editor may or may not called me a slut.  I’m filing paperwork.

But my favorite might have been from Dennis Laycock, who said that Mr. Duggard called and that he had a message for me: “It’s a vagina. Not a clown car.” Dennis makes me laugh sometimes.

I’ve been obsessively researching the odds of how this happened (I think it was something like sperm + egg = baby) and I’m not saying that my husband knowingly got me pregnant without my consent. All I’m saying is that the other day he looked over at Molly barfing and rolling around on her blanket all by herself and he said, “Molly needs a friend.” And that he is wholly calmed by this news. Like he expected it. That’s all I’m saying.

He also says things like, “I don’t know what the big deal is. It’s not like we’re the first people to have two kids.”

These things sound reasonable and have made me decide that I’m no longer afraid, but rather excited.

BABY!!!

My inner crank says, “Took you long enough, bi-yatch.”

So … Now that I’m looking forward to my fate of two VERY YOUNG children in two VERY SHORT years, bring on the devastating miscarriage, Jesus!   J/K.  Please don’t do that.