Happy birthday, my babies

Nine years ago today, I was lying in a hospital bed after having been there for 2 weeks on bedrest and IVs. I was pre-eclamptic, 22 years old, swollen, and scared. I thought I knew a lot about life, but, in truth, I knew nothing.

Then, at 11:03 and 11:04 a.m., two people entered my life. These small guys were beautiful and perfect, but I had no idea how much they would change my outlook and existence. I became a different person, no less scared than before, perhaps even more so. I felt as if my heart would break with all of the love that grew there in the blink of an eye as the two neonatologists held them up so that I could see them. Little did I know that day what paths my life would take as these little fellas became my driving force.

This morning, these two tiny babies, who weighed 4 pounds 3 oz and 3 pounds 14 oz, got themselves up by the alarm clocks they insist on having. Mine had gone off 5 minutes earlier, but I stayed in the living room listening as their feet hit the floor, allowing them to feel like big boys. One at a time they went to the bathroom they share, bathing themselves and putting on the clothes they had picked out for themselves. I inspected their carefully-combed hair and meticulously washed ears before handing them lunch and snack money. Then, out the door they went in their leather jackets with their backpacks slung over their shoulders to face another day of third grade.

Those tiny babies have become very tall gentlemen. Time really does go by so fast.

Happy birthday, K & B.

Good News!

Went to an appointment with the cardiologist today. I haven't seen him in a year, so I was pretty worried. Turns out, there's a chance that my valves may be leaking a little less! Woo hoo! I'm having some tests done next week to find out for sure. I may live longer, y'all. Now, how's THAT for a birthday present? BTW, my birthday is December 10, so bring on the presents.

Tonight Is a Bad, Bad Night

I can't recall being this depressed in a long time. After almost a week off from work for Thanksgiving vacation, Mac is back under the hill tonight. As the Great One himself would say, "I'm so lonesome I could cry." It's 2:58 a.m. and I just can't go to bed. I tried, but it was cold and lonely without Mac in it. We had just about the best time ever this past week, and I miss him so. Hurry up, Christmas vacation. Hurry the hell up.

Frankly, Sir, I Don't Like It

I like lists. Obviously. So, here is just a short list of things that really cheese me off.

1. Deadbeat dads: If you're going to make a baby, be prepared to part with some cash. It's not a secret from anyone that child support exists.

2. Ignorant parents: You've seen them. They're the ones who slap their children in broad daylight in Wal-Mart. They're the ones who tell their children to stop being stupid. Or call them fat. Or otherwise destroy their self-esteem. If you can't parent them, for God's sake, don't have them.

3. Hate language: And I'm not just talking about racist language, either. I find it highly inappropriate and insulting to use the term "poor white trash". After all, if there is poor white trash, then obviously there is poor black trash, poor brown trash, etc. This is not acceptable. Neither is calling country people rednecks or hillbillies. No hate language or terms that stereotype should be permitted in polite society. I'm not saying that they should be prohibited by law; we as a people should have enough good sense and manners to stop using them ourselves.

4. Half-dressed teenage girls: If it isn't for sale, don't advertise it. I'm tired of seeing bellybuttons and buttcracks. No wonder sixth-graders are giving oral sex on school buses.

Bare Feet are Happy Feet

My boys have this preference for Tommy Hilfiger socks. Always have. They don't care what they wear in the way of jeans, T-shirts, etc., as long as they have TH socks to wear. This sort of bothered me in the beginning, but, seeing as how I am a connoisseur of fine socks myself, I let it slide.

I have OCD. It's not a big deal except for the sock thing. You know that little seam that goes across the toes? If mine isn't perfectly straight across the top of my toes, I can't function. I'm serious. This is why I stopped wearing socks altogether except for special occasions. In the dead of winter, I'm sockless. My grandmother goes nuts about it, but it's better than suffering, and I simply can't help it.

SO, when it first came time to buy "big boy" socks for my sons, I bought them the TH socks, hoping that they would be more comfortable than the horrors I was subjected to as a poor child. They loved them. I then ventured into the world of Wal-Mart socks, but they would have none of it. I simply wrote it off as sock snobbery. Silly me.

Until one day I had neglected to launder socks and there were no TH socks left in their drawer. One twin came running and said, "Where's my flag socks?"

Wow.

The fact that these were name-brand socks was not important. They just loved the little flags on them.

How humbling.

Anatomically Correct

Went shopping today with my mom, no kids in tow, which was a minor miracle in itself. After a nice lunch, we made a Wal-Mart stop simply to buy some toys for the li'l 'uns. The twins were pretty easy to buy for, just Poke'mon cards for them. I'm beginning to hate anything that involves tiny pieces of paper with pics and stats on it, since it usually involves parting with $6 for about 5 of 'em.

Anyway, I went to the doll section to pick up something for Sissy. Lo and behold, there was a doll that resembled a newborn baby to a tee: the clueless, lumpy face; the squinty eyes; the wrinkly, odd feet. With absolute sincerity the box declared it to be anatomically correct. I grabbed it without hesitation and threw it into the cart, noting from the blue of his swaddling blanket that this must be a male.

"Why?" asked my mother. "Sissy's only 16 months old. She won't care that this thing has a pee-pee."

*Sigh.* I couldn't really explain why except that I had always wanted an anatomically correct babydoll as a child. After having seen both male and female babies being diapered as a child, I knew that we aren't blank down there, and there was something, well, offensive about those blank dolls.

As soon as we were in the car, Mom opened the box to see exactly what they meant by anatomically correct. She removed the blue swaddling and noted the umbilical stump, which was covered with gauze and a band around the belly, something that hospitals haven't done in years. After removing the ruffly and decidedly girly cloth diaper, she gasped. I pulled over and saw

that

the doll was blank. Peter, as I was affectionately calling him, had an umbilical stump, a baby heinie, and absolutely nothing else.

I turned to my mother and said in my best old-lady voice, "Tilly, go back in that store and tell them I want this doll's penis!"

FYI, Tilly isn't my mother's name, it's just the most absurd name I can think of. Except for Nevaeh.

Mike, the Midwest Hick -- where are you?

Your blog is gone. Gonna miss reading you, brother.

A Hen's Genitals and Eternal Damnation

My grandmother is a 67-year-old, kindly, sweet, tender old lady. Well, leave out the everything but the "67-year-old" part and somewhere therein lies the truth. She is honestly one of the toughest chicks you will ever meet. Maw, as we call her, is about 5'7, 130 pounds, and keeps her hair cut in that close-to-the-head permed manner that most elderly ladies 'round these parts pay good money for. She smokes, says "shit" whenever she dang well pleases, and can outwork just about anybody I know, men included. She brags about the sex life she and her second husband enjoy (he's an amputee, which I'm almost certain is nonrelated). In other words, she's not your grandma. She's mine, and I love her to pieces.

Maw has a tendence, though, to mispronounce or misconstrue some common everyday terms. Mind you, no one corrects Maw. She gave her eldest and dearest son a whipping with a willow switch when he turned up late after a night carousing with his friends (he was 22 at the time), so I'm not taking any chances. Anyway, here are two of my favorite examples of Mawspeak.

At 14, I developed an obsession with the movie "101 Dalmatians," buying anything and everything with a dalmatian on it. I just loved those little spotty dogs. Still do. In fact, my favorite 101 Dalmatians keychain burned up last year when my car exploded, so, if you come across one, dear friend, please send it my way. But I digress. Maw loves me very much. I'm her baby, one of the few people in the world she coddles and cuddles. So, she told my grandfather one day, "Ray, I'm going to get Deonna one of those damnations."

"What did you say, woman?" my grandfather asked, his eyebrows meeting with his hairline.

"I said I'm going to get Helen to take me to the pet store and get Sissy one of those damnations," she replied.

And now, in my family, spotty dogs will forever be known as "damnations."

Another example of Mawspeak: A few years ago, I took Maw shopping and then stopped at McDonald's for a quick lunch. She told me, "Order me one of those chicken vaginas."

I realized that she meant a chicken fajita. The lady behind the counter did not.

She was a second away from searching Maw for a slingblade when I said, "Two chicken fajitas, please." I'm sure that the poor McD's girl felt that she had misheard and wanted to make amends, mainly because she slipped Maw an extra apple pie.

And now, in my family, chicken fajitas are chicken vaginas.

SO, if you're ever in my neck of the woods, come on by. We'll sit on Maw's porch, watch the deer play in the field, listen to the damnations bark, and maybe, just maybe, we'll eat a couple of those delicious chicken vaginas.

Not a Good Day to Die

I've never shared with you the day that changed my life forever, have I? Here goes:

As you might have guessed, I waited quite a while between having the twins and having the girl, seven years to be exact. Having twins will do that to you sometimes ;).

The night before my daughter was born, I literally couldn't sleep because I felt as if I were drowning when I lay down. My feet and legs were hugely swollen. However, I didn't worry about pre-eclampsia too much, since I had had it before with the twins. My whole body was grossly swollen when I had it then, not just my feet and legs. Surely I couldn't have it again. I didn't realize that I might have forgotten what it felt like in the years that had passed.

The next morning, I was tempted to stay home instead of contacting the doctor. After all, I had an appointment on Wednesday; surely I could make it a couple more days! Instead, I listened to what my gut told me and called my doctor, who told me to come in immediately.

After I got there, I was taken immediately back to an exam room after the blood pressure and urine specimens were taken. This had never happened to me. The doctor came rushing into the room about a half a second after I stepped inside. My blood pressure was 190/120. I didn't know it, but I was a walking stroke, a seizure waiting to happen.

After my transferral to labor and delivery, my breathing situation worsened. I didn't know it at the time, but I was an inch away from being intubated -- my lungs were being crushed from the weight of all the fluid surrounding them. My heart was also put under pressure by the fluid. I was in congestive heart failure, my lips had turned black. I was dying.

After the birth of my beautiful daughter by c-section, my condition did not go back to normal, even thought this is usually what happens with pre-eclampsia -- the only cure is the birth of the child. Instead, I was still filling up with even more fluid and was still feeling very sick, couldn't breathe. X-rays and echocardiograms were performed and showed that I was still not out of the woods. I was administered blood pressure medications, which pretty much put a stop to my breast feeding, and various other meds.

I came home from the hospital 4 days later. It was hard to take care of my daughter while feeling the effects of the blood pressure pills, which I will be on for the rest of my life even though my bp is fine. Why? My heart is still not right, will never be right. I have two leaking heart valves that are allowing blood to flow back into my heart. Eventually, they will have to be replaced. The walls of my heart are thinner now, and the pumping capability itself is compromised. My lungs are also very weak now and I'm highly susceptible to bronchitis and pneumonia. I have an O2 machine in my den and a spare tank in the bedroom in case the electricity goes out. Sometimes I cannot breathe at all, sometimes I have terrible chest pains.

Living with that has been horrifying. What if I die? How will Mac and the kids survive? Will the baby even remember me? When still pregnant, I considered how things would go after childbirth, and I expected to come home feeling less than wonderful. I didn't expect to be unable to walk the length of my house without stopping to rest until 3 weeks postpartum.

I also had to have a tubal ligation, since any more children would probably kill me. It hurts and depresses me to have that choice taken away.

I wouldn't trade my life for anything. I am so damn grateful just to be here with my loved ones. Every day is a gift. Please treat yours the same way. You never know when that day will come that changes everything.

How I Love That Man

Just spent a few hours cuddling on the couch with Mac. You know, I wish everyone in the world could enjoy the pure delight that is curling up with someone you love very much. Sex doesn't have to be involved. It's just nice to be warm, loved, and happy.

As we cuddled, I was reminded again of how sweet and gentle he is, and how physically beautiful he is as well, which is just a bonus. His face is absolutely gorgeous, beautifully shaped. His body is long and strong and makes me feel secure and protected. His rough, work-hardened hands are surprisingly gentle when he gives the baby a bath or puts a bandaid on a boy's knee.

*sigh* It's nice to enjoy that teenager love glow.