Things that hit you at 10pm on a Monday night

I've been rather depressed as of late. I'm a firm believer that a part of marriage is the physical expression. I have almost no self-esteem left. The baby blues sure do hit me hard. And I don't know if I'm just gross or what but anyway... In lieu of spending this entire blog in darkness and crying, I'm going to write about something else.

So there's a blog I follow, and the author is Amy Wilson. Her big thing is "When did I get like this?" I'm one of those moms who doesn't really think about what I'm doing. I love my son. Everything I do is out of love. There's not a whole lot of thinking or reflecting involved. I've basically been exhausted for the last four years. I'm running on instinct (or autopilot) here.

When I'm not on instinct, I'm in therapist mode. Evan's got a problem; how can I apply what I know about behaviorism to address it?

The other night, I was making Evan a peanut butter and jelly sandwich at 10:15pm. He'd been in bed since 8 but was refusing to sleep. His last request was a sandwich and some milk. I'm standing in the kitchen smearing the peanut butter across the bread thinking, "I don't even like this crap," and it suddenly hits me. It hit me so hard, I almost fell down.

"When did I get like this?" Seriously. When? When did potty training stop being gross and become exciting? When did I stop shopping for myself and immediately go to the toys and children's clothing aisles? When did I start searching for mommy friends? When is the last time I had a conversation with anyone in which I didn't bring up my child? When did I start checking the house before I went to bed to make sure he was a comfortable temperature and still breathing? When did I get so knowledgeable about child seats? When did I stop looking for social events for myself and start looking for my kid? When did I become a mom? Not just a biological mother, I mean a MOM. When did "Linny" disappear and become unimportant and "Evan" emerge and take center stage?

Wow. This is heavy. And I'm exhausted. Keep in mind, it's after 10pm, and I'm still making a sandwich. And Evan is calling to me from his room.

Just as I'm about to stand up and dust myself off, another freight train flies into me:

I am responsible for this little person. I feed him, bathe him, educate him, give him love and a sense of security, treat him when he's ill, comfort him when he's sad, and play with him when he wants me near. I read him bedtime stories, teach him songs and games, make sure he doesn't watch anything inappropriate on TV, schedule doctors' appointments, find childcare for him, and literally fight for his education (that's another topic entirely!).

I've always known that I'm technically responsible for him. I mean, I was there in the delivery room. The hospital has a firm "No Returns" policy. But I'm not talking about the kind of responsible that many feel towards their pets--just keep them alive and safe and you're going to jail if something bad happens to them. I'm responsible for what kind of man he turns into. It's my job to make sure he turns into a responsible, contributing member of society. I'm responsible for teaching him values and morals so that he turns into a good, respectable man. I'm in charge of teaching him how to take care of himself so that I don't do his future wife or life partner a huge disservice.

And you know what I did with these epiphanies?

I gave Evan his sandwich and kissed him good night, telling him firmly that he really needs to go to sleep now! I crawled into bed and tried to explain to my husband. He gave me a "she's crazy" look, and said something to the effect of, "Yeah. Even I know all that stuff," and keep in mind, he's the step-dad so he's had even less time to process this than me. He kissed me, and we went to sleep.

What else can you do?

The Birthday Weekend - 35 weeks, 4 days

I feel like this picture says it all about this last weekend. Probably my favorite moment. He's got cake on his belly! Don't we all want cake on our bellies sometimes?

Friday was the actual birthday. He had some time with his dad and his dad's parents to unwrap gifts. Apparently he made quite the haul and was very excited that it was his birthday!

My grandparents (Evan's great-grandparents) brought a ham, a gluten-free shortcake for me, and strawberries and cool whip for dinner. I made a wishlist on Amazon.com for Evan's birthday, and my grandparents actually used it! They were so pleased to be able to get him items that he had picked out and was excited to receive!

 So I'm actually putting this picture in because of the belly shot. I'm now 35 weeks and though I hate being pregnant, there should be some documentation, right?

 No cake on his actual birthday, but Mr. Evan didn't mind at all! He was all about singing and blowing out those candles! I don't know who taught him about birthdays, but he sure picked up on them pretty quick!

 He loved the new binoculars!

 And believe it or not, he was really excited to get a wall clock for his room! (He's been changing where he wants it.)

And I'm pretty sure this was his favorite gift! Evan loves umbrellas and playing in the rain!

I sort of did a birthday weekend for Evan. I wanted this birthday to be really special and fun and exciting because it's the first time he's really understood what was going on. I also have really bad single-mom/child-in-a-split-home guilt.

Saturday was a mess. I was supposed to work 2-6, and as a family we'd do birthday party preparation and have a fire. But my co-worker apparently had plans to go to Country USA and get drunk and not bother to a) call in to work or b) show up for work. I only stayed until 10pm when the bar owner came in, but the day was pretty much shot. Evan's dad had to work, but he was a champ and picked up and paid for Evan's birthday cake at the bakery. I had planned on doing it but the bakery closes at 7. I couldn't get ahold of my husband, as he is also a champ and had taken my little Evan fishing and was on the lake, so I called my ex, who woke up, drove 30 minutes to pick up the cake, paid for it, and delivered it to my house, safely depositing it on the kitchen counter and out of reach of the dog. Evan is so very loved by so very many people. We are all so lucky that a really crappy situation isn't further complicated by no one caring or pulling their weight or stupid fighting.

Funny sidenote about Saturday: Less than 15 minutes after waking up Saturday morning, one of my cats starting on fire when she stood directly over a votive candle my husband had lit in the bathroom. I made a sarcastic comment that that day was sure to be a good one. I knew I believed in bad omens!

 Anyway, Aaron and I got Evan a cd player and Veggie Tales cd. I would agree with you if you're thinking that's a very mature gift. And admittedly, Evan was quite disappointed that it was only for listening to and not for watching. But now he's getting the hang of it and enjoying it! He's jamming out in his room to Veggie Tales. Too funny!

 The actual birthday part was on Sunday. I decided to do a kids' party this year and invited 19 children, thinking maybe half would come. 16 children rsvp'd. 13 showed up. That was a lot of kids! But it was a lot of fun! Evan got some great gifts and had a blast. I think all the kids did!

 Evan loved everyone singing "Happy Birthday" and blowing out his candles. He picked out his own cake this year!

 Opening gifts.

 Someone gave him a hopscotch mat. He knew what to do right away and loved it!

After the party ended, a few kids stuck around and played in the pool. (It was filthy! But they loved it.)


All this and you would think Evan would have been too tired to function after the party but not so. Aaron pulled out one last gift for him--a new fishing pole. He and another dad took Evan and two friends fishing until about 9pm last night.

Evan ended the day with pizza and popcorn in bed as I read him his bedtime stories. He told me had so much fun that day and was very, very happy. I kissed him good night and as I closed his bedroom door, I heard him singing "Happy Birthday" to himself.

Happy 4th Birthday, Evan!

This was written on June 28, 2007. I share it today in honor of my beautiful, intelligent and humorous son. Thank you, God, for blessing me so completely with this sweet soul.

Evan Reece DeRuyter was born Sunday, June 24, 2007, at 2:25 AM. At 41 weeks pregnant, I didn’t actually believe that I was going into labor when my water broke late on Saturday afternoon. Within an hour the contractions started and all I could do was keep telling myself that it would only be within 24 hours that I would finally get to meet my baby.

When my contractions were close enough together, Bryan drove me to the hospital. We arrived at approximately 10 PM and they checked me over. I was told it was going to be a very long night because my cervix was not cooperating with the rest of my body. My nurse called my doctor and I was ordered to walk laps around the women’s ward. Those were the hardest steps I ever had to take. Every woman knows that labor is going to be painful, but you don’t really know until you experience it.

Bryan, Bobbie (my doula), and I got back to my room around 11 PM and from there it gets pretty fuzzy for me. I was completely incoherent. I remember my entire body shaking with the pain as I cried, “I can’t do this.” I finally consented to a pain reliever administered by IV. Then I slept. I didn’t actually sleep; I went in and out of consciousness. The pain was only muffled.

I don’t know what time I awoke, but Bobbie and Bryan were watching my contractions on a monitor. By this time the drugs had worn off and I was in even more pain. I was told later by my doctor that I had developed toxemia and my blood pressure was very high. This apparently sped up my labor. My nurse asked me to lie on my left side, but I refused and tried to get up. I felt like I had to go to the bathroom. “Number one or number two?” she asked. “Number two.” She checked me again and then informed us that it was time to page the doctor.

Here, again, I go in and out. I remember Bobbie whispering to me that they were turning on the heat lamps for my baby. I told my nurse I wanted an epidural. “Nope. It’s too late for that,” she said flatly. “WHAT?!?” Bryan tells everyone that I looked like I was about to cry. Somewhere in those semi-conscious moments, Bryan and Bobbie took turns coaching me, giving me water, and placing cool rags on my face and neck. I was given an oxygen mask but it was never hooked up to the tank. I’m not sure how much it helped.

I delivered my son naturally…against my will. I can’t remember the pain the way I could the day after I had him, but I remember thinking and praying. “Dear God, please help me. If it hurts anymore than this, I am going to die.” And then I snapped at my doctor, “I don’t know what you’re doing down there, but it REALLY HURTS!” I even asked if they could just grab the baby’s head and pull it out. Apparently, it doesn’t work that way.

They pulled him out and were cleaning him off when I looked down. No one announced, “It’s a boy!” I just saw it. “It’s a boy,” I said to no one in particular. I turned to Bryan, who was grinning like a fool. “We have a son,” he said. They placed him on my chest but he wasn’t crying, so they took him away. As soon as he was out of my arms, he let out a loud wail. I looked up weakly as the doctor continued working on me. Bobbie stood next to me, comforting me. Bryan went with the nurse and the baby. “Is he healthy?” I asked. Yes, he was very healthy.

Exhaustion washed over me. I was beyond the pain. I know Bryan called our relatives and he even had them put the baby’s footprints in our baby book. I know at some point I held my son and was cleaned up and put into another room. But I didn’t care about any of it. I had my baby. And he was strong and he was healthy.

7 pounds, 1.3 ounces, 20.5 inches long. His eyes are the blue-grey of all newborns and his hair is a blondish-brown. He has a dainty pointed chin and long fingers.

Today I feel good. I feel strong and healthy again. In some ways I feel like it’s the day after prom. I’ve been looking forward to this day for months and now that it’s happened, I feel the inevitable emptiness that follows. My body is my own once again, but I no longer recognize it. I don’t know the me inside anymore. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t him. Words cannot describe the pride and happiness you feel when you bring a life into the world.

Childbirth Relaxation and Breathing

Wow! Things sure have changed since I was pregnant with little Evan four years ago! I seriously considered not taking any classes offered this time around. I mean, I've done this... Naturally... Against my will... I know what to expect. Aaron hasn't done this yet, so I signed up for his benefit. No, no, no, this was just as much for me as it was for Aaron!

The relaxation and breathing class was the lowest on my list of classes to attend. When in labor with Evan, Evan's dad, Bryan, was telling me to breathe and breathing with me. I'm pretty sure I yelled something to the effect of "I don't wanna breathe!" with a few less than colorful words mixed in there. I am so glad we went last night.

First, it started with a review of what physically happens inside and with the baby during labor and delivery. (I jokingly told Aaron it wasn't like the cartoons he had seen in his high school, as he had gone to a private high school and had virtually no sex education.) Aaron had a funny look on his face--the kind that tells me that he's scared, this is definitely unfamiliar territory, and he's trying to hold it together.

Then they brought in one of the hospital's physical therapists. One of her jobs is to perform a 15 minute complimentary massage to all laboring mommies and surgical patients who request it! Oooohhh! She was at the class to teach the daddies how to perform massages to help the laboring mommies. Of course the men actually had to perform these massages so that the instructors could give them pointers. I got a hand, back, and belly massage last night! This was never in any of the classes I took with Evan, and I took them ALL!

Finally, we tried a number of stretching and breathing techniques, most of which I remembered or had learned in my pregnancy yoga. The breathing drives me crazy, but I think I really am going to try to have a natural birth with this one just like I did with Evan. The breathing's worth a try.

In short, the class was only about two hours and both Aaron and I felt like it was informative and well-worth the time. We came up with a list of things to bring--massage lotion or oil, one of those massaging doo-dads--and a list of things we can request, such as a balance ball, a yoga mat, a complimentary massage, and extra pillows.

I just can't believe I got through Evan's labor and delivery in one piece. I had no idea what was going on. Bryan really didn't know what was going on, as he didn't go to the majority of classes. I was young and naive. I'm so glad in retrospect that my friend Bobbie was kind enough to come in and act as my birthing coach!

Testing - 34 Weeks, 5 days

I am being tested. That's the only explanation I can come up with. And I can't decide if it's God or the devil who is testing me.

You see, I bartend "part-time" on weekends. (I put that in quotes because over the course of Friday, Saturday and Sunday, I put in about 30 hours. My wages are a joke, as are my tips, but that's a different post for a different time...) It's not an easy job. It's hard on my feet, my patience, my self-esteem. But it got me through my separation from Evan's dad, student teaching and finishing college, and the last year.

I used to think that bartending was God's way of providing for me in a tough situation, and maybe it was. It always seemed that whenever I really needed it, I'd get a night of really great tips and pay off my bills. And maybe God did use the opportunity to provide for me and my son in a bad place when I really needed it.

But after a while, I began to feel like my job was sinful. It felt sinful because I was using my looks and dressing for tips, because I know there were guys I'd serve all night who would go home and beat their wives or neglect their kids, and because I was promoting drunkeness and partying. It slowly started to feel very wrong to be there. I began to feel like I was chipping off a little piece of my soul every time I'd go to work.

Aaron and I had talked about my quitting but times are tough. Where am I going to go? What am I going to do?

We've already made the decision that I will not return to bartending after I've had this little one. This past weekend just confirmed that our decision was the right one:

Saturday started out pretty slow. I went into work at about 5:00 and there were only a couple guys there. I was bracing myself because I've had a bad experience with one of the customers before, but he surprised me and let me be. He left and I felt calmer.

I knew there was trouble when about an hour and a half into my shift, a customer we'll call Laura came in without her boyfriend, whom we'll call Doug.  Laura and Doug are always together and always drunk. Word gets around in a small town like our's and it's a well-known fact that Doug is pretty rough with his women. Sure enough, about 15 minutes later, Doug shows up. Why Laura leaves when they're fighting and comes to a place that she has to know he will find her at is beyond me! But I'm staying out of this. I'm just the bartender. And we have a few other customers. It's rather intimate, actually. We're all going to hear anything Doug and Laura say. Anyway...

I ask Doug what he wants. He responds, "You know what I f---ing drink." Yes, I do. That's true. So I ask if he's going to stick with his usual can or switch to a bottle of beer tonight. The last time I saw him, he had been drinking bottles and made a big fuss when I brought him a can because everyone knows you can't switch from a bottle to a can or vice versa! I get a "Jesus Christ... ::grunt:: What, do you get stupider the more pregnant you get?!?"

Oh.... My..... God..... I am in shock. Are you kidding me? I'm furious, but I'm also in shock. I slam his beer down in front of him, literally throw his change on the bar and refuse to talk to him or look at him or serve him after that. (Go ahead and judge me now. You can say I should have thrown him out. I probably should have. But all I was thinking was that I'm 8 months pregnant and he's not afraid to beat his girlfriend; he's not going to be afraid to hit me, either.)

I can't believe what just happened. And now I'm in a bad mood.


A few hours go by, and I text my husband about the incident. He's talking smart about taking Doug down but he's at a bachelor party and I know he's been drinking all day. I even thought, yeah, right. You can't even yell at the cable guy when we get an outrageous bill. He's not going to defend my honor verbally or physically. It's a good thing I can usually take care of myself. Little did I know Aaron would get the chance to show how he really would respond in such a situation.

I was happy to see him come in with the bachelor party he was with. The group was pretty small, I knew most of them, and they were a variety of ages. They had been drinking, playing frisbee golf and bowling all night. I figured this stop would keep them out of trouble and close to home.

Imagine my surprise when I asked one of the older guys Aaron was with what he'd like to drink when I got the response, "A light of Miller, ya fat f---ing b---h." This time, I'm not shocked, and it doesn't take me long to throw my own expletives at him. If he's going to stay and have a drink, he's going to act like a human being, sit down, and shut up. (You can fill in your own blanks here.) He is not going to tangle with this mama bear!

This might be a good time to mention that this is the guy my husband's been buddying up with all day long, and Aaron is sitting right next to him. Not that I want my husband to get into a bar brawl but his reaction was less heated than our neighbor's, who was sitting about five chairs away. I can hear the neighbor yelling at the drunk party-goer over my own furious bellows, and I can see my husband's scowl but he's just shaking his head saying, "Not cool, man. Not cool." Thanks, honey. Way to take him down. I'm so grateful my mother taught me to be a stong, independent woman and not to rely on other people to take care of me.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not mad at my husband for his reaction. I'm chuckling because he's a big talker. And because I'm proud of myself for being able to stand up for myself.

You're probably reading this thinking, "There's no way it got worse after this." Oh, yes, it did, my friends. I got two more nasty comments. I'll spare you the long, detailed situations and language but basically one stranger asked me if I had a large vagina for his buddy and a very drunk regular told me and a morbidly obese customer that we had huge, matching bellies. To add insult to injury, that drunk regular was complaining about how "big" her belly was about five minutes later. I handled myself again, but this was a rough night!

I'm not sure how I got through in one piece. I came home with my self-esteem and faith in shreds. How could I have been so mistreated by so many people in such a short period of time? What am I supposed to get out of this?

I read something a few weeks ago that made me think something to the effect of, "Jesus got treated like crap. His faith was tested. Why wouldn't your's be?" And then I heard it again last Wednesday at church when my pastor said something to the effect of "Jesus was treated badly and humiliated. Why shouldn't the rest of us be? We pay a price for our faith. God didn't promise that nothing bad would ever happen to us. He promised us something worth much more."

These thoughts are bouncing around in my head and I'm trying to figure out what the test is. Did I pass? Did I fail? The truth is, I don't know. I do know that God has been pushing my faith, asking me to trust him, telling me to quit bartending for over a year now. He's reassuring me now that I am making the right decision.

And maybe... now this is a new thought here... God is calling me to be the mother of this child. I felt called immediately with Evan. There was never a doubt in my mind. I've endured so much more with this pregnancy than I did with Evan, I feel as though I'm having to fight for this one. Maybe God is using this opportunity to make me feel connected, a feeling I am just beginning to experience in this pregnancy.

33 weeks and 6 days

Oh my lanta! Where has the time gone? I was supposed to have more time to blog once school was out for the summer! Alas! I am pregnant and nesting and possibly obsessive/compulsive.

Here's what we've got!

1) June 5th The Baby Shower

I had posted pictures of my baby shower invitations on here earlier. I thought they were adorable!

Anyway, considering my non-existant lack of experience in planning showers or couples' showers, I thought it went fantastic! We had a good turnout--about 40 people. The food went fast. My mom, MIL, and grandmother complimented me on how well-planned it was. (I suppose it's worth mentioning that my professors often called me a "free-organizer", as in I have no plan. I like to wing it.) I got several compliments about the venue and the party. Everyone seemed to enjoy themselves. Even the guys said, hey, that wasn't bad.

Aaron and I did get some doubles of things that we'll have to go through, but that's okay. Those items will probably get exchanged for diapers, wipes or formula. (Although, I was recently given a recipe for making my own baby wipes...)

Do I need a bottle sterilizer or can you really sterilize that stuff in a veggie steamer? I'm not sure.

Anyway. We were very pleased with how everything turned out! Here are some pictures for your entertainment!

 The night before my shower, my sister came to town and hung out with me at work. This was the first time we'd seen each other since before Christmas!

 Our friend Autumn and Aaron's parents

 This was the baby naming station. Boy name suggestions included Chewbacca, Cleveland, Ken, Felicio, and Ignacius. Girl name suggestions included Glitter, Flower, Wisconsin, and Loretta.

 The "Shit Our Friends Say" Table: We left diapers and washable markers for people to use to leave us comments, suggestions, or jokes on the diapers.

 Just a nice family picture. Evan was feeling lovey.

 I don't even remember what this was about, but don't we look in love?

We had people decorate onesies with fabric markers. This was my favorite. On the front it says "Unicorns poop glitter!" On the back, there is glitter and it reads "Babies do not."


2) June 8th The Doctor's Appointment

No, not a prenatal visit. Evan's progress review with his autism doctor.

I guess I should preface this portion by saying that the company we are receiving services from used to employ me. I left last fall so that I could go through them when it came time for Evan to get services. I'd worked for them and knew there were good therapists and bad therapists but was confident that I would be well cared for.

So not the case.

Everything had started off well but things deteriorated quickly. We lost our senior therapist to her husband's relocation to a different state, our best therapist resigned due to personal issues, and our clinic supervisor was ordered a decrease in hours. Long story short, not much has changed since we got a new senior therapist in late February. I've been pushing for changes as well as the clinic supervisor, but we just weren't getting any results. My son knows his action labels, thank you, let's move on. I mean, he's really smart and he catches on quickly. He is mild-moderate. Our county case worker even said she would be really surprised if he qualifies for another year of services.

You have to understand that I felt pushed, cornered. I'd asked our senior therapist to do her job--pleaded almost--but didn't get any changes. We weren't moving on to different programs or targets, my son was getting more rigid in his play and his behaviors were worsening. It seemed like therapy was doing more harm than good.

So I basically spent the hour of Evan's progress review embarassing his senior therapist. (Also note that the doctor that Evan sees is also the founder of the company and did a great amount of research with Dr. Ivan Lovaas.) The first thing he said to me when I walked in was that the senior had told him that my son was demonstrating some rigid behaviors. I had two points for him. First, Evan learns some rigidity, such as lining up, from school. We can simply explain that there are some things we do at school that we don't do at home. My second point was that five days of the week, he was in the same room, with the same toys and games, with the same people and the same programs. Programs weren't being moved along quickly enough, no one was using the other toys I had offered, and no one was leaving the therapy room to try doing sessions outside or in the living room as I had suggested. I told the doctor Evan can't be expected to behave flexibly if it's not being modeled for him and that we ought to change the way we're doing things. And it just got worse from there...

Basically, the progress review ended with Evan's county case worker, the doctor, the clinic supervisor and myself agreeing that serious changes needed to be made. And the senior therapist looked like she wanted to disappear.

In short, things have changed around here. Not quite enough, in my opinion, but the message was sent.
3) June 9th The Big Day

So the day after Evan's progress review we had planned for a "Big Day". A Big Day is when therapists come for their scheduled shifts but instead of doing any programs, they camp out in the bathroom playing, entertaining the child, and focusing on going on the potty.

It's been a week, and I have been adamant that if we aren't leaving the house, he doesn't get to wear a diaper or pull-up. I don't care how many accidents he has, how much laundry I have to do, or how many carpets I have to scrub. This kid is getting potty trained this summer!

How's it going? Well, we're successful a little over 50% of the time. I would say it was higher, but the problem is that Evan often starts in his underwear, holds it, runs to the bathroom, and finishes. (Personally, I think this is so he gets to pick out a new pair of underwear.) The majority of his bodily waste is going in the toilet. He's rewarded by picking a small prize every time he pees, such as a whistle, balloon, rubber duck, small piece of candy or sucker, and is rewarded with big prizes, such as a t-shirt, notebook, book, cd or dvd (all compliments of Goodwill), when he has a bowel movement on the potty. The small prizes were highly motivated in the beginning. Now I don't offer unless he remembers. The bag of prizes is in eyesight in the bathroom and I figure he isn't going to get a snack size Hershey bar every time he goes to the bathroom when he's in high school; he's got to learn to just do it at some point.

4) The Horrors of Pregnancy

Oh, where to begin with this one?

How about my bladder? My fetus thinks my bladder is its own personal trampoline or punching bag or whatever. I'm now forced to carry a change of clothes with me wherever and whenever I go some where.

The weight gain is still pretty minimal, but let's face it. I don't have abs of steel. I'm still smaller around than I am tall, but my belly is definitely protruding.

Oh, energy! How I miss you! Long gone are the days when I didn't need a nap every three hours.

And nesting instincts... On the one hand, all of this cleaning needs to get done. On the other hand, it's completely unnecessary to flip out whenever someone walks on the carpet with their shoes on. And I don't believe I've ever had to make myself wash the dishes only once per day. The compulsion to scrub every at every moment is nearly overwhelming.

Okay, now let's go back to that protruding stomach for a minute. At my baby shower, several women who have yet to experience pregnancy commented that they think it's beautiful. (Okay, which part? The 40 weeks of total sobriety, the leaky bladder, the swollen ankles, the rollercoaster mood swings, or the physical limitations of my size?) Pregnancy is not beautiful, my friends. It is the most horrible thing in the world, designed to make women so miserable that they seriously consider having more than one child and that they are motivated to do anything they have to do to get that little bowling ball out of their crotch at the end of week 40. I don't know about you, but there's nothing beautiful about not being able to see where you're wiping or forgetting what you're feet look like or needing a "Wide Load" sign when going through crowded public places. And that "pregnant glow"? Oh, that's sweat from my increased body temperature.

Jeez, I can't wait for this to be over!

Evan and Luna

We went to the horse barn where Aaron's mom works, and Evan was quite curious about this fella...

 See, he was supposed to start by working with Luna. He wanted to brush her right away.

 Then he was going to try leading her. (She's so patient with him!)

 But then he started wandering. He found Casey, Luna's mom, outside and fed her some grass.

Then he wanted to "rake", or help clean the stalls. My MIL had already done that, so she let Evan rake and sweep down clean bedding.

But that turned into shaving surfing....

Which turned into shaving wipeouts.....

And we never quite got back around to Luna.

The Toe Nail

I was clipping Evan's toe nails around 5 o'clock last night, and he was sitting better than usual. I buzzed right through and suddenly felt something fling into my eye.

No f-ing way... I'm thinking to myself.

Yup. There's a toe nail in my eye.

There's a TOE NAIL IN MY EYE!!!!!!

So we go to the emergency room. I'm not in pain, but after 30 minutes of trying to flush it out, it's not moving and I know it's time to see a doctor. I'm thinking there are going to be some scratches, I've got a foreign object in my eye, and there's got to be a lot of bacteria building up in there. I mean, I keep my child clean but not that clean!

Sometime around midnight I walk out of the ER--yes, I had to wait a very long time--with antibiotics and toe nail in hand.

Enjoy!