An Ass-Kicking Fetus and Other Such Nonsense

-Last night I had a dream that my blog was funny again and didn't talk about being knocked up. Then I woke up.

-I've been hiding out in a little cocoonish world lately. I'm not sad or depressed or anything like that. At least I don't think I am. I'm just really, really hoping this works, and I plod through each day working and watching tv, only to look up at the clock in the evening and go, "Holy shit, I can't believe another whole day has gone by."

-This morning, I was spooning Zube Boy. His ass was all up in my belly. The Turtle started kicking. Zube Boy said, "Did the Turtle just kick my ass?" I said, "Smart kid, that one."

-I'm really, really looking forward to that moment in the delivery room when the doctor sees the kids bits and says, "It's a GIRL!" or "It's a BOY!" Imagining how cool that moment will be has gotten me through many an ultrasound without the temptation to find out what the Turtle's sex is.

-We've settled on a few girl's names. The middle name will be Jane, for my maternal grandmother, Janet. First names in the running are Cora and Fiona. I also really fucking dig Esme, but how the fuck do you pronounce it? I say it Ezmee, but I don't know if that's right. We'd like to have a few names picked out, because what if the kid comes out and totally doesn't look like the one name we've settled on? We're having a bit of difficulty with boys' names. The middle name will be Michael, 'cause that's Zube Boys first name and it's his family tradition to do that. I've got my heart set on the name Otto, Zube Boy's maternal grandfather's name, but I think I may be losing the battle on that one. Seamus* is on the table which goes very nicely with out Mc-Last Name. Naming a kid? Is fucking hard.

*Pronounced, and sometimes spelled, Shamus. It's Irish for James. I think some of you might be pronouncing it See-mus. Just thought I'd clarify.

I Laughed...I Cried...'Cause I Was Laughing So Hard...And...Let Me Check...Yup...Still Laughing...

Phil, I have to tell you that you have truly outdone yourself. And abso-fucking-lutely made my day. But, before I get to the good stuff, I have to ask you a favor.

STOP having my handwriting! Seriously. It fucking freaked me out. When I received the package, I honest to goodness had to think for a moment about whether or not I'd sent myself something. It was scary. Here, have a look...



This is how the package was addressed. And yes. That is my PO Box. I feel safe putting it up here. You know why? Because if I got to get my mail and some creepy motherfucker is standing by my box (heh, I said box) with a trench coat on looking a little too interested in my box's visitors (heh, again...okay, I need to grow up), then I'll just fucking turn around. Because really, it's not every day that people send me cool shit. Mostly I get bills. Lots of 'em. I'm still getting bills for the little embryos I never got to keep. So, I'm usually more than happy to put off a visit to the post office. Ya hear that Brad? Eh, who am I kidding. I think Angelina's got a tight leash on him because he hasn't been bother me as much these days. And he knows where I live anyway.

Where was I? Oh yes. Now, for shits and giggles, I've rewritten the address for all of you in my own handwriting:



Uncanny, eh? I thought so.

But now, onto the important stuff. Check out what this package contained...





The Turtle is going to wear this ALL. THE. TIME. As soon as it fits. And until then, I think I'm going to wear it. On my leg. Because this turtle outfit is too fucking cool to sit in a drawer.

Thank you profusely, Phil. I love it. Zube Boy (who, by the way, knows you by the name of Volume 7, for your comment over here, which he thought was perfect and swore was true!) thanks you, and the Turtle thanks you! I've been smiling like a goon for hours now. Heh.

Well, It's No Pulitzer...

But I feel all cool, nonetheless. I've shared with you a couple of poems from Valentine's Days past that I've submitted to the Love Notes section of our local newspaper. This year's poem won me first place! Do I kick ass or what?

Here 'tis:



Mike,

In last year’s poem
I got on your case
About being stuck on the couch
With your leg in a brace.

And now it would seem
That the tables have turned
And it’s the image of my butt
On our couch being burned.

I had always thought
Pregnant women start nesting.
But oddly, you’re cleaning
While I’m here bed-resting.

Let’s hope that it keeps
The little one cooking a bit longer
With each passing week
He or she is getting stronger.

So thank you for fetching me
Bon bons and juice.
Here’s to hoping in May
You’ll be tying my shoes.

With a Valentine like you,
My life is certainly complete,
But I know that we’ll swoon
When our family welcomes two more little feet.

Love,
Zube

PS- You are going to be the best Dad ever. I just know it.

**************************************************

AND, for those of you playing along at home, my appointment on Thursday went well. My cervix measured 3cm. Totally and completely average. Never did I think I'd be so happy to settle for mediocrity. But I am.

I'm also 26 weeks and a few days. My initial goal of at least 28 weeks seemed quite daunting when I was only 21 weeks. But now, it's seeming attainable. Whew.

Now, Before You Start Yelling...

Hear me out. I wanted to share with you the testimony I read on Monday to the Senate Hearing Committe who would decide whether or not to pass SB 60, a bill that would require hospitals to inform rape victims in the ER about emergency contraception, onto the Senate floor.

But first, let me disclaimer away...

-I have an appointment tomorrow and the doctor said he would actually like to see how my body handles a bit of activity since, at the last appointment, things were looking good.

-I only spoke for four minutes. Not much standing at all.

-I think the stress of NOT speaking out would have been more detrimental than anything else.

I think that's all. Onto my testimony...

I am here today in the hopes that my story might encourage you to vote yes on SB 60. When I was a twenty-year-old college student, an acquaintance offered to give me a ride to the grocery store upon hearing my car was broken down. At the end of that evening, I was a survivor of rape. A few weeks later, eleven years ago on Valentine’s Day, my college housemates bought me a pregnancy test and encouraged me to take it in the hopes that I’d stop worrying about something as unlikely as a pregnancy resulting from the attack.

I remember taking that test as though it happened just yesterday. My three roommates anxiously gathered in the common area. Me, leaning against the sink in the bathroom, hands trembling, reading the pregnancy test instructions. The second pink line showing up immediately. Running out of the bathroom, past my roommates, slamming my bedroom door and collapsing on my bed. Sobbing into my pillow. Hearing the shuffle of my roommates in the bathroom, whispering confirmation of what my reaction had already told them was true.

I remember thinking why me? Why would I be one of the unlucky few? So many of the statistics I’d heard, in all of my Pro-Life upbringing, proclaimed that getting pregnant as a result of rape was extremely rare. As in, a 1% chance. And I’d clung to that statistic, trying desperately to ignore the queasiness and exhaustion of early pregnancy. Surely I’d be one of the 99%.

I can never fully convey the horror of that day. I felt violated. Not once. But twice. First by a friend of a friend. And then, by my own body. My body, which, according to my rudimentary understanding at the time of what my Pro-Life compatriots had always told me, was supposed to release chemicals after the rape that would reject a pregnancy.

Now I know that those statistics and the talk of one’s body rejecting a pregnancy after rape are not true. For the simple reason that, as many times as I have shared my story, which is many in the past few years, at least one woman has pulled me aside and told me that, she too, became pregnant as a result of rape. It happens more than we know.

I can only imagine what life would have been, and would be like now, for me if I had not become pregnant. I’ve since learned that, while emergency contraception wasn’t widely available at the time, doctors were able to prescribe a number of birth control pills with a similar effect to Emergency Contraception. If I had only known, I might not have become pregnant at all. I might have been able to celebrate Valentine’s Day at a restaurant having dinner with my incredibly supportive boyfriend. Instead, I spent the evening contemplating just how and when I would tell my Mom and Dad.

In the end, with the support of my parents, family, and friends, I terminated the pregnancy. The experience left me with a greater understanding of what it is like to face an unwanted pregnancy, no matter the circumstances. I now support Choice and the rights of women to make decisions regarding their own medical care when it comes to their reproductive lives.

It would be my dream that no woman would have to endure the trauma of being raped. More so, I dream that a survivor of rape would never have to face a pregnancy resulting from the attack. Those dreams are unlikely to ever be realized. However, providing rape victims with information about Emergency Contraception is one step in the right direction. I can only hope that all of you here will understand the importance of providing rape victims with all of the relevant information regarding their care. And that includes information about Emergency Contraception and the possibility of preventing pregnancy.

I am now 25 weeks pregnant. My husband and I are expecting our first child. It has been a struggle to get here. We suffered three miscarriages last year. With each loss, I struggled with the question of why. Why would my body maintain a pregnancy after rape while failing to keep those I’d made together with a loving man? A nice man. A man who would never, in a million years, dream of harming me. I will never know. Had I been able to prevent the pregnancy eleven years ago, I would never wonder about that one aspect of an already heart wrenching situation.

Life as a survivor of rape is difficult enough. The overwhelming sense of not being in control of my body and my fate is a feeling I’ve shared and discussed with other survivors. Withholding pertinent medical information from someone on the threshold of a struggle to regain control is unspeakable. Please put control back in the hands of those to whom it belongs. The rape victim.


And...drumroll please...the bill was passed on UNANIMOUSLY by all eleven committee members. Which was a complete surprise. I feel like I made a difference, somehow.

It's Raining...Uh...Zube's.

Some of you have asked to see my belly shots. I didn't have any to speak of, up until now. That can be blamed on my being incapable of remembering that the digital camera charger has been safely stashed in my luggage since, hmmmm, September when I went to Chicago to see Zube Boy's and my family.

Anywho, I give to you, a knocked up Zube Girl...And some stray toothpaste spittles on the mirror (which are really damn high, now that I think about it...sorta makes me wonder if Zube Boy shakes his head after brushing his teeth all doggy post-doggy bath style while spitting the stuff out...hmmm):



In other news, I'm an Auntie. It's true. I hope I can be that screwed up crazy aunt whom my little niece feels that she can come to with any problem, big or small. I now have a wee one to empart my timeless wisdom upon. It'll be nice to impress upon her that if EVERYONE would just sit on the goddamned public restroom toilet seats already, germs wouldn't be an ISSUE because we wouldn't have to worry about sitting on some germophobes piss, thankyouverymuch.

Without further ado...Bro and little Kayla on her birthday, 1/25...Mom is recovering from 22 hours of labor and an emergency c-section and not quite up to smiling pretty for the cameras. I SO do not blame her one iota...



Last but not least, My Belle? My Little Baby Sister Belle? Is all knocked up. Apparently she heard my mother clucking about wanting grandkids and thought she'd step up. Mom made it clear that she hadn't been talking to HER so much as her older two siblings. Anywho, My Belle is due on July 4, 2007.

So, in the span of seven months, my mother, goddesswilling*, will be grandmothered not once. Not twice. But thrice. She's beside herself.

And, I can't wait to buy two of these and one of these so the kiddos can all wear them when I go home for Thanksgiving to visit.

Sheesh, I'm sounding awfully optimistic. You know, I still have this painfully nagarific voice in the back of my head wondering if I'll be the one who fails to bring the Zube Grandchild Trifecta to fruition. I've been telling it to shut the fuck up.

In Hoot news, not wanting to leave a sibling out, she swears off sex for eternity. All of these knocked up people are freaking her ass out. Heh.

*I was going to edit that to read goddess-willing, but the imagery of a goddess swilling made be giggle. And maybe snort a little, too. This goddess isn't presently swilling, though I'm sure a couple of beers would certainly make bedrest much more tolerable. But I'm sure there's SOME goddess out there swilling something. And that makes me smile.