You get some stupid questions when you’re pregnant.  One my favorites is “Do you know what you’re having?”   To which the correct response is “Yes. A baby”, although I have also been tempted to answer “Not really. We’re hoping it’s a baby but I DID lose time a few months ago and I figure I was abducted again so…….alien spawn is always possible.  The ultrasound is inconclusive……and I have a weird craving for beetles.”

But the most ridiculous question comes AFTER you have a baby, and it’s this: “Is he/she a good baby??”

As opposed to what?  An EVIL baby?  The offspring of Satan? Stewie Griffin??  I’ve always had to fight to urge to reply “Good grief no, he’s horrible. Head spins round, projectile vomiting, sells meth to fourth graders….. and I found plans for world domination in the crib”

Except we all know that “good baby” is just code for “baby who sleeps through the night”.  Because “sleeping through the night” is (as I’m sure I’ve previously mentioned) the Ultimate Holy Grail of parenting.  It’s also completely unrealistic – tiny babies have stomachs the size of lima beans, OF COURSE they’re going to have to eat every few hours. I’d heard about mythical magical babies who slept through the night at six weeks or six months or jeez, any time before preschool. I just figured they were either robots, or heavily drugged, or the child of pathological liars.  I didn’t believe in Santa, unicorns, or Babies Who Slept Through The Night.

Until now.

The Kicker sleeps through the night. 

Seriously. Every night. Since she was tiny – well, tinier.  She’s been known to go a full EIGHT hours. Wtf?  I mean hallelujah, really, but also wtf?  How??  This never happened to me before. But fifth time around, I finally have me A Good Baby.  Also proof that God exists and is Merciful.

Now when I get the stupid question, I’m not snarky at all (another miracle!).  I reply “oh YES!”, then lean in conspiratorially and whisper “she sleeps through the night”. She also naps well (generally), sometimes even puts herself to sleep, and doesn’t cry too much……. with one exception.

THE CAR.

She hates the car. She will scream and scream and scream.  The Canadian is in denial about this.  The Canadian is a Car Guy.  He drives to relax.  He makes cute little “brrmm brrmm” noises when he accelerates  on the freeway, like a five year old with his hot wheels. He dreams of building a Shelby Cobra in the garage.  The thought that a child of his would Not Enjoy The Car is more than the poor man can handle.

“You’re not allowed to hate the car”, he tells her, bewildered.
“She’s not allowed to hate the car”, he tells me.
“We just need to take her driving MORE, get her used to it”, he adds.
(I’m not sure how we’d make that happen, given how much driving I already do, but I’m sure as heck not looking forward to that four hour drive to a family wedding in a few weeks….)

I’ll come back from taking her somewhere and tell him how she screamed all the way there and all the way back, sobbing and bellowing like I was leaving her at an orphanage run by clowns.
“Did you talk to her?” he’ll ask.  Because SOMETIMES, if HE talks to her, she’ll settle down.  Now I don’t know if she just prefers deeper voices or if he’s just some kind of half-assed* baby whisperer, but it doesn’t work when I do it.  Not even when I reassure her that we are NOT going to the orphanage, and promise to keep the nasty clowns away.

You know those cute little “Baby on Board” car decals?  Before I had children – back when phones were still connected to the wall and Star Trek: The Next Generation** looked futuristic – I just didn’t get those things.  So you’ve got a baby, I thought. Whoop de doo.  Is this a bragging thing?  Hey world, I procreated!  Why are you bothering to advertise this? Who cares?

Now I understand what those little signs are for.  They’re a WARNING.  “Baby on Board” actually translates to “CAUTION: the driver of this vehicle is possibly being subjected to the most stressful sound known to humankind.  Maintain a safe distance at all times”.  That’s why they’re yellow.  Like caution tape.

I don’t HAVE one of those signs, but if you see me driving about you’d best exercise caution anyway.  The Kicker is probably bellowing way louder than anything weighing 13 pounds should be able to, and I’m gritting my teeth and leaving claw marks on the steering wheel. But at least I’m not sleep deprived.

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*It’s not like he’s THAT good.  It only works SOME of the time.

**Fun fact:  when The Hair was a baby, I watched a LOT of TNG  (on VHS, from the rental store) while I was nursing him.  And when HE cried in the car, humming the theme music soothed him.  Seriously, worked like a charm, every time.  The only drawback was that you had to keep humming it until he was fast asleep, which sometimes took a long, long time.  The theme to Star Trek TNG gets really grating after a while – but of course not as grating as a crying baby.

I’ve been working on a blog post.  I quote Shakespeare. I use metaphors. I reference Superman. There’s poop, too. I’ve been working on it now for ooooh ….. three weeks?

This is not that post.

This post is more of a response to Billy Crystal and Danny Devito (as their characters in Throw Momma From the Train), both of whom are inside my head snidely whispering “a writer writes…….ALWAYS…..”.  And to them I respond, “shut up shut up SHUT UP”.

I already have a couple decades of writer’s guilt for putting my craft (let’s call it that) on the back burner to have babies and whatnot*, so here I am mid-forties with even MORE babies and other things to take care of, but I figure it’s now or never so I’m gonna gird up my loins and grit my teeth and bloody well WRITE, except with standard interruptions it takes me a whole day just to color my damn roots so finding time to write is a……..challenge**.

And yes I HAVE to color my roots (hooray for my Welsh heritage with its bloody premature greying genes….. >sarcasm<). I would just let them grow out, but I don’t want to look like The Kicker’s grandma. Also The Canadian is already eight years younger*** than I am, and I’m sure his older woman fetish only extends so far. At least I hope so. Don’t want him leaving me for an octogenarian.

What I HAVE let go is getting my hair cut.  I’ve been rocking this adorable little pixie style for a few years now, and I love it more than (insert humorous analogy that I don’t have time to think of).  But I just can’t find the time to get regular trims so I’m resigned to it growing out for the time being.  I’m starting to look like Monica on Friends, when Phoebe accidentally cut her hair like Dudley Moore’s.  I turned to the Almighty Internet for help, and it was useless****.  All the advice I could find on styling your hair through the awkward growing out phase included the oh so helpful insistence that regular trims were a MUST to keep it presentable while getting longer…… but that’s ok.  I figured out how to deal with it – lots of gel, and/or a hat, and occasionally asking The Canadian if my hair looks horrible (he assures me he’ll tell me if it does.  And he will, bless him, and I’ll be grateful.  We’re GROWNUPS)

This is where I find a witty way to wrap up this post.  You’d best make up your own today.  Shut up Billy.

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*And ALSO shut up everyone who manages to have the babies AND publish a bestseller AND get regular manicures. You obviously have robot babies and time-management as a superpower. My superpower is snark. It’s fun but a real time waster……

**Yes, there’s better and more interesting ways to describe it than “challenge”. And if I had less to do today maybe I could think of one. #WRITERFAIL. I’ll just crawl under my pool table* and sob quietly now….

***That’s officially a Boy Toy. Yay for me!

****I have time for internet searches??  Yep, one handed while nursing The Kicker.

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*No, I don’t have an office. I have a bar and a pool table and an iPad. All things considered probably just as useful.

…And yet, we fell for it.

The Kicker has played her first practical joke on her parents, and it’s a classic. We’re very proud of course, that at the ripe old age of one month she has expanded her basic newborn skills set from eating-pooping-crying-sleeping to include pranking mommy and daddy, but we’re a little tired to appreciate it right now.

Here’s how the joke works (and you seasoned veterans of the baby trenches will likely recognize it immediately):  yesterday, Kicker was an ANGEL. Dream baby. She slept like a pro. We got so much done. She even put herself to sleep in her little rocker. She hardly cried, except briefly in the car when she was seriously hungry. She DID fuss a little when we went to dinner, but as long as one of us held her so she could see all the goings on and accept as her due the admiration* of the wait staff and other customers, she was content.  She even slept through the night, which is the Freaking Holy Grail.  In short, the kind of day designed to lull parents into thinking they’ve got this baby raising thing in the bag.

And…..all you seasoned parents are laughing right now, aren’t you?  Oh deary deary me (you’re thinking) did they REALLY fall for that?  With all those kids and decades of parenting experience?  Oh bless their hearts. 

Go ahead, patronize us. We deserve it.  Because TODAY…. well. Today was a whole other story.  I could NOT put her down. No matter how carefully I nursed or rocked her to sleep, no matter how comatose she appeared, put her down and ten minutes later she’s awake and crying.

And of course, she would accept no substitutes. To avoid taking her out in the rain, I left her** with The Canadian for less than an hour while I ran The Kitten to and from assorted activities.  I came back to him sitting, grim faced, in the rocking chair, with The Kicker fast asleep in the crook of his elbow.

“She cried” he said, “the whole time you were gone”

“well…. she’s sleeping now”

“she’s exhausted from all the crying”

“ok…. you want me to take her, or do you want to keep her now she’s asleep?”

“no, no, take her” said he, mildly, “take her ….or death. Your choice”

I decided not to inquire whose death, he was clearly a man on the edge and ready to jump*** (ha ha, well played, The Kicker).  So I took The Kicker and put her in her bassinet, where (satisfied in her accomplishment of Breaking Daddy) she continued sleeping….. for a whole ten minutes.

Parenthood.  Every day’s a new adventure. Or reason to drink.

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*And admired she was, in maximum cute dream baby mode. “Oh how cute!  How old? What’s her name?”…… and our personal favorite, “is she your first?”.   To which we always respond airily (or wearily, depending on how the week is going), “No, this is number seven”.

**fed, burped, and sleeping. 

***He rallied later, dug deep, and got her to stop crying (so I could EAT) by holding her in some kind of modified fireman carry position.  Apparently we’ll need all our tricks with this one.

 Late the other night, alone in the kitchen, The Drama had An Encounter. He claims he saw a shadowy figure flit by in the next room, and says it freaked him out and he backed slowly away and into his room (although he clearly needs to watch more horror movies, because then he will learn that while you are backing away from ONE ghost, three more bloodthirsty ones are RIGHT BEHIND YOU).  He then researched* his experience on that fount of all human wisdom (the Internet), and discovered several useful pieces of information:

1- many people report such encounters

2- it is probably his imagination

3-but it might not be

4- and if it’s not, then it’s probably the antiques

I should explain.  The Canadian and I have recently been collecting antiques**, and there is a sound business/investment reason for this, but it’s not humorous and doesn’t make Leonard drink, so moving on.  Apparently, according to The Drama’s internet research, antiques are a good way to acquire ghosts.

Which just leaves the question of which antique is to blame – because our collection is pretty darn eclectic.  We’ve got some nice Victorian pieces, which I’d assume would carry mostly fairly prim ghosts who wouldn’t enjoy haunting US at ALL (except maybe Jack the Ripper, but what are the chances of that, really?).  We also have a wine and alcohol related collection, including a set of saloon doors and a copper still from France.  Then there’s (among other things) the Japanese tansu dresser and the pirate peg leg.

In fact the only culprit we can rule out for sure is the ghost of Peter***, the taxidermied buffalo head, since The Drama was sure the shadow was human-shaped.

So, a short list of possible haunters include:  Victorians (but probably not Jack the Ripper), drunkards, gun-slingers, French drunkards, samurai, and pirates.

Or if we’re lucky, all of the above.  We could sell tickets for THAT.

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*Reseach as a super power is one of the numerous things The Drama has in common with The Canadian.  Others include (ironically) the intent to haunt me when they are dead (and apparently the intent to die before me), an almost unnatural love for Peter the buffalo head, and the conviction that the movie is always better than the book*

**And thus I WISH my house was as uncluttered as the one in the picture.  It’s not.  The ghost was probably fleeing the premises because there’s really just not the space to do any decent haunting, plus if it stuck around I’d probably ask it to sweep or help with the laundry …….

***Officially named after, and spelled, “PETA”.  Because The Canadian is sick and twisted like that.

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*They are of course WRONG about this, with the exceptions of The Princess Bride, Game of Thrones, and Lord of the Rings (which was a books/movies tie)

 

Ah yes ……childbirth is a beautiful thing.

The Kicker showed up last weekend, three weeks early, and my Elderly Uterus* actually managed another natural home birth. Which she is reasonably smug about.**

She handled three hours of contractions like a pro, but I guess the thing about being elderly is you get forgetful.  Because then it was time to push, and she was all like: “Welp, that’s the dilating all done, someone make me a martini! Oh WTF? Oh shit that’s right, I have to PUSH after I dilate ….jeez”.  And she totally DID push, because it’s not like there’s a real option at that point ….. but she bitched and moaned about it  and was kind of the uterine equivalent of flabby grandma biceps.  But the old girl got it done, and the Kicker popped out 20 minutes later.

Whereupon she immediately got forgetful again, and started thinking “Oh I don’t know, I think I could do that again.  I mean, not RIGHT away, I’ll go have a nice lie down and a cup of coffee first…..”***

Damn uterus doesn’t know what’s good for her.

But the important thing is The Kicker is here, and of course is the most beautiful little creature EVER (or at least since all my other babies…..in case they’re reading this).  Oh, to the untrained eye she might LOOK like your random newborn blob, but The Canadian and I (with our 2,438 children ****) assure you otherwise.  Our little Kicker is a magical mesmerizing concoction of rainbows and cupcakes and flowers*****, and every newborn squeak and snort and squirm has us cooing over her in ecstasy.

Yes.  We’re those kind of parents.

But really, she is utterly delicious.  I have already twice caught The Canadian with her whole tiny hand in his mouth.

Leonard is drinking champagne for this one.

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*no really, that’s the word They use (and by They I mean asshole doctors, not my super cool homebirth midwife) to describe a pregnancy past age 35.  Elderly.  35.  Not even 40…… 35.  Just in case still being able to have a baby is making you feel too young and sexy. Also “geriatric” (I kid you not), and only slightly better, “advanced maternal age”

**if you can’t deal with the comical personification of my uterus, you should probably stop reading. This is not the blog for you. Go play on Pinterest or post a picture of your dinner on Facebook.

*** My uterus has a mind of her own. Obviously. 

****Figuratively speaking.  I hate when people use the word “literally” incorrectly. Literally we only have 49 children*

*****But not unicorns.  Because we know what they’re REALLY like.

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*in dog years.

Or possibly I’m just even MORE tech illiterate than I thought.

Anyway, I’ve noticed that on my nifty little blog here, some of the posts have the title at the bottom instead of the top. Which is weird and annoying and confusing, and I have no idea why they’re displaying like that.

I’ll figure it out in my free time*, I guess.

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* which, when I last checked, was between 11.27 and 11.30pm. Every second Tuesday.

…… and people who do, SUCK.

I have a sweet friend going through some Epic and Long-Standing Life Crap**. Honestly, I don’t know how the girl is still standing and (mostly) sane.  I heard today that not only is the Life Crap as Epic as ever, but she’s ALSO signed up for a weight loss trial that has put her standard coping strategies of food and alcohol off limits.

Damn.

I mean on the one hand;  You go girl!

On the other;  DAMN.

And I would LOVE to send her something uplifting and supportive, but it’s hard because those have always been MY coping mechanisms too, along with a few others that I would be a very very Bad Friend to suggest as replacements.

So I don’t have words of wisdom to encourage her at this difficult time. What I have is what I always have: a Drunken Unicorn and higher than average levels of snark.

Which brings me back to my opening premise: people who have and suggest healthy*** coping mechanisms just suck.  You know the kind.  The kind who deal with stress by going on a bloody five mile run and then drinking a kale smoothie.

I hate those people.   Ooh! But excercise releases endorphins and you’ll feel so much better and more energized!!  No, excercise releases TIREDNESS and I’ll feel like eating a whole cheesecake and binge-watching Criminal Minds.  Preferably some episodes where people get murdered while out running.

And the dietary health nuts.  Can’t eat any of the usual things that get you through the trauma?****  When I need a yummy pick-me-up, I spread some almond butter on a stick of celery!  Mmmmm delish!!

Die, Freak, Die.

And if I’m craving a cocktail, I just mix some seltzer water with a little organic peach juice, and drop in a cucumber slice!  You won’t even notice the difference!

I’m pretty sure I will.  And so will you when I drown you in a barrel of whiskey.

Find a hobby that brings you joy!

Listen you perky dipshit, I HAVE hobbies.  I just don’t have TIME for them what with all the Life Crap.  It’s nice that your problems are small enough that they leave you ample time for macrame or oil painting or yak breeding or, god forbid, yoga; but are you TRYING to push me from depressed to suicidal?

Have you tried meditation?

(long pause)  Are you fucking serious?

So yeah….no wise advice for my sweet friend.  Just love, and a hearty “hang in there, girl” from me and Leonard.  And an assurance that it WILL get better.  I mean…I don’t know how much better, or WHEN, but it will*****.  Heck, I’ve gotten to the place where watching horror movies with The Canadian is a more than adequate coping mechanism.  That’s some serious progress from a year ago.

In the meantime, do what you’re doing.  Reach out to friends, and keep putting one foot in front of the other.  You’re gonna be fine.

Leonard’s got your back.

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*although to be fair, it’s hard to imagine what else Leonard COULD have as a coping mechanism.  He’s a bottle holder. It’s pretty much all he can do.

**actually I have more than one friend like that, and they ALL deserve their very own Leonard.

***”healthy” being a relative term here.  Something might be physically healthy but still bad for you emotionally, if you use it as a distraction to avoid actually dealing with your issues. And……Leonard is looking at me balefully and telepathically begging me not to turn this into a psychotherapy blog.

****. There’s a reason these foods help. It’s hard to believe ALL hope is lost, as long as there’s bacon.

*****or, you know, the sweet release of death.

 Oh, not about himself. The Drama is very clear on that. He is a boy, and he likes the ladies. The ladies like him too, which is of more concern.  Of greatest concern is that he knows the ladies like him. Leonard will be drinking about all of this for some years yet.

But no, The Drama is confused – or perhaps more accurately in denial – about the gender of The Kicker.  We have two very clear pictures from The Kicker’s 20 week ultrasound; the first one says “I’m a girl!”, and the second says “I’m DEFINITELY a girl”.  The Kicker has six half siblings*, and five of them are boys. When The Kitten heard she was getting a baby sister instead of Yet Another Brother, she fist-bumped the air and shouted “YES!!”

The Drama, however, is less enthused.  Apparently there is no such thing as Too Much Testosterone, or possibly he’s just still emotionally traumatized by being “replaced” (his words) by a girl – The Kitten – when he was three.  Regardless, he keeps referring to The Kicker as “he”, and claims to be utterly convinced that she WILL be a boy.

For good measure he keeps yelling “grow a penis!” at my belly.

I’ve assured him it does NOT work like that, and he really should be clear on it.  After all, I gave him The Talk a few years ago.  The Ex said that he had already done The Talk, but it turned out that consisted of some vague hand gestures and cryptic commentary** which was even less enlightening than the time years before, when I tried to teach The Hair the facts of life using a book published by the Amish***.

So when little The Drama expressed confusion on the subject, I pulled out a Dorling Kindersley book on human anatomy****, and was very, very candid on the subject.  The three glasses of wine I’d had that evening probably helped.

His comment when I finished: “Well, there goes MY childhood”.

So I don’t know, maybe I should have spent more time on fetal development rather than just the mechanics of conception; or maybe he’s been reading some Power of Positive Thinking crap, or somehow gotten into a weird “name it and claim it” cult (oh…I hope not.  Just got out of the LAST cult).  But he insists he will not give up hope until she actually hits puberty and sprouts boobs.

So once she’s here ………I’m inclined to just make him change diapers until he sees and admits his error.

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*Count ’em. Six.

**True story

***Also true.  Misguidedly wholesome, but true.

****with pop-up pictures

I should be grateful, really.

Here I am, 44 damn years old* and pregnant, and it’s been easy. Ok, relatively easy.  Growing a whole new human being in your uterus is actually NOT easy, and those people who don’t give up their seats for pregnant women on public transport definitely have a special circle of Hell reserved just for them.  But given my Advanced Age and compared to What Some Women Go Through, I really can’t complain.  The standard round of nausea and vomiting in the first trimester. An expected amount of fatigue. A little flirtation with anaemia, but nothing some iron supplements couldn’t beat into submission. A little bit of H/C/D** off and on down under, but that’s pretty much it. No gestational diabetes. No puffy ankles.  None of the varied assortment of horrible things that can make having a baby nine months of hell***.

Except the heartburn.

Or as I like to call it, “The Fifth Horseman of The Apocalypse”.  War, Famine, Pestilence, Death……..and Heartburn.

It was EPIC.  It was George R R Martin five-novel-unfinished-saga level epic.

Now, IF I didn’t eat within six hours of lying down, and I avoided “trigger” foods (AKA, all the foods), and I propped myself up so I was sleeping at a 90 degree angle, well then – I could get away with only waking up in agony to pop Tums about ten times a night. Plus of course waking up to pee about six times.  But hey, I don’t need sleep, I’m just making a person here.

You know what it says on the Tums bottle? It says not to take more than seven tablets a day. Unless you’re pregnant, if you’re pregnant, you’re not supposed to take more than five.

Excuse me while I engage in bitter, hollow laughter. HahahahahahahahahahahahaHA!!  

Clearly something had to change. And that’s how Little Miss “I don’t need an epidural” Hippy Natural Homebirth here, found herself at Target buying a bottle of Nexium OTC.

And oh – sweet mother of candy coated dragons, those little purple tablets were magic.  Within 48 hours the heartburn was gone. GONE. I could lie down. I could drink orange juice and lie down.  Ahhhhh…….the relief was absolute.

For 2 months, anyhow.

Now …..the heartburn is back. Just like a Stephen King monster who you thought was dead but was merely laying low until you thought it was safe. I guess The Kicker, in her quest to be my biggest baby ever (The Voice, at 9lb 6oz, is the one to beat), has pushed my poor squished organs around so much that my stomach and esophagus have actually had to move in together, and Try To Get Along (cue The Odd Couple theme music, it’s not working).

Ok, it’s not as bad as before. Yet. I’m only taking a few supplementary Tums. So far. But I know, it’s a race. Will The Kicker vacate the premises before the tension between my stomach and esophagus erupts into a full-blown acid apocalypse?  Who knows?  Will I actually get MORE sleep when I have a newborn?  Possibly.  Should I have bought stock in Tums 20 years ago?  Definitely.

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*when mentioning your age before the fact that you’re pregnant, and the age is over forty, you are legally required to insert the word “damn”.

** the “H” is for “haemorrhoids”. You can guess the others. Or not.

***but not as bad a hell as the one reserved for douchebags on the subway, obviously.

The Canadian went skiing.  With a bad back. What could go wrong?

He had a lift pass burning up his pocket, with limited time to use it what with the imminent arrival of The Kicker; the mountains were calling.  He hadn’t skied in years between having a super shitty life and no money for a looooooong time; and then more recently, a herniated disc.  Yep, back problems going on a year and a half now but finally recovered JUST enough to engage in a little light skiing. So off he went for the day, with the full blessing of The Kicker and myself.

“Be careful with your back”, say I.

“I’ll take it easy”, says he.

Now The Canadian has been skiing since he was in diapers, so “taking it easy” apparently means “taking it easy on the kind of Black Diamond runs mostly frequented by Olympic competitors, the suicidally insane, and Norwegians”.  If you’re not skiing like you’re being chased by James Bond villains on snow mobiles, you’re not doing it right.   He had a marvelous time, apparently, until the last run of the day when there was an Incident With a Tree.

Several years ago I saw Rod Stewart perform on American Idol. He shuffled on stage like an old, old man who’d just had his walker taken away (and proceeded to croak his way through “Maggie May”.  THAT was three minutes of sad irony).  The Canadian bears zero resemblance to Sir Rod, but he shuffled into the room in exactly the same fragile geriatric way, grinned sheepishly, and said: “Ah….I might have broken a couple of ribs”

Any woman reading this knows that men tend to fall into one of two categories when it comes to Pain and Suffering. There are those who are absolute babies (The Ex once sulked for years* after I left him alone with the flu for a few hours), and then there are those shrug off concussion and keep right on trucking**, because they’re FINE***.

The Canadian is most definitely the latter.  He’s stitched himself up over the sink after being knocked through a glass door (and has the scar to prove it). He’s been known to cut off his cast with a saw because it was getting in the way of working. I’ve personally witnessed him break his hand during a construction job, bandage it up, wrap it in duct tape, and keep right on building stuff.  I have no doubt at all that should the need arise, he would dig bullets out of himself with a pen knife in between double shots of whiskey straight from the bottle (and if he was feeling SUPER fancy, he might first sterilize the knife with a cigarette lighter). So believe me when I say that if The Canadian is yelping in pain with almost every movement, you can be sure that he is in the kind of Serious Discomort that would have lesser mortals weeping and begging for morphine – or more likely, unconscious.

So, here we are.  Me in full blown waddle mode, and The Canadian in agonizing shuffle mode. The combined symphony of grunting and groaning is equal parts sad and hilarious, and presumably good practice for being genuinely old and decrepit. Meanwhile The Kicker keeps enthusiastically reminding me with constant, vigorous Braxton Hicks contractions that she can’t WAIT to come out and join in the fun.

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*true story

**also a true story

***true story #3: I once bought a t shirt for The Canadian, it had a graphic of bullet holes across the chest and the caption “I’m fine”