I’m not feeling intelligent enough this morning to write much more than a few updates. I’m trying to cut back on coffee so the baby doesn’t go through severe withdraws when he’s born; I’d rather him cry his head off inside my tummy where no one can hear him, rather than be the fussiest, crankiest baby in the nursery once he gets out. "Look at that kid! He’s got the shakes!" "Yes, it’s sad. His mother was an addict."
Cheyenne is back and all of my kids are safe and sound under one roof–my roof–and I’ve been sleeping a little better at night. She had a good time and didn’t seem to be upset about her mee-maw. She’s never been one to show much emotion, but her total non-chalance is throwing me off. We were preparing ourselves for the worst, but I guess everyone deals with stress and grief in their own way–if she wanted to cry, that would’ve been fine. If she wants to shrug it off, that’s okay, too–I think. Is it?
Hmmm, what else…let’s see…last night I tried something wild and cooked brown rice in apple juice. No one liked it. So I threw a bitch fit and forced them to eat it. "There are starving kids in Africa! (Little do you know, we could be starving ourselves by next week!) Eat the damn rice! Eat it all! No, you can’t have the salt! No, you can’t refill your water! Fucking eat the rice! Eat it!" I didn’t neccessarily say all those words–but that was the lecture that was raging inside my head. Cheyenne was being particularly sassy and Mia was being insanely hyper (nothing new), so Caleb took over from there. Mia got sent to her room, Cheyenne got a good talking-to, and both the kids ate the (damn) rice.
I had a doctor’s appointment Monday. The baby is fine. His growth is fine. Everything is FINE. Just clipping along at 36 weeks now. I’m not dilating at all, even though I’ve been having those annoying crampy contractions on and off–never regular, never lasting or worsening. I’ve pretty much learned to ignore them at this point. I’ll probably ignore them all the way into a dramatic delivery on the side of a highway somewhere, and then we’ll have to name the kid either "Saturn" or "Alero"–probably Saturn since the Alero has highly stainable cloth seats.
Too bad we don’t drive a Bronco.