Hmmmm. Really?

Noone reads my blog page because it is: A) lacking any style B) rather boring rant filled tatrums usually involving my kids C)  I only post about once a millenium and can't figure out how to take myself off being my own "follower" so I am obviously blog retarded.  If I post it on facebook, my Aunt will usually read it and respond.  Thank you Aunt Debbie for making the cyber world seem a little less lonely.  All this being the case, the purpose of my blog is cheaper than therapy and I will now be using it, again, for probably weekly posts on my new situation.  A psychiatrist wouldn't agree to see me this many times in a week.

So, dearest blog, I'm pregnant, again, with #4, and pretty damned sure the giddy glee news of a baby was lost somewhere in the "what the hell?" post pregnancy test disbelief.  My "DH" which, seriously, who calls their husband, "darling husband" ... another topic ... has been in a year long abject refusal to get a vasectomy.  He is insistent that his fears are legitimate in that he doesn't like people "down there".  Huh.  Really?  I'm not super fond of my annual pap smears and going spread eagle in front of sometimes a doctor I just shook hands with 5 minutes earlier (we move so much I keep having to find new doctors, thank you Jon).  I'm particularly not fond of pushing out my Buddy Lee large headed children who's noggins are so HUGE that they have pediatricians checking them for "water on the brain" for the first year of their life. 

I am not particulary fond of my last birth where there was not only my mother in the room (this was okay), Jon in the room (mildly okay), but also the midwife, a nurse, a med student (who had never seen a live birth), a candy striper (also clueless about live birth), and a nurse assistant (again, voyeur that Jon allowed into the room).  Jon offered to "set up bleachers"" for the crowd as he said, "sure, come on in!"  Not kidding.  I was high on a very effective epidural (thank you great doctor and the magic button of power) and could feel nothing from about my midline down. If you've ever had a baby you don't really care who see's your "cha" after about 13 hours of labor, you just want "it" out!  Okay, the birth was beautiful and special, etc.  But thinking back, a few to many people "down there".

I'm 36.  I am of "advanced maternal age".  I feel every moment of every day of this pregnancy because I am either falling asleep like I have narcolepsy, or fighting the watery feeling in my mouth symbolizing the inevitable puking to follow.  I had a stroke, gestational diabetes, gall stones, and every other little ailment on the planet with #3.  I am no longer allowed to see a regular OB.  I was voted off the proverbial OB island to see a perinatologist, followed by a hematologist, somewhere in there a neonatologist, and every other ologist in the free world.  I get the pleasure of twice a day blood thinner injections to prevent said stroke tragedies from occurring this pregnancy.  I get to drive 40 minutes to Denver for every appointment to see the perinatologist instead of my regular OB.  I get to NOT deliver in the town I live in, but rather a "special" hospital in Denver for when I inevitably fall apart at the birth of this child. 

Four children ... scares me.  I barely have hold of the three boys I have.  They are physical little fist throwing screaming creatures, and Caden is a biter.  Never had a biter.  He draws blood.  Jon asked the other night after looking at a particularly venemous looking "scar of Caden" on Bradyn's belly (how did he bite him there and draw blood, who the hell knows?), "is Bradyn up to date on his tetanus shot, should we take him in?"  After rolling my eyes and taking a heavy sigh to look at what is my obviously "special" husband I told him that all was well because I was fairly certain Caden was not rabid and did not carry the plague.  Oh Jon.

It's only been 9 weeks (total) and I have already had 4 ultrasounds, been with 4 different doctors, and have had vial after vial of blood drained from my body.  On a completely serious note, despite it all, I still crumbled into emotional tears when I saw that little gummi bear with the fluttering heart beat.  I told my friend it would not be "real" until I actually saw proof that something was in me ... growing ... and it's there.  You think you are "over it" getting emotional seeing every ultrasound ... but you never really are.  Seeing that little heart beat is always this gentle assurance that God doesn't make mistakes, and this creature who you haven't even met you would die for. 

My pregnancy is high risk.  I'm not going to pretend it doesn't scare me to have the perinatologist tell me, "you could die."  I'm not going to pretend I can make light of the reality this pregnancy may hold.  I'm still not medically recovered on some issues from the last pregnancy.  But I'm grateful.  I'm grateful for this baby.  I'm grateful for doctors and specialists that take every precaution they medically know of to protect me and this little life taking shape.  I'm grateful I have three beautiful healthy boys that give me hope this child will be just as healthy.  I'm grateful to have just one more.  To experience what I thought I never would again ... the first flutter that you aren't sure is just butter flies or indigestion.  Seeing the miraculous movement of little arms, feet and other various body parts moving across my abdomen.  The feeling of this life I am responsible for, even the moment of birth.  There is nothing more sacred and terrifying at the same time.

So, here we go.  Baby #4, full steam ahead.  Maybe it's a girl ... could we be that lucky?  Thank you blog.  Therapy session complete for today.