My post at 5 Minutes for Parenting today is about the calm before the storm, how life tends to pop with color for me the days just before a new baby arrives.
And we are, literally, days away from that blessed event. If Baby Boy doesn't decide to come on his own this week, he will get his eviction papers next Wednesday, May 12.
Why an induction, you might ask? It's a fair question, one I don't think I've addressed very well on my blog.
So here you go: The background story for why I will most likely be induced next Wednesday. (Attention male readers who are also related to me: Stop reading now. You might want to check out these Jesus cookies instead. Have a pleasant day.)
1. I have medium-sized babies. Natalie, my firstborn, was 8 pounds, 11 ounces at 41 weeks. (That's one week overdue for those of you not fluent in pregnancy.) Connor was 8 pounds, 3 ounces at 39 weeks (one week early). Teyla -- sweet, tiny Teyla -- was 7 pounds, 4 ounces at 39 weeks. I realize for those of you who grow 11-pound babies (cough, Heather, cough), those are feather-weight newborns. But for me, they are substantial enough to warrant some watchfulness.
2. To my great surprise, I dilated early and consistently with Connor. At 36 weeks (the first time most OBs or midwives check "what's going on down there"), I was at 2cm. At 37 weeks, I was at 3cm. At 38 weeks, I was at 4cm. At 39 weeks, I was at 5cm. (And this was all without painful contractions.) "Woo-hoo!" I thought to myself at the time. "I'm already halfway there." What I didn't know is that ...
3. ... Early and consistent dilation often means lightning fast active labor. Connor was born approximately 30 minutes after Corey and I screeched into the ER. (His birth story is here and here, if you're bored.) It was crazy and hectic and completely drug-free. Which was completely against my birth plan, by the way.
4. When I was pregnant with Teyla, I again started to dilate early and consistently. To stay ahead of the curve, my wonderful OB agreed to induce me around 39 weeks so we could better control what was going on AND (this is the important part) I could enjoy an good epidural for the first time ever, as God intended.
5. Teyla's birth was miraculous and beautiful and peaceful and (dare I say it?) fun. Because I was already dilated to 4cm, we didn't even use Pitocin. My OB just broke my water and -- whoosh! -- we were off. It was such a positive experience, I looked at Corey when Teyla was about 10 seconds old and said, "Oh my word! I could do this again tomorrow!" (Which was NOT what he wanted to hear. But you know. It was that easy, compared to the births of Natalie and Connor.)
6. And that brings us to today. Once again, I'm dilating early and consistently. My body is following the same pattern set down by Connor. And the sheer size of my belly makes me think this baby is not going to weigh less than Teyla. Put it all together and you get a highlighted date on the calendar for May 12.
7. One last thing, that I can't overlook: Scheduling an induction also simplifies the whole who's-going-to-watch-the-older kids aspect of giving birth -- and my OB, having three kids of her own, sympathizes with that headache. Ever since False Labor Monday, Corey and I have instituted a Plan B in case I break out with a case of real contractions. But Plan B, by its very nature, tends to be a little hectic and crazy. Having an induction scheduled means my parents can drive from Colorado and be here to stay with Natalie, Connor and Teyla while I'm in the hospital (and lunches will be made ahead of time and outfits put together and everyone will know Teyla's nap schedule and what times the kids need to be at school, etc.). It's incredibly freeing for a control freak to know the plan is being followed.
So here we go: One week. I'm off to enjoy a few more days of big belly "freedom." It's all about to change.
How to Fit 6 People in a 3-Bedroom Townhouse...and Love It
My youngest brother called me last week and said, with a note of regret in his voice, that he was going to have to unsubscribe from my blog if the nature of my posts didn't change. I guess all the talk of pregnant watermelon bellies and rupture of membranes and bloody show got to him.
Duly noted, Jon. Thus, I present a pregnancy-free post. (But I can't promise this will stick. After all, I'm scheduled to be induced next week. This is only a temporary reprieve.)
Here's a real-life story problem for you.
How do you fit six people and a dog in a cozy-but-not-so-big, 3-bedroom, 2.5 bath townhouse?
My mind started chewing away at that puzzle last September, about five minutes after we found out we were expecting Baby #4.
Right up front, I want to say: We love living here. It's our home while we wait for our ex-house in Tiny Town to sell. And we are keenly aware that at 1900-square-feet, it is bigger than the dwellings of most of the world's population.
But we also knew it would take some rejiggering to fit us all comfortably. At the time, Connor and Natalie shared a room...
...and Teyla enjoyed her own space, the better to corral all the baby gear and keep the disruption of midnight wakings to a minimum.
Corey and I threw out a few different possibilities during the first half of the pregnancy. (Put all the kids together in one room and leave the extra room for the baby? Look into renting a bigger house while we continue to wait for our ex-house to sell? Put the baby in with us?)
But it wasn't until we found out we are having a boy that a good plan came together.
First, we decided change the rooms into a boys' room and a girls' room. Not only did it make the most sense to split the kids evenly, but it meant we didn't have to repaint. (The girls' room is pink; the boys' room is green.)
Then we settled on bunk beds as the only way to fit everyone into the 10-by-10 spaces.
Then I did the grunt work of measuring most of our upstairs furniture to see what would fit in the new rooms. (Things that didn't fit were sold on Craigs List. I'm ruthless about keeping things lately. I even sold the glider rocker when it was determined it was just too big.)
Then, when the kids were on spring break, Corey took a few days vacation to dismantle the current bedrooms...
... (creation is a messy business, yes?) ...
... assemble beds ...
... and get the new rooms ready for occupancy.
And when we were finished, I clapped my hands for joy. Literally. The new rooms are even cuter than I imagined.
Thus, I present to you: The new girls' room...
...and the new boys' room.
The one vital piece of furniture I couldn't fit in the bedrooms was the changing table. So that went into the hallway.
Actually, that's a fine compromise, since both Teyla and the new baby will use it for the time being.
I also had to move my old office, which was tucked into the nursery closet...
...into a corner of the master bedroom.
End result: I. Am. So. Happy. The rooms are adorable. And the kids love their new spaces. (This also served as Teyla's transition into a big girl bed, which has been a fabulous move for all of us. But that's a story for another day.)
The only problem outstanding is how to change the sheets on bunk beds. Because, good night, it took me stinkin' FOREVER to get them on and tucked in the first time. Right now, I'm thinking they will get laundered once a year ("It's the day of Laundry Jubilee, kids!") or when they get contaminated with bodily fluids. (Sorry Jon!)
Any tips from bunk bed veterans?
Duly noted, Jon. Thus, I present a pregnancy-free post. (But I can't promise this will stick. After all, I'm scheduled to be induced next week. This is only a temporary reprieve.)
Here's a real-life story problem for you.
How do you fit six people and a dog in a cozy-but-not-so-big, 3-bedroom, 2.5 bath townhouse?
My mind started chewing away at that puzzle last September, about five minutes after we found out we were expecting Baby #4.
Right up front, I want to say: We love living here. It's our home while we wait for our ex-house in Tiny Town to sell. And we are keenly aware that at 1900-square-feet, it is bigger than the dwellings of most of the world's population.
But we also knew it would take some rejiggering to fit us all comfortably. At the time, Connor and Natalie shared a room...
...and Teyla enjoyed her own space, the better to corral all the baby gear and keep the disruption of midnight wakings to a minimum.
Corey and I threw out a few different possibilities during the first half of the pregnancy. (Put all the kids together in one room and leave the extra room for the baby? Look into renting a bigger house while we continue to wait for our ex-house to sell? Put the baby in with us?)
But it wasn't until we found out we are having a boy that a good plan came together.
First, we decided change the rooms into a boys' room and a girls' room. Not only did it make the most sense to split the kids evenly, but it meant we didn't have to repaint. (The girls' room is pink; the boys' room is green.)
Then we settled on bunk beds as the only way to fit everyone into the 10-by-10 spaces.
Then I did the grunt work of measuring most of our upstairs furniture to see what would fit in the new rooms. (Things that didn't fit were sold on Craigs List. I'm ruthless about keeping things lately. I even sold the glider rocker when it was determined it was just too big.)
Then, when the kids were on spring break, Corey took a few days vacation to dismantle the current bedrooms...
... (creation is a messy business, yes?) ...
... assemble beds ...
... and get the new rooms ready for occupancy.
And when we were finished, I clapped my hands for joy. Literally. The new rooms are even cuter than I imagined.
Thus, I present to you: The new girls' room...
...and the new boys' room.
The one vital piece of furniture I couldn't fit in the bedrooms was the changing table. So that went into the hallway.
Actually, that's a fine compromise, since both Teyla and the new baby will use it for the time being.
I also had to move my old office, which was tucked into the nursery closet...
...into a corner of the master bedroom.
End result: I. Am. So. Happy. The rooms are adorable. And the kids love their new spaces. (This also served as Teyla's transition into a big girl bed, which has been a fabulous move for all of us. But that's a story for another day.)
The only problem outstanding is how to change the sheets on bunk beds. Because, good night, it took me stinkin' FOREVER to get them on and tucked in the first time. Right now, I'm thinking they will get laundered once a year ("It's the day of Laundry Jubilee, kids!") or when they get contaminated with bodily fluids. (Sorry Jon!)
Any tips from bunk bed veterans?
Us
Seventeen years ago today, I got up early - really early for a Saturday.
I had to, you see, because a trio of young men came and took away my bed.
For the first time ever, my bed was leaving my childhood bedroom, the one with the blue walls that you could barely see behind all the posters, post cards, pictures and comics.
Because I was getting married that day. My bed and I were leaving the comforts of home and charting a new course with a new man. A new adventure.
It hit me today that Corey and I are at the tipping point. We have one more year of marriage before our years of Married with Kids equals (and then surpasses) our years of Married without Kids. The last eight years have been so full of life, it's hard to remember a time when it wasn't Us + The Crowd.
It was just Us.
The beautiful thing is, I appreciate Us more now, in the midst of the The Crowd.
I fall more in love with Us every passing day.
Seventeen years. Ups and downs, joys and agonies. Redemption. God's handiwork.
Us. Because of Him.
I had to, you see, because a trio of young men came and took away my bed.
For the first time ever, my bed was leaving my childhood bedroom, the one with the blue walls that you could barely see behind all the posters, post cards, pictures and comics.
Because I was getting married that day. My bed and I were leaving the comforts of home and charting a new course with a new man. A new adventure.
It hit me today that Corey and I are at the tipping point. We have one more year of marriage before our years of Married with Kids equals (and then surpasses) our years of Married without Kids. The last eight years have been so full of life, it's hard to remember a time when it wasn't Us + The Crowd.
It was just Us.
The beautiful thing is, I appreciate Us more now, in the midst of the The Crowd.
I fall more in love with Us every passing day.
Seventeen years. Ups and downs, joys and agonies. Redemption. God's handiwork.
Us. Because of Him.
37 Weeks and Pregnant-er than Ever
Warning: I've been writing this post for the better part of the last 24 hours, but apparently, my pregnant brain is incapable of focusing for more than ... what was I saying? I apologize in advance for the randomness you're about to read.
Last night, as is my custom, I sat on the floor next to Teyla's bed and surfed the Internet while I waited for my two-year-old to fall asleep and give me back my arm. (I am her security blanket. Lately, her favorite coping mechanism is to stroke my upper arm. "Arm, Mommy! Arm!" she cries if I dare to take my arm away to type a new web address. So I sit and click on links and type one-handed and we get along just fine.)
Lacking anything better to do, I Googled "signs labor is imminent" just for kicks.
I compiled the following list:
1. Spurt of energy / nesting
2. Loss of mucus plug / bloody show
3. Over-active intestinal system
4. Rupture of membranes
5. Cervix dilation and effacement
(Did I lose all my male readers around mucus plug? Most likely. Carry on.)
I'll spare you graphic details, but let me say this: I have four of the five symptoms down pat. (And the last? My water never breaks until the doctor reaches for the knitting needle. My Mom believes we have the Teflon bag gene. So I don't think that one will ever get crossed off my list.)
To be clear, I am aware -- very, very aware -- that these signs mean I might go into labor tonight, or I might wait two more weeks until my induction date. They should be labeled "Signs of Imminent Labor. Or Not."
That said, I did end up spending some quality time in a mumu Monday morning during a surprise trip to Labor and Delivery. The whole story is over at 5 Minutes for Parenting today. And I am a bundle of contractions lately. I have an OB appointment in the morning. I will be very interested to see if I'm still dilating progressively. Given that I was at 2 centimeters last Friday and 3 centimeters on Monday, I wouldn't be surprised if I'm at 4 tomorrow. Or 5. Or even a 3. Heck, this childbirth stuff isn't an exact science.
No wonder I'm so distractable.
Oh! And I took some pictures tonight to show y'all the watermelon I'm sporting these days, and I seriously couldn't keep a straight face. I mean, LOOK AT ME.
That's ridiculous. And crazy. And bizarre.
I keep reminding myself that I am enlarged in the waiting. For a single guy, Paul sure knew what he was talking about. Amen and amen.
Thursday afternoon update: Still at 3 centimeters, 50% effaced. No significant change from Monday morning. I'm a little surprised, but then again, I'm not. If I've learned anything this week, it's that the last weeks of pregnancy are unpredictable.
Last night, as is my custom, I sat on the floor next to Teyla's bed and surfed the Internet while I waited for my two-year-old to fall asleep and give me back my arm. (I am her security blanket. Lately, her favorite coping mechanism is to stroke my upper arm. "Arm, Mommy! Arm!" she cries if I dare to take my arm away to type a new web address. So I sit and click on links and type one-handed and we get along just fine.)
Lacking anything better to do, I Googled "signs labor is imminent" just for kicks.
I compiled the following list:
1. Spurt of energy / nesting
2. Loss of mucus plug / bloody show
3. Over-active intestinal system
4. Rupture of membranes
5. Cervix dilation and effacement
(Did I lose all my male readers around mucus plug? Most likely. Carry on.)
I'll spare you graphic details, but let me say this: I have four of the five symptoms down pat. (And the last? My water never breaks until the doctor reaches for the knitting needle. My Mom believes we have the Teflon bag gene. So I don't think that one will ever get crossed off my list.)
To be clear, I am aware -- very, very aware -- that these signs mean I might go into labor tonight, or I might wait two more weeks until my induction date. They should be labeled "Signs of Imminent Labor. Or Not."
That said, I did end up spending some quality time in a mumu Monday morning during a surprise trip to Labor and Delivery. The whole story is over at 5 Minutes for Parenting today. And I am a bundle of contractions lately. I have an OB appointment in the morning. I will be very interested to see if I'm still dilating progressively. Given that I was at 2 centimeters last Friday and 3 centimeters on Monday, I wouldn't be surprised if I'm at 4 tomorrow. Or 5. Or even a 3. Heck, this childbirth stuff isn't an exact science.
No wonder I'm so distractable.
Oh! And I took some pictures tonight to show y'all the watermelon I'm sporting these days, and I seriously couldn't keep a straight face. I mean, LOOK AT ME.
That's ridiculous. And crazy. And bizarre.
I keep reminding myself that I am enlarged in the waiting. For a single guy, Paul sure knew what he was talking about. Amen and amen.
Thursday afternoon update: Still at 3 centimeters, 50% effaced. No significant change from Monday morning. I'm a little surprised, but then again, I'm not. If I've learned anything this week, it's that the last weeks of pregnancy are unpredictable.
Phoenix 1994
I hated Phoenix.
I hated everything about it with the fiery white intensity of a thousand suns – which, not so coincidentally, felt like exact temperature of my car steering wheel after it baked in the 120-degree July heat for eight hours while I typed in a cubicle. (I had to wear oven mitts to drive home.)
I hated the cactus-and-rock yards. I hated the miles of pink stucco houses with red tile roofs. I hated the flatness of the terrain. I hated the way the sun glinted off the cars in the midday sun. I hated that the thermometer rarely dipped below 95, even at night.
Most of all, I hated the dry barrenness of the desert. I grew up in the Land of 10,000 Lakes. My favorite t-shirt proclaimed, “Water is life.” And I lived it. I spent every free minute of the summer swimming and water-skiing and diving and boating in the cool, clean lakes around my home. I loved taking a nap on the floating raft on Lake Johanna and waking up to the sound of boat motors and cottonwood leaves dancing on the breeze. My world was blue and green.
Until my new husband and I accepted a job relocation to Arizona. Then my world was orange and red and brown. No green. No blue.
Just a smear of ugly.
Friends who grew up in Phoenix tried to convince me of the dessert’s beauty. They took me to Sedona. “Isn’t it beautiful?” they would sigh as we drove past grotesque mounds of exposed rock.
No. To me, it looked dead and hellish and like God threw the leftovers of sin here and let them rot.
They took me to Pleasant Lake, a man-made reservoir north of Phoenix, hoping to assuage my desperate thirst for water. I found a muddy brown puddle set in the middle of more cactus and scrub bushes, with dead trees on the shores. It was neither a lake nor pleasant.
To be fair, this was my first real time moving away from home. I wasn’t just dealing with a new climate. I was trying to cope with a new marriage and a new job and a new life, even as I mourned the loss of family and friends and familiarity. And water.
I didn’t see how I would ever find comfort in the desolation. How could this be home? How could I relate to people who planted saguaro in their front yard on purpose? How could I cope with being inside all summer due to the blistering heat, with the thought that I would be wearing flip-flops and tank tops and still sweating in October, with the blisters on my thighs from those sneaky sizzling seatbelt buckles?
And then we moved. Eight months after we moved to Phoenix, Corey’s company offered him another job relocation – this time, to (blessed, green, temperate, seaside) San Diego.
I wish I had known Phoenix was only a season. Maybe I wouldn’t have complained so much. Maybe I would have enjoyed the adventure. Maybe I would have looked for God in the desert instead of always and only looking at me.
Maybe.
I hated everything about it with the fiery white intensity of a thousand suns – which, not so coincidentally, felt like exact temperature of my car steering wheel after it baked in the 120-degree July heat for eight hours while I typed in a cubicle. (I had to wear oven mitts to drive home.)
I hated the cactus-and-rock yards. I hated the miles of pink stucco houses with red tile roofs. I hated the flatness of the terrain. I hated the way the sun glinted off the cars in the midday sun. I hated that the thermometer rarely dipped below 95, even at night.
Most of all, I hated the dry barrenness of the desert. I grew up in the Land of 10,000 Lakes. My favorite t-shirt proclaimed, “Water is life.” And I lived it. I spent every free minute of the summer swimming and water-skiing and diving and boating in the cool, clean lakes around my home. I loved taking a nap on the floating raft on Lake Johanna and waking up to the sound of boat motors and cottonwood leaves dancing on the breeze. My world was blue and green.
Until my new husband and I accepted a job relocation to Arizona. Then my world was orange and red and brown. No green. No blue.
Just a smear of ugly.
Friends who grew up in Phoenix tried to convince me of the dessert’s beauty. They took me to Sedona. “Isn’t it beautiful?” they would sigh as we drove past grotesque mounds of exposed rock.
No. To me, it looked dead and hellish and like God threw the leftovers of sin here and let them rot.
They took me to Pleasant Lake, a man-made reservoir north of Phoenix, hoping to assuage my desperate thirst for water. I found a muddy brown puddle set in the middle of more cactus and scrub bushes, with dead trees on the shores. It was neither a lake nor pleasant.
To be fair, this was my first real time moving away from home. I wasn’t just dealing with a new climate. I was trying to cope with a new marriage and a new job and a new life, even as I mourned the loss of family and friends and familiarity. And water.
I didn’t see how I would ever find comfort in the desolation. How could this be home? How could I relate to people who planted saguaro in their front yard on purpose? How could I cope with being inside all summer due to the blistering heat, with the thought that I would be wearing flip-flops and tank tops and still sweating in October, with the blisters on my thighs from those sneaky sizzling seatbelt buckles?
And then we moved. Eight months after we moved to Phoenix, Corey’s company offered him another job relocation – this time, to (blessed, green, temperate, seaside) San Diego.
I wish I had known Phoenix was only a season. Maybe I wouldn’t have complained so much. Maybe I would have enjoyed the adventure. Maybe I would have looked for God in the desert instead of always and only looking at me.
Maybe.
Pregnancy Notes: 36 Weeks
Are y'all tired of me talking about the pregnancy yet?
It will all be over in three weeks, I promise. My OB has amicably agreed to induce me at 39 weeks -- which was three weeks from yesterday, not that anyone's counting. But of course, there's a good chance this baby boy will come before that, seeing as I dilated early with both Connor and Teyla. We'll find out more at my doctor's appointment tomorrow morning. (I go every week from now on. Which details do you not want to know?)
My post at 5 Minutes for Parenting yesterday details the one question that makes me twitchy at this point in the pregnancy. People can comment on my growing belly without me batting an eyelash. But ask me this? And I get all crazy inside.
I will say this, though: I think I feel better now, at 36 weeks, than I did two months ago. Physical therapy has all but healed my falling apart disease, and thanks to the cleaners, I rarely bend over these days, which saves my back. Plus, it's GOR-GEE-OUS here. It's been sunny and in the low 70s all week. (Just a reality check: Normal high for now is about 52.) I'm realizing, once again, how deeply my outlook is affected by sunlight.
It will all be over in three weeks, I promise. My OB has amicably agreed to induce me at 39 weeks -- which was three weeks from yesterday, not that anyone's counting. But of course, there's a good chance this baby boy will come before that, seeing as I dilated early with both Connor and Teyla. We'll find out more at my doctor's appointment tomorrow morning. (I go every week from now on. Which details do you not want to know?)
My post at 5 Minutes for Parenting yesterday details the one question that makes me twitchy at this point in the pregnancy. People can comment on my growing belly without me batting an eyelash. But ask me this? And I get all crazy inside.
I will say this, though: I think I feel better now, at 36 weeks, than I did two months ago. Physical therapy has all but healed my falling apart disease, and thanks to the cleaners, I rarely bend over these days, which saves my back. Plus, it's GOR-GEE-OUS here. It's been sunny and in the low 70s all week. (Just a reality check: Normal high for now is about 52.) I'm realizing, once again, how deeply my outlook is affected by sunlight.
That Commercial Made My Daughter Cry
When I came downstairs from my nap-with-Teyla yesterday (a regular afternoon happening lately, for which this 36-week-preggo is thankful), I found my two older kids quietly playing with Legos and watching an episode of "America's Funniest Videos" we had DVR'd.
Two minutes later, as I was putzing in the kitchen, I heard Natalie start to wail. As in sackcloth-and-ashes Middle Eastern-type wail. I turned around and saw my sweet eight-year-old with bright red eyes and tears streaming down her cheeks.
"That commercial made me cry," she sobbed and threw her head into a pillow.
Want to guess which commercial it was?
--
Update:
First, I'd like to say if it was me crying at a commercial, I would be crying at one of those super-creepy Burger King king commercials. Seriously. Those are a horror move in the making.
But Natalie's not me. And Misti guessed it. Natalie was crying at the Sarah McLachlan SPCA commercial, which is Exhibit A in manipulative fundraising.
I'm going to resist a rant here, but appeals like that steam me. They are designed to make people feel guilty and sad and pathetic that they haven't fed their fish today. I have no problem with nonprofits raising money and awareness; that's the whole point of Corey's job, to facilitate that kind of transaction. But there is a respectful way to do it and an oh-so-wrong-way to do it. Nonprofits that feel the need to resort to pictures of abused, caged animals or children with horrible birth defects do not deserve money or attention. They are exploitative.
And yes, as Mocha with Linda pointed out, Natalie does have a tender heart, especially when it comes to animals. Last night, when she overheard me telling Corey about The Incident, she put her hands over her ears, teared up and said, "Mom! Please don't talk about it!"
Pitiful.
Maybe Sarah McLachlan can make a commercial about the kids the SPCA has traumatized under the guise of awareness.
Two minutes later, as I was putzing in the kitchen, I heard Natalie start to wail. As in sackcloth-and-ashes Middle Eastern-type wail. I turned around and saw my sweet eight-year-old with bright red eyes and tears streaming down her cheeks.
"That commercial made me cry," she sobbed and threw her head into a pillow.
Want to guess which commercial it was?
--
Update:
First, I'd like to say if it was me crying at a commercial, I would be crying at one of those super-creepy Burger King king commercials. Seriously. Those are a horror move in the making.
But Natalie's not me. And Misti guessed it. Natalie was crying at the Sarah McLachlan SPCA commercial, which is Exhibit A in manipulative fundraising.
I'm going to resist a rant here, but appeals like that steam me. They are designed to make people feel guilty and sad and pathetic that they haven't fed their fish today. I have no problem with nonprofits raising money and awareness; that's the whole point of Corey's job, to facilitate that kind of transaction. But there is a respectful way to do it and an oh-so-wrong-way to do it. Nonprofits that feel the need to resort to pictures of abused, caged animals or children with horrible birth defects do not deserve money or attention. They are exploitative.
And yes, as Mocha with Linda pointed out, Natalie does have a tender heart, especially when it comes to animals. Last night, when she overheard me telling Corey about The Incident, she put her hands over her ears, teared up and said, "Mom! Please don't talk about it!"
Pitiful.
Maybe Sarah McLachlan can make a commercial about the kids the SPCA has traumatized under the guise of awareness.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
