Surprise! My husband's delivering the baby this time

I had my Level 10,000 Super Duper Mega Ultrasound this week. I had to go to the Pukon Schmelth Schmenter (name changed to protect identity but go on and click that link!) to have it because Mulletville Hospital doesn't own its own machine. 

If you've never been to the Pukon Schmelth Schmenter it looks like a beehive-esque stone prison on a hill. The Pregnancy Office staff, kept underground in a musty basement, are delightful, except for the Evil Pregnancy Doctor, who sighs heavily throughout the ultrasound and doesn't speak, leaving you to believe he has spotted every abnormality known to man on your unsuspecting fetus. 

He's no better post-ultrasound, when he plops down on his chair and, without any emotion whatsoever, recites a litany of birth defect/geriatric mother statistics that leave you in a ball of tears. Thankfully one of those sweet nurses swoops in afterward to let you know that everything looks just fine. 

Chuck, Everett and I were listening to the nice nurse when Chuck started sweating, holding his side and pacing the room.

"Is everything okay?" I asked him.

"I think I...need to check....myself into...the ER. Kidney...stone."

"Oh dear," the nice nurse said.

And just like that he was gone.

When we went upstairs to locate Chuck he was nowhere to be seen. Thankfully the sound of his vomiting led me right to him! He was standing in a parking lot off the ER, knees buckling from pain. He'd already registered but because he wasn't standing IN the ER (he didn't want to vomit on anyone), they wouldn't treat him.

So Chuck would come in and wait to be seen, but no doctor would come. So he'd go back outside to puke, the little angry man at the desk would yell "Have him come inside!", Chuck would, and so on. It was a 3-ring circus.

Finally—finally!— he was whisked away to a hospital bed in the hallway (next to a deranged man in a cast who sang "To see your doctor, call 9-1-1! To see your doctor, call 9-1-1! To see your doctor, call 9-1-1! To see your doctor, call 9-1-1!" nonstop) and a mere hour later received some pain medication.

Everett and I stayed with him for the next four hours, until the doctor released him because there was nothing more they could do for him. And now, three days later, he's recovering at Mulletville Hospital from a ureteroscopy.

For crap's sake I feel like Chuck gave birth. I see Chuck hunched over and moaning, as if he were in labor. I remember the questions about the kidney stone—"How big? How long until it drops?"—and they sound like labor questions. I wonder, will he come home with the 6 mm stone wrapped in a soft blanket?

What should we name it?

Most of all I am struck by the timing. It was supposed to be my ultrasound—my day at the doctor's. Six years ago in a post I wrote, "His organs keeps trumping me" and by God, he's still doing it. What's going to happen when we're 90? When I fall and break my hip? Will he spontaneously go into cardiac arrest the minute my elderly bone hits the floor?

Yes, yes, he will! The sneaky bastard will! But hey, we'll have three children to watch over us at that point (knock on wood). Two boys and a...

Shoot! Gotta run! Chuck's calling.

(P.S. Don't ever go to Pukon Schmelth Schmenter. It's hell on earth.)

But wait, there's more...MUCH more

About a month ago (ehem) I mentioned that we bought a pub in town and are opening it up and that that is a very, very good reason for not being able to blog as much.

Well, there's something else I neglected to mention—and it's another excellent reason for not being able to blog as much. The reason is this: Chuck went and knocked me up again. And I've been sick as a dog since May.

I thought I knew pregnancy; after all, this is #3. I thought I knew about nausea and fatigue and the emotional roller coaster (it's so fun to channel the Hulk!) but let me tell you, all of that went out the window with this one. With the other two I was at least able to function but this time, I was a complete walking disaster. There were days when I woke up, opened one eye and cried, "I can't do it!" but of course when you work, have two children and are opening a fucking pub you can't do that, so I sniveled, cried and vomited my way through summer.

(The kids loved it!)

And let's not forget that I'm months away from turning 40 so there's the whole GERIATRIC component to the pregnancy. (And here I thought being 36 and "vagged" was a nasty ordeal.) Why, just yesterday I called my doctor for an insurance code to see if a procedure was covered and was told to use code 87.541—"That's the code for ELDERLY mothers with MANY children."

Riiiight, because I'm suddenly 80 with 80 children, you douche.

But hey, the bright side is that I've decided to have a wonderful, positive outlook with this pregnancy (can't you tell?). Gone are the days of the anti-pregnant woman. I passed my glucose test a few weeks ago so I don't even have to think about fucktational diabetes (no more rubber veggie demonstrations for me!) for another few months.

And in two weeks I get to find out if I'm going to have enough boys to make up my own baseball team or if I'm going to have to start liking glitter and rainbows again.

Which brings me back to the whole emotional roller coaster aspect of pregnancy. At my last appointment the nurse asked me if I wanted a boy or a girl. I took a deep breath and gave my spiel: I want a healthy baby, I love having boys, I didn't get pregnant to have a girl, blah, blah. I meant every word of it but it doesn't mean the people in my life aren't secretly chanting "Be a girl, be a girl, be a girl..." and that I can't feel their chants in the background.

Seriously, sometimes I expect to look out my window and see my family, friends, and neighbors in a drum circle—complete with pink batons and a totem unicorn. 

As the nurse looked at me, I thought of those people and their reaction if I am, indeed, having another boy, and I started to cry.

"I dread telling them!" I said.

"Then don't," she said. "Tell them you couldn't tell yet from the ultrasound and give yourself another month to feel stronger."

I loved her for saving that. I loved her for giving me permission to set boundaries and protect myself. But most of all I loved the image that suddenly popped into my head. It was from summer. We were at a picnic, and I was lying in the grass, crying and vomiting. The woman next to me was tossing her baby girl into the air. She said, "After two boys I finally got my girl! Finally!" I looked over at her seven year old son: he'd heard her and I wondered how the comment made him feel. 

I love this image because it reminds me that I am not that woman; I am happy and blessed, regardless. And if I want to, I can keep the gender a secret for the rest of this pregnancy and drive everyone fucking nuts.

Drum about that, bastards.

(See, I told you I was super duper positive with this one!)