Not much new to report.
Right now I'm just waiting.
Waiting for Matthew to come home from work.
Waiting for Andrew to eat.
Waiting for Benjamin to poop.
Waiting for Thomas to arrive.
Waiting to have some sense of normalcy in my life.
Sunday was my 33rd birthday.
And despite everyone's best efforts, it was kind of a crappy day.
I can't even post pics of Andrew in my lap as I blow out the candles in my pan of brownies because I had been crying for about 30 minutes and look like death warmed over.
The day started off seemingly well. Matthew let me sleep in until 10:00.
Which normally would have been excellent. But that was the night we lost an hour due to Daylight Saving's Time, and we got in bed after 1:00.
Which was now 2:00.
Then we had to rush around to get everyone ready. We tried to get Benjamin to poop so that he wouldn't have a major blowout at Mom's.
Because for about four days straight, he'd had about two HUGE blowouts each day.
He has been living in flannel, footed Carter's sleepers. Because that's the best thing for containing all the mess. But I only have four in his size, so I'm always doing laundry.
I took Benjamin to my parents' house. Matthew and Andrew went with a couple of friends to the circus. And I went to Publix to pick up a cake for a dear friend's baby shower.
The shower was great. I loved seeing my friends, eating yummy shower food, and celebrating the impending birth of yet another sweet baby.
I left there, went to Salsarita's, picked up chips and salsa, then drove to my parents' house, where the family was getting together for my birthday meal.
Things started out fine, despite the fact that I am 37 weeks pregnant and exhausted.
Matthew and Andrew were running late b/c Matthew has been so busy at work that he waited until the last minute to get my birthday present.
Andrew was super fussy and disagreeable when they arrived, which is always lovely.
And though Benjamin had pooped twice that day, he still screamed bloody murder during dinner.
That sent me into a downward spiral.
We had been doing *so* well.
True, his poop had been disgusting, explosive, and had kept me completely homebound for days.
But he had been drinking and eating wonderfully for about four days. And for some reason, I thought he was better.
But as the all-too-familiar high-chair screaming and thrashing as soon as the spoon was brought within two feet of his mouth reared its ugly head, I just broke down.
It was all-too reminiscent of Thanksgiving.
When I reached my breaking point a previous time.
My mom thought that I was upset with her because she asked me to cut the Romaine lettuce.
A fact we laughed at later.
But Matthew knew.
The next two days (yesterday and today), Matthew was in Houston. He'll be home in about an hour.
Thankfully, I haven't had to go anywhere or do anything except just be here.
Taking care of my sweet boys.
Tomorrow I have my last prenatal OB appointment.
That just seems unreal.
Friday, Benjamin has his endoscopy with the GI doctor. Yet another procedure.
And while I'm praying we get some answers, part of me is fearful that we'll find out that something is really, truly wrong. That he needs another surgery. Or another procedure. Or a radical lifestyle change.
All of this six days before Thomas arrives.
It's just all a little too close for comfort for me.
Next Tuesday, Matthew is out of town again.
Next Wednesday is Andrew's 4th birthday. His Buzz Lightyear party is Wednesday night at Mom's. It will just be family, pizza, and cake. What more does a four-year-old need? I'm sure I'll be a blubbering mess, considering I have to get up before 3:00 the next morning to be at the hospital by 4:00 for my C-section.
I hate it that I am not really able to enjoy the end of my pregnancy. An oxymoron, many women might say.
But I really do love being pregnant. I love the anticipation of the birth. And I do love that hospital stay.
They just might have to kick me out, because I am not going to want to leave.