Update of the Exercise

Today made eight days of running, the results of which are evident but not in the way I would like. Basically it is like my lower half and my upper half slowly are progressing to my middle in an effort to say - TA DA, body back. Except for my boobs, my boobs have remained massive in their girth. Sometimes I catch myself in the mirror and say - holy jesus, look at those things - their largess more evident with the rediscovery of my waist. However, this time around the pregnancy merry-go-fat ass, I am way ahead of the game. With Owen I was in denial until I went to a weight watchers meeting, step on the scale and was scared straight. Mainly because of those assholes who say that breastfeeding helps you lose weight really fast, well you know what, breast feeding does not do that until about six months into the process. Yep, read the fine print. It is right after the insatiable hunger of a circus fat lady clause and right before the clause about how you will leak boob milk at your office at least once causing people to pity you. But I digress, the good news is that it is happening. I am doing it. And sure it totally sucks, and I hate it, and I wish there was a way to cut off my extra thigh meat and serve it for dinner, but I can’t do that, so I run. I run, and run, and run some more.

Love, Exciting and New

This weekend while checking Facebook, the following came up in the news feed as commentary to a photograph of a couple:

R: Not sure if I like this....I look really tired, maybe because I WAS.
J: I think you look adorable my darling.
R: Thank you my love.

My immediate reaction: BARF. Which I repeatedly tried to comment, but was denied. Obviously, God does not like me to be snarky. But it got me to thinking, when is this appropriate? I mean sure if you want to be a candy ass loser in the privacy of your own home, by all means, but please do not subject me to it. I have never been really big on the entire lovey dovey, hand holding, unicorns, rainbows and fairies romance, because to me it is unrealistic. Maybe I was raised in an Irish American unloving household, but thank god I was. There is a general pussification of the American Male that is epidemic in its proportions. I don’t know how it happened, or why it happened, or how term “metrosexual” used by any man as description of himself not the immediate cause for a belt beating. And I am sorry, but never should the term “soulmates” be used to describe a relationship. I once had a friend who was on Soulmate #22, or was it 23. And it’s the immediate jinx of death. I would never use the term “soulmate” to describe anything other than a bottle of vodka, tequila or whiskey. Or would I use Facebook as a way to declare my love - I do that by farting in bed and saying the Fartatollah So Many has arrived. Enough said.

A Few Things Friday

Because I have no real story to tell, I think I will just rattle off “A Few Things”, which I think will make for a lovely series. So I present to you the very first “A Few Things Friday”.

Holy Fucking Jesus does breastfeeding make you thirsty. I am a big water drinker anyway, but currently I must down about 200 ounces a day if not more. And the funny thing I don’t pee that often, so you know my body is using it. I am an endless pit it seems. I wake up in the middle of the night my mouth caked with dust and down my entire Kleen Kanteen 40 ouncer.

Which brings me to another thing, I really thought the Kleen Kanteen was super stupid, because you can’t really see in the bottle to clean it. And who knows what myriad of grimey bacteria has taken harbor, but what you don’t see, don’t hurt.

My son last weekend was singing as song. That song was the following, “Blue, Blue, Blue, Blue Balls. Blue Balls. Blue Balls. Blllllllllllllllllluuuuuuuuueeeeeeeeeee Ballllllllllllllllls.” I am not lying.

Every time I tell people or even think that Maggie is a really good baby, and how lucky I am. I feel I am cursing myself into the misery of sleepless nights and a future biting toddler. Can we say altogether, “catholic guilt.”

I have to make brownies tonight for 75 people for Owen’s preschool picnic. I am not buying them, but making them, because I am stupid.

The Risque Walgreens

Because an IUD now exists in my pelvis and not in my uterus, and the fact that the diaphram I was prescribed is discontinued, I had to make a purchase at Walgreens of condoms. As a married lady with two kids, I feel that condom purchasing by me feels like I am embarking on the first steps of an affair, because do people in long term relationships actually purchase condoms? I don’t think so. I even think the lady at the register was all, this lady has a ring on her finger. What a tart! But then as she rang up the total and said $7.11, I realized that all of my trials and tribulations were worth it for this moment. The price of condoms was $7.11, as in 7/11, as in lucky, as in getting lucky. Oh Walgreens, you joker you.

And So It Goes

Oh Jesus, please let this running at lunch thing get better. Each day I feel as if I will die and fall to the concrete thinking this was the last thing I did? Run!! Not drink myself into alcohol induced oblivion? But it continues. I know with time this desperation at the difficulty of said running will be laughed at, but it’s so hard this time around. Yes, likely due to the thirty pounds of baby weight still to lose and the fact that my legs had an eight week hiatus from any sort of meaningful work. But dear God, let this get better. I don’t’ want to be that fat lady eating bon bons on the MUNI and taking up two seats with my ass. Of course, if that was me, I would have to change my name. Because in my fat person fantasy world, her name is Devereaux Jane Dawson, DJ to her friends. Which she has over often because she needs help scrubbing between her many flesh rolls, luring them with her homemade goodies of tarts and fried chicken. She has a southern accent, of course. Okay, I guess I did watch too much Paula Deen on my maternity leave, but can’t you all just see it? DJ Dawson, her bon bons, her hair polished and coifed, her dimpled chins laughing with delight. Not this Cassie McCall, huffing and heaving her way up the Embarcadero with a forehead scarlet from perspiration and an overwhelming need to vomit. But I can do it!! I will survive, and not go the bon bon way of happiness. Hopefully these running high endorphins, which have been elusive thus far, will emerge and I will be giddy with exercising excitement. I just hope it is soon.

The Results Are In (Kinda).

So did I kill my hair stylist? Nope. Did my ass fall asleep due to the fact that this haircut took about 2.5 hours? Yes. You ever try to walk after your left cheek has fallen into such a slumber that there is no feeling. It’s hard. Do I like my hair? I believe so. It is longish with lots of layers. It will suffice until the pregnancy weight is dropped so that the one and only blunt bob can return. My being at the core is the blunt bob. I feared doing it this weekend because I am far away from blunt bob body. This photo will be my goal in both hair and body:



Once pregnancy created asszilla, bellyzilla and upper thigherzilla are slayed; we can venture back to the bob. Progress is good since John informed me this morning that my ass is half the size it was after giving birth. And yes ladies, he is taken!

This weekend I decided that I have had enough of the moob. Those not in the know, the moob is the result of a big breasted lady wearing a shelf bra tank top as her only support. There is no definition between the breasts, creating a one mammoth boob, or mono-boob, or moob for short. TM pending. In order to have the moob eliminated from my being, I am now wearing one under wire nursing bra and then the shelf nursing tank. Hello boobies! However, it does feels like an anaconda is squeezing the life out of my lungs. But I care not, because it creates two inches of lift. You know how I know this? Because yesterday I leaked breast milk with the bra/tank combo. I then removed the bra. Looking in the mirror there was a two inch differential from the milk stain and where my nipples lay. Two freaking inches. Gravity is not loving to the nursing mother, especially one that has traveled the road before. But I rather have the gravitational pull problem of the big breasted girl, than the deflated balloon problem of the small/medium breasted girl. Because a bra can fix the lift, there is no getting around the deflated balloon boobies. It’s like a gastric bypass patient after weight loss, too much skin and not enough fat. And that ain’t pretty.

Please God, Just Once . . .

Dear Hair,

Tomorrow you have a date with a pair of scissors. Due to pregnancy, bed rest and life with a newborn you have managed to attain record length. Aside from an ill advised decision in college to grow you (oh those photos), this is the longest you have been for a while. Quite frankly, I hate you. Right now your evilness is harness back with an elastic, because when unleashed you seem to engage every orifice on my face causing me to curse and turn red with rage. Not to mention the post pregnancy shedding, there are so many long blackish brown hairs one can take. And I have reached my limit. However hair, there is a problem with the cut. Since arriving in San Francisco almost five years ago, I do not think I have had one haircut in which produced delight within. After the WHE following Owen’s birth, one could say that I have been scissor shy. Actually I am razor shy, because razors and my hair do not agree. I swear to God, if this lady tomorrow attempts to cut my hair with a razor I will punch her and then claim insanity at the assault and battery hearing. So hair, I ask you to behave so that I can get a hairstyling to thrill. I don’t know what I want to do, but it may involve a few shorn inches, maybe bangs, maybe a Pulp Fictionesque Mia, hopefully not tears. Haircutting gods please allow one haircut in which from the salon I emerge without the will to kill. Thank you.

Cassie

Tit for Tat

Today while pumping in our lactation room surrounded by the other pumping bags, all of which were black, it occurred to me - why hide our breast milk pumping ways. I think if I were to design a breast milk bag it would be flesh colored with big boobies on it, maybe a tag that says “Yes, I do in fact, got milk.” I would carry it proudly as people would stare at me and say “Wow, that girls boobies are ginormous for a reason.” or “What a freaking hippie, why do that to your ta-tas?” or “Look at that, the Mother Teresa of nipples.” Why do I have to go camouflage with a bunch of other big black bag having gals about town. At least my bag has an actual purpose to it, rather than an unnecessary object that is continually slamming into my right thigh on MUNI. Do you really need to take your entire apartment with you to work? Do you?

The Little Bonuses

Ah the working life, the return is sweet. No longer talking to an infant about the color of her breastfeed poops or how she needs to take a napinsky or how Mommy really thinks Al Roker is pretty god darn funny. I am back making conversation with actual people capable of returning my questions with actual worded answers. But the best part of returning to the working life is that of the commuting life. I have been on public transportation probably since the day I was born. In fact, I have never commuted to work via motor vehicle, because I am a city girl. And city girls don’t drive, they sit on a crowded train with a book, a walkman (now Iphone) and a patented don’t talk to me glare. Sure it is a pain in the butt when your train is late, or if you are unfortunate enough to have to ride the N-Judah which seemingly breaks down every 3.5 seconds, but the rewards of same are sweet. In the past few days I have been witness to a myriad of city folk. The crazy older guy singing at the top of his lungs while everyone else just ignores. Drunken homeless woman cursing the many love pains in her life with slurred speech. Older Asian lady so adamant about getting a seat she sits in a pool of water only seconds later to jump up with a wet behind. There is a reason that seat was empty on a crowded train lady. Public transportation, you make it all worth while.

In other news, day two of the Goal of Thirty proved to be tough. The front part of my thighs achy from yesterday made today’s run difficult. I am pretty sure that if they could talk, they would be saying “You bitch. You bitch. You crazy bitch.”. But two down, twenty-eight to go.

I Take It All Back

I would like to state the following. Work is better than staying at home with a child. Need evidence, how about the following two stories that I have heard today:

1. There is a bird near my office that is attacking people who walk by her nest. It is so ridiculous the news has covered the story so now stands a crowd of people waiting for the next bird pecked victim. Guess where I am going tomorrow?

2. One of the people I work with told me she has Benign Positional Vertigo or Inner Ear Dizziness. I think the following is best used to describe this:

Someone with this problem may mistake it with having a really bad hangover or being so drunk that when they plop down on the bed to sleep it off everything begins to whirl around. The person will feel dizzy sometimes nauseous. Any attempt to get up and they may fall. Any effort to crawl is just as difficult. The dizziness may last briefly or all night. The person may pass out and wake up the next day feeling fine.

Benign Positional Vertigo occurs when minute calcium deposits inside of the inner ear break off and repeatedly strike the fragile hair cells when the head moves. The reason a person who has been drinking might cure their self of the Vertigo is because they will probably keep moving and stumbling around until they knock the calcium deposits out of the inner ear. Otherwise their body would have to absorb the calcium deposits on its own, which could take ten weeks or longer.

For the record, I totally must have had this at one time or another. From this day forward, whenever drunk and stumbling I will state with slurring speech “Drunk, me. No freaking way, I happen to be suffering from benign Positional Vertigo, now let me drink some more in order to correct said problem. Tequila! This is an alcoholic’s dream come true.

Back In the Saddle

My husband has requested a moratorium on the vagina talk, so I will just say the following - I have to get surgery to remove my IUD out of my pelvis. Anyone want to rub this belly for bad luck? I am the anti-buddha. Yesterday I returned back to work, and honestly it was not that bad. Since I am a second time around mom, the entire ripping out of my heart via waves of guilt was absent. I did feel the tinge of bad mommy, but in all actuality the chances of me weighing 400 pounds and becoming an alcoholic are quite high if I were to stay at home. I like to balance that with the guilt, well adjusted child versus child of fat alcoholic. Guess which wins? Speaking of fat, guess what today is? Yes, that is right, The Goal of Thirty returns. Those not in the know, last year I gave myself an edict of running at lunch thirty times. When I reached that goal, a determination as to the continuation of exercise would be decided. I never made the decision because I was under the influence of endorphins from averaging 18 miles a week. Today will probably involve lots of stopping, starting and suppressing the urge to vomit, but I am looking forward to the challenge, not to mention the entire wardrobe of my former pregnant self. There is only so much breast milk-stained, baby spit up covered clothing a person can take, and wear without people pitying her.

Cursed!

Today I went to have an ultrasound because during my follow up appointment for my IUD they were unable to see the strings which meant nothing as they could have been cut short. But let us remember that I am a girl that obviously pissed off someone with bewitching powers because the onslaught of medical oddities continues. I would not be upset if say I was on bed rest for both pregnancies due to a short cervix, or discovering I was allergic to yellow peppers at age 26 by having my eye swell to four times its size, or I having an IUD placed that suddenly become lost. If any one of these things happened to me, I would be fine with it. But holy crap, not all three of them, and an onslaught of other stupid trivial things that when added to these makes me wonder – WHAT THE HELL DID I DO? As a Catholic, and a guilty one, it is taught you get what you deserve, which I tend to agree. However, I do not believe shoplifting Lita Ford’s Kiss Me Deadly at a Kmart is quid quo pro. In fact, I do believe I am owed something, like lottery winnings. The last thing I need right now with returning to work Monday and an overwhelming need to vomit every time I think about leaving Maggie, is the fact that there is a Mirena IUD lodged somewhere in my being. Because let’s face it guys, the chances that this thing was just expelled by accident with my track record are slim to none. Which brings another telling sign, when you call your OB/GYN to explain the situation and her aide comes back in 45 seconds with a “Can you come in tomorrow at 9:00 a.m.?” you begin to think that maybe this is something that is not normal. I sometimes wonder if I were a hypochondriac if all of this would make me feel validated as an individual, but since I am not, it just pisses me off to no end, and I cannot even drink vodka to combat the woes. At this moment, nothing would feel better than becoming falling down drunk while verbally assaulting my nether regions. That would be grand.

Maggie Smiles; Owen Does Grease

Maggie Smiles from Cassandra McCall on Vimeo.

Owen Does Grease from Cassandra McCall on Vimeo.

T Minus . . .

In less than five days I will be returning to work after six months of bed rest, birthing and baby. It could be said since I did this with Owen, it would be easier, and I am sure that within a week I will fall into the routine and not even think of what I am feeling now. And that is absolute dread mixed with a taste of vomit in my mouth. I just have to think about it and I suddenly become weepy and anxious and wanting of vomiting. Mother’s guilt is a tough one. But I am looking forward to the good things, like a paycheck and my return to running at lunch. Which will help me return to my pre-pregnancy size. Seriously, pregnancy does so weird things to your mid section, you think you will just bounce back and then you put on the next size up pants, which you can pretty much pull down without unzipping, but your size is a tad too tight and no way are you going to go all camel toe as a mother of two. Thank god for maternity clothing, and its elasticized waist. After three weeks of running, I am sure I will no longer have to pull my pants up constantly because I will have a button, a zipper and a waist. The crack of my ass no longer privy to the light of the day, so we can now all rest easy.

Why Me?

I don’t often ask this question, okay I do, but it is in a playful way. But now I am outright asking it. Why me? I am scheduled for an ultrasound on Thursday in order to see if my IUD is placed properly. I am sure that it is, but come on already. Can one freaking thing go well for me with regard to my uterus? I think not. Cursed uterus needs an exorcism it seems. By the power of God, I command you. By the power of God, I command you. Be a normal uterus. Thank you.

The Cervical Cassie

My cervix hates me. I am not sure what I did to offend it, but obviously it has it out for me. Yesterday I got an IUD. I knew that the insertion of this IUD would be a tad bit painful so I took a Motrin 600 and a vicodin. Oh yeah! The nurse practitioner was going to perform the procedure because my doctor’s first available appointment was not until June, and there was no way I was going to wait that long. As I lay there, the nurse suddenly said, “Oh, your cervix is going to give me some problems, so I am going to get the doctor.” Did this surprise me? No. Because let me detail to you the amazing adventures of my cervix: abnormal pap smears, colopscopies, laser ablation surgery, maybe cervical polyps resulting in a D&C (no polyps though), short cervix resulting in bed rest during both pregnancies, and now IUD hating cervix. My cervix obviously has low self esteem and needs constant attention. I am sick of it. If I could I would repeatedly bitch slap it for the trials and tribulations it has put me through. Hopefully our relationship is now dead given my new IUD. Don’t call me, don’t text me, don’t e-mail me. If I hear anything cervix related for the next 5 years I will be pushed over the edge and punch the person who says it. Just a warning.

Six Weeks After

Here is a summary of my six week post partum OB/GYN appointment:

Doctor: How are you?
Me: Great.
Doctor: So . . .
Me: I never want to ever in my life ever become pregnant again, ever.
Doctor: Good, I was going to ask you.
Me: EVER!!!!!

So I am getting an IUD not a DUI (hee hee, John came up with that). I will like to now take this opportunity to thank my ovaries for a job well done.

Dear Ovaries,

I appreciate the fact that each time I wanted to get pregnant you were all, “Girl says we can release the egg and create life. All men on deck.” Truth be told, I never thought I would even get pregnant. But each time it happened in the very first month of trying. Obviously, you guys do your job with extreme diligence. Sure, some people would consider that awesome, but I consider it a bit annoying. I mean the entire trying to get pregnant thing is awesome. When else do you get to repeatedly rape your better half? Also, thank you for never following through at any other point in my life, say when I was drunk and stupid. Because let’s face it, the early 20s were pretty much defined by drunken stupidity hey lets make out shenanigans. God, it was awesome. But I digress. I want to inform you that you are through, if I could I would remove you via clothing hanger but that might hurt, so I am going the IUD method of birth control as I don’t want to put it in a diaphragm anymore. Let me say, putting in a diaphragm when you a frisky and intoxicated is an event worthy of Olympic gold. Try being drunkenly unsteady with your leg up inserting a plastic orb up your va jay jay. Very taxing for the clumsy. Also, please note ovaries, I am 35, and as you know my eggs are suddenly becoming expired in their shelf life. They are not worthy of being fertilized but instead headed out to pasture with a nice 401k and a condo in Boca, just like you. So ovaries, I bid you adieu. Thank you for the kids (I think).

Yours truly,

Cassie McCall

The Terrible Twos

Oh sweet Jesus, you know when you have one kid and are contemplating another kid and you are all – how hard can it be? Let me be the one to tell you – freaking hard. Actually hard is not proper in its description. Let me rephrase it this way, this entire water boarding torture method – CAKE!! I really do believe that at times I would like to have a bucket of water pour on my head while semi-upside down than to live the life of a mother of two. You might be thinking at this time I am embellishing but dear readers, I am not. My daughter, god bless her, is for the most part a wonderful baby. But for every plus she has there is one thing that blackens it all and that is her banshee like wail. Actually I wish it were a banshee’s wail, because upon hearing it I would be dead. But nope, when I hear Ms. Maggie’s mighty mouth, I am right there next to her, with my ear to her wailing willing every part of my body not to tense up. It is said that your anxiety transfers to the baby making them even more of a mess, so it is best to take the abuse and sojourn on not caring that there is a good chance your hearing has been damaged permanently. I am getting better at going to my safe place during this child inflicted abuse, but at the same time I am thinking – is this what doctors refer to as blacking out during traumatic events? Maggie’s biggest issue so far is her uncanny ability to miss her window of sleep so that she will stay up for about five hours straight during which time she will quietly lull herself into a sense of calm only to ten minutes later find her way back to crazy baby. This leaves me to the entire three hour scheduling window – she gets up, I feed her, awake time, then 90 minutes of sleep. When on this schedule, things are beautiful and lovely, I am blessed, but when the train derails, it is a massacre of carnage. Luckily the train has not been derailing too often, and my willingness to leave and join the circus quelled. Owen is adjusting aside from a few issues involving his going to bed, and the fact that he likes to cry out Mommy!!! Daddy!!! for a good 20 minutes. This from a child who for an entire year did not even go boo when put to sleep. But he is also in his two no stage, or as he likes to say “No Way”. Which is pretty cute and completely irritating at the same time. But he does seem to love “mine baby.” I try to tell him that it is my baby, and that I carried her for nine months, but he does not seem to care, because everything is “mine.” Its like I did not get the memo or something.

The Birth

The last time you heard from me, I was late and there was talk of induction. Well that induction was talked about and scheduled for March 19, 2009. We were told to call in that morning at 6:00 a.m. Basically the night before I did not sleep very well because I WAS GOING TO HAVE A BABY THE NEXT DAY. I called at 5:50 a.m. and was told they were too busy and to call back at 9:00 a.m. I called at 9:00 a.m. only to be told they would call me back because they were too busy. I then cried on the toilet. Seriously. I wanted the baby out, O-U-T. And here it was dangled before me, and then ripped away because some people actually go into labor. I called my doctor and was scheduled for induction again on Monday, March 23, 2009. Which was four days away. At this point it should be told that I was almost 4 cm dilated and 100% effaced. It is amazing the baby was even still up there, so I was told to have sex, walk around and it was likely I would go before Monday. Yeah right. I did what I was told, and let me say something – having sex for the sake of getting a baby out of you is not exactly a good time, but rather a chore, and a disgusting one at that. You try feeling sexy when your belly has a 7 pound kid in it and you are a week overdue. I even had possibly the hottest chicken tikka masala known to man. My eyes watered, and it was a torture to even consume, but I did, because I wanted to go into labor. I really, really, really did. Needless to say, I was calling at 6:00 a.m. on Monday, to be told the glorious words “Come in.” What did you say? Come in? Come in? I can get this freaking baby out of my womb? OMG.

We get the hospital where I am told they will be breaking my water, and I should go into labor because I am 4 cm dilated and 100% effaced. Any wages on how that went? Before this I am given the option of an epidural. My last epidural was not pleasant in the sense that they got into my spinal fluid and I got the worst headache of my entire life. Actually it could not even be described as a headache, rather a head bashing mind numbing absolute horror of a continuous ache. But you know what, that only occurs in 1% of people who get epidurals and I did not want to be subjected to having my placenta ripped out of me without pain meds if it was to detach again. So, doctor epidural me. The doctor came in and began the epidural. Do you know an epidural under normal instances takes about 5 minutes to do? I only know this because after to close to an hour of the doctor pricking me continuously with needles he decided to move up one notch wherein it was finished in five minutes. He then told me that I have an elusive space between my L4 and L5 and that all my future epidurals should be done in the L4/L3 space. So in addition to this fatty lipoma on my left shoulder that is the size of a softball and my allergy to yellow peppers, lets add weird epidural space to the list of freaking things that make me unique.

Next they break my water. Baby come on out! But no, nothing happened. There were no contractions. So after about two hours of waiting they move to pitocin. Yeah, finally something that gives me results. It is obvious to me now that even though I have a short cervix, and bed rest was prescribed in both my pregnancies, I also did not go into labor with either. Life is cruel. They start the pitocin, and although I feel contractions they do not see them on the monitor. Because my uterus is also a bit off it seems. I am not sure what my mother was drinking when she was pregnant with me, but it had to be bad. Although the uterus thing could be contributed to my brother kicking me in the stomach after seeing this wrestling move. It was always my belief that this kick would cause me not to even have kids, but it seems it only served to whack my uterus off kilter so that a fetal monitor could not detect contractions. Thanks Michael. I am then told the baby’s heart rate is going down, which means there are contractions and they are going to have to monitor her internally since I was between 4 and 5 cm and had a way to go. So a half hour later, the doctor comes in to put these monitors in and lo and behold I am fully dilated. WHAT! Yeah Maggie. Basically this is 45 minutes since I felt a contraction and I am about to push. They set up the necessary, and then we have a practice push to see how I push. Well let me tell you, I push awesome because the nurse was all – Stop! I need to call your doctor now. So we wait, and my doctor comes in and I give another push and boom baby. I pushed for 2 sets of pushes, about 9 minutes, which included a 5 minute break for the Lofquist to make an appearance. From first contraction to baby – less than 90 minutes. I would like at this time to say, “SECOND BABIES RULE!” And also, I did not poop on the table. Win, win all around.

They then put Maggie on my belly, but I am only viewing the back of her head. Which is full of dark hair. I remember sitting saying to myself, holy crap. Once again everyone sees this baby but me because John and his mom are like – she is beautiful, beautiful. Oh really? I don’t know that because her god damn back of the head is facing me. I only housed this kid for 9 months, and 9 days, which included 8 weeks of bed rest. And me eating possibly the spiciest food known to man, and did I mention the constipation? But no, don’t let me see her face or anything, I mean the back of the head is fine by me, really – who needs to see a face? Not me. Why am I even here? My job is done, someone hand me a vodka and we can call it a day. So yeah, a tad frustrated. But I did finally get to see her face, and she was beautiful.

Baby had, yeah me. Maggie Nicole McCall, 6 pounds, 15 oz., 20 inches long. This marks the official end to my pregnant life. I am bronzing my ovaries, hanging them up to dry, and retiring from breeding. I thank all who helped me in these efforts, but especially John McCall without whom I would have never housed life within my womb.

Tomorrow . . . what the hell have I done?