Baseball Mom – Part One

It’s destiny.  I am a baseball mom.  As such, my primary responsibility is to be my sons’ biggest fan.  I take that responsibility rather seriously.  When my oldest was three years old, I signed him up to play baseball for the very first time.  I’ll never forget my encounter with a certain YMCA employee on that fateful spring sports registration day.  She was an older grandmotherly looking type, and if I had to guess, I’d say maybe even a volunteer.  There were hoards of mothers and children standing in a line that was so long, it snaked outside the door, around the side of the building, and into the parking lot.  Having genetically acquired my mother’s irrational fear that pedophiles lurked behind every bush or skulked in every inconspicuously parked vehicle, I held tightly onto Christian’s hand.  He yanked on my arm, excitedly bouncing up and down and chanting in sing-song fashion as we waited…and waited…and waited.

“I’m gonna play baseball-I’m gonna play baseball- I’m gonna play baseball.”  Every so often he’d pause, make eye contact with me and gleefully exclaim (each and every time as if it had just dawned on him), “I’m gonna be a baseball player, Mommy!”

“I know, Sweetie,” I would distractedly reply.  You see, I’d become consumed with speculating on how swollen my ankles were going to be by the time we got to the front of the line.

“I’m going to be a short stuff like Cal Ripkin, Jr.”

“Mmmm-hmmm.”  If my calculations were correct (based on the number of people in front of us, multiplied by an average time constant of four minutes per registrant), my ankles would be roughly the size of ancient redwoods.  If that was the case, I’d need to make a quick stop to buy some new shoes on the way home…always a silver lining.

As we entered the building and approached the front of the line, I relaxed my death grip on Christian’s hand.  He took the opportunity to wiggle free.

“Christian, stay right next to me, okay?  I have to fill out one of these registration forms for you,” I said grabbing the appropriate baseball registration form from a nearby table where several different stacks of forms sat, having been collated by sport.  I filled in the required information:  name, address, age, date of birth, parents’ names.  When our turn came, I handed over Christian’s form and became anxious as the grandmotherly lady in charge carefully scrutinized the information I’d provided.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Datoc, but Christian will have to wait until next year to play baseball.  All players must be four years old by the start of the season which is March 1.  The only thing he’s eligible to do this year is a week long pee wee soccer camp.”

Trying my best to look pathetic and lonely, I beseeched, “Is there no way to make an exception?  We just moved to Atlanta a few months ago and we’re doing this as much to make friends as we are to play baseball.  I was hoping for something that lasted more than week and he loves baseball.”

Christian was oblivious to what was beginning to unfold and the very real possibility that he would not be able to play baseball.  Fortunately, at some point he had exchanged his self-stimulating chanting and bouncing up and down for throwing an imaginary baseball and swinging an imaginary bat.  I continued to plead our case giving a nod in Christian’s direction as if to say, “Look at this.  My son is exceptional.  He’ll be fine with older kids.”  I was, of course, his biggest fan.

I’ll never know whether we got our way because Christian’s dry mechanics demonstrated he could hold his own with a bunch of older boys or if it was because I looked sufficiently pitiful as I stood before her, fat ankles and all, in my  coffee-stained maternity t-shirt (in case you haven’t figured it out — i.e. you’re a man — I was pregnant).  Perhaps it was obvious that my hidden agenda in orchestrating some sort of organized activity for my son was really to pursue an avenue for adult human contact for myself.  It doesn’t matter.   That grandmotherly looking lady said  nothing…absolutely nothing, but as she silently peered over the rims of her reading glasses at us, first at Christian and then at me, I saw a ray of hope.  This might just go our way.   I paused to hold my breath while she assessed the situation, registration form  still in her hand, when suddenly with a  single stroke of  her pen, that grandmotherly looking lady changed Christian’s birth year from 1991 to 1990, and my destiny along with it.  She looked at me and winked.

“Well then, Mrs. Datoc, that will be 45 dollars and you can make your check payable to North Metro YMCA and write BASEBALL on the memo line.  Christian’s coach will be calling to introduce himself in the next few days.”

“Thank you,” was all I said, never imaging what the future held for me because of the choice made by that sweet, grandmotherly looking lady.  I often think about her and ponder were it not for that simple, single stroke of her pen, I might have been a soccer mom.  The road not taken would not have made much difference to me, I suppose.  My responsibility still would have been to be my sons’ biggest fan and I am quite certain I would have taken the responsibility just as seriously.  Alas, my destiny was and is to be a baseball mom…emphasis on the mom.  To be continued.

Till tomorrow.  Good night…  Sleep tight…

© 2011 by Antoinette D. Datoc

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What Would I Have Done Without You

In a few days, my oldest son will turn 20 years old.  Surely I am not old enough to have a 20 year old son…or perhaps I am.  These days, I barely can recall where I last set down my reading glasses or car keys.  How then, is it possible that my memory of Christian Damian Datoc’s grand entrance into the world is so crystal clear?  How is this possible?  I remember every detail like it was only yesterday.  Okay, maybe that’s not such a good comparison since these days I barely can remember what I ate for breakfast today, let alone what happened yesterday, but you know what I mean.  I remember every detail and every year around this time, I reminisce about it.  I recount the story of Christian’s birth and it never fails to cause the release of a wellspring of emotions in me.  I recall the awakening of my protective maternal instinct and the exact moment I came to know this Universal Mother Truth: IF YOU HURT MY BABY I WILL KILL YOU.  I must, however, confess that not all of my post-partum emotions were filled with the stuff of which Doris Day movies are made.  In fact, motherhood did not come particularly naturally to me.

When I went into labor, my husband’s reaction was one of joyful excitement.  “Aren’t you excited?  Oh my gosh!  We’re going to have a baby!”  He was the oldest of four siblings and as a recent medical school graduate, had a couple of labors and deliveries under his belt.  He was very much a “baby person.”  I, on the other hand, was not a “baby person.”  I was grossly inexperienced when it came to the handling of infants.  When I realized my water broke the, “Oh my gosh!  I really am going to have this baby,”  I blurted was prompted by something quite different from Pat’s eager excitement.  It was prompted by fear.  I was 29 years old and I had never changed a diaper, never fed a baby,  never burped a baby.  The first time I’d even held a baby was when, pursuant to slapping his bottom and proclaiming, “It’s a boy!” the doctor handed Christian to me fresh from the womb.  I never played house and pretended to be the “mommy,” like most little girls.  Of course, I had baby dolls, but I chose instead to dress up my slightly over-weight Chihuahua-Poodle mixed breed in doll clothes and push her around the neighborhood in my toy pram.  As you can imagine, squeezing a dog into a onesy was no easy task and as such, my childhood memories are filled more with pretending to be Gunther Gable than somebody’s mama.

It’s true… I nestled newborn Christian in my arms and made a silent, solemn promise to him, “If anyone, anyone tries to harm you, I will kill him.”  And when that brief mother-son moment was disturbed by the sound of my doctor’s voice, “Pat, would you like to cut the cord?” all I could think was, ‘WAIT!  Don’t do it… Can’t we put him  back for just a little while?  I AM NOT READY FOR THIS!”   After several lessons from the lactation consultant and 100 or so diaper changes later (translation:  one day), Christian and I found ourselves tucked safely into the backseat of Pat’s Honda.  We were on our way home from the hospital and as I gazed into my sleeping baby’s face, one question pervaded my thoughts. “What am I going to do with you all day long…what am I going to do with you?”  The answer, of course, was simple;  I would do whatever my baby needed me to do, and I would, quite matter of factly, do so forever.  There is an amazing gift that comes with being someone’s mama.  It is the gift of being needed.  I soon realized that no matter who was around, Christian’s eyes searched for me.  I was the one he wanted to sooth him when he felt cranky, to feed him when he felt hungry, to rock him when he felt tired.  There’s a glorious power in a baby’s need.  It is the power to turn just another ordinary woman into a mother.

On the day Christian was born, the question pervading my thoughts was, “What am I going to do with you?”  Twenty years later the question is, “What would I have done without you?”   Happy Birthday, Christian.  I love you.

Till tomorrow…  Good night.  Sleep tight.

© Antoinette D. Datoc 2011

Fascinating

As a young mother, I lived by the following precept.  “A family that showers together, stays together.” Lots of parents shower with their young children.  It seemed like a completely normal and natural thing to do.  Plus, showering with my toddling son was a much more efficient use of my time than bathing him separately.  Did I mention that this seemed like a completely normal and natural thing to do?  Well, it did, that is until Christian, my son who is currently approaching his twentieth birthday, was about three years old.  When Christian was three it became apparent that it was time to adopt a new precept by which to live and specifically one that did not involve my being naked.  It was time, I discovered, to move on to something benign like, “a family that flosses together, stays together.”

Ever since he was a tiny baby, Christian has been a keen observer.  He tracked objects and made eye contact earlier and better than any of his infant contemporaries (really, I’m not kidding).  As he got a bit older and began to talk, his keen observation skills were accompanied by a knack for stating the obvious.  Take for instance his status report, on the size of my behind, which he felt compelled to give during my pregnancy with his brother.

“Mom, I’m thorry to have to tell you thith, but your butt ith getting pretty big.”  Case in point.  Keen observation skills accompanied by a knack for stating the obvious.

Then there was the first grade pet show.  In spite of Christian’s begging and pleading, we had not yet adopted a puppy.  In fact, we did not have a family pet of any kind, so the night before the pet show, we headed out to PetSmart to buy a Beta Fighting Fish to insure Christian would have an animal to share along with his classmates.  The next day, Christian’s first grade teacher, Mrs. Wood,  sensed he was upset, so she stopped to admire his fish and tried to engage him.

“Christian, your fish is beautiful.  What can you tell me about this beautiful fish of yours?” She asked.

“It’s not a dog,” was all he mumbled.  Case in point.  Keen observation skills accompanied by a knack for stating the obvious.

“It’s not a dog.”

It was a beautiful summer day in 1994.  Christian and I were enjoying an afternoon at the neighborhood pool.  I glanced at my watch, more out of habit than anything else, and was startled to find it was past five o’clock.  Now don’t get me wrong.  My husband is not some chest beating Neanderthal who drags me around by my hair and demands his grub with a “me hungry” the very instant he walks through the door after a hard day’s work.  He isn’t that way now, nor has he ever been that way, but back in the summer of 1994 Pat was just starting a medical career.  He was a new associate in a private practice and he worked long hours.  I made it a point to have Christian bathed and dinner on the table by the time Pat came home from work.  I wanted him to enjoy what little time we had together in the evenings. Realizing we’d lost track of time while swimming, I hoisted Christian onto my hip, gathered our belongings and rushed home.  Once we peeled off our wet bathing suits, we hopped in the shower together and began the ritual of rinsing off the chlorine and cleansing away any pool-borne pathogens from our skin.  Handing Christian the soap and a wash cloth, I gave him the following instructions.

“Okay rub the soap on the wash cloth and get it nice and sudsy.  Good job.  Now, wash your body and remember to scrub the stinky parts twice.”

Referring to the “stinky parts” always made him laugh, but not this time.  This time he seemed preoccupied.  Actually not preoccupied, it was more like he was mesmerized and that’s when it hit me.  Christian had outgrown showering with me.  It was obvious because there he stood, quite curiously and most unabashedly, STARING…AT…MY…PRIVATE…PARTS.  I quickly recovered and nonchalantly turned Christian to face away from me and began to shampoo his hair from behind.

“Christian, you are getting to be such a big boy.  I think it’s time for you to shower by yourself.”

“Why, mommy?” He asked, craning his neck in an attempt to face me again.

“Well.  You’re old enough to shower by yourself now.”

“But I don’t want to.  I like to shower with you, mommy.”

“The truth is, Christian, you’re staring at my private parts and it makes me uncomfortable so I think it’s time for us to shower separately.  Okay?  Do you realize you’re staring at my private parts?”

“Yes, mommy.  I think they’re fascinating.”  Case in point.  Keen observation skills accompanied by a knack for stating the obvious.  That’s my boy.

And by the way, a family that flosses together, stays together.

Till tomorrow…   Good night.  Sleep tight.

Expect the Unexpected When You’re Expecting – Part Two

Summary of Part One:  I peed in my pants.   If you need the details, click on October 13 on the calendar in the right hand margin of this page to read Expect the Unexpected When You’re Expecting – Part One.

Despair.  That’s what I felt as we rode home from Dr. Katz’s office.  It’s bad enough to think you’re in labor and find out that you’re not.  It’s worse to discover the new baby is not the only one who is going to need Pampers.  Pat offered for us to go out to dinner in an effort to cheer me up.  It wasn’t really in our budget, not to mention there were about 47 frozen meals waiting to be consumed at our apartment.   We went home, ate meatloaf and cleaned up.  That’s when the ache in my back turned from dull to sharp.  It wasn’t consistently sharp, but it came in waves.  I’d get a sharp pain in my back and then shift positions.  As soon as I got comfortable, the sharp pain would strike again.  This went on for a while when we decided to call my father-in-law for advice.  He was an obstetrician-gynecologist.

“You are having contractions.”

“But my stomach isn’t tight and it doesn’t hurt.  It’s all in my back.”

“It’s called back labor.”

“But when my doctor checked me I was only a half centimeter dilated and barely effaced.”

“I don’t care.  You’re in labor.  You need to start timing the contractions and when they are five minutes apart for about 30 minutes, you need to call your doctor.  And then you go to the hospital.”

“Okay.”

So I started timing the contractions.  I’d had three contractions at regular ten minute intervals when it happened.  My water broke.  Really.  There was no mistaking it this time. I felt a sudden pop, like when a thick rubber band is stretched to its limit and violently snaps.  I leaped from the sofa, sprinted the twenty or so feet to the bathroom and by the time I got there was soaking wet all the way down to my socks.  For lack of anything better to do, I lifted the lid and plopped down on the toilet.  With each contraction, and they were coming pretty frequently at this point, gallons of water surged forth from my loins.  I sat there paralyzed by pain and fear and screaming for Pat.

“My water broke!  My water broke!  We need to go to the hospital.  Call Dr. Katz!”

Poking his head through the bathroom doorway, “Are you sure?”

“YES!  LOOK AT THIS!”

He retreated and quickly dialed Dr. Katz’s phone number.  I strained to hear his side of the conversation from my perch on the toilet.

“Dr. Katz.  It’s Pat Datoc.  Antoinette’s water broke.”

Silence.

“Hang on.  I’ll check.”

Pat ran back into the bathroom, litmus paper in hand.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Dr. Katz wants me to test the liquid just to be sure it’s amniotic fluid and not urine again.”

“WHAT?!”

Before I could protest any further, I was silenced by another excruciatingly intense contraction accompanied by another burst of water.  With the quickness of a cat, Pat shoved the litmus paper between my legs and under the cascade of water, sprinted out of the bathroom and back to the phone.

“It’s definitely amniotic fluid, and she is gushing.”

Silence.

“Okay.  See you there.”

“I’m excited!  Aren’t you?” Pat asked as he returned to the bathroom and began to get undressed.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

Stepping into the shower, he continued, “Dr. Katz said that you were barely dilated and effaced this afternoon.  It’s going to be a while before you have the baby.  I’ve got time for a shower.”

“NO YOU DON’T… AHHHHHHH…I’m going to have this baby in the toilet.”

I never realized how long of an undertaking proper hygiene is until I sat, in labor, waiting on the toilet for Pat to shower, shave, apply moisturizer (can’t be ashy when your wife’s in labor), floss and brush his teeth, choose an outfit (do men do that?).  Anyway you get it.  Finally my husband emerged from our bedroom, dressed and ready to take me to the hospital.  The contractions and accompanying bursts of water were hitting about every four to five minutes.  Next problem to confront:  how to get to the hospital without flooding the car.  Pat pulled a panty shield from a box in the medicine cabinet and handed it to me.

“How about this?

(Think theme song from Twilight Zone here:  Doodoodoodoo…Doodoodoodoo.  Were we even in the same dimension?)

“I need a towel.”

I folded Pat’s favorite Washington Redskins beach towel into the world’s largest maxi-pad, tucked it between my legs and off we went to the hospital.  I don’t remember much about our arrival or checking-in.  I suspect there were some forms we completed, and questions we answered.  Somehow I ended up in a room wearing a hospital gown, but I can’t recall how. The only detail I remember until I received the epidural was PAIN.  I take that back.  I remember Pat encouraging me to breathe, just like we’d learned in the eight weeks of birthing classes we’d faithfully attended.  Let me tell you something.  There is no amount of “heee-heee-heee-hoooing” that can replace the peace and comfort derived from an epidural with a side of morphine.   A “heydie-ho” and a salute to all you natural child birth moms out there, but it’s not for me.  I take Tylenol when I have a head-ache.  In the words of Carol Burnett, “I’m about to push something the size of a watermelon through a hole the size of an olive.”  GIVE ME DRUGS.   After I had been in labor for about 170 hours and when he could no longer stand my begging, Dr. Katz ordered me an epidural.  (Side Note: I don’t fawn over much.  I don’t go gaga over movie stars, but boy oh boy that anesthesiologist.  He was my hero.)  There are advantages and disadvantages to having an epidural.  The advantage:  you can’t feel anything from the waist down.  The disadvantage:  you can’t feel anything from the waist down.  More on that later.

I was only dilated about three or four centimeters so it was looking like I still had some time to waste before the baby would make his entrance, and you know what?  I DIDN’T CARE.  Dr. Katz explained that since I was settled he would be going home for a few hours, and you know what?  I DIDN’T CARE.  He even suggested Pat do the same, and you know what?  I DIDN’T CARE.  I was left in the hands of Dr. Katz’s very capable chief resident and instructed to get some rest.  I must have been pretty tired because I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.   The capable chief resident arbitrarily decided it was time to check my progress and awakened me for a pelvic exam.  Not a great reason to wake up, but I tried to be a good sport about it.  Dr. Capable Chief Resident seemed like a nice enough fellow until during the exam he shamelessly broke wind.  I know.  I know.   Hard to believe.  At first I thought I was hearing things, but then there was no mistaking it.  In the middle of my pelvic exam, he let another one rip, and it was one of the loudest (and I hate this word, but there’s no other way to say it) fart I had ever heard.   “Dr. Flatulence” completed his exam, snapped off his rubber gloves, tossed them in the trash, and grinned.

“You’re at about six or seven centimeters now so you’ve still got a way to go before the pushing starts.   Try to get some more rest,” and out he march without so much as a sheepish look on his face.

The nerve!  Not even an “excuse me” uttered by that man.  Boy was Dr. Katz going to hear about…  Suddenly I heard it again, only this time I was alone in the room.  OH MY GOSH!  It wasn’t him.  It was… ME.   I shuddered to think that I broke wind in front of that nice doctor, and if that’s not enough, (again, no nice way to say it) I farted, no not “pooted” or “tooted” or “silently hissed”…I FARTED loudly in his face.  Poor man.   The epidural disadvantage:  You can’t feel anything from the waist down.  Another chapter missing from WTEWYE.

Pat and Dr. Katz came back to the hospital and in plenty of time.  Pregnancy and labor had been long, painful and embarrassing, but delivery was a piece of cake.  Three pushes and Christian was born.  There he was.  Ten fingers, ten toes, and a head full of hair.  Perfect in every way.  There’s nothing that can prepare you for the birth of a child.  In fact, along the way I’ve learned there’s really nothing that can prepare you for parenthood.   Perhaps the best advice is this: expect the unexpected and enjoy the ride.

Expect the Unexpected When You’re Expecting – part one

When I was pregnant with my first child, I read every book about pregnancy and labor that I could find.  For a while, until I actually went into labor, my favorite was What to Expect When You’re Expecting, hereafter referred to as WTEWYE.  I devoured that book in a single sitting and afterwards I was convinced that I knew everything there was to know about pregnancy and labor.  I couldn’t have been more wrong.

On the day I would eventually go into labor, I awoke feeling a little bit off…not really ill, but just not quite myself and I had a dull ache in my back.  I dragged myself out of bed, went to the bathroom and was startled to find I had LOST MY MUCUS PLUG.  Oh-my-gosh. There it was.  I’d been anticipating this milestone that signals the start of labor ever since I’d read about it in WTEWYE.  Let me tell you something.  Except for mucus there was not a single word printed in that book that could have prepared me for the sight of that thing.  This was in the days before cell phones, so I paged my husband, Pat.  Given the stage of my pregnancy, he called back immediately.

“I LOST MY MUCUS PLUG!”

“Are you in labor?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, are you having contractions?”

“I don’t think so.  I don’t know.  I’ve never had a contraction.  I don’t know what one feels like, but I have a back ache.”

“Okay.  Just relax.  Are you going to work.”

“No.  I’m going to stay close to home.”

“Okay.  I’ll call you later.”

“Okay bye.  Love you.”

“Bye.  Love you too.”

Then I called work.

“Triangle Twisters Gymnastics.  May I help you?”

“I’m not coming in.  I LOST MY MUCUS PLUG!”

“OH MY GOSH!  Are you in labor?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay.” Muffled by her hand over the mouthpiece I heard my boss shout to the rest of the coaching staff,  “ANT”S IN LABOR!”

I shouted from my end, but she didn’t hear me, “ NO, NO, I SAID I DON’T KNOW IF I’M IN…”

She interrupted, “I’m so excited!  So keep us posted and let me know if you need anything.  Okay?”

“Okay.”

“And don’t forget to call and give us the baby stats, you know, length, weight, boy, girl. ”  They had a pool going and the pot was over $100.00.

“I know.  I will.  Bye.”

Nesting was one of the many things about which I’d read in WTEWYE.  I knew I was in my nesting phase.  Yet, I still could not resist the compulsion to do things around the apartment, especially cook, package and store food for future consumption. That is why, before allowing myself to relax that morning, I did two loads of laundry and cooked three meatloaves to add to my arsenal of homemade frozen dinners.  I stood at the sink washing dirty bowls and utensils when without the hint of a warning I felt a sort of trickle.  I stopped what I was doing and stood completely still.  Nope.  Nothing.  It was just my imagination or maybe wishful thinking.  I no sooner resumed my dish washing and there it was again.  This time I was certain.  I rushed to the bathroom and sure enough there was a small wet spot, amniotic fluid, in my underpants.  MY MEMBRANES HAD RUPTURED!  Oh my goodness!  I was leaking amniotic fluid!  I was in labor.  Ruptured membranes was yet another one of the things about which I’d read in WTEWYE.  I paged Pat, and once again he called immediately.

“I think my water is about to break.  I am definitely in labor.”

“What?  Are you having contractions?”

“No.  I don’t think so, but I felt this trickle and then I checked and there’s a spot of amniotic fluid in my underpants.  I’m in labor.”

“Okay.  Did you call Dr. Katz?”

“No.  I’ll call him now.  Are you coming home?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.  Bye.”

“Bye.”

The minute Pat walked through the front door, we turned around, walked right back out again and headed straight to my obstetrician’s office.  There was no doubt in my mind that Dr. Katz would send us directly to the hospital.  I knew all about how ruptured membranes caused the risk of infection to the baby to skyrocket.  You see, this was just one of many tidbits of knowledge I acquired from WTEWYE that led to my qualification as a pregnancy and labor expert.  We arrived at the doctor’s office and were immediately escorted to an exam room.  Special treatment for the woman in labor!  Look at me!  I’m about to have a baby!  I hoisted myself up onto the table as instructed by the nurse, and slid my feet into the stirrups.  Dr. Katz came in and greeted Pat and me with a warm smile and his typical let’s-see-what-we-have-here manner.  The exam, which was obviously a formality, took all of six seconds.   I’d expected as much since I was clearly in labor, drenched with the amniotic fluid I’d been leaking all afternoon.  Oh, and don’t forget about the mucus plug thing.  I dressed and we met Dr. Katz in his office.  Boy was I glad I packed my hospital bag and stuck it in the car.

“Antoinette, “ he began as he reached across his desk to pat my hand, “this happens all the time.  You are not in labor.  The trickle you felt and the wet spot in your underpants, well, it’s urine.  It is not uncommon for a woman at this stage of pregnancy to leak urine”

WHAT?  The word urine echoed in my ears like the banging of a gong.  This is the thread that ran through my brain.  My ankles are swollen, I have indigestion and hemorrhoids, I am fat and flatulent, and now my doctor is telling me that it is, in fact, urine and not amniotic fluid that is leaking out of me.  Great.  I vaguely recall Dr. Katz continuing to talk.  It was something about my being half a centimeter dilated, blah, blah, blah, and only ever so slightly effaced, blah, blah, blah and take this litmus paper home with you and unless it turns blue or red or some other color, I can’t remember, blah, blah, blah, you’re not in labor, and how about those Tarheels.  WHAT THE HECK?  Where are the chapters on PEEING YOUR PANTS, or BEING SO BIG YOU CAN’T REACH FAR ENOUGH TO CLIP YOUR OWN TOENAILS?  Where are those chapters in that stupid book, huh?  And another thing, I LOST MY MUCUS PLUG!   WHAT DO YOU MEAN I’M NOT IN LABOR?  This baby needs to come out now.  I hate that stupid book,  What to Expect When You’re Expecting with its stupid catchy title.  How about Expect the Unexpected When You’re Expecting? Somebody ought to write that book and that person just might need to be me.   TO BE CONTINUED…