My name’s Anne and I’ll be your tour guide.
First stop: The Stitch That Popped. I mean, c’mon. Seriously? Oh yes. Turns out it takes no more physical wackiness than sitting on the couch funny. After worrying back and forth between whether it was enough of an ‘emergency’ to call the doctor on a weekend, I finally bit the bullet and gave her a ring. Her response? “Well, if it’s bleeding, you need to go into the emergency room right now. If it’s not, I’ll see you Monday.” Double You Tee Eff, Cervix Tapper? Everything down there is bleeding and you want me to make some estimation about whether its from a missing stitch or the neighboring Blood Bath Hole of Mystery?
Anyway, on further contemplation, I decided to go in Monday if for no other reason than the fact that if I’m going to bleed to death from the who-ha, it’s going to be in the comfort of my own home and not while waiting 10 hours in the E.R. and having to explain to my Father In Law exactly why we are there. Have been fairly paranoid since that now the skin will not grow back correctly down there and I will have a big who-ha. Although, I have finally made peace with that as well. If stitch tearing leaves me with permanent disfigurement, I will sell my body on one of those freak porn sites. I’m sure there is some Mitch from Accounting that will pay good money to see me. I’ve already got my stage name picked out and everything. Ready? Raggedy Anne. Get it? It works on so many levels.
Also here in purgatory, we have the baby that will bloody your nipple in three quick sucks. Am also ringing the lactation consultant today. I get to tell her that after two years experience, I still don’t know what the eff I am doing. Frankly I have been putting this phone call off too as I know it will mean making an appointment two towns over and dragging my sleep deprived ass to be somewhere at a specific time.
Third stop, while we are in the baby department is the Child Who Soils Something Every Time She Soils Herself. It is in-freaking-credible. However, the husband may have found the culprit finally. Yesterday, while in the midst of changing her, she peed on a fresh diaper. Husband actually saw the urine bead up on the diaper pad and run down her back. A big Double You Tee Eff shout-out to the folks at Huggies. Aren’t diapers supposed to absorb pee???!!! Get back to me when you figure it out.
Finally, we will briefly tour the Poor Sleep Deprived Husband, who has been so, so good people. He is holding the baby right now while entertaining the child. However, in the midst of his brain functioning being screwed with for more than a week, he has kind of gone some weird shade of Commando on me. He keeps half-waking me up in the middle of the night, rooting furiously around the bed, convinced one of us has rolled over and smothered the baby. Oddly enough, this only happens when the baby is *not* in the bed (read: we are close to getting some actual sleep). This behavior never fails to scare the living shit out of me, especially since it is usually accompanied by sleep talk such as: “The blue turtles! Where’s the baby? Fire sack!” and him physically rolling me over to see if the baby is stuck to my ass.