She's Trouble. With a Capital "T."

I am not a fan of hospitals.
You could even say that I have a general loathing for them...if I am the patient.

And, by the way - these pictures have nothing to do with this post.  It's just been a doozy of a day, but these pics were my favorite part of it...so that's why I'm posting them.

First catch of the season.  He's having a sleepover in the guys' room tonight.  It begins.

Ever since my labor and delivery with Kaden in which I had to be induced...in which my first-time Mama, organic and crunchy, 3-page single-spaced birthing plan got chucked so far out the window that I do believe just about every single thing that I wanted to have happen on said plan did in fact NOT happen even remotely the way I had pictured it going down....

Pretty much ever since that day, when a few years were shaved off both of our lives....I'm just not a huge fan.

And so, as a result of that first disappointment, I have learned to dramatically simplify each successive birthing plan.

My new one that I have used with my past two births is much more clear and concise.
It's only three steps, and it goes a little something like this:
1.  Don't look at me.
2.  Don't touch me.
3.  When it's time, catch the baby - but otherwise, Kevin is the only one I want near me.

There's also two worms and a blood sucker in the bucket.  Delish.

I have no desire for a doula, I don't want any nurses feeding me ice chips, and I don't like to be stared at.  Kev is more than competent, he knows me well, and if you try to stick me with an I.V., or you try to get me into one of those blue johnies where my whole back-end is hanging out for all the world to see.... I just might go postal on you.  I do not consider myself an overly outspoken person, but ever since that fairly traumatic day with my firstborn - with each successive child -  I have become very, very particular on how I want things to go down.

Laundry was caught up yesterday....

And Kev and I have also learned to compromise.
It's a fun little game, really.

So far, with two out of my four children, my body has decided to get pretty sick towards the end...but so far, with this one, all is still well.  And as long as things stay well, here's the game we play:

I have always - and still very badly want - a home birth.  Kev says:  "There's no discussion even remotely going to take place here."  So, I stomp my foot a little and say:  "Fine."  But I get to choose the place of delivery.  Well, around these here parts, there is not a ginormous selection of - how you say "crunchy" - options, and I fo shizzle know that I'm not having a repeat performance like I did with Kaden.  A few years ago, a dear friend (who will forever be a hero in my book) found this sweet little hospital about 45 minutes away that's considered a Level 2 Birthing Center and is known for "letting women write their own birth story."  Well, I kind of like the sounds of that.

Mama found the frog.  Now I'm this kid's hero.  It's the way  to his heart...

So, almost four years ago, when we moved home, that was the place I chose to deliver Sir Rancey Pants.  Kev was pretty cool with the plan, and he was more than willing to compromise, but these were the conditions:  when he said it was time to go, there was no arguing by the preggo.  We were to just get in the car and go.  No discussion.  End of story.

A little back history here....

When I was about to deliver Jesse in Pennsylvania, I was still a little shell-shocked by my labor and delivery with Kaden, so even though I had a very crunchy and super awesome midwife, because my body was sick, she wouldn't let me deliver at her birthing center - she wanted to do it at the hospital, instead.  Anyway, this freaked me out, and so when Kev said it was time to go I kind of fought him, and my water ended up breaking in the car...and we literally walked through the door with a very few minutes to spare.

It was rather picturesque in my book.
Kev grew a few more gray hairs that day.

So...I get why he established new rules when it was time to deliver Ransom.  He would like his hair to stay brown for a few years longer, and I shall try to honor that.  When it was time for Ransom to come along, we had just moved into our house the very night previous, and both my parents and a cousin were sleeping downstairs, so I was a little more willing to head out when Kev said it was time.  The agreed upon compromise - which holds strong for this baby, as well - is that he wants to just get in the vicinity of the hospital.  When we get to the town where said hospital abides, I can decide when it's time to walk through the doors.  There's a little coffee shop down the road, and Kev is perfectly fine waiting there if I don't feel ready to admit myself, just yet. 

Little red sticks.  Not sure their name.  They now reside in all of my outdoor buckets.

It's a good deal.  And by the time we got to the town last time, I knew that Ransom was a'comin.'  We parked, Kev asked if I wanted a wheelchair, and in my pride I looked at him with disgust and asked:  "Are you kidding?"  So, the poor man instead, had to almost drag my ginormous frame across the entire parking lot - with my equally ginormous suitcase on his other arm.....all the while never saying a word except for a few little grunts here and there...  We walked through the door, I tried to give them a pee sample - which was a bit of a train wreck, if we're to keep it really real, I was 9 centimeters, and within just a few minutes sweet little Ransom joined our family.

Two out of three.  Beautiful.
I got a wee look of reprimand from my man, but other than that - we both agreed that we're getting good at this game of compromise.

This time around, however, has proved to be a bit of a different story.  I swear, this little girl is going to be trouble.  She has been the wildest in my womb by far, she is completely kicking my butt in more ways than one, and this morning - just for funsies - she decided to send me into two hours of pretty intense pre-term labor a good five weeks early.  Something that has never happened before.

I knew that something was way "off" as soon as I woke up, but I sent Kev to work anyway, because I didn't want him sitting home and staring at me.  So, the darling that he is - got Kaden on his side and told him to call him immediately if Mama stayed looking this way for another hour AND he called Grammy to check on me, as well.  An hour later when he called home and found that I was still feeling the same...and when he said he was coming home and we were "going in"...well, I did the only mature thing that I could think of to do, and that was to then and there promptly sit down, cry, and start stressing.  I'm awesome like that.

This was not the labor-at-home-and-walk-through-the-door-with-just-enough-time-to-spare-for-them-to-catch-my-baby kind of a scenario that I had in mind.  Anyway...long story short, contractions stopped on the way to the hospital, baby is fine, I am fine - although my midwife says she's sure I will not go full term, but she'd like her to stay inside for at least another week, if at all possible.

My well deserved cup of coffee, if I do say so myself...

Sooo, at least we got a trial run at the whipping the kids' things together and throwing them at the grandparents, we got a wee little lunch date out of the whole deal....and the carseat is now in place for when the real show begins, to boot.  Good times.

My caprese pizza.  I ate all of it.

Yeesh, London.
You are killing me slowly.
Already.