disclaimer or something

A mummy-hand holding, (former) biker gang affiliating, hippie influenced semi crunchy granola mom's ramblings and reminisings on an off-kilter life

Sunday, January 27, 2013

I have an evil scientist on my hands

If day cares are petri dishes (they certainly are), then toddlers are evil scientists who need to discover the glory of rights protected patents.

When you drop your child off at daycare, you expect them to learn their ABCs and ride tricycles and sing songs. Sure, they do that, but it is a FBI style undercover disguise for what they're really up to.

These evil little geniuses are concocting new viruses and resurrecting eradicated diseases like little Edward Jenners and Jonas Salks.

Jacob calls over little Kayden to spit into the sippy cup, and then asks Madison to delicately lasso some snot into the cup. When no one is looking, Kayden adds some urine, shakes it, and then steals baby Mia's bottle of formula and adds a splash to the sippy cup. It is left under the pack and play for a week, until Jacob recovers it and "tests" it out on poor unsuspecting Jackson and Nevaeh, who bring it home. It baffles the urgent care doctors and pediatricians, who shrug and label it "a virus" and send them home. Really, Jacob created viral-tonsil-rectum-pox-itis-jacobus, a brand new disease.

But don't fret. Jackson and Neveah get their revenge when they lick the dog's foot and play in the cat litter, then fingerpaint with Jacob and put their fecal-mattered hands into the blue paint. Jacob suddenly concocts smallpox, but is diagnosed with chicken pox since smallpox has been eradicated...so we thought.

Three miles away in another town, Emily had visited her cousin Jackson and brought home viral-tonsil-rectum-pox-itis-jacobus. She goes and licks the noses of all her fellow playmates and they then spread the disease, until Daniel decides to sneeze as he is being licked and so begets a new strain of viral-tonsil-rectum-pox-itis-jacobus.

Really, these little "scientists" need to patent their discoveries. If Jacob patended his concoction, it would be kept locked up top secret and Jackson's parents wouldn't be moaning and groaning and fighting one another for the last can of ginger ale. Emily, Daniel, and Nevaeh would be healthy and they too would not copy Jacob's disease. One might make a new one, but it would stay at that.

 join us...who keeps the metric system down? We do. Be one of us...

Wednesday, January 23, 2013

search terms

Search terms which have begot my blog...
No bra required
disorderly babies
didn't date as a teen
ay chihuahua tissues
a bygone era in America

Hmmm. Interesting.

Tuesday, January 22, 2013

When Cake Strikes Back

Sometimes I get daring and try new foods; in some cases having no clue what I consumed until later. I picked up this habit as a toddler, being the strange little girl who preferred carrots to candy and who enjoyed gorging herself on octopus, escargot, and caviar. That is, until too many adults went 'bleck" at what I ate, with that look of utter disgust. Enough of that and I began to turn my nose at those things and preferred simpler fare. With parents who have only had Sweet & Sour Pork at a Chinese restaurant and have never had or wanted to have sauerkraut, nigiri sushi, pupusas, pierogies, etc, I basically didn't try anything more adventuresome than would be featured at Applebees.

Along came college and I figured since I was in n actual town with more than one restaurant in a ten mile radius, I'd venture out and try new things again. And thank God I did, my nomadic foodie desires brought me to such delicacies as hummus, yellow-fin nigiri, falafel, tikki masala...some of my favorite foods that make life worth living.

But, alas, sometimes you lose the gamble with new foods. For every pita and tzatziki or sag paneer out there, there are ugly hideous monsters lurking. I try and stay open minded. I TRY everything once. Natto, for example;. It is fermented soy bean paste that has a texture like rubber cement glue, and a taste like the smell of coffee grounds that you left in the pot. For a few weeks. In the summer. Then there are the foods you eat once, and once is enough, but they're not revolting. For example, horse tongue is bumpy and game-y and just a little too much for my palate, and to me, morally wrong. Crab brains were like if you put crab through the blender with a pound of salt, and something to make it very mushy. Not bad, but not good.

I hadn't been adventuresome for quite some time, and was in a very ethnically diverse area recently. I'm talking one block has Sri Lankan and Afghani food, taquerias, shabu-shabu, and dim sum. My husband and I are suckers for ethnic food (I'm the main culprit) and he was dying for dim sum. So we went and we waited in line. We waited and waited. We waited nearly an hour and heaven shone upon us with those char siu bao barbeque pork buns I love. And then, a twist of fate sent us on a downward spiral. No one spoke English so they'd mumble in Cantonese and point at a closed bamboo basket, trying their best to bridge the language gap and sell you things. There could be more pork buns, I thought. We got some shrimp shu mai which were okay. We got clay pot chicken which I had eaten once before and it was good, but this was like chicken neck and the wiggly things roosters have, pickled in a clay pot with tea and wine, served ice cold. It was another food I ate and appreciated for what it was but would not eat again. Then came the cake. Cake! Who doesn't love cake?!?!

Let me tell you, cake can be a tricky bastard when it bridges the language barrier. I should have learned this lesson in Hungary when I wanted cheesecake and got a roll with a port salut cheese. At least it was decent, but when you crave some sweet cheesy dessert with cherry topping and get a roll with port salut, you are disappointed. Heck, even cookies got in on the game in Japan with unagi pie, eel cookies which surprisingly weren't bad or too eel-y at all. But cake was a tricky mistress again today. The Chinese lady came around with her cart of food, pointing at the bamboo baskets and muttering what sounded like English. "Cake. You like? Try. Yum. Daikon. Cake. Try." She was very convincing and full of smiles. So try cake we did. Yeah. Us dumb guai-lo took the cake bait.

It was a terrible mistake.

I am being open minded, in that I tried it and had two bites and think it is cool the cake I ate is a special Chinese New Years comfort food and that it brings good luck. That's awesome, right? BUT and a big but at that, it is not for me. Radish cake didn't even taste like radish. It would be like calling beef stew "bay leaf broth". Sure there's bay leaf in there but its called beef stew because beef is the primary ingredient and when you eat it you think, mm, beef, not mm, bay leaf. Same goes for radish cake. Radish cake was bay leaf broth's ugly cousin. It was made of carp. You know, relative to the goldfish. A pungent mackerel-tasting very fishy fish that lives in swamps. I know carp itself is a sought after fish in many cultures and they can have it; I prefer to look at them in a tank and not on my plate. And especially not disguised as freaking CAKE. When you think cake, you think moist, crumbly, sweet, vanilla overtones. When you add radish you think, maybe it is a rice cake, like sushi with radish. A mild radish flavor could make it not too bad. But when radish cake tastes like the smell of rotten gold fish and nothing more, it messes with you.

Fish cake. I hate you, fish cake. You better be chock full of good luck because you were hard to stomach and have made me crave a steak for dinner. And I'm the weird girl who would live an entire lifetime without steak. The Chinese can have their good luck fish cake.

I'm staying away from cake for a while, but trying to bank on that good luck thing. I deserve it after that fish cake.

Attempting the challenge at YeahWrite. Join me? Browse, comment, love, and return!

Friday, January 18, 2013

Potty patrol

Being pregnant, you are to drink at least 64oz of water a day. And your uterus etc are pushing on your bladder, making your bladder have the intake of an elephant with the capacity of a mouse.

Basically, you pee a lot.

Teachers cannot just "go" as needed as you cannot leave students unsupervised. You are a prisoner of the clock and must "go" on schedule. This for me means after each two hour long class, I try and scoot the kids out and make a mad dash trough the slower than cattle to the slaughter halls to the staff restroom.

Today I opened the door to find... The sub across the hall, "going". Umm who does NOT lock the door to a public restroom? So I waited as the beginning of school loomed. Five minutes later I gave up and suffered, doing the potty dance, for two hours. Then I rush and guess what? SHE is there so I wait. Again. Not five minutes thank God. This happens a THIRD time.

School ends and I'm ready for my hour drive home and the restroom is out if toilet paper. I blame her. So I make the trek to a different restroom across campus and all is well. I return to my room to grab my purse and lock up and I see her made a frantic dash to the bathroom near us. I smirk, nearly cackle, and dance a victory dance in my mind as she dashes towards the bathroom with NO toilet paper. Vengeance is mine! Muh ha ha! Enjoy wiping with toilet seat covers you bathroom hog!!!

Saturday, January 12, 2013

Job of a teacher

I teach. But, it is more than that, even as a part-time teacher. Maybe you have seen those memes and bumper stickers and stuff, saying something like "mentor, mother, counselor, superhero, teacher". Hate to be all cliched but yeah, it's true.

I worked at a small high school with maybe 100 students, one in ten came from a one-parent home, the other parent having passed away. I had a girl, who still keeps in touch with me, make me a Mother's Day card, telling me I was like a mom to her, her mom having passed a year ago. Years prior, my entire class of 5th graders made me a Mother's Day card. One girl and her sister, who stayed in the after school program "conveniently" placed in my classroom all year long, saved up their Christmas money ($10 between the two, their only Christmas gift) to buy me a card and a knock-off Barbie.

I had two high schoolers that would just talk to me, cursing, crying, about life. I didn't judge or tell them to not curse. I didn't even give advice or get preachy. All I did was listen and it is all they wanted.

Just yesterday, in my p/t high school position, I had to break up conversations about vaginas, huge penis, shooting heroin, pregnancy (teasing some girl about it) and dropping acid. But I also was told about "cauliflower ear" and how much it hurt, from a student who did jiujitsu. A student asked about broken toes. About cysts. Things I had to say, ask your doctor, but I hope you feel better. I counseled a student on her mom losing her baby. This was all in one day, 180+ students, a lecture and three assignments thrown in. All in a day's work....

And to add, well, a few things. I do not profess to be perfect or better than others, I don't have narcissism, job-personality wise. I am just telling my experiences and opinions.

And, some times the job of a teacher is reciprocal. My students now notice I am pregnant and a few of my girls were so excited and lightly patted my tummy. It is kind of neat to share the experience with them. I mean, I stay professional and don't mention mucous plugs and sciatic nerves, placentas, really I share nothing but I enjoy just...going through the pregnancy with an audience of excited onlookers. Hmm no that sounds creepy but I'm not sure how to say it without rambling incessantly. It's just neat. There. And the good part is, none of them have seemed to want to be pregnant, and kind of talk clandestine and with pity about the students that are. So they are excited for me but that's that. That's a good thing.

Aww crapola this cheesy poster is...too high in the cheese factor, a bit too much" we are teachers we are omniscient and omni-everything awesome" but, darn, it holds some grains of truth, too.

Wednesday, January 9, 2013

Pandora's box

We have one of those stereo speakers that are hollow inside and my son likes to try and put things into the sound hole. The Houdini that he is, he had some something with the card to the TV reviewer that you know, makes the cable work. So I went on the hunt for the card, to no avail but man what I DID find...

1 squeaker to a dog toy
Handful dog toy fluff
1 receipt
3 sticky notes
1 diaper wipe
2 plastic forks
1 plastic spoon
1 baby spoon
1 remote control
1 measuring spoon
2 mismatched chop sticks
1 sock
1 yeti Christmas figurine
1 toe nail clippers
1 dental floss
3 Legos
3 regular blocks
3 other kind of blocks
1 asthma inhaler
4 pieces dog food
1 candle
1 postcard
1 napkin
1 old cell phone
1 wooden cooking spoon
2 play coins
1 toy train
2 bottles finger paint
1 plastic carabiner
1 pen
1 glittery letter U
1 key card for a hotel
1 safety cover for light sockets
3 toy cars

Here's the photo...

Tuesday, January 8, 2013

women of my history: the sorrow, the strength

I am a "nerd" in a sense that I have a hobby I share with most 80 year olds...genealogy. I love it. The history, the connections...

I hated history as a child. Facts and dates. Bo-ring. History class missed the personal parts, the biographies and first hand accounts, the emotions and feelings, perspective, sights, sounds. Genealogy adds a bit of this to history. People you never knew but that are connected to you, that lived through things you read in that boring school textbook.

Somehow it is the women in my expansive family tree that enrapture me. Many lived tragic lives but kept on living, others lived chaotic lives or unusual lives. Things worthy of a story, but since they have passed, it is a story one can only guess. It is that guesswork that intrigues me.

My great-great-great grandma, Juliana, lived in a small village in Eastern Sweden, born in 1843. She was an only child, her siblings having died as infants before her birth. Her father was a brewer and innkeeper. Her mother passed away at age 35. whe Julina was just 8 years old. Her mothr passed of "Stomach spasms" which could be many things to the medical knowledge of that time. Her father passed at age 44, when Juliana was 12, passing of unknown causes. Were her parents sickly for years or were their deaths sudden? Who cared for Juliana after they passed, since both parents had no other surviving relatives? Before their passing, was the inn a rowdy place, a place for weary travellers, or a place rarely visited? What was it like to grow up in that time? A cholera epidemic swept Sweden in 1853. Prohibition hit Sweden, and Juliana's brewmaster father, a year beore his death. How did this effect their finances? Juliana Got married to Frans at age 22. A year later they wlecomes their son, Wilhelm into the world. A year after that, a girl, Selma, who drowned and died at age 2, just a few months before Juliana delivered another daughter, named Selma as well. Poor Juliana had to sufffer the pain of a child's early death. pregnancy, and birth all on her own. Shortly after conceiving Selma number 2, Frans left for America, and rumor has it, his visit to America was brief, he died in the Great Chicago Fire of 1871. Juliana remarried to a man, Karl, in 1877. She brought with her her two surviving children, joining Karl's family of four children. However some records show those 4 children were her own, out of wedlock, the eldest born in 1871. In 1881, one of Juliana's children (with Karl) passed at age 1 of a "bone marrow problem". A year later, Wilhelm leaves for the US at age 16. Another one of her four children (with Karl) passed in 1883, at age 5, of either a heart problem or blow to the body. A few peaceful years pass and in 1888, her daughter Selma leeaves for the US, aged 18 and alone. A child of Karl's, in her early 20s, passes of unknown causes, and three years later, a son of Karl's passes in his early 20s. No records exist of Juliana's death. Selma ended up moving all around America, living in Kansas, Colorado, Oregon, California, and Hawaii. She had four children, one named, you guessed it, Selma. The eldest Selma passed away at a ripe old age of 90, a life without much tragedy like her mother's Selma the youngest was a social butterfly, the socialite elite class of "people to be seen". She met a man, Jesse, a student at UCLA, and ended up getting pregnant. Out of wedlock. This was a no-no at the time, especially of a person of her social standing. Somehow, she kept it secret. Only her best friend, and the man she had her child with (who she never saw again) knew she had a child, but the details she gave were sketchy. Somehow, she, a petite thin woman, hid her pregnancy from everyone. She gave her child up for adoptino at birth. That woman is my grandmother. Selma the youngest passed in her early 80s, in Hawaii. She had married and emasssed millions, with a huge estate in Kawaii. She had heart troubles and went to the ER and was treated and released, at which point, in the parking lot, she had an asthma attack and could not be resusitated. Another woman of tragedy and strength is my grandfather's mom, Anna. Anna was born in early 1900 in Sacramento, with the birth name of Lila. Lila/Anna and her family almost immediately moved to Southern California where she lived with her parents and brother, William. Lila/Anna's mom divorced and remarried when Anna/Lila was 8. Rumor has it mom was an alcoholic and was found homeless in the streets of Los Angeles a few years before her death. Anna/Lila's paternal grandmother took her in and census records show she lived with her grandmother, also a divorce, in 1910. Suddenly, Lila became Anna, with a new first, middle, and laast name which she kept until death. Anna's brother William stayed with their father and his new wife...for some reason, the chuldren were separated and raised as only children, Anna farmed off to a grandmother. Anna suffered from some mental illness and was institutionalized on and off throughout life. She married my great grandfather and had a child, my grandfather. They also adopted a child who they "sent back" shortly thereafter. Anna was a social butterfly as well and lived in a gorgeous home. She worked for the electric company. She passed a year before I was born. Just these few women had chaotic, tragic lives but yet they kept on living, rasied a family, and lived their lives. I think this speaks for the power of a woman's spirit. It also speaks to me in that I do not wish to follow in their footsteps, but I do know I inherited their strength. Many people who meet me say I am a "very strong woman", a strength passed down to me for centuries.

Saturday, January 5, 2013


A hush descended over the room as I yelped in pain. I recall asking Earl to get the Studebaker. Please. He yelled back, "Get a freakin taxi, its your problem. Women stuff. I got a game to watch 'ere, the resta the guys is comin over soon." I winced, maybe in pain from the contractions, maybe in pain from his words. Jerk. It was his baby too. Weren't the dads supposed to be excited for the prospect of a junior, bringing cigars to the waiting room, bragging to all their poker buddies about the boy they brought home, cute as a button and stronger than an ox?

"Please, baby, I....ouch....can't call a taxi. Its coming too soon. Grab the keys. I'm calling ma to tell her real quick. Please take me. They'll be other men in your...situation there. Here. Take these" I said, throwing a deck of cards at him as I gripped the telephone reciever in my hand, while my husband stood motionless. "Hey daddy? I need ma. Earl doesn't wanna take me-" I shot him a glare- "its the baby". Earl, being shamed by another man, finally came to. He grumbled some curses and grabbed the keys from mama's heirloom candy bowl as I squealed the news to ma. We filed out as Earl's friends reluctantly got in their cars.

Seconds after stumbling into the hospital, Earl was already walking into the waiting room, smoking a cigarette, passing out cards and makeshift poker chips to strangers, as I was whisked away into a bright place smelling of ammonia. I was handed a paper gown and a cup full of pills and left alone. I put on the cold crispy gown and choked down the pills.

I felt pain. Pain so bad it felt like my insides were wringing themselves out like wet laundry. I felt tingling and nausea. I felt panic and a need to run like the wind. The need to get away was an undeniable urge, a force stronger than nature, and I tried to bolt. I was stuck, like when in a bad dream and your legs are made of cement, but here I was tied down. Alien-like masked figures hushed me and forcefully shoved more pills down my throat, nearly gagging me.

I awoke in a fresh new lemon yellow dress and white heels. I was seated on a chair in a hallway; a matronly looking woman across the hall saw me and casually left her desk, approaching me, a man following shortly behind. "Where's my ma?" My voice barely audible, a squeak at most. I looked intently at the man and reached for his arm, "Earl! Dear! I think I am in labor but....the studebaker...I...." the man reached towards the woman and said, "She's dazed. Ha! I am the doctor not her husband. Get her some water." I sat there, stumped, and began to cry. I didn't know where I was, how I got here, and where this dress was from. I hate yellow. Earl might not know much but he knows that. The woman returned with water and helped me to standing. "Here, drink it all, let's go see what you are here for. Earl's busy with poker. It's okay, come with me." I followed, having no other choice. My legs felt wobbly and my midsection felt numb and empty, foreign. My head hurt so bad but I just focused on my steps, left, right. We came to a window and instead of looking out to something familiar, it looked in. A room of clear boxes filled with pink heads. Dozens of babies, all looking identically pink and round and squirmy. "Ya see her? What is her name going to be? We need to record it for the certificate" said the matronly woman. I sat there aghast. One of these pink things was mine. I had given birth and didn't know it. No wonder Florence and Martha just told me about the first time they held their precious baby. Nothing about the birth. Why hadn't I asked? Why was birth so secret? Or did something go wrong? Was I in a dream? And which one was my baby? I had to have stood there looking dumbfounded for some time, as the woman had walked away, turned around, and come back. She grabbed my arm and said, "ok, silly, let's find her." Three rows in, four over, was a pink thing that looked...like all the others but had Williams, Earl, Mrs. written on the side in pink. A girl. My girl. Somehow.

I embraced the foreign pink thing and smelled her baby smell. "Carrie Earline" I said, the woman writing it down. "I wanna see Earl now" I mumbled, feebly grabbing for the door. Carrie was placed in a box again, this one with wheels, and the woman held my arm for support as she wheeled Carrie to the waiting room.

The room was filled with smoke and tipsy men, Earl's voice booming out as he told one of his famous fishing stories. He stopped and said "Aww my Earl Junior" as I blinked back a tear and corrected him, "Carrie Earline". The room fell silent and one man mumbled, "next time, Earl, a junior next time. Twins. Twin Williams boys." Earl grumbled, grabbed the car keys, and we had a silent drive home.

Twenty years later, when Carrie found herself pregnant, married to a nice young Marine, she asked me what birth is like. I told her what Martha and Florence had told me, the moment when you sde your baby. I didn't know birth could be different. I didn't sympathize when she worried that her husband might be at war for the birth. It was all too foreign. Twilight sleep was the way in my day, and us ladies just didn't talk about it.

Thursday, January 3, 2013

club dread

So in pregnancy circles there is team pink, blue, green for girl, boy, don't know. I went team green last time. This time I am so torn. So here I go ranting and raving and pouring my heart out publicly cause I NEED to.

I am secretly (well not anymore) cheering team blue. I already have a boy and the idea of a girl gives me a near panic attack. Club dread. Yep that probably makes me an evil b1tch. And sure I know I will love my child, boy or girl, but it is those months until birth, from knowing via ultrasound till a bit after birth when I am madly in love, which make me very depressed. Cause I suck like that and have issues. I want to cry.

I am quite the tomboy, minus my lack of understanding or appreciation for sports. (Well, running and hiking and solo sports rock but anyways...). I mean I am not dressed in sneakers, jeans, a I am disfuising my figure mom sweater. I wear nice jeans and a pretty blouse. But i feel naked in dresses and will never understand heeled shoes. I wear makeup when I feel like I have to. I style my hair maybe once a year for special occasions. I have never had a mani-pedi and don't want one. I like to look nice as in, not a homeless slob, but I do not need to wear a pound of makeup to look nice. I hate soap operas and fashion/ girly/celeb/ housekeeping magazines. As a teen I listened to my parents, chatted with then, came home before curfew. I didnt get kissed till 17. I never owned a poster of a cute boy. I refused to wear frills or pink.

So having a girl (well the possibility thereof) throws me for a loop anc makes me literaly want to cry. I tried to soothe myself with statistics...I have a 50/50 shot here but my mind is frozen on, eek girl! I tried to soothe myself googling "benefits of having a girl" and that, lemme tell you, is the WRONG thing to do. I was barraged by lists about bows and frills, ballet and heels, dresses and makeoovers, princesss parties and oink, the omg cute clothes and slumber parties, gossip, nail polish, perms....all the crap I dread. I did see mention of "my toddler girl is so sweet and caring" but hello folks. Meet my little guy. He might love cars and balls and throwing thingd and getting dirty, but he is all love. He cuddles all the time and pets my boobs when I am sad. He kisses me all oer, even as a way to wake me up. He shares his chocolate cake with me. Total sweetie. So I am not won over to the girl side.
My entire extended family on all sides wants a girl. Why? "Omg so we can dress her up in preciius cuuuuuute clothing!" Seriiusly? Seriously. They want a f*cking dress up doll.my 50% chance of girl is not a f*cking dress up doll thank you very much. She will never be a self righteous spoiled princess. If I have a girl I wlldo all in my power to make her an intelligent, strong, morally stable, go get them girl. But family wants a f*cking dress up doll and I know them, everything will be girl-rific. They will buy more stuff for her than my son because "girl stuff is sooo cuuuuuute!!!!". Ugh. I want a strong girl but havent a clue how to make her that way, so asking for a boy is easier.

Plis that gives my son a brother. A life long buddy instead of this alien girl creature. It means I can go hiking and have mud fights and climb trees. I can play cars with them and help them construct bike jump ramps. I can teach them to be sensitive and a comolete gentleman while still being "cool". That it isnt all about kicking the sh1t out of others. I can avoid pink and boy bands and the battle of women-are-not -slutty-objects. I can just continue doing what I do, what I know best, what I already do with my boy.

I was thinking of going team green and whatever the doctor says at delivery. Its a......I will be happy with. But then I think I need to psych myself up if its a girl so I need a few months to know and deal with it. Then i thought, i will find out and no one will know but hubby and I. Its none of their damned business what genitalia are inside my womb. Especially cause the first thing anyone says when I tell them I am pregnant is NOT congrats, yay, goood for you guys, how exciting...nope.it is, are you having a boy or girl?

Wednesday, January 2, 2013

Summer salts

I had summer salts last night. I was up till 3am (but on New Years Eve I couldn't make it till midnight!) wide awake. As in, I could have baked a cake and ran a 5k awake. My brain kept singing a stupid Muppets song and thinking about my doctors appointment today.

I had my first pre natal appointment today! To a mom it is a big deal. Especially to me cause I am continually amazed by pregnancy. I was wondering what would happen as every OB doctor is different and my old OB who I adore decided to be just a GYN. So sad for me. So I had a summer salting brain of "what will happen?"

I went in like a pro, pee in a cup all done, light clothes to get my real weight....

I sat in the cold office in a thin gown forever. I got asked a zillion questions, the questions I had just written down on my stupid form. I got a Pap smear. I got my super itchy hive filled legs are a mystery looked at and told to take Claritin, Benadryl, douse myself in peroxide, antibacterial soap, and to wear gloves to stop scratching. I had this same issue last pregnancy and got super strong itch cream. So I am still itchy.

I got what I call the d1ldo camera, a wand thing that goes up your... And it is like a grainy crappy ultrasound. Last time I was pregnant I got a printed image which I still have! And I got to hear the heartbeat. This time, no heart beat, no image to treasure. But the baby is alive, boy oh boy is it. I could see a little bean doing summer salts. This bean is so alive that it kept rolling out of view. The summer salts even surprised the OB.

I dunno when I am due, all my numbers give different dates so I go back in a few weeks for a real ultrasound to try and figure it out. I hope that isn't my one ultrasound as it is too early for gender...might go "team green" by force this time, that is, team I dunno the gender. Oh and I am supposed to drink 32 oz water one he before the ultrasound and not go pee. Last time I did that I went in wincing in pain and the technician touched my tiny and said go potty! The 32 oz is too much for you! So this time I am not drinking an entire 32oz or..I hope I have a tech who sees that if she touches me with 32oz of water I will explode.