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Finn is two weeks old and I’m happy to report that I see no signs of any serious post-partum depression sneaking up on me.  This doesn’t mean that I’m not on a hormone-induced emotional roller-coaster.  When you find yourself crying over the following you can be sure hormones are involved:
 

• Clay Aiken singing bad seventies songs
  
• Erika Kane fighting with her 14^th husband
  
• Too much sauce on your taco
  
• The sight of the fourth grade classroom Finn will occupy in 9 years
  
• A line three people deep at T.J. Maxx
  
•  Mold on your cantaloupe
  
• Any and all Lifetime movies
  
• Kibbles-n-Bits commercials
  
• The morning school bus ON THE FOURTH WEEK OF SCHOOL!
  
• The news that black leggings are back in (tears of joy!)
  
• Your last baby’s umbilicus falling off (that was the worst!)
  
• President Bush addressing the nation
  

(Oh yea, that always makes me cry!)

Finn is six days old today and yesterday, day five, I got my Pamela Anderson boobs when my milk came in.  True, whenever I see pictures of her I say I think those boobs are ridiculous, but in all honesty I’ve always wished for them a little bit.  What woman hasn’t if they’re being truthful?  The problem is my boobs are so engorged you could bounce quarters off of them and if Nathan even comes near them I scream and run.  The bigger problem, which is keeping me from parading these puppies around in peek - a- boo baby doll lingerie, is that just below my Pamela Anderson boobs, is my Rosie O’Donnell tummy!  Not a winning combination! 

Yesterday, as I was getting ready for a wedding, Nathan wrapped his arms around my rather absurd body and told me that I reminded him of a very famous art masterpiece, the Venus of Willendorf.  He said she is the most famous symbol of female fertility in the art world.  I wandered off feeling my own glow to get Janson’s History of Art, images of a rosy, wild haired, sensual beauty in my mind.  I was thinking along the lines of a Reubenesque nude draped over a velvet fainting couch, swollen with child.  HA!  Click here if you’d like to see why Nathan spent last night in the dog house.

I’ve just hit 37 weeks pregnant and this insolent kid id still in the breech position.  Most babies move into the vertex, or head down position by 32 to 34 weeks.  With each week that passes the likelihood of the baby turning decreases.  For the past two weeks I’ve been engaging in just about every natural turning method known to woman including seeing a chiropractor every 48 hours who specializes in breech presentations.  I’ve also been hanging practically upside down on an ironing board, squatting with my butt in the air for fifteen minutes three times a day (just be glad I’m not including a photo!), soaking in warm baths, visualizing my baby doing somersaults, and taking pulsatilla (a homeopathic remedy.)  The only thing left is acupuncture.  Once again I keep seeing the little stinker in the sunglasses laughing and blowing raspberries at me.  Little does she know that if she doesn’t turn, the minute she arrives in this world I’m putting her right in time out!

If we’re still heads up on September 5^th, my doctor will try an external cephalic version - manually manipulating the baby into a vertex position.  Sounds like fun!  If successful, I’ll most likely be induced on the spot.  If not, we start to plan the c-section.  The whole thing makes me sad because I’ve had three completely natural childbirths with no medical intervention needed.  I don’t want to be gypped out of my last miracle of vaginal birth.  Okay, I don’t want the scar either.I’m trying hard to stay focused on my usual mantra in life: whatever is meant to be will be, and I can and will handle it.  I’ll just indulge in a lot of complaining along the way!   

Nathan just nuzzled my neck.  I reminded him that I hate him.  I hate everyone, even puppies and babies.  Especially babies.  They’re evil.  There’s not much I hate more than babies right now except maybe fetuses:  they’re even more evil.  Especially mine who is regularly beating the crap out of me.  Last night Keira was giving me feather kisses all over my back and telling me how much she loves me.  Usually I eat that right up but last night all I could think about was boot kicking her out the back door.  It’s like your worst case of road rage, only it never lifts, it spares no one, and there’s no road.  At 36 weeks pregnant, I’ve never known such physical misery.  It’s like some sick puritan god is punishing me for having enjoyed sex.  Please don’t bother e-mailing me to point out what a spoiled, complaining, brat I’m being because I already know that and my only reply will be that I hate you too.

Nathan just kissed my shoulder again.  I asked him if he’d already forgotten that I hate him.  He said, “Since you already hate me, let’s talk about names!”

Nature has taken its revenge on me for my terrible methods of potty training Rowan.  In the past couple of days my fetus has taken up permanent residence on top of my bladder.  I envision this wrinkled-up, impish looking, vortex-covered fetus lounging on my bladder with sun glasses on and a cold drink in hand - laughing at me!  Every time I sneeze, laugh, stand up too fast, or generally take a deep breath, I pee myself.  I know this is a pretty common side-effect of late pregnancy, but I’ve never really had the problem before this week.  Probably because I am the queen of the kegal exercise.  I pride myself when weeks have gone by without me lifting one weight or completing one crunch or leg lift, that at least I’ve done my kegals!  I don’t think they burn any calories but they don’t make you sweaty either.  At least where anyone would notice.  Anyway, just since the day I blogged about Rowan peeing behind my chair, I’ve been basically peeing all over myself.  I can’t get the overactive bladder song out of my head:  Gotta go, gotta, go, gotta go right now!  It figures, my allergies are acting up at the same time.  I could do without the sneezing!

At the same time I am regressing back to toddler-hood, Rowan is getting the potty thing down.  She’s had two days in panties without any accidents.  This is due to pure competitiveness and jealousy on her part.  The other night we spent time with a friend of mine who is in town from Texas with her two year old twins.  One of them, Erin, is fully potty trained and sporting some pretty cute panties!  She also likes to visit the potty around every ten minutes.  This just did the trick for Rowan.  Success!  Family, friends, neighbors, even the mailman have been making a big deal about how well she’s doing and she is so tickled pink!  Of course, there will be setbacks.  After a particularly fruitful trip to the potty this evening, I was praising Rowan for an entire day without an accident when she told me, “except once Mommy, I peed on your pillow, but don’t worry - I turned it over.”  Better Rowan than me, I guess!