Wednesday, August 31


The Summary
At least someone in this family remembers to check her Outlook calendar!

The Short and Sweet Version
Sweetie Pie was born on Thursday, August 25 at 5:55 p.m. via c-section. She weighed 7 lbs. 15 oz. and was 20 1/2 inches long. She is beautiful and has five fingers on each hand and five toes on each foot and more hair than a lot of adults I've known.

The Extremely Long and Somewhat Gory Version
sweetie pieWednesday was a tough day for us. Doodles had his two-year doctor appointment, which was traumatic for both of us. He loves going to the doctor's office. The doctor's office has really cool toys in the waiting room, and he doesn't show any hesitation about diving in and playing, no matter how many sick kids have been breathing on the stuff. But the second we enter the actual examination room, Doodles begins the freak out. This time it started just getting weighed by the nurse. Eventually, I had to hold him, weigh both of us, and then weigh me alone to get an approximation of his weight. Let me tell you, nine months pregnant, just what you want: an extra opportunity to get weighed. You can imagine how the rest of the visit went. What didn't help was that I had a dermatologist appointment afterwards, and once again, Doodles freaked out once we were in the examination room, even though he was safely ensconced in his stroller with a baggy of Goldfish. He tried to climb out, as he once again chanted, "Home! Home! Home!" The afternoon was a little better, although Early Intervention, which Doodles normally loves, was cut short because Doodles simply curled up in a ball on the floor and yelled. Charming. The day was saved with a visit to the playground with a friend, however, Doodles discovered the big hill (and it is quite a big hill) and decided he had to run up it. Again. And again. So nine months pregnant, I'm waddling up and down a hill. Hmmm. Lots of walking here. Wonder if there's a connection.

Anyway, the point of this is the day wasn't great and I was exhausted. I came home and told Adam that we were now at the point where the baby could come anytime, so I took my first dose of Evening of Primrose Oil, which is not supposed to bring on labor but is supposed to help "prepare" the cervix. I climbed into bed early, utterly exhausted.

My visits to the bathroom are pretty well scheduled, so sure enough, at about 12:35 a.m., I made my way to the bathroom. I don't bother turning on any lights, as I can almost do this in my sleep and I like to pretend that if I just keep my eyes closed and chant, "I'm not awake, I'm not awake," then I'll have no problems falling back asleep. So in this dream trance, I'm peeing away. All of a sudden, I feel a "plop." No real other way to describe it. Just a plop. I half crack an eye as I try to decipher the plop. Suddenly it hits me: mucous plug! I've lost my mucus plug! Labor could be just days away! I quickly jump up and turn on the bathroom light, but feel quite confused when I look in the toilet and there's nothing unusual in there. Damn. I was sure I felt something. So now I'm tired and befuddled and suddenly very... hey, what is that feeling? Wet? I'm suddenly feeling very wet? I sit back down and a little gush escapes me. Wet. I'm wet. It takes me a few moments to process. I'm wet!

I rush into the bedroom, note the time (12:42 a.m.) and wake up Adam. "My water's broken."

Surprisingly calm, he says, "Okay, so what do we do?"

"I'll call my doctor but I'm pretty sure we just hang around until the contractions start to come regularly."

Wadding a bunch of towels between my legs, I find the doc's number and call. To my surprise, I'm told to come in right away. Because I'm a VBAC, the doctor on call said, they want to monitor me. I decided to define "right away" as the hour and a half it's going to take my in-laws to come to our house from New Hampshire, so I pack a few last minute things, call my doula and tell her no hurry--my contractions are quite mild and far apart--update my ipod, send out an e-mail canceling my lunch and pedicure I had planned with a friend for the next day. I marvel at how courteous Sugar Face is, trying to plan her arrival around my schedule. And I generally kill a little time, waddling around with the towels still between my legs.

The in-laws eventually arrive, and Adam and I head off for the hospital. We arrive around 2ish, only to find out that the place is packed. We head for triage, me with my birth wish list in hand, which has such stellar requests such as "I would really like to try to have birth with no medication," "As long as the baby is fine, I’d like to be free of time limits and not augmented," "I want to watch with a mirror the baby crowning," and "I’d like to be able to use the Telemetry Monitor for the fetal monitoring so that I can move around, get on the birthing ball, etc. It’s important to me that I’m not confined to the bed," and "I’d like to hold the baby immediately after birth." (For those who remember my major fear with pregnancy number one, I did address it in my wish list: "I would like everything possible done to avoid the necessity of an episiotomy or to prevent tearing. However, if it is determined by the OB that an episiotomy would be the best course of action, please do not tell me. Just do it. If consent is necessary, please discreetly ask Adam. I do not want to know about it until after the fact.") And we hang out in triage. Tired. Bored. I read a magazine. At one point the little alarm bells on my monitor go off and the nurse comes in and tells me that Sugar Face's heart rate has been a bit too high for their comfort and their going to put me on an I.V., because they think it's just dehydration.

At about 5 a.m., we are moved to our labor and delivery room. After much consulting of manuals, I'm hooked up to my Telemetry Monitor (guess they're not used much). Still not much is happening for me. I'm about 1 cm. dilated and about 30% effaced. So really, nothing going on. We're hanging out. And hanging out. And hanging out. The thing is, the doctor's don't like to let someone hang out for too long once her water has broken because of the risk of infection. So at about 9 a.m., the doctor says she'd really like to start me on pitocin. Adam and I look at each other and I kind of shrug. I didn't want to be augmented, but I also don't want to end up with a C because the baby took too long. "What the hell," I say. "Go for it." And at this point I tell my doula to head on down. (Can you count? That's one down for the wish list: no augmentation.)

The doula comes and I begin to have contractions somewhat in earnest. We're hanging out and I'm doing the things you're supposed to do during contractions: rocking in the rocking chair, sitting on the birth ball, breathing deeply. Contractions are coming every two minutes and I have to say, I'm not really loving it. I'm told that if any pain at all exists between contractions to let them know, and sure enough, after one contraction, the pain doesn't go away. Suddenly I'm surrounded by a whole team of folk as the baby's heart rate goes way up and I'm writhing in pain. It's ultimately determined that I'm bending my wrist, which is causing the pitocin to pool up, so when I unbend, I'm having three-minute contractions. To be safe, they decide to put an internal fetal monitor on me. (Which means I'm now tethered. That's two down for the wish list.)

Now it's late morning and I'm about 3 cm. dilated and 90% effaced. And the contractions are coming. And coming. And coming. I'm picturing them as waves washing over me, but that's not really working. I'm trying to picture myself crossing the finish line of the marathon, trying to conjure up the pain I felt there and how I powered through it, but again, not quite working. I think about Ina May's book and how some women find the birth process "orgasmic," but that's really not happening for me. I'm concentrating on a single spot on the floor. All I know is, these pitocin contractions are not what I had signed on for.

1 p.m.: Still 3 c.m. Still 90% effaced. Still miserable. I've had enough. "I changed my mind!" I yell. "Get me the drugs! What the hell was I thinking? F*uck the natural childbirth and get me my epidural NOW!!!" With consolations from everyone that pitocin contractions do tend to be more powerful than natural ones, I happily take my epidural. And suddenly, life is beautiful. I still have the sensation of the contractions, but not the pain. I'm joking with the medical students, watching a little t.v. for distraction and generally think that the world is swell place to live. (And that's three down.)

3 p.m.: Still not much going on. Adam is obviously starving so I send him out to get a snack. "Are you sure?" he asks. "I'm fine! Nothing's happening!" I insist. So out he goes. Of course minutes after he leaves, I start to feel a little woozy. "I'm kind of lightheaded," I tell the nurse. Next thing I know there are swarms of folks around me again. Adam comes back ten minutes later to find my bed surrounded and an oxygen mask on my face. Apparently my blood pressure did a little dive, but they get it back up. Then, the doctor issues an ultimatum. "You are still 3 c.m. dilated and 90% effaced. If you haven't made any progress by 5, we're going to have to seriously talk c-section." I'm told I only have to make it another centimeter, so I start talking to myself: "Open up! Open up! Come out Sugar Face! We're ready for you!" My doula has me visualizing the texture of melted candle wax and Play-Doh as that's what my cervix is supposed to feel like. At one point, I develop a horrible case of the shakes; my entire body is convulsing, but the doula and the labor and delivery nurse assure me that it's a sign that the hormones are doing what they're supposed to be doing. My doula massages me, rubs my jaw to soothe the shaking. I'm told to go limp and just visualize opening up. And I visualize down to my last inner eyeball. Adam is napping in the chair in the corner of the room.

Just before 5 p.m., I start to shake again violently. I tell the nurse that I feel a pressure in my bottom, so she calls the doctor back in. Adam wakes up, once again, to find me surrounded by people. Sure enough, I've done it: I'm fully dilated and ready to push. The only problem is, I'm shaking so violently and I'm so tired, I can't push. I develop a severe case of the chills and as I convulse, I'm begging for more blankets.

"You have to push," the nurse tells me.

"I can't!" I whine. "I can't!"

"You must!"

I give it an effort that even I know is feeble. I'm trying to hold my breath and push as instructed, but really not much is happening. All of a sudden there's another rush of people around me. Things are going on, but I'm not sure what. The doctor approaches me. "You have a fever of 103.2," she tells me. "This is a sign of infection. Your baby's heart rate is going up to 195 and then plummeting down to 80. I have to strongly urge you to have a c-section now. We are putting you on antibiotics, but we need to get this baby out and get her antibiotics."

I look to Adam. "What do you think?"

Adam gives me the ultimate "Duh!" look and says, "Have the section."

So after all that, I'm wheeled off to the OR and shortly after, Sugar Face, now known as Sweetie Pie, is whisked from my uterus, with Adam watching the entire process (at one point he tells me, "It's cool. I see your bladder and your stomach," and I have to tell him to shut the f*uck up. I mean, I want him to know me inside and out, but this is ridiculous). The one good thing is that because I had requested the epidural before, we didn't have to worry about using general anesthesia. The operation was much longer than the first one I had because there was scar tissue adhesion. While Sweetie Pie was being administered to--she had to rush off to the NICU (so much for holding the baby after birth--that's four down on the wish list) for antibiotics and for a spinal tap--the doctors were busy working on me. She was born at 5:55, and they weren't done with me until about 7:30.

One disconcerting moment, as I'm being sewn up, lying out there for the entire world to see, I hear Adam turn to one of the doctors and say, "Hey, weren't you Dartmouth, class of '96?" Gee, I can't wait to run into him at Adam's next reunion!

Post-c-section is somewhat of a blur. I went to the recovery room where they kept an eye on me until morning. Adam went to the NICU to stay with Sweetie Pie. At about midnight, they deemed Sweetie Pie safe to transfer to the regular nursery, so they brought her to me and, with the help of the nurse, I was able to get Sweetie Pie to latch on. It wasn't a beautiful feed, but we started the process. Adam went down to our post-partum room to sleep, Sweetie Pie was taken to the nursery, and I went to a private recovery room (Sweetie Pie couldn't room in with me in the recovery room). I had to stay in the room until about 8 the next morning, because I did require a blood transfusion a few hours after the surgery and my vitals needed to be checked every fifteen minutes (so much for catching up on sleep).

And then? And then I got my fairy tale ending. I got into my post-partum room and my Sweetie Pie was able to room in with me. I was up and about by the end of the day. Adam spent the nights at home, as Doodles didn't react well to our leaving him to go to the hospital (he awoke when my in-laws were there and refused to go back to sleep. Even now, he refuses to go to sleep unless Adam is right there next to him. Poor thing is afraid of being deserted). However Adam came back to visit with Doodles who is 100% enamored of his little sister. "Hold Baby Sweetie Pie! Cuddle Baby Sweetie Pie!" is the constant refrain coming from his mouth. While he's a little confused about who is who, he does frequently say, "New little sister. New big brother." At day care on Monday, he insisted on wearing his hospital bracelet and he brought in a photo of him and Sweetie Pie that he showed to everyone.

Sweetie Pie and I both came home on Monday. As it turned out, the c-section was probably a good thing anyway, as Sweetie Pie was both "sunny-side up" and had the cord wrapped around her neck. But part of me can't help but feel a little regretful at how it turned out. I don't think one thing on my birth wish list actually happened (well, I did get to avoid the episiotomy). Then I look at this gorgeous creature asleep next to me, and I remember it doesn't matter how she got here: all that matters is she's here and our family is complete.

Wednesday, August 24

Two, That's the Magic Number

I want a friggin' medal. And if not a medal, then at least a T-shirt that reads, "I survived my son's 2nd birthday while 9 months preggo."

Yesterday, Doodles turned two. Bizarre for me to comprehend that my little boy has reached the number two. Of course, if you ask him how old he is, he'll hold up one finger and yell, "Fwee!" But two feels like a magic number. For starters, we no longer count in months. And then, he gets cut off his nice rich whole milk and gets switched to skim. And nuts are no longer off limits, which I am soooo grateful for because when you have a child who will only eat carbs, your choices are limited. A whole new world of granola bars and cereals with a new form of protein are opened up for us now.

But getting to two wasn't the easiest. We had a small birthday brunch for him on Sunday, which went well, except that Doodles was most unhappy when another child blew out his birthday candles. We took the easy way out and most everything was store bought, including the cake, which was way more huge and extravagant than I would have imagined. Thank goodness we bought a freezer for our basement on tax-free weekend, so we had a place to store all that extra cake. The Sunday party went well, and I was able to breathe easy that we made it through without the arrival of Sugar Face. Tweedles came to help out and I'm not sure we could have done it without the third person, and I think I now understand why people have kids' birthday parties at other locations. As Adam says, Next year, Chuck E. Cheese.

Then, on Doodles's actual birthday, we had a playgroup party for him and another girl in the group who turned two four days before Doodles. This one was in our backyard.

It didn't start off promising. Doodles awoke from his nap in the fiercest of moods. For forty-five minutes, I tried to calm him down, but all he wanted to do was scream, throw his milk, and hit me. However, once the first guest arrived, he did settle down some and we headed outside.

Then, the party was great except that Doodles has a tendency to want to wander away. We had the wading pool. We had a crafts table with construction paper, glue, and baking sugars (instead of glitter). We had his ball pit out. We had the toddler basketball net up. Three Cozy Coupe-style cars. Two tricycles. A small climber. The sandbox. And my child? "Play mama's car! Play mama's car!" as he breaks for the stairs to take him to the front yard. I'd have to waddle after him and forcibly snatch him back to the back yard. "Mama's car! Mama's car!!" I'd be able to distract him with something else for about five minutes--"Doodles! Look how fun it is to jump and dive into the ball pit!" "Doodles! Look how fun it is to spread the glue everywhere!"--and then he'd be off again. I finally started to bribe him: "If you stay in the back, there will be cupcakes!" How many years till he realizes birthday parties come with cupcakes no matter what he does? Anyway, that actually worked and soon the cupcakes came out. My child--obviously my child--licked the copious amounts of frosting off his cupcake, handed me the cake part back, and declared, "All done cupcake! Want more cupcake!" The child was covered in frosting. All the other kids ate rather daintily, needing only a minor swipe of a wipe to clean them off. I gave up and let my child run around with chocolate smeared across his face, hands, chest, shirt, and shorts.

But soon, the party was over and I was able to chill. I promised myself I could have the glass of wine my doula told me to have to relax, but I was too tired to even contemplate it.

So now, I've made it halfway through Doodles's toddler years and Sugar Face is welcome to come at any point. Of course, if she checks her Outlook calendar, she'll see that her preferred arrival is actually tomorrow. We'll see if she actually obliges. I'm guessing... not.

Regardless, happy birthday to my special little snuggle bunny. It really is going by fast.


How many months did we try to get Doodles to sleep in his cosleeper? We tried to cajole him, beg him, trick him... anything to get him sleeping off of me an on his cosleeper. The cosleeper basically became a place to change his diaper and for me to store my oft-referred to Caring for Your Baby and Young Child.

So it should come to no surprise to anyone that now that we have the cosleeper set up for Sugar Face (which causes major problems for me at 12:57 a.m., 3:23 a.m., and 5:17 a.m. when I need to get up to go to the bathroom), Doodles is all over the thing. He likes to stand on the bed and yell, "Jump!" as he dives for the cosleeper, causing to shake and rattle as he lands with a thump and rolls into the sides.

"Doodles!" I admonish. "You're too big for that! You'll break it!" How do we instill the fear of the cosleeper in him that he had just a year and a half ago? And what happens when he tries the "Jump!" move and there's actually a baby in the thing?

Dammit, some child is going to get use out of that thing in the way it was intended. Until (when?) Sugar Face refuses to sleep in it, Doodles can go to town, but in the meantime, we're looking forward to daily temper tantrums as we haul his tiny a*ss outta the thing.

Wednesday, August 17

Old Lady Tweedles

Happy happy joy joy, it's a Tweedly Twirp birthday! Hope your tummy is feeling better and that you're not cloistered somewhere! At least I amuse myself.

More From the "Do You Ever Think Before You Speak?" File

I wake up bleary eyed, because I've been up three times in the night to pee. My Braxton Hicks are becoming painful, the heartburn is becoming daily, and I've got a sinus headache. I walk into the bathroom where Adam is rummaging around the drawer looking for a nail clip.

"Don't you hate it?" he asks. "It's always the little things that hurt the most. I've got this hangnail that's killing me!"

All I can do is stare. When there's no reply, he looks up at me.

"Oh," he says. "I guess that's not what you want to hear."

Ya think?

Music to Birth By

I've been loading up my ipod with music I want to listen to while I labor. At first I was trying to think of songs that would be appropriate for a birth, and then I thought, "Screw that!" I'm putting in the songs I want to hear regardless of whether they are birth appropriate. At first I thought it would be like those folks who play "I Will Survive" and those other fun, but really break-up songs, at their weddings, but then I realized the whole point of the music is to power me up when I need it and to calm me down when I need it. So even though Liz Phair and the Beastie Boys may not be the most child friendly, they're what I want to hear. Although Adam gave me a funny look when I told him I wanted him to make sure that, as the baby is crowning, he puts on "Who Let the Dogs Out." If that's not a power song, I don't know what is. Woof woof.

Wednesday, August 10

I Could Tell You...

I really have nothing to say today. Actually, I probably have plenty to say today, but it's hot and I'm tired and my tush hurts when I sit and my groin hurts when I stand and I just don't have the energy to truly blog. I could tell you how Doodles pulled a no-nap day yesterday and pretty much sent me over the edge and I had more than my share of bad mommy moments. I could tell you how Doodles and Adam just finished up a "Mommy and Me" kayaking class and now Doodles asks for "kayaking! kayaking! People in boats!" I could tell you how Doodles is actually developing a memory, and if you ask him what he did yesterday or this morning, he can tell you. I could tell you how he's finally figured out how to get out of bed, and yesterday morning we were greeted by the pitter patter of little feet and a great big grin in our faces at 6 a.m. (which is blessedly late in our house). I could tell you how Doodles and I attempted to swim at a friend's house, but Doodles was "All done water" almost instantly, even though it was the first time in months I actually felt good in my body. I could tell you how I'm wrapping up work--I've done my last copyedit job and written my last book review until Sugar Face is old enough for day care, and I'm excited at the prospect of a couple of days to just get nested. But really none of this is very interesting and I don't feel like trying to figure out how to make it interesting.

Tomorrow is my ultrasound to confirm that Sugar Face is not breech, at which time my c-section is cancelled and it'll be my first weekly visit where the doctor checks for dilation, which is exciting for me, as I never had that done for Doodles, since he was a known c-section. So it's possible I'll have something interesting to write next week. But don't count on it.

A Relaxing Lunch

This afternoon Doodles and I were running errands not far from Adam's office, so I called him to see if he wanted to meet up for lunch. He was game. As we walked into Bertucci's, I said to Adam, "We haven't been out to eat for a while as a threesome." "You're right," he agreed.

Three minutes into sitting down, we suddenly were reminded why it had been so long. "Milk! Milk! Milk!" the little person with the big voice demanded from the end of the table. We weren't sure whether or not to get him a high chair--at home Doodles uses a booster seat--but we decided containment was good. Only there's nothing containing about a high chair anymore. The waitress brought him his milk in a paper cup with a plastic lid and a straw. Doodles instantly become more interested in removing the lid than in drinking the milk. And, oh what a lovely sound the straw makes when you slide it against the plastic. "All done milk! All done chair," he stated, as he stood up.

"Doodles, please sit. Mommy and Daddy want to eat."


Adam foolishly put Doodles in the booth next to him. For the next half hour, Adam struggled to keep Doodles from climbing over our booth into the meal of the person in the booth behind him. Finally, Doodles found a really entertaining game. He'd take the sugar packets, one by one, and crumple them. Then he'd turn around and hide them in the back of the seat, cramming them into the booth. We momentarily panicked when the sugar packets ran low, but Adam was able to successfully grab them back when Doodles wasn't looking, pass them back to me to smooth out and discreetly return to the sugar tray. It wasn't easy, but Adam and I both finished our meals.

We returned to Adam's office so Adam could change Doodles diapers. I threatened that as soon as the two were in the bathroom, I was leaving. B*astard took my car keys with him. So much for my free and relaxing afternoon.

Wednesday, August 3

Busy Schedules

My big fear about having this baby is that I'll go late and have to have a c-section by default. As a VBAC(and for those who are curious, we found a doula!), I can't be induced (Pitocin can make the contractions strong enough to increase the risk of a uterine rupture), so if I go late, it's too bad for me!

So, I asked my OB, "At what point can I start doing the home inducing techniques?" She looked at me like I was crazy. "Like what?" she asked. "Like castor oil and stuff." She laughed at me. "Castor oil can bring on contractions, but it usually doesn't bring on labor. What it will bring on is diarrhea." "But will it hurt me?" "No," she said. "So when can I start?" She laughed again. "At thirty-seven weeks." Duly noted. At thirty-seven weeks, bring on the diarrhea.

Actually, Tweeds and I took a look at our calendars, and we've both decided that the most convenient day for Sugar Face to arrive is August 25. Do you hear that, Sugar Face? You've got your first appointment. Mark it in your Outlook calendar.

My Garbage!

It's not enough any more that everything belonging to Doodles is "Mine! Mine! Mine!" Now, it's also "Not yours!" We've been having many meaningful conversations about exactly what Doodles owns in this world.

Doodles has become a garbage man. He loves to pick up garbage whenever we go to the park. He'll walk as far as it takes to get to a garbage can, except when it's something that interests him. Shiny silver gum wrappers, for some reason, tend to be "'tars" that he strums and sings along to. I'm working hard on the "No touch garbage," but it isn't working. He's starting to learn his lesson the hard way, although it grosses me out completely. Adam and I were with him at the park, and Doodles picked up a straw. "Yucky, Doodles!" I said. "Put it down!" "No touch!" Adam added. Doodles took a look at us, grinned, stuck the straw in a pile of dirt, and sucked. Won't touch rice, but he'll drink dirt from a used straw. It's hard to discipline when you're laughing so hard tears are coming out. From his cries of distress, I don't think Doodles will be drinking from dirt piles out of dirty straws again.

Of course, Doodles and I won't be going to the park much any more anyway. Adam took care of that. There is a playground just three blocks from our house that's just perfect. The play structures are just Doodle-sized, so I don't feel like I have to constantly chase him. There's just one big, old-fashioned metal slide that all us moms have agreed not to let our children on, because it's pretty high with open sides. In other words, a death trap.

So, what do I see when I meet up with Adam and Doodles at the park? Doodles, gleefully gliding down the slide of death. He runs around to the back, heads up the steep stairs, leaning precariously out the side as Adam just smiles on.

Me, yelling: "What are you doing!!! He's not allowed on that."
Adam, befuddled: "He's not?"
Me: "No! You knew that."
Adam: "You never told me that."
Me: "I'm sure I told you that. We definitely discussed it."
Adam: "We never discussed it."
Me: "Yes, we did. Last fall."
Adam: "You're kidding, right? Last fall? But he's older now."
Me: "The rules haven't changed." [with a whine] "Now he's always going to want to go on it. And then the other kids will see it and want to go on it. You've now ruined it for all the moms!"

Meanwhile, another father was there, laughing at us. He was there with his two-and-a half-year-old son and his twenty-month-old daughter. It was obvious he was taking amusement in our conversation. But, I felt completely validated, when not five minutes later, as his daughter was scaling the slide, a very pregnant woman with a thunderous look on her face approached the park. "Is that your wife?" I asked him. He looked over, immediately a little fearful. "Why yes it is. And she doesn't look happy." I didn't hear all of it, but I did hear, "What is she doing on that slide!" come sternly from the woman.

The slide of death. At least the garbage will distract Doodles from it.

From the "Duh" Department

I said to Adam this morning: "My insomnia is getting worse and worse."
Adam: "Just too uncomfortable to sleep?"
Me: "Yeah, there's that. But I'm also feeling pretty anxious, and it keeps me awake."
Adam: "You have anxiety?"
Me: "Yeah."
Adam: "Really? What are you anxious about?"
Me: "Um, hello? We're having a baby."
Adam: "Oh, yeah. Right."