Yesterday? A fantastic day! (Yesternight? Um, not so much. More on that later.) The in laws arrived bright and early and we handed over a very excited A. They were off to the park before we backed down the driveway. J and I were free! Shopping, eating, OB-appointment-ing. The appointment was wonderful. Bumblebee appears to be thriving, all (approximately) 6 pounds and 11 ounces of her. She's that big already. Dr. S's estimate is that she'll be around 8 pounds, 4 ounces by her birth date in week 38. Judging by the ultrasound, she's got her brother's chubby baby cheeks and ginormous head and her mama's gift of gab, because that little mouth didn't stop moving the whole time. More good news? My GD appears to be a total non-issue. My blood sugar looked perfect and doesn't seem to have affected Bumblebee at all.
Our adult lunch was pretty fantastic as well. We hit up Houston's. No high chair, no sippy full of milk hitting the floor over and over and over again, no veggies flying at my face. Just me, J, conversation, and some very yummy food. (Well, it seemed yummy at the time. More on that later, too.) There might have even been a scrumptiously delicious- if sinful- brownie for dessert.
And shopping? Well, hello, how can you go wrong with shopping? J found himself some Ugg slippers, so envious was he of the pair I've been shuffling around in since Christmas. We picked out a few outfits for Bumblebee. Mama got another pair of my favorite Gap black stretchy pants. Good times.
Came home, covered A with kisses and hugs like we'd been gone for a week, enjoyed some chit chat with the in laws while the guys installed Bumblebee's window treatments, hit the couch for some Idol.
Then came nighttime. Apparently we'd enjoyed our day a bit too much, and someone decided we were in for some karmic retribution. And by "we" I mean "me". Here's the timeline:
J and I go to bed. He's on the mend from a cold, so he chugged Nyquil and collapsed into the guest bed (no germs allowed near the pregnant lady's bed). I chomped my chalky bedtime snack (Tums) and dozed off reading UsWeekly.
I wake up, feeling urgent and confused, sweaty, and pretty sure there's a ferocious animal in my belly trying to escape (not Bumblebee, more like a Houston's french dip sandwich kind of beast).
Barfing begins. And goes on for over an hour. I don't even know how I had that much stuff in me to throw up. I started worrying I was going to barf up Bumblebee. So violent was this barfing that ....
... I'm scrubbing the splatters of barf from the bathroom wall and floor with Lysol wipes. Barf on the WALLS. This was not pretty. It's in my hair, too.
I've washed my hair and finally feel like the Zantac, Tums, and Pepto have calmed my stomach enough to allow some sleep. The cool pillow feels mighty nice against my cheek. I shut my eyes ....
1:02am (not even kidding)
SCREAMS from A's room. Usually, if he wakes at night, there's whimpers and quiet cries and then he's back to sleep. These were horribly scary, insistent, "OMG MOMMY HELP ME RIGHT NOW I'M BEING EATEN BY A MONSTER!" screams. I was almost afraid to go into his room, so sure was I that he'd launched himself out of the crib and was bleeding or had a broken limb. I go in and find my poor baby slicked in sweat, standing up clutching his crib rail with one hand and his blankie with the other trembling hand. Most likely the aftermath of a very scary baby dream. Probably had something to do with an empty sippy or lost wagon.
He's contently sleeping on my shoulder if I'm rocking, then screaming any time I stop the rocking. The rocking is NOT helping my upset stomach and I'm afraid I might barf on my child. J's still sleeping peacefully. I briefly wonder if I should go check his breathing, because how that man has slept through the last three hours of barfing and screaming, I don't know. And if he is breathing, I kind of want to smack him for sleeping through all this.
A's in bed with me, a desperate last ditch effort to get us both some rest. The good news is he's asleep. The bad news is he's asleep sprawled across my chest, one arm over my belly and the other clinging to the shoulder of my t-shirt, little nails digging into my shoulder. As much as I love his sweet baby sighs and snuggles, I don't really need help making myself less comfortable (or warm) at night at 36 weeks pregnant. There's no way I'm going to be able to sleep like this. And I'm pretty sure I feel something damp leaking from his pajama bottoms onto my shirt.
A's back in his crib, freshly diapered and changed into clean PJs, calm enough to fall back to sleep on his own. I waddle back to bed and stare at the ceiling for a half hour before falling into a fitful sleep and having nightmares about projectile vomiting and babies flying out of cribs.
Tonight has got to be better. And word to the wise: avoid that Houston's french dip. I don't think I'll ever look at roast beef the same way EVER again.