Even though Hudson’s only been here for 7 days, it feels like I’ve known him forever. Even after one week I can’t imagine life without his precious little face, beautiful bright eyes and adorable little toes.

It’s impossible not to see the joy that he brings to his Big Brother. The love that Carter shows is immeasurable. Carter would do anything for Baby Hudson.

As would the rest of us.

My boys.

♥ I wrote all this in Word while in the hospital. I still can’t get over the fact that there was no internet there, but I thought about you all anyway! And I can’t even believe the virtual shower that was hosted for me while I was gone. I was in tears when I saw all the comments of good luck! THANK YOU! I promise I will be around to visit each and every one of you in the coming days! I am so very grateful!! ♥

Welcome to the world Baby Hudson!!

Seriously, what kinda brand spankin’ new hospital doesn’t have WiFi? This hospital was built only six months ago and you’d think that would be a prerequisite for a new hospital in this day and age.

But I digress. I shall use Word instead.

May 28, 10:30am I arrived at the hospital for my induction: exactly 41 weeks pregnant. Worried that I would have the gel and be sent home to wait it out for six hours I was pleasantly surprised that the doctor on-call decided to just break my water instead even though I was “definitely not in labour and only 1cm dilated – what was because (I’ve) had a previous pregnancy”.

Nothing like making a woman feel a little completely inadequate at delivering a child. Though I was a little disheartened by my first impression, this doctor - who was the doctor on-call – he was awesome, fantastic and wonderful all in one. LOVE!

After about four and a half hours of walking, shootin’ the shit with Mike and waiting it out in triage, I was bumped up to a Labour and Delivery room just as the contractions began. By five o’clock I was experiencing, what felt to me like, heavy contractions I was checked and only sitting at about 3cm. One –and-a-half centimeters of dilation; that’s it: Mike was still adamant that his guess of 11pm would hold true. I thought for sure this pregnancy was going to end in a C-Section.

Since I was contracting nicely and baby was doing well, I was given my epidural by a kind and wonderful nurse who felt there was no reason for me to wait it out any longer. God, love her. Epidural kicked in as did the pressure; and assuming that I was moving along, the pitocin was delayed to see how well I progressed on my own. No significant changes over the next two hours resulted in a pitocin drip and as ten o’clock pm rolled around I was feeling considerable amounts of pressure when my nurse decided to check me.
Mike was sure I was about 6cm and I bet that I hadn’t progressed past four.

I was right.

Sitting at 3cm during a contraction, and roughly 5cm during the “down time” there really was no change at all. I was disheartened, worried and succumbed to believing that this labour would undoubtedly end with my being cut open. By doctor’s orders, the pitocin was increased and after phone calls, to up-date family on my lack of progress, Mike and I bedded down for what we thought was going to be a very long night.

Before leaving to check another patient, my nurse stated that sometimes with second babies, women will sit at 2cm or 3cm for a long time and then everything can happen in a blink of an eye.

I was sure I wasn’t one of those women.

I was wrong.

By 10:30pm I was experiencing incredible urges to push and sent Mike for my nurse. I knew he was going to think I was some kinda basket case who was going to make her night really long, but after checked me, I was sitting at 9cm+ just waiting for the lip of my cervix to disappear; and I thought labour was hard before – that was until I experienced the urge to push and not being allowed to at all.

I had to wait for the lip of my cervix, then the doctor to come, the stirrups to be put into place and every one to be ready at their stations all the while trying my very hardest NOT to push and begging them to hurry the hell up. Yeah, they loved me.

After just shy of eight hours of labour and four pushes, weighing in at 8lbs 15oz, Hudson arrived to greet the world.

Time of birth: 10:57pm. Mike’s guesstimate was right on.

Mine was, thankfully, FAR off.

No C-section and only a one degree tear. I was up to pee just over 2 hours after birth and showered (all by myself!!) at about 10 hours after.

Not bad, not bad at all for a chick that didn’t even leave the bed for the first 24 hours after her first child.

Day 3: Today’s been a little rough - well, this evening. Breastfeeding on Day 3 is by FAR the worst day. The day that milk comes in and baby is completely restless as well as having a growth spurt there’s not enough to go around and every one is in tears. This day, when I had Carter, I remember like it was yesterday. Sitting on the couch at 4am bawling because neither Carter or I could carry on. He was starving, I was in pain and shit had just about hit the fan.

This time around, we’re supplementing. It only started because Hudson was getting pretty dehydrated from not eating for the first 16 hours of his life. His lungs were still filled with mucous from his rather quick arrival and he had no urges to even attempt to eat. Therefore supplementation was required if I wanted to leave the hospital at a normal time - which I very much did. Not that I have anything to justify, I’m just blabbering now.

So, we’re here. Everyone’s excited and Carter is absolutely the BEST big brother a little kid could ask for. All he talks about is “Baby Hudson” and how he wants to do everything for “Baby Hudson”. God, I love that kid. Both my kids.

A mom to two boys and I could not be happier.

When I was living at home I was a bit of a neat freak. I had my motivation though: if I didn’t clean it my mom would - which would give her the opportunity to snoop at the same time, and I KNOW she did. She would check every single nook and cranny for things that I shouldn’t have (like beer in my closet) or weed oregano under my bed. She found it, though she never took it, surprisingly.

I remember one time, about 13 years old - the time that all girls hate their parents, I had a journal where I wrote evil and hateful things. Things I couldn’t very well say to my mom’s face, because well - she’s my MOM. Anyway, one weekend when we were at my dad’s house she cleaned my room. I know because the journal that was buried at the back of my closet was suddenly sitting on my pillow awaiting my arrival.

I don’t know if I was more pissed off at the fact that I felt like she invaded my privacy or the shame I felt for writing such hurtful things about her. That’s when I learned that there’s no where safe to hide anything.

That story really has no merit to what I was actually going to talk about.

Blame it on the pregnancy brain - yeah still pregnant. 7 days to go!

Speaking of pregnancy brain (here I go again!) I had my Mother’s Day card in my car to deliver to my step-mom for about 2 weeks. When did she finally get it? THIS MORNING. I mailed my mom’s card this morning as well. But, it’s the thought that counts? Right. Please tell me it is!

So the actual topic for today, now that I’ve COMPLETELY lost you. (Hello? You still here!?)

I think my most favourite-est part of nearing the end of pregnancy is nesting.

How fabulous is it to completely nuts on cleaning your house? Seriously. Since I left home and haven’t had the motivation of my snooping caring mother I haven’t been as neat and tidy as I once was. Not to mention the fact that I live with a man(child) who is just about one of the dirtiest things I’ve ever seen. For instance, this morning (since he’s off work for the day) he got out of the shower and put on some shorts so that he could go to the basement to search the laundry for the pair that he really wanted to wear.Well, the shorts that were CLEAN and used only for the jaunt to the basement currently reside in a lump on the bedroom floor adjacent to the hamper. Does that mean their dirty already?

Back to nesting.

[My God this is going to take forever at this rate. CON-CEN-TRATE Sam Concentrate.]

Nesting.

This morning it hits me like a huge tsunami wave. Baby. Here. Less. Than. A. Week. SO MUCH TO DO.

[Let's PRAY it's less then a week, M'kay?]

After getting a pedicure and getting my nails done I came home and began cleaning like a mad woman.

I may or may not have even cleaned up my husband’s tools in the basement.

Fo R’il. (aka For. Real.)

Monday was our bedroom - baseboards, door frames, mirrors, ceiling fan, window sills, dust - OH. THE. DUST! I’ve been vacuuming just about daily and even cleaned the kitchen floor.

I wish I had this kinda ambition all the time. Dude, I could have the cleanest house around - even while living with the dirtiest man E-VAH!

Now I just wish there was a way to easily evict a tenant that just won’t leave.

[Yes, I'm talking about the bebe in mah belly.]

My paternal (step)grandmother (my father’s biological mother died when he was 5 years old) was a kindergarten teacher for years. Whenever we would visit them, she would have all these great ideas of things we could do to pass the time - arts and crafts, garage sales, games, etc. We had so much fun when we were little.

I remember that she’s always had fun knitted sweaters - you know the ones - Christmas themed with trees, snow, Santa - the works. I think she had them for just about every season, even ones that we’re seasonal but dawned puppies and landscapes. Very much a teacher sweater.

That’s not my headless grandmother

She loved those sweaters: I think she may still have a closet full.

I think they’re hideous, horrible, and tacky!

Christmas of 1996, I was 15. We were at my grandparents house for the Christmas holidays and just finished up dinner. We were gathering in the living room, as we did every year, to open presents. Everyone was commenting on my grandma’s sweater because it was - you guessed it! - a flashy, hideous Christmas sweater.

At 15, I was less then eager to open gifts with family. I wanted to hide in the basement and watch MuchMusic (Yankees read: MTV); I wanted to be away from the adults, but had to endure the oooohhhs! and awwwwwwes! of all the gift giving.

My turn.

From Grandma and Grandpa.

I rip off the paper and see the box.

I could see a smile creep across my grandma’s face as I peered at the box.

Tabi International.

Tabi is one of those stores who sell those God awful sweaters.

I hold my breath.

I can feel my heart racing and my insides tossing and turning as I pull out this monstrosity of a sweater.

Red, with black trim. White snowflakes scatter all over.

Big. Black. Scottie. Dog.

Dead centre. Like a bullseye.

Underneath it is a white collared dress shirt.

I held the sweater up high in front of my face, blocking my grandmother’s view so she wasn’t able to see the absolute horror on my face which I tried valiantly to conceal.

I think I may have even barfed in my mouth a little.

Upon arriving home, I shoved that box far into the deep, dark depths of the dust bunny world under my bed.

Never to be seen by another human being. Ever. Again.

******

Sure, sure… it’s the thought that counts. But not today! Tell us about the Good, the Bad and the downright Hideous in today’s PBN Blog Blast - “Gifts Gone Right, Gifts Gone Wrong” - sponsored by GetinHerHead.com. You could win a $250 gift certificate to your favorite spa - where you can remember the good gifts fondly (and forget about the bad ones) while you’re being pampered!