Making' Babies

I spend way more time on this little space o' mine talking about shoving people out of my hoo-hah than I think is fitting. It's not really why I write this thing, but the story keeps coming back up anyway. Sarcastic Mom is doing a Carnival of Torture Labor today, and who am I to resist, really?

You can read, if you must, my first son's very long-winded, detailed, touching birth story here. Then you can click here and read the slightly shorter, slightly snarkiner story of my second son's birth. If you must, you could click this link and read the 3/4 of a paragraph that I managed to piece together of my third child's birth. Really, I don't remember most of it. And yes, I was sober through the whole thing. Poor third kid.

In the interest of participation, and in the interest of A) not boring you to tears and B) not subjecting you to the pure horror that is the picture my mother-in-law decided to click of my hootchie-chootchie immediately after I gave her a shiny happy grandson (will she ever just be nice to me? Sheesh!), I offer you the clif-notes version of the worst 27 months of my whole damn life.

I hate being pregnant the way Marilyn Manson hates going to church.

Kid one: I gained 105 pounds, I have 3 permanently fused vertebrae in my lower back and a highway on my tummy in stretch marks.