Sorry for the lack of posts lately; there really is nothing to report on around here.

I'm feeling better, day after day, but I have to say, this has been a tough recovery. C-sections are no joke. At first, I was like, "This is great!" I thought it was so much better than a natural delivery. I mean, after a natural, it literally feels like you've been beaten with a bat and then your whole body swells to epic proportions. (at least, that was my experience). But that was the worst of it - and every day progressively got better  post-delivery.

Not with a c-section. It was tough the first few days in the hospital, but by the time I got home, I was amazed at my mobility. I didn't go up the stairs, but I was able sit on the ground with Scotty, get up from chairs, practically do a sit-up. I was convinced c-sections are the way to go.

But not so fast. My recovery progress has stalled. Or at least, it feels like it. While with a natural birth, it was bad and then consistently got better, the c-section delivery is just slow going.  Each day I feel a teeny-bit better, but I'm still struggling, energy and pain-wise.

(and FYI, I don't know if I'm using the correct term here - I know all births are "natural," I just really don't want to have to keep writing "vaginal" over and over again in my blog. So my apologies to anyone who I may offend by insinuating their child didn't come into this world naturally. That's not my intent. It's just my simple avoidance of the v-word.)

All of this makes my life very, very dull. My mom is hitting this grandmother thing out of the park - I really think Scotty now prefers her to me - and they are having so much fun. Just the other day I poked my head out of the bedroom to see what they were both giggling so much about. My mom was (gently) tossing him onto a bunch of couch pillows, and he thought it was hilarious. Up, down, up, down, up, down. I would have never thought of the game, making me happy new ideas are being infused into the home!

And finally, I would like to announce we are creating a new Thanksgiving tradition. Since we are big fans of the deep-fried turkey, we seem to have the same conversation year after year: what else can we fry? (or at least, this is my most pressing question. Man, do I want some cheese sticks. Or maybe a fritter. A girl can dream, right?)

Finally, after some lengthy discussions, I was able to convince His Royal Highness of the Deep Fryer (aka Brian) to actually permit me to fry something aside from turkey. So, on what looks to be a very cold, brisk morning here in Las Vegas, this Thursday will host the very first ever, handmade DOUGHNUT BREAKFAST in our backyard. I have the biscuit dough all ready to go in the fridge. I'm defrosting the apple cider and putting on a pot of hot chocolate. I'm planning on a variety of toppings (cinnamon sugar, powered sugar, and perhaps a chocolate glaze) AND, the best part: my dad is bringing my mom's biscuit maker out from the wilds of Indiana, so not only will we have doughnuts, we will also have doughnut holes. Scotty-sized doughnuts! Ah! Does life get better?

Stay tuned for LOTS of pictures. A doughnut-cam, perhaps?

(oh, and I'm down 4 solid pounds from my pre-surgery weight. Sweet! Thank you morphine, vomiting, and a very large fibroid for my weight loss.)

So I haven't left the house since I got home last Thursday.

I feel like a big lump. A big lump in yoga pants. Mentally, I am ready to bust out of this place, but physical...man, physically, this recovery is kicking my rapidly-growing-from-sitting-all-the-time bum. And it's one of those things were the less you do, the less you feel like doing. I feel like a big leach that just limps through the house slowly, grousing and mumbling and sipping coffee. I'm sure my mother is loving this.

And I'm a big grump, I'll admit it. There is nothing worse than feeling off physically, and due to my maturity, I like to take it out on everyone around me. (again, cue my mother sighing heavily). Poor Scotty decided to refuse his almond butter and jelly sandwich yesterday, and I was practically shooting him daggers from across the kitchen. I don't think fifteen month-olds are used to moms recovering, and he just looked at me with a mixture of confusion and fear. Nice, Kim, nice.

I also thought about detailing the story of CatheterGate, Part Deux, as well as a whole blog entry about poop, and then it hit me: do I really want to overshare? I mean, really? The thing is, I'm not exactly sure who is reading this. You could work with my husband (which will make for a very uncomfortable exchange at the upcoming holiday party) or maybe you went to high school with me. Do you really care to read about bodily functions? No. So, maybe one day I'll discuss the aforementioned topics, but for now, I'm going to cling to my last few shreds of dignity.

I do want to acknowledge and thank everyone who has called, sent flowers, cards, and gifts. Wow, I didn't know fibroid surgery warranted such a lovely reception, but our house has never smelled better from all of the lovely bouquets (or the LOU MALNATI'S PIZZA...YUM!) Everyone has been so kind and I apologize if I haven't returned your call...like I said, I'm just a big grump right now with unwashed hair, that steno-surgery tape stuck all over my belly, and morning breath. I really have nothing to report so I'm just going continue my self-imposed hibernation.

Really, the only thing that has made me smile in recent days (aside from LOU MALNATI'S PIZZA...did I mention that?) is the announcement of Prince William and Kate Middleton's engagement. EEEEEE! I have no idea why, but this just make me deliriously excited. Royal wedding? Hell yes! They are both such well-scrubbed, shiny, pretty people and I adore her fashion sense, so I can't wait to see what the next few months yield. I even forced Brian to watch Dateline's "A Royal Love Story" last night, and my mom and I were ooh-ing and aww-ing throughout the piece. I even read up on the royal family yesterday during my nap time (Scotty and I are on the same schedule) and learned quite a bit about them. They adopted the title of 'House of Windsor' in the early nineteen hundreds, as a result of WWI and the anti-German feeling. When the Queen took the throne in 1952, she confirmed the name Windsor but also wanted her direct descendants to be distinguished from the rest of the royal family, so they added the surname of Mountbatten-Windsor. So anyone who is a descendant of George V (the Queen's dad) is from the House of Windsor, but if you are a descendant from the Queen herself (Charles, Andrew, Ann or Edward), you also get the Mountbatten-Windsor title. (Mountbatten is Prince Philip's, the Duke of Edinburgh, HRH's husband, surname before he married Elizabeth). Cool, huh?

See? I'm probably boring you right now. I don't think I would ever want the princess lifestyle -- too many flashbulbs and critical press -- but Kate looks the part and so far is acting the part. I will admit, throughout the entire special, I kept yelling at the TV, "Tell us what hair products she uses!" since that uber-shiny, super straight hair is seriously a work of art (in rainy England, no less!). But then it hit me - she probably has a team of hair stylists with the sole purpose of making her hair unbelievably shiny and perfect. Lucky duck. But again, is shiny hair worth the downside of palace life? Hmm...need to think about that one for a w

Well, I'm off to lay on the couch for awhile. Peace out.

I gotta hand it to my hospital, Southern Hills: they really came through this time.

Last time, during Scotty's birth, things on the second floor were a little chaotic. Nurse scheduling issues, nurses that just didn't know what they were doing, forgetting about me for 12+ hours...it was kind of a disaster. But I was ready to give the place a second chance (since it is also 2.3 seconds from our house), it seemed like the best place to do my surgery.

So on Monday morning, Brian and I arrived bright and early at 5:30am.  I clutched my little suitcase and barked at Brian as I feverishly tried to contain my anxiety. The first thing they asked me to do: pee in a cup. Um, not happening. Anxiety through the roof. After spending the entire day before um, eliminating everything in my body, there was scarcely a drop of water left. So I had to hand the empty cup back to the woman behind the desk and took my place in the waiting room with my head down, ashamed. I started fretting that if this was a precursor of how things were going to go, I was screwed.

But when the nice male nurse called me back, he waved off my performance anxiety. "Not a problem," he said, handing me a warm blanket and fuzzy socks, "we'll just do a blood test." (they had to make sure I had not gotten pregnant between my intake interview on Friday and Monday morning. Um, just take my word for it?)

Score! I felt better immediately. I looked at the nice nurse's name tag, clipped to the front of his scrubs, to thank him properly. "Thanks, Tom..." I started and then burst out laughing. "Riddle? Your name is Tom Riddle? Seriously?"

You could tell he got this a lot. He kind of forced a smile and said, "Yeah. It's actually pronounced "ry-dell" but everyone calls me Riddle. Ha, ha, I know, I'm the bad guy."

OMG. My nurse is Lord Voldemort?

(for the six of you who are not familiar with the Harry Potter books, Tom Riddle is an orphan who later becomes the most feared and diabolical wizard in the entire wizard world, Lord Voldemort. Among other things, he killed Harry Potter's parents and tries to kill Harry during the entire series.) 

I did the only thing I could think to do: I grabbed my cell phone and texted several friends who I thought would get a kick of out this new turn of events. Mature, I know.

So He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named and another nurse kept coming in to check on me pre-surgery, though I got the distinct impression Lord V, er, Tom, was a little irritated at me. Well, whatever. Don't be mad at me. Be mad at J.K. Rowlings and her incredibly inventive series about a clever boy wizard.

It probably didn't help that Brian kept calling him 'the nurse who shall not be named.'

And then...it was surgery time. My IV was in place, all metal had been removed from my body, and my stomach and bowel were sufficiently empty (and it was confirmed: I was not with child.) The next thing I know, I was wheeled to a freezing cold room and asked to hop from my nice comfy bed to a teeny-tiny, narrow cot. I had to spread my arms out, Jesus-style, and they put an oxygen mask over my face. That's really when it hit me - I was going to die. (Okay, yes, I was a little melodramatic, but the situation was very scary.) I started shaking uncontrollably and seriously considered calling the whole thing off when the anesthesiologist noted my near-hysteria slipped something extra into my IV and asked, "Better now?"

Hmmm....yes. Quite good, in fact.

I just kind of melted into the hard cot. Then I asked when they were going to give me the gas mask, and he replied, "We already did. Bye-bye!"

And that was it. I was out. Dunzo.

Next thing I remember, I was being wheeled through recovery by a nurse named Teresa (I'm a stickler for making sure name tags and photos match up. I do not want to be kidnapped from a hospital) screaming my head off. The only way I could describe the pain is by saying it felt like someone was hitting me in the stomach with a baseball bat while I was doing crunches. Teresa, not enjoying my wails, promptly gave me 20mg of morphine and I was out again.

That's pretty much how Monday went.

I woke up in pain, clicked my morphine clicker thing, and passed out. I attempted to eat some Jell-o and then puked it up. I tried sitting up in bed and puked. I tried to eat broth for dinner and puked. Click, click, click. All of this transpired while Brian was sitting next to my bed, holding my hand, and yes, our marriage vows were really going to be tested. I mean, in the last year or so, he's seen me puke, give birth, breastfeed, cry, have a catheter inserted, have a catheter removed, yell at doctors, yell at nurses...I've barely seen him take a cough drop. Why is this so one-sided? He's totally going to trade me in in about ten years for a newer, cleaner model.

Anyways...

It finally occurred to me by Tuesday morning that my pain wasn't too bad, but it was the damn morphine that was killing me and making me so sick. I requested the clicky thing be taken away and be given oral pain meds and just like that, I recovered! I was able to eat an entire breakfast Tuesday morning without it coming back up, and same with lunch. After literally starving for 48 hours, food - even hospital food - was a glorious thing.

Okay, I'm winded from typing all of this, so Part II will be tomorrow. I'll leave you with this cliff-hanger...they removed the catether at noon on Tuesday. Oh no! How did Kim's bladder respond?  What will happen next? To be continued...

This is the way our weekend has broken down so far. Let me know if you see a theme.

Friday: Scotty decided to nap strike, so I threw him in the stroller and proceeded to march to the nearest park, about 1.5 miles away. Uphill. But, the weather was terrific and we both sported cute hoodies, so all was good. (and the walk back was thankfully downhill.)

By the time we returned from our trek, Brian was home to greet us. Scotty ate dinner and at some point, he lost his pants. I don't remember why, but he ended up climbing the stairs for bedtime/bathtime wearing only his t-shirt, diaper, and one sock. (It had been that kind of day). He also loves to detour to our room first before going to his room, so on this particular evening, we found ourselves in a little baby pile on the floor of our bedroom. With the Na-Na blanket, of course.

Once he was safely in his crib, Brian and I ordered some sushi, opened a nice bottle of wine, and settled in front of the TV to catch up on our shows from the past week. A lovely night, indeed.

On Saturday, I did the yard work, hit the gym, and the nail salon while Brian and the Bear went to Paid Humiliation. (FYI: Gel nails are no joke. As you may recall from a previous post, I decided to go with a dark nail color as a result of my Boot Camp empowerment. Well, the nail tech talked me into doing a gel manicure - "Exactly like nail polish but it will last longer and not chip!" I agreed. Fast forward to two weeks later, and this manicure is still going strong. Except the my nails have started to grow out, and I am sick to death of Vamp; I kind of look vampy and my once-square nails are getting dangerously long. When I tried to soak off the polish, imagine my surprise when it didn't budge. Not an inch. I tried to peel it off but along with the polish came the entire top layer of my nail. Owwww. I decided to just go back to the salon and see if they could help me. Well, to the cost of an additional $10, they sanded my polish off. With that little drill bit thing. Yeah, 'exactly like nail polish' my arse. I'm sticking with nude nails for the forseeable future, thankyouverymuch).

Anyways...after all that drama, Scotty went down for a nap like a champ and Brian and I cleaned out the garage. Like, seriously cleaned. We have a huge pile of stuff to be donated, another pile of Craigslist stuff, and Brian went to the dump no less than three times. I swept the garage from top to bottom.  Later, we had a great dinner with friends and Scotty actually fell asleep in the car on the way home.

Today I woke up with an insatiable desire to make meatballs (currently cooling on the counter). I also have a grocery list in front of me with all the ingredients needed to make (and freeze) bolognese sauce, minestrone soup, and several varieties of muffins. Mind you, this is after I cleaned Scotty's stroller ("de-Cheerio'd" if you will), organized his secret closet, and emptied some more boxes. I was seriously considering organizing the recycling (and washing out the bins) and trying to squeeze in some vacuuming when it hit me...

I am nesting.

Is it the weather? My mom's eminent arrival in ten days? (We like to fool her into believing we are clean, organized people.) No, it's much more simple than that: I am nesting like I'm about to have a child. Except I'm having a fibroid. A large, healthy, well-nourished fibroid by all accounts. It's causing me to have this crazy desire to organize my house, right down to scrubbing out the garbage can because in two weeks, I'm going to have a fibroid.

(is anyone going to send us Lou Malnati's as a congratulations? I doubt it.)

Yes, the surgery is identical to a c-section (minus that whole 'shelling the peach' thing v. pulling out a baby), but oh my gosh, this is so strange. I mean, I never got a chance to nest while pregnant with Scotty; I just barked orders from my supine position on the couch. And now, with the thought that my beloved routine is going to be interrupted for four to six weeks, I am scrambling to cross my 'ts' and dot my 'i's'. Quickly. In the form of exercise, cleaning, and cooking.

Like a crazy person.

We need to buy a bigger freezer.

T-minus 14 days and counting.

(I would write more, but I just noticed the baseboards need to be scrubbed. And this computer screen is dirty.)