At 30-weeks pregnant I was directed to the high-risk antepartum unit by my doctor.

These two posts were written for FresnoFamous.com --  but I think any Fresnan can relate.

Fresno Flair Past & Present

Are you on Twitter? For those who aren't -- It's a social networking site where many moms gather and communicate in 140 characters or less. It's free, easy to signup and a great way to connect to those around you locally and worldwide. However, it's only fun if you have some friends to follow.

Here's a list of local folks and some others to get you started or add to your already burgeoning list.

At 30-weeks pregnant, even I had to admit my health was disintegrating. 

“How do you feel?” The nurse asked as she prepared to take my blood pressure.

“Terrible.” It was difficult to explain. I felt a massive pressure on my chest and it was so bad I slept propped on pillows to breath easier. Conversations were exhausting. Even watching a TV show was too much. I couldn’t focus enough to follow along. Anything physical, like walking from the couch to the bedroom, and I was sapped. A lengthy nap would follow.

The nurse placed the cuff on my arm, squeezed the bulb and released. She bit her lip as she watched the numbers.

“How bad?”

She hesitated. “Umm, not good.” On her way to the door, she paused and looked at my feet. They were so swollen I worried about getting stretch marks on my ankles. “The doctor will be in soon.”

Jimmy walked through the door next.

“Sorry, I got here as soon as I could.” He was still wearing his work uniform. “What did they say?”

“It’s not good.”

He sat down in the chair next to me and squeezed my hand. I slumped against him.

Dr. Oswald entered. He was reading a chart and talking. I wasn’t sure if it was to the nurse, himself or me until he looked up. “This isn’t good. No, no. I’m very worried.” He sat down on his stool. “You have elevated levels of protein. Your blood pressure is too high.” He flipped through the papers again. “What are we going to do?”

I wasn’t sure if question was rhetorical – so didn’t answer. When he finished reading his notes he took a long look at me. He didn’t like what he saw. “I think you need to go to the hospital. This is very dangerous. When it happens, it happens fast.” He was referring to pre-eclampsia.

I was almost too tired to talk, much less disagree.

“What insurance do you have?”

I couldn’t remember.

Jimmy said, “Blue Cross.”

The doctor rubbed his forehead and frowned. “OK, here’s the thing. You have to go to the hospital downtown. Your insurance doesn’t have a contract with St. Agnes.”

“Oh. I thought I’d be at the one in Clovis.”

He shook his head. “They won’t admit you unless you are at least 36 weeks. They don’t have a NICU either. St. Agnes does and I could treat you there – but I can’t at Fresno Community.”

That didn’t make sense. How could I be at the Fresno hospital if he couldn’t see me there? My confusion must have showed.

“Mia, call Dr. Howard’s office.” The nurse quickly left the room while he continued to talk. “He’s the specialist there.”

Panic fluttered like a baby bird in my chest. “You won’t be my doctor anymore?”

“If you make it to 36 weeks, you can transfer to Clovis and I can deliver the baby. Or you can check into St. Agnes and work with your insurance company later to cover the bill.”

It was too much to absorb. I was sick, exhausted and worried my daughter wouldn’t live to take her first breath. It never occurred to me I wouldn’t have my doctor. Regardless of how bad it got, I trusted him. If we were going to make it — he’d be the one to pull us through. … Maybe we should go to St. Agnes and fight the insurance company later.

The nurse opened the door and leaned in. “Dr. Howard is on vacation all week.”

“Who’s covering for him?”

“Dr. Terry.”

“Get him on the phone.” Dr. Oswald stood up and motioned for us to follow. We stood next to the nurse station and waited while she dialed the phone. The doctor asked, “What do you want to do?

Huh? What was there to do? “I don’t know.” I wasn’t really sure what he was asking about. Maybe it was about the hospitals. He talked some more but my brain completely spaced.

Next thing I knew, Jimmy was escorting me out of the office to our cars. I grabbed my keys out of my purse.

“What do you think you’re doing? You’re not driving. I already called mom — we’ll pick it up later”

I paused. “What are we doing?”

“We’re going home and waiting for him to call us. He’s getting it set up for you to be admitted.”

“Oh.”

Jimmy opened the car door. I got in and buckled up. I wasn’t sure how were going to manage with me in the hospital — but I knew we were in for a helluva a ride.

My daughter is a miracle. From conception to birth she battled to be born. Even now, as we gaze into each other’s eyes when she nuzzles and nurses, I’m amazed she is really, truly here.

Still, I can’t get enough of her and nibble her tender toes, cheeks and belly. Her skin is warm and sweet. I rub my face against her downy auburn hair and am thankful she’s alive. I’m relieved we both survived.

Getting pregnant wasn’t easy. I suffered secondary infertility after the birth of my oldest son and was diagnosed at 27 with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome (PCOS). My odds of conceiving again were very slim – and that would be with the help of fertility aids.

One doctor told me it was a miracle I had my boy.

Another said, after ruling out Cushing’s disease, it was the worst case of PCOS she’d ever seen.

The syndrome did more than clump my eggs and prevent conception. It ravaged my health. In less than eight months I gained almost 100 pounds. My blood pressure skyrocketed to stroke levels and I was put on meds. My hair thinned to the point of embarrassment.

I went from outgoing and active to depressed and closeted. My only thought was another baby. I hated my body for denying me.

The searing grief was eventually numbed under the thick callus of time. Only, the pain didn’t truly dissipate until the birth of my youngest son. He joined our family through adoption.

After a few years hemming and hawing about adopting again, Jimmy and I decided we were content with two.

So, as you can imagine, it was a heart-jolting surprise to find out 15 years later I was expecting again.

When a tubal pregnancy was ruled out, everyone — but me — rejoiced. The protective callus I thought was gone had come back.

“I thought you’d be happy. This is the baby you wanted for so many years,” Jimmy said.

“No. That baby is down the hall, sleeping in his room.”

Jimmy gave me a perplexed look.

“It’s going to take me awhile to wrap my head around this.” He was right. I ought to be shouting with joy so loud the neighbors heard. Instead, I was terrified.

What I wouldn’t tell Jimmy … what scared me so badly … women with PCOS had high early-pregnancy miscarriage rates. I wouldn’t feel better until I could hold the baby. I promised myself I’d at least relax if I made it to 12 weeks – the time when the fetus would take over my faulty production and produce its own hormones.

As that milestone passed, I still felt the yarn of worry knotted in my stomach. I didn’t need the doctor to tell me this pregnancy was going to be rough. I could already feel it.

And each day was more difficult.

My prediction was confirmed at 15 weeks. My blood pressure was out of control and I was referred to the cardiologist. Every week or two, my meds were increased with the hope I’d stabilize.

It didn’t work. At 27 weeks I was placed on strict bed rest. By my 30-week appointment, the deterioration of my health couldn’t be denied.

Here's a few links of items I found interesting, weird, shocking, humorous or just plain good reads.

Teen Tattoo Regret

Note: This is one of those ‘about me’ lists that I was tagged to do on Facebook. Now I’m bringing it to CentralValleyMoms.com. If you’re reading this, consider yourself tagged.

1. I’m being strong-armed into writing this list. A few friends tagged me on Facebook to do so – but it took my husband to sign up for Facebook, write up his own list and then tag me before I gave it any reasonable thought. He holds my Valentine’s Day surprise present hostage. What can I say, it’s a motivator.

2. I’m clumsy. This is probably something you already know. What you don’t know is my mom put me in ballet as a child, not because I wanted to go (and I did), but with the hopes it would help instill some grace. It didn’t. I was quickly dis-enrolled once the tap dance sessions began.

3. I kissed my first boy in Kindergarten on the first day of school. My second and third were on the next day of school. My dad made me a deal. He’d pay me a dollar a day if I quit having boyfriends. I realized later, he was paying me the same dollar over and over.

4. I’ve wanted to learn how to play the piano since I was three. Instead I play a great game of Rock Band

5. My mother tells me my favorite toy from age 6 months on was books. I remember being able to read before I could talk. However, I’m still working on grammar and spelling.

6. I’m very claustrophobic.

7. If you need more than one item from the store – make me a list. Even if it’s a two item list. What can I say? Target is awesomely mesmerizing. If you don’t send a list I’ll forget and will be calling you. I might just forget the list in the car and call you anyways. (I’d actually bet on that last one happening if money is being laid out.)

8. As a kid/teen, I wanted to grow up and become a photographer for National Geographic. My dream was do take photos of jungle animals. Two things I didn’t consider – I hate summer and camping.

9. As a child I was more interested in reading books than making friends. Though I did love a mean game of tether ball.

10. I started smoking cigarettes at an incredibly young age. I quit my pack-a-day habit after 14 years at the age of 27.

11. My husband taught me how to drive. I bought my first car and then got my license at the age of 23.

12. I ran my first stop sign with Jay in the car. He was 3-years-old and strapped into his car seat. I saw his head bobble as I hit the brakes. He thought it was funny. I did not.

13. I swore I’d never get married or have kids. Love changes everything. I met Jimmy when I was 17, moved in with him at 18, married him at 19 and we had our oldest son when I was 20.

14. Jimmy and I swore we’d never have any children after the age of 30. I’m 36 and expecting our 3rd child. We're planning on this being our last child -- but I'm not going to 'swear' to it after seeing the pattern.

15. Oh yes, by the way, I’m 36. For some reason people are always asking how old I am. … Especially after they find out I’m a mom to a kid in high school.

16. I’m left-handed and a Capricorn.

17. I have so much gray hair now, I’m counting the brown. That is, until I color it red again.

18. I’m incredibly sensitive to color. I once refused to test drive a car because it had beige carpet, beige interior and beige paint. Incredibly offensive in my book. The sales guy didn’t believe me when I told him if I drove that car I’d never, ever buy a Saturn in my life. Jimmy confirmed my statement as being ‘very true’ to the bewildered man. He brought out a forest green exterior/beige interior car instead. Too late. I ended up buying a white Toyota with gray interior. How are those colors better? It only makes sense in my world.

19. My fave night out is at the bookstore with coffee and great friends.

20. At all times possible, I walk barefoot. Second best is in Tevas. Not going to blaze a fashion trail with those, but they're comfy.

21. I’ve always wanted a tattoo but have never committed.

22. My mom got her nose pierced before me. It was something I wanted to do since I was a teen. I finally did it at the age of 33. Love it.

23. I didn’t do any of the things I thought I was going to do when I was 17 – but in many ways, I’ve done so much more.

24. I love cake. And hummus. But not at the same time.

25. I love animals too – but not in the same way as cake and hummus. I have a hard time not adopting more. So much so I’m not allowed to visit pet stores or shelters alone. Jimmy’s made an emergency trip from work to disengage me from the furry critters I was tossing into a basket to purchase. No joke. I still think that chinchilla would’ve been the bestest pet ever.

Bed rest bites. Regardless of what some people think, it's not a vacation. It's hard work. Serious work.

Slowing down, much less coming to a dead stop, isn't easy for me. Between family and work I over schedule my life on a daily basis.  Isn't that what moms do?

Bed rest lost its novelty after three hours. I thought I’d enjoy snuggling on the couch and reconnecting with Oprah, snoozing and reading for at least a few days.

Get creative in time for the inauguration! At Obamiconme.com you can upload a photo and join in the Obama-stylized fun. It’s easy and free.

You’ll have the option to choose from pre-selected captions or create your own. The photo can be shared by link, Twitter or email. The option to download is available too. 

Want your kid to blow their nose but they snoot instead?

Yes, snoot. It means: To suck in rather than blow out when blowing your nose. 

While you won't find the definition to words like snoot, wishjack and drinkle in Webster's Dictionary - you will find them in "The KidDictionary," by Eric Ruhalter. ($11.95 Amazon.com)

'The KidDictionary' looks to provide new words that help describe the many complex (and silly) things kids do.

It helps parents label actions like when their kid blows out the candles of another kid's birthday cake or the liquid spurt emitted when a toddler squeezes a juice box.

You know what I'm talking about - check out the book on Amazon or watch a preview of it on Youtube. 

Autism in California is on the rise. It used to be fewer than nine children in 10,000 were diagnosed. Today the number is more than 44 in 10,000.

What caused the rapid increase? Some thought the numbers were affected by more awareness, improved surveillance, and earlier assessment and diagnosis. Others argued it was because milder forms of autism were counted or because families with autistic children were migrating to California.

My voice is my power. It's the timbre and alto that keep my household running smoothly. Without it, well … I'm merely an object to be mocked.

Winters in Central California don't bring snowstorms, just the occasional rainstorm and Tule fog. The only white flurries I see are tissues flung after a cold virus has attacked the family. This round, I am victim number two. My preschooler's little body was the Trojan horse that allowed the enemy into the camp.

As he recovered, I lay on the couch moaning and groaning my fate … I mean battling the horrible illness that attacked within. The thermometer marked my temperature in the triple digits. The only way to breath was through an open mouth – and the air felt razor-sharp against my tender throat. Sleep was near impossible. Only ten-minute snoozes were accessed before a choking, coughing fit ensued.

I was miserable, cranky and desperate for some rest.

"Mom, I want someteen to dwink."

Craig tapped me out of a light slumber with the stylus on his Leapfrog. He resumed playing while waiting for me to respond.

Ugh, why didn't he ask when I got him toast 10 minutes ago? He was in that I'm-feeling-better-but-not-quite-100%-demanding-the-world stage. Which was about a day away from you-get-to-go-back-to-school stage. "OK."

I shoved off the pillows, swung my legs to the floor and waited good ten seconds before scooting my rear to the edge and lifting up and around my pregnant belly to standing. It left me panting for air.

Craig was not impressed with my gravitational feat. He tapped his foot and looked at me. "I twirsty."

"Yes, I know." My voice cracked and became high-pitched like I was a pubescent boy. I motioned to follow me to the kitchen.

"Do you want milk or juice?" The words came out as squeals, pops and screeches. I tried again. Craig didn't answer or even look up. He stood at the entryway playing his video game. "Hello?" The last word ended in a whisper.

I walked over and tapped him. "What do you want?"

Craig jerked his head up. "Hey, you no hit me."

What? I shook my head. "I just tapped your shoulder. Juice or milk?"

He gave me a strange look and then giggled. "Sphhh sphhh sphh spphhh." He ran loops from the hallway to the living room laughing. "Sphh spphh spphh."

My voice was completely gone. The only thing left was a strange whisper. Which was, apparently, hilarious.

I let Craig get it out of his system. When he calmed down I asked him as clearly as I could what he'd like. This time he fell to the floor in a laugh attack.

That was it. I grabbed the milk and the juice from the refrigerator and set them on the counter. I used sign language and pointing to demonstrate my question.

Finally we reached a level of mutual communication.

However, the rest of the day Craig used the situation to his advantage.

"Mom, may I play pewter?"

I responded yes, but he didn't know that.

"OK, yes I may."  He ran off and logged on.

Later on: "Mom, may I eat a cookie?"

"No." I shook my head to emphasize.

"OK, yes I may."

He had two cookies gobbled before I could get off the couch.

Any request I made wasn't heard or duly ignored. I wasn't sure which.

Later, in the early evening, Jimmy came home from work to find me with sleeper pajamas in hand and frustration plastered on my face.

"What's the matter?"

"He won't listen to me. Not a word I say all day."

Jimmy almost smiled. I saw his lips tilt up ever so slightly.

Yes, I know. A child who wouldn't listen to a mother who couldn't talk.

I'd been trying to get Craig to change for the last 20 minutes. He didn't process a whispered word I said and thought I was playing. He'd skip away, mock my sounds and then come back to listen again. My voice was funny.

By Jimmy's expression, Craig wasn't the only one who thought so.

"What would you like him to do?"

I showed him the PJs.

"Craig, get over here and get changed." Jimmy's words were loud and strong.

That's all it took. Craig whipped his head around and responded immediately. "Oh, OK. I put jammies on now."
 
And just like that, the sound of authority was back in the house.

Ahh, young love.  I felt the first blush and giggle of a crush on my first day of Kindergarten. Had my second crush, and first kiss on the cheek, the second day.  My dad wasn't thrilled. However, he was clever and bribed me with a dollar a day to stay boyfriend free.

It worked. What can I say? I wasn’t the kind to commit … unlike these two German children, aged five and six, who were stopped by police at the train station from eloping to Africa.

It’s been years since I’ve been called Jennifer on accident. Of course, it was the most popular name during my generation -- and close enough to Genevieve to cause confusion.

Also incredibly popular were Stephanie and Michelle. There were a half-dozen of each in every grade.

I’m trying to avoid the most popular names when naming my daughter. Thankfully, Babycenter.com posted their top 2008 baby names just in time to help.

The downside? I love most of the top 10 girl’s names: Ava, Emma, Sophia, Lily and Isabella. I guess they're high on the list for a reason. 

10. Chortle at the kid’s antics after they’ve been reprimanded and are out of earshot. That, or use hand to muffle chuckles and throw in a fake cough. Goal, use this phrase 80% less by July: “Just because I laugh doesn’t make it OK.”

9. Breakup with Starbucks. Sob. The chai lattes are just too pricey for my budget and the gift cards are running out. Yes, I know. … I got them 3 days ago as a birthday present. What are you trying to say?

8. Stay current with eyebrow waxing. It’s better for communication and career. Otherwise that interested, fascinated stare by the other person in the conversation is more about watching two squirrels fight on my forehead than any witty repartee.

7. Do something – anything -- to prepare for the arrival of the new baby. A few outfits and a laundry-basket bassinet don’t count. (Even if great-gram has incredible stories about sleeping in a dresser drawer … and paying the piano teacher with chickens.)

6. Play Rock Band with the family more. Yes, I know we’ve already been on several world tours and have a bazillion fans – but there’s always room in the week to squeeze in more quality time.

5. Name the baby. Sometime in the next 12-16 weeks would be best. Suggestions?

4. Less dinner cereal and more homemade meals. This pregnancy shtick will only get me so far.

3. Be more social. Sounds easy, doesn’t it? Just have to put on some clean clothes, step out of the isolated cabin and learn to talk to people. Real people. Typing doesn’t count.

2. Revel Cease my obsession with Detective Goren. That’s all I’m going to say.

1. Do a load of laundry (that means wash, dry and put away) at least once – just once -- without crying and writing about it on my blog.

Carpet dust may hold the clue to the origins of autism. Epidemiologists at the UC Davis M.I.N.D. Institute (Medical Investigation of Neurodevelopmental Disorders) are searching for the reason autism is rapidly increasing.

Researchers gave Danielle Bell's California home a good vacuuming. They also gathered information on household products and specimens from the birth of Bell's daughter earlier this year.

Please green the vaccines. I’m asking as an undecided, expecting mother who already has a child with autism.

Statistics show that I’m 10 times more likely to have another child on the spectrum. Only it’s not that simple. It’s thought environmental factors could trigger autism in an already genetically predisposed baby. My baby.

I hear voices. They speak to me from the strangest of places … like Craig's sock. Just this morning it asked me where it was going today.

When I didn't respond, it became squeaky and insistent. First, who answers a dingy-bottomed cotton foot tube?  And second, isn't it the plight of a sock to not know? Shouldn't it be like all other socks and stay content to find out once it gets there?

This preschool-sized heel cushion wasn't going to conform. It demanded my attention with several taps.

OK, fine. "You're going to school." It blubbered with what sounded like joy.

"Where else? Where else?"

"And on a field trip to see Santa."  The sock bounced high in the air, circled and zigzagged.

"Craig hold still." I grabbed his foot and finished pulling up the mouthy offender.

"Now meeee, now meee. Where I going today?" Craig flipped the partner up and down. "I see Dannta too?"

"Only if you cooperate and we get there on time."

That did the trick. He swiftly pulled it on.

At least this sock complied at a certain point - unlike the trash-talking overstuffed Teletubby. That plushie was bossy and troublesome. The other day, when I caught it plucking ornaments off the Christmas tree, it argued with me.

"Hey, stop that."

Craig startled. "I didn't to it. It was Yaya."

Indeed, he was telling the truth. It was the puffy, yellow fingers of Lala that breached the tree.

"Listen here, we look but don't touch. The rule goes for everyone."

"No it doesn't." The creature's voice sounded like Fran Drescher on helium. "You no tell me what to do."

Oh really.

"You talk mean. I count to three and you go time out or go play. One … two …"

That little booger. On the count of three I reached over swooped up his stuffed butt, walked down the hall and plopped him in the corner. He didn't have much to say until Craig caught up.

"Noooo, I not in twouble."

"Yes, I'm going to set the timer. You're going to sit there for four minutes."
"No, you in twouble. I spanka you."

What? I don't think so. "You listen here, you keep this up and you're going to get Craig in trouble - he'll be on time out with you."

At that Craig piped up. "Ohhh no, Yaya say bad words. Shhh Yaya!"

That's what I thought.

Who knows what the voices will tell me tomorrow. Maybe I'll be carrying on a conversation with Mr. Velcro-straps Shoe. If that's the case, at least he has a tongue.

Feeling the pinch in your purse? Don’t let that interfere with immersing yourself in the holiday spirit.

I know it’s hard, but remember this: The kids won’t remember the gifts a decade from now. However, they’ll remember family celebrations and traditions.

Really. Think about your warmest memories. Are they of specific presents – or of the surrounding cheer and activities?

See?

Now, with that in mind, here are 5 cheap ways to bust the economic blues and get into the spirit:


   1. Cruise for lights

What announces winter festivities better than colorful, sparkling lights? Read your local paper, find best bets, grab the kids, and jump in the car and go. Really – with almost decent gas prices – how can you resist?

While you’re at it, take the camera with you. This would be a great opportunity to snap some shots of the kids being festive. And hey, you can take it to the next level by having them printed and giving them as a gift to the grandparents. They’ll love it and your wallet will thank you.

   2. Turn on holiday tunes

Yes, turn them on. Whether it’s radio, a cable TV music channel or Internet station: There’s a holiday music channel for you. So don’t cringe!

Really, if singing along to “Little Drummer Boy” isn’t your gig, there are many modern, popular artists to listen to. Also, don’t be afraid to share your glorious voice and a few dance moves with the kids. They’ll get a kick out of it.

   3. Read a book

Dig through your collection, chances are you already have a “The Night Before Christmas,” “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” or “Oh Chanukah” book already. If not visit your local library, hope your overdue fines aren’t large and check some out.

Read them out loud to the kids nightly. Not only will you be making great memories, the kids will benefit from it educationally as well.

   4. Get crafty

This could be something as simple as pulling out crayons and paper. Or it can get more complicated with glitter glue, pipe cleaners and Popsicle sticks. Check online for great child-friendly crafts that use items you already have around the house.

That or bust out the flour, sugar and butter and get baking! It’ll warm up your home and fill it with a yummy scent. Sugar cookies are great for helpers of all ages. They can help mix the dough, use the cookie cutters or slather on the colored icing.

   5. Share memories of holidays past

We all have those memories that make us smile or chuckle (even if they made us cringe at the time). Grab a cup of cocoa or hot apple cider, some sugar cookies and sit around the table and share.

Talk about the traditions when you were a kid, the people who attended your celebrations and favorite festive foods. Describe the decorations, the most memorable events and then ask your kids what they enjoy the most.

Even more fun, invite other family members or friends to the discussion as well. Later on, take a moment to jot down -- or blog – some of the highlights.

One of my favorite holiday memories comes with a ladle. You know, the big scooper spoon for soup? I was perusing the shopping aisle at a discount store with my oldest son Jay – who was 6 at the time. Typically he was very quiet, introverted and hovered close. He found this ladle in a pile of other kitchen utensils, picked it up and belted out, while pirouetting down the aisle, "Ladle, ladle, ladle. Ladle made of clay."

That piece of joy cost me 3 dollars. Today it serves as reminder; the holiday spirit is in the simple things. It's in life, not dollars. 

I am a caffeine addict. My love has led me to devote many a Twitter, text message and verbal declaration to it.

Seriously.

I’ve stood on a mountaintop and sworn my unwavering I-would-die-for-you loyalty to Mr. Coffee – and pledged to run away with him if he’d have me.

Fortunately, the mountain was a pile of laundry and Jimmy didn’t take my philandering meanderings to heart. In fact, he handed me another cup of Joe and probably hoped I’d use the jolt to wash and fold the towels I was so elegantly stomping.

Blah, pwah and patooey! “What the hell? Did you stick Folgers in here?”

“No. It’s the Columbian roast from Costco.”

I took another sip. “It doesn’t taste right. Something’s wrong with it.”

Jimmy arched a brow and said, “I think maybe something is wrong with you. This tastes fine. Just like it always does.”

I put the cup down. Ridiculous, his palate wasn’t refined enough to taste the vulgarity of the brew.

The next morning was worse.

“This is terrible, horrible. Even the aroma is gross.” If I thought about it too much my stomach would turn.

“It’s Sumatra from Starbucks. I just opened the bag.”

What?  That couldn’t be. “I don’t get it. What’s going on?”

“You should go see the doctor.”

Jimmy wasn’t kidding. I disliked coffee – refusing to drink it even – two days in a row? Something had to be seriously wrong. However, before we called in Dr. House, I decided to wait and rule out the bizarre-o hormone PMS factor.

If that was in play, anything was game.

As the days progressed my aversion became worse. Just the scent of a fresh pot would make me gag and open a window. After a couple of weeks, and some other alarming symptoms, the reason for my antipathy became clear: I was pregnant.

At first the invigorating drink wasn’t missed. Frankly, I was too busy praying to the porcelain gods to give it much thought. As the pregnancy progressed and the morning sickness lessened, my cravings returned.

It started with an innocent longing. A quick trip through the Starbucks drive-through wouldn’t be bad.  Sure, the thought of coffee still made my stomach riot – but I could order caffeine-free tea. Certainly that would be OK?

Sure … it was OK the first time. I sat in the drive-thru long enough to ask in good faith all the jitter-free options available. The bright-faced, exuberant cashier shared her fave drinks. She exclaimed she was pregnant too when I mentioned why I was being so cautious.

That should’ve made me happy, but it didn’t. I felt as bitter and weird as the iced lemonade-tea I was sipping. Why? I wasn’t young or exuberant. I didn’t wake up in the morning refreshed and ready to take on the day. Oh no! My head drooped, my body balked and I dragged tail all day long.

What I wanted was caffeine.

No, I needed it. I loved it.

And it loved me too. We were being held apart by forces beyond our control. It was like a horrible, liquid version of Romeo and Juliet. We were destined to be star-crossed lovers – unless I took matters into my own hands.

So I justified my caffeine desire with research – pregnant women could have up to 3 cups of coffee a day. Not the gigantic ones, just the little regular cups. No problem. I’d be conservative. Heck, it wasn’t even coffee I was jonesing after. It was the spicy chai latte with extra milk.

Oh heaven in a cup!

Only I couldn’t face the gorgeous, perfect little pregnant girl again. So I avoided that Starbucks and drove out of my way to another.

It was the best guilt trip I ever drank.

I think the baby loved it too. Why else would she kick like that?

(A sweet poem I recieved via email.)

Before I was a Mom,
I never tripped over toys
or forgot words to a lullaby.
I didn't worry whether or not
my plants were poisonous.
I never thought about immunizations.

Before I was a Mom,
I had never been puked on.
Pooped on.
Chewed on.
Peed on.
I had complete control of my mind
and my thoughts.
I slept all night.

Before I was a Mom,
I never held down a screaming child
so doctors could do tests.
Or give shots.
I never looked into teary eyes and cried.
I never got gloriously happy over a simple grin.
I never sat up late hours at night
watching a baby sleep.

Before I was a Mom,
I never held a sleeping baby just because
I didn't want to put her down.
I never felt my heart break into a million pieces
when I couldn't stop the hurt.
I never knew that something so small
could affect my life so much.
I never knew that I could love someone so much.
I never knew I would love being a Mom.

Before I was a Mom,
I didn't know the feeling of
having my heart outside my body.
I didn't know how special it could feel
to feed a hungry baby.
I didn't know that bond
between a mother and her child.
I didn't know that something so small
could make me feel so important and happy.

Before I was a Mom,
I had never gotten up in the middle of the night
every 10 minutes to make sure all was okay.
I had never known the warmth,
the joy,
the love,
the heartache,
the wonderment
or the satisfaction of being a Mom.
I didn't know I was capable of feeling so much,
before I was a Mom.

Keeping moms and babies together

Community Regional Center is opening a new 65-bed intensive care unit for babies. This will allow the hospital to keep more fragile babies instead of sending them elsewhere – and keep them closer to mom.  Read full story.

Recall: Mylicon drops

Mylicon it is recalling its Mylicon antigas dye-free treatment for infants because metal fragments may be in the bottles. Get more info ...

Children’s toys make me crazy! No, it’s not the loud noises, the mess or even the cost – it’s the packaging. Yes, the packaging.

I’ve lamented my frustrations to my brother-in-law (a toy designer) last Christmas. If our children only need a five-point harness when in a moving vehicle, why does a toy need 20-points of protection?

Independence. My preschool-aged son Craig strives for it.

Actually, that’s an understatement. He yells, demands, and stamps his feet to reach the milestone daily.

D-R-A-M-A! Love this tantrum face.There's no mistaking what how this kid feels. A great photo by OhByDod! on Flickr.

Kids keep you young? At 35 that's hard for me to believe.
 
This pregnancy makes me feel old. Really, really old. Lately, my purse is a portable pharmacy with giant bottles of Tums, Tylenol, various other meds, eye drops, tissues and Shout wipes.
 
Worse yet, my olfactory senses are disintegrating. That or my mental processes are on the brink. I won't rail against the fact it might be both. Everyday - throughout the day - I catch a whiff of various scents: banana cream pie, fertilizer, salty pickles, poop on a shoe, or Earl Grey tea and milk. 
 
Mind you, this isn't related to my new, pregnancy-induced sniff-whiff power. (Which is mighty impressive.) These overpowering scents are pure imagination.
 
What isn't my imagination are the gray sprouts and patches emerging in the outgrowth of my hair. It's a drastic contrast the usual red-brown. Even sans my glasses I can see those ugly strands stealing my youth.  
 
In the morning my bones creak. It takes awhile to get up and moving - and that's with my heating blanket.
 
At the doctor's office I'm given literature for geriatric pregnancies. Missing in the pamphlets are the images of vibrant, gorgeous, happy pregnant women. Instead the booklet is packed with explanations of various tests and the possible serious outcomes.
 
I have appointments to meet with geneticist, have a super-advanced ultrasound and an amniocentesis - all because of my age.
 
My pregnancy with Jay 15 years ago wasn't like this. Yes, there were difficult months of morning sickness and later months of bed rest due to pre-clampsia - but between those, I felt like a glowing spring chicken. I scampered and dreamed. I nested and twirled. Life was grand and I didn't give thought to being poor, what could go wrong or my age. I was going to be a mom - the rest would work itself out.
 
Today, I imagine the egg my middle-aged ovary released was as wrinkled as an over-dried California raisin. The only reason it sustained life was because an ardent sperm revived it with sweet talk and CPR.
 
Recently, I questioned the oldwives tale of children making parents feel younger to a friend. She had her children in her 40s and assured me that it was true -- just not when you're pregnant.
 
Who feels fantastic when they're pregnant?
 
I'll have to rely on her words of wisdom for now ... and hope I don't develop Alzheimer's before the baby is born. 

I love Halloween. Handing out candy and seeing all the giggling princesses, Elmos and pirates – and every other type of costume – is a blast.

Maybe I’m still a kid at heart – but it’s never bothered me that teenagers come knocking on Halloween night. I love seeing them decked out in their spooky finery too. (It's when their not in costume I have an issue.)

However, in Belleville, Illinois, kids in high school will have to make different plans. Mayor Mark Eckert, signed an ordinance on last Tuesday, that bans children who are in the ninth-grade or above from trick-or-treating.

It also sets a curfew.

Parents whose children break the rules can be fined $25.

What are your thoughts?

Listen to this week's Momcast to hear what we had to say.

[via ParentDish]

The common thought is women are joyous during pregnancy. Unfortunately, that isn’t always the case. Christine Doherty Ashley, now six months pregnant, wondered if she was allowed to express her sadness or share how she felt during her first trimester.

Many pregnant women fear being judged or stigmatized. They stay quiet and don’t seek help.

I know nothing about special needs

Does having a new baby with special needs make you an expert? Christy Everett, author of "Following Elias: The boy who could", discusses her feelings about McCain's recent comment that Sarah Palin, "understands special needs better than almost any American I know."

"I do not mean to underestimate the profound affect of having a child born with a diagnosis, but right now he is not a whole lot different than other babies. Sure his features may reveal his chromosomal differences but what he needs right now is sleep, milk, snuggles and fresh diapers."

Read the full post here.

Born with a midwife's help? Government says, 'Sorry, no passport'

Autumn hasn't arrived at my house. It has been delayed, waylaid and halted. It's been forced into limbo by my pregnancy.

How can that possibly happen? I haven't baked the first batch of traditional pumpkin bread yet. I've been lagging. The morning sickness, aversions and exhaustion have held me back from cooking dinner - much less busting out the flour, sugar, eggs and canned pumpkin for a bake-off.

I've been such a bump on the couch Jimmy hasn't asked about it.

Of course, to show off, autumn has arrived to our neighbor's houses. It's apparent by their fancy-smancy Halloween decorations. Pathetically my house remains skeleton, Frankenstein and goblin free. All because I haven't roused myself from a sprawled, snoring position and donned an apron.

I was feeling hopeless to herald in my favorite season until my second trimester arrived. Now each day is a bit easier. I've even become more adventurous and have rambled away from my snooze spot and interacted with the family. There have even been a few sessions of Rock Band. Even crazier, last night I put store-bought pizzas into the oven and fed the family.  (I know won't wonders ever cease?)

Maybe this weekend I'll be back to my good cheer and creating a whirlwind the kitchen. For me, there's no better way to celebrate the season than by slicing into warm, nutty pumpkin bread.


Pumpkin Bread

3 ½ cups sifted flour
3 cups sugar
1 ½ teaspoon cinnamon
1 ½ teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon baking soda
¾ cup water
4 eggs
1 cup oil
2 cups pumpkin (canned)
1 cup nuts (optional)

Sift all dry ingredients together into large mixing bowl. Make a well in the center. Add water, eggs, oil, pumpkin, and nuts. Mix well.

Pour mixture into 3 greased loaf pans.

Bake at 350 degrees for 1 hour or until done.

Because I can never leave a recipe alone …

I always mix it up.

A large can of pumpkin is closer to three cups than two. I modify this recipe by adding the whole can and ¼ to ½ cup extra flour. I don't have glass loaf pans (which I prefer over metal) so I use a glass-baking dish and bake it longer -- until almost done. Then I pull the pan out of the oven and let it finish cooking/cooling off on the counter. With this method I wait until the bread is completely cooled before slicing and serving.

The result is always super moist and delicious pumpkin bread.

This was the Halloween “craft” project with the kids last year. Well, when I say kids, I mean Jay and I sat down and wrap these suckers up with some cheese. Craig ate cheese, flung some dough, and ran off to play. Jimmy requested I buy all-beef hot dogs from now on — these were not. As you can see, we all did our part.

Ever wonder what you’re child’s talents will be?

Ethan Bortnick’s mom didn’t have to wonder for long. When Ethan was 3, he taught himself how to play the piano using the “Baby Einsteins” DVDs. He’s been composing his own music since he was 5 and now, at age 7, has memorized over 200 songs.

Language around our house can be salty. Don't get me wrong. It's not like we're the Osbournes and the f-bomb is dropped every other word, but there is the occasional curse-word muttering or exclamation.

I'll admit, in my younger years, I wasn't so careful to guard my language around my oldest son Jay. He was speech-delayed until he was 4 and later didn't seem interested in turning a colorful phrase.  

It wasn't until he was 11, and his dad overheard a front yard cuss-war between him and a neighborhood kid, that I clued in to Jay's 'expanded' vocabulary.

On the other hand, Craig, while speech-delayed as well, was a quick study. So quick he wasn't yet 2 when he uttered his first zinger.  

"Dambit."

What? I stopped folding laundry and looked at Craig. He was focused on a plush toy resting on the carpet. He squatted to grab it, stood up triumphant and toddled towards me.

Hmmm. He couldn't have said what I thought he did.

After a few steps, Craig let go of his toy. When it hit the floor he said 'dambit' again. Only this time it was louder and he gave it emphasis by waving his chubby fist.  

Oh, son of a … He was saying what I thought.

This was Jimmy's fault.   

Oh boy, was I going to let him know too. I fished around my pocket for my cell phone, pulled it out and dialed his cell number.

"Hello."

"Guess what your son's first word is? Beyond mommy and daddy and yoo (Jay) …"

"Uhhh."

"Damn it. That's his word."

"Oh yeah? Are you sure?"

As if on cue, Craig tilted his head up and roared out the word. He batted his eyes, smiled so I could see all six of his teeth and drooled.

"Did you hear that? That's your fault."

"What? How's that my fault?"

"Because you say it all the time."

"I do not. You do."

"What? Noooo." How could he think that? It was totally his word.

"Yes." Jimmy let out a sigh. "I say s***. YOU say damn it."

"That's absolutely not true."  

"Yes. … Yes it is."  

"Damn it, no it's not."

Jimmy gave me a second to let the truth sink in.

Oh no. "Damn it! I do say it."

He laughed. "Told you."

Luckily Craig didn't hang on to that power word for long. His dad, however, would jab me with a tease about it now and then for long after.

It wasn't until recently, as a preschooler, that Craig that let out another powerhouse utterance. This time it was a phrase and it didn't include any salty lingo I understood – but Craig belted it out like it did.

"Craig, what are you doing?"

He rolled on the carpet from side to side, kicking his feet and dangling his tongue. His hands fluttered above his eyes.

"Craig?" I leaned down to get a better look at his goofiness. He was pinching his eyelids, pulling them up, rolling his eyes around and then letting go. He did this repeatedly. "Craig, oh my gosh, what are you doing?"

He laughed, while still yanking and snapping his eyelids and yelled, "Haaahaaahaaa! That's what you get Mommy! That's what you get!"  

Whaaaat?

Craig tried to repeat his phrase but couldn't. He was in a fit of giggles.

Later that night, I relayed to Jimmy what happened and confronted him. "He picked that phrase up from you."

Jimmy looked surprised. "No he didn't."

"Yes. You say it all the time. "  

"No, I say 'that way so you learn.'"

"No, I hear you say the other."  

Jimmy shook his head.  

"You don't?"  

"No."

I didn't argue. I learned from the first time.

Damnit. I guess that's what I get.

Naming a baby isn’t going to be easy. I’m 11 weeks pregnant and already hitting a roadblock.

Just so you know, I’m not unreasonable. In fact, I’m fairly flexible. My guidelines for names are: They can’t be in the top 100 of the social security popular names list, it needs to sound pleasing and Jimmy must love it too.

Searching for the perfect baby name? It can be difficult to find the 'right' name both you and your partner love. Fortunately, there are some great sites to help.

Babynamer.com

Just beginning your search? Babynamer.com is a great first stop. You can search by gender, letter and popularity. Not sure how a name is pronounced? Click the audio button to listen.


Social Security Administration

One way to find a name is to see what everyone else is doing. The SSA provides a searchable list of the top 1000 popular baby names. You can search any year after 1879.

Already have a name in mind? You can track its popularity over the generations.


ParentsConnect.com

Want to search names by meaning, origins or a specific amount of syllables or letters? ParentsConnect.com provides a highly customizable search on 27,000 baby names.


Nymbler.com

Staring at a long list of names can give a mom-to-be a headache. This is where Nymbler.com, your personal baby name assistant, comes in. It shows a selection of names for you to choose from - then it takes your choices to personalize the next grid of names.

You can separate selections by gender - or provide a name you like to start with. 


BabyNameGenie.com

If naming a baby gets too overwhelming, try BabyNameGenie.com. It names your baby for you. Simply type in your last name and hit the 'wish' button. Voila! The genie grants you a first and middle name.

Babies make me sick. Literally. It's been well 16 years since I last felt the lurches, gags and aversions of early pregnancy.  

With Jay, I hugged the porcelain for seven months. My astounding ability to become ill at the smell of salt, watching a McDonald's commercial or nothing became family legend and lore.  

My inability to keep food down became so intense I lost 16 pounds in two weeks and had to be hydrated intravenously. The constant retching took its toll on my skin and eyes, too. They were red and patchy with busted blood vessels.  

The only other contender for my attention was exhaustion. When I wasn't making friends with the bathroom tile, I was conked out. Often the only way I could manage the two extremes was with a pillow in the restroom.  

I hoped this pregnancy would be different.  

By the way Jimmy watched me warily I knew he did, too.  

Of course … the poor guy got the brunt of it. He'd tenderly hold my hair, ask me what I needed and bring me water to help soothe what the bile burned.

At one point, he couldn't eat in our apartment. I was so sensitive the scents of everything he cooked, microwaved or brought home would gag me. Which, in turn, made him gag.

This time would be different. I would 'will' it to be OK.  

My 'will' lasted approximately a week before nausea and Saturday afternoon naps invaded.

I held onto my composure shakily for about two weeks. Then, I lost it one morning before work. There was just enough time for me to quickly, loudly chuck dinner dishes from one side of the sink to the other.  

As if on cue, Jimmy entered the kitchen. "Oh, here we go." By the tone of his voice, I could tell he was only half-joking.  

I couldn't blame him. Life as we knew it was over.

Lately dinners have consisted of cereal, oatmeal and toaster waffles. If I get real fancy, I break out the peanut butter, jelly and swipe some on bread.

Jay's asked me if I was becoming a vegetarian. Maybe. I became one with him. It wasn't until after he was born I could enjoy a cheeseburger again.

My attempts at cleaning the house usually end up with a grand total of half the dishes being put away. Then it's naptime again.
 
Weekends are a big snore fest. Jimmy's been incredibly kind, patient and supportive. He's doing the majority of the work, taking care of the kids and making sure I'm OK.

I'll admit this isn't near the intensity of last time – but it's still isn't easy.

I'm just glad we have something to look forward to.

Pregnant? It didn’t seem real after all these years of infertility. My primary-care doctor thought it was ectopic and sent me directly over to the gynecologist’s office. Only the office was closed and I was directed to the emergency room.

I needed to drive to the hospital. The doctor’s words ‘tubal pregnancy’ echoed in my head. They interrupted coherent thought about the location of the emergency room.

I was pregnant, but I wasn't going to be able to keep the baby?

After 16 years of infertility, this had to be some big cosmic joke. I felt short of breath. This pregnancy couldn't be tubal like my primary-care doctor thought. It just couldn't.

My emotions flipped from stunned disbelief to panicked overload. I was supposed to go straight to my gynecologist's office. The key was in the ignition, but I didn't dare shift into reverse. I was a wreck. How was I supposed to drive?

needed to calm down. More than anything, I wanted to talk to Jimmy. I wanted to hear his voice and have him tell me it was going to be OK..


Only, I knew once he heard me bawling into his ear and the reason why, he'd be in worse shape … and at work.
So I dialed my best friend on my cell phone, and I sobbed into her ear.

"I can come pick you up. Where are you?"
The familiarity of her voice was soothing. "In the parking lot at the doctor's. I only need to drive three blocks."

"Are you going to be able to?"
It might not have sounded like it, but I was starting to calm down. "Yes, it's just around the corner. I'm going to be OK okay." I shifted the car in reverse, pulled out and merged onto the street. "I'm going to chat with you while I drive over."

My hands were shaky, but I could focus. I hung onto my friend's voice like a lifeline as I drove. By the time I reached Dr. Oswald's office, I had switched back to disbelieving and numb.

"I'm here. I'll call when I know something." I hung up, took a deep breath, grabbed my purse and got out of the car.

I could do this.
When I reached the office, the door was locked. I stood and stared. What now?

Maybe the staff was out to lunch. I checked the times listed on the window. Lunch break was from 11 to 2 everyday … except Fridays.

On Fridays the office was closed.

What was I supposed to do? Wait until Monday? Should I go back to my other doctor? My brain couldn't process the next step. I was dumbfounded.

Luckily, the phone buzzed. It was my primary care doctor's receptionist and she had an answer.

"If you're obstetrician's office is closed, Dr. Manning wants you to go straight to the emergency room." She explained it was common for them to be closed on Fridays.

Why didn't they tell me this before I left - or called ahead? Oh well, at least I had a directive. I didn't need to think about anything else.

I returned to the car and started driving.

Should I go to the hospital by myself? It was one thing to see the doctor, but the emergency room was something else entirely. Was I up to it?

Maybe.

If I knew how to find the hospital, I might be.

I’m not dying; I’m pregnant.

It had been sixteen years since I last tested positive for a baby. It wasn’t the result I expected my primary care doctor to return. I’d gone to see him because I thought my colon might be infected.

Yes, my colon.

Mind you, I didn’t pick that to worry about at random. A few weeks earlier I had a colonoscopy to remove pre-cancerous polyps.

Pregnancy never entered my mind. I blamed my late period, monstrous mood, body aches and nausea to PCOS. It was the cramps I couldn’t figure out. I never had those when experiencing PMS.

At times it was dull and achy, at others more sharp and painful. Either way I was sore, miserable and worried.

The doctor was worried too.

“You need to go see Dr. Oswald. Don’t call, just drive straight over there.”

My gynecologist? “Why?”

“You’re pregnant.”

What? The doctor might as well have dropped a boat anchor on my lap. I felt like I was going to topple over and gripped the chair to steady myself. Even then the world kept shifting. It was like one of those State Fair experiences where you walk on an unmoving bridge but the tunnel around you spins and everyone stumbles. For a brief moment, I thought I was going to vomit.

“I’m what?”

“You’re pregnant. It’s likely a tubal pregnancy.”

I couldn’t process the first part, the second I completely ignored.

“I’m sorry, but I feel like I’m in a movie of someone else’s life. I just don’t believe you.”

The doctor smiled. “Well, you are. Don’t worry, it’s not as bad as it seems. You’ll be okay.” He reached out and patted my shoulder.

I still didn’t believe him. “Can you show me the test?”

He looked surprised. “Oh … yes. Of course.” He opened the door, left briefly and returned with a nurse. “I had her do the test twice just to be sure.”

She showed me both. I stood up to view them closer. Each test showed two dark, solid pink lines. Unbelievable. I lost the feeling in my hands, arms and face.

“This just doesn’t feel real.” We’d tried for nearly a decade after Jay was born to conceive again. We’d done the temping, the charting, the hoping and the waiting. We even tried fertility drugs. Nothing worked.

After Craig joined our family through adoption, I fully accepted I’d never biologically have children again. I didn’t need to – we could adopt.

At this point pregnancy wasn’t even an unshared wish. Any thought of a third child was always with the adoption process in mind.

“What do I do now?”

“Go straight to Dr. Oswalds. Drive right over. It’s much better than waiting for a tubal pregnancy to send you to the hospital.”

I grabbed my purse, stopped at the receptionist’s desk, paid my co-pay and headed to the parking lot. It wasn’t until I put the key into the ignition that the full reality of what was happening hit.

I was pregnant … but I wasn’t going to be able to keep the baby.

To be continued …

Junior Fuego is a soccer league designed for young athletes with special needs. If your child is interested in participating, the soccer season starts September 13 and goes through November 8. 

Games are played on Saturdays on the soccer fields at Mickey Cox elementary school in Clovis. The flyer states that registration is $45 and uniforms and soccer balls are included. Players should bring shoes, water and shin guards.

You can meet the coaches early and young athletes can have a chance to practice at the Spring Training Jamboree on August 30 at 9 a.m.

Dear God, mornings arrive too early during the school year. I vowed this summer to have a better attitude about. Even if I wanted to rage ’shut the hell up already’ at the alarm clock or bludgeon Mr. Coffee with a wooden spatula until he spit the brew out faster - I’d not let the kids know.

I’d be chipper and welcome them into the day with love.

The start of the school year is often the time parents assess and figure out how to advocate for their child with ADHD.

Knowing what to do, and how to go about it, can be overwhelming.

Lara Honos-Webb, Ph.D., author of "The Gift of ADHD Activity Book: 101 Ways to Turn Your Child's Problems into Strengths" (Amazon.com, $10.36) offers these tips:

1.    Your child needs for you to be on his or her side. In short, he needs for you to become an advocate for him. Research has shown that a teacher's perception of your child will dramatically impact his actual performance in school.

2.    As an advocate for your child, you should try to get the teacher to make accommodations that are not punitive or humiliating for her. Many times what happens in the classroom is that teachers 'diss' students in front of their friends causing them to feel humiliated which provokes them to act out even more.

3.    Remember that it is more important for you to stay connected to your child than to enforce conformity, control and compliance. This one can be tough for parents. We often believe that getting our children to do what we tell them is fundamental to the job description of being a parent. However, for a child with a difference that gets labeled as a "deficient disorder", he needs to have someone on his side or behavior will get worse because he feels alienated.

Laura Honos-Webb, Ph.D., is a licensed and clinical psychologist.  She specializes in the treatment of ADHD and depression.

Related CentralValleyMoms.com forums:

ADD/ADHD forum

ADHD - The good, the bad, and the ugly truths

ADD - anything herbal out there?

Second annual "Journey to Success" conference
Saturday, November 15, 2008
8:00 - 4:30 p.m.
California State University, Fresno - Peters Building
5245 N. Backer Ave. Fresno, CA 93740

Presented by Autism Society of America, Central California Chapter

Keynote Speakers: Arevo Martin, Esq. and Barbara Firestone, Ph. D.

Topics covered:
·    Educating children with autism
·    Language and communication
·    Social skills
·    Family, nutrition and stress
·    Medicine and research
·    Transition planning and advocacy


The Central California Chapter of the Autism Society of America is a local supportive resource for persons with autism and related disabilities, their families and friends, and interested professionals.

For more information on the conference visit www.asaccc.org, call 559.301.5763 or email asaccc@yahoo.com.


Screening of "Recovered: Journeys Through the Autism Spectrum and Back"
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
6:00 - 8:00 p.m.
Children's Hospital, Room 140A

Presented by FEAT-FMC (Families for Effective Autism Treatment Fresno/Madera Counties)

Members of C.A.R.D. will be available to answer questions after the movie.

For more information visit feat-fmc.org, call 559.232.9094 or email chuck@feat-fmc.org.


If you have an autism-related event to add to the calendar, please contact me at ghinson@fresnobee.com.

My gynecologist is lucky. I wasn't actually experiencing PMS on the day he told me that it didn't exist.

I had scheduled my yearly appointment with hopes he could help me find some monthly relief. I wasn't expecting miracles -- or my pants to fit - I just wanted to still be married, raising children and have a job when I became human again.

My family should know I love them every single day, not just three weeks out of the month.

As I sat on the examination table, covered in a too-small drafty paper gown, the doc explained how recent studies showed PMS didn't occur in happy women.

He said, "Women getting married didn't experience the symptoms."

Huh?

I guess brides' hormones were over-powered by the joyous occasion and they felt nary a pain, twinge or cramp.

Well that made no sense on two fronts: Brides are stressed out -- at least I was. If there was ever an occasion for PMS, my first wedding was it. I wasn't happy until the honeymoon. Secondly, what the hell?

No such thing as PMS … as told to me by my male doctor. Oh really?

For an educated guy, and a gynecologist, you'd think he'd know to just lie for his own protection. Seriously, where he was sitting, I could've stabbed his eyes out with my big toes. It would've been a simple knee-jerk reaction.

At my trial, I could've claimed PMS - even the courts recognize that defense.

The judge would've shaken a finger at the doc and said, "Duuuddeee, what were you thinking?"

By chance, I do know one man that whole-heartedly believes in the affliction. When told the story, he scoffed in disbelief.

This guy has experienced the situation first hand. He's a survivor - a dodger, soothsayer, child protector and a Midol buyer.

Wrestling an alligator and fighting a rabid porcupine at the same time would be nothing compared to what he handles every month.

Jimmy's the reason I haven't set my hair on fire (though I'm sure he's thought about it once or twice), buried the dogs alive or strung the children up by their toes and muffled their complaints with duct-tape.

Every month he single-handedly saves the family, welcomes me back from the brink of destruction, accepts my apologies, forgives me and shows me where he stashed the kids.

I love you Jimmy.

I bet you wish you could marry me every month.

Watching a bad kid's movie in the theater can be more painful than hopscotching on Legos.

When my teenager was a preschooler, I was game to watching flicks I didn't really want to - it was a rite of parenting. However, in 1998, "The Rugrats Movie" broke my spirit. I left the theater weeping in agony.

I gave it one last shot in 1999 with "Inspector Gadget." When leaving the theater I told Jay "never again." We'd pay his aunt, uncles, or cousins to take him - but I was absolutely not subjecting myself to that kind of torture anymore.

My tune changed after "Monsters" was released. The characters and quality storyline pulled me in. Of course, I didn't know that until it made it's way onto DVD.

After that I became a fan of Pixar - I looked forward to gobbling popcorn and watching "Ice Age," "Shrek," ''Nemo," and "The Incredibles." I even looked forward to the release of "Shrek 2."

That being said, I'm still incredibly picky. If I'm going to spend two hours seated in a dark theater, managing a wiggling preschooler, the movie better be worth the 20 bucks I just shelled out.

Here are four upcoming movies, plus one big fat maybe, that look promising.

There should be a warning sticker on the RockBand game box. It should state: Persons 35 and older should play with caution. Play may result in addictive, grand delusions of rock god-ery, which may be harmful to your health.

That being said, I woke up yesterday morning with a hangover. My eyes felt like gravel had been pounded into them, my head wanted to split open and scream, and my muscles had the sharp tingly sensation of a thousand Ginsu knives being stabbed into them.

That was just the agony I felt when rolling over to look at the alarm clock.

Getting out of bed was an entirely different horror.

Mind you this wasn't an alcohol hangover. There was nary a blended margarita, Jello shot or Guinness served the night before. My entire evening was comprised solely of playing guitar.

Well, not a real guitar.

A Wii guitar-controller.

That's right. My agony was directly contributed to a night of playing RockBand.

Yes, I know. It wasn't enough that I was addicted to Guitar Hero III. I had to pull the entire family into my madness.

It's my job as a mom to make sure we're participating in family activities. Right?

Well, it would be if Jimmy or I actually let one of the kids play.

Instead we created our own band, Jimavee.

And we rocked it.

All. Night. Long.

He sang (but don't tell anyone, he gets embarrassed) and I played the guitar (naturally).

The crowd roared when we hit our notes in unison. They loved us so much the meter bar sparkled. With that kind of love and energy, who could stop?

My one weak moment was during the Ramones song 'Blitzkrieg Bop.' The notes were flying by fast.

Unfortunately, I was hitting only every third note. My strum thumb just couldn't keep up. So instead I held the switch between the top knuckles of my index and middle finger.

Now I was thrashin'!

However, towards the middle of the song, I felt a burning sensation. I ignored it. The pain increased after each note. Finally, towards the end of the song, I quickly glanced at Jimmy and said, "Hey, I think I hurt my fingers."

"What?"

"I might have skinned a knuckle." I didn't have time between the notes to actually look. I'd hoped Jimmy would suggest we'd put the game on pause.

Instead he said, "Stevie Ray Vaughn used to superglue his skin back on. Get over it."

What?!?! No sympathy, no 'oh we better stop and take a look, you poor baby?'

Of course not: This was the price of being a rock star.

If Stevie could do it … so could I. We played on.

At around midnight, after my hand was cramped and beyond feeling, Jimmy remembered we had work the next day and put the game to an end.

I begged for more, weakly. I could barely keep my eyes open, and stumbled around more than walked.

"Nope, we're done." He blinded me by turning on the living room light. "We'll play again tomorrow night."

Bummer.

I set down my guitar and squinted to look at my hand. Patches of skin on two fingers, above and below the top knuckles, had been scraped off. There wasn't any anything to 'glue' back on.

I waved my bloody stumps at Jimmy. He grunted and headed to bed.

I followed, or rather, stumbled.

You'd think I learned my lesson. I'd have some sort of epiphany and either quit the band or learn to play responsibly.

That is not to be.

All I can think about today is RockBand. I should be working, but I daydream about playing.

I've texted Jimmy thrice already, confirming our plans for a repeat performance tonight.

Not only that, I have contacted my friends about a party for Saturday night. I bribed them with pizza and spirits.

All I have to say is that in about six hours, World, you better stand back: This mother is about to rock!

(This time with Band-Aids. Oh, and yes, we'll actually include the kids too.)

Do you know a deserving family in need?

Ty Pennington and his crew from ABC's Extreme Makeover: Home Edition are searching for families in the Sacramento and Central Valley area.

The family must own their own home. They should be able to show how the makeover of their home will make a huge difference in their lives.

Nominations can be e-mailed to Jason Hammonds at castsnorthcali@gmail.com.

Include:

·    A short description of the family story.
·    Names and ages of all family members in the home.
·    A description of the major obstacles needing to be overcome within the home.
·    An explanation of why the family is "deserving, heroic, or a positive role model in their community."
·    Photos of the family and home
·    A contact number

Nominations are due by August 8th.

Oh burgeoning baby bellies! Mary Lou Aguirre's post reminded me of those tender, precious days of pregnancy. I'd rub my swollen belly, feeling the ways it stretched and changed while my baby grew.

I remember pulling my shirt tight to show off my bump and have a photo taken.