If you're gonna have an affair....

You've probably got to be smart about it.  Like, really smart.  Like, cunning smart, dastardly cunning, not like Dick Dastardly and Muttley, they are CLASSIC, not cunning.  Though they thought they were... cunning....  Anyway, you've got to be a lot smarter than me.


Soo... like 2 months ago I started hiding something from Mr. Price.  I had a secret.  I started sneaking out, I started casually going places at odd times in the day, I would arrive at our humble abode in different clothes than I left in, I would return sans makeup and with my hair swept up, not down and curly as it was a few hours previous.

He started to notice a change.  I was seeing a lot of my dear friend, Carmen, who is a dear friend, but you definitely wouldn't think that by the amount of times I actually see her or talk to her, or the lack there of, but to Mr. Price we had suddenly "reconnected" in a very, very strong way.  We do have a lot to talk about and a lot to catch up on as always, mainly, I talk, I mean, bitch about my boss, and she listens.  But I wasn't talking to Carmen, I wasn't seeing Carmen.  I did, once, when this all started, but Carmen was just a name, was just a person I used as a label for the secret I was hiding.

It started to get tricky.  After all, I already told you that I'm not smart about this stuff.  I'm not dastardly, I'm not cunning, I'm not smart, I'm a SMART-ARSE, but that certainly doesn't help when you are out and about trying to remain in the D-L and fly under radar, while flying around with a certain....secret.

I feared Mr. Price.  I feared what he would do should he find out.  I went to extraordinary lengths, clutching my car keys deep in my fist when I was just going to go out for a "run".  Who needs their car keys when they go out for a run?  Well, if I'm going to meet Carmen at the Arboretum, I need a ride to get there...  ugh.  It was getting very exhausting.  So I've already determined that in order to continue my secret affair I'm going to need to get smarter and definitely going to have to have a lot more energy.

This secret, this affair, was taking a lot out of me.  It was exhausting.  Trying to keep up with the lies, trying to keep up with the mileage, I mean, EVERY DAY I was seeing "Carmen", I was leaving my happy family of three adorable boys and coming home 2, sometimes 3 hours later, sweaty, exhausted and make up smeared off my face, too tired to lift a finger.

Mr. Price was suspicious.  He had every right to be.  I wasn't exactly "lying" to him, I was being truthful to an extent.  I was going out, and "exercising" but not with Carmen.  Certainly not with a girl.  I would never do that with a girl, no matter how many fantasies he has, no matter how many drunken conversations we have at bars while he oogles that blonde I determine is much too chubby for my tastes as I declare it would take more than this world could offer for my blood alcohol level to tolerate it and at that point I would be sleeping through it, or it would be statutory rape.. anyhooo, I digress.. as always.

I tell all my friends not to tell him where I'm going.  I tell all of them to not breathe a word about it.  It's a non issue until I come up with a game plan.  I'm going to tell him, I always was, but I just had to find the right time.. the right place... the place that didn't have throw-able projectiles....

I was having an affair.

Mr. Price surely suspected it, and at this point, it had only been a few weeks.

Again, dastardly and cunning I am not.

On this one fateful night I went to leave to see "Carmen"....again, the fifth time that week.  We're friends, but she doesn't like me that much, even Mr. Price knows this.  NO-ONE likes me THAT much, unless I'm carrying a hefty brown bag of alcoholic beverages.

Mr. Price:  "So.. where are you going again?"
Me: "To exercise."
Mr. Price: "With Carmen?..."
Me:"ammm..yeah, that's it, you hit it on the head like a nail-a-roo, good one!"
Mr.Price:  "Why do you need your car keys?"
Me: "Cuz we are going to walk at the arboretum, I'm not gonna ask her to drive all the way out here..duuuuh."

Shit.. he knows.  I bet he's gonna follow me.

But in true format of our parental lifestyle, Mr. Price was detained to the household with two young kids.  I was out, gallivanting around, to return in about 2.5 hours all sweaty and in no mood to talk until I had had, a shower.

I call my Mum in a panic.  "Mum, I think he thinks I'm having an affair."
Mum: "How long have you been sneaking around like this?"
Me:  "Three weeks."
Mum:  "Well, I'm sure he thinks you are having an affair and I think you need to come clean."

shit.

Let's cut to the chase.

I arrive home, Mr. Price is calmly waiting for me, doors wide open (it was a lovely summer night)..
He's on the phone... PSHEW.. to my dad in Australia...  I just bought a few extra minutes before my untimely demise.
Strategy:  I'll grab the youngest or the most adorable of our two young boys and hold them in front of me as hostages.  I'll cowardly hold them over my most damageable parts and dare him to come at him should he hurt a hair on our beautiful children.

He hangs up the phone.

"It was your Dad, the one from Australia."
Me: "Oh yeah, hmm, cool".

Shit, where's a child?  I just had one in my arms, those little squirmy bastards, you blink and they're fucking gone in like two seconds..

Mr. Price.:"..."

Me: Fuck.. here it comes... I've been sold out.  I'm wide open, I'm a target on a range 20 meters away and he's in a Sherman operating the turret at close range.  I am SOOOO fucked.
Just remember:  "I get the smart kids and a new sexy apartment, he gets the stupid dogs..."

....



Mr. Price:  "You got a gym membership didn't you?"
Me: "Yup"

The jig is up.

Mr Price.  "I wanna fucking kill you right now." 
Me: "But I'm trying not to be a fat arse after birthing your second child that turned out not to be the 60 pounds that I put on..."
Mr. Price:  "You lied to me."
Me: "Yeah, but at least I wasn't having an affair.  I was only going to the gym... for you...., and lemme tell you, if anyone wants to knock my boots after grunting my way through 60 minutes on an elliptical they've got mental issues above and beyond the fetish for sweaty, stinky chicks, I mean who wants to hit on anyone after there's a massive wet patch in the "crotchal area" ...
Mr. Price: "Ok I get it...  But when they start raping you of your money and you give up in 2 more weeks, don't come crying to me."
Me: "No worries.  No crying to you."  "See... I wasn't cheating on you... just going to the gym."

Mr. Price:  " I think it's worse, it'll end up costing you more than a crappy hotel on the north side of town you could have been having an affair in.."

Shit.  Dammit.  He's probably right.


Bastard.

It's time for another game of Good Idea/Bad Idea.

Let's play a game of good idea/bad idea.
 

For $200:  Cutting your own bangs in the midst of a self inflicted tizzy fit as an effort to feel better about ones self?

Alex, What is a BAD IDEA. 

ALWAYS.

Shit.

I'm almost 6 weeks post baby, unable to exercise worth a damn, due to my skin cancer scars (and yet another reason why you shouldn't get skin cancer) and with my doctor recommendation:

What he said: "Due to your excessive breast weight, exacerbated by the fact that you are breastfeeding, exercising during this delicate time such as running or walking that would encourage strain on this sensitive area could re-open your scars, cause further damage and extend your healing time, not to mention make any scarring worse, should this happen."

What I heard:  "Your boobs are are so enormously huge (embarrassingly so I don't even WANT to give you a size) and if you bounce them they will tear apart your scars and reopen a bloody mess on your chest, so you'll just have big tits on some big hips and look like you got attacked by a zombie/vampire and have to wait another 10 million years AGAIN before you can think about exercising to lose your fatness, fatty."



So I'm still (though no real effort such as trying to curb my excessive amounts of chocolate consumption -what?  are you CRAAZY?), "over my ideal weight range."

Translation:  I'm currently STILL (bloody hell) a fat, fat, fatty, McFat slobby fat arse.

Hence, the not feeling so good about myself and being trapped in a villa on nowhere island in the middle of a storm with the misdirected urgent need to boost my self esteem and thinking I can do this by either dying (Ahh Sarah, remember how many times I've tried to go from Brunette to Blonde with mere box dye and turning up Ginger Balls?  Those were the days...) or cutting my hair, and since there is no dye within reach, but there are scissors......  I am subsequently chopping my locks off in the blind ignorance that this time, this time in my thirties, not my teens, it will turn out better.  Yes my "I've lost count how many times I've convinced myself that doing this AGAIN it wil turn out right THIS time.. because I'm older and thus, much wiser", trick is going to work this time.

You'll notice that I said "this time it will turn out better"  and not "I know better this time".

Sadly, I do not. 

What's the definition of insantity again?  Oh yeah... thats right.

SHUT UP.

So, I grab the scissors, but this time it's different. This time it's not going to look crooked or look like a one eyed with glaucoma axe wielding homicidal maniac has not chopped my locks off with his axe, during a homicidal rage.  Not this time.  This time, I'm going to do it right.

I'm going to You Tube how to do it first.

Genius.

It's O.K., I know you're in awe, take a step back, catch your breath and sit back down, I've got more to tell you.

Of all the horrible things that I'm SURE have been you tubed in the safety of one's home that has at LEAST ended up in the emergency room, this is by far, the most benign.  I didn't you tube anything like "removing a large splinter and self stitching the wound."  Just how to cut my own bangs.   VERY BENIGN.

I you tubed the selection and I decide upon the most attractive looking fourteen year old (looking and sounding) white person with the least looking crooked bangs who has a self acclaimed aspiring career in hairdressing.

I pause, focus, rewind, pause and........ fatefully, attempt.

I cut off at least 2 inches and you know that feeling you got while walking halfway down the aisle and you start thinking differently, but you are wearing those killer gorgeous ivory pumps you bought on sale and you're pretty sure they make your calves look the sexiest they've ever looked it's a shame they're tucked under that spectacular dress, so I might as well get on with it/I've come too far now, feeling?

Yeah, that one.

I cut again.


I take in deep, sound advice, from my fourteen year old tutor.  "Never cut straight across, always cut at an angle."  My best Padawan self, complies.

Ok, Miley, I got this one in the bag.  Sexy drop dead diva making-me-feel-like-a-brand-new-woman-how-Stella-got-her-groove-back gorgeous bangs are almost ready to make their debut.

I've cut so much, that there's enough to make an afgan receiving blanket and looking into the depths of my destruction that is laying in tufts in the sink I can't help but think:

I've made a horrible mistake.


Again.


Shit. Fuck, shit, fuck, shit.

I wonder what I'm going to make up when I see my hairdresser in a panic next week:

"Oh yeah, me and some girlfriends got really drunk and decided it was a good idea to try to cut each others hair.. you think this is bad, you should see what I did to the other girl, she's your NEXT appointment."

or
"I accidentally left my scissors out and took a nap on the couch at which time my four year old decided to give us matching his and hers hair trims and I tried to make it look better before coming to see you, only to make it worse."
or
"Sorry"

I work on my best apologetic tone and take a cautious look in the mirror.

Well, lookey here, it isn't so bad afterall.

I mean, a little lopsided, but for a home job, in the midst of a self esteem emotional break down, it's not so bad either.  And when you put my haircut standards up to that kind of a shining pedestal, I don't think it's going to win me any hair style awards, but it did the job, I slightly feel better about myself.

At least, through way of distraction.

I show Mr. Price, sheepishly, as I KNOW he hates bangs.  And not just bangs, but bangs on my face.

Mr. Price: Shit Bec, what did you do?
I cut my bangs you asshat -can't you tell?
Mr. Price: Yeah I can tell, you hacked off half of what was on your head and now it's all over your face covering your eyes.  I mean, can you see me right now?  How many fingers am I holding up?
You're an asshole.
Mr. Price: No, I'm not.  You're the one that you tubed how to cut your own hair, you should know better, especially in the middle of a breakdown, which I KNEW you were having cuz your eyes were all red, but I ignored in the hopes that you would GROW UP, not go in and cut away at your hair.

Sniff, Sniff.  (Trying to evoke some sympathy from my heartless husband.)

Mr. Price: Well, it doesnt' look THAT bad, when we get back home will you ... call Jenny (hairdresser) and have her.. armm... touch it up a bit?  ...... I'll pay for it.

Now I know it's bad, Mr. Price is offering to pay for a service that doesn't directly end in a visit to Victoria's Secret and some very expensive lingere dressing up the bedroom floor.

But, aside from our continued "energetic discussion" that ends up with Mr. Price conceding that I have indeed done "not such a bad job and it looks kinda cute..", I decide that I did just a fine job on my newly renovated hairstyle and upgraded bangs.  I mean, it could have been worse, WAAAY worse, but it wasn't and when you hold my haircutting skills to that standard, I'd say this is a WIN. 

Let's be clear, it's NOT a GOOD IDEA, to you tube how to cut your own bangs at home and then do it, it's still a BAD IDEA, but I don't hate myself anymore, only slightly less so than before.

And that, my friends, is a win in my book.

Childbirth and tiny umbrellas, pygmy goats and disco balls. The story of Sam Speed.

Apparently tiny umbrellas are just for fancy girly summer drinks, served on a patio somewhere and NOT for the labor and delivery hall.  What a let down.  However, epidurals ARE for labor and delivery but the nurses WOULD NOT give me the street name for that stuff so I could enjoy it with tiny umbrellas served on a patio somewhere...  dammit.

This is how the birth of Samuel Speed Price happened.

Me and Mr.Price

July 2nd came and went, my Aflac money was a sure thing, but that didn't reduce tensions in the Price household.  My parents had already arrived, our, and my personal cramped quarters were wearing on relationships.

In the days before delivery I told Mr. Price on several occasions that we were getting a divorce, he was an asshole and that I hated him.  Standard, really.

1 week and 2 days before the debut of Sam.

I really just hated being past my due date, but Mr. Price was also being an asshole.  I don't remember what it was that he did or didn't do, whatever it was, it was WRONG.

Tensions were running high.  My beautiful, sexy, most wonderful, smartest woman on the planet, midwife, Nancy, offered to do some "sweeping" on the 4th of July, when offices were closed, in a last ditch attempt to get things moving naturally... What an angel she is.

Between my midwife and my anesthesiologist (affectionately known as Andy AND the sexiest man on the planet), I don't know who I would rush to kiss on the mouth, first.

With membranes swept and my hands permanently placed around Mr., Price's neck for the next insensitive comment or stupid thing that was going to come out of his mouth, Nancy carefully said (sensing that tensions were, indeed running just a touch higher than normal):

"If this doesn't work, plan on coming in tomorrow morning 9am, with your bags packed."
Me:  "HIS bags packed?"
Nancy: "Well, yours as well, we'll get this baby out of you tomorrow."

Shit, I thought Nancy meant I was going to be able to kick him outta the house.  Dammit.

I can TOTALLY do this baby delivery thing on my own, but I DID still need a punching bag for any pain I was going to endure, and I had definitely eyeballed my target long enough as to who was going to endure it for me.  Cue - Mr. Price

We walked out of the offices with promising signs that contractions were starting and Mr. Prices' health was ending...  A few more F bombs and asshole swinging later, I was determined to go to the downtown fourth of July festival that my town offers each year to the budding derelicts and morons without jobs looking for trouble, and get me a sno cone, funnel cake and a gyro, in that precise order.

I snapped at my mother to accompany me, and Joseph was to also come and enjoy some "goddamn inflatable rides", in the sweltering heat.  I was going to sweat this baby out of me.  Unfortunately, there's a new attraction at these public affairs, the Tea Party tent, they were selling t-shirts with things like "I'm a racist, so what?".  I forgot to take a photo of the tent, I honestly thought if I did, I would have been face to face with two inbred rednecks and their shotguns and, well, you can see how that would have ended, with me in my fragile over-due-date state.

WITH THEM DEAD after they had screamed for compassion as I mercilessly turned their own firearms on them and used the shotguns as "PUPPET POLES" AND I WOULD PARADE THEM AROUND IN PUBLIC AS TROPHIES for ANYONE who dared mess with my "over due date" pregnant status.  I would kill you, kill you fucking dead.  Not just dead, really fucking dead.  Those people were evil and  I was READY to fight.

Can you tell I was a little tense?

I'm in pain, suffering from strong contractions, but as the heat and my anger continues to boil over, I don't notice.  I eat my three items, watch Joseph enjoy a pony ride and head home for more divorce talk.

"All I'm going to remember before the birth of our second child is that we argued non stop in the days beforehand and that YOU LOST all of them, you asshole."

I'm bitter, angry, tired and ready for a baby.  I bark at Joseph several times, but later, take the time to write him an apologetic email about how his kind wonderful mother turned into a swamp bitch in the days before his sibling would arrive, but that as a 4 year old he was very understanding and forgiving and just stayed out of my way.  What a smart kid, apparently smarter than Mr. Price.

I deliver the formal eviction notice so that EVERYONE can hear me.  (Imagine medieval messenger, unrolling his decree, before a gallant fight)

"Now hear this, all babies residing illegally in MY womb, past your due date must vacate the premises before 9am eastern standard time tomorrow, or you will forcibly be removed, the proper authorities contacted and your worldly goods, confiscated." 
"This is your last and FINAL warning."
"Amen."

God, I'm so serious, get the fuck outta there.  PLEASE.  Or else.

Mother leaves the house, with instructions that I will call in the wee hours for her to come and sit with Joseph as I take me and my soon to be ex-husband to the hospital to have this baby.

I don't sleep very well.  I try to comfort myself with the things that I would get in the divorce.  Mr. Price would get both the dogs... HAHA douche bag, I would keep the smart kids and get a sexy new apartment.  But, at 1am, still unable to sleep, I realize things are moving closer together, in an orderly fashion, about 10 minutes apart.

Wow contractions suck.

I was amazed at my ability to suffer through them, continue to hurl insults at my husband and simultaneously cry, due to the pain and lack of sleep.

This baby was coming, today.

Sweet.

Mother is called, Joseph is awake, bags are packed (yes, yes, TOGETHER, not just his, I did need someone to drive me to the hospital, sheesh!) and after 10 minutes apart, the contractions move to around 6-7 minutes.  I time it so that I can bargain with myself mentally, much like I do on a run, to push myself farther.  I didn't want to show up at the hospital the SECOND TIME with having only dilated to 1cm and screaming bloody murder like a total wuss.  I was determined to get through a lot of it at home.

I told myself, wait until 4am to call Mum.  Ok, now call after the next three contractions, then slowly get your shit together and leave the house by 5am.  Easy Peasy.

Worst. Car Ride. Ever.   

Shut UP Paul.   
Stop driving like a moron.  
Are you TRYING to ram all the bumps with all four wheels at once, because you're an asshole or because you are just that naturally talented at this lame skill?

Mr. Price screeches up to the fire lane and declares that there isn't a fire, but there sure as hell is going to be one if we don't get this bitch up to Labor and Delivery, STAT.

The security guard knowingly nods and reaches for a wheelchair.  Bliss.  I stop just slightly before easing my mammoth arse into the chair to work through another contraction, they are coming faster, harder (that's what she said) and there's going to be collateral damage.

I had pre-registered, but that doesn't fucking matter at 5:30 in the morning.  There's still some bitch waiting for you in an office as you have to state your name, tell her your social security number, sign some papers and work on some more contractions.  I hated her.  I loved everyone else in that hospital, but I hated her.  Everyone else was helping me get this baby out, but registration lady, was delaying it.  Bitch.
I was 5 centimeters.

In less than 50 minutes I had been wheeled to my room, poked, hooked up, filled out forms, breathed through more contractions, got to 2-3 minutes apart and had a visit from the sexiest man alive and his 12 inch.... needle.  I was 7 centimeters by the time I had gotten the epidural, which I will affectionately give the street name from here forethwith as "Fairy bliss".

The sexiest man alive, and him "giving it to me" with his 12 inch... needle.

Fairy Bliss Face.  Kinda like "Meth Mouth" But waaaaay sexier.

Fairy Bliss is single-handedly the thing that saved my marriage to Mr. Price.  At that blissfully numb moment, we were on the mend (never really on the edge, except for his urge to shut me the hell up and/or kill me for being the most beastly tyrant on the planet for the previous 9 months), and ready for Baby Price, version 2.0.  I was so numb, I couldn't feel or move anything, and at 5' 8" and 60 pounds or so over my most ideal weight range, I presented a challenge for any kind of movement or pushing whatsoever.

Drugs are AWESOME!!!!

Nurse Rachel, who I TRIED to kiss on the mouth several times in my drug induced state, slipped me a grape Popsicle, which you can see evidence of, above.  And it was the best Popsicle, EVER.

Naps.  Numb.  Bliss.

I snuck in a short nap and awoke with the urge to push.  More numb than before and I still felt baby ready to come out.

20 minutes of pushing would have been 5 if I wasn't so frakking numb.  They rolled me on my side to push some, because Baby version 2.0 had decided to turn over a bit.  It worked and I went back to regular pushing, legs freakishly far apart and knees pointing, East and West, respectively.

Threesome anyone?  I totally would have, I loved these ladies so much.  Nancy, stop laughing, or I'll make Rachel roll YOU over.

I watched in the mirror so I could see how I was doing.  Nancy applied about 5 tubes of KY Jelly, massaged and announced that the baby had a "Full head of dark hair."


No shit?

At that instant I freaked out and the thought that this baby might not be Mr. Price's rushed through my head.

When was I unfaithful?  How did this happen?  A full head of dark hair?  Joseph was born with hardly a muff of light colored hair.  Oh shit, how am I going to get out of this one?

2 nano seconds later I realized that, that was total nonsense, in between badgering Mr. Price I sure as hell didn't have time to slip someone else's, passed the goalie.  I just freaked out, because Baby 2.0 was already worlds different from Joseph, as they should be, but it took me by surprise.   Mr. Price and I both have full heads of dark thick hair, so this shouldn't have been a shock, but, all drugged up, I was ready to declare my undying love for the cuteness that is pygmy goats and roll in a disco ball for some mood lighting.  Crazy shit was going through my head.

Almost squeezed out, Mr. Price was asked if he wanted to pull out the baby.  In his most surprised, yet eager voice, he agrees and at 9:17am, pulling out Baby 2.0 onto me Mr. Price states:

"Err, amm, I think it's another boy..!"

Again, no shit? For real?

All I see and hear is baby, on me, not really crying, but breathing.  I kiss him and in between kisses I see Mr. Price is shedding a few tears, what a darling, sweet, gorgeous, wonderful father, husband and man.  I love him, so very much.  Only slightly second to my now, two fantastic boys.  Blue eyes, dark brown thick hair.  Just beautiful.  I smell the baby and it's not a gross smell (because he sure LOOKS gross right now covered in muck) and I wonder if they are going to make me let him go.

Winning!

Eventually they do, to pull some fluid out of his lungs, he cries, all is well.  I lift myself up as much as I can, still royally numb all over and try to ever so blatantly, look for the twig and berries between his two chubby red legs.  There they are.  The berries, and the twig. Right there, center stage.

Oh shit, he's a HE.

Shit.  

Fresh outta the oven.

I just wedged myself out of what once was my mother's vag, and is now called a "CANAL".  You'd be pissed, too.

I have NO idea what we are going to name HIM.  He was supposed to be a GIRL, according to everyone else.  Crap.  I hate coming up with boys names, I'm so unprepared and if I give him a lame name, I'm never going to forgive myself.

I'm in love with three boys.  So lucky.

Nancy starts stitching me up, there's commotion in the room, but it's eerily calm.  Mr. Price is already hovering over our young son, protecting him and talking to him, touching him and loving on him.  I'm watching my midwife employ her sewing skills on the inside of my vag.  Eyes wide open and jaw on the floor I say:

"Sweet, it's like total destruction down there.."

Seeing my shocked face, Nancy removes the mirror, but doesn't dissuade my curiosity as she pulls out my placenta and gives me a tour of the organ that only moments ago, housed my second born.

"This is the side that he lived in, this is the side that faced out."

It's sooo gross.  But yet, I can't look away.  It's awesome.

My Midwife.  Sexy.  Talented.  Smart.  The WHOLE package.

Placenta 101 is over and our second son is wrapped up in a hospital blankie, given to Paul and put back on me.

Mr Price:  Shit, hon, what are we going to name him?

How the fuck should I know?  You're the one that was FOR SURE it was a girl.  Douche.

We fumble through some inappropriate names, we come up with NAUGHT ideas, so mother and father fashion the most awesome idea, go and fetch our four year old and see what he comes up with.

We're going to have our 4 year old name his younger brother.  Great parents, we are.  And if we had, Sam, your name, today, would be "Turkey Sandwich".  I'm not shitting you, that's what Joseph suggested after we put him on the spot and asked him to name you.

Joseph was the first to meet Sam, and the first to know that he was right all along, that he was going to get a baby brother.  Joseph agrees and likes the name "Speed" and Samuel, well, that's all I could come up with after I pulled my wrinkled piece of notepad from my handbag, which was a last minute effort at trying to corral all our favorite names if it were a girl, or if it were a boy.

I'm a big brother, it's a boy, I was right.  Ha ha.  I rock.

For the record, I had NO IDEA what Sam was and didn't care, but I DID have a girl's name all lined up.  If Sam were a girl he would have instantly been named "Adelaide Pepper Price."  Done and done.  Pepper for short.

Joseph is sweet and very eager to be a part of the action and a part of Sam's life.  He wants to hold him all the time, talk to him, play with him, and cuddle him.  It's adorable and my heart grows ten fold.

Big bro, holding Baby bro.

The Fairy Bliss is turned off all too early, but the numbness lasts into the night, walking is a laughable nightmare, but freakishly fun and looking at my deflated stomach, is pure comedy.

Visitors (Andrea and her promised hospital delivery of coconut rum and pineapple juice, I LOVE YOU, you are IN the circle of trust..), moving rooms, breastfeeding like rockstars, food delivered three times a day to my bedside, the next few days and weeks are all the blur, as time generally is, nowadays.

Samuel Speed Price. Born 7.5.11 7lb 14 oz @ 9:17am.  Joy.

Samuel Speed Price is here, today, 4 weeks old and currently grunting on the floor beside me as he works to create another one of his seismic events, going dookie for the fifth time, this morning.

Dingo is staring at the baby and wondering if he should avoid him, eat him, or just pee on him and walk away.

Fuck off Dingo, he's all mine.  Yesssss.