Babies are magnets for crazy people

One Sunday, I took FunnyBoy for a drive in a desperate attempt to get him to nap. While he didn't fall asleep, he did calm down and we decided to do some shoe shopping. FunnyBoy loved shopping so much, he started cooing in his stroller as I pushed him around the store (or, at least, I like to think it was because he loved it so much). And his cooing attracted the attention of a seemingly-normal woman walking by.

She started off asking if she could look at FunnyBoy and was very nice about not touching him. Then she asked me his name (still very normal). Then she asked if he was my first and when I told her he is my second, she asked if I had a boy or girl at home. When I said "boy," that's when things started to get weird.

"Two boys. You keep working on that girl!" (I didn't respond and, although the comment kind of rubbed me the wrong way by how it implied that my beautiful boys weren't enough, my weirdo radar just barely went off).

Then, this. "Let me know when you need me to babysit!"

Ohhhhhhhh, yeahhhhhhh. Sure, stranger. I will be calling you annnnnnyyyyy day now. And then FunnyBoy and I made a hasty exit from the store before Ms. Too Close For Comfort decided we needed her to come home with us.

How I Spent My Christmas Vacation...

As December quickly flashed by and we got closer and closer to Christmas Day (my due date), I began praying that the baby would not decide to make an appearance on Christmas. I didn't want to spend Christmas in the hospital and I also didn't want the poor kid to have a Christmas birthday. A few days before or after-- great. But as someone with a birthday three weeks before Christmas who *still* sometimes got shafted on gifts, I had some compassion for having a birthday right on the holiday itself.

As Christmas approached and nothing seemed to be happening, I relaxed a little bit and started to plan for having a late baby. The Pretend Husband and I started discussing whether we would want an induction or membran stripping, and I began hoping to go into labor on my own sometime in the week between Christmas and New Year's.

Christmas Day came and it was perfect. We had decided to keep the holiday simple, not knowing if it would even happen. We set out a bunch of food, told family when we would be home and sat back to wait for them to visit. FunnyKid alternated between riding his new backhoe, jumping on his new trampoline and snuggling up with grandparents. I alternated between talking and eating, mostly while cuddled up on the couch.

Everyone left in the evening and within two hours, I started having some cramping and then contractions, which were not at all regular (and had started and stopped before, so I didn't get too excited about them). That evening, I had the PH take a photo of me at 40 weeks pregnant, not knowing how little time I had left.

We put FunnyKid to bed and the PH and I watched some television while I timed the contractions, which were anywhere from 12 to 20 minutes apart. As we got into bed around 10:30, my water broke. And that's when things got real. The PH (who had a really bad cold) tried to grab a little sleep while I went downstairs to pace and time contractions, which got stronger and closer together but since I was still able to walk and talk through them, I figured I was still pretty early in the process.

As the contractions got down to 3-5 minutes apart, I jumped in the shower and the PH started preparing for a trip to the hospital while family members started to make their way over to our house to stay with FunnyKid. After getting dressed, I was fine with chatting with my dad in between contractions, but the PH started to get nervous ("I am not delivering this baby myself!") and started to rush me out the door.

We got to the hospital and, although I was having really, really painful back labor, everything was still manageable. In fact, the nurse told us later that she almost didn't admit us because I didn't seem like I was very far along. In fact, I was already 7 centimeters dilated when they checked me and that's when things started moving fast.

There was some really loud moaning (me) and some slightly scared looks (the PH) and some casualness from the midwife as the told the nurse to call my doctor, but tell her there was no need to rush to the hospital. As she was saying that, I could feel the baby moving down and started having the urge to push, but who was I to argue with the expert?

Which is how it came to be that I gave birth 15 minutes later without a doctor in the room. The baby basically flew out and was placed on my chest and I said, "it's a boy?" Then I said, "Brothers!" A little FunnyBoy to torture and tease and love and admire my FunnyKid, who I'm sure will do the same in return.

And so, three hours after Christmas Day had ended, that's how our FunnyBoy, Finnegan (we'll call him Finn), came into this world, in his own time in his own way and with a full set of lungs that reminds us he's here on a daily (and nightly) basis.

Let me count the ways in which I am screwed...

My nine-month-old can negotiate the step between the family room (where all his toys are) and the rest of the first floor (where a lot of dangerous things are) and now pretty much has the run of the house.

Today, he wrestled me for access to my boob... and almost won.

Drawers in the kitchen are no match for Mr. Adventure and putting a yardstick through the handles to keep them from opening just gives him something new to play with (the yardstick makes a fun noise when it's pulled back and then let go to snap against the cabinet).

Changing a diaper is a full-scale wrestling event that involves pins, spin moves to break the opponent's hold and once he tried to tag the dog in when it looked like I was about to win.

Speaking of the dogs, they don't know what hit them. Or-- more accurately-- what suddenly and violently yanked at their crotch hair while they were sleeping.

Perhaps the worst part of all is how stinking cute he is while he wreaks havoc all over the house. This face almost makes me want to give in and let him do whatever he wants. Almost.

Guess whose mom will be doing some babyproofing this weekend...

While we're at it, who took my baby and left me this toddler?!? I'm not sure I'm ready for a kid on the move!

My parenting advice? Just keep on keeping on...

The thing about going onto the Internet for advice about raising children is that there is SO MUCH information out there. And it all contradicts itself (and always adamantly). Baby must have their own crib! Co-sleeping is best! Pacifiers work! Pacifiers will ruin them for life! Let them cry it out! Crying it out will traumatize the child and they'll never trust their parents and won't do well in school and will end up a college drop-out living in a van down by the river!

The second night FunnyKid was home, I caved in and gave him a pacifier someone had given us as a gift (despite my decision that he wouldn't be using them). Then I went on the Internet and found several sources that said pacifiers should no way, no how be given before the baby is three weeks old because it will cause nipple confusion and they will stop breastfeeding and what-were-you-thinking-you-must-be-a-first-time-mom-what-with-such-a-dumb-mistake! I cried.

But FunnyKid spit out the pacifier within minutes of falling peacefully asleep and then kat's lil sis told me her kids were given pacifiers in the hospital and then the pediatrician confirmed that we were not actually ruining the kiddo for life by giving him a pacifier to soothe him as long as he was weaned off it by nine months old (FunnyKid weaned himself off after using it four times so no worries there).

As the months have gone on (I can't believe FunnyKid is already six months old!), I've gotten a lot better about choosing what advice works for us-- and I avoid using Google to help me decide what's best for FunnyKid. But every once in awhile-- say, in the middle of the night when FunnyKid has been crying for awhile and we are trying to get him to go back to sleep without eating because we know he's waking up out of habit instead of hunger-- it's so tempting to search the Internet to see if we're doing the right thing.

And, not surprisingly, the advice ranges from Babies cry, let them cry! to Crying it out will scar your child! Because we are now somewhat experienced that this parenting gig, we did what worked for us (and I didn't even cry). And I'm 99% sure we haven't ruined FunnyKid for life (yet).

Confusing the family tree

FunnyKid looks A LOT like his dad (the Pretend Husband) (who, just to confuse things further, is actually my real husband). So, anyway, FunnyKid looks like such a miniature version of the PH that I considered asking for a DNA test to make sure he was actually mine.

Which is why it was so strange when yesterday, in church, a woman asked the PH if he was the uncle and he said yes! I think some of the woman's confusion stemmed from the fact that kat's lil bro (i.e. FunnyKid's actual uncle) went to church with us and somehow ended up sitting between the PH and I. Where the PH's confusion came from is beyond me.

When I looked at him funny and said, "You're not the uncle, you're the dad," the woman replied, "Oh, *that's* why the baby looks so much like you!"

In the PH's defense, FunnyKid looks so much like him, he assumed the woman was joking about how they are related. But, still, I told him denying paternity of our son (especially in church, where everyone knows we are married!) is not funny.

Yes, it was the longest delivery ever. I'm talking two years long...

The good news is that kat's lil sis and the cutest nephews in the world recently moved within driving distance. We decided to celebrate that by showing up on their first weekend in their new house (you can thank me later, lil sis, for the motivation to get unpacked and have the guest room set up within days of the movers dropping everything off).

While the Pretend Husband and kat's lil bro-in-law made themselves scarce with a guys' weekend away, lil sis and I wrangled her two boys and my one. One of our excursions was out to a mall, which was a bad idea for a lot of reasons. The mall was huge and crowded and no one seemed to care that I was pushing a stroller and lil sis had a humongous double stroller. We didn't so much walk through the mall as dodge our way through it.

At one point, I left my stroller parked behind lil sis' and ran to check on something in the kids' department. As lil sis stood there, a woman eyed the strollers and asked, "Triplets?" Aside from the fact that our kids don't look alike in the least, there's the small problem that one of them is two months old, one is nine months old and the third is two years old. But when you're trying to avoid getting trampled while keeping a two-year-old occupied and out of trouble, you'll agree to anything. "Triplets? Yes. Let's go with that."

Baby Story: The Penny Edition

I've been long absent from this blog, but now, I have some news to share.

The FunnyKid's betrothed was born on Saturday! That is, my daughter was born on Saturday, three weeks before her due date. The child knows how to make an entrance.

Are you surprised? No? Because we were. Seriously.

The weekend started off with a celebratory dinner with the PH and KAT for the PH's birthday on Friday night. It was a great night out that we don't have very often. I ate a delicious steak with horseradish sauce, garlic mashed potatoes and pink lemonade. We had some laughs, played some cards, marveled at the Funnykid's cuteness....

And went into labor.

OK. That part was just me. In fact, it actually happened at home. Earlier in the evening, KAT had joked (or accurately predicted) that I would be going into labor around 3 a.m.

But around 11:45 when I was laying in bed with my husband, contemplating whether or not I had to pee, I felt a warm rush of fluid. Naturally, I assumed that I had just wet myself. Until it happened three more times. And I did what every paranoid pregnant lady who doesn't want to be the one to call the doctor because she peed herself: I googled "What does it feel like when your water breaks." We had talked about it a few times (KAT, the PH and us) and the PH had assured me that "that hardly ever happens."

And while that's true, it's exactly what happened to me. My water broke. I was the one in the emergency room with a towel. I had known when I left the house that I would be coming back with a baby - I cried when I said goodbye to Bailey. I was waiting for my husband with my packed bags. I am quite certain that J believed it to be a false alarm. This was confirmed when we got to the hospital and the nurse confirmed what I had known at this point: my water was broken. And we were going to have a baby that day.

The next few hours were loooong. But, 14 hours later, we met our little girl. Neither one of us can believe we were allowed to take her home.

I have learned some valuable lessons in the past few days, which I am more than happy to share with you all. But, right now, I have a sweet baby to cuddle.

I love it when a plan comes together....

While life with FunnyKid is far from perfect (anyone with ANY advice about how to get this kid to take a freakin' bottle-- I beg you to leave a comment!), it does work out at times. Take two weeks ago. I spent two days and nights in a row feeding FunnyKid every hour and a half. Yes, I slept for 90 minutes at a time for two whole nights and was barely surviving.

When someone asked me how well FunnyKid was sleeping (for some reason, people love to hear about a baby's sleep habits), I confessed things were going poorly. "But he turns six weeks old on Thursday," I said. "I hear that's when everything gets better. I expect him to sleep through the night on Thursday night."

We both chuckled and moved on to other topics, but wouldn't you know it? FunnyKid slept for more than seven hours straight on Thursday night. I love this kid (but seriously, any advice about getting him to take a bottle?)

Confirming what I already knew...

Remember that "Seinfeld" episode where the gang went to see friends who had an ugly baby and had to come up with compliments even though they could hardly look at the kid? The Pretend Husband and I are aware that all parents think their kids are the cutest things ever and took our own feelings that FunnyKid is the cutest kid ever with a grain of salt.

But then we got it confirmed by a panel of judges. I stopped by my hair salon last week to introduce the FunnyKid to my hairstylist, a nice, nice woman in her sixties. I failed to realize that we were stopping by on a Friday, which is old lady day at the salon as they all get fixed up to last through the weekend.

So, not only did FunnyKid get complimented by my stylist, we were asked to walk down the row of chairs as each person paid him a compliment. "He looks like a doll." "Oh, he's precious." "Bless you, you are just perfect." Then we paraded back up the row, collecting compliments on the way. It was like our own personal parade.

I'm telling you; if you ever start to feel bad about yourself, pick a hair salon that caters to older clientele and stop by on a Friday. You will be showered with compliments (either that, or FunnyKid truly is the cutest kid ever. Yes, let's go with that).

Can you believe FunnyGal KAT is a mom?!?

Neither can I! But the broken sleep each night, the poopy diapers that fill my days and the little one breastfeeding off of me are starting to make it seem more real.

My thoughts are scattered these days and if I were to wait until I get my act together to post, FunnyKid will be five before that happens. I just don't think I can manage a real post with a beginning, a middle and an end, so you get bullet points instead.

* The Pretend Husband was my hero during my stay in the hospital for a lot of reasons, including being completely awesome while I was in labor. But he really proved his worth when he stopped me from eating corn after I delivered. Knowing that my nether regions were a bit traumatized, he suggested eating a hard-to-digest food might not be in my best interest in the end (pun intended).

* While we have figured out how to get between two and four hours of sleep between feedings, we were complete newbies during our first night home. Did I say newbies? I mean "zombies." We tried to tag team the little guy with one of us sleeping and one of us holding him (he wouldn't sleep unless he was one someone's chest). It resulted in the PH and I each getting about four hours of sleep total. But the FunnyKid slept great so I guess that's what counts.

* I was probably one of those pregnant people who was like, "Newborns sleep up to 20 hours a day. Which will give me plenty of time to get things done around the house. I'll clean while he naps!" Uh, yeah. Not so much. Yes, he sleeps a lot. No, I don't get much done (I consider it an accomplishment when I get either a load of laundry or a load of dishes done in a day). Most days, I'm forced to choose between lunch or a shower (lunch always wins...)

Each day gets a little better in terms of the kiddo and I figuring out each other and a routine. So I should be back in no time with regular (funny) updates about being a mom (and, if I ever get my act together enough to leave the house, about the joys of Wal-Mart). Thank you for all of your good wishes and, if it sounds like any of this is a complaint, I'll leave you with this (which I call, "Worth It.")

One born... one still cooking...

First off, let me just publicly reiterate that KAT and the PH make a damn fine looking kid, if I do say so.

Between the squishy baby cheeks and the little kissy face, he's really quite adorable. Which is perfect, you realize, because obviously, I'm excited to have such a cute son-in-law.

As KAT and the PH adjust to life with the newborn, J and I have been extremely busy finding goats, getting deeds to our tract of land, going through our Wii games, etc. You know. All to arrange the dowry.

The only problem I foresee is that instead of having a sweet little baby girl, my womb appears to be occupied right now by a very large starfish.

It's the only way I can explain feeling simultaneous kicks to both of my ribs and my groin at the same time. We've ruled out twins, thanks to some very active, very thorough ultrasounds. But at some point since then, my child has obviously morphed into an exoskeletal sea creature.

I am starting to get a little anxious as my impending due date approaches, of course. Particularly after my doctor announced at my last appointment that my baby seems to be going through ANOTHER growth spurt. (At one point, she said "Whoa. That is the head.") I'm taking it in stride though. Perhaps she'll settle down a bit... relax. Maybe slow the growth a bit so she's not, you know, a toddler at delivery.

But, the FunnyKid has inspired us to move along our baby preparedness efforts so that little FunnyGirl can have a place to lay her tiny head.

Note: chandelier installed. But we don't have a single diaper in the house. Or a car seat yet.

Party's over, SJ. Start blogging again!

Not to call SJ out right after her birthday or anything, but she's been holding out on you guys. That's right, she knows whether she's having a girl or a boy and she hasn't told you yet. If I were you, I'd be a little miffed that she's been holding out. I mean, it would be understandable that she hasn't been blogging if she didn't have anything to talk about, but she very clearly does. So, SJ, on behalf of the blog readers who still check in with us despite every other post talking about my pregnancy, I'm going to have to ask you to spill it.

But let's make those readers work for it. While SJ and J already have a name picked out for their son or daughter, the Pretend Husband and I are still debating our options (made more difficult by having to agree on a boy AND a girl name). So, everyone is required to leave a comment suggesting a girl name and a boy name for FunnyKid, who is due in less than six weeks and is in danger of being named Herbie if we don't come up with something better. And when we hit five comments, SJ will post her news (I think. I mean, I'm assuming she'll go along with this. No promises, but I think I can convince her...)

How about it? Want to help spark SJ's triumphant return to the blog? Start suggesting names...

Funny how dessert seems to be a theme every time SJ and I get together-- Happy birthday, my friend!

To mark this very special day-- the anniversary of SJ's birth-- I thought about doing something similar to last year, where I broke into SJ's house and left dessert in her fridge. The only problem I foresaw with the plan was the fact that SJ doesn't actually own that house anymore, which would have been weird not only for me to be walking around in it, but probably a little unnerving for the new owner when SJ walked in to get her dessert out of the fridge.

So, in the interest of not getting either of us arrested (and since she gave me a key to her new house, but not the alarm code...), I guess I will have to trade in chocolate-covered break-ins for one of those traditional birthday letters SJ and I have become so good at.

So, SJ, this is it. The last birthday either of us gets to celebrate without kids to distract us from the partying that should go on not only on our birthdays, but whenever we feel like it. Somehow, I have a feeling that your best gift next year won't be a blog post from little ol' me, but the fingerprint-covered card that gets handed to you by a drooling, grinning kiddo. But that's how it should be.

What a year this has been. You moved, I painted, I got knocked up, you got knocked up, J painted... I think that about sums it up. But it leaves out the important parts, like our "Pregnant Woman Support Group" on Thursday when we made fruity "mocktails" and talked about symptoms that probably would have had our husbands abandon us if they had ever heard about them. Or the Saturdays spent going to tag sales and spending hours in the car talking about everything from what life was like to what it's going to be like later this year. Or the many, many hours of dinners and Setback now that we live only 4.2 miles apart.

It's been quite the journey, SJ. From poor reporters at a local newspaper (one of us who wore clothing with funny patterns and the other a snob who "knew" she could never be friends with someone who dressed like that) spending Friday and Saturday nights hanging out at bars (you were dating and then engaged, but never had a problem being my wing man), to moms-to-be who consider it a wild night out when the Setback games last beyond 10 p.m. I have a feeling that self-imposed curfew is going to be getting even earlier, but I'm not worried. We'll just have to pack the fun into a shorter amount of time.

And it has been fun. I can't imagine what my late twenties and early thirties would have looked like without you in them to listen to me, to keep me grounded, to cry with me, to make me laugh time and time again, to tell me when I'm wrong, to understand what I'm going through, to be such a good friend you went and got knocked up so I would have someone to go through pregnancy with and to always be willing to help me finish the extra ice cream in my freezer.

Speaking of which, when are we going out for ice cream to celebrate? Happy Birthday, SJ!

There goes my dream of being a supermodel's mom

I had an extra ultrasound yesterday because the doctor thought FunnyKid might be measuring big (he or she is actually a tad on the small side so that's science for ya!) This is the third ultrasound I've had and it went about as well as the first two.

Meaning, we have some great photos of an arm, a foot and the baby's spine-- but none that would, you know, actually identify the subject as an actual baby. Last time, the baby was facing my back and wouldn't show his or her face for anything. This time, the little bugger kept putting a hand in front of his or her face (please, no flash photography!)

It's par for the course since every time FunnyKid gets all playful and jumpy inside me, it only takes me telling someone to put their hand on my stomach if they want to feel the baby for the little one to settle right down and pretend they've been asleep the whole time (people may be questioning my sanity...)

Yesterday, the kiddo took it a step further and was not only wholly uncooperative with having his or her photo taken, but actually kicked the ultrasound wand. Seriously, the kick was so hard, the wand popped up off my belly.

Ok, maybe he or she won't be a model, but I'm still holding out for professional soccer player.

Who needs these fancy baby products when we have a whole refrigerator full of options?

Butt paste, nipple butter-- there are some interesting products for mother and baby out there. I was the guest of honor at two wonderful baby showers this weekend, and was also the recipient of a box of nipple butter at the first shower, which was a couples event that had both the Pretend Husband and I opening gifts.

After opening the nipple butter (it's meant to bring relief for nursing mothers), I began joking around about what other products might be available: nipple mayonnaise? Ooh, the PH likes mustard... how about nipple mustard? But he LOVES hot sauce. How about that?

While we continued opening gifts, the PH's guy friends started rustling around in the next room. Shortly after, we were handed the last gift-- a strange looking black bag that wasn't exactly in the baby shower style.

I peeked inside and immediately handed it to the PH, saying, "It's for you." He then pulled out a bottle of hot sauce with a label his friends created that said, "Red Hot Nipple Sauce."

I'm all for making my husband happy, but I think the line gets drawn somewhere around the idea of putting a spicy condiment on certain sensitive areas of my body. (Oh great, with all this talk about hot sauce, now I'm craving buffalo wings!)

Getting us ready for parenthood... one puddle of vomit at a time.

Last night, Molly (the black dog) woke us up three times by vomiting in our bedroom. Each time, we got up and I comforted her and cleaned her face while the Pretend Husband wiped up the vomit (she had vomited a couple of times earlier in the day so we went to bed with the cleaning supplies within reach).

It's tough to get a good night's sleep when you're woken every few hours. But, we figured it is preparing us for a baby crying every few hours, and this sluggishness the PH and I feel today? Well, that's probably waiting for us this fall, too.

Last week was particularly hard. Casey (the white dog) woke us up at 4 a.m. by vomiting in our bedroom. While the PH cleaned up the four different spots (I'm not sure how he keeps getting clean-up duty, but let's not point that out to him, hmmm?) I took the dogs outside in case Casey wasn't finished. She wasn't.

Then, fearing that Casey might have a blockage in her intestine that was preventing food from getting through, I grabbed a flashlight and started following her around the yard to see if she was able to go to the bathroom (oh, the things we do for our furry children!) While this was happening (and presumably, one of my neighbors was calling the police to report a prowler in our yard), Molly decided to take off for a tour of the neighborhood.

So, 4:30 found the PH sitting on the front steps with Casey while I scoured the backyard with the flashlight, quietly calling for Molly. We finally all met up, trooped back upstairs and settled back down for a few more hours of sleep.

About 10 minutes later, Casey vomited again. This time, I cleaned and the PH took the dogs outside. I went back to bed but after about 20 minutes, I still wasn't asleep and felt bad that the PH was handling things alone outside. So, dressed in a pink bathroom, I trooped back outside and all the way out to the perimeter of our backyard to find the PH enjoying the sunrise while closely watching Casey for bathroom activity (she didn't go).

We finally made it back inside at 6 a.m.-- just enough time for all of us to pass out for an hour before the alarm went off. Then, to add insult to injury, Molly and Casey got to go spend the day with their grandparents (who promised to keep an eye on them) while the PH and I slogged into work, trying to function on about six hours of sleep.

Yes, I feel prepared for parenthood. But I'm also grateful we have 10 more weeks before the baby arrives. This mama likes her sleep.

Not your usual love letter to baby...

Dear Herbie (aka the kid in my belly),

I had your father speak to you about this yesterday, but I think it bears repeating. That's not a pillow. Or a trampoline. It's my bladder. And you jumping on it or using it as a place to rest your head has consequences for me. Like having to try really hard not to pee when I laugh. Or having to run to the bathroom every 20 minutes. Or waking up every three hours during the night.

I love you, Herbie, and I want you to have a good time in there. Punch my belly as many times as you want. Make it pop out in weird places. And definitely kick the palm of your dad's hand when he rests it near you (we both love that). But, please, let's make the bladder off-limits, shall we?

Actually, forget that I asked. You WILL stop kicking me in the bladder. There, I said it. Why will you do that? Because I'm your mother and I said so.

Love, Mom

Where does he come up with these things?!?

The Pretend Husband is on some kind of roll lately, busting out all over the place with one liners and things that make me laugh (or roll my eyes and laugh). The other night, we were talking about labor and I told him I was going to give him a list of encouraging things to say to me while I'm writhing around in pain.

"I don't need a list," the PH said. "I'm just going to lean over, gaze into your eyes and whisper, 'Remember, you're the one who wanted a baby.'"

Husbands say the darndest things...

Laying in bed last night, I was reading a book about pregnancy. I got to a part about how quickly my uterus is growing and exclaimed to the Pretend Husband, "Holy cow, this says I will grow half an inch every week for the rest of my pregnancy! That's crazy!"

The PH, not really paying attention to exactly what I was saying, responded with, "You're going to get taller?!?"

Uh, yeah, PH. That makes sense. Especially seeing as how I have 13 weeks left to go. So, you can expect me to be topping out around 6 feet, 4 inches by the time the kid comes. And I'll be ready for the WNBA if we ever have a second child.

The PH is one of the most intelligent people I know and yet, he seriously thought pregnancy would make me taller?!? It's not like we don't have a whole bunch of friends who have been through pregnancy. Don't you think he would have noticed if all the women had ended up at over six feet tall, towering over their husbands? I'm questioning whether the PH should ever be left alone with our child.