And so it goes...

I am not in a good place these days.

Mentally, emotionally, I'm not much fun to be around so I think it's time to step away from the computer until this baby comes and use this opportunity to get my head back on straight.

Control freak is a title I have no problem embracing and I feel as if my body is betraying me.

It's not of course, this is no different a situation than millions of other have found themselves in over the years, and yet... That doesn't make me feel better at all. In this case, misery does not want any company.

Yes, I'm only five days overdue and that's certainly not the end of the world. And there is light at the end of the tunnel as my OB scheduled me to be induced next Wednesday if the baby hasn't made her appearance by then. But I feel as if I've lost control physically, as I cannot force this baby to leave me and enter the world, and the emotional roller coaster I have been riding is more than I can take. I cannot for the life of me figure out what to do but wait (my membranes have been stripped not once, but twice. How it is possible this baby has not just dropped out onto the shower floor is beyond me.) and patience has never been my strong suit.

Even my doctor is amazed by my amazing steel trap-like wonder womb.

Add to this a possible major life change Mr. C and I are about to embark on that is unrelated to this baby and an out-of-the-blue phone call received from an old friend that will require all of my good energy to deal with, as the place she's in right now I can only assume is even darker than the place I am in, not to mention the maddeningly painful contractions and more than a bit of back labor I've had over the past couple of days that has produced nothing and I feel as if I just stepped off a Tilt-a-Whirl. A Tilt-a-Whirl I just spent the past nine+ months riding. I've got to deal with the messy purging before I can feel the solid ground beneath me.

Since I've made a conscious effort to stay away from the phone (sorry, friends, not taking any phone calls. Not even from my dear, sweet, sainted Nana who wants nothing but to make me feel better, but by her very positivity and Oh, it will happen when it happens attitude will surely drive me to homicide.) to save others my wrath, I'll do the same for you.

I very much appreciate your lovely words of encouragement. If I had half a brain I'd better articulate how much every single word and suggestion has meant to me. I love my friends, both in the computer and out, so when I'm my old self, but my old self with a new baby, I'll be back.

Until then I'll be placing a lock on my oven and hiding the sharp objects.

Let's play Piss Off the Pregnant Lady!

Match the answers with the typical questions a pregnant woman gets when she's so ready to deliver her baby she's giving the bathroom plunger the eye! The winner gets absolutely nothing except a hearty "Congratulations!" and a "F*ck off and die!"

a) No, so f*ck off.
b) F*ck off and die.
c) Yes, it was yesterday. F*ck off.
d) May you swim in a fetid swamp filled with hungry leeches who love to chew on human genitalia. And F*ck off.
e) Tired, cranky, whiny with an underlying bitchiness with a side order of general malaise and an itchy trigger finger. In other words, I could go postal at any moment and no jury of my peers would ever convict me. Oh, and f*ck off.


1) Isn't it past your due date?
2) Have you had the baby yet?
3) How are you feeling?
4) You must be really ready to get that baby out, huh?
5) Can you wait and have the baby on Wednesday because that's my husband's/wife's/dog's birthday?

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I gotta tell you, the plunger is looking really good to me. I should probably ask my husband to lock it up somewhere safe because that wouldn't be a pretty sight at 2:30am. And since I haven't slept in weeks and the baby's head is so far down in my pelvis that I feel as if I could reach in there and stroke her hair, it's totally possible.

Expect to see me around your blog ('cause what the hell else can I do right about now?) but don't expect me to comment. You wouldn't want me to anyway since I'd probably write something inappropriate and profane. But know that I love you anyway.

My OB told me last week that she was pretty certain I wouldn't make my due date, given how far along I was. I know there are no certainties in this world, but I'm certain I would like to leave a flaming bag of dog poop on her front steps right about now.

I either give birth to really stubborn girls or there's a tree frog in my uterus who is holding on to the sides of my uterus for dear life. I'm leaning toward the later right now. So tonight I'm going to have a glass of wine and try to chill out about the whole thing. I dare some troll to give me a hard time about the wine thing. Actually, with how I'm feeling I kind of welcome it. (See: answer e above).

Screw you, Dante. I've got your ninth circle of hell right here.

Random thoughts on this last week of pregnancy (Do you hear me, baby? The LAST WEEK OF PREGNANCY. Take the hint.):

- Is it a coincidence that there are 9 circles of Hell in the Divine Comedy and there are 9 months of pregnancy? I'm no student of Dante. I'm just thinking out loud here. Draw your own conclusions but I think it's a little suspicious.

- I've gone from cute pregnancy bump to fairly ridiculous looking. Mr. C mused last night that maybe I should be cantilevered since my belly is sticking so far out in front of me. I'm thinking maybe a buttress or two might be better.

- I really, truly believe this baby wants out but that she's directionally challenged. She going high, to the side, and punching through the belly button. Maybe she needs a GPS? Or maybe it's time for me to just open my legs and let Mr. C guide her out with those lighted marshalling wands they use to bring in airplanes.

Go to the light, kid! Go to the light!

- I'd like to thank Gap Body for finally making clothes that will fit my long torso. Because of you, I'm only wearing one piece of clothing that came from a maternity store - my zip-up hoodie. The rest of what I'm wearing can be worn in the weeks after pregnancy and I don't have to feel any residual shame that I'm still wearing maternity clothes.

If there are any preggos out there wondering what I'm talking about, I've bought these, two of these, and of course these. I also bought this hoodie that still fits me and I'm wearing this t-shirt right now. I've worn this wrap a few times so far (it stretches to accommodate a big belly) and it looks perfect for nursing with a nursing tank underneath. I think I'll go back and buy the pink one.

- Apparently, I'm not the only one due to spawn at any time. The neighbor's yappy chihuahua is due too. Anyone else find this as stupidly amusing as I do? Anyone want to lay bets on who goes first, the dog or me?

- I've stopped answering my phone because every call is the same. Have you had the baby yet? Uh, NO. The only call I will take is from my sister but that's because I can tell her to f*ck off and she won't be totally offended.

- What is it with people who insist on telling a very pregnant woman, "You should have the baby tomorrow because that's my (son's, granddaughter's, niece's, wife's) birthday"? Are they looking to get hit? I almost clocked my neighbor for saying that to me yesterday but I think she caught how I felt from the look of disgust on my face.

- I'm trying really hard not to be jealous of the mama's who have already had their babies and the ones who have their appointments scheduled for today for induction or c-section. I'm getting so desperate that I'm jealous of women getting their bellies sliced open. I am seriously messed up right now.

- The ultrasound I had to determine the sex of the baby was not 100% conclusive so Mr. C has taken to addressing this baby as his boy. Between him and EVERY OTHER FREAKING PERSON who insists on stating "Oh, you're having a boy!" after taking in my bump I'm starting to freak out a little. Yesterday even my doctor said she would have sworn I was having a boy based on how I am carrying.

- One more thought - During my OB appointment yesterday, the doctor told me I was officially as far along as a pregnant woman can be without having the baby spontaneously drop out of my womb. There was no amount of manipulation - if you catch my meaning - that she could do for me. I am just about 4 centimeters dilated and 80%+ effaced. Which means, OH MY FREAKING GOD. SOMEONE GET THIS BABY OUT OF ME!! GAH!!!!

That is all.

Santa Claus and other lies we tell our kids

(No, no baby yet. I'm about to start doing jumping jacks to get this baby moving. And if one more person says to me "Oh, no baby yet, huh? What are you waiting for?" I'm going to bump them with my incredibly firm belly. Until then, I need something to take my mind off of my discomfort and pain so I'll write about other stuff. I do this for you, to save you from having to read my bitching. You can thank me later.)

There are plenty of things I have no problem telling Chicky.

Eat your vegetables. Brush your teeth. Don't hit the cat. I'll always love you. Things like that.

But there are other, more abstract concepts that I have an amazingly hard time talking with my child about.

Your grammy, my mom, is in heaven. Your grandma and grandpa go to church on Sundays to pray to God. God? He's up in heaven too. Uh, yeah. That's what we're supposed to believe, I guess.

Religion, in general, is difficult for a woman like myself who made a conscious break from it years ago to talk about with an impressionable three year old. But I believe that children need something to believe in, whether it be religion or fairy tales. Or religion based on fairy tales.

Immaculate conception? Really?

Children need something to hold on to in times of stress or turmoil. They need something to be happy about and to look forward to. That's childhood, for chrissake. So in the past year we've started using the concept of Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. I'm not sure if my husband has a position on this because we've never really discussed it, at least not without much eye rolling on his part, but I made a conscious effort to incorporate these made up characters into Chicky's vernacular. It's not like I bring it up all the time. You know, it wasn't some random Thursday in February when I said, Have I told you the story of the big rabbit who leaves chocolate eggs for us to find? I think I waited until two days before Easter this past year to even bring it up. I could almost see the wheels turning in Chicky's head. Especially since the only thing she's ever seen a rabbit leave is little pellets of poop. And I've made it perfectly clear those are NOT edible.

But in much the way I have difficulties discussing a higher power with Chicky I find myself tripping over the words "Easter Bunny" and choking on the stories of the fat man in red coming down the chimney to bring good little boys and girls presents. It feels like I'm lying - hell, I am lying, let's be honest - but I will continue to keep up the charade even if it doesn't come naturally to me because my children deserve the wonderment that accompanies these deceptions. And I need an excuse to lord power over my children with a simple threat of "Santa won't come if you don't clean up your toys".

The way I see it, my kids will have less than a decade in their lives to believe that benevolent bearded men bring gifts just for eating a few more peas from their plate. That's pretty cool. I wish someone could make me believe that there was a spa fairy or that, maybe, there was a giant fuzzy beast who magically left bottles of wine at my doorstep.

I say less than a decade because most kids don't really grasp the idea of Santa, the Easter Bunny, or the Tooth Fairy until they're over the age of three. After that there are few precious years before television or some bratty kid on the playground (or an older sister, maybe. Not that I'm pointing any fingers) teaches my kids their mother and father were responsible for taking baby teeth and leaving a buck under the pillow. And honestly when that happens, it was probably time anyway. At some point they need to know that life is kinda sucky and disappointment is something they need to learn to deal with.

Which leads me to the reason for this post. Finally.

Mr. C works with two people who have daughters who are well into puberty and, as far as their parents are concerned, the kids STILL BELIEVE IN SANTA. These people see no reason to start telling their eleven, twelve, fourteen year old kids (uh huh, fourteen years old) the truth about who was leaving presents under the tree. Call me cynical, but if you're old enough to have a menstrual cycle I think you're old enough to deal with this cold hard fact.

It makes me wonder who is worried about who would suffer more? Kids are resilient and they roll with changes, for the most part. But parents can live for the rest of their lives with the guilt of disappointing their kids just once. It makes me want to shake these people. Deal with it! I want to yell at them. It's just like ripping off a band-aid, we don't want to cause our kids pain but it needs to happen and sometimes the faster or sooner the better.

Is it just me? Is it my hang-ups stopping me from being happy for these kids who still get to live a bit of the fairy tale? Or is there a cut off point, an arbitrary age depending on the child, where they need to grow up a little? When do we as parents stop perpetrating the myth that magical beings exist and teach our kids that it's okay to start believing in what's real, even if what's real is kind of crummy sometimes?

And don't even get me started on the Holy Spirit. To me it's like ROUS's. I don't believe it exists.

Hair, There and Everywhere

My little Chicky - She was lucky enough to inherit my husband's blue eyes and his dimple and so far it seems like she's got my skinny legs and blond hair (What? I was a real blond... Once upon a time.), but the poor kid was doomed from the word Go in the fine hair department. Both Mr. C and I have fine, thin hair and Chicky's hair is a nightmare to find hair clips for.

PBN asked if I would review some barrettes from Maiden America and I was only too happy to say yes. They claim that their barrettes stay put, even in the thinest hair. But do they really? Go check out my review and find out.

Eviction notice

The food in my refrigerator is mocking me.

It goes way beyond the morning sickness that has come back with a vengeance - which is, apparently, quite common at this point in pregnancy - or the lack of room in my stomach to put anything nourishing. There are at least two, probably more, items in my fridge with the sell or consume by date of May 25.

My due date.

I look at the milk and think Oh great, I have another 10 days before this goes bad! And then I realize Oh crap, I still technically have 10 more days until this baby is actually suppose to spring forth from my lady parts. You don't even want to know how I feel when I look at the yogurt.

Time is funny that way. Six of one, half dozen of another. It's all perception and right now I perceive my head to be hitting a wall over and over again.

If I have to go all the way to term I might hurt someone. The last few weeks are hell on a pregnant woman and, to me anyway, the second pregnancy's ninth month is particularly horrible. Now that things are basically squared away in our lives, the baby has the blessing of everyone to come at any time. No more stressing and sitting with my legs crossed, I want to get up and walk and get this damn baby out. But walking around Target feeling like I'm carrying a bowling ball between my legs is no picnic. However, if I have to suspend a rabid cat from my pelvis to add to the weight, dammit, I will be walking. And jumping. And "running" up and down the stairs. Anything to expedite the passage of this child.

So consider this your eviction notice, child of mine. It's closing time at Chez Mama. Last call and all that. If you stay any longer you're going to start funking up the joint. Take your placenta and leave.

And please don't let the door of my uterus hit you on the way out.

Boy Crazy? I prefer Girl Power

Back when I was a much younger woman and I was dating the guy who would become my first husband, his father loved to talk about his future grandchildren.

"Three boys! You have to have at least three kids and they all have to be boys. My son needs to carry on the family name. He's the last one. Three boys. Do you hear me? Three BOYS!"

I always hated that with a red hot fiery passion of 10,000 suns. As much as I cared for my ex-father in law, if looks could kill he would have been worm food a long time ago. I'm fairly surprised I didn't put him in the hospital since he said it so much and I have a pretty awesome death stare.

As luck would have it, the second time I married it was also to a man who was the last male in his family to carry on the paternal name. One huge difference - though he would have loved to have a son, and his father would love to have a grandson, I've never once felt any serious pressure to produce a male heir. Yet another reason why I'm still married to a man who has a physical aversion to light switches and cabinet doors. That and the fact that he'll do a mean soft shoe, naked, when I can't sleep. Works every time.

When Chicky was born there was much celebrating. A girl! How wonderful! A perfect little angel (Ha!) to fawn all over. Then we took our time deciding whether or not to have another and family members started to realize there was a good chance we wouldn't. Again, no pressure. Thinly veiled disappointment, but no pressure.

When we got pregnant this time, besides the behind the scenes dance of joy I'm sure my mother in law did once she realized our daughter would finally have a sibling, both our families convinced themselves this child would be a boy. A man child to carry on Mr. C's family name. A man child for my father to play catch with and teach how to write his name in the snow. Imagine their surprise when I told them about our ultrasound results.

I swear to God, Mohammed, and Snuggle the Fabric Softener bear, their faces fell. Even my dear, sainted Nana who knits and bakes cookies and never has a bad word to say about anyone looked disappointed. And when your Nana is disappointed, well, that hurts man.

Since then I've been asked by everyone, including the man at the full service gas station, what the sex of this baby is and I've been met with the same response once they realize we already have one girl. For instance, when the before mentioned gas attendant heard it was a girl, he said "So, next one will be boy. You keep trying, yes? You must have boy."

He's Middle Eastern. His English is not perfect but his intent was clear. I have girls. Surely I wanted a boy? Surely my husband would want to keep knocking me up until a male heir was produced?

Uh, no. Not really. I'm pretty happy with two girls, thankyouverymuch. Mr. C, he still badly wants a boy but knows that no amount of liquor or jewelry would make me have a third child after the hell I went through gestating the last two and he seems okay with that. I can deal with all those people of the world who believe a family is not complete until a child is produced who has his own lovie to play with as long as my husband is as secure with it as I am. Besides, with one man in the family and one male dog, there is certainly enough penis love around here.

And then my father, who admittedly is not a person I would ever assign the distinction of "Being sensitive to other people's feelings", but a man who had the good sense to always remind me that he was very happy to have two girls of his own and never desired to have a son, said to me,

"You're going to try again to have a boy, right?"

I'm fairly certain my eyes popped out of my skull right before the steam rose from my ears. Et tu, Father?

This world we live in is boy crazy. We are all male obsessed and if you, as a parent, don't want to jump on the boy bandwagon then obviously there's something wrong with you. I mean, I have the feeling my husband's colleagues and friends will look upon him with some pity because he never produced the coveted man child and that's really unfair. When are we going to get over this idea that a boy is necessary to produce the perfect family? Or, on the flip side of the coin, if a man and woman have two sons, do we have to pity the mother for never getting the daughter she so obviously wants?

You caught the sarcasm there, right?

Am I sensitive about this? Okay, maybe a little. I am a bit hormonal and cranky these days. But it seems horribly unfair for others to assume that just because my children don't have penises they are somehow second class, that we really did want a boy but the fates conspired to have us only produce female children. We're not living in China here, people. Girls can do everything that boys can do. They can even write their name in the snow with a little practice. And I don't know about baby #2, but Chicky is turning out to be quite the tomboy. A tomboy in pink, but still a baseball loving, soccer crazed, run around and get dirty tomboy.

So hear this, World - I am about to have another daughter and I couldn't be happier. Two frilly, pink sparkly tutu wearing, drama queens in the making... Who just might be the next President of the United States or the first female first basewoman on the Boston Red Sox. And I will never once wish one of them was a boy.

Even when they start dating.

I'm just trying to keep you in the will

Yes, my foot still hurts. No, I haven't given birth yet. No, we haven't picked a name out yet. Yes, I'm still cranky and surly. I think that about covers everything.

Everything except my new review for the free (Free!) photo sharing website, Kinzin. Do you suck at printing and sending pictures to your family? Have your parents forgotten what your kids look like? Do they still have photos of your little ones proudly displayed that are at least five years out of date? Well then, what are you still doing here? Check out my review.

Stupid human tricks - Or, why you should never try to brush your dogs while barefoot

Because while brushing Dog #1, who doesn't really enjoy being groomed as it is, Dog #2, who loves being brushed almost more than anything, even butt scratches (and really, who doesn't like a good butt scratch every once in a while), will come bounding out of the house at 100 mph and begin doing crazy-ass puppy laps around the patio furniture. Dog #1 will see this and in her own doggie way will say "Forget you, Lady" and bound after Dog #2 to grab his whole head in her mouth, therefore ending any and all fun that might be had (Because fun? It's the work of the devil himself and Dog #1 is here on this earth to do nothing more than do God's work and snatch food off counters) and in the process step down hard on your naked foot with her talon-like claws, resulting in this:


And that cute pedicure you recently got? Well, at least the colors match.

Just another public service announcement from your friends at Chicky Chicky Baby.

Happiness is a warm (baby) shower

Oh those wonderful Braxton Hicks. Sometimes they suck, sometimes a pregnant woman can sleep right through them. On Monday morning I fell into the latter category. I knew they were going on but compared to the pain I usually feel while trying to sleep a few cramp-like pains weren't going to move me from the comfortable position I had finally found after six freaking hours.

I guess they were mild but deadly (probably shouldn't use that word in relation to my pregnancy, huh? I'm already having terrifying dreams.) because at my OB appointment later that day I was three to four centimeters dilated and 75% effaced. WhooHoo! Let's get this party started!

Uh, yeah. Not so fast.

When I was pregnant with Chicky this happened too. My OB at the time was convinced I was going to give birth at any second and told me I should probably take my leave at work and counseled that I might want to stay close to home. TWO WEEKS later Chicky was born.

Or, four days after her due date. Thanks, Doc.

This could take a while. Or it could happen tomorrow. I LOVE pregnancy. No variables at work here.

But I can't have this baby this week because I'm supposed to be getting my roots touched up next Tuesday. Yeah, I've got my priorities straight. Have this baby now or deal with all those wiry gray hairs and dark brown roots. You know that because I have an appointment with my stylist in one week I'll have this baby sooner, though. Right? Because God doesn't want me to be a blond anymore.

So all those things I wanted to do for myself in the next two weeks I'm now afraid to do. Prenatal massage? Could jump start labor. Pedicure? Could jump start labor. Indulging in spicy foods? Could jump start labor. Walking to the damn toilet? How many stories have you heard of women having babies in the bathroom?

Just in case I do go into labor sooner rather than later I'll thank all of you now who participated in the virtual shower this past weekend. I'm working my way through all of your posts and the advice has been decidedly ass-less (get it? Ass-vice? Yeah. I don't sleep, you don't get no funny.). I can't thank you all enough for thinking of us pregnant types and best of luck on those kick ass prizes courtesy of Liz, Kristen and Julie.

You all rock!

And because some of you asked, this is what 37 weeks pregnant looks like, Chicky style:

I think the last five pounds went straight to my cheeks and chin. Think that'll come off when the baby comes? Yeah, didn't think so either.

Hey, Rookie

Y'all are baby name crazy. Remind me to enlist your help when it comes time to get a new puppy or kitten. Can't wait to see what you'll come up for an animal.

(Warning! Awkward segue coming up in three... two... one...)

If you're preggers like me, whether this is baby #1 or #2, or plan on getting pregnant in the not so distant future, or maybe you have a real baby shower to attend soon, I have a new review up about a book written by the Rookie Moms. If you want to take a break from all this name nonsense, go check it out.

Narrowing it down by the bloody nubs of my unmanicured fingers

From the list of hundreds of names you all suggested, plus a few we already had picked, we're narrowing down the possible names. This is where we are today.


Sorry about the crap picture. I was bending over the counter and we all know what it's like when a pregnant woman has to bend. There's comedy, there's high comedy, and then there's a pregnant woman in her ninth month trying to bend.

Feel free to vote for your favorite. Or not. Whatever. If I let every little thing keep me up at night I would never sleep. Oh wait, I'm not sleeping as it is.

Chicky has already named the baby. Too bad she's outvoted by me and... me. Mr. C is inclined to agree with Chicky but that's just because he's been coaching her. Bastard. So glad I procreated with the guy.

Cue the synthesizer, it's The Final Countdown

There are only three weeks left in my pregnancy. Three weeks. Wow. Hard to believe in three weeks or less (!) I'll be the proud mama of another bouncing baby Chicky. Let's see, are we ready for the addition of another little person?

Braxton Hicks - Check

Lightening - Check, sort of. Not much room there to begin with.

Dilated - Check, though not much yet. We'll see how much more after that last round of BH contractions I had the other night at my OB appointment on Monday.

Bag packed for the hospital - Um, no.

Baby room finished - Uh uh.

Arrangements for dog care made - Shoot, forgot about that. Not yet.

Super special gift(s) I was going to purchase for Chicky to let her know Mama and Daddy love her very much - Crap! Nope.

Co-Sleeper - Purchased and set up but no sheets on it yet. I think the cat's been sleeping in it.

Recently purchased newborn outfit washed in special infant friendly detergent, folded lovingly and ready to go into bag for trip home from the hospital - Still sitting in the laundry basket with other newborn clothes that still need to be washed. Keep waiting for it to walk up to the washer and jump in all on its own but it's JUST NOT HAPPENING.

Name for the baby - BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

Okay, so we're not exactly ready in the traditional sense, but this baby is coming whether or not there are shades installed in the nursery (there aren't) or if the baby seat is installed in the car (ditto) or even if we're prepared mentally (do you really have to ask?).

I'm a bit overwhelmed by it all. I still have every day life to live, after all. Just the basic care and feeding of Chicky is enough to drive me to the couch with a bottle of Tylenol and a heating pad.

And then there's the anticipation.

Mr. C asked me last night if I was more nervous when I was anticipating Chicky's arrival or this time and I said, unequivocally, this time. With Chicky, I was fearful of the unknown but sometimes ignorance is bliss. This time I know what to expect. And let me tell you, after having a newborn like Chicky who was colicky and unable to sleep on her own, a baby who hated to be held by any other person except me, and who didn't take to breastfeeding easily but wouldn't take a bottle either, I'm still a bit twitchy about going through it again.

It will be easier this time, I keep telling myself. Others tell me that too. Lightning doesn't strike twice. The second one is easier because you've been there, done that, and bought the damn t-shirt. But still...

*shudder*

I can't help but think that my hesitation to tie up loose ends as far as the new baby coming is concerned is my subconscious telling me to Run! Run for your life! In the name of all that is good and holy, Woman, run while you still can!

But have you ever seen a 9 month pregnant woman run? High comedy but not much progress.

Suppose I should at least start working on that hospital bag.


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Your suggestions for baby names have really helped. No, really. Mr. C and I have had a great time pouring over the comments and adding the names we like to our own list. We've gone from one name to six or seven now, which doesn't really seem like a big help now that I think about it.

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Some wonderful women are throwing myself, Her Bad Mother, and Mrs. Chicken a virtual baby shower. There are prizes to be won, people! And a children's charity! All the fun and none of the stupid party games or useless party favors! And definitely no stupid bow hat.

Go on over there and check it out. Don't make me get off this couch and chase you over or there will be hell to pay. Getting off the couch is a 10 step process, minimum, but don't think I won't do it and don't think I won't catch you. I can waddle as fast as anyone.