I am currently having one of those incredibly rare moments when there is nothing pressing for me to do - the baby is asleep (finally - and only because my wonderful mother is holding him), the laundry is only at a small hill- not the usual mountainous level, and I have dinner marinating in the fridge (wow, you think, she is truly amazing - but its pre-made kabobs that I threw some Italian dressing on. Don't be too jealous)
I thought to myself I should go in there and order baby announcements. But then I figured that the kid is half grown now, and if you don't already know he is here, then I can't be too worried about you. Better luck at Christmas maybe - or perhaps you will get a graduation or wedding invitation. If you want to look at him, come for a visit, or even better just check on Facebook. Its the 2011 version of a birth announcement, and I try to announce like three times a week.
Then I thought, maybe I should finally write in his baby book and put some pictures in there so he will know that we did document some parts of his life. But then I thought, geez, that sounds miserable. So here I am, in front of the ol' blog because this is way more fun to update. And because it has been over a month since my last update, I thought I would give you a quick rundown of our greatest milestones and my gravest realizations....
1. I can't stop buying clothes. When you haven't owned a pair of pants with a zipper and can finally shop in the "normal" people clothes, it is like that ah-ha moment, that moment where you realize that you are not the one person in the world who will stay pregnant forever, who's stomach will forever pouch out like maybe they missed a kid in there during the delivery, and perhaps I can return to a completely normal existence even after my body was ravaged by a nine month long D-Day style attack.
2. Despite the fact that I am again wearing normal people clothing, I have also come to realize that some things will never be the same. Most depressing is that even though I am *almost* back to my pre-pregnancy weight, I have the battle scars that will never disappear. For instance, I caught a glimpse of myself bending over the other day and realized that my boobs almost touch my belly button. Seriously, they look like two gym socks with bowling balls dropped into them. I went to look for a post-pregnancy bra, something with like an anti-gravitational pull mechanism but the only thing I found was a padded bra which just flopped the old girls into this weird, cupcake looking configuration and then they plopped out of the bra, laughed at my effort, and hung down to my belly button again. (Okay, maybe they didn't laugh, but I felt then at least smirking at me for trying to make them the youthful ta-tas of yester-year)
3. I start work on Thursday. This means I have successfully survived maternity leave and actually had a wonderful time. I mean, I begged the dear husband to let me stay home and he could just take a second job to make up the difference. But that was about four weeks ago. And now, I am ready. I cried for days thinking about taking Wyatt to daycare. But when the day came for our first "practice drop off" I was freaking giddy that these people's only job was to take care of my child and I had to leave and go do something that did not involve changing diapers, washing burp cloths, cleaning out bottles, or singing the only lullaby I know for the seven millionth time. As I drove away waiting for the tears to come, (they never did) I thought am I bad mother for not being devastated? I didn't come up with an answer, but really quit looking for one when I went into Target and realized I fit into a pair of jeans that had a zipper and button (see #1) and then realized that Ross Dress for Less carried BCBG and Nine West shoes. Horrible I know, but what can you do?
4. And finally, I realized a few weeks ago, that I was done looking for answers. I mean I will admit I still google things like "how much should my baby be eating" and "my baby hasn't pooped in three days" etc and etc on a regular basis but I have quit trying to subscribe to one school of thought or the other on raising children. I read the Baby Wise book when I was pregnant, then I read all the La Leche League stuff they gave me when I had him (which are in direct conflict with one another by the way) and I was really struggling with wondering if I am doing something that is going to royally screw him up forever (holding him too much, not him holding enough, making him sleep through the night without a bottle, not letting him cry himself to sleep, letting him swing in the swing for hours on end, I could go on and on). And then one day, I realized that I don't remember anything before I was like five years old in my own life and although I know I have a child genius on my hands, I am pretty sure he isn't going to remember the first year or two of his life. So anything I do for the next year or so - as long as we are both happy most of the time - I am just going to do whatever works that day. And if that means holding and cuddling, and giving him a pacifier, and letting him swing all night, or have a bottle after only three hours instead of four, then really who cares? The chances are that if he is some kind of crazed psychopath in twenty or thirty years, it will have nothing to do with the fact that I didn't let him "cry it out" for the requisite twenty minutes when he was eight weeks old.
And now I think I will go play on Facebook for a minute, because I am just too lazy to scrapbook.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Down Stream
I was sitting here thinking how my sweet little baby is one month old today! One month old - I swear it was yesterday that I was muttering obscenities at how long the anesthesiologist was taking to stick that needle in my back. I use the term muttering a little loosely - I am pretty sure he and the entire floor heard me, but hey, what can you do?
Anywho, one month has passed and was I getting a little sad about this - I mean, everyone says they grow up so fast but you have got to be kidding me! I haven't come to terms with the fact that he is here, and that I am a mother, and he is already a month old. I haven't had enough time to document this very important first month. I had big plans of quiet afternoons writing in his baby book, sending baby announcements, and taking sweet pictures of every gas induced smile and itty bitty stretch. But instead, we have done four thousand loads of laundry, changed ten thousand diapers, fixed and fed one thousand bottles (and that's just in the last week), and well, taken more than a few cuddle naps on the couch but who's counting those?
But as I started to freak out about the lack of documentation of my child's life, I glanced down at my still present baby bump (not sure you can still call it that but it sounds better than my very jiggly and large gut) and realized there was baby crap all over me. How do you not notice that you have yellow baby poop all over the front of your shirt?
I'll tell you how - its because this seven some odd pound little tyke has more bodily movements than an entire daycare with the stomach bug. And more often than not, they seem to end up all over me. Take last Friday for example:
I woke up and began the morning as usual - with a warm bottle for Wyatt and a hot coffee for me. This was soon interrupted by Wyatt's usual freight train noises which signaled yet another diaper change was imminent. I then felt a warm sensation spreading through my stomach - not like that warm and fuzzy feeling you get when you see a puppy. It was a more of a warm, wet, sick feeling that I soon confirmed was baby poop. It was seeping up Wyatt's back and down into my lap. As I tried not to gag I took the bottle out of his mouth thinking, "crap - literally - now I have to change him and his outfit and myself. And before I even have a sip of coffee." Well let me tell you what - my fat, fatty Mcfatterson would rather wallow in his own excrement than stop eating. The screams that ensued were absolutely enough to break your heart. So what is a mother to do? Let him cry it out, clean him up, and then resume breakfast? Probably. But, not me, oh no. It was just easier to let hm finish the bottle so I put it back in his mouth and sat there, both of us covered in crap and thought, "really is this what my life has come to?" The answer is clearly yes.
You are probably thinking that this is disgusting - but it gets even better. That afternoon, with the car loaded up, ready to go, I went to change his diaper yet again. I had him butt naked, scrounging around for a diaper, when I notice he had quit screaming. I stood up to check that he was still breathing, he looked at me with this evil baby smile and then BAM - the kid starts peeing EVERYWHERE. The wall, the changing table, the carpet, the side table that is basically across the room: EVERYTHING is soaked in pee. I mean it was waiving around like he was aiming at the various piece of furniture in the room. Kind of reminded me of that game at the fair with the water guns where you aim at all the different objects. Except his water gun is filled with urine, and its aimed at my face. And all I can do with my killer motherly instincts is stand there screaming.
Thank God the kid wasn't touching a hot stove because my reaction time was terrible. Absolutely awful. But I eventually thought to put the diaper I was holding in my hand over his little wee wee. And after a moment, just like in that commercial, I went to move the diaper to change him and BAM BAM - he starts up again. I swear he looked at me and winked. And laughed under his breath. By this time I had yelled enough that Robby had come to help because I am obviously incompetent in the diaper changing category. Now we are both standing in the middle of the nursery, soaked in baby pee, and all we can do is laugh. Because at this point, what else can you do?
And then, as I put diaper number three on Wyatt, I notice he is now peeing out the back of the diaper. Not really sure how this is possible but, seriously folks, there is pee in his hair, pee in my hair, pee all over the changing table, and we are using diaper number FOUR. In less than ten minutes.
And suddenly, a month doesn't seem like such a short period of time after all. I mean a short month ago, if you had asked me had I ever just hung out covered in someone else's pee or poop, or vomit for that matter, I would have gagged a little and said absolutely not. And now, I have done all of the above - multiple times.. And while I would prefer to not make a habit of it, I wouldn't trade it for the world. Of course, if it does become a daily occurrence, I may start changing diapers in a poncho.
Anywho, one month has passed and was I getting a little sad about this - I mean, everyone says they grow up so fast but you have got to be kidding me! I haven't come to terms with the fact that he is here, and that I am a mother, and he is already a month old. I haven't had enough time to document this very important first month. I had big plans of quiet afternoons writing in his baby book, sending baby announcements, and taking sweet pictures of every gas induced smile and itty bitty stretch. But instead, we have done four thousand loads of laundry, changed ten thousand diapers, fixed and fed one thousand bottles (and that's just in the last week), and well, taken more than a few cuddle naps on the couch but who's counting those?
But as I started to freak out about the lack of documentation of my child's life, I glanced down at my still present baby bump (not sure you can still call it that but it sounds better than my very jiggly and large gut) and realized there was baby crap all over me. How do you not notice that you have yellow baby poop all over the front of your shirt?
I'll tell you how - its because this seven some odd pound little tyke has more bodily movements than an entire daycare with the stomach bug. And more often than not, they seem to end up all over me. Take last Friday for example:
I woke up and began the morning as usual - with a warm bottle for Wyatt and a hot coffee for me. This was soon interrupted by Wyatt's usual freight train noises which signaled yet another diaper change was imminent. I then felt a warm sensation spreading through my stomach - not like that warm and fuzzy feeling you get when you see a puppy. It was a more of a warm, wet, sick feeling that I soon confirmed was baby poop. It was seeping up Wyatt's back and down into my lap. As I tried not to gag I took the bottle out of his mouth thinking, "crap - literally - now I have to change him and his outfit and myself. And before I even have a sip of coffee." Well let me tell you what - my fat, fatty Mcfatterson would rather wallow in his own excrement than stop eating. The screams that ensued were absolutely enough to break your heart. So what is a mother to do? Let him cry it out, clean him up, and then resume breakfast? Probably. But, not me, oh no. It was just easier to let hm finish the bottle so I put it back in his mouth and sat there, both of us covered in crap and thought, "really is this what my life has come to?" The answer is clearly yes.
You are probably thinking that this is disgusting - but it gets even better. That afternoon, with the car loaded up, ready to go, I went to change his diaper yet again. I had him butt naked, scrounging around for a diaper, when I notice he had quit screaming. I stood up to check that he was still breathing, he looked at me with this evil baby smile and then BAM - the kid starts peeing EVERYWHERE. The wall, the changing table, the carpet, the side table that is basically across the room: EVERYTHING is soaked in pee. I mean it was waiving around like he was aiming at the various piece of furniture in the room. Kind of reminded me of that game at the fair with the water guns where you aim at all the different objects. Except his water gun is filled with urine, and its aimed at my face. And all I can do with my killer motherly instincts is stand there screaming.
Thank God the kid wasn't touching a hot stove because my reaction time was terrible. Absolutely awful. But I eventually thought to put the diaper I was holding in my hand over his little wee wee. And after a moment, just like in that commercial, I went to move the diaper to change him and BAM BAM - he starts up again. I swear he looked at me and winked. And laughed under his breath. By this time I had yelled enough that Robby had come to help because I am obviously incompetent in the diaper changing category. Now we are both standing in the middle of the nursery, soaked in baby pee, and all we can do is laugh. Because at this point, what else can you do?
And then, as I put diaper number three on Wyatt, I notice he is now peeing out the back of the diaper. Not really sure how this is possible but, seriously folks, there is pee in his hair, pee in my hair, pee all over the changing table, and we are using diaper number FOUR. In less than ten minutes.
And suddenly, a month doesn't seem like such a short period of time after all. I mean a short month ago, if you had asked me had I ever just hung out covered in someone else's pee or poop, or vomit for that matter, I would have gagged a little and said absolutely not. And now, I have done all of the above - multiple times.. And while I would prefer to not make a habit of it, I wouldn't trade it for the world. Of course, if it does become a daily occurrence, I may start changing diapers in a poncho.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Breast is Best?
I am writing to you from the depths of new parenthood. I have been trying to update the ol' blog because there are so many great things to tell you. I could write to you about how my sweet, very laid back husband was up, dressed, and practically shoving me into the car within three minutes of me saying, "uh Robby..."
Or I could explain to you how awesome my little baby boy is and how for the first few days I cried every evening because he was about to be a day older. Or I could even narrate the excitement and milestones we have achieved in baby boy's first three weeks of life. But instead, I am going to tell you about my biggest accomplishment in life to date: Breastfeeding, or more specifically my utter failure at it.
*Per my usual caution with offending others, I want to make the following disclaimer: I completely agree that Breast is Best, that for some it is this awesome bonding experience, and that it just works for some really great people. But, this is my blog, my story, and my opinion so if I offend you or you think I may offend you, please quit reading.
Okay, now, back to my first beautiful failure as a mother. Lets start at the beginning - how as soon as you push this little person out of you, all parts of your body are up for open discussion with the outside world. Suddenly the state of my nipples, my milk, my boobs, even my hoohah were the topic of dinner time conversation. And if you weren't lucky enough to get one of my sweet husbands daily updates on the state of my nips, well let me break it down for you - they were miserable. As were my boobs. As was my child.
We just weren't clicking - I had infections in both breasts which hurt like someone was literally shoving hot irons into my soul. Better yet, my child alternated between screaming what I was pretty sure was the "someone save me from this idiot shoving her boob in my face over and over" scream and sucking the ever loving life out of me - which felt like he was attempting to extract those hot irons out of my soul.
So fast forward through a lactation consultant, a doctor who is a breastfeeding specialist, hours and hours on end attached to a breast pump that also was attempting to suck out my soul, and one really, really bad morning in my kitchen.
Robby walks in the door from going to the gym, and I am sitting in our kitchen crying, (more like sobbing) "I-I-I can't do this anymore! Waaaahh" By this point I think he is starting to get used to my sudden, unprovoked emotional breakdowns which are on a daily basis it seems, so I can tell he is proceeding with caution. I see his moment of hesitation and pounce, "I-I-I want to switch to formula but I-I-I don't want to be a bad mother. Waaaaah."
It hurts everytime I feed, I dread everytime my child wakes up because I know what comes next, I feel like I am trapped in this house stuck on an endless two hour cycle, my boobs are so big they are literally toppling me over, and by God, I am just tired of being a dairy cow, needing to be milked.
But, the thoughts of my child in a therapists chair years from now complaining of how I didn't love him enough to pump through the pain flash through my head. Then, because I am glutton for punishment, I had to google formula feeding and read all the comments from the breast is best Nazis who basically solidified my thoughts that my child would be scarred emotionally, physically, and mentally if I switched to formula.
And then it hit me, I am an idiot. Millions of babies grow up on formula and if all of them were detrimentally stunted from their lack of breast milk the Earth would be full of bumbling Neanderthals - which is not a huge stretch of the imagination - but I mean hell, I was a formula baby, and so was my husband, and so far we have managed to spend minimal time in the therapist chair.
So, with a glimmer of hope, I shut down the endless google searches, hopped in the car with a new found purpose, and drove as fast as I could to buy the biggest head of cabbage I could find. And here I sit, three days later, with a bra full of cabbage leaves that is actually cooking on me, and smelling the house up of stewed cabbage, cautiously optimistic that the fun bags may not actually explode, and saying:
I am a formula feeding momma who is not sorry. I raise my white flag proudly and say: I gave up. I failed at breastfeeding and me, my husband, and my baby, are much happier for it. So, boil the water, pour up the bottle, and, for me, I think I will have a nice, cold glass of pinot grigio to celebrate.
Or I could explain to you how awesome my little baby boy is and how for the first few days I cried every evening because he was about to be a day older. Or I could even narrate the excitement and milestones we have achieved in baby boy's first three weeks of life. But instead, I am going to tell you about my biggest accomplishment in life to date: Breastfeeding, or more specifically my utter failure at it.
*Per my usual caution with offending others, I want to make the following disclaimer: I completely agree that Breast is Best, that for some it is this awesome bonding experience, and that it just works for some really great people. But, this is my blog, my story, and my opinion so if I offend you or you think I may offend you, please quit reading.
Okay, now, back to my first beautiful failure as a mother. Lets start at the beginning - how as soon as you push this little person out of you, all parts of your body are up for open discussion with the outside world. Suddenly the state of my nipples, my milk, my boobs, even my hoohah were the topic of dinner time conversation. And if you weren't lucky enough to get one of my sweet husbands daily updates on the state of my nips, well let me break it down for you - they were miserable. As were my boobs. As was my child.
We just weren't clicking - I had infections in both breasts which hurt like someone was literally shoving hot irons into my soul. Better yet, my child alternated between screaming what I was pretty sure was the "someone save me from this idiot shoving her boob in my face over and over" scream and sucking the ever loving life out of me - which felt like he was attempting to extract those hot irons out of my soul.
So fast forward through a lactation consultant, a doctor who is a breastfeeding specialist, hours and hours on end attached to a breast pump that also was attempting to suck out my soul, and one really, really bad morning in my kitchen.
Robby walks in the door from going to the gym, and I am sitting in our kitchen crying, (more like sobbing) "I-I-I can't do this anymore! Waaaahh" By this point I think he is starting to get used to my sudden, unprovoked emotional breakdowns which are on a daily basis it seems, so I can tell he is proceeding with caution. I see his moment of hesitation and pounce, "I-I-I want to switch to formula but I-I-I don't want to be a bad mother. Waaaaah."
It hurts everytime I feed, I dread everytime my child wakes up because I know what comes next, I feel like I am trapped in this house stuck on an endless two hour cycle, my boobs are so big they are literally toppling me over, and by God, I am just tired of being a dairy cow, needing to be milked.
But, the thoughts of my child in a therapists chair years from now complaining of how I didn't love him enough to pump through the pain flash through my head. Then, because I am glutton for punishment, I had to google formula feeding and read all the comments from the breast is best Nazis who basically solidified my thoughts that my child would be scarred emotionally, physically, and mentally if I switched to formula.
And then it hit me, I am an idiot. Millions of babies grow up on formula and if all of them were detrimentally stunted from their lack of breast milk the Earth would be full of bumbling Neanderthals - which is not a huge stretch of the imagination - but I mean hell, I was a formula baby, and so was my husband, and so far we have managed to spend minimal time in the therapist chair.
So, with a glimmer of hope, I shut down the endless google searches, hopped in the car with a new found purpose, and drove as fast as I could to buy the biggest head of cabbage I could find. And here I sit, three days later, with a bra full of cabbage leaves that is actually cooking on me, and smelling the house up of stewed cabbage, cautiously optimistic that the fun bags may not actually explode, and saying:
I am a formula feeding momma who is not sorry. I raise my white flag proudly and say: I gave up. I failed at breastfeeding and me, my husband, and my baby, are much happier for it. So, boil the water, pour up the bottle, and, for me, I think I will have a nice, cold glass of pinot grigio to celebrate.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Just A-waitin' on the Dilatin'
Every Thursday for the last thirty something odd weeks I have excitedly woken up, rolled over (with varying degrees of difficulty) and read the latest weekly update in my pregnancy book. One more week down, one more week of updates, one more week I can mark off that imaginary calendar I have been watching since late October.
This morning though I rolled over (with an incredible amount of difficulty), grunted as I lifted the incredibly heavy book, and read the paragraph under Week 38. And you know what it said? I am paraphrasing of course, but basically it said, your kid is just hanging out making you miserable and there is very little of interest for us to tell you. Great. Thanks for the mind blowing update.
This got me thinking about the last few weeks of pregnancy. They are a real mixed bag of emotions. I mean on the one hand, I thank God every day that my little baby is healthy and happy in his little home and that he is continuing to develop normally and is set for a 40-week delivery date. But there is this selfish part of me that wishes his little home didn't happen to be wedged between my rib cage and my bladder. And an even worse part of me that rears its ugly head more and more that wishes his little home would become so inhospitable that he would decide to move out a little early - like yesterday preferably. And with every baby you see on Facebook that came a week or two early, its hard not to grumble and think, look at that overachiever, getting out and ahead of the game three weeks early. My kid's too lazy to even cause an efficient dilation.
And perhaps this is the root of the problem. For those of you who really know me, you know that I am your stereotypical, Type A, oldest child, control freak, overachiever. I make schedules and lists and itineraries for everything, including my spouse - which drives him crazy but I just can't help myself. Seriously, I can tell you what time I plan on waking up on Saturday three weeks from now. I finished college in three years. I finished law school in two and half. I got married seven days after I graduated from law school. Why do I tell you this? Not to brag, oh heavens now, this is nothing to be proud of. This is to show you how neurotic I really am. If there is a deadline, I will have it done before most people even read the directions.
And for that reason, it really, really pisses me off that there isn't a dang thing I can do to get this show on the road. I know June 30 is the due date, not the deadline. But for me, it seems like if the chicken's done sitting, -lets get this egg a-crackin'. (Whoa Farmer Jones reference, not sure where that came from). And there is also nothing I can do to know for sure that he won't come before (or after) June 30. It irks me that I can't schedule this thing for everyone who wants to be there and for all the things I want to have done juuuuust before he gets here. I mean I spent ten minutes the other day on the phone with the dog groomer debating when I should get my dogs groomed so that they would be nice and clipped with the baby got here but I wanted to make sure I didn't get them in too late and interfere with the baby's delivery if he came a little earlier. In case you were wondering, Angie at PetSmart does not know when my baby will be born. She is only a dog groomer not a psychic and would I please quit calling and rescheduling - just pick a day and go with it.
All of this aggravation is compounded by the fact that all those little "indicators" that your about to go into labor are a bunch of crap. Last week, I went in with no expectation that I would be dilated at all - but cheered when Doc said oh, you are one centimeter! I thought, heck yeah this kid is coming out early. Then for the past two days, I have the most uncomfortable contractions in an on-again, off-again fashion but still they have been there. I go into my appointment yesterday so proud of myself; I have been walking and walking and walking, I have been having what I would call contractions and pressure and all the things they tell you to look for. I called all the relatives and told them that this baby was coming soon; I made my husband delay a business trip; I even went and had a pedicure so I would like nice for the hospital staff because I was SURE, just sure I was about to go into labor any second. So I bebop into the doctor's office yesterday. I think to myself, she is going to be so proud at how much I have dilated. I am probably going to have to go straight to the ER I am going to be so far along. And guess what?!
I WAS THE EXACT FREAKING SAME AS I WAS LAST WEEK. All that for NOTHING?! I wanted to scream and cry and basically went into a little funk for the rest of the day. I was devastated when they gave me that appointment card for next Thursday and really irritated when my doctor so sweetly reminded me that I have two more weeks and one day until my due date. Oh, and those "contractions" I am having? Yeah, those are called peri-contractions (or something like that) and they can last for weeks, yes I said weeks, before the real thing starts up. Double Awesome on that boat load of fun. It only feels as if my insides are wrapping around a corkscrew.
But this morning, after eating an entire batch of slice and bake cookies and sleeping for a solid twelve hours last night I realized something. As much as I want it to be, this is the one thing in my life that I can't schedule when convenient, I can't make better or faster or more efficient because I worked at it a little harder, studied a little longer, or just made a better game plan. The thing with this kid is, and I have a sneaking suspicion that this will continue for the rest of his existence, he doesn't necessarily fit squarely into my color coded calendar. He doesn't care if his arrival date isn't convenient or that his mother is quite uncomfortable and hot. No. He is going to force me to relax my rigid routine, sit back, and enjoy the ride - wherever that ride may go and whenever it may begin are completely out of my hands now.
So until that day that Wyatt decides he is ready to join the world (and COMPLETELY screw up my Type A lifestyle - forever) I'll just be sitting here a-waitin' on the dilatin.' But if it did happen to happen to today, I wouldn't be upset. Just saying.
This morning though I rolled over (with an incredible amount of difficulty), grunted as I lifted the incredibly heavy book, and read the paragraph under Week 38. And you know what it said? I am paraphrasing of course, but basically it said, your kid is just hanging out making you miserable and there is very little of interest for us to tell you. Great. Thanks for the mind blowing update.
This got me thinking about the last few weeks of pregnancy. They are a real mixed bag of emotions. I mean on the one hand, I thank God every day that my little baby is healthy and happy in his little home and that he is continuing to develop normally and is set for a 40-week delivery date. But there is this selfish part of me that wishes his little home didn't happen to be wedged between my rib cage and my bladder. And an even worse part of me that rears its ugly head more and more that wishes his little home would become so inhospitable that he would decide to move out a little early - like yesterday preferably. And with every baby you see on Facebook that came a week or two early, its hard not to grumble and think, look at that overachiever, getting out and ahead of the game three weeks early. My kid's too lazy to even cause an efficient dilation.
And perhaps this is the root of the problem. For those of you who really know me, you know that I am your stereotypical, Type A, oldest child, control freak, overachiever. I make schedules and lists and itineraries for everything, including my spouse - which drives him crazy but I just can't help myself. Seriously, I can tell you what time I plan on waking up on Saturday three weeks from now. I finished college in three years. I finished law school in two and half. I got married seven days after I graduated from law school. Why do I tell you this? Not to brag, oh heavens now, this is nothing to be proud of. This is to show you how neurotic I really am. If there is a deadline, I will have it done before most people even read the directions.
And for that reason, it really, really pisses me off that there isn't a dang thing I can do to get this show on the road. I know June 30 is the due date, not the deadline. But for me, it seems like if the chicken's done sitting, -lets get this egg a-crackin'. (Whoa Farmer Jones reference, not sure where that came from). And there is also nothing I can do to know for sure that he won't come before (or after) June 30. It irks me that I can't schedule this thing for everyone who wants to be there and for all the things I want to have done juuuuust before he gets here. I mean I spent ten minutes the other day on the phone with the dog groomer debating when I should get my dogs groomed so that they would be nice and clipped with the baby got here but I wanted to make sure I didn't get them in too late and interfere with the baby's delivery if he came a little earlier. In case you were wondering, Angie at PetSmart does not know when my baby will be born. She is only a dog groomer not a psychic and would I please quit calling and rescheduling - just pick a day and go with it.
All of this aggravation is compounded by the fact that all those little "indicators" that your about to go into labor are a bunch of crap. Last week, I went in with no expectation that I would be dilated at all - but cheered when Doc said oh, you are one centimeter! I thought, heck yeah this kid is coming out early. Then for the past two days, I have the most uncomfortable contractions in an on-again, off-again fashion but still they have been there. I go into my appointment yesterday so proud of myself; I have been walking and walking and walking, I have been having what I would call contractions and pressure and all the things they tell you to look for. I called all the relatives and told them that this baby was coming soon; I made my husband delay a business trip; I even went and had a pedicure so I would like nice for the hospital staff because I was SURE, just sure I was about to go into labor any second. So I bebop into the doctor's office yesterday. I think to myself, she is going to be so proud at how much I have dilated. I am probably going to have to go straight to the ER I am going to be so far along. And guess what?!
I WAS THE EXACT FREAKING SAME AS I WAS LAST WEEK. All that for NOTHING?! I wanted to scream and cry and basically went into a little funk for the rest of the day. I was devastated when they gave me that appointment card for next Thursday and really irritated when my doctor so sweetly reminded me that I have two more weeks and one day until my due date. Oh, and those "contractions" I am having? Yeah, those are called peri-contractions (or something like that) and they can last for weeks, yes I said weeks, before the real thing starts up. Double Awesome on that boat load of fun. It only feels as if my insides are wrapping around a corkscrew.
But this morning, after eating an entire batch of slice and bake cookies and sleeping for a solid twelve hours last night I realized something. As much as I want it to be, this is the one thing in my life that I can't schedule when convenient, I can't make better or faster or more efficient because I worked at it a little harder, studied a little longer, or just made a better game plan. The thing with this kid is, and I have a sneaking suspicion that this will continue for the rest of his existence, he doesn't necessarily fit squarely into my color coded calendar. He doesn't care if his arrival date isn't convenient or that his mother is quite uncomfortable and hot. No. He is going to force me to relax my rigid routine, sit back, and enjoy the ride - wherever that ride may go and whenever it may begin are completely out of my hands now.
So until that day that Wyatt decides he is ready to join the world (and COMPLETELY screw up my Type A lifestyle - forever) I'll just be sitting here a-waitin' on the dilatin.' But if it did happen to happen to today, I wouldn't be upset. Just saying.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Poetry in Motion
I went to the doctor today for my first weekly appointment. Let me give you a brief run down:
I wait. And wait. And wait. At one point I consider peeing on myself, acting like its my water breaking, and seeing if maybe, just maybe, it could get me to see the doctor a little quicker. But then I thought it over, decided it would most likely just lead to me sitting in my own urine for the next undetermined amount of time, and continued to read today's magazine of choice; the cover article was how not to blow up out of anger at your children, spouse, and coworkers . I didn't read the article though because it went on and on for like five pages, with no bullet points or charts, which was incredibly irritating, I was irritated already at having to sit at the doctor for a freaking hour, and my phone kept going off with irritatingly needy work related emails. Its bad when you are too aggravated and angry to read an article about how to calm yourself down when aggravated and angry.
Then they finally call me back and as always want me to pee into that tiny cup. Over the past gazillion doctors appointments I have gotten really good at peeing into a cup. I might even say an expert. However, the last two trips to the doctor I have found this endeavor to be quite tricky. I mean they should give you a bigger cup when you can no longer see your toes. I found myself today squatting over the toilet actually trying to lift my huge belly up and out of the way to try and aim correctly. Probably too much information for most of you, but I always try to be nothing but honest. And, I think that if there is some enterprising person reading this, I am really on to something - you could even come up with a catch-y name. Like the Porky Person Pee Pod. And you will need a slogan, what about: When you can no longer see your pee, we will catch it, we guarantee. I like it. Put it to music and you have a hit on your hands. And not urine. Okay, I must move on, but I swear I am on to something here.
Then they put me in my little room for more waiting. As you know its hot as the devil's playground outside and my feet were already swelling, but after fifteen minutes with them just dangling over the side of that table they were actually starting to turn purple. So whats a gal to do? I just laid back, plopped my fat toes in the stirrups and closed my eyes. With nothing but a thin piece of paper draped across my lower half. Which would have been great if I had heard the doctor outside the door. But she busted in while I was nodding off and I couldn't seem to get my canckles extracted from the stirrups quick enough. And to top it all off, there is no way I can sit up quickly and in my haste, I ended up ripping that stupid paper sheet to shreds. Awesome. She just kind of stood there with an amazed expression as I desperately tried to sit up, continually ripping that sheet into smaller and smaller pieces. Then, when I get all the way sitting up, sweating of course my this point, she says, okay, lay back, put your feet in the stirrups, we are going to check you!
Should have read that magazine article in the waiting room.
So then, she proceeds to check me to see if I am dilated. And with no pomp or circumstance, gives me the crushing blow in her always cheery voice, "everything looks perfect, he is still sitting way up there, you haven't dilated at all, and no need to see you until next week." She follows this up with a "right on schedule for the end of the month." Oh golly gee, lady, that is GREAT. Four more weeks of this? I mean I know folks that its best for a baby to stay in there until he's ready and you should want your baby to come on their due date and not four weeks early. But you have got to be kidding me. The heat index outside is like four billion. I swear my insides are bruised from the not so tiny foot that is permanently lodged into my side. And I have sweat in areas I can't even reach to wipe off.
WYATT YOU HAVE WORN OUR YOUR WELCOME. You don't have to go home but you can't stay here. Vacate the premises. Mommy is miserable and its your fault. Get out, get out, GET OUT.
Whew. Really should have read that article
But, on the bright side, I have a perfectly healthy six pound-ish baby that I get to see next Friday (my final sonogram, not the actual baby). In my constant attempt to be optimistic about things I have come up with a poem for my last few weeks of pregnancy:
heat, heartburn, heftiness,
for this child I am blessed.
swollen boobs, legs, and feet,
I love to hear his sweet heartbeat,
surely I can go four more weeks,
then I can kiss those sweet, fat cheeks.
This is much better than the first poem I came up with which went something like this:
I'm sorry kid but you have to go,
my patience is running low
vacate my body very soon,
I am totally out of room,
you are really getting to be a pain,
and I'm starting to go insane,
I cannot breathe or sleep or eat,
and this record breaking heat!
sooner than later would be great,
perhaps your due date was a mistake?
so come on Wyatt, come right now,
your mommy feels like a big fat cow.
I wait. And wait. And wait. At one point I consider peeing on myself, acting like its my water breaking, and seeing if maybe, just maybe, it could get me to see the doctor a little quicker. But then I thought it over, decided it would most likely just lead to me sitting in my own urine for the next undetermined amount of time, and continued to read today's magazine of choice; the cover article was how not to blow up out of anger at your children, spouse, and coworkers . I didn't read the article though because it went on and on for like five pages, with no bullet points or charts, which was incredibly irritating, I was irritated already at having to sit at the doctor for a freaking hour, and my phone kept going off with irritatingly needy work related emails. Its bad when you are too aggravated and angry to read an article about how to calm yourself down when aggravated and angry.
Then they finally call me back and as always want me to pee into that tiny cup. Over the past gazillion doctors appointments I have gotten really good at peeing into a cup. I might even say an expert. However, the last two trips to the doctor I have found this endeavor to be quite tricky. I mean they should give you a bigger cup when you can no longer see your toes. I found myself today squatting over the toilet actually trying to lift my huge belly up and out of the way to try and aim correctly. Probably too much information for most of you, but I always try to be nothing but honest. And, I think that if there is some enterprising person reading this, I am really on to something - you could even come up with a catch-y name. Like the Porky Person Pee Pod. And you will need a slogan, what about: When you can no longer see your pee, we will catch it, we guarantee. I like it. Put it to music and you have a hit on your hands. And not urine. Okay, I must move on, but I swear I am on to something here.
Then they put me in my little room for more waiting. As you know its hot as the devil's playground outside and my feet were already swelling, but after fifteen minutes with them just dangling over the side of that table they were actually starting to turn purple. So whats a gal to do? I just laid back, plopped my fat toes in the stirrups and closed my eyes. With nothing but a thin piece of paper draped across my lower half. Which would have been great if I had heard the doctor outside the door. But she busted in while I was nodding off and I couldn't seem to get my canckles extracted from the stirrups quick enough. And to top it all off, there is no way I can sit up quickly and in my haste, I ended up ripping that stupid paper sheet to shreds. Awesome. She just kind of stood there with an amazed expression as I desperately tried to sit up, continually ripping that sheet into smaller and smaller pieces. Then, when I get all the way sitting up, sweating of course my this point, she says, okay, lay back, put your feet in the stirrups, we are going to check you!
Should have read that magazine article in the waiting room.
So then, she proceeds to check me to see if I am dilated. And with no pomp or circumstance, gives me the crushing blow in her always cheery voice, "everything looks perfect, he is still sitting way up there, you haven't dilated at all, and no need to see you until next week." She follows this up with a "right on schedule for the end of the month." Oh golly gee, lady, that is GREAT. Four more weeks of this? I mean I know folks that its best for a baby to stay in there until he's ready and you should want your baby to come on their due date and not four weeks early. But you have got to be kidding me. The heat index outside is like four billion. I swear my insides are bruised from the not so tiny foot that is permanently lodged into my side. And I have sweat in areas I can't even reach to wipe off.
WYATT YOU HAVE WORN OUR YOUR WELCOME. You don't have to go home but you can't stay here. Vacate the premises. Mommy is miserable and its your fault. Get out, get out, GET OUT.
Whew. Really should have read that article
But, on the bright side, I have a perfectly healthy six pound-ish baby that I get to see next Friday (my final sonogram, not the actual baby). In my constant attempt to be optimistic about things I have come up with a poem for my last few weeks of pregnancy:
heat, heartburn, heftiness,
for this child I am blessed.
swollen boobs, legs, and feet,
I love to hear his sweet heartbeat,
surely I can go four more weeks,
then I can kiss those sweet, fat cheeks.
This is much better than the first poem I came up with which went something like this:
I'm sorry kid but you have to go,
my patience is running low
vacate my body very soon,
I am totally out of room,
you are really getting to be a pain,
and I'm starting to go insane,
I cannot breathe or sleep or eat,
and this record breaking heat!
sooner than later would be great,
perhaps your due date was a mistake?
so come on Wyatt, come right now,
your mommy feels like a big fat cow.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Widespread Panic
This morning, in that hazy place between wake and sleep, I had this horrible dream. I dreamed that I was almost nine months pregnant, had put on almost forty pounds in thirty five weeks, and had just started to realize that I had not a clue what to do with a baby - a baby I was almost certain the hospital was going to send home with me. Then I attempted to roll over, received a ninja chop to my liver, and sat up straight in bed (or sat up as straight as possible which is actually more of a reverse limbo move wherein a lot of straining and groaning takes place) and realized that Holy Crap that's not a dream - that's my life, and my thighs rubbing together.
This thought was quickly followed by a wave of widespread panic. (Which now makes me smile in a very ironic way seeing as just a few short ten years ago I followed a band by that name through various cities and ate grilled cheese sandwiches while rocking out in my hippie clothes. Now, I am using the term to describe the size of my butt and the extent of my realization that I am about to the at least partially responsible for another human being's continued existence.) But, back to the wave of panic which was even more quickly thwarted by the now constant need to pee so I rolled out of bed - literally, I roll out of bed now, like start with a rock to the left, then a rock to the right, then back to the left, then hurl myself off the side of the bed with as much momentum as possible and hope to land on my feet - and waddled into the bathroom hoping my aching back would get me to the pot before I peed on myself.
And because I was already in an obviously reflective mood, my mind drifted back to a fateful night some eight months ago (October 24 to be exact) when another seemingly innocent trip to the bathroom sent me into a tearful panic that my sweet, sweet husband did not seem to understand. I remember looking at him as he smiled with all the pride of a new daddy and I half choked/half sobbed/half screamed (I know that this is too many halves, but work with me) at him that this was NOT okay under any means and I was freaking out because I was going to have to push a baby out of my hoo-hah and I did not so much want to do that.
Ooooh, naive child of so little faith, I told my eight months ago self this morning. Delivery. HA. Like that's what you should have been worried about so many nights ago. How about this for an updated list of things you should have been wigging out about: bottles, breastfeeding, breastfeeding every 2-3 hours, circumcision care, umbilical care, colic, acid reflux in baby, acid reflux in you, never sleeping again, sitz baths, birth weight, my weight, the fear of peeing on yourself, the fact that you will not be able to breathe, walk, sleep, sit, stand or even eat properly in just a few short months, the fear that this child may never, ever actually get here, and did I mention breastfeeding every 2-3 hours leading to never sleeping again and possibly losing your mind?
Whew. And I was worried about what it would be like to have a baby in the sense of delivering one. Now I am kind of majorly concerned about what it will be like to have a baby in the sense of have as in ownership, like he is all yours, yes ma'am you do have to take him home from the hospital, and by the way, when exactly are you planning on installing that car seat, putting together that crib, or buying that rectal thermometer you keep hearing about. BUT at the same time, there is coinciding fear, however irrational, that what if he never comes out of me??? What if he just keeps getting bigger and I keep bigger, and the weeks keep going by slower and he just never actually gets here and ......
I am actually losing my mind. As I type this, I can feel the hysteria creeping out of my fingertips and onto the computer screen. But, I am going to take solace in the fact, although I do not know this for sure, that these feelings are normal - however crazy they may seem when you see them in black in white. I am going to go back to my happy place of being in denial that this is all about to go down in a very real kind of way, and instead heave my now very large rear end out of this very hard chair and waddle to a very greasy lunch counter and eat something fried followed by something covered in icing for lunch. And when the next person asks me, oooh, you look like you are about to bust, how much longer? I am just going to give them a blank stare, shake my head slowly, and say, I haven't the foggiest idea what you are talking about, how much longer until what?
This thought was quickly followed by a wave of widespread panic. (Which now makes me smile in a very ironic way seeing as just a few short ten years ago I followed a band by that name through various cities and ate grilled cheese sandwiches while rocking out in my hippie clothes. Now, I am using the term to describe the size of my butt and the extent of my realization that I am about to the at least partially responsible for another human being's continued existence.) But, back to the wave of panic which was even more quickly thwarted by the now constant need to pee so I rolled out of bed - literally, I roll out of bed now, like start with a rock to the left, then a rock to the right, then back to the left, then hurl myself off the side of the bed with as much momentum as possible and hope to land on my feet - and waddled into the bathroom hoping my aching back would get me to the pot before I peed on myself.
And because I was already in an obviously reflective mood, my mind drifted back to a fateful night some eight months ago (October 24 to be exact) when another seemingly innocent trip to the bathroom sent me into a tearful panic that my sweet, sweet husband did not seem to understand. I remember looking at him as he smiled with all the pride of a new daddy and I half choked/half sobbed/half screamed (I know that this is too many halves, but work with me) at him that this was NOT okay under any means and I was freaking out because I was going to have to push a baby out of my hoo-hah and I did not so much want to do that.
Ooooh, naive child of so little faith, I told my eight months ago self this morning. Delivery. HA. Like that's what you should have been worried about so many nights ago. How about this for an updated list of things you should have been wigging out about: bottles, breastfeeding, breastfeeding every 2-3 hours, circumcision care, umbilical care, colic, acid reflux in baby, acid reflux in you, never sleeping again, sitz baths, birth weight, my weight, the fear of peeing on yourself, the fact that you will not be able to breathe, walk, sleep, sit, stand or even eat properly in just a few short months, the fear that this child may never, ever actually get here, and did I mention breastfeeding every 2-3 hours leading to never sleeping again and possibly losing your mind?
Whew. And I was worried about what it would be like to have a baby in the sense of delivering one. Now I am kind of majorly concerned about what it will be like to have a baby in the sense of have as in ownership, like he is all yours, yes ma'am you do have to take him home from the hospital, and by the way, when exactly are you planning on installing that car seat, putting together that crib, or buying that rectal thermometer you keep hearing about. BUT at the same time, there is coinciding fear, however irrational, that what if he never comes out of me??? What if he just keeps getting bigger and I keep bigger, and the weeks keep going by slower and he just never actually gets here and ......
I am actually losing my mind. As I type this, I can feel the hysteria creeping out of my fingertips and onto the computer screen. But, I am going to take solace in the fact, although I do not know this for sure, that these feelings are normal - however crazy they may seem when you see them in black in white. I am going to go back to my happy place of being in denial that this is all about to go down in a very real kind of way, and instead heave my now very large rear end out of this very hard chair and waddle to a very greasy lunch counter and eat something fried followed by something covered in icing for lunch. And when the next person asks me, oooh, you look like you are about to bust, how much longer? I am just going to give them a blank stare, shake my head slowly, and say, I haven't the foggiest idea what you are talking about, how much longer until what?
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Things I Didn't Know Before I Got Knocked Up
1. In a single week, my daily pregnancy calender dropped these two delightful bombs on me:
a) You may notice leaking colostrum. (By the way, this is breast milk)
b) You may be experiencing leaking urine or stress incontinence.
Wow, REALLY? You have forty weeks to discuss the possibility that I am going to be walking around while still pregnant leaking breast milk and peeing on myself and you do it within two days of one another. Awesome. Oh, and Honey, no need to set the sprinklers up in the backyard this week. I am just going to go lay out in the yard and leak all over it. Thats disgusting. And unnecessary. And I am not sorry I shared it with you. But, in case you are wondering, I have not as of today peed my pants or sprouted breast milk onto myself. Trust me, I will let you know when either of the above events occurs. BUT on a related note, something else I learned the hard way in this pregnancy is that your nose bleeds. Just randomly starts leaking blood even if you have never had a nose bleed before. I am really rooting for the leakage trifecta - the perfect storm if you will. Hopefully somewhere good and public, like the cookie aisle at Kroger. I hope I leak blood from my nose, milk from my boobs, and urine, well from you know where, all at the same time and completely freak some little kid out. That'll teach her abstinence.
2. You can gain thirty some odd pounds while pregnant. The scale does go that high. Your doctor will tell you to lay off the bonbons. You will hate her when she tells you this. And laugh to yourself as you leave the doctor's office and proceed to immediately go eat a bacon cheeseburger. With fries. This is what you look like:
And for a close up:
And yes, we were just kidding with the whole kiss her belly shot. We are not actually that dorky. I, however, am that huge.
3. It is possible to fall in love with someone you have never met, and when you see his perfect little face you just know that he is yours and while you have no idea what you are going to do with him when he gets here, you can't freaking wait to introduce yourself.
a) You may notice leaking colostrum. (By the way, this is breast milk)
b) You may be experiencing leaking urine or stress incontinence.
Wow, REALLY? You have forty weeks to discuss the possibility that I am going to be walking around while still pregnant leaking breast milk and peeing on myself and you do it within two days of one another. Awesome. Oh, and Honey, no need to set the sprinklers up in the backyard this week. I am just going to go lay out in the yard and leak all over it. Thats disgusting. And unnecessary. And I am not sorry I shared it with you. But, in case you are wondering, I have not as of today peed my pants or sprouted breast milk onto myself. Trust me, I will let you know when either of the above events occurs. BUT on a related note, something else I learned the hard way in this pregnancy is that your nose bleeds. Just randomly starts leaking blood even if you have never had a nose bleed before. I am really rooting for the leakage trifecta - the perfect storm if you will. Hopefully somewhere good and public, like the cookie aisle at Kroger. I hope I leak blood from my nose, milk from my boobs, and urine, well from you know where, all at the same time and completely freak some little kid out. That'll teach her abstinence.
2. You can gain thirty some odd pounds while pregnant. The scale does go that high. Your doctor will tell you to lay off the bonbons. You will hate her when she tells you this. And laugh to yourself as you leave the doctor's office and proceed to immediately go eat a bacon cheeseburger. With fries. This is what you look like:
And yes, we were just kidding with the whole kiss her belly shot. We are not actually that dorky. I, however, am that huge.
3. It is possible to fall in love with someone you have never met, and when you see his perfect little face you just know that he is yours and while you have no idea what you are going to do with him when he gets here, you can't freaking wait to introduce yourself.
Remind me how excited I was for him to get here in about ten weeks when I haven't slept, eaten, or showered in days and own no article of clothing that has not been peed, pooped, or spit up on.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Say What?
I know I have blogged about this before but I remain in awe at the things people will say to you when you are pregnant. Its like just because you got knocked up some people forget they still have to abide by societal norms and general social etiquette.
The other night - it was actually like two weeks ago, I have become incredibly lazy in all parts of my life including the ol' blog -- me and the hubs had to attend an epidural class. You are probably wondering what this is because apparently the hospital here is the only one in the whole world who requires this. But its a class wherein you go and learn about epidurals and then sign an informed consent form that you have to have to get an epidural once you are in labor. And word on the street is that if you don't have your white consent form you aint gettin' an epidural. So, just to be on the safe side, we signed up for the April class - Mama don't want to feel nothing during this whole labor/delivery nonsense.
Anywho, as we make our way into the hospital, an elderly lady perched in a wheelchair just inside the door to the hospital greets us with a smile with which, of course, we return people observing general social norms usually do. Then, the wench says to me, "Gurrrrrllll, you already got the weeble wobbles." Say what?? The weeble wobbles? Do you mean to say that this is what I remind you of?
Awesome. At least I can still weeble wobble, Cankle Marie with your orthopedic shoes. Strike that - that is an ugly thing to think about an elderly woman in a wheelchair with no ankles to speak of. But I mean seriously folks, don't ever tell a very pregnant, very waddley woman that she has the weeble wobbles, especially in front of her husband. Because for a solid week after that, Robby was all jokes about the weeble wobbles. Made me want to weeble wobble him. And it really added fuel to the fire that was already lit by his earlier question to me --
Back up a few days and I will relay the most sensitive and loving question my sweet, dear husband has ever asked me (Robby, I know you will be reading this, and you don't probably want me blogging about you, but you undyng concern about my well being cannot go without public praise)
As I was again apparently waddling to the car through a very long and hot parking lot, Robby looked at me and asked me why I was walking like that, you know with my legs spread apart and all waddley like?? Say what sweet hubby of mine? Why am I waddling through this parking lot like there is something between my legs? Because there is something between my legs - its a combination of the child you helped produce and my inner thighs which have grown to be so thick that I am seriously concerned about chafing at this point. I mean my legs look like someone taped one of those big turkey legs you get at the fair to the inside of each of my thighs. I am going to have to start wearing biking shorts to just cut down on the friction - either that or continue to weeble wobble every wear I go. OR maybe I can go borrow Cankle Marie's wheelchair for the next ten weeks.
And finally, if one more person asks me how far along I am (to which I always politely reply the appropriate amount of time minus like a week to make myself feel better) and then get this kind of shocked and horrified expression and respond oh, you have a lot longer to go or oh really that much longer or any other form of the phrase holy crap fatso you are going to be freaking huge by then, I am going to jump you. I mean get it together folks. Learn to control your facial expressions before you question me on my due date. Oh, and weird guy from Monday - telling a woman who just told you she isn't due until the end of June that she looks miserable already and its going to be a long ten weeks is reason enough for me to slit your tires. If I could bend over that low. Your gut hangs out further than mine and you look miserable too and you have a lifetime to go judging by the size of that donut you are shoveling in your mouth.
Say what?
The other night - it was actually like two weeks ago, I have become incredibly lazy in all parts of my life including the ol' blog -- me and the hubs had to attend an epidural class. You are probably wondering what this is because apparently the hospital here is the only one in the whole world who requires this. But its a class wherein you go and learn about epidurals and then sign an informed consent form that you have to have to get an epidural once you are in labor. And word on the street is that if you don't have your white consent form you aint gettin' an epidural. So, just to be on the safe side, we signed up for the April class - Mama don't want to feel nothing during this whole labor/delivery nonsense.
Anywho, as we make our way into the hospital, an elderly lady perched in a wheelchair just inside the door to the hospital greets us with a smile with which, of course, we return people observing general social norms usually do. Then, the wench says to me, "Gurrrrrllll, you already got the weeble wobbles." Say what?? The weeble wobbles? Do you mean to say that this is what I remind you of?
Back up a few days and I will relay the most sensitive and loving question my sweet, dear husband has ever asked me (Robby, I know you will be reading this, and you don't probably want me blogging about you, but you undyng concern about my well being cannot go without public praise)
As I was again apparently waddling to the car through a very long and hot parking lot, Robby looked at me and asked me why I was walking like that, you know with my legs spread apart and all waddley like?? Say what sweet hubby of mine? Why am I waddling through this parking lot like there is something between my legs? Because there is something between my legs - its a combination of the child you helped produce and my inner thighs which have grown to be so thick that I am seriously concerned about chafing at this point. I mean my legs look like someone taped one of those big turkey legs you get at the fair to the inside of each of my thighs. I am going to have to start wearing biking shorts to just cut down on the friction - either that or continue to weeble wobble every wear I go. OR maybe I can go borrow Cankle Marie's wheelchair for the next ten weeks.
And finally, if one more person asks me how far along I am (to which I always politely reply the appropriate amount of time minus like a week to make myself feel better) and then get this kind of shocked and horrified expression and respond oh, you have a lot longer to go or oh really that much longer or any other form of the phrase holy crap fatso you are going to be freaking huge by then, I am going to jump you. I mean get it together folks. Learn to control your facial expressions before you question me on my due date. Oh, and weird guy from Monday - telling a woman who just told you she isn't due until the end of June that she looks miserable already and its going to be a long ten weeks is reason enough for me to slit your tires. If I could bend over that low. Your gut hangs out further than mine and you look miserable too and you have a lifetime to go judging by the size of that donut you are shoveling in your mouth.
Say what?
Monday, April 4, 2011
ANABART
This whole pregnancy thing has really started to drag on and on and on and on. I mean the first few months were all like "oh cool, growing life, having a baby, yippee ki yay (and yes I googled how to spell that). But now, my boobs are permanently resting on my belly, I am constantly out of breath, and the thought of continuing to grow (and then swell) for another approximately 86 more days is almost more than I can stand.
Now don't get me wrong - I am so excited to have a baby, glad he is doing great in there, yadda yadda yadda, insert any other disclosure that reassures you that I am not a terrible person taking for granted how lucky I am to have this opportunity. But seriously folks, MY BOOBS AND MY BELLY HAVE LITERALLY FUSED INTO A SINGLE, COHESIVE UNIT. Like I am worried about something getting lost in there. And its not just the boob/belly thing. I was driving in my car yesterday and noticed that there are parts of my back/arm fat resting against the car seat that did not used to be there. And you can forget about the thighs - they have so much friction going on from rubbing together that I am worried about starting a fire and becoming seriously injured in my nether region.
But, enough about me - well I mean the whole blog is basically about me so I am going to continue rambling about myself, but will at least move onto a less volumptous topic. Because I seriously feel like all I ever talk about is how huge I feel. So, I am going to make it a point to discuss something else.
Last week, I started randomly having Braxton Hicks contractions. You might already know this, but if you don't here is some useful information about this phenomenon- If you start having Braxton Hicks contractions at 27 weeks, this apparently is a-okay. And no reason to call your mother and husband and inform them that you may be having preterm labor because the website you were reading says you shouldn't be having these yet. My doctor infomed me it was perfectly fine. --Now, don't just go based on what I said. I mean I am no doctor and in no way mean for this statement to guide you in anything you do. Just recounting what MY doctor said --
The whole Braxton Hicks thing is really quite a bizarre phenonmeon. First, you are just waddling down the street minding your own business and your whole gullet starts to sqeeze up like you are having a charlie horse in your uterus - and I wasn't even exactly sure where my uterus was! But when it starts to pucker up like a kid eating a lemon you know exactly where it is. And you think to yourself, "Self, I think you are having a contraction. One of those Braxton Hicks things. Perhaps I should google this and see if this normal."
Well, Google produced the following results:
1. They are named after John Braxton Hicks, the doctor who first described them in 1872. Now, why did it take a male doctor until 1872 to "describe" them and how the heck does he know how to describe them. Does he have a uterine wall that is contracting at irregular intervals? I think not. It really irritates me that we named them after this man. This man that did not have to deal with the ordeal of pushing something out of his whoo-haa a few short months later after he so eloquently "described" them for all the world. So I am renaming them - ANABART contractions. Which stands for Allegedly Not As Bad As the Real Thing contractions. I add the allegedly because if you are having an ANABART contraction, you haven't experienced a real contraction so you don't know for sure. And also, because I plan on having an epidural at like week 32 and every week thereafter so I hope to not feel any real contractions.
2. ANABART contractions are apparently caused by dehydration or a full bladder. So drink up, but don't drink too much. Helpful I know.
3. ANABART contractions can also be brought on by "overdoing" it but can be are alleviated by exercise. Again, helpful. However, I am joining the camp that states they are brought on by overdoing it. I will from this point on be taking every elevator I can find and have stopped doing any type of cooking or cleaning. Considering telling my boss that waking up before 9 or working past 3 is going to be overdoing it and we will have to adjust my work schedule accordingly. For the baby's sake of course.
4. Apparently the best way to tell if your contractions are false labor or real labor is if they continue to get stronger and closer together for a period of time they are probably real contractions. Or if a baby starts coming out. (I added the second part, but it seems logical that if a baby is coming out of your body, it was real contractions and you should probably call someone.)
I will be contacting the authorities who name bodily functions as soon as possible to tell them about the new name. If you have these powerful people's contact information, that would be helpful and appreciated. Sorry John Braxton Hicks, but your time in the limelight is over.
Now don't get me wrong - I am so excited to have a baby, glad he is doing great in there, yadda yadda yadda, insert any other disclosure that reassures you that I am not a terrible person taking for granted how lucky I am to have this opportunity. But seriously folks, MY BOOBS AND MY BELLY HAVE LITERALLY FUSED INTO A SINGLE, COHESIVE UNIT. Like I am worried about something getting lost in there. And its not just the boob/belly thing. I was driving in my car yesterday and noticed that there are parts of my back/arm fat resting against the car seat that did not used to be there. And you can forget about the thighs - they have so much friction going on from rubbing together that I am worried about starting a fire and becoming seriously injured in my nether region.
But, enough about me - well I mean the whole blog is basically about me so I am going to continue rambling about myself, but will at least move onto a less volumptous topic. Because I seriously feel like all I ever talk about is how huge I feel. So, I am going to make it a point to discuss something else.
Last week, I started randomly having Braxton Hicks contractions. You might already know this, but if you don't here is some useful information about this phenomenon- If you start having Braxton Hicks contractions at 27 weeks, this apparently is a-okay. And no reason to call your mother and husband and inform them that you may be having preterm labor because the website you were reading says you shouldn't be having these yet. My doctor infomed me it was perfectly fine. --Now, don't just go based on what I said. I mean I am no doctor and in no way mean for this statement to guide you in anything you do. Just recounting what MY doctor said --
The whole Braxton Hicks thing is really quite a bizarre phenonmeon. First, you are just waddling down the street minding your own business and your whole gullet starts to sqeeze up like you are having a charlie horse in your uterus - and I wasn't even exactly sure where my uterus was! But when it starts to pucker up like a kid eating a lemon you know exactly where it is. And you think to yourself, "Self, I think you are having a contraction. One of those Braxton Hicks things. Perhaps I should google this and see if this normal."
Well, Google produced the following results:
1. They are named after John Braxton Hicks, the doctor who first described them in 1872. Now, why did it take a male doctor until 1872 to "describe" them and how the heck does he know how to describe them. Does he have a uterine wall that is contracting at irregular intervals? I think not. It really irritates me that we named them after this man. This man that did not have to deal with the ordeal of pushing something out of his whoo-haa a few short months later after he so eloquently "described" them for all the world. So I am renaming them - ANABART contractions. Which stands for Allegedly Not As Bad As the Real Thing contractions. I add the allegedly because if you are having an ANABART contraction, you haven't experienced a real contraction so you don't know for sure. And also, because I plan on having an epidural at like week 32 and every week thereafter so I hope to not feel any real contractions.
2. ANABART contractions are apparently caused by dehydration or a full bladder. So drink up, but don't drink too much. Helpful I know.
3. ANABART contractions can also be brought on by "overdoing" it but can be are alleviated by exercise. Again, helpful. However, I am joining the camp that states they are brought on by overdoing it. I will from this point on be taking every elevator I can find and have stopped doing any type of cooking or cleaning. Considering telling my boss that waking up before 9 or working past 3 is going to be overdoing it and we will have to adjust my work schedule accordingly. For the baby's sake of course.
4. Apparently the best way to tell if your contractions are false labor or real labor is if they continue to get stronger and closer together for a period of time they are probably real contractions. Or if a baby starts coming out. (I added the second part, but it seems logical that if a baby is coming out of your body, it was real contractions and you should probably call someone.)
I will be contacting the authorities who name bodily functions as soon as possible to tell them about the new name. If you have these powerful people's contact information, that would be helpful and appreciated. Sorry John Braxton Hicks, but your time in the limelight is over.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Wildlife
Two back to back blog posts you ask? Well after the day I had today, I simply had to share with you.
As a little background ... I have been working on this big, federal grant proposal that is due Tuesday and as a part of it, I had to get all the sheriff's in my district's signatures. So today, I set out to transverse the Third Judicial District of Mississippi in search of signatures, and well, everyone should travel these roads once in their life. They are full of animals you have to really see to believe.
1. As I leave Oxford heading north on Highway 7, I cross into Marshall County and see the biggest dog I have ever seen standing in the middle of the road. As I slow down wondering why the big dog doesn't move, I realize something. This is not a dog. Oh no. We have a cow that has gone rogue. And she is not happy with the current traffic situation. And she is staring at me like it is my fault that she has escaped from whatever insufficient pen her cow farmer was keeping her. All I can think of is how Robby yelled me not once but twice in the past few weeks to never swerve to avoid an animal walking into the road. I believe his words were: "Just hit the animal Ashley; they aren't worth causing an accident" Hmmmm, for some reason I doubt this is the situation he had in mind. So I decide swerving from a dead stop, cattle Mexican stand off would be appropriate and escape the potentially cattle-strauphic situation. (By the way, don't worry about the cow. I promptly notified the Sheriff's Department about said angry cow and after convincing them that I was not making this up, they left to find the she-devil and return her to her rightful farmland).
2. Fast forward three counties and two hours of my life and I have made it to Union County where I encounter following story. Now, this story has nothing to do with me directly, but it is just too good to not be shared. And it did happen today so it totally counts. Apparently, the officer in charge of supervising house arrest folks had a guy that was having some malfunctioning monitoring equipment so he went to pay Criminal a visit. When he gets there he realizes the problem is with the transmitter thingy (I didn't get the technical terms from him, sorry) which Criminal states is located in his bedroom. Well, upon inspection our supervisor realizes that the wire has been chewed all the way through - by the GOAT in the guys bedroom. I could elaborate on this in so many ways but will let your minds go where they will. All I can say is the man had goat poop all over his room so the goat was apparently making himself at home.
***Relatives: There was no evidence that the goat man was related to us or even living in Ingomar. Just a random guy in Union County. Cue sigh of relief.***
3. Fast forward to somewhere between Chickasaw and Calhoun counties. I notice there is a small field that is on fire next to this little house off the side of the road. It is obvious that this is an intentional fire because there are two men standing by the road supervising the blaze laughing and chatting. The problem is that there are a least ten kids ranging in age from probably 5 to 12 sporadically standing around the field-o-fire with buckets (I am assuming of water) and hoses and shovels (not sure what the shovels are for, didn't stop to inquire). Now, I am all about getting your kids to help around the house on Spring Break, but forcing them to act as your own personal volunteer fire department seems a bit inappropriate. And a bucket of water being held by a seven year old twenty feet from your home is probably not what your insurance guy had in mind when he asked you if you had the appropriate fire preventative devices to qualify for that new lower rate on your home insurance. Just throwing that out there.
4. Finally, I make it back to Oxford and run by office to check in before heading home. I get a call on my phone from a number I don't know. Its my vet. Who lives in my neighborhood. Who is calling me to tell me my devil dog is running around the neighborhood. Now, let me tell you about Devil Dog. She stays in our backyard during the day which is closed in by a six foot privacy fence. Which, after she continuously refused to stay in, Robby strung with electrical wire that is supposedly streaming high voltage electricity all along the bottom of the fence. Now, in Devil Dog's defense, I checked the wire and its not currently working. But I have to ask myself, how many times did that stupid dog go up to that wire and get shocked before trying today and realizing it wasn't working. I mean, she just didn't think to herself, "hey, I havne't dug under this fence in a while, the last time a tried I got electrocuted, but I mean, maybe today will be different." I bet her heart skipped a beat when she realized she was free. Free at last. Her and Mad Cow should really get together - they could write a book called Going Rogue. Oh wait, someone already did that...
As a little background ... I have been working on this big, federal grant proposal that is due Tuesday and as a part of it, I had to get all the sheriff's in my district's signatures. So today, I set out to transverse the Third Judicial District of Mississippi in search of signatures, and well, everyone should travel these roads once in their life. They are full of animals you have to really see to believe.
1. As I leave Oxford heading north on Highway 7, I cross into Marshall County and see the biggest dog I have ever seen standing in the middle of the road. As I slow down wondering why the big dog doesn't move, I realize something. This is not a dog. Oh no. We have a cow that has gone rogue. And she is not happy with the current traffic situation. And she is staring at me like it is my fault that she has escaped from whatever insufficient pen her cow farmer was keeping her. All I can think of is how Robby yelled me not once but twice in the past few weeks to never swerve to avoid an animal walking into the road. I believe his words were: "Just hit the animal Ashley; they aren't worth causing an accident" Hmmmm, for some reason I doubt this is the situation he had in mind. So I decide swerving from a dead stop, cattle Mexican stand off would be appropriate and escape the potentially cattle-strauphic situation. (By the way, don't worry about the cow. I promptly notified the Sheriff's Department about said angry cow and after convincing them that I was not making this up, they left to find the she-devil and return her to her rightful farmland).
2. Fast forward three counties and two hours of my life and I have made it to Union County where I encounter following story. Now, this story has nothing to do with me directly, but it is just too good to not be shared. And it did happen today so it totally counts. Apparently, the officer in charge of supervising house arrest folks had a guy that was having some malfunctioning monitoring equipment so he went to pay Criminal a visit. When he gets there he realizes the problem is with the transmitter thingy (I didn't get the technical terms from him, sorry) which Criminal states is located in his bedroom. Well, upon inspection our supervisor realizes that the wire has been chewed all the way through - by the GOAT in the guys bedroom. I could elaborate on this in so many ways but will let your minds go where they will. All I can say is the man had goat poop all over his room so the goat was apparently making himself at home.
***Relatives: There was no evidence that the goat man was related to us or even living in Ingomar. Just a random guy in Union County. Cue sigh of relief.***
3. Fast forward to somewhere between Chickasaw and Calhoun counties. I notice there is a small field that is on fire next to this little house off the side of the road. It is obvious that this is an intentional fire because there are two men standing by the road supervising the blaze laughing and chatting. The problem is that there are a least ten kids ranging in age from probably 5 to 12 sporadically standing around the field-o-fire with buckets (I am assuming of water) and hoses and shovels (not sure what the shovels are for, didn't stop to inquire). Now, I am all about getting your kids to help around the house on Spring Break, but forcing them to act as your own personal volunteer fire department seems a bit inappropriate. And a bucket of water being held by a seven year old twenty feet from your home is probably not what your insurance guy had in mind when he asked you if you had the appropriate fire preventative devices to qualify for that new lower rate on your home insurance. Just throwing that out there.
4. Finally, I make it back to Oxford and run by office to check in before heading home. I get a call on my phone from a number I don't know. Its my vet. Who lives in my neighborhood. Who is calling me to tell me my devil dog is running around the neighborhood. Now, let me tell you about Devil Dog. She stays in our backyard during the day which is closed in by a six foot privacy fence. Which, after she continuously refused to stay in, Robby strung with electrical wire that is supposedly streaming high voltage electricity all along the bottom of the fence. Now, in Devil Dog's defense, I checked the wire and its not currently working. But I have to ask myself, how many times did that stupid dog go up to that wire and get shocked before trying today and realizing it wasn't working. I mean, she just didn't think to herself, "hey, I havne't dug under this fence in a while, the last time a tried I got electrocuted, but I mean, maybe today will be different." I bet her heart skipped a beat when she realized she was free. Free at last. Her and Mad Cow should really get together - they could write a book called Going Rogue. Oh wait, someone already did that...
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Re: No Subject
I am currently sitting here watching "One Born Every Minute." (Thanks Lauren - I'm hooked). For those of you who haven't seen this show, its on Lifetime and it follows women having babies in a very non-TLC Baby Story way. Its hilarious! However, they just showed this woman have a baby. Like she just straight up had a baby. On national TV. When she was pushing I kind of felt like I was going to throw up but then this tiny little baby was there and I found myself tearing up - over a kid I don't even know. I am officially an emotional basket case.
Because there have been no horribly traumatic events between this and the last post I am going to just give you a quick update on whats been going on with me and Peanut.
Lets see, I will start with tonight at Belk. Namely because it has nothing to do with baby and more to do with my junk. In my trunk. Lots of it. I went to get a new strapless bra because, well because the one from last year took one look at me, laughed a scared little laugh, and played dead until I put him back in the drawer with a sign. So while I was there buying the largest piece of fabric I had ever seen (up to that point at least) I noticed that they had panties on sale. **This may all be way too much information for some of you, but honest to God, it must be told in the name of full disclosure.** So I started perusing the clearance rack and I bought the LARGEST pieces of polyester and cotton I could find. If the bra I just bought (and the ones I bought previously - see earlier post about skinny women) could house a family of Cubans in their escape to Florida, the panties I bought tonight could be their sail. They could be in Miami in like an hour and half if the wind whipped up these things just right. In fact, they seemed so large on that hanger I thought about asking the elderly lady next to me if she thought these would be waaaay too big for me, but then the sales clerk asked if I was in my eighth or ninth month and I just said to heck with it, bought the parachutes and got out of there.
OKAY UPDATE: still watching this show and this other girl waited too long to have an epidural and is now having a baby naturally. I am OFFICIALLY getting an epidural the next time Wyatt kicks too hard. This girl is screaming and carrying on like no one's business and I am thinking that this is not the way I want to proceed. Its really her fault though. She is the one the messed around and waited too long to have the durn epidural. WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO PROVE SILLY GIRL? There is no reward for waiting the longest, you should have let them stick that big needle in your back hours ago. Now look at you, sweating, and screaming and disrupting everyone else's labor. All the nurses are scared of you. You can see it on their faces as they scurry past your door with their heads down.
Lets see, besides that...Well Wyatt finally decided to make his presence known in full force. He took long enough to start moving around so that I could feel him, but then at 22 weeks I felt like some of my organs were going to drop out of my body and after a solid day of this, I realized that yes, this is what these other women are talking about. My baby is officially kicking the crap out of me. Now, I can't imagine a day without him beebopping around in there. I just kind of wish that he would flip around and get his feet off my bladder. Every time he gets to really kicking, I feel like I am going to pee on myself. I am sort of getting scared that I am going to actually pee on myself in public soon. And blaming it on the baby is kind of like blaming that weird smell on the dog - even if it was the dog everyone secretly suspects it was you the whole time.
And finally, I passed my glucose test which means that I can continue on with my daily cookie habit which has kind of slowed down in recent days anyway. I know it has slowed down because there is a bag of Oreos that has been in the pantry for over four days now. It is sad that so many cookies had to die so that this one package could live for more than 36 hours in our home. This is some new kind of record. I think its because I have moved on to chicken salad and Honey Nut Cheerios. Not together, just as a necessary staple. I have single handedly, just this week, eaten almsot an entire tub of Newk's chicken salad and one of those industrial size boxes of Cheerios. As I sit here too lazy to get up and go to bed I am wondering if a third chicken salad sandwhich would be completely inappropriate for a Tuesday night. Oh gosh, an entire box of Cheerios and a tub of chicken salad and its only Tuesday? Its going to be a long fifteen weeks.....I may actually be wearing sailboat sails as underwear before this is all said and done.
Because there have been no horribly traumatic events between this and the last post I am going to just give you a quick update on whats been going on with me and Peanut.
Lets see, I will start with tonight at Belk. Namely because it has nothing to do with baby and more to do with my junk. In my trunk. Lots of it. I went to get a new strapless bra because, well because the one from last year took one look at me, laughed a scared little laugh, and played dead until I put him back in the drawer with a sign. So while I was there buying the largest piece of fabric I had ever seen (up to that point at least) I noticed that they had panties on sale. **This may all be way too much information for some of you, but honest to God, it must be told in the name of full disclosure.** So I started perusing the clearance rack and I bought the LARGEST pieces of polyester and cotton I could find. If the bra I just bought (and the ones I bought previously - see earlier post about skinny women) could house a family of Cubans in their escape to Florida, the panties I bought tonight could be their sail. They could be in Miami in like an hour and half if the wind whipped up these things just right. In fact, they seemed so large on that hanger I thought about asking the elderly lady next to me if she thought these would be waaaay too big for me, but then the sales clerk asked if I was in my eighth or ninth month and I just said to heck with it, bought the parachutes and got out of there.
OKAY UPDATE: still watching this show and this other girl waited too long to have an epidural and is now having a baby naturally. I am OFFICIALLY getting an epidural the next time Wyatt kicks too hard. This girl is screaming and carrying on like no one's business and I am thinking that this is not the way I want to proceed. Its really her fault though. She is the one the messed around and waited too long to have the durn epidural. WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO PROVE SILLY GIRL? There is no reward for waiting the longest, you should have let them stick that big needle in your back hours ago. Now look at you, sweating, and screaming and disrupting everyone else's labor. All the nurses are scared of you. You can see it on their faces as they scurry past your door with their heads down.
Lets see, besides that...Well Wyatt finally decided to make his presence known in full force. He took long enough to start moving around so that I could feel him, but then at 22 weeks I felt like some of my organs were going to drop out of my body and after a solid day of this, I realized that yes, this is what these other women are talking about. My baby is officially kicking the crap out of me. Now, I can't imagine a day without him beebopping around in there. I just kind of wish that he would flip around and get his feet off my bladder. Every time he gets to really kicking, I feel like I am going to pee on myself. I am sort of getting scared that I am going to actually pee on myself in public soon. And blaming it on the baby is kind of like blaming that weird smell on the dog - even if it was the dog everyone secretly suspects it was you the whole time.
And finally, I passed my glucose test which means that I can continue on with my daily cookie habit which has kind of slowed down in recent days anyway. I know it has slowed down because there is a bag of Oreos that has been in the pantry for over four days now. It is sad that so many cookies had to die so that this one package could live for more than 36 hours in our home. This is some new kind of record. I think its because I have moved on to chicken salad and Honey Nut Cheerios. Not together, just as a necessary staple. I have single handedly, just this week, eaten almsot an entire tub of Newk's chicken salad and one of those industrial size boxes of Cheerios. As I sit here too lazy to get up and go to bed I am wondering if a third chicken salad sandwhich would be completely inappropriate for a Tuesday night. Oh gosh, an entire box of Cheerios and a tub of chicken salad and its only Tuesday? Its going to be a long fifteen weeks.....I may actually be wearing sailboat sails as underwear before this is all said and done.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Why Yes! I AM Having Twins.
While I sit here on the computer, finishing off the bag of Hint of Jalapeno Scoops, rubbing my belly and wishing Robby was home to get me whats left of the Thin Mints in the freezer, I started looking at this girl's honeymoon pictures on Facebook. I don't know why I would do that to myself but these days, anytime someone gets married and posts pictures of themselves in tiny bikinis at some exotic beach I can't help but stalking them a tidge. And, well, I hate them.
I hate them not because they are at an exotic, all inclusive resort being wined and dined. Oh no. I hate them for being tan and toned and in a tiny string bikini with their adoring husband by their side. If I put on a tiny string bikini on right now, the only thing my husband could do is help me fish out the strings from between one of my Grand Canyon-esque rolls before it became lost forever.
This is the same sentiment I feel for all the women on those pregnancy sites (cue daily pregnancy calendar which by the way has had some doozies lately - giving me an idea for another post) who complain about being twenty two weeks pregnant and not showing AT ALL. "I mean, I just want to outgrow my pre-pregnancy clothes before the end of my pregnancy!" I swear to you, I cannot make this stuff up. I wanted to responded, "SHUT UP B$*#@" but thought that would be a very un-Christian like thing to say so I just rolled my eyes and ate a Tootsie Roll.
You may be thinking - oh, Ashley, you have such a flair for the dramatic. You act as if you are a beached whale or something. Well, my doubtful friend, let me recount to you my first really awkward, everyone in the room is looking away at the conversation taking place, pregnant moment as it went down last week:
So, I walk into a meeting where most everyone knows I am pregnant and has seen me at some point during the pregnancy. They are all like, oh you are finally showing blah blah, saying those nice, polite things you say to a woman who just waddled from the parking lot into the room and is sweating from exertion. But this one woman, who I see maybe three times a year, looks at me and says, "Oh, when are you due?" I respond, June 30. She looks at me and says, seriously, like not kidding at all, "aww, are you having twins?" I respond with a polite chuckle and a "no, just one." She looks concerned for a second, and then informs me I have a ways to go before that baby gets here.
What do you say to this?! I know lady. I know have four more months which is sixteen more weeks (really seventeen weeks and two days, but who's counting) which is probably going to even out to twenty more pounds that I still have to gain. I know I should be careful because you still have to lose all that weight when the baby comes. I also know that for the first time in my life, I am eating dessert after every meal, barely breaking a sweat the one time a week I make it to the gym, and trying my best to convince myself that seventeen pounds in twenty two weeks is a completely normal and healthy addition to my scale - and rear.
And yes, I said it. SEVENTEEN POUNDS. Gasp! I have gained seventeen pounds. Not sure why everyone tries to hide how much weight they have gained. I mean obviously you can SEE it on my front side, and back side and both side sides for that matter. I might as well put a number to it. I might as well not be ashamed. I might as well change my approach the next time someone is confused by the fact that only one small child could possibly be growing in this gullet of mine. I am going with go along with it. Why yes, I am having twins. Thank you for asking. Yes, we are so surprised. No, they don't really run in our family. Yes, we do have their names picked out. Baby A is Wyatt Shelton Allen and and Baby B is Nabisco DoubleStuff Oreo. If I get really big, I might up the ante to us having triplets. Baby C could be named BaconCheeseburger N. Fries.
I hate them not because they are at an exotic, all inclusive resort being wined and dined. Oh no. I hate them for being tan and toned and in a tiny string bikini with their adoring husband by their side. If I put on a tiny string bikini on right now, the only thing my husband could do is help me fish out the strings from between one of my Grand Canyon-esque rolls before it became lost forever.
This is the same sentiment I feel for all the women on those pregnancy sites (cue daily pregnancy calendar which by the way has had some doozies lately - giving me an idea for another post) who complain about being twenty two weeks pregnant and not showing AT ALL. "I mean, I just want to outgrow my pre-pregnancy clothes before the end of my pregnancy!" I swear to you, I cannot make this stuff up. I wanted to responded, "SHUT UP B$*#@" but thought that would be a very un-Christian like thing to say so I just rolled my eyes and ate a Tootsie Roll.
You may be thinking - oh, Ashley, you have such a flair for the dramatic. You act as if you are a beached whale or something. Well, my doubtful friend, let me recount to you my first really awkward, everyone in the room is looking away at the conversation taking place, pregnant moment as it went down last week:
So, I walk into a meeting where most everyone knows I am pregnant and has seen me at some point during the pregnancy. They are all like, oh you are finally showing blah blah, saying those nice, polite things you say to a woman who just waddled from the parking lot into the room and is sweating from exertion. But this one woman, who I see maybe three times a year, looks at me and says, "Oh, when are you due?" I respond, June 30. She looks at me and says, seriously, like not kidding at all, "aww, are you having twins?" I respond with a polite chuckle and a "no, just one." She looks concerned for a second, and then informs me I have a ways to go before that baby gets here.
What do you say to this?! I know lady. I know have four more months which is sixteen more weeks (really seventeen weeks and two days, but who's counting) which is probably going to even out to twenty more pounds that I still have to gain. I know I should be careful because you still have to lose all that weight when the baby comes. I also know that for the first time in my life, I am eating dessert after every meal, barely breaking a sweat the one time a week I make it to the gym, and trying my best to convince myself that seventeen pounds in twenty two weeks is a completely normal and healthy addition to my scale - and rear.
And yes, I said it. SEVENTEEN POUNDS. Gasp! I have gained seventeen pounds. Not sure why everyone tries to hide how much weight they have gained. I mean obviously you can SEE it on my front side, and back side and both side sides for that matter. I might as well put a number to it. I might as well not be ashamed. I might as well change my approach the next time someone is confused by the fact that only one small child could possibly be growing in this gullet of mine. I am going with go along with it. Why yes, I am having twins. Thank you for asking. Yes, we are so surprised. No, they don't really run in our family. Yes, we do have their names picked out. Baby A is Wyatt Shelton Allen and and Baby B is Nabisco DoubleStuff Oreo. If I get really big, I might up the ante to us having triplets. Baby C could be named BaconCheeseburger N. Fries.
Monday, February 14, 2011
When It All Doesn't Smell Like Roses
First things first...as you might have heard (which I am assuming you have, because if you are taking the time to read my blog, you probably are a really good friend or a stalker - either way, thanks, please continue, and I accept gifts) Robby and I are proud to announce Peanut now has a gender and a name. The Shim is a Him (thanks Crystal for this gem) and his name is Wyatt. Wyatt Shelton Allen to be precise. And yes, we are sure. I reassure you as to him being a him because both of my grandmothers questioned our certainty. One by asking if we were sure he had a peter and the other by wanting to know if we were sure he had a tallywhacker. I guess this stems back to when ultrasounds weren't quite as detailed as they used to be, but I am almost positive that what we saw was a peter/tallywhacker/baby boy part.
The whole "gender revelation sonogram appointment" is quite an odd experience. Or maybe its just because of what I do for a living - but I just felt a little perverse and twisted the whole time. I mean, we went in there and she starts showing the different body parts and measuring them. Here's the head, looks good; here's an arm, a kidney, his foot, blah blah blah. And you are just laying there wanting to scream SHUT UP AND SHOW ME THE GOODS ALREADY - I WANT TO SEE THE CROTCHAL REGION! THE CROTCH LADY, JUST SHOW ME MY CHILD'S GENITALIA FOR CRYING OUT LOUD.
But eventually, she did show us the crotch and the tallywhacker hanging out there on display. Its truly amazing because after all the hours of wondering and pondering and guessing and praying, I knew in that one instant, that I was supposed to have a little boy. And that his name would be Wyatt and he would be the most fun adventure I have ever embarked on.
NOTE: the following is the third sentimental thing you will read on my blog. Or maybe the fourth because that whole paragraph prior was pretty gushy I have to admit.
I actually got all giggly the other day driving to work thinking about my perfect little boy and thinking about all the times he is going to pee all over me. I am literally turning into R. Kelly right in front of you - I am looking forward to being peed on. And its going to happen because I have changed exactly one little boy diaper in my whole life...and guess what...he peed on me. And I don't mind in the least.
Now, back to the very serious topic of today's post. In honor of Valentine's Day, I think it is only appropriate to completely squash every romantic thought you might have had floating through your brain and inform you of the worst pregnancy symptom I have yet to come across. They don't warn you just how bad this symptom is, and its bad. Bad for you and everyone you love. Bad for your friends, coworkers, and complete strangers. So bad its just downright cruel. This is the only way to perfectly describe it:
**By the way, I found this imagine on a website entitled "motivational posters." I am not sure what this is motivating but I find its inclusion under this title disturbing. Now back to its significance.
Hmm, how can I put this delicately.....lemme think for a second. I got it! There are toxic fumes coming from my body that have actually knocked my sweet, dear husband to his knees. I am not making this up - he got up to attempt to run away from me and my noxious aroma and fell to his knees before hecould make a clean exit. I don't know what to do about it either - no matter what I eat, what I drink, what I do, I am incapable of stopping it. Its like a law of physics, the greater the mass my uterus takes up, the more disgusting the odors coming from my direction are.
My dogs won't even sit by me any more because they are embarrassed for me and tired of being blamed for the offending smells. So, whats a girl to do? I pull out my handy dandy What to Expect When Your Expecting book and look up "horribly offensive gas" in the index. It is not listed there but under the innocent listing of gas. I immediately know they do not appreciate the severity of the situation but read what they have to say anyway. And I read it to my husband as he writhes on the floor from the pain of it all, unable to find a unpolluted place to flee at this point.
And do you know what they have to say to me? Basically that your gassy, oh well, take comfort in the fact that your baby is probably comforted by the gas bubbles gurgling in your tummy. REALLY? Peanut (yes, he still goes by that) probably feels like he is in the middle of the Haitian earthquake with all the rumbling and grumbling going on in there. He is most likely trying to take cover under the nearest organ for safety. And really, do you think anyone else cares if my baby is comforted by my gas bubbles? Ask the fine folks on aisle seven at the Oxford Kroger. If they made it through the blast, they will tell you no, they are not comforted. Only traumatized, angry, and highly suspicious of the pregnant lady waddling very quickly towards the check out line with two boxes of Double Stuff Oreos and a gallon of ice cream.
The whole "gender revelation sonogram appointment" is quite an odd experience. Or maybe its just because of what I do for a living - but I just felt a little perverse and twisted the whole time. I mean, we went in there and she starts showing the different body parts and measuring them. Here's the head, looks good; here's an arm, a kidney, his foot, blah blah blah. And you are just laying there wanting to scream SHUT UP AND SHOW ME THE GOODS ALREADY - I WANT TO SEE THE CROTCHAL REGION! THE CROTCH LADY, JUST SHOW ME MY CHILD'S GENITALIA FOR CRYING OUT LOUD.
But eventually, she did show us the crotch and the tallywhacker hanging out there on display. Its truly amazing because after all the hours of wondering and pondering and guessing and praying, I knew in that one instant, that I was supposed to have a little boy. And that his name would be Wyatt and he would be the most fun adventure I have ever embarked on.
NOTE: the following is the third sentimental thing you will read on my blog. Or maybe the fourth because that whole paragraph prior was pretty gushy I have to admit.
I actually got all giggly the other day driving to work thinking about my perfect little boy and thinking about all the times he is going to pee all over me. I am literally turning into R. Kelly right in front of you - I am looking forward to being peed on. And its going to happen because I have changed exactly one little boy diaper in my whole life...and guess what...he peed on me. And I don't mind in the least.
Now, back to the very serious topic of today's post. In honor of Valentine's Day, I think it is only appropriate to completely squash every romantic thought you might have had floating through your brain and inform you of the worst pregnancy symptom I have yet to come across. They don't warn you just how bad this symptom is, and its bad. Bad for you and everyone you love. Bad for your friends, coworkers, and complete strangers. So bad its just downright cruel. This is the only way to perfectly describe it:
**By the way, I found this imagine on a website entitled "motivational posters." I am not sure what this is motivating but I find its inclusion under this title disturbing. Now back to its significance.
Hmm, how can I put this delicately.....lemme think for a second. I got it! There are toxic fumes coming from my body that have actually knocked my sweet, dear husband to his knees. I am not making this up - he got up to attempt to run away from me and my noxious aroma and fell to his knees before hecould make a clean exit. I don't know what to do about it either - no matter what I eat, what I drink, what I do, I am incapable of stopping it. Its like a law of physics, the greater the mass my uterus takes up, the more disgusting the odors coming from my direction are.
My dogs won't even sit by me any more because they are embarrassed for me and tired of being blamed for the offending smells. So, whats a girl to do? I pull out my handy dandy What to Expect When Your Expecting book and look up "horribly offensive gas" in the index. It is not listed there but under the innocent listing of gas. I immediately know they do not appreciate the severity of the situation but read what they have to say anyway. And I read it to my husband as he writhes on the floor from the pain of it all, unable to find a unpolluted place to flee at this point.
And do you know what they have to say to me? Basically that your gassy, oh well, take comfort in the fact that your baby is probably comforted by the gas bubbles gurgling in your tummy. REALLY? Peanut (yes, he still goes by that) probably feels like he is in the middle of the Haitian earthquake with all the rumbling and grumbling going on in there. He is most likely trying to take cover under the nearest organ for safety. And really, do you think anyone else cares if my baby is comforted by my gas bubbles? Ask the fine folks on aisle seven at the Oxford Kroger. If they made it through the blast, they will tell you no, they are not comforted. Only traumatized, angry, and highly suspicious of the pregnant lady waddling very quickly towards the check out line with two boxes of Double Stuff Oreos and a gallon of ice cream.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Post for Props ... and wishful thinking.
This past weekend I took my "Buying for Baby" spree to a whole new level. If you will recall, weekend before last I bought a rug and a mirror (which it turns out will not technically be for baby after all...it just looks too good in the dining room, sorry Peanut). Well this past weekend, I jumped in with both feet and bought the crib, the glider/ottoman, the bedding, and began the elusive search for the perfect dresser and bookcase. And now, the mad props go to: (pause for suspense building) Nursery Rhymes in Jackson with the hand holding and direction of Bethany - if any of you are pregnant or know someone who is pregnant (which you all do because I assume you know me if you are wasting your time reading this crap) you should really check this place out. They pretty much have the whole nursery/baby/cutesy thing completely figured out.
For example, I went in with one simple request: I do not want to wait until we find out what we are having to pick out baby bedding because I do not want a gender specific nursery and the only idea I have is this rug I bought and I want it (the nursery) fun, colorful, and comfortable.
*The husband says I have to make everything difficult because I am a liberal, hippy who has to be different and probably want to put peace signs and flowers on the wall. Only when you are designing a nursery would wanting to go neutral make you a tree hugging world changer.
So anyways, Bethany did an amazing job and somehow managed to pull together a delightfully cute nursery that does not scream "A BABY LIVES HERE" but also does not scream "AN IDIOT WHO HAS NEVER HAD A KID PICKED THIS STUFF OUT." Pictures to come...let me just say, Peanut is going to be a having diaper leakage on some pretty awesome bedding.
Now, as you can tell from the ever descriptive title of this post - the first part of this post was for props and the second was for wishful thinking. Last week, everything was rocking along so swellfully (yes I just made that word up) that I was beginning to think I would have to put on the rose colored glasses for good. But, lucky for me, the darker side of life came roaring back Saturday as I entered my now regular Jackson stop of Motherhood. I walked into the store to pick up some maternity leggings because the last time I put on my regular leggings I had an imprint of the elastic waistband on my gullet that lasted for three days. And I ended up having to take them off during the middle of the day at work - which of course leads to you wearing a sundress at work in January with white, pasty, kind of hairy legs. Its frowned upon in the legal community.
*The following recounting is worth reading for the simple fact that it is true and involves the fantasy of one large pregnant woman beating down a not so large pregnant woman. However, it will involve TMI (too much information for those of you not up on the latest Internet lingo) for some. This is my disclaimer.
So, into Motherhood I go to find a nice pair of leggings, and I pass a girl who is shopping in the jean section. She is one her phone and I hear her say I found some maternity jeans in here but they are $100 dollars. I think to myself, how sweet, that nice, skinny girl is shopping for maternity pants for her friend. Well I waddle past this nice, skinny girl and realize that the maternity bras are all on sale. As I look down at the poor, misshapen bra that once housed my normally sized, normally perky boobs I thought, well heck, I will get one.
Me and the skinny girl get to the dressing rooms at the same time. I have an assortment of bras is sizes I did not know existed and she has a pair of jeans. One pair of teeny tiny little jeans that I would not have been able to wear if I starved myself for a year, much less now that my rear has reached the back of knees. A flash of ugly thoughts races through my mind...."that twerp is in here buying maternity jeans for herself, but she isn't even showing, how dare she, I should force feed her bacon, etc, etc." You know the drill.
As I am trying on nice, sturdy bra after bra, I hear her say into her phone, "the extra smalls are just swallowing me. I just don't know when I will be able to fit into maternity jeans. I am in my big zeros in my regular jeans and I am just miserable. But the maternity jeans are just so huge." I have to quit listening a second to fish the clasp of a bra from the depths of a fat roll, and then tune back in....
"I mean I do feel skinny in all these maternity clothes, I mean I don't know who can even wear them." Okay now she's done it. I start to pull my size Large maternity top back on around this still too small maternity bra with the full intention of showing her just who wears these "maternity clothes" when the good-intentioned but ill-timed sales clerk yells through the dressing room curtain at me, "Try this bra, its our fullest coverage available, and I got you a bigger size. Many women find it helps get the breasts off the stomach and out from under the arms."
I wanted to sink into floor. But instead, skinny girl left to try a size two in non-maternity pants at Old Navy, I bought a bra that could literally be used as a raft for Cuban immigrants - a whole bunch of 'em - and some leggings and waddled to lunch. All that trying on had made me quite hungry.
For example, I went in with one simple request: I do not want to wait until we find out what we are having to pick out baby bedding because I do not want a gender specific nursery and the only idea I have is this rug I bought and I want it (the nursery) fun, colorful, and comfortable.
*The husband says I have to make everything difficult because I am a liberal, hippy who has to be different and probably want to put peace signs and flowers on the wall. Only when you are designing a nursery would wanting to go neutral make you a tree hugging world changer.
So anyways, Bethany did an amazing job and somehow managed to pull together a delightfully cute nursery that does not scream "A BABY LIVES HERE" but also does not scream "AN IDIOT WHO HAS NEVER HAD A KID PICKED THIS STUFF OUT." Pictures to come...let me just say, Peanut is going to be a having diaper leakage on some pretty awesome bedding.
Now, as you can tell from the ever descriptive title of this post - the first part of this post was for props and the second was for wishful thinking. Last week, everything was rocking along so swellfully (yes I just made that word up) that I was beginning to think I would have to put on the rose colored glasses for good. But, lucky for me, the darker side of life came roaring back Saturday as I entered my now regular Jackson stop of Motherhood. I walked into the store to pick up some maternity leggings because the last time I put on my regular leggings I had an imprint of the elastic waistband on my gullet that lasted for three days. And I ended up having to take them off during the middle of the day at work - which of course leads to you wearing a sundress at work in January with white, pasty, kind of hairy legs. Its frowned upon in the legal community.
*The following recounting is worth reading for the simple fact that it is true and involves the fantasy of one large pregnant woman beating down a not so large pregnant woman. However, it will involve TMI (too much information for those of you not up on the latest Internet lingo) for some. This is my disclaimer.
So, into Motherhood I go to find a nice pair of leggings, and I pass a girl who is shopping in the jean section. She is one her phone and I hear her say I found some maternity jeans in here but they are $100 dollars. I think to myself, how sweet, that nice, skinny girl is shopping for maternity pants for her friend. Well I waddle past this nice, skinny girl and realize that the maternity bras are all on sale. As I look down at the poor, misshapen bra that once housed my normally sized, normally perky boobs I thought, well heck, I will get one.
Me and the skinny girl get to the dressing rooms at the same time. I have an assortment of bras is sizes I did not know existed and she has a pair of jeans. One pair of teeny tiny little jeans that I would not have been able to wear if I starved myself for a year, much less now that my rear has reached the back of knees. A flash of ugly thoughts races through my mind...."that twerp is in here buying maternity jeans for herself, but she isn't even showing, how dare she, I should force feed her bacon, etc, etc." You know the drill.
As I am trying on nice, sturdy bra after bra, I hear her say into her phone, "the extra smalls are just swallowing me. I just don't know when I will be able to fit into maternity jeans. I am in my big zeros in my regular jeans and I am just miserable. But the maternity jeans are just so huge." I have to quit listening a second to fish the clasp of a bra from the depths of a fat roll, and then tune back in....
"I mean I do feel skinny in all these maternity clothes, I mean I don't know who can even wear them." Okay now she's done it. I start to pull my size Large maternity top back on around this still too small maternity bra with the full intention of showing her just who wears these "maternity clothes" when the good-intentioned but ill-timed sales clerk yells through the dressing room curtain at me, "Try this bra, its our fullest coverage available, and I got you a bigger size. Many women find it helps get the breasts off the stomach and out from under the arms."
I wanted to sink into floor. But instead, skinny girl left to try a size two in non-maternity pants at Old Navy, I bought a bra that could literally be used as a raft for Cuban immigrants - a whole bunch of 'em - and some leggings and waddled to lunch. All that trying on had made me quite hungry.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Writer's Block
I haven't written anything in like ten days. I usually try to write something at least once a week - for my sanity and for that day, a long time from now, when Peanut wants to learn how royally he/she screwed up my life for nine, long, hot, up hill both ways in the snow with no shoes, months. (Peanut: if you are reading this, I truly love you, I am very glad I got knocked up you were our little surprise miracle, and the things said on this blog are all true - so go take out the trash).
However, as most of the three of you that read this blog now know, I get a sick, twisted amusement from writing about the things that bug me, amaze me with their stupidity, or just strike me as something all three of you readers should share with me. However, for the last seven to ten days, absolutely nothing outrageous, irritating, or even really funny has happened. So instead, I will just quickly fill you in on whats been going down...
1. I broke up with my scale. I hate him, he hates me, and if one more person reminds me that I am pregnant and its natural to gain weight, I will break up with you too. Lemme explain it to you: for the past ten to fifteen years, one of my at least underlying concerns has been to not be a fat, fat, Fatty McFatterson. I mean everytime I read a magazine, got on Yahoo!, or flipped the channels I was sure to check out the latest lose five pounds in five days meal plan, exercise plan, life plan, or Spanx plan. I had a number in my mind I would never reach on the scale and, well, I reached that numbet at some point in college, bumped the number up ten pounds, and have now, all of a sudden surpassed that number. And my scale laughed at me. That evil Bwahahahaha type of laugh. And if everyone was down with the whole gain 65 pounds during your pregnancy thing, it might not be a big deal. But no, everything you read/hear is this magical 25-35 pound mark. Well, what about when you gain 4 in one week? OMG. If I continue to gain four pounds per week for the remaining 23 weeks I have, I will gain like eighty something pounds. But, as of this week, I have decided to no longer worry about this magical 25-35 pound number. Screw it. And screw my scale. I repeat: I hate you. I have always hated you. And I will not let you take the satisfaction I am currently getting out of Popeyes fried chicken away from me. This is the only time in my life that I can skip over every magazine article regarding weight loss or fitness and go right to the "15 Recipes Involving Butter and Bacon" article. Whew....I feel better. And rounder.
2. I bought something for my Peanut. Please note, I am refering to the fetus as MY Peanut. Almost like a term of endearment. See, I am a sweet, nuturing person. Take that 10th grade Home Ec teacher who chastised me for losing that durn egg baby. Twice. Its an egg. They get lost. And break. And maybe even hardboiled. Sometimes, just for fun. But, I digress. I went to see the wonderful lady at the baby nursery place in Jackson (Bethany at Nursery Rhymes if anyone is particulary interested or nosy) and she seemed a little dismayed that I did not have any ideas for my nursery nor was I particularly excited about starting to plan/buy/overindulge for my unborn child. She basically told me to get with the program, buy something for my child, and do it fast. Apparently twenty three weeks is not as long as it sounds. And apparently by week seventeen, most women have at least bought a sock or picture or something for their fetus. Not me. I mean, I am still buying for myself. Which leaves no time or money for the baby. I figure the he/she will take enough of my time and money in approximately twenty three weeks so why rush it? HOWEVER, Saturday, with the stern talking to from Bethany still on my mind, I ended up Play Pen. Never been in that store. Nothing too surprising - they have baby stuff for any of you who have always wondered. But anyways, I was flipping through some rugs because, well because they were just hanging there begging to be flipped through, and I ran across one that I liked. And it was on sale. And . . . I bought it. There you have it ladies and gentlemen. My baby has its very own rug - a rug that my husband was quick to point out is mostly white and will probably be ruined within the first year, but a rug nonetheless. This was quickly followed by a decision about my crib, the wall color, found a dresser I like, found a glider, an ottoman, and a bookcase. Oh, and I bought a mirror I found on clearance. Not sure if I am using it for the nursery or giving it to myself as a happy for buying something for my child. It would look really good in the guest bathroom. Old habits die hard I guess. Regardless, I got the whole nursery planned out in my head and still not real sure why everyone gets so freaked out by this nursery mess. I mean I planned the whole thing in like twenty minutes. And your putting a baby in there people. Its not like it knows how to talk to complain if he/she doesn't like it. But, I do have a plan and a plan that I think is relatively not bad. Now to find someone to pay for it....
3. My mother cleaned out her house to make room for the grandbaby. Which apparently means forcing everything you have ever left at her house (for the main reason of you not particularly wanting it but not wanting to throw it away either) on you. She sent me home with boxes of old photos, memorabilia, and the like. And so, tonight, I sat down and started going through it. It started out innocently enough - 8th grade dance, 9th grade homecoming, church camp. But then somewhere about halfway down in that box things got real. The older I got in the pictures, the more fun I seemed to be having. And pictures don't lie. I remember these things clearly - and I was really having a really really good time, I mean really. It bothers me a little that most of these pictures were from only about ten years ago, And there is a part of me, that would give anything to go back to that senior trip or the Neshoba County Fair or even that Jitney Jungle parking lot. And not really to do anything differently, just to do it again. I mean how did everything change in just ten years. I went from worried if the guy with the cool sunglasses would be at the field party Friday night to worried about tax refunds and episiotomies in less than ten years. But there is another part of me that is petrified. My parents are very smart/decent/good people. And I called to check tonight - I didn't get away with nearly as I would like to think I did. I think they just figured it was easier to let me make my own mistakes (most of which I have yet to regret) and hope for the best. But, I know what I have done and put my parents through over the past ten to fifteen years. And even worse, I know my husband was basically just as hard on his parents. So, does this mean that my child, my sweet little 7 inch baby is going to do this to me? Is he/she going to one day in like twenty-seven years go through a box of old photos and call me up just to say, "Sorry Mom for all that. I mean it was fun, but gosh I was dumb. Glad I made it out okay." The answer is no, and Peanut if you are reading this, the answer is no because you are never leaving the house. Now go get back in your bubble.
However, as most of the three of you that read this blog now know, I get a sick, twisted amusement from writing about the things that bug me, amaze me with their stupidity, or just strike me as something all three of you readers should share with me. However, for the last seven to ten days, absolutely nothing outrageous, irritating, or even really funny has happened. So instead, I will just quickly fill you in on whats been going down...
1. I broke up with my scale. I hate him, he hates me, and if one more person reminds me that I am pregnant and its natural to gain weight, I will break up with you too. Lemme explain it to you: for the past ten to fifteen years, one of my at least underlying concerns has been to not be a fat, fat, Fatty McFatterson. I mean everytime I read a magazine, got on Yahoo!, or flipped the channels I was sure to check out the latest lose five pounds in five days meal plan, exercise plan, life plan, or Spanx plan. I had a number in my mind I would never reach on the scale and, well, I reached that numbet at some point in college, bumped the number up ten pounds, and have now, all of a sudden surpassed that number. And my scale laughed at me. That evil Bwahahahaha type of laugh. And if everyone was down with the whole gain 65 pounds during your pregnancy thing, it might not be a big deal. But no, everything you read/hear is this magical 25-35 pound mark. Well, what about when you gain 4 in one week? OMG. If I continue to gain four pounds per week for the remaining 23 weeks I have, I will gain like eighty something pounds. But, as of this week, I have decided to no longer worry about this magical 25-35 pound number. Screw it. And screw my scale. I repeat: I hate you. I have always hated you. And I will not let you take the satisfaction I am currently getting out of Popeyes fried chicken away from me. This is the only time in my life that I can skip over every magazine article regarding weight loss or fitness and go right to the "15 Recipes Involving Butter and Bacon" article. Whew....I feel better. And rounder.
2. I bought something for my Peanut. Please note, I am refering to the fetus as MY Peanut. Almost like a term of endearment. See, I am a sweet, nuturing person. Take that 10th grade Home Ec teacher who chastised me for losing that durn egg baby. Twice. Its an egg. They get lost. And break. And maybe even hardboiled. Sometimes, just for fun. But, I digress. I went to see the wonderful lady at the baby nursery place in Jackson (Bethany at Nursery Rhymes if anyone is particulary interested or nosy) and she seemed a little dismayed that I did not have any ideas for my nursery nor was I particularly excited about starting to plan/buy/overindulge for my unborn child. She basically told me to get with the program, buy something for my child, and do it fast. Apparently twenty three weeks is not as long as it sounds. And apparently by week seventeen, most women have at least bought a sock or picture or something for their fetus. Not me. I mean, I am still buying for myself. Which leaves no time or money for the baby. I figure the he/she will take enough of my time and money in approximately twenty three weeks so why rush it? HOWEVER, Saturday, with the stern talking to from Bethany still on my mind, I ended up Play Pen. Never been in that store. Nothing too surprising - they have baby stuff for any of you who have always wondered. But anyways, I was flipping through some rugs because, well because they were just hanging there begging to be flipped through, and I ran across one that I liked. And it was on sale. And . . . I bought it. There you have it ladies and gentlemen. My baby has its very own rug - a rug that my husband was quick to point out is mostly white and will probably be ruined within the first year, but a rug nonetheless. This was quickly followed by a decision about my crib, the wall color, found a dresser I like, found a glider, an ottoman, and a bookcase. Oh, and I bought a mirror I found on clearance. Not sure if I am using it for the nursery or giving it to myself as a happy for buying something for my child. It would look really good in the guest bathroom. Old habits die hard I guess. Regardless, I got the whole nursery planned out in my head and still not real sure why everyone gets so freaked out by this nursery mess. I mean I planned the whole thing in like twenty minutes. And your putting a baby in there people. Its not like it knows how to talk to complain if he/she doesn't like it. But, I do have a plan and a plan that I think is relatively not bad. Now to find someone to pay for it....
3. My mother cleaned out her house to make room for the grandbaby. Which apparently means forcing everything you have ever left at her house (for the main reason of you not particularly wanting it but not wanting to throw it away either) on you. She sent me home with boxes of old photos, memorabilia, and the like. And so, tonight, I sat down and started going through it. It started out innocently enough - 8th grade dance, 9th grade homecoming, church camp. But then somewhere about halfway down in that box things got real. The older I got in the pictures, the more fun I seemed to be having. And pictures don't lie. I remember these things clearly - and I was really having a really really good time, I mean really. It bothers me a little that most of these pictures were from only about ten years ago, And there is a part of me, that would give anything to go back to that senior trip or the Neshoba County Fair or even that Jitney Jungle parking lot. And not really to do anything differently, just to do it again. I mean how did everything change in just ten years. I went from worried if the guy with the cool sunglasses would be at the field party Friday night to worried about tax refunds and episiotomies in less than ten years. But there is another part of me that is petrified. My parents are very smart/decent/good people. And I called to check tonight - I didn't get away with nearly as I would like to think I did. I think they just figured it was easier to let me make my own mistakes (most of which I have yet to regret) and hope for the best. But, I know what I have done and put my parents through over the past ten to fifteen years. And even worse, I know my husband was basically just as hard on his parents. So, does this mean that my child, my sweet little 7 inch baby is going to do this to me? Is he/she going to one day in like twenty-seven years go through a box of old photos and call me up just to say, "Sorry Mom for all that. I mean it was fun, but gosh I was dumb. Glad I made it out okay." The answer is no, and Peanut if you are reading this, the answer is no because you are never leaving the house. Now go get back in your bubble.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Vocabulary Lessons and Random Tidbits
Warning: this is an incredibly long and rambling post.
In the past almost three months, my life has changed dramatically. I know you are thinking, "well duh, you got yourself knocked up. Change was inevitable." And to this thought I can only agree with you. I knew the moment I sat my glass of wine down to pee on that stick and it started dinging and lighting up and singing the itsy bitsy spider my life was about to change. Forever.
*And no, this did not actually happen. Well the part about the wine did. All that actually happened on that stick was a little line popped up so fast I couldn't even get my drawers back up. (Which leads to one hopping around the bathroom with their pants around their ankles saying words that are not appropriate for this blog while scrambling to find that other pregnancy test and willing your bladder to give you just one more stream of pee.) However, I do feel that a positive pregnancy test should give you a little more than just a line to tell you everything in your life has changed, and you should begin your meltdown (or celebration depending on your frame of mind) immediately. A little clip from this song might would be an appropriate song for the EPT to sing when you are, in fact, pregnant:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U1R4rhY3qZ8 (give it to about the 27 second mark to start the song -its the only clip I could find, but it truly is worth your patience - in fact, I am changing this to my cell phone ring for Robby)
But, I ramble. Almost immediately everything started to change. That next day I went to this nurse practitioner I know and told her my predicament: I have had two positive pregnancy tests but I cannot be pregnant because I do not think I want to be pregnant quite yet so I am here for a professional, medical opinion. This, of course, leads to her and one of her nurses handing me cotton balls from that stereotypical glass container (they should really invest in some tissues) and asking me if they should "call someone" as I have my third complete meltdown in twelve hours.
But, I managed to pull it together and took all my paperwork home and began reading. And so began my still ongoing, almost daily, vocabulary lesson. I wanted to share a few with you.
First up: listeria. Before I became with child, I would have bet at least twenty bucks that Listeria was a country in Eastern Europe probably somewhere near the Czech Republic where nearly all of the women were named Natasha and their last names had lots of kszy's in them. However, listeria is actually a bacteria that is in seemingly everything, will kill you and your unborn child, and is the reason you cannot eat deli meat, unpasteurized cheeses (still not sure what all this entails) raw fish, and the list goes on and on and on. Now, some women get real freaked out by this whole listeria thing. I, on the other hand, took it as I should really try not to get food poisoning. Which, lucky for me, I have been trying to not get food poisoning my whole life because it sucks. So, well this one has been a pretty easy adjustment for me -
Second, minky dot.What a dumb word. I don't have an alternate definition for this word because I had never heard of it. Minky dot. Sure, I know what it is now and I will concede that there may be a little minky dot in my life (cue Mambo Number 5: " a little Minky Dot in my life" -- sorry I cannot help myself). But come on folks, lets call it something else. I have always called it that fuzzy fabric with the dots on. Which seems to get the point across. Minky dot. Ha.
Third, and for those of you who have never been pregnant read this very closely. It has changed my life forever. Episiotomy. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS IS? DO YOU? DO YOU???? Well if you do, and if you have had a baby, and had one of these, hats off to you my friend. For those of you who don't know, well I would love to let you just keep living in ignorance, but I simply cannot do this. Mostly because I am so completely freaked out that I want you to be as completely as uncomfortable as I am. An episiotomy is when the doctors CUT you from your vagina to your anus during childbirth. My friends say oh you want them to cut you or it tears. WHAAAT? That can tear? That can happen? This is worse than when I found out that people poop during labor. Oh my gosh. I cannot do this. I am not the kind of person who can take a ripping perineum (which could be vocabulary word 3a - its the medical term for the area between your whoo haa and your rear end). But, I have been researching this phenomenon extensively since I discovered its existence. Apparently, it grows back, to normal, with little to no complications or long standing effects on your body ---most of the time. Yes, most of the time. Because, of course, everyone knows a horror story. But I cannot concentrate on the possible after effects, side effects, or complications because I am too freaked out that this even happens. They should teach this to young girls in health class. Bet it would dramatically reduce teen pregnancies. Because this is more frightening to me than the prospect of actually raising the child.
I have to sign up for that epidural next week. If there is going to be ripping or cutting, I don't want to know about it.
Now, briefly on to a little lighter subject matter. Let me tell you what I did yesterday. I went grocery shopping. Spent 106 dollars at Kroger. And do you know what I did for the first time in my life????? I bought whatever I wanted. I did not even once look at the calories in any item I bought. Doritos? Sure, two bags please. And I am talking about the Blazing Buffalo and Cool Ranch kinds - no baked chips for me! Cookies? Why not? Two boxes of already made cookies, sugar cookie mix, icing, and while I was on that aisle, why not pick up some blueberry muffin mix, brownie mix, and oh! they have cornbread mix - I bet that would be good. Canned food aisle - no problem. I skipped the canned green beans and went straight to the rotel tomatoes - I would later gather Velveeta cheese, don't worry - and the Spaghettios and the Chef Boyardee. I can't wait. Also got stuff to make Hot Tomato Grits -
*As a side note, I tasted the hot tomato grits last weekend at Abby's baby shower. Rebecca, if you are reading this, this recipe has changed my life forever, and I have eaten it for at least one meal a day since then. Anything with bacon, cheddar cheese, and rotel tomatoes has to be good. Eat it with an apple on the side, and it is, well it is simply amazing.
Also amazing to me lately: the phenomenon of pickled foods. Which made up a significant portion of my 106 dollars at Kroger. I bought pickles, pickled jalapenos, pickled corn, pickled okra, pickle relish, and pepprocini peppers, and to top it all off, Ranch dressing. Because pickles topped with ranch dressing is the snack of true champions. I am almost positive of this.
While checking out, I felt so self-conscious about my basketful of junk food I found myself telling the check out girl that I was pregnant. To which, she told me she gained 96 pounds while she was pregnant (oh crap - should I put the cake mix back? maybe just get one bag of chips??) and didn't know she was pregnant until she was 4 months along because she never missed her period and was on birth control. Hmmm.
What is about the phenomenon of pregnancy that makes complete strangers think it is okay to discuss the presence or absence of their menstrual cycle with you at the checkout line in Kroger? More on this topic later.
In the past almost three months, my life has changed dramatically. I know you are thinking, "well duh, you got yourself knocked up. Change was inevitable." And to this thought I can only agree with you. I knew the moment I sat my glass of wine down to pee on that stick and it started dinging and lighting up and singing the itsy bitsy spider my life was about to change. Forever.
*And no, this did not actually happen. Well the part about the wine did. All that actually happened on that stick was a little line popped up so fast I couldn't even get my drawers back up. (Which leads to one hopping around the bathroom with their pants around their ankles saying words that are not appropriate for this blog while scrambling to find that other pregnancy test and willing your bladder to give you just one more stream of pee.) However, I do feel that a positive pregnancy test should give you a little more than just a line to tell you everything in your life has changed, and you should begin your meltdown (or celebration depending on your frame of mind) immediately. A little clip from this song might would be an appropriate song for the EPT to sing when you are, in fact, pregnant:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U1R4rhY3qZ8 (give it to about the 27 second mark to start the song -its the only clip I could find, but it truly is worth your patience - in fact, I am changing this to my cell phone ring for Robby)
But, I ramble. Almost immediately everything started to change. That next day I went to this nurse practitioner I know and told her my predicament: I have had two positive pregnancy tests but I cannot be pregnant because I do not think I want to be pregnant quite yet so I am here for a professional, medical opinion. This, of course, leads to her and one of her nurses handing me cotton balls from that stereotypical glass container (they should really invest in some tissues) and asking me if they should "call someone" as I have my third complete meltdown in twelve hours.
But, I managed to pull it together and took all my paperwork home and began reading. And so began my still ongoing, almost daily, vocabulary lesson. I wanted to share a few with you.
First up: listeria. Before I became with child, I would have bet at least twenty bucks that Listeria was a country in Eastern Europe probably somewhere near the Czech Republic where nearly all of the women were named Natasha and their last names had lots of kszy's in them. However, listeria is actually a bacteria that is in seemingly everything, will kill you and your unborn child, and is the reason you cannot eat deli meat, unpasteurized cheeses (still not sure what all this entails) raw fish, and the list goes on and on and on. Now, some women get real freaked out by this whole listeria thing. I, on the other hand, took it as I should really try not to get food poisoning. Which, lucky for me, I have been trying to not get food poisoning my whole life because it sucks. So, well this one has been a pretty easy adjustment for me -
Second, minky dot.What a dumb word. I don't have an alternate definition for this word because I had never heard of it. Minky dot. Sure, I know what it is now and I will concede that there may be a little minky dot in my life (cue Mambo Number 5: " a little Minky Dot in my life" -- sorry I cannot help myself). But come on folks, lets call it something else. I have always called it that fuzzy fabric with the dots on. Which seems to get the point across. Minky dot. Ha.
Third, and for those of you who have never been pregnant read this very closely. It has changed my life forever. Episiotomy. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS IS? DO YOU? DO YOU???? Well if you do, and if you have had a baby, and had one of these, hats off to you my friend. For those of you who don't know, well I would love to let you just keep living in ignorance, but I simply cannot do this. Mostly because I am so completely freaked out that I want you to be as completely as uncomfortable as I am. An episiotomy is when the doctors CUT you from your vagina to your anus during childbirth. My friends say oh you want them to cut you or it tears. WHAAAT? That can tear? That can happen? This is worse than when I found out that people poop during labor. Oh my gosh. I cannot do this. I am not the kind of person who can take a ripping perineum (which could be vocabulary word 3a - its the medical term for the area between your whoo haa and your rear end). But, I have been researching this phenomenon extensively since I discovered its existence. Apparently, it grows back, to normal, with little to no complications or long standing effects on your body ---most of the time. Yes, most of the time. Because, of course, everyone knows a horror story. But I cannot concentrate on the possible after effects, side effects, or complications because I am too freaked out that this even happens. They should teach this to young girls in health class. Bet it would dramatically reduce teen pregnancies. Because this is more frightening to me than the prospect of actually raising the child.
I have to sign up for that epidural next week. If there is going to be ripping or cutting, I don't want to know about it.
Now, briefly on to a little lighter subject matter. Let me tell you what I did yesterday. I went grocery shopping. Spent 106 dollars at Kroger. And do you know what I did for the first time in my life????? I bought whatever I wanted. I did not even once look at the calories in any item I bought. Doritos? Sure, two bags please. And I am talking about the Blazing Buffalo and Cool Ranch kinds - no baked chips for me! Cookies? Why not? Two boxes of already made cookies, sugar cookie mix, icing, and while I was on that aisle, why not pick up some blueberry muffin mix, brownie mix, and oh! they have cornbread mix - I bet that would be good. Canned food aisle - no problem. I skipped the canned green beans and went straight to the rotel tomatoes - I would later gather Velveeta cheese, don't worry - and the Spaghettios and the Chef Boyardee. I can't wait. Also got stuff to make Hot Tomato Grits -
*As a side note, I tasted the hot tomato grits last weekend at Abby's baby shower. Rebecca, if you are reading this, this recipe has changed my life forever, and I have eaten it for at least one meal a day since then. Anything with bacon, cheddar cheese, and rotel tomatoes has to be good. Eat it with an apple on the side, and it is, well it is simply amazing.
Also amazing to me lately: the phenomenon of pickled foods. Which made up a significant portion of my 106 dollars at Kroger. I bought pickles, pickled jalapenos, pickled corn, pickled okra, pickle relish, and pepprocini peppers, and to top it all off, Ranch dressing. Because pickles topped with ranch dressing is the snack of true champions. I am almost positive of this.
While checking out, I felt so self-conscious about my basketful of junk food I found myself telling the check out girl that I was pregnant. To which, she told me she gained 96 pounds while she was pregnant (oh crap - should I put the cake mix back? maybe just get one bag of chips??) and didn't know she was pregnant until she was 4 months along because she never missed her period and was on birth control. Hmmm.
What is about the phenomenon of pregnancy that makes complete strangers think it is okay to discuss the presence or absence of their menstrual cycle with you at the checkout line in Kroger? More on this topic later.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
I'm Busting Out - and I want the world to know ....
This past weekend I spent a lovely day doing the baby thing. Started out the a.m. at a baby shower for a friend (congrats Abby - the baby shower was wonderful!) and then went to meet my mom to do an assortment of baby stuff. Most importantly on her list: finding baby bedding to complete the "Baby's Room" (which was once, and still technically is, my room, but my importance in the room seems to be diminishing at about the same speed my belly is growing).
Most important on my list: buying pants. And oh did I buy pants. I bought black pants and gray pants and green pants and brown pants and khaki pants. And they were all glorious. Each of them had wonderful, expandable, sewn in belly panels. For those of you not understanding the importance of this...please read the previous post. They all fit without circulation being cut off to lower extremities and none of them are in any risk of falling down in a public place. I may never go back to non-maternity pants. Ever.
Now, while I was in the last dressing room of the day, shoving myself into my non-maternity jeggings wishing I could wear a pair of my new, panelled pants out of the store I notice something quite embarrassing - my shirt had a hole in it. And not like a "oh darn I snagged my shirt on a nail and didn't realize it" kind of hole. No friend. A "I am busting out of the seem of my shirt - like literally the seams are ripping apart" kind of hole. Freaking great. I get the whole pant situation taken care of but now the top half of my wardrobe is ripping open - literally. Oh, and even better. I have been all over the greater Jackson area with the seams of my shirt ripped open. Which led me to this....an image I am scared I will be resembling by June. She should really invest in a full belly panel.
As you seen, she has decided to forgo sleeves all together. Which is smart. You don't want to mangle the sleeves ...
So I think...well crap. Guess I need to get some maternity shirts. But wait. Wait one little second. THIS IS A MATERNITY SHIRT. Good gosh o'mighty. I am ripping open maternity shirts. And I am fifteen weeks pregnant. I am going to have to buy a Coleman Tent to wear for the next five months. I make that guy (see above) look like an amateur. He has muscles to rip open his shirt. I just needed my sausage arms. And an apparent lack of treadmill time. And a baby the size of an apple.
I walked around with a shirt ripped open all day. At a baby shower. At Target. At Motherhood. At lunch. But, lets this this through. Maybe I don't have to buy a tent right off the bat. Perhaps I can invest in a MuuMuu. I googled them. You can totally still buy these stylish items of yesteryear. Found a website. $1.99 shipping. I like this little number in particular. Its got sass.
But now, after a few days of reflection and clarity, I have decided to wait on the tent/muu muu purchase. Perhaps it was just a manufacturer's defect in my ripped-arm shirt. Perhaps, I could just ask someone who knows how to sew to do what they do and fix my shirt and stitch it a little tighter this time. PERHAPS I should go buy (and then eat ) an entire jar of olives immediately. Because I am almost positive you should be rewarded for ripping open a shirt at only fifteen weeks pregnant. Its hard to do. Or so I hear.
Oh yeah, speaking of being fifteen weeks pregnant. I forget, I am supposed to be documenting my pregnancy. Writing about the joys of impending motherhood so Peanut can come back one day and read about just how excited we were about it's/his/her arrival. Right, right, right. Okay, lets see . . . an actual update.
Well I went to the doctor last week and got to hear its/his/her heartbeat. Which the doc said was perfect. I think her exact words were something like "you have a strong, healthy baby in there." I wanted to tell her it was from all the bacon I had been eating, but didn't think she really cared. But hearing good news about your child's heart is always reassuring. AND ....we now have a date set for the gender release party - February 9. I am excited to be able to drop the whole it/him/her/shim game. Feel like I am at a bad tranny drag show that just won't end.
Stay tuned.
Most important on my list: buying pants. And oh did I buy pants. I bought black pants and gray pants and green pants and brown pants and khaki pants. And they were all glorious. Each of them had wonderful, expandable, sewn in belly panels. For those of you not understanding the importance of this...please read the previous post. They all fit without circulation being cut off to lower extremities and none of them are in any risk of falling down in a public place. I may never go back to non-maternity pants. Ever.
Now, while I was in the last dressing room of the day, shoving myself into my non-maternity jeggings wishing I could wear a pair of my new, panelled pants out of the store I notice something quite embarrassing - my shirt had a hole in it. And not like a "oh darn I snagged my shirt on a nail and didn't realize it" kind of hole. No friend. A "I am busting out of the seem of my shirt - like literally the seams are ripping apart" kind of hole. Freaking great. I get the whole pant situation taken care of but now the top half of my wardrobe is ripping open - literally. Oh, and even better. I have been all over the greater Jackson area with the seams of my shirt ripped open. Which led me to this....an image I am scared I will be resembling by June. She should really invest in a full belly panel.
As you seen, she has decided to forgo sleeves all together. Which is smart. You don't want to mangle the sleeves ...
So I think...well crap. Guess I need to get some maternity shirts. But wait. Wait one little second. THIS IS A MATERNITY SHIRT. Good gosh o'mighty. I am ripping open maternity shirts. And I am fifteen weeks pregnant. I am going to have to buy a Coleman Tent to wear for the next five months. I make that guy (see above) look like an amateur. He has muscles to rip open his shirt. I just needed my sausage arms. And an apparent lack of treadmill time. And a baby the size of an apple.
I walked around with a shirt ripped open all day. At a baby shower. At Target. At Motherhood. At lunch. But, lets this this through. Maybe I don't have to buy a tent right off the bat. Perhaps I can invest in a MuuMuu. I googled them. You can totally still buy these stylish items of yesteryear. Found a website. $1.99 shipping. I like this little number in particular. Its got sass.
But now, after a few days of reflection and clarity, I have decided to wait on the tent/muu muu purchase. Perhaps it was just a manufacturer's defect in my ripped-arm shirt. Perhaps, I could just ask someone who knows how to sew to do what they do and fix my shirt and stitch it a little tighter this time. PERHAPS I should go buy (and then eat ) an entire jar of olives immediately. Because I am almost positive you should be rewarded for ripping open a shirt at only fifteen weeks pregnant. Its hard to do. Or so I hear.
Oh yeah, speaking of being fifteen weeks pregnant. I forget, I am supposed to be documenting my pregnancy. Writing about the joys of impending motherhood so Peanut can come back one day and read about just how excited we were about it's/his/her arrival. Right, right, right. Okay, lets see . . . an actual update.
Well I went to the doctor last week and got to hear its/his/her heartbeat. Which the doc said was perfect. I think her exact words were something like "you have a strong, healthy baby in there." I wanted to tell her it was from all the bacon I had been eating, but didn't think she really cared. But hearing good news about your child's heart is always reassuring. AND ....we now have a date set for the gender release party - February 9. I am excited to be able to drop the whole it/him/her/shim game. Feel like I am at a bad tranny drag show that just won't end.
Stay tuned.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
The Band
Before I begin, a quick update: Yesterday, my daily pregnancy calendar stated: "Mom may find her skin drier during pregnancy. Lotions may help." And no they do not have a comment section for me to thank them for their informative posts. I checked.
Now, on to serious business. When I was 20, if I someone had asked me, "have you heard about the band?" I would have responded with the following phrases/concerns, "I already got tickets to the next show" "Do you still have your fake ID?" "I am wearing my yellow and blue patchwork skirt" and possibly "Do you think they will be selling grilled cheeses in the lot afterwards?"
Now, a mere seven years later, I write this with a sigh, a little smile, and a story that has nothing to do with grilled cheese and hippies.
As the number of pants in the category "Things that Still Fit" continue to dwindle, I decided to buy a Band. A Belly Band to be exact. If you know what this is, please do not judge my inability to cope with parenthood. If you don't - let me paint you a picture. Imagine your tightest pair of Spanx with the crotch and legs missing. More like a bandeau top made out of Spanx material. Now imagine that you are going to use this contraption to "extend the wear of your non-maternity pants until the very end of your pregnancy."
Sounds good right? Yeah, well that's what I thought too. So the other day, I put a pair of slacks that were not longer buttoning and decided, what the heck - I'll give it a try. So off I go to a long day in court with nothing but the Belly Band separating my new, size huge, Haynes her Way undies from the world.
Well, apparently, they should include some freaking directions with this Chinese torture device. Because here I am in the middle of the courtroom and I feel the sinking (literally) sensation that my pants are slowly sagging. And then I realize with horror that my damn Belly Band has rolled up to the belt loops of my pants, my zipper is slowly unzipping a little further with every breath I take, and my pants are literally two breaths from falling down to around my ankles.
Whats a girl to do? I have on a tunic that is keeping my tighty whities under wraps at the moment, but for some reason I think that when my dimply, unshaven thighs are glaring at the mass of people behind me, someone, just someone might notice.
So, I slowly lower my arms to my sides as tightly as I can, clenching my pants up mildly effectively, and do a cross between a waddle and a shuffle to the nearest bathroom with the mumbled excuse of "you know pregnant ladies, always gotta pee." Once there I rip the thing off, and then realize well crap I can't button my pants but I can't very well not button them either. Sooo, I end up just putting the durn Belly Band back on above the now repositioned slacks and hoped for the best.
In case you were wondering what happened....well the same thing kept happening until lunch when I joyously ran home, put on a jogging suit, and made up the excuse of mad paperwork in the office to avoid having to go back to the courtroom for the rest of the day.
I am going this weekend to buy bigger pants.
Now, on to serious business. When I was 20, if I someone had asked me, "have you heard about the band?" I would have responded with the following phrases/concerns, "I already got tickets to the next show" "Do you still have your fake ID?" "I am wearing my yellow and blue patchwork skirt" and possibly "Do you think they will be selling grilled cheeses in the lot afterwards?"
Now, a mere seven years later, I write this with a sigh, a little smile, and a story that has nothing to do with grilled cheese and hippies.
As the number of pants in the category "Things that Still Fit" continue to dwindle, I decided to buy a Band. A Belly Band to be exact. If you know what this is, please do not judge my inability to cope with parenthood. If you don't - let me paint you a picture. Imagine your tightest pair of Spanx with the crotch and legs missing. More like a bandeau top made out of Spanx material. Now imagine that you are going to use this contraption to "extend the wear of your non-maternity pants until the very end of your pregnancy."
Sounds good right? Yeah, well that's what I thought too. So the other day, I put a pair of slacks that were not longer buttoning and decided, what the heck - I'll give it a try. So off I go to a long day in court with nothing but the Belly Band separating my new, size huge, Haynes her Way undies from the world.
Well, apparently, they should include some freaking directions with this Chinese torture device. Because here I am in the middle of the courtroom and I feel the sinking (literally) sensation that my pants are slowly sagging. And then I realize with horror that my damn Belly Band has rolled up to the belt loops of my pants, my zipper is slowly unzipping a little further with every breath I take, and my pants are literally two breaths from falling down to around my ankles.
Whats a girl to do? I have on a tunic that is keeping my tighty whities under wraps at the moment, but for some reason I think that when my dimply, unshaven thighs are glaring at the mass of people behind me, someone, just someone might notice.
So, I slowly lower my arms to my sides as tightly as I can, clenching my pants up mildly effectively, and do a cross between a waddle and a shuffle to the nearest bathroom with the mumbled excuse of "you know pregnant ladies, always gotta pee." Once there I rip the thing off, and then realize well crap I can't button my pants but I can't very well not button them either. Sooo, I end up just putting the durn Belly Band back on above the now repositioned slacks and hoped for the best.
In case you were wondering what happened....well the same thing kept happening until lunch when I joyously ran home, put on a jogging suit, and made up the excuse of mad paperwork in the office to avoid having to go back to the courtroom for the rest of the day.
I am going this weekend to buy bigger pants.
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