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.
Monday, February 28, 2011
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.
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