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...
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
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.
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