Herein I write about the inane details of my life, including the arrival of the fabulous and spunkiest toddler EVER, Miss Thang; the evil workings of my two darling hell-minions, my cats; the fabulous love of a dreamy man whom I married, The Funasaurus; my overall dislike of anything exercise-y; and my grand aspirations to one day be the reigning monarch of Norway... and also to hold the record for gallons of cabernet consumed in one happy hour. Oh. And a love of run-on sentences. Bienvenue!
Sorry for the slacking, work has been kicking my ass.
Because I have nothing fabulous to tell you about (unless you are interested in the color and consistency of my child's poop? Yes? Email me. I will write you a novella, I have much to say on that subject) I will instead direct you to some other recent awesomeness that I've discovered.
Tavi [Sometimes I hate her just a little bit for being more self-aware and eloquent at fourteen than I am at thirtyshmhshm, but mostly I think she's awesome.]
Post Script: Read Tavi's entry about Terry R. post at your own peril. As a vaguely feminist, modern woman, I have always harbored quite a bit of anger towards the porn industry. As a mother, I literally got sick reading that post, and could only think about putting a blanket around that girl's shoulders and telling her I would personally hunt down that vile man and hurt and humiliate him in a way that would never allow him to do the same to another young girl. Then I cradled my own child to sleep in my arms for the first time in a while. It is still haunting me.
On a lighter note, without trying to jinx it, I think I managed to salvage my strawberry plants despite this week's snowstorm. Yay for container gardening! The produce may never be big, but it also got to spend a cozy evening in our balmy living room whilst the snowflakes swirled madly on the other side of the window.
I'm not one for conspiracy theories...but I kind of think the makers of the Snuggie have bought my horoscope writting company. Check out my horoscope for today:
If it makes you feel warm, snuggly and as well taken care of as can be, you need to try it -- even if it makes you feel faintly ridiculous at the same time. It may lead to an unexpected purchase, but that is okay. You're after quality, not quantity, and you definitely won't settle for anything less than what you need. It shouldn't be a major effort for you.
Exactly what else am I supposed to get from that? I may not be a vegetarian, but even I cannot justify a mink coat anymore.
So, world. I am glad you have kept turning! Life is going well, Miss Thang gets cooler and more engaged in her world every day, and I am slowly returning to parts of my own life that are not directly related to Miss Thang’s survival. I went on my first work trip, and while I missed Miss Thang desperately, I did a) drink wine b) sleep several consecutive hours in a row for TWO WHOLE NIGHTS, OMG, and I felt like I had chugged an entire pot of coffee I was so AWAKE the next morning, but without the jitters. It was awesome. Also reassuring to discover that being a mother has not, in fact, made me completely idiotic so much as exhaustion has. It’s cure-able! Hypothetically speaking. My kid’s now teething. That’s a barrel full of insomnia.
I also went to book club last night and stayed the whole time, and wow, it’s nice to have friends who exist outside of the internets. (Not that you aren’t all lovely. You are.) There was a lot of talk about living and growing up and whatnot, and the things you dream about doing and the things you actually do, and it’s nice to see that in our small group of 30-something white women, we’re fairly diverse, at least in regards to where we are in life. Some are starting families. Some are staring months-long treks into Alaska. Some just got back from Operation Smiles tours in India. Some are starting new jobs, enjoying new haircuts, and raw diets. Personally, I was enjoying the leftover Easter candy while listening to all of this.
I fluctuated between feeling nostalgic for a time when I traveled like that, and feeling exhausted thinking about going anywhere farther than the grocery store. I have hibernated all winter with my baby, protecting her from scary viruses named for barnyard animals and The Wind, which is basically Miss Thang’s nemesis. She does not like a breezy day. At all. But at some point I feel as though we will need to face the world again. I’m going to have to trust her immune system a little bit if I want to go rent a house on the French countryside some summer, and she’s going to have to deal with The Wind if she wants to come with me.
Despite the fact that it’s totally screwing with my sweet baby’s nice but delicate sleep schedule, I am a big fan of daylight saving’s time. Or, rather, the lack thereof. I like the longer evenings. I like eating dinner before it’s pitch black out. I like having bright sunny afternoons with the kiddo. Yesterday was a good day. Miss Thang and I enjoyed some sunshine and cuddling and playing. I’ve certainly had good moments here and there, but yesterday was a good day all day long. And I can say that now, because yesterday is over and cannot be dramatically changed. (I say, as if challenging the universe.)
Miss Thang is nearly five months old, and she has turned into this really cool little person. The change was recent, but it’s been wonderful. I mean, she’s always been precious and loveable and whatnot, but suddenly there’s this personality emerging. She’s got an opinion, she likes to laugh, and she’s becoming better and better at controlling and maneuvering her own body. Also, she seems to like me for more than my boobs, which I admit is very rewarding and long-awaited.
The other day I went to take a shower, and left her in the care of one Funasaurus. When I poked my head out when looking for a towel (ah, the luxury of having time to towel off!) I heard him talking. I wondered if he was on the phone, but then realized his tone was slow and rhythmic and he wasn’t pausing. I guessed he was reading to Miss Thang. Right then my little book nerd heart swelled and burst into a million little pieces. I rushed to get dressed and brushed my teeth (other things that make my heart happy these days) and then went to join them. As I walked towards the nursery, I could still hear him talking. I began wracking my brain for what children’s book we could possibly own that had that many words. Most of our books, so far, are board books and feature such compelling text as “cow says MOO.” As I got closer I heard him mention something about probing and hanging from a ledge.
My husband was reading my innocent baby Shutter Island.
‘Twas not quite the literary family gathering I had imagined when I was carefully arranging Dr. Seuss and Pat the Bunny along the wall before Miss Thang was born, but she was happily gumming a pink rattle wearing nothing other than socks while listening to her daddy, so I decided to let it be.
Meanwhile I have my first work trip coming up. I am dreading leaving Miss Thang overnight. It’s only two nights, but I am having anxiety issues when I think about it too much. Honestly, she’ll be fine, and the thought of sleeping through the night is seductive, but I am so attached to that bitty little person I just don’t want to be away from her.
I have been assured she will not forget about me in that time, so I take solace in that. And also in the fact that since I will have to pump and dump anyway, I can probably drink some wine. And by “some” I mean “a crapload more than just a sip, which is all I’ve allowed myself for the past YEAR.”
I am tired. I don’t know how you other working moms do it, I feel like I am spread as thin as could possibly be and I get to work from home. There are plenty of nights where I’m up working past midnight, trying to catch up after Miss Thang goes to bed. Then I’m usually up around 3:00 or 4:00 to feed her. And the cycle begins again somewhere around 6:00 AM. That leaves me very little time for the other details in my life, like blogging and personal hygiene.
Miss Thang is proving herself to be rather high-maintenance. I fluctuate, minute-by-minute, from thinking I am completely inept and failing completely as a mother to thinking that absolutely no one else could possibly care for my child the way that I do.
The other day I finally took a small break to run to Vitamin Cottage. I don’t get out of the house every day, so even those small errands feel like a delicious treat. I cranked up the local hip-hop station and found myself singing, “‘cause I’m a mother fuckin’ P-I-M-P” along with 50 Cent.
Then I took a little pause to eat a bite of an organic hippie fruit snack that I bought at Vitamin Cottage as I cruised along in my little fuel efficient sedan and glanced at my breast milk spit up stained t-shirt. I then had to concede that I am not, in fact, a mother fuckin’ P-I-M-P these days. In fact, I’m pretty much the opposite of that.
I think the Girl Scouts should (may already have, given how many showed up at our door this year) buy lists of addresses of recent patients from the hospitals so that they can go prey upon new moms. I cannot resist a) cookies b) cute little girls. I bought a shit ton of mediocre but highly nostalgic boxes of refined sugar this year.
What organization peddles large chunks of dark chocolate? If you come to my house with such a thing, I will convert to your religion. Just saying.
But even if I never got to taste chocolate again, she'd make life worth it. Lord, but tell me that face does not melt your heart.
Anecdote 1: I Bred a Street-Fighter. The other day I was bent over Miss Thang, making silly noises in an attempt to get her to smile. Apparently she had had enough. She grabbed a fistful of my hair right by the roots and then kicked me square in the jaw when I couldn’t move. Note to self: even babies hate your singing. Perhaps it’s time to turn on a CD.
Anecdote 2: I Care Not for Germs. My shower puff fell apart the other day while I was using it, thus indicating I was about three months late in buying a new one. So I grabbed one off the shelf at the supermarket when I went grocery shopping. The checkout woman scanned it, then proceeded to throw it at the pimply-faced bagger. She missed, and the poof landed on the floor and rolled away. She retrieved it, only to flirtatiously try to throw it at the guy again. I debated throwing a frozen pack of ground beef at her. How does she not realize that my intent is to use this thing for cleaning myself? I am not really interested rubbing grocery store floor germs all over myself. Thanks anyway. Asswipe. Please hold my place in line while I go grab a bottle of bleach to add to my purchases today.
Anecdote 3: I Do Not Appear to Have Much Left in the Way of Muscles I realized it’s probably been about a year since I last exercised. A year. So I decided to go jogging over the weekend. A woman from the nearby senior center with a walker almost passed me on the path around the lake. I. Am. Out. Of. Shape. But! Hey, this fresh air stuff is pretty awesome. I had kind of forgotten about it, what with hibernating with my baby this winter.
Anecdote 4: Fantasy Olympics. Because We're Cool Like That. Some friends have decided to do a fantasy Olympics this year. The draft is tonight. (We are only drafting countries. Once we know our countries, we can start caring about individual athletes. This is not a high-stakes kind of fantasy league so much as a contrive-a-way-to-make-ourselves-get-more-personally-vested-in-the-luge-type league.) I drew sixth place in the draft. Out of six people. The odds are not good that I will get to draft Norway, despite my protests that I should just automatically get it, given my personal ties, plus two other picks. The powers that be remain unmoved by my pleading. Note to self: Learn to plead better. Maybe I should try singing to them. It seems to inspire reaction.
Anecote 5: Miss Thang has had some serious reflux issues. My clothes all carry a permanent eau de milk puke scent on them nowadays. In an attempt to see if it will help, I am trying to cut dairy out of my diet, because apparently a lot of babies have cow’s milk allergies to varying degrees. All I can say is my world is rather bleak without cheese. And ice cream. Leading me to be kind of cranky and whiney in general. See: this entire post. In better news, I learned my local grocery store carries coconut milk! Who knew?
Thus a very disjointed blog post. As you can see, I’ve got some ADD going on. I have things to say and do, and then, whoa, look at that pile of laundry! And as the laundry is being added to the dryer, Miss Thang cries, and when she’s semi-soothed I realize I am dying from thirst, and as I’m pouring water I trip over Tatum who’s trying to tell me his dish is empty, and so I go to give him water and see his food bowl is empty too, so I go to feed him and spill food everywhere so I grab a broom and while I’m not paying 100% attention to her, Miss Thang barfs on me and everything else within a 50-foot radius and so I go to change her and as I throw her wet onsie in the laundry I’m like, HEY! I can add that to the load I started twenty minutes ago since I don’t think I actually remembered to turn the machine ON. And what was I saying...ADD much?
I don't really know what to say in light of the disaster in Haiti. Since becoming a mother, I've found my heart can break pitifully easily and it has been broken over and over seeing the images and hearing the stories coming out from Haiti. I made my donations, but it doesn't feel like enough. For some reason I've always had a soft spot in my heart for that island, though I've never been there. Sesame Street played its part. This was my introduction to Haiti:
Hi. I know I keep disappearing. I don’t know what has happened to my life. Sometimes I look at it and think, Whose life IS that? Certainly it isn’t the one I planned on. By thirty I was going to be sipping Bordeaux daily on the balcony in my chalet in Switzerland, responding to fan mail about my most recent best-seller over Audrey Hepburn-esque sunglasses, listening to my little goat herd bleat below.
I realize that’s fairly specific. I’d certainly have settled for France or Norway or something. I’m not unreasonable.
sigh
To be honest... I’m actually digging the whole mom-thing, but I am almost scared to admit that for fear of jinxing the little glimmer of hope that has appeared in the back of my mind’s eye. Miss Thang sleeps through the night (ish [not counting the regular 3:45 AM feeding, but she does go right back to sleep]) and it’s amazing what a little sleep will do for all of us. She also is seeing the world much more clearly, and spends a lot of time looking around taking in the very interesting doorknobs and couch covers in our house instead of screaming. Which has done wonders for my nerves. She's also unearably cute and has cheeks that I fantasize about gnawing on.
I started back at work this week, and we did find a nanny. She’s kind and teaches piano so there’s some hope for Miss Thang’s musical development despite her parents’ complete and utter lack of ability or knowledge in anything musical-y at all. (Her father’s unnatural fondness for a capella does NOT count.) So the nanny is awesome, but I miss my baby terribly, which is silly because she is just downstairs and I find plenty of reasons to go peek on her throughout the day.
The next step is getting back into the rest of my life. I have yet to figure out how to get to book club when Miss Thang’s bedtime routine involves needing certain pieces of my anatomy to be present at home, and I am not yet sure there’s a reliable way to ski with an infant attached. I remain optimistic, for I am getting sleep.
I am learning how to live on a lot less sleep, and have even managed to cook a meal once or twice. Life is returning to normal…ish. Plus, you know, a baby. My return to work date is looming, and I am both excited for it and dreading it. I miss my co-workers and using that part of my brain. I also do not want to relinquish the care of my precious baby to anyone whose name does not rhyme with Yumasaurus. But it must be done, and thus we have begun the fascinating and grueling process of finding a nanny.
We have posted a couple of ads, and the response has been varied. Some are easy to weed out. One of my first questions is, “Are you allergic to cats?” because, hi, those are our other babies. You cannot avoid the cat fur and love in our house. I’ve had one or two people tell me they’d be o.k. as long as they don’t touch the cats. And I must respond with “How about if they touch you?” because Tatum is very jealous of the baby, and demands equal attention and rubs all over you constantly if you deign to hold the baby and not him.
I also am not interested in smokers, which is pretty common among new moms. And while the correct answer to the question, “Do you smoke?” is “No” that no must be honest. I had one lady tell me, “Oh, no.”
…
“But if I do have a cigarette, it’s only at night. Socially. I would never smoke in front of the kids.”
Needless to say I didn’t invite her over for an in-person interview.
The grandmother who was unable to furnish any references besides her daughter was also rejected, as were all the university students who think they’d be a perfect fit for my 9-5 job, except they are in class during the day so they are only available on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 6:00 PM to 8:00 PM, except on the second Tuesday of every month when they have their drum circle that they are absolutely dedicated to and couldn’t possibly give up.
So far the front-runner for me is a Tibetan woman who says she likes to cook traditional Tibetan and Indian food. (Note we are not asking the nanny to cook, she was just talking about what she likes to do in her free time.) I was drooling, while The Funasaurus, who has a real issue with food that is mushy, looked on in horror. He, meanwhile, has a strong preference for the hot, young, yoga instructor who looks like Katie Holmes circa the post-Dawson’s Creek but pre-Tom Cruise era. Except skinnier. And Toned-er. Never mind that she is only available through August, those could be a glorious eight months or so.
Thank you for all the supportive comments. I am glad to hear from multiple sources that it gets easier. These days I’m just trying not to be too jealous of a swing…currently my daughter seems to prefer being in it than in my arms. This is both frustrating and also very convenient for getting other things done.
I had big plans to tell you all about the Ordeal of Tatum, but I am tired, so the abbreviated version is: the little poophead disappeared about a week after we brought Miss Thang home from the hospital. We were pretty sure he got outside somehow, and for five days I would sob hysterically on the couch at 3:00 in the morning as I listened to the coyotes howl just outside our front door, convincing myself that I was truly unfit to be a mother if I couldn’t even keep a cat safe. Tatum is cute but dumb, and I believe any sort of survival skills have been bred right out of him. It is also getting cold in Colorado, and Tatum does not possess much fur, so I was sure he had turned into a kitty popsicle for added coyote nibbling pleasure.
We all mourned the little stinker, even Sugar, who started crying at the door whenever we left, which was a habit she had back in the day that convinced us to get her a playmate in the first place. She would never admit it, but she missed Tatum a lot. I was…more open about my distress. The Funasaurus was sent out to troll the neighborhood whistling and offering faux mice to the wind many times.
On the fifth night, around 3:00AM, I thought I heard him cry as I was feeding Miss Thang. I made The Funasaurus get up and check outside. The night was apparently cold, but Tatum-less. Around 6:00AM I was SURE I heard him. So I sprang out of bed half-naked, with Miss Thang still attached, and ran all over calling him. (As fast as one can run with a newborn attached to your boob.) He was in the basement, just sitting on the other side of the door, all, “What took you so long?” He then proceeded upstairs where he snarfed some food and promptly demanded a mouse.
I called the 24-hour vet to see if we needed to bring him in for dehydration, and she asked if he was refusing food or acting lethargic. I moved out of Sugar’s way as Tatum chased her up the stairs, and decided we probably didn’t need to go in.
So he is home, safe, loved, and obnoxious as ever. He’s also quite jealous of Miss Thang, and has developed this habit where he demands to be held whenever she is being held. Fortunately, my parents have been down to help me out a lot, and while my mom helps with diapers and burping, my dad carries Tatum around (when he’s not throwing faux mice for him) and everyone feels useful and loved.
Now we just need to convince Sugar that when the baby finally goes to sleep we all need to go to sleep. Currently she sees it as her opportunity to cuddle with her very poke-y claws.
Hi hi. I am still here. Barely. I got four consecutive hours of sleep last night, which is the most sleep I’ve gotten in a month, and so I am feeling fabulous and productive this morning.
Motherhood is kicking my ass. We started a blog for family and friends with pictures of Miss Thang. I try to remain optimistic and light there, since we are not trying to strike fear into the hearts of our loved ones. But I plan on being a little more candid here. Overall, I think we’re doing pretty good. And each day IS getting a little easier, if only a tiny bit so. But it’s really fucking hard, too. There are so many decisions that have to be made while running on a nominal amount sleep and major amount stress. Who is it o.k. to whip out a boob in front of? Should I try and force this itty-bitty shirt over my screaming child’s head, or risk letting her freeze to death? Can I keep my mouth shut when yet another random person tries to give me advice that I already have heard fourteen times? Is it o.k. to try and grab a bite to eat when I’m starving if my child is still sobbing hysterically? Should I bother to try and clean the mold off of the dishes that are piling up in the sink, or just invest in paper plates someday when I make it back to the grocery store?
See what I mean? Candid. I am not open to criticism, thanks anyway.
Meanwhile, apparently the world outside continues to turn, but I am not really aware of it. I have lost track of days, but I am happy I get ten weeks of maternity leave to invest in this baby. Each day I learn a little more, and get a little closer to this tiny person. I do not know how women go back to work sooner. Really, my hat is off to you if you have done that. Also, I have a newfound respect for single mothers. That is an inconceivable notion to me. I do not think I could have physically or mentally gotten this far without The Funasaurus. Seriously, if you were raised by or know a single mom, perhaps you should buy her something very expensive and sparkly for Thanksgiving. And then again for Chanukah and Christmas. Also perhaps a crapload of liquor.
Speaking of Thanksgiving, we are actually hosting this year. And by “hosting” I mean, “we will unlock the door to our house and let my mom come in with all the supplies and cook in our kitchen.” Of course, we have a new gas stove, and we are smelling quite a bit of natural gas when we turn the oven on. The Funasaurus and I have blissfully gone about cooking (mostly chocolate chip cookies) in our exhausted new-parent stupor, but my mom is somewhat concerned about the natural gas. She has these silly concerns about blowing up our new little family, apparently that’s not part of her Thanksgiving day plan. So I have tried to call the builder, who told me to call the gas company, who told me to call this other number, who have told me they’d call back sometime to schedule a day to come out and test our oven.
I have doubts about whether this will happen before Thanksgiving. In which case, I am starting to wonder if we are going to have to just start popping little Cornish game hens one by one into our toaster oven starting around Miss Thang’s 3:00AM feeding on Thursday morning. That should be awesome.
Next up, the story of Tatum, the little shit we can’t live without.
I'm sorry posting has been light. (read: nonexistant.) Parenting has been as hard as I expected. It's rewarding in unexpected ways, and this little person is amazingly time-consuming for being all of seven pounds plus change.
More to come, I just wanted to let you know I survived labor (mostly) and there is a new princess in town. I'm not even sorry to share the title.
My brain is dead, making me kind of incompetent at things like walking, let alone writing. I do still want to write, but every time I get the slightest inkling the pregnant corner (is there a corner? I think it might have taken over the whole thing more like a supreme dictator) part of my brain goes, “Or you could nap.” And, really, napping is so amazing it is better than any drug you could ever possibly imagine. I love it so much.
Everything around here is also babybabybaby, and I didn’t really like those people before I got pregnant, so I’ve been reluctant to put it out on the interwebs that I am, indeed, that person now. I am all about the BabyCenter chat rooms, the pediatrician interviews, the measuring my cervix doctor appointments, the buying/borrowing plastic shit that I don’t really comprehend but apparently cannot raise a baby without, the packing my bags for the hospital, etc. I am also trying to stay employed, which is harder than it sounds when you factor in the aforementioned brain deadness, napping, and all-consuming baby lifestyle.
I feel like these are very first-world problems. Whaaa, I still can’t have brie and cabernet. Life is so hard. Also, how do you feel about cloth diapering?
Meanwhile The Funasaurus left for Seattle this morning for work, and I feel like we are perhaps tempting the universe just a little bit by sending him hundreds of miles away when I am less than two weeks away from my due date (and we know how much the universe likes to accommodate my plans) so I am trying not to panic and just squeezing my legs together really tightly for the next three days.
Last night I changed the sheets on our bed, and decided to put down a garbage bag underneath the sheet on my side in an attempt to save our mattress should my water break while I am sleeping. It could happen. I sleep a lot these days. I think I might have mentioned…? Anywhos, I woke up around 1:45 AM, sure that my water had broken, given that my hip (I can only sleep on my side now) was rather damp. I woke up, excited to tell The Funasaurus that his trip was cancelled. Also we were having a baby. But then I got up and walked and felt oddly dry everywhere else besides my hip and thigh. I did not quite understand what was going on, plus it was the middle of the night so I was only semi-conscious, so I decided to go back to bed to see what would happen. I woke up again three hours later, again with a wet hip and thigh, but nothing else, and suddenly a little lightbulb flashed in my brain and I realized that my water was probably still intact, but that I was drenched in sweat because I was sleeping on a plastic bag under nice, warm covers, OMG I AM AN IDIOT.
So the bag was removed and I remained dry for the rest of the night and The Funasaurus left and now I’m wondering what to eat for dinner that has the least likelihood of causing labor. Any suggestions?
Today The Funasaurus and I celebrated two years of marriage (when did that happen?) by eating burgers and chocolate cookies for dinner. We like to stay sophisticated like that.
Remember how I told you that my child seems to favor Beyonce, particularly the “Single Ladies” song? That was well-proved again after watching tonight’s episode of Glee, and its many iterations of that song, making my child sit up and wiggle each time the uh-oh-oh comes on. (Yes, I totally watch that show, just like everyone else. It is unexpectedly living up to the hype. Way to make musical theater mainstream, Fox. Who knew you could pull it off?) Apparently my child is not the only one.
I seriously cannot get enough of this video. Feel like my child is doing more or less the same thing on my bladder these days. I only hope she is that cute.
Speaking of the child…I am 36 weeks along. I am due in late-ish October, but potentially she could come sooner. Since we haven’t gotten around to getting a car seat yet (I hear we might want one of those) I’m hoping she continues to just stay where she is, abusing my bladder, for just a little bit longer.
The symptoms only get worse from here on out, though, including my pregnancy brain. The thing which led me to believe that it would be a good idea to try and catch a wasp that was in my house and save its little life by putting it outside today. Let me just tell you now so that you do not make such a silly assumption, wasps are indeed fucking ungrateful little bastards. Ungrateful little bastards with very pointy, venomous butts.
The full story starts with Sugar making some very excited noises in the stairwell today, and after a few minutes, I got curious as to what had made her excited enough to leave the Pooping Pigeon Show for such an extended amount of time. I find her and Tatum staring and pawing excitedly at the stairwell where a wasp is casually wandering along like he owns this ‘hood. As trips to the emergency vet clinic danced through my head, I waddled as quickly as I could to the bathroom, grabbed a hand towel, and decided to try and capture the thing and release it outside. The capture went well, the cats’ disappointment was palatable, and I waddled quickly to the front door, where I shook the towel…but nothing fell out. Feeling fairly badass by this point, I blithely looked around the towel instead of running for cover like one should know to do when one has captured, terrified, pissed-off, and forcibly removed a wasp from its ‘hood. Naturally, the little fucker was still clinging to the towel, looking for someone upon whom to unleash his rage.
Look no further, wasp! I am here, bloated and stupid and poking my sausage-like finger nearly in your face. Merry Christmas.
So that stung a lot. The towel is still outside, and I panicked, sure that I had somehow damaged my unborn child forevermore. I called the doctor, but only got a voicemail. So I called urgent care, but they said they couldn’t help unless I came in. I wasn’t sure if I was dying or perhaps overreacting just a little. I called my pediatrician friend, left a I’m-trying-to-be-cool-but-please-help! voicemail, and finally turned to Google, who assured me that unless I was having an allergic reaction, I, and my baby, were probably fine. Love u, Google.
This evening I went outside to collect the towel, and I’ll be darned, but the wasp’s corpse was still on the thing! So I tried to wipe it off, but wasp corpses are very clingy. Except it’s not really a corpse, because it suddenly sprang to life, not very excited about being wiped against the cement step.
Pregnancy brain is a very real thing, folks. It makes you something beyond moronic. Even morons tend to understand the concept of “once bitten, twice shy.” Take note. Also, please send Benadryl.
Fucking pigeons and their pooping habits. I have enough pink onsies, if someone would like to send me a BB gun as a baby gift, I will gladly accept it. Currently the pigeons seem to enjoy taunting my cats, and are pooping at least once an hour on my window and it makes me throw up a little every time it happens.
Speaking of windows, we still do not have window coverings. I wear a baseball cap to work, now, because the glare from the windows behind my computer is so bright. I also am still not so fond of showering (although to his credit, The Funasaurus did apply window frosting to our bathroom windows, so we are no longer giving nudie shows to potential neighbors every time we shower, so there goes that excuse for lack of hygiene) and between that, the baseball cap, and the three t-shirts I have in rotation that still fit over my enormous midsection, I am a sexy, sexy sight to behold. I am also so bloated that I had to wrench my wedding ring off because of circulation issues, and while I am very emotional about not getting to wear those right now, The Funasaurus really has nothing to fear as far as my lack of marital status symbol goes, for the few times a week I do venture out into public.
Meanwhile at work my boss has given her two week notice, and they have brought on a new director to our division, so I am subtly trying to ingratiate myself to him (fortunately, he lives in another state, or I might have baked him cookies) because I feel like taking off several weeks and delegating my work to other competent people is kind of spectacularly crappy timing right when there are huge shifts in management going on. At least there’s still work to do.
On that note, I should probably get back to it. That and/or a strawberry popsicle. Work and popsicles are (happily) not mutually exclusive concepts.
I know, I suck, it’s been weeks since my last entry. At first I was procrastinating writing because a sudden glitch came up with our new house. Our lender almost blew the whole deal for us, and I was a bundle of superstitious nerves and decided not to share with the internets, lest it jinx our plans.
Then the loan did go through, and suddenly it was like, oh, hey, we need to pack an entire house. Naturally work blew up for both of us at that exact moment as well, so we have been super busy. Plus, I don’t move as quickly as I used to, what with the enormous growth in my midsection. As a neighbor kid recently pointed out I am “GETTING REALLY FAT!” and I think I would have bitten his head off and eaten it had I been able to waddle over there fast enough. But then I decided to forgive him because the kid doesn’t seem to own pants. I’ve only ever seen him in oversized adult t-shirts that he likes to wear as dresses. Middle school’s going to be rough enough on him, I’m afraid.
We spent last weekend moving, and it was a process of organizing boxes, mediating between my mother and mother-in-law who…are very different people, and trying to ignore hearing the movers say, “Just risk it!” in Spanish, as they lifted my desk over the top of the stairs. Happily, my desk, computer, and files made it, the family is more or less in tact, and I did not go into early labor, which all bodes very well for our future in the new house.
The pigeons, on the other hand, are less awesome. They like to poop. A lot. Right onto my office window. Which I’ve had to keep open because we don’t have air conditioning and it’s fricking hot, especially upstairs. I’ve given up nursing a healthy paranoia of H1N1, and have reverted to the more retro Avian Bird Flu, as I’m sure that if it exists in any form in Colorado, it’s smeared in greenish-yellow gobs on my window screen. And Sugar has licked it.
Sometimes I fantasize about curling up in a ball under a clean, soft blanket with a bucket of organic chocolate ice cream and perhaps a bottle of antibacterial soap for the rest of my pregnancy.
I also fantasize about curtains, because we don’t have window coverings yet, so every morning is a bit of an adventure getting showered and dressed in our spacious new home with tons of oversized windows. Fortunately, the house right outside the windows of our bedroom and bathroom happens to be vacant, but it’s always a bit of Russian roulette with when the open house tours starts for the day.
On that note, I should probably go to bed. Or I will be tempted to sleep in in the morning. … I say, as though I am not tempted to sleep in every morning. I really hope this baby will continue to let me sleep 10+ hours a night when she is out of my womb. That would be nice.
Today I called a service that I like to call StupidCast to set up a new phone and internet line at our new house. It was a typical conversation with them, involving lots of emphatic NOs from me, lots of uncertain math by them, and a general desire to poke out my brains with a blunt object through my right eyeball by the end of it all.
Somewhere in the middle of that gawdawful conversation we had to come up with an installation date, and it just so turned out to be the same day as the birthday of the daughter of the lady I was talking with. Her daughter is turning 13.
Fine.
She still acts like a little girl.
Fine. Can we talk about what eight-hour time span I can expect a technician to show up and butcher our wiring? She still has kittens on her walls.
FINE, did you remember to include my precious DVR in that order?
She just got her first period.
Fi...WTF?
It’s about time to have THAT talk with her. You know, the one where…
YES, I KNOW. The things we don’t think about when we decide to have a baby, ha ha. (Except for now I am thinking about it. Thinking about talking to my unborn child about bleeding and mood swings and teenage pregnancy and OMG I really need a fucking rock to crawl under about now.)
In less-traumatic news, I have been hearing about people who play their kids classical music. Early start learning and all that. There is much controversy over volume levels, are earphones on the stomach effective, and the advantages of Mozart over Beethoven. I have chosen to eschew all of the above, and instead, when I rediscovered my iPod the other day, had myself and my engorged belly a little dance party to “Put a Ring on It” by the classic artist, Beyonce. Tonight, when Beyonce’s song “Halo” came on, the kiddo started kicking. Possibly coincidence, possibly my influence condemning her to a lifetime of poppy hip-hop. Here’s hoping she’ll have a little more rhythm than her mom.
Also, if you are looking for a very awesome baby gift, look no further: Sushi Booties. You’re welcome.
We have started attending baby classes at the hospital. There’s a special kind of birth control! So far we’ve learned about the many, many things that can go wrong, and this is all well-before the kid’s old enough to start lighting up in the bathroom shrouded in an ever-subltle cloud of incense and patchoulli.
In one exercise the instructor had all the expectant mothers get together and write a list of the best and worst parts about being pregnant. We made a valiant effort to come up with a few things for the “Best” side, so that the paper wouldn’t be completely uneven. Our “Worst” side was definitively longer. Although one smug woman looked up over her perfectly round little belly and finally admitted, “Gee, I just haven’t experienced any of that. I was never sick, I still sleep through the night, and I haven’t had any heartburn at all.” I thought the fact that the rest of our little group managed to not attack her for that little comment like a pack of savage heartburned dogs shows just how civil our society has become. There’s hope for our children.
Then we got back with our partners and the instructor read off their list of “Best Things About Pregnancy.” It began with “Huge boobs.” Hope may have faded just a little.
I have also started having yet another completely new symptom of pregnancy. It feels almost like…longing. For…
wait.
for.
it…
running.
So I know I am officially crazy. I have jogged, off and on, for about 15 years. Never once have I really felt a sense of enjoyment from it. I was not built to run, I never got endorphins or whatever that good stuff is that you atheletic-y types speak of. It was shit the whole time. Jogging was convenient, free, and something I could force myself to do before I had completely woken up, and therefore it stuck. Not for any sense of feeling good about it. And now, all of a sudden, seven months into pregnancy and lumpy and bloated and waddle-y, I am like, Hey. Remember when I used to be thin and could move quickly? That was kind of…nice.
WHO HAVE I BECOME?
I am chalking it up to Restless Leg Syndrome. We now have two body pillows in between me and The Funasaurus to help keep his shins intact through the night. This’ll all be easier when the baby comes, right?
