Archive for August, 2008
Well, it’s not a puppy or a cricket — it IS, in fact, an actual baby with actual baby-like appendages and fingers and toes and I’m reluctant to say this, as it sounds so sappy and mom sell-out-type talk, but it was one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen in my whole life. Call me stupid, but I didn’t know that babies moved so much at that stage. S/he was sleeping at first and then … oh, and then! There was moving and stretching and arm-waving and so! much! wiggling! that I burst into tears and heaved silently for a moment until the technician told me to breathe, oh my God, BREATHE. This is a major improvement over the last ultrasound, when the doctor said, “That’s your baby!” and I said, “Eh?” because it may as well have been my kidneys we were looking at. No, I’m sorry, I take it back: my kidneys would have been more exciting and probably more baby-like. I believe I then tried to cover my disappointment with, “Well, get the hell out of here! Nifty!” So convincing. Also, nifty?
Anyway, this ultrasound also included a 4D component, which was so cool and so unexpected, even if the baby looked more like Skeletor on it than on the 2D. (Adam: “You kind of uh, see too much there.” Me: “Ew, is that the placenta?”) The ultrasound chick said she could make a pretty good guess as to the sex of the kid, but the little rugrat REFUSED to uncross its legs, no matter how many times we jiggled and poked and laughed. He mocked us. I do, however, have a head-on shot of the uh, cheeseburger and/or twig & berries — three dots, which could be either a clitoris and two, uh, labial lips (I AM SO SORRY, DARLING BABY, THAT I AM TALKING ABOUT YOUR MAYBE CLITORIS AND LABIA) or a penis and two testicles. You know, one or the other. When Adam scans them in, I’ll post for your perusal, because to me, it screams BOYPARTS, but you know, she’s a professional, so whatever, we’ll go with her and her vague “Uh, no idea?” unless you have a better one.
Anyway, despite the fact that I’m still puking every night, I can honestly say I’ve never been more excited for anything in my whole life, and seeing that little thing in there changed me in a way that I can’t even describe. I am … I am a little embarrassed about this, because HELLO, I AM A CLICHE, but man. Nothing beats seeing my baby waving and kicking and getting pissed off at us for poking at it with an ultrasound wand. Nothing.
(CHEESY CLICHED PREGNANT LADY. HOW EMBARRASSING.)
In other, entirely unrelated news, there are few things in life that would improve my daily comfort than the ability to burp. I never burp — literally, I probably burp once or twice a QUARTER, if that — and I am so envious of easy burpers. You know, the people who just let loose with a good old BELCH that sounds like it FEELS SO GOOD and yes, I know it’s gross. Whatever. I’m jealous. My ability to fart on command is totally pale in comparison. Any attempt I’ve ever made to burp myself results in a lot of awkward hacking and the occasional gag. WTF?
We have no plans this holiday weekend, instead traveling the weekend AFTER to Syracuse for the premiere of the Ernie Davis biopic, The Express. (For those not familiar, Adam and I both went there, and my brother-in-law teaches there and works with the athletic department). Anyway, this event is, uh, formal and all Hollywood-like. Which is totally what every kegger-like early second trimester pregnant woman wants, the occasion to get all dolled up and rub elbows with B-listers while looking like she swallowed the contents of a Krispy Kreme franchise. I mean, I’m looking forward to it (and the Penn State game the next day), but still. I’m not looking forward to being the drunk-looking girl heaving in the bathroom in an ill-fitting cocktail dress, as I’m so not Jessica Alba.
It’s perhaps worth noting that the last formal-ish event I attended was my nephew’s wedding, where I was outed TO THE WHOLE WEDDING that I was seven weeks’ pregnant because I got caught throwing up behind the oh-so-stinky tires of my car in front of the entire smoking contingent at the reception, after being too afraid to puke in the bathroom and ruin the guests’ experience. I may not be Jessica Alba, but don’t say you can’t take me anywhere.
Have a great long weekend, y’all.
August 28th, 2008
I feel like I’ve just returned from some insane acid trip, complete with unbelievable highs, bizarre, sucker-punch lows and general surreality (totally a word) all around. If the houses melted into a pool of white chocolate, then miraculously appeared as though nothing had happened, I would have merely chalked it up to a laced prenatal vitamin.
I’ve been away again, this time in Pennsylvania for an engagement party of a childhood friend and a long visit with my parents. It was sort of my father’s greatest dream AND worst nightmare rolled into one — hooray! His daughter is pregnant! But wait! He’s a gourmet cook and all she wants is cereal! — because he couldn’t even cook for himself. I’m sure he has fond memories of me screeching “OH MY GOD NO. NO BASIL. NO. IS THAT TOMATO SAUCE? OH MY GOD,” while I lurched into the bathroom. My poor, poor dad.
Anyway, despite the lurching, I am feeling a bit better, which is leading to fears that I am no longer pregnant. This is somewhat ridiculous, considering that I am now wearing maternity pants, because I woke up on Sunday morning looking a bit puffy around the middle and now look like I’ve taken up an unfortunate habit of eating dozens of donuts in my spare time. Although given the fact that my mom made three kinds of pie, this isn’t unreasonable.
The first dose of surreal came while sitting around the table with my best childhood friends Matt and Charlie — people I’ve known since I was TEN — while I held my friend Matt’s newborn and laughed as he told me about birth from the male perspective (“The smell, dude. Jonna, THE SMELL,” he said, as his wife emphatically nodded along. “Matt is not over the smell and may never be.” I am now afraid of smells).
I mean, I sat there in Matt’s mother’s backyard pregnant, holding Matt’s BABY while talking to Charlie about his new marriage and plans for kids. So much about it could have been happening in 1985 — we could have still been ten-year-olds, laughing about bad movies and making fun of each other, while his mom served us lemonade — but it wasn’t, and we’re different and it was all absurdly “Sunrise, Sunset” and oh my God, what the hell, I’m an ADULT and PREGNANT and my friends have KIDS, what the HELL.
Whenever I hear that children need siblings, if only to have a witness to their childhood and help support each other as their parents age, I can’t help but think of these guys. I mean, these people still know me better than I sometimes know myself and vice versa and … well. I think we make our own families, even when our own aren’t necessarily deficient. It also gives me hope that if I have a girl — one of my biggest fears, by the way — maybe two little boys will befriend her in fifth grade and stay friends with her for her entire life, shielding her from all the drama and other crap everyone else complains they experienced in high school. (I had none. And it’s because of them.)
The insanity continued while maternity shopping with my mom, when I kept holding clothes up or trying them on saying things like, “But this is HUGE,” and her retorting, “Yes, but what do you think is going to HAPPEN TO YOU?” and I’ve gone up a whole band AND cup size and oh my God, I’m PREGNANT and it’s all very freaky and thrilling, but at the same time, a little upsetting. I mean, yes, there is the usual anxiety about the whole thing, but I also have to confess that I’m a little uncomfortable being pregnant around my parents because I don’t like them having concrete evidence that I’ve had …. *whisper* sex. Hello, I’m TWELVE.
It gives me the creeps, I don’t know why (see: TWELVE), despite the fact that I know that THEY had sex to have me — well, at least my bio dad and bio mom did. They’re no longer together. The set of parents I refer to here are the paternal side. I have a mom and dad on my maternal side too. And aren’t I so very modern and comfy with divorce and stepparents! Whee!
On the bad side of surreal, I’ve spent a lot of time over the last several days reeling from what’s happened to Lawyerish’s beautiful little girl. I wish there was a stronger word than … sucks, but I don’t think there’s a word that exists for such horror. I still believe that the world is mostly magical and wonderful, but sometimes it’s just shittastic and wholly unfair, like getting kicked in the gut over and over and over again.
I hope you have a great day. For my part, I have an ultrasound on Thursday, where I hope they’ll be an actual baby in there and not, say, a puppy or a cricket.
August 27th, 2008
First, a happy recommendation that I would like to share, thanks to my Flickr pal, the similarly knocked-up MeganJane: FiberOne Raisin Bran is your friend. My world is now a better place, thanks to this miraculous, fibrous cereal.
And now, for a small diatribe that can only be called “Miscarriage, Birth Defects and Other Harrowing Topics: It’s Not Your Fault (Except When It Is, You Selfish Ignorant Pregnant Dumbass)”
I really dislike how pregnant women are treated, and I don’t mean that in an every day “People are so mean to me!” way, but in the sense that we can’t be trusted to make informed decisions about what to eat, where to go and how to take care of ourselves, as though common sense has no place in pregnancy. I realize this is not new territory, and I might as well write a paragraph about Mommy Wars: Stay at Home or Go to Work?, but MY GOD. The insanity.
I’m all for women doing — and avoiding — whatever makes them comfortable, and certainly following their own doctors’ orders, but it’s when they go and PROSELYTIZE to other women about miscarriage, damage and birth defects that may or may not be caused by normally benign things that I feel like taking giant stabby things and applying them to the back of my hand for fun and profit.
(Despite a few potential flaws pointed out kindly by readers, one of the best pregnancy-eating posts I’ve ever read is from about a year ago from MegNut, which I’ve sort of followed, not that you asked. Although not that I’ve eaten any uh, meat or fish, since this whole thing began, because GROSS PUKE EW. But I have eaten eggs benedict. Flog me.)
The truth is, and I realize I’m speaking with a grand total of two months’ active pregnant time, thanks to the one-month gimme before the peestick turns pink, but if these few months are any indication, hot damn, pregnancy is going to be LONG. It’s a long time to not eat and avoid medication and give things up, and most stressfully, WORRY about what you’re giving up and is it right or wrong and oh my God, I ate bacon that wasn’t TOTALLY CRISP and, am I going to die now? How about now? IS MAH BABY OKAY?
And I really don’t think that admitting that it sort of sucks makes you a bad mother. Neither do hot showers, although would you believe there are women screeching all over the Internet that pregnant women should only take LUKEWARM showers, to as to avoid cooking their baby to death? Seriously. I’ve seen it. Some poor woman will ask about a hot bath (a surprisingly controversial issue) and a crazy lady will jump in with “NO! NOT EVEN A HOT SHOWER! I was told to take cold showers during my whole pregnancy! You could kill your baby!”
Fine, you don’t want to take hot showers, FINE. But please don’t tell someone she’s going to kill her baby. And I don’t know about you, but I’m sure as hell not taking a cold or even LUKEWARM shower in December. I think hypothermia may be a greater risk than elevated body temperature after a 15-minute session under the spray.
(This is a mutation of the no-jacuzzi rule, which many doctors are wishy-washy about, because in order to do any real damage, many believe that you’d have to be lying in a hot sauna/jacuzzi for 10 hours or more, when most women become sweaty and faint like, uh, WAY BEFORE THAT. And would likely GET OUT. Also, I came to this conclusion after much Googling and doctor-like discussion and maybe a frantic post-hottish-bath e-mail to Sundry, but whatever. AM ZEN-LIKE NOW, BITCHES.)
(Not that I’m getting in a sauna anytime soon. Or like, ever. Please don’t e-mail me.)
Please note that I haven’t even touched the soft cheese issue, wherein women across America are not cream cheesing their bagels because someone decided they don’t know what “raw milk” or “mold-ripened or “not fresh” means, so they just throw “soft cheese” at them and run away. Because of course, pregnant ladies are ILLITERATE and cannot understand such terms.
It’s also not just on the Internet that such insanity exists. Don’t even get me STARTED on the spa lady who lectured me that my baby was “barely in there” at 11 weeks and if I wasn’t careful, the baby could fall out and I could miscarry. Like on a DIME.
The major thing that grates my (hard, pasteurized milk, non-blue-veined) cheese about this is that it sends the message that if you have you have a miscarriage or, God forbid, have any problems with your infant whatsoever, it’s your fault. When of course, barring extreme, generally obvious circumstances, this just isn’t true, and I hate hate HATE that anyone, for one second, would beat themselves up any more than is necessary for something that was, in all extreme likelihood, entirely unavoidable. There is plenty of tragedy and woe without adding self-hatred and flagellation to the mix.
Blah, blah, blah, I’m not a doctor, do what your doctor says, etc., but for the love of God, try to stop making yourself (and the rest of us) crazy.
(Also, realize by getting knocked up, I signed on for a LIFETIME of worried craziness, but allow me to bitch about one worry at a time, yes?)
Anyway! Let us talk about fast food! Despite the fact that it’s vastly popular to eschew and despise fast food (and with good reason), I must say, it has its moments of beauty, and I felt this way before I was pregnant. Though my general preference is for brined vegetables, I do not deny that there were many moments where nothing in the world would do other than a bean burrito with extra hot sauce from Taco Bell, and good LORD am I pissed that I live in a land without Chipotle. And look, no road trip is complete without mournfully gazing at the street signs wondering if any exit will include an Arby’s for her, Taco Bell for him.
And then there are Chicken McNuggets. The (well, this, anyway) pregnant lady’s ambrosia. I’m a little embarrassed to admit that one of the few establishments that always goes down without issue is McDonald’s. And though I’ve never really enjoyed — or even TRIED — Chicken McNuggets in about ten years, it seems I cannot get enough. The only request I have is that will someone please come and feed Adam? I’m afraid he’s going to die before this baby is born from some sort of Morgan Spurlock-like system shutdown, and it will be all my fault.
I think we’ve reached the end of the pregnancy ranty-type line, at least for a little while. I’m sorry to have tortured you so, and I’m sorry if I sounded like a condescending know-it-all ass. I realize that I really know nothing and am mere student in the game of gestation.
*G-Love. And for the love of God, make sure it doesn’t contain cream cheese.
August 20th, 2008
I was idly flipping through the channels this afternoon when I discovered, via TiVo’s guide, that there is a show called Hurl! — just like that, exclamation point and all. Fittingly, the description says that this week’s episode is about broccoli and cheese, as well as some sort of octopus carnival. I feel, somehow, that this show was made specifically with me in mind, but given that I don’t receive the channel, I may never know for sure.
I promise, one day very soon, we WILL move on from the all-pregnancy-all-the-time channel, it’s just that … well, I’ve been holding it in, and it’s almost as though I can’t move on until it’s out. I’m sorry.
And besides, I’m happy to report that things are mildly looking up, after what I can only hope was one of the lowest points in my first trimester, of which there is less than one week, thank God. Around noon on Friday, my downstairs neighbors — who come home for lunch every day — made a batch of onion rings in their FryDaddy, which caused a rather volcanic reaction, if I may be so indelicate. From the moment the smell of boiling oil reached my bedroom (yes, my bedroom), I kept nothing down. The smell, like an unwanted houseguest, lingered for many, many hours, each whiff stronger and more debilitating than the last.
It finally dissipated around dinnertime, at which point I felt safe to eat something, but not five minutes later, SURPRISE! LET US FRY AGAIN. Chicken, this time. In the fucking FryDaddy. Who the hell has a FryDaddy? WHO?
This, my friends, is how I found myself on the floor of the bathroom, curled up on my rubber-backed bathmat crying like someone DIED. I sobbed and sobbed and wheezed and sobbed like I haven’t sobbed in DECADES while Adam hovered nervously outside the door, because his wife, quite frankly, had come entirely undone. Over ONION RINGS.
Saturday, I tearfully asked them to lay off the deep frying for another few weeks, and they agreed, horrified they’d upset me so, while simultaneously thinking I was insane. Also? Tonight, they made pesto, the smell of which has made me retch three times so far. I don’t suppose it’s too much to demand they eat Bechamel sauce and white rice every night?
This brings me to the fact that I am truly mystified that no one has figured out a way to capitalize on the supersonic smelling abilities of pregnant women. I can’t help but feel like this is USEFUL in some way, and if there were a less dangerous sniffing occupation other than bomb sniffing, pregnant women should be all over it. Well, provided there are barf buckets nearby, and that the position is highly paid to justify all the occupational puking.
While relaxing in the park on Lake Champlain on Saturday, I perked up like a prairie dog, my delicate senses sullied by the whiff of a meat product.
“Oh my God, Adam, there’s a HOT DOG STAND somewhere.” I sniffed the air suspiciously.
“I don’t smell anything.” He inhaled deeply. “Seriously, Jonna. I smell the lake. There’s NOTHING.”
I sniffed again. “It’s not just hot dogs. It’s SAUSAGE. THEY HAVE SAUSAGE TOO. GROSS.”
Meanwhile, there wasn’t a stand in sight. But I’ll be damned if I didn’t get up to go to the bathroom — more than a half-mile away — and find a hot dog stand. With sausage. And peppers. And creemees, which you would think would be soft serve ice cream, if you saw one, but you would be wrong — it’s a Vermont thing, I think.
They are much … creamier, which is why they should be called creamies instead of creemees, which looks like something made of very sharp steel, perhaps designed for filing down bits of cartilage while it makes a loud screaming noise. But really, they have a higher milkfat content, or so I’m told. This could be Vermonter bullshit talking, but I believe it wholeheartedly, and even covered my nose long enough to wait in line to get one — chocolate and vanilla twist, and it was delicious. I’m thinking of investing in a creemee machine for my house.
I’m off to see how I can make that happen. I hope you have a great Monday!
August 17th, 2008
I can’t get enough orange juice. Do you have orange juice? Because if you do, I want mine AND yours. I gave a glass to a friend this afternoon and found myself selfishly eyeing her glass, worried that the two (2) half-gallons still in the fridge wouldn’t be enough and I’d later begrudge that one glass I gave up at 4 p.m.
In other news, I have Mutant Thumb, thanks to a mystery sting, and I’m starting to feel personally targeted by every insect in a five-thousand mile radius. Ticks? Check. Mosquitoes? Check. Mystery Insect? CHECK CHECK CHECK. Honestly, my right thumb is now twice the size of my left, and I am now considering a full-time job as a hitchhiker. It’s actually hilarious, not unlike Martin Short in “Pure Luck”, but on a very tiny scale. Behold! I shall crush you beneath my cartoon thumb!
And since I’m exhausted after a not-so-good day of a ridiculous amount of phone time and some high-quality puking, I’ll leave you ahead of schedule with a reminder that pregnancy is still as glamorous as ever:
What … what in the hell is that YELLOW THING that looks like it’s meant to … oh my God. I actually gasped when I opened up the package, because seriously WHAT IS THAT OH MY GOD?
Happy weekend! That’s really all I wanted to say.
August 14th, 2008
Greetings from the land of hysteria! So. Today I was bitten by a tick. Yes, A TICK. I don’t know where it came from — I’m assuming the dog brought it in, who brought it to me, and … I don’t even know. It was awful. I don’t know if it was a deer tick or what, but it bit me on the neck, there was blood, and OH HELLO. GOOD MORNING. HOW GREAT IS PREGNANCY NOW?
Also, who’s excited for a preventative round of amoxicillin? FOR LYME DISEASE. (My doctors are conferring to make sure this is the course of action, which seems harsh, but then again, they’re all “LYME DISEASE IS VERY BAD FOR PREGNANT LADIES”.) Oh yes. What every sick pregnant woman wants. A medicine whose side effects include nausea! vomiting! diarrhea! and stomach pain! Not to mention, you know, any medicine at all. I’m a sort of laid-back pregnant lady most of the time (i.e., I ate a poached egg or two. Call the pregnancy police!) But COME ON. This is … this is sort of pushing it, if only because EW TICKS GROSS.
Did I ever pretend to like Vermont? WELL I WAS LYING. TICKFEST.
I’ve sort of had it. I don’t know with who or what, but with SOMETHING. SOMEONE WILL PAY.
(Also, am mildly hysterical over this. Just … I don’t know why, I just am.)
(Plus, am tiniest bit scared. Google is not my friend. Repeat, GOOGLE IS NOT MY FRIEND.)
(In addition, our landlords are selling the house we live in, forcing us to move March 1, if not sooner. When is mah baby due? MARCH 7. Ticks and moving in the third trimester! What excitement our world has brought forth!)
Anyway! Let us move on from less terrifying topics. I finished the Twilight series inside of a week and while it was compelling enough for me to want to read them all in relatively quick succession, I have to tell you, by the end, I was pretty freakin’ sick of it. In fact, the last 100 pages moved so damn slowly for me, I started dreading picking it up. Edward and Bella, Edward and Bella, Edward and Bella, OH MY GOD SHUT UP. YOU LOVE EACH OTHER. WE KNOW. Edward is hot. Bella is stunning. Jacob is hot, and by that, I mean temperature-hot. YAWN. YOUR LOVE TRANSCENDS TIME. SHUT UP.
(Btw, have you read Metalia’s drinking game? Best thing on the Interwebs right now.)
By the way, probably contributing to the tickfest was the fact that until this afternoon, our yard resembled … I don’t even know. Some wild African plain during the rainy season. For reasons unknown, our lawn man opted not to show up FOR A MONTH, despite repeated phone calls (and being paid promptly), and since we have three acres and no mower and no contract anywhere else, we were … well, we were sort of screwed. So yes. Let’s blame the lawn man for the tick.
Let us also laugh at the fact that my next-door neighbor (retired gun-toter) mows his lawn TWICE A WEEK and worked himself into such a state over our lawn’s disarray that he came over and mowed the front lawn while we were on vacation. For some reason, this amused me greatly, for this is a man who POLISHES HIS LAWN MOWER in his spare time. You know the great plains were making him batshit INSANE.
And finally, three things:
1) I wish Barack Obama’s name were Obama Barack. I don’t know why, it just sounds better to me. I keep thinking that’s what it is, and when someone calls him Barack, I’m always thinking no no, his first name is OBAMA. Also, I have a giant crush on Michelle (Barack) Obama, and I don’t know how you can NOT.
2) I had a ladies’ lunch with my sister and a few of her friends at the Manchester outlets today, and I … well. I experienced my first taste of women (other than my sister) sharing their birth stories with me and uh, oh my God? I’m not particularly queasy, nor have I ever really been afraid of childbirth, but when a woman details that she opted for a natural childbirth with her second because of (OMG) THIRD-DEGREE ANAL TEARING with her first, I … well. I didn’t have a specific birth plan in mind, but now I have something to focus on: AVOID ANAL RIPPAGE.
3) Have I told you lately that I love you? You all pee too! I have never felt closer to all of you, honest to God, and I wish I were saying that with sarcasm, because it sounds a bit stalker-like. But MAN. Thank you.
Happy Wednesday, y’all! May you be tick-free!
August 12th, 2008
Oh man. I love you. Thank you. I loved your comments, I loved the people who came out of the woodwork and it’s safe to say that I pretty much sobbed my way through them. Before you think I’m insane, please also understand that I cry my way through every Pampers commercial on the airwaves and almost had a tearful breakdown when I realized that the health food store might have been out of the Ethiopian chickpea stew thing that was the only thing on earth I could imagine putting to my lips for dinner tonight. (I found it, but not before pawing my way through every container on the shelf in a terrified, desperate act.)
Anyway! A few pregnancy-related housekeeping issues, so that I don’t bore you with it every second of the day. It’s just that I’ve been HOLDING IT IN FOR SO LONG. Please indulge me.
— Can I just get a bit of retroactive sympathy for the fact that I was pregnant during the maggot incident? MAGGOTS. WHILE PREGNANT. AND ILL. Hold me. Or rather, hold my hair.
— Shortly after declaring my love for Totino’s pizza rolls, I threw them up. Another one bites the dust. Our affair was brief, but torrid and lustful.
— I do plan on finding out the sex, absolutely, and will tell everyone who asks (but I won’t share the name until after h/she’s born). While I admire those who can wait, I am not one of those people. I see the merits of not, but I don’t like surprises, and as I’ve said elsewhere, that day will be packed with plenty of surprises and open-ended questions, including the age-old “Jesus fuck, will I poop on the delivery table or not?”
— I don’t sleep much anymore. Yes, yes, fine, preparation for the baby, but until the Bun actually ARRIVES, I’d like to sleep a little. I lie there like a bump on a pickle, but I can’t sleep. And of course, by the time I fall asleep, my bladder is screaming, I’m nauseated and hungry and I’m up! I’m up! BUT I AM SO TIRED. What the hell? What is this fresh horror of sleeplessness?
— This is the least dignified thing I’ve ever endured. Ever. Between actually laying my cheek on the seat of strange toilets in an effort not to pass out and crack my head on the porcelain, I have also — and I can’t believe I’m admitting this, but if I can help another pregnant woman feel less alone in her embarrassment, IT WILL BE WORTH IT — thrown up until my bladder control ceases to function. And I … I don’t even know what to say about that, other than seriously? SERIOUSLY? For the record, a preemptive pee does nothing, as my body seems to have RESERVES designed for optimum humiliation. I was one accident away from buying new underwear on vacation. Enough said. Send Depends.
— Why didn’t anyone tell me the grocery store smells SO BAD? SO BAD. SO HORRIBLY BAD. The cases of fresh meats! The seafood section! THE FIDDLEHEADS OH MY GOD THE CREEPY FIDDLEHEADS LURKING INNOCENTLY NEXT TO THE LETTUCE WTF? I’ve taken to lurching in and out of the aisles with my hand clapped over my face, wondering what culinary terrors could possibly be hiding in the shadows waiting to strike. Like those godawful sample stations where they try to get you to sample something from (shudder) Mrs. Paul’s. Those should be outlawed.
— You should see my garden. It is a mess. A HOT MESS. It’s overgrown and it looks like a jungle. It is an EYESORE. Why? Because I planted cilantro and basil. And it turns out, the smell of cilantro and basil makes me throw up, as does the smell of tomato leaves (OMFG NO NO NO GAG). I tried staying on top of it, but wound up, uh, fertilizing it one too many times, and Adam’s too busy to deal with it. RIP, garden.
— Please don’t take any of this kvetching as an indication that I am in any way ungrateful. I am thrilled to the very core, even when I’m washing my underwear out in the sink, or wondering if that Mystery Crust on my shirt could possibly be vomit (Hint: it usually is). I am. This is not about the baby, or how much I want this baby, or how freakin’ happy I am that I got here. But, in the motto of Swistle, I acknowledge my luckiness without giving up my claim to the suckiness. And I think we can all agree that includes involuntarily PEEING IN YOUR PANTS.
August 11th, 2008
I guess it was a bit rude of me to just off and run away on vacation without saying anything. I had a last-minute paranoia that someone would come and pillage my home, despite having the world’s nosiest gun-toting (and retired!) neighbors who are fans of the concept of shooting first, asking questions later. (This is my second such neighbor IN A ROW. Vermont and Florida, two gun-friendly states!)
(Also, uh, disappearing for a week is SORT OF OBVIOUS, which means I’m sort of dumb, but whatever.)
Vacation was … relaxing. Very relaxing, in fact, as we did very little. I know! And we were in such a great city and everything! But the truth is, I wasn’t up for much, as I felt like ass for pretty much the entire vacation. In fact, I’ve felt like warmed-over doggie doo for an alarming number of weeks now, to the point where I’m wondering, oh my God, will I EVER FEEL GOOD AGAIN?
No, I mean, really. WHEN? WHEN? OH MY GOD, WHEN?
(Heads up: this is not a painful rant about being sick! I promise! IT GETS BETTER.)
You know what was nice? Eating. Eating was nice. And no, I didn’t get my poutine, because it appears, ladies and gentlemen, that I am off of french fries, for the time being, at least. I look at them and want to cry, because they used to be so good and now … oh no. Not now. French fries are the devil.
Also on notice: chicken (please, no. No no no), most seafood (HORK), a terrifying amount of vegetables and anything else that strikes me as repulsive for no other reason than … I don’t know. Oh YES. The sandwich franchise famous for a young man named Jared? The word — and I literally mean this — THE WORD makes me puke just thinking about it, never mind the SMELL. THE SMELL. OH MY GOD WHO CAN EAT THERE? WHAT IS THAT HOUSE OF HORRORS?
Also? I throw up. A lot. Three times daily, in fact.
Have you figured it out yet, my friends?
I’m pregnant. In my 11th week, due at the very beginning of March.
Believe me when I tell you that no one — NO ONE — is more surprised about this than me. Well, and maybe Adam, who I’d already wailingly informed two days prior that I wasn’t pregnant again that month, as I’d peed on about 5,000 tests ALREADY and THEY WERE ALL NEGATIVE. (Also? I was pretty sure I’d gotten my period. Or was about to. Or something.)
But lo! A FAINT POSITIVE WE DID HAVE.
And then I ran to the store and bought 10 more tests and peed on them all. Over and over again. I didn’t stop peeing on them until I started puking, because who needs a positive test when you can’t keep your head out of the toilet?
I was too apprehensive to even think about getting excited, you know? But the ultrasound and the little thump thump thump thump THUMPITY THUMP that filled the room with my teeny little alien bun-baby’s heartbeat proved otherwise.
So if all goes well, folks, I’m having a baby. Adam is beside himself. And I’ve been dying — DYING — to tell you about it, and can’t believe you endured the drivel of writing around it over the last month or so. Give yourselves a gold star! But not a cookie (EW COOKIES.) (I know, COOKIES? But yes. No no cookies, no thank you. I just threw up a bowl of Cookie Crisp and cannot endure the thought.)
(Doughnuts are in the clear, however. Big fan of the doughnuts.)
Oh, and also?
*Gary Lightbody and Lisa Hannigan
August 10th, 2008