Archive for January, 2012
Can we talk about personality quirks? I was thinking about this yesterday as Adam and I were getting ready for bed. We are RIDICULOUS about bedtime and we often joke that we’re so prescriptive in the way we get ready for bed NOW that when we’re old, it’s going to be so over-ritualized that we’re going to have to start at 4 p.m. We both wear earplugs (and yes, we can hear Sam, it just muffles the tandem snoring), while I have an eye mask, a specific requirement for pajamas (thin cotton pants, T-shirt) AND sleeping underwear and a certain pattern of left-side, right-side flopping until I can settle in to sleep.
Adam, on the other hand, uses earplugs, as I mentioned, but cannot fall asleep unless he’s watched a few minutes of television with wireless headphones (so as not to disturb me). The headphones, however, HAVE to be over the earplugs, so that he can seamlessly take them off when he starts to drift off to sleep. It’s absurd. It’s ABSURD.
(People expecting babies, we are hope that you will be able to somewhat reliably go to bed and expect to sleep through the night just like you used to someday. Swear.)
(I’m going to read this post in June.)
Second, I brought this up on Twitter because I so rarely stay angry for, say, more than five minutes. I’m a quick-tempered, quick-cooling personality. I get really fired up, really fast, and I’m pretty good at addressing it right away (though sometimes TOO aggressively, as is the pitfall of this personality type), and then once it’s out, it’s out. I’m not angry anymore. Grudges, smudges, really. I don’t hold them, except in rare instances when someone’s unkind and or disrespects someone I love, when I strangely become a CHAMPION GRUDGE-HOLDER and can’t forgive anything, even things that should be forgivable.
(This is not to say I blow up often, because I don’t.)
ANYWAY, a few times lately, I’ve found myself irrationally holding on to things that wouldn’t normally linger, and frankly, they SHOULDN’T linger (hello, pregnant), but what it makes me think is that people who are long-simmering types must be VERY STRESSED OUT. How do you carry all that anger with you for more than a few minutes? Grudges! So exhausting!
Finally, if I were the type to write one of those pithy bios I would write that one of my major dislikes is when the big cups flip over in the dishwasher, filling up with ganky water. I like laundry—LOVE laundry, in fact—and would literally rather wash an entire load of EXCREMENT-FILLED CLOTHING than deal with the wet food issues that accompany dishwashing of any sort. I hate the dishes. I hate that we have to eat off of dishes. I wish it were environmentally acceptable to use ALL PAPER PRODUCTS and disposable pots and pans. No dishes! DOWN WITH DISHES.
Now I want to know everything about your quirks, because I feel naked.
January 26th, 2012
I feel as though I should be over this by now (haaaa, “over”), but nope, I still can’t get over the fact that I’m having two girls. Two girls! Two daughters! No matter what I’d be having, two children are bound to be packed with insanity, but there’s something about two daughters that’s both exhilarating and terrifying. Maybe it’s the teenage years (it so is) or the idea of having multiple females going through PMS at the same time. The expenses! The mean girls! (Please, don’t let my girls be mean girls. PLEASE.) The middle school years!
GIRLS. I am in so far over my head here. But I’m also so excited. GIRLS.
I have said before that I always thought I’d have boys, and I suppose that’s true only in the sense that it’s all I really saw modeled. My sister had two boys. My brother had two boys. Adam’s brother had two boys. Of course it would stand to reason that *I* would have two boys, because EVERYONE does.
The truth, though, is that deep down, I knew this was how it would be. If you’d asked me years ago, I would tell you that of course, I’m having daughters. I was a horror show of a teenage girl. I am not that girly (at all). There is nothing about me that indicates that I should be a good mother to little girls, but man, here I am. There I’ll be. In crazytown. But oh, I am so happy.
The upside is that I have zero plans to scrimp on my daughters’ clothing budgets. Well, Sam’s, anyway, because after all, it needs to LAST. RIGHT?
At any rate, I’ll tell you, I’m really done with being pregnant, and I feel like such a douche saying that because I wanted it — want it — so badly, but it turns out, even when you want something, it can still suck AND be terrifying and MANY OTHER NEGATIVE THINGS. I am thrilled every day, of course, but I am less than thrilled that I haven’t felt normally in MONTHS. I don’t remember what it’s like not to nurse low-grade nausea on a constant basis. Or to sneeze without peeing. I’m legitimately not sure if I peed every time I sneezed before I got pregnant. Was it always like this? I can’t even remember. I know my bladder lost some functionality post-birth, but was sneeze-peeing on the list of things that went south? Or am I doomed to a life of panty-liners? I DO NOT EVEN KNOW, YOU GUYS.
(I JUST SAID PANTY. HOLD ME.)
I was AlSO thinking, a la the sinus infection diet theory, that losing weight will be a CINCH after I have this baby, because my God, food isn’t even that appealing, RIGHT? What was I thinking? Why do people overeat? You can’t even eat that much in one sitting, and it doesn’t even TASTE good when you do! I have these absurd, ill-conceived fantasies of wearing teeny tiny jeans and T-shirts in extra small and nibbling daintily on healthy salads and roasted veggies within WEEKS of childbirth. And my hair will be magically grown-out and I will resemble Heidi Klum on her best day! Because, as it turns out, FOOD IS YUCKY, HOW DID I NOT NOTICE THIS BEFORE?
Riiiiight. Obviously I have blocked out the creepily delicious meal of hospital-prepared chicken marsala I devoured the night Sam was born. Y’all, I don’t even LIKE chicken marsala. And then, when I finished that, there was pizza Adam got me from the cafeteria. And the PANCAKES the next day. I felt like Jane Fonda in that pot scene in 9 to 5 as she sucks the pimiento out of a jar of green olives. “This is so wonderful. Everything tastes so WONDERFUL.”
You know why dieting is hard when I’m not pregnant? FOOD TASTES GOOD. Eating food is not a JOB, it is something to ENJOY. So perhaps I should lay off the smuggy pants attitude of “HOW HARD CAN DIETING BE?” as I watch people struggle with New Year’s resolutions to drop a few pounds. Because most people don’t have to stare down a bowl of Kashi GoLean, wondering whether eating it will make them feel better or worse? BETTER OR WORSE? No, they ENJOY that bowl of Kashi (or you know, whatever) and then think about having SECONDS. LIKE NORMAL PEOPLE.
The saddest part of this whole thing is that weight loss is not the desired option, and even when I don’t want to eat, I HAVE to force myself to eat that damned bowl of Kashi GoLean. It’s like some sort of twisted version of hell! You can eat all you want, but it will taste terrible! OR! You have to eat a restricted diet and EVERYTHING WILL BE FABULOUS. You hear that, Satan? This is how you torture people. I assume you’ve got this in your arsenal already.
Wow, I am sorry for whining. What I am going to do now is snuggle my ass up to a body pillow and call this whole thing a DAY. But not before eating that bowl of cereal, natch.
January 23rd, 2012
So I had my second repeat ultrasound today at 20w1d, and after mentioning the, shall we say, less than stellar experience I had last time, the nurse took pity on me and told me precisely which ultrasound tech to request, and lo, I got her. She also confided in me that the bad ultrasound tech is known for getting the sex of the baby wrong most of the time. Most! Of! The! Time! SAY WHAAAT, AM I RIGHT?
At least that explains why she didn’t want to do it. Not that it’s an excuse, but I suppose I’d be reluctant to do something I knew I sucked at. But more likely, I would TRY TO GET BETTER, HELLO.
Anyway, I had to have the ENTIRE ultrasound redone, but the good news is that there is a healthy girl in there, still, and she’s tall, like Sam (long legs, long femur) and I had a delightful conversation with my super-talented, super-friendly ultrasound tech who is — wait for it — twenty-five years old. At twenty-five, this woman had more skill and grace than the forty-plus ying yang who left me crying on the table.
She ALSO regaled me with stories of how much she loves her job, although she admitted that eighty-year-old vaginas make her not want to get old, which: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA, I’m sorry, that’s hilarious. I mean, we’re all going to be in possession of one eventually, God willing, but you know, I imagine it’s disconcerting at twenty-five to be face to face with a vagina that has been through a lot more adventure than a fresher, more youthful one.
This whole thing has me sliding down the double-edged sword of guilt, which is always a pleasant excursion. On the one hand, there’s my Sam, whose life I am theoretically about to completely ruin, at least for a little while. I think of it this way: I keep picturing Adam coming home with another wife who is nothing but a needy asshole for the first three to six months, and no matter how many times he tells me he loves me the same he always has, I’d doubt I’d be able to say anything other than, HELLO, YOU BROUGHT HOME ANOTHER WIFE, DICKFACE. And while yes, the sister-wife and I might be BFFs eventually, in the meantime, I am stuck sharing my husband.
That would blow. So here I go, about to bring home a sister-wife to my kid. What a great idea.
On the OTHER hand, I felt like a total shit going into my ultrasounds both times, because each time they asked me if anyone was with me, and both times I was just like, uh, no? Second kid? Also, he’s home with our first, so . . . ? I mean, neither ultrasound experience was all that MAGICAL, because I am a jaded asshole who thinks all babies look the same in utero, and once I know the sex, I’m like, GREAT, THAT LOOKS LIKE AN ARTICHOKE, WHO CARES, DOES SHE HAVE ALL THE RIGHT PARTS?
And — and! — this kid’s a wiggler. An insane wiggler, way more than Sam ever was. The movements! The kicking! AND YET I AM NOT REMOTELY BOWLED OVER BY THE MAGIC. I’m like, meh, kicking. MEH, knock it off. I mean, these thoughts are all secondary to being BEYOND grateful she’s alive and healthy, but you know, with Sam, I was always, LOOK SHE’S KICKING and guiding Adam’s hand lovingly toward my abdomen.
Basically, I feel guilty that I am having a second child that will ruin my first daughter’s life, while simultaneously feeling like a turd because I am not fawning over my second daughter ENOUGH and she’s NOT EVEN BORN. What kind of bullshit racket is this?
(But seriously, will I be excited when she’s born, or will I be all, OH LOOK, a NEWBORN? Call me when you’re TWO.)
Happy Wednesday, folks.
January 17th, 2012
First, I loved all of your comments on the name post, and my only gripe was that every comment wasn’t, oh! I wish I could have named my daughter Samantha! And [baby #2’s name]. What is WRONG with you people? I HAVE THE BEST NAMES WE SHOULD ALL USE THEM, THE END.
Well, except don’t, because I’m totally kidding, and then we’d all be living in some creepy John Malkovich world. Malkovich, Malkovich, Malkovich!
[Aside: Anyone else find John Malkovich COMPLETELY sexy, or is that just me?]
The only comment that perplexed me was Maya’s, because I had not previously heard that direction names were going to be popular. I . . . don’t know anyone with a direction name, except for West, who was the contestant on The Bachelorette, i.e., the season that poisoned the entire show for me. I could not TAKE Ashley’s insecurity and her creepy fawning over guys that are literally a dime a dozen up in here. She picked JP, who is a nice guy, but you know, she could have just come up here, hit the bars in Southie and gotten the same guy for a lot less agony and embarrassment, my GOD.
ANYWAY, you guys, I’ve written this all over the place, but since I got pregnant, I am having this ISSUE with my underwear that involves them cutting the inside of my thighs. CUTTING! I HAVE DRAWN BLOOD. And it’s very random, and I have found the solution, but Target only had ONE pack of them and I have to go back to get more. UNTIL THEN, however, I am stuck with my normal supply and OH! the results are not good, which is how I am—God help me—lying in bed as I type this with a smear of Desitin on the inside of each leg. The VERY INSIDE, where there is ACTUAL DAMAGE. DESITIN. That’s DIAPER RASH CREAM for the uninitiated.
(It . . . feels fabulous. No wonder Sam asks for it by name.)
This is worse than the hemorrhoid cream situation of Sam’s gestation.
Speaking of Sam, we have reached the endless narration portion of childhood, because everything that happens in this house needs her running commentary. “Daddy, are you putting on your pants? And your socks? To go to work?” “Mommy, you brush your TEETH?” “Sunny’s walkin’!” And every statement needs acknowledgement, or she repeats it, oh my GOD. The thing is though? I sort of find it endlessly entertaining, as I have most of motherhood, in a surprising way. This should . . . not be news, given that I’ve opted to have a second child, but I’m sort of surprised by how enjoyable it is to have a little chatterbox following me around the house, even when she perpetually asks, “CAN I HELP?” with tasks that would be MUCH FASTER without her assistance. Or—OR!—when her helping with the laundry consists of taking things from the clean dryer and putting them BACK into the (running, full of water) washing machine. NOT HELPFUL.
But you know, it’s kind of hard to stay mad at a kid who wants to help AND is obsessed with a guidebook on Boston terriers (Sunny is a pug, yes . . . long story). You guys, she takes it EVERYWHERE. We do not leave the house without it. We do not go to bed, either for naps OR bedtime, without it. She reads it no fewer than fifteen times a day, out loud. The story, if you were wondering, is simply, “Once upon a time there was a good doggie. He’s so cute. THE END.” And then she closes the book with a remarkable amount of satisfaction, as though she has just read the annotated Lolita and understood every word. (This would make her better than her mother.)
I’m super excited to have another one. But damn, I am terrified, too.
Have a great weekend.
*Peter Gabriel. And I don’t think inner thigh chafing is what he meant.
January 12th, 2012
In the event there was any doubt that pregnancy is the most generous state of being, despite being down ten pounds from my pre-pregnancy weight AND being able to throw on my pre-pregnancy jeans with relative, if appropriately belly-tight, ease, oh you guys, MY FACE. It is large. And puffy. And NOTHING ELSE IS. What has happened here? I have Tori Spelling Pregnant Lady Face! I mean, I wasn’t exactly at my fighting weight to begin this whole process, but given that I’ve LITERALLY spent an overwhelming amount of this past year pregnant, I’m not really bothered by THAT.
I am, however, bothered by the Tori Spelling Pregnant Lady Face. I had a chin! Where did it go? WHITHER CHIN AND JAWLINE, FACE?
(It is important to note that I adore Tori Spelling AND her Pregnant Lady Face, because she gives hope to all of us with this terrible affliction.)
Anyway, because I am already unattractive, I have also decided to let my super-short pixie cut grow out, and at this moment, I have reached the critical phase where I can no longer make this shaggy thing into anything even SLIGHTLY presentable, and it is time to call in the professionals. (You know how Dooce looks cute in hers? I do not. Mine does not look like that, despite being the same length. Mine is thick and puffy and matches my Tori Spelling Pregnant Lady Face. Also, there are roots. IT IS TIME FOR A HAIR APPOINTMENT.)
I am using this time for transitions, is what I’m saying, I suppose. Come June 4, I plan to emerge like Ally Sheedy’s character in the Breakfast Club after Claire gets a hold of her. I shall have great hair! Be thin! Have a normal face mere MOMENTS after birth! METAMORPHOSIS.
HAHAHAHAHAHA. Oh, dear. It’s going to be a while.
Anyway. Now that we know that this fetus is a girl, can we talk about names? I mean, she already HAS a great name that we’ve had picked out FOREVER, and so we are D O N E, but I am weeping for all the names we won’t get to use, either because we aren’t having a boy, or because we can’t agree or because they just don’t fit with us or our last name. But really, there will ALWAYS be names left behind, won’t there? My guess is that even Michelle Duggar has Naming Regrets.
SO! Here’s a partial list, and I would LOVE to hear yours:
Benjamin (nephew’s name!)
I COULD GO ON.
Sarah (my favorite. MY FAVORITE. Alas, it’s a no-go.)
SIGH. Sarah or Natalie or Alexa Rubin will never come to pass. Or Leah. LEAH. Leah Rubin is AWESOME. But no.
Do you have unusable awesome names?
*Yes, I went Rihanna. I DO NOT EVEN KNOW.
January 9th, 2012
The worst part about not updating for a long time is feeling like something UTTERLY PROFOUND needs to be put on the page to justify that much pondering and absence. Not that anyone else cares, for it’s purely a personal pressure made more complicated by the fact that the last deep thought I had was how seamlessly we’ve integrated my nightly puking into the family. I simply call out, “Adam! I’m going to barf!” and he slides into the role of chief distracting officer, busying Sam to the point that she usually doesn’t notice that I’ve gone missing until the episode is over, when she appears with her pirate sword to announce, “Mommy, are you okay? Daddy and I are PIRATES!”
It’s a big step from a few weeks ago, when she would literally rend her garments in horror, screaming and wailing as though I was being stabbed by the devil himself. The lowest point was when I had to HOLD HER IN MY ARMS while simultaneously losing my lunch in the toilet bowl.
Baby steps! Baby steps!
I feel better, though obviously not 100 percent, but you know, better in the sense that I’m not sobbing myself to sleep every night because I just! feel! so! SICK! I eat sometimes! I had toast for dinner! THIS IS WINNING!
Also . . . we’re having another girl. I could write a treatise on how horrible my ultrasound experience was, but ultimately, I’m getting a healthy baby girl out of it so far, and Sam is going to have a flipping SISTER. SISTERS! I have a sister, and I love her so, so I am VERY EXCITED ABOUT THIS. (I also have brothers and I love THEM so, so I would be VERY EXCITED about THAT, too.)
But the ultrasound. Oh. Oh my. It was over an hour long, as I flipped from this side to that side, while the (inept) ultrasound tech sighed and prodded, desperately searching for body parts that were either missing or two small, according to her mutterings. “Ugh, heart too tiny!” Jab jab jab. “Leg! The leg is very bad.” She squirted on more gel.
“WHAT?” I was understandably alarmed. “But . . . is something wrong?”
Her only reply was to herself as she made a note on her checklist. “Pulmonary artery missing.”
At this point, my unborn child—the one I conceived after MULTIPLE PREGNANCY LOSSES–had a too-small heart, a bum leg and was missing a major artery. And the tech still hadn’t said a word. I sat up, pulling at the towel at my waist, “STOP. Are you saying these things are BAD?”
She snapped to earth. “Oh! No. I just can’t get a good picture because the heart at this age is so tiny, the leg is blocking the kidneys, and the pulmonary artery is blocked by an arm.”
OKAY THEN. MAYBE REALIZE YOU ARE TALKING IN YOUR OUTSIDE VOICE, THEN.
She then took a moment to peek at the sex—at my request, not her initiative—spent three seconds (I WAS WATCHING), declared it impossible, and when I protested, replied, “I’m not required to do that. It’s not a requirement. I’m happy to have the radiologist explain that to you.”
OH YES, PLEASE. And then, as I sobbed, she simply left the room.
(The end here is that the radiologist came in, found the sex, treated me like a mental patient as I cried, and OH YES I HAVE TO GO BACK NEXT WEEK TO HAVE A RE-DO ANYWAY AHH AHH)
(Yes, this is the same as my Twitter rant, but I HAD TO GET IT OUT THERE.)
Anyway, I’m happy to see you all again. Alas, I am nauseated again! TIME FOR BED.
January 4th, 2012