Posts filed under 'Pregnancy'
So! That’s out, and I feel sort of panicky and superstitious about it, like I have just jinxed myself. And … well, that’s sort of stupid, because it’s not like by SAYING anything I can MAKE IT HAPPEN. If that were true, I would have won the damn Mega Millions, and I’d be writing this from my hut in Fiji while my team of nannies frolics with Sam on the beach.
Meanwhile, I’m almost ten weeks — due August 15, specifically — and what’s crazy is that it does not add up with my own calculations AT ALL, but I’m guessing that’s why the whole thing was a bit of a surprise anyway. What is also crazy is that I am not really all that nauseated. I have moments, certainly, where the idea of certain foods is so repulsive that I’ll do anything to avoid looking at them, much less eating them, but — oh, I can barely type this aloud — I have not thrown up. Not once. Longtime readers will remember that while pregnant with Sam, I threw up no fewer than ten times A DAY.
I’m craving things instead of merely avoiding them. I’m eating things like CHICKEN. I handle raw meat! I cook! I eat, uh, things other than chicken nuggets. It’s like someone else’s pregnancy, seriously.
But make no mistake, I’m pregnant. I feel like someone has taken a sander to my boobs, and I am so tired. So, so tired. And yet, so unable to sleep. And peeing every fifteen seconds. And if someone shares the WRONG RECIPE in Google Reader, I not only feel like barfing in that moment, but I consider whether the friendship was ever worth anything in the first place, because how could they do this to me? Do they hate me? Is that recipe for some sort of grok-inspired food PERSONAL? (Am I using grok correctly here? What IS that, and why is my entire Google contact list asking themselves “What would grok eat?” Is grok some kind of MEAN DIET ALIEN?)
It’s a weird thing, feeling like your body is going to do one thing, and have it do something completely different. It makes me second-guess my entire first pregnancy. Was the sickness all in my head? Was I focusing on it too much? Was it … my fault? I was working from home, with zero social interaction, where as now I’m running around like a maniac, meeting with friends, taking a toddler here and there, sitting down for maaaaybe five minutes in an entire day. Was I just not … busy enough?
I know all these things are irrational and wrong — certainly if my friend or my sister were as sick as I was, and then the next time, just … wasn’t, I wouldn’t assume such ridiculous things. I’m not sure why we’re so hard on ourselves for something that really has nothing to do with much other than, well, that’s just the way it is. Maybe my body’s used to it. Maybe it’s a boy. Maybe it’s just dumb-ass luck.
(By the way, not one person has suggested I’m having a girl. NOT ONE. Well, except for me, because I can only picture myself with a girl, obviously, because that’s what I have. And we all know that if I have another girl, it will be exactly like Sam, yes? Because all two kids are precisely alike! That’s how it works!)
(And wait, okay, there is one. I see you, Nic!)
And finally, the hopefully big sister to-be. Please tell me that you, too, are dead from the cute, not to mention the talent of the photographer. (Boston people should really call her, because she’s amazing. And also my friend.)
(Click to embiggen.)
Happy Wednesday!
*Mates of State
January 11th, 2011
Right now, I am enjoying a little too much artichoke dip (daily! for two weeks!), cream cheese and pepper jelly with crackers, big salads with lots of vinegar and julienned carrots (they MUST be julienned! And a salad without carrots is NO SALAD AT ALL), and more than a gallon of orange juice every two days.
Weirdly, an Italian sub from Subway doesn’t sound so bad. Subway, land of the strongest smells known to mankind.
I’ve been hiding from you, hardly updating at all, thinking now is not the time, this is a bad idea, I shouldn’t tell people about this! THIS IS WRONG! My mind thinks of our upcoming ultrasound and it’s a non-stop replay of, you’re thirty-FIVE, things can go wrong, you don’t know, you don’t know, you don’t know.
And this time, I kind of didn’t really know, because for someone who didn’t have an easy time of this before, the speed with which this occurred was A SURPRISE. HELLO.
Plus, as we all know, there are no guarantees anyway. The only thing I do know is that I love being a mom more than anything I’ve ever done, ever. And that just before Christmas, we saw a little FLICKER FLICKER FLICKER of a new, tiny little person who currently lives inside me, and is giving me LOTS OF HEARTBURN, but that could also be the orange juice, because SERIOUSLY PEOPLE, I drink a lot of orange juice.
So, HELLO OBVIOUS, I am pregnant. Due in August.
I’m doing this again. I AM DOING THIS AGAIN.
I’m so excited. And, you know, fucking petrified.
*Damien Rice
January 9th, 2011
So yesterday, I found myself Googling “baby Lunchables” after Cherie mentioned there was such a thing on Twitter, and I thought, really? Lunchables for infants? Now, I’m not really an anti-Lunchables person the way some are (hashtag alert!), I just don’t find them particularly appealing. I also find their convenience dubious at best, because how hard can it be to throw a few crackers in a baggie along with some sliced ham and cheese from the deli, anyway? It’s not even like it comes in a cute package! It’s just gross, gelatinous “meat and cheese,” scare quotes intended, with crackers in a cheap plastic tin.
So anyway, I’m Googling, and I find myself on a (oh my God) teen pregnancy message board, which is the last place I anticipated arriving when Googling “Lunchables for babies,” but there I am, all sucked into the lives of these pregnant teens (Like Teen Mom, but … without all the fanfare), and before you know it, I realize that these women girls are consuming Lunchables by the truckload and stressing about the deli meat’s impact on their unborn baby. Oh, why, do you ask? Not because they’re just paranoid, but because they’ve had MULTIPLE MISCARRIAGES, because they have been TRYING TO HAVE A BABY FOR A LONG TIME.
SIXTEEN-YEAR-OLDS.
Oh, Google. What seedy underbelly of sadness hath you unearthed? HONESTLY.
Look, I have friends — good friends — who were teen moms, and are excellent, accomplished people today. And God knows if Sam should find herself in a teenage pickle, I will support her, stand by her and help her no matter what she chooses to do. But I think we can all agree that going down the TTC route while in one’s teenage years is not exactly the goal of most people, right? And not something you … want for your children or yourself? HOLY MERDE.
On a more practical note, they’re craving … Lunchables? While pregnant? I don’t know about you guys, but when I was pregnant with Sam, I couldn’t even DEAL with meat that was in any way FOUL or JELLYLIKE or ENCASED IN PLASTIC. GAH, JELLIED MEAT, GAH.
It all reminds me of some of the old cookbooks I collect, wherein it was chic to encase meat products in aspic (which is, I think, a meat product in itself), and God, I’m not sure how anyone attended a single dinner party in the 1960s, because man, if the cookbooks are any indication, the menu choices must have been interminably foul.
In other news, Nick Jr. is out to terrify the shit out of me with their constant reminders to use flameless candles, water my tree and avoid anything that could IGNITE INTO FLAMES! FLAMES! FLAAAAAMES! Christmas is the season of HOUSE FIRES!
Adam asked me the other day if I was watering the tree, and I’m like, DUDE, YOU ARE MARRIED TO MRS. SAFETY. I water that thing DAILY. SOMETIMES TWICE DAILY.
I also bought a second fire extinguisher today. Just in case.
FLAAAAAAAAMES.
*Mumford & Sons. WINTER WINNNNNDS WILL START A FIIIIIIIRRRREEEE.
December 15th, 2010
Hi ho!
Last week was just awesome. Kate was here. Kate! My dear Vermont friend, and oh, I just love her so. It was such a joy having her and her 11-month-old son Jacob here, and while I normally miss Adam on business trips, I daresay it worked out better with him gone, because it was like girls night out in the entire time she was here. We stayed up late drinking wine and talking, were zombies by day (since when does girls’ night in include 6:30 a.m. screeching wake-up calls?) and though it was a blast, I was effing EXHAUSTED by the time they left, because when I tried to sleep at night, I couldn’t, since I was STILL TOO EXCITED. It was ridiculous; I was like a little kid on Christmas Eve. I just kept thinking, KATE IS RIGHT THERE. AND THEN TOMORROW, WE WILL HAVE COFFEE AND PLAY WITH THE KIDS. AND THEN DRINK WINE AND TALK. AND TALK SOME MORE.
You’re never too old for sleepovers, it turns out, although there was no hair braiding, and no one did anything mean. God, do you remember that? Of course you do. I distinctly remember people doing the whole hand-in-water thing and worse, during a particularly vicious middle school sleepover in the midst of a row of some sort, people smearing Vaseline on the faces of their maligned comrades in an attempt to … clog their pores? I think? God, we were just not bright. Bra freezing would have been much smarter, and though I think there was some of that, I do believe I was the only victim of such shenanigans, which was fine, since I basically didn’t need a bra until I got pregnant anyway, and I think I just carried it home in a plastic Food Lane bag.
Which brings me to, oddly, the fact that Sam is entirely weaned. She was mostly weaned, and then I thought she would self-wean, and then I thought things would get better, and then I started sneaking it to her, like cigarettes under the bleachers, and then before I knew it, there we were, nursing again. And now we aren’t, and in the grand scheme of things, it was surprisingly easy. The hardest part was at first, when she regressed a bit and wanted to — please wait for it — SUCK ON MY BOOBS, WHILE WATCHING TELEVISION. Yes. Child wanted to kick back with some Moose A. Moose while chilling with her bag of potato chips boobs.
I am happy about this, as it was more than time. But also, when I think about it, I’m sad, because it’s true: my girl is no longer a baby. Well, she still is in so many ways, like, uhh, vocabulary (“NAH? NAH?” apparently means “GIVE ME THAT BUCKET.” It also means, “HEY, I AM THIRSTY.” And in times of desperation, can be used for, “HAVE YOU SEEN MY SIPPY CUP, OH WAIT THERE IT IS IN MY HAND, THANKS.”) And yes, I’m lucky that she’s a total snuggler. But still! Gah. The growing and the growing up, it is happening before my eyes.
I think I’d be sadder if I wasn’t planning another, and though there are no guarantees, I think knowing that I might at least get the chance to try this again really helps. Which is why my second child will nurse until s/he’s in grad school. What? Is that … odd?
The whole second child thing has been the subject of many of us, since there was a bit of a blogging class who had kids around the same time, along with many of my real-life friends. It’s hard, isn’t it? I’ve always known I wanted more than one kid, just because I’ve had such a positive experience with all of my siblings, in different ways. Despite more half- and step-siblings than most, I am the only product of my mom and dad, and frankly, it was a bit lonely going through their break-up alone, and navigating the muddy waters of the aftermath without another person to bear witness. It was … strangely burdensome, no matter how lovely my parents were (are), or no matter how difficult the time was. Maybe another person would have made it harder, maybe it would have been easier — I’m not sure. I can’t say I wish for my life or siblings to be any different — I don’t, for I am thrilled with how it all worked out, and my parents are amazing, all four of them — but it has made me think about how I want my own family to look.
And though I don’t see Adam and me divorcing (no, I really and truly don’t, but I realize that no one truly plans on it), for me, the experience of having, and in some cases wanting, witnesses to my childhood is most meaningful and/or desirable, and I want the same and more, for Sam. And so, (at least, but probably limited to) two it is. There was a flash of a time when Adam considered stopping at just one — just our perfect little Sam — until he realized that we were having the discussion on our way to his brother’s house. You know, the brother and his family that we love and miss and enjoy hanging out with. The one who gave the toast at our wedding. The one who cheered Adam on at basketball games growing up when his parents couldn’t go.
Yeah, that one. Two it is.
And so it begins — not today, but at some point. The misery of trying to get pregnant (and I don’t mean the MECHANICS of it, I mean the anxiety and the waiting and the … OH YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN), especially since Sam wasn’t exactly a piece of cake. The maybe-pregnancy, with the hope that I won’t barf my way through life the second time; the hope that I don’t see parts of every meal twice and sometimes three times. The hope I don’t lose my mind again and end up crying into the fifteen pounds of potato salad I was making for Adam’s company pot luck.
If we’re really lucky, the newborn stage. HA HA. The newborn stage! You GUYS! DO YOU REMEMBER WHAT MY NEWBORN STAGE WAS LIKE?
THIS. IT WAS THIS. (Thank you, Amalah, for offering me the opportunity to document, FOREVER, precisely what those months were like. I’ve referred to that thousands of times to remind myself that I am a rockstar.)
And then I just think we’re completely crazy, and that we should just call the whole thing off and use the money we’d save on a second child and go to Aruba. And then I remember WE NEVER GO TO ARUBA, which is the same conclusion I came to before I had Sam, and you see? You see how this is all very messy.
You see.
But still. I hope there are two. I hope we are that lucky.
*Indigo Girls. OH YES I DID. It’s like 1993 up in here!
July 25th, 2010
Now that I’m on the other side of pregnancy, I can tell you with total fearlessness that being pregnant is my least favorite state of being ever. EVER. I hated it so very much, and though there were a few bright spots like baby kicks and ultrasounds, nothing highlights that hatred like having an actual, real live baby which, sleeplessness and fussiness aside, beats the living PANTS off of gestating.
It is only now that she’s here that I feel remotely capable of becoming pregnant again. Seriously. DID NOT LIKE.
Therefore, I would like to tell any woman who hates being pregnant that she has the absolute right to punch ANYONE in the face who tells her a) to savor this “special time”; b) sleep now, for you’ll NEVER SLEEP AGAIN or b) enjoy XX, YY or ZZ before the baby comes, because it’s all downhill from here. I don’t think anyone who says those things really understands what a miserable pregnancy is like, because I will take a screaming, sleepless, fussy Samantha (and we’ve had her at her textbook worst, see: last night) over the vast majority of pregnancy. I’m absolutely serious.
I didn’t admit it much, but I spent the most of pregnancy being very, very anxious. Anxious that I would hate being a mother, anxious that I wouldn’t bond with her or even LIKE her — I felt surprisingly detached from the whole thing, and it freaked me out immensely. I was excited, sure, but it was always ALWAYS tempered with a healthy dose of terror and anxiety. I cried A LOT. One evening late in my third trimester, Adam was joking with me about something totally benign, and when he turned back to me, I was absolutely bawling and muttering incoherent things like, “YOU DO NOT KNOW WHAT THIS IS LIKE. YOU AREN’T GIVING BIRTH AND CHANGING YOUR WHOLE LIFE.”
Of course, this is patently untrue, as his life is as irrevocably changed as mine, but as the primary caregiver and carrier, I felt singularly responsible for the whole thing — never mind that Adam is the best kind of partner, and I’ve never been alone in this, not for one second — and worse, I felt WOEFULLY unprepared.
I cried pretty much every day in pregnancy. Mostly from barfing, but just as often from wild hormonal swings and bald terror. Every day. I don’t even think I realized this until now — I don’t think I realized HOW BAD it was until I came out the other side.
Truthfully, I felt this way up until AND INCLUDING the moment my water broke. I kept thinking, over and over again, “I am not ready. I am not ready. I am not ready.”
I loved her — or at least, the idea of her — in the way that I thought if anything happened to her in there or during childbirth, I would pretty much want to die myself, but I promise you, I wasn’t fully ready until I saw her face. And when I did, I was instantly in love with her. Game over. Done. Sold.
I cried every single day in pregnancy. I have not cried ONCE since she’s been born out of anything but happiness and a desire to eat her like a barbecue chicken. I think we all have parts of this that are impossibly hard, and while this IS hard — in the way that a marathon or a long hike is hard, as my friend Jenny said to me not five minutes ago — I had no idea how easy it would seem compared to pregnancy, for at least I have my head about me.
Dude, you guys, I had no idea how miserable I really was. NO IDEA. And you know what else? It’s not about the baby, as pregnancy lovers like to tell you. It’s not because you’re not ready or won’t love your baby, or aren’t grateful enough. It’s because, in my case, my hormones were so completely fucking tweaked which, combined with my general fear of the unknown, created a horrid, horrid state of being.
I’m hopeful that the next time (and, God willing, there will be), I’ll be able to remember this perspective and realize that the other side is more than worth it, and this this, too, shall pass. And hopefully I’ll feel a lot less guilty about it, and will remember to tell all the people who told me to savor this magical, gooey time that no, really, pregnancy sucks, but babies are AWESOME, and to kindly shut up.
By the way? I’m sleeping better now than I did in pregnancy. Two contiguous hours of actual sleep is more than I EVER got in pregnancy. Sleep now because you’ll never sleep again, MY POSTPARTUM BEHIND, FOLKS. You heard it here first.
Totally worth every second of misery. TOTALLY.
Happy, um, day, whatever it is.
*Badly Drawn Boy
March 25th, 2009
I never know how much detail people want about things like birth stories and transitioning to motherhood and all that crap. On the one hand, I loved reading others, because I think this is one area where there is not enough information from real people, no matter HOW many people tell their stories, at least to those who are thinking about making the leap themselves. On the other, my God, really? Does anyone care about tearing in the hoo-ha other than the person who is torn? Really?
I’m forging ahead anyway, because I don’t want to forget and because again, dude, I was a sponge for this sort of stuff before I experienced it myself.
And first of all, let me say that everything so far has been way more pleasant — nay, MUCH MORE FUN — than I ever imagined, but again, let me remind you that I was expecting BAMBOO SHOOTS in my fingernails and misery the likes of which I’d never seen. But, just as many of you warned, I could not have anticipated how happy I would be to see and spend time with my daughter outside of the confines of my body. So yes, it’s hard. Yes, it has moments of flat-out ohmygodwhatthehell, but for me, it’s been a thousand times better than I expected. I can’t believe how happy I am, and I am honestly flabbergasted by how much I love her.
I am amazed and astounded and more than a little humbled at how beautiful she is, how lucky I am and … well. No one could have prepared me for any of THAT, I tell you. And I don’t know what I ever did to deserve it, but I am beyond grateful. And also a newfound sap. How lovely for everyone.
Onward! To birth! Though I had no real birth plan to speak of, there WERE four things that I was hoping to skip heading into this whole thing, and one of them surprised even me:
1) Pitocin. I’d heard horror stories of the miserable labors it wrought, not to mention higher incidence of C-sections (see: fear of strapped-down Jesus arms), and I was, apparently, secretly hoping that I would go into labor on my own so I could see if I could hack it.
2) Epidural. I know! Shocker for me, too! But remember, my birth instructor scared me, and I still harbored terror of the death/paralysis portion, thanks to hippie birthy lady and her fearmongering. So really, trust me, this wasn’t because I’m all NATURAL and shit, it was because I was TOO SCARED.
3) Tearing in places the sun doesn’t shine. Does ANYONE want this?
4) Um, that thing that really should be #2, if you know what I’m saying. As in the appearance of that number during, um, LABOR. And uh, whose list of “wants” does this TOP? Or even MAKE?
Let us guess what happened during labor, folks. ALL FOUR OF THESE THINGS. Sorry for the detail, but I could have used someone admitting to #4 before I’d gone in there and been so freakin’ horrified. (I even SAID SOMETHING ABOUT IT DURING PUSHING, so upset was I.) So there. I’m admitting it. Now you know. It happens to real people, not just the vague, “Will I or won’t I?” statistical people designed to make you feel better. So if it happens to you, know that it happened to me and was so not a big deal. Let me repeat, it was SO NOT A BIG DEAL AT ALL.
My water broke with a pop at 6 a.m. during a dream I was having about, uh, Cheech & Chong. I don’t know why I remember this, but I was having a conversation with Cheech Marin when I woke to a weird little start somewhere in the general vicinity and when I hit the bathroom, I KNEW.
And off we went, where I was monitored and checked out and sent away … to breakfast, to see if I started labor on my own. It was quite the joy telling my parents over pancakes that no, I wasn’t in the hospital, I was at Henry’s Diner giving the hostess a heart attack when she overheard that my water broke, fearing the birth of an infant on her nice clean floors.
Needless to say, I started nothing but the mildest of contractions, and with bigtime water breakage, the risk of infection increases after six or more hours, and though I hated to do it, I reluctantly welcomed Pitocin into my life. Fuck.ing. Pit.O.Cin. Not only does it come with a mandatory IV of, you know, PITOCIN, but it also includes bags and bags of fluids to ensure that you’re peeing every ten seconds and puffed out like a balloon with Hobbit feet. Oh, and a fetal monitor, that, even though wireless and waterproof, SO does not stay on during contractions, requiring an L&D nurse TOUCHING YOU during contractions, which is basically THE LAST THING YOU WANT.
Oh yes, PLEASE. Touch me and hover in my ear while I’m enduring agony the likes of which I’ve never SEEN.
And the contractions! HA HA. That seems to imply that there was more than ONE GIANT SUICIDAL CONTRACTION, because even though they were two minutes apart, they were not dying down between, and no matter what I tried — the birthing ball, the bathtub, walking around — I was a sniveling MESS and in so much pain I thought I’d die. Oh, and while in the bathtub, I got pummeled by a rogue birthing ball that appeared out of NOWHERE, clonking me on the head mid-contraction while again, a nurse hovered over my ridiculous naked body telling me to picture my baby heading down the “tight turtleneck of my cervix” and wasn’t that a great visual to get me through it?
No. No, it wasn’t, and I told her so, after I deflected the birthing ball hurtling towards my head. That sounds like it hurts, right? THE TIGHT TURTLENECK OF THE CERVIX. WHAT A MOTIVATING VISUAL.
Anyway, after four hours, I’d had enough and sobbed my way through the epidural, grilling the pants off of the anesthesiologist over and over again saying things like, “Please don’t let me die or be paralyzed. No, really, I WANT TO WALK.” To his credit, he indulged me every time, explaining that no no, I would survive, really, don’t worry. And he was right, because I actually felt my legs and could walk through the whole rest of labor if I wanted to. Which again, is a fact I did not know was feasible. Birth: a learning experience!
Clearly, it made a bit of a difference:
It also sped things up incredibly, and within the hour of having the epidural, I went from five to nine centimeters and HOLLA! There was pushing, and let me just say that the epidural spared me ZERO of the ah, BEAUTY that is childbirth and ramming a kid out of your Special Lady Area (TM Emily) and an hour after that? Well. As much as I hate to be a walking cliche, let me just say that it was the single greatest moment of my life, bar none.
I think I said, “It’s you! It’s you! It’s YOU!” over and over again, because she was, of course, weirdly familiar, with a hearty cry and freakishly large feet. And even while they, ahem, stitched me up — talking through the finer points as they TAUGHT A RESIDENT how to stitch a vagina (“Heather, see how this tear is angled like this? Let me show you how to stitch that …” SERIOUSLY.), I didn’t care or even notice, because she was here, she was healthy and oh, my fracking God, I’d do it all over again, a thousand times, I swear I would.
(TOTAL SAP. TOLD YOU.)
Today? I want twelve babies. Octomom better move her ass over, is what I’m saying.
Then again, I’m pretty sure I’ll change my mind about this. But if they’re all like her? HELL YES SIGN ME UP.
(I don’t think I really mean that. Right?)
(I will post more pictures of her, but Adam keeps hogging the camera and downloading them before I can see them.)
Happy whatever day today is! I have NO IDEA!
*Pet Shop Boys
March 12th, 2009
After all the brouhaha after last night’s Bachelor, I kind of wish I’d watched it this season so that I, too, could be jam-packed with righteous indignation. Instead, I will have to live vicariously through Miss Banshee, who made me laugh out loud with repeated references to him as “The Douchelor.” Which, you know, is kind of awesome.
I went back to the doctor yesterday for the weekly check-up and really, one word: meh. See also: ow. No progress, not really dilated, was given pity figure for effacement, and so on. She actually suggested we make a fancy couples dinner date for our due date so that we wouldn’t be too disappointed when it comes and goes. Le sigh. I shall live to waddle another day.
What was fairly awesome, however, was at this stage of the game, Adam is coming with me to all my appointments in the unlikely event that they screech that I am mysteriously in labor without realizing it and AIEE, let us go to the hospital NOW NOW NOW!
And look, I maintain that the gynecologist’s office is rarely not funny, kind of like seeing people fall down. It just is. It’s almost ALWAYS funny, unless you’re there for something really and truly dire. Even if you’re Emily and the doctor heats up the speculum to a temperature that could cauterize noses, it’s still mildly amusing, at least in retrospect. For crying out loud, there are STIRRUPS involved and people are jamming things in places that should never have unwanted visitors. It has to be funny, otherwise it would be very, very pitiful and sad.
My friend Alex’s* wife is pregnant, as I’ve mentioned, and when I talked to him earlier this week, he announced that he had finally seen “the stirrups behind the green curtain” during her last ultrasound. Adam delivered further confirmation of this bizarre sense of mysticism yesterday when, after the nurse wordlessly left me with a paper sheet, I started to disrobe from the waist down.
“What … WHAAT? Oh my God, why are you taking your pants off? WHY ARE YOU TAKING YOUR PANTS OFF? OH MY GOD.”
So not kidding. You’d think I’d pulled out a pack of matches and lit the place on fire. Apparently, in Man World, you never take your pants off without instructions expressly demanding that you do so, and with explicit directions for precisely the point in the appointment that it is acceptable to do so. Or something. But I can’t help but think that he might be a wee bit traumatized and that this may have prepared him for the birth and not in a good way. I mean, he’d been to appointments with me before, but my pants stayed on until more recently, obviously.
Anyway! In exciting news, a piece of art arrived for the baby’s room done by the incredible hands of Lawyerish‘s mom herself and you guys, it’s amazing. It’s so amazing I wish I could take a picture of it and show you all RIGHT NOW, but unfortunately, Boy Scout Adam has the car packed and loaded for labor and the camera is IN THE BAG and God forbid we disturb the sacred birthing bag. Never mind that until yesterday the bag didn’t contain CLOTHES for me to go home in, because he didn’t think I needed them, NEVER MIND.
(Speaking of Lawyerish, did you know she’s back? Because she is and with all kinds of updates, both heartbreaking and hopeful.)
And finally, this evening I flicked on American Idol for no reason at all (I never watch it, and that will become clear in a moment) and found myself Tweeting that the dude who sang Mandolin Rain had “axe murderer eyes” and was all, what the hell’s with the guy’s EYES? He looks scary! Very scary! And mean!
Fortunately or unfortunately as these things go, I was about to launch off on something else when someone informed me that hi, um, he’s actually blind. Yes, BLIND. OH HI HO. Is there another pile of shit I can step in?
Please, someone let me know where I can show up for my sensitivity award, because clearly I deserve one.
*Alex, he of Facebook Mom fame. By the way, he informed me of a post I’d missed, wherein he mentions beer and she FAH-REEKS OUT on his public profile, screeching that he should not be drinking in front of his wife and for the love of God, doesn’t he know about FETAL ALCOHOL SYNDROME? BEER IS DANGEROUS. I guess through proximal osmosis. I don’t know.
**Peter Gabriel. Toying with the idea of whipping through the birth playlist until she’s actually out.
March 3rd, 2009
Now that the statute of limitations on spoilers has passed, may I have a word about Top Chef? Yes, that’s right, I said STATUTE OF LIMITATIONS, meaning that the people who were live-Tweeting the results Wednesday night broke some major etiquette rules, because it’s one thing to ruin it for those of us who were on TiVo delay, but WAY DIFFERENT to totally Hose(a) the people on the West coast who didn’t even have the CHANCE TO SEE IT. And when your Tweet is nothing more than, “Hosea wins!” I then think you are an even LARGER douche, because you’re not even adding value with your Tweet! You are just ruining it for others! YES, YOU!
Ahem. I seem to have worked myself into a pregnant FROTH over this, so pissed off was I. Because it’s never happened before during a regular episode, much less a FINALE.
Anyway, Hosea. Whatever. Man, do I dislike the guy, and I see nothing attractive about him, and will consider it a service to others if the reunion reveals that he has, indeed, hooked up with Leah on a more permanent basis. Because at least then we can assume that by two totally annoying, destructive people being together that they are at least reducing the damage to other, more innocent victims.
So! I have two things I’ve been wondering about, both non-pregnancy-bitching related, although I will FIRST tell you that I had an internal exam today which is very painful, HOO BOY OH YES IT IS. I had no idea, man. I mean, getting a hand up in there isn’t exactly a piece of cake, but I didn’t realize having someone noodle around in my cervix would feel not unlike that awful scene in Seven, if you know what I’m saying and BLECH I HOPE YOU DON’T. But! Word is that I’m 50% effaced and a fingertip dilated, which, plus a bag of salt and vinegar chips, will get me lunch, if that, and I’m told to “hang tight.” Whee.
So onward to the two things!
1) I really, really thought acrylic French-manicured nails went out in 1987. Am I woefully behind the times on this? I mean, I realize that the Real Housewives of Orange County aren’t exactly the most CLASSY of ladies, given their behavior, but don’t their nails seem so INCONGRUOUS? They’re PLASTIC. And very gross. Ew. Just ew.
2) It is pretty much determined that my daughter will be a Piscean unless she goes beyond March 20 and is born Giant Freaky Overcooked Baby, which: no. This is a little bit scary for me, a Capricorn/Scorpio mix, because while I love Pisces, my mind immediately goes to the most extreme manifestation, which is usually awesome, and generally the kind of person I admire because it’s so different from me.
But because I’ll be her MOTHER, and will turn into the completely crazy controlling Capricorn that I am, unleashing every negative aspect of my personality and sign on her like the WIND, I’m terrified she’s going to be all WIFTY and want to run off to swim with the dolphins or something, which will give me HIVES, because WHAT ABOUT HER FUTURE OH MY GOD, DOLPHINS DO NOT PAY THE BILLS. And it will morph into an epic battle of wills, when really, dolphin-wranglers are probably the happiest of sorts and can do just FINE.
But still, then I’ll be that irritating helicopter mom telling her to go do something practical, and just give up on her freakin’ marine dreams already, because it’s MUCH BETTER TO DO SOMETHING PRACTICAL. AND HAS SHE CONSIDERED BEING A CPA? And while she’s at it, pick up a suit from Brooks Brothers, perhaps the kind with the gold buttons on the cuffs! HURRY. STOP THINKING ABOUT THE DOLPHINS.
I used to be a bit of an astrology buff, and in fact, have a chart to do for a friend (AIEEE, JENNIE WILL DO), but can no longer really claim much beyond the most rudimentary of knowledge. However! I know my own signs rather well, and fit them to a T. And so I ask, do you? Is my fear of Wifty Piscean Dolphin Child completely unfounded?
(Note: this is mostly in jest. Please do not panic that I’m going to send my child back or, I don’t know TO MILITARY SCHOOL, because she decides to paint teapots for a living. Or that I have some sort of THING against Pisces, because OBVIOUSLY NOT.)
Happy weekend! Holla!
*The Sundays. And the only reason I use it is because I believe she uses the term “romantic Piscean” in her whole personal ad parallel, and now it’s in my head.
February 26th, 2009
The can of deluxe mixed nuts I bought today has a label on it screeching, “WARNING: MAY CONTAIN NUTS AND OTHER ALLERGENS.”
Ha ha haaaa? Oh God.
**WARNING: EXTREME GESTATIONAL-RELATED KVETCHING FOLLOWS**
(Mercifully, it is a LIMITED-TIME ENGAGEMENT)
(We hope.)
(Otherwise, some of us will have to be committed.)
(But really, that’s kind of all I’ve got going on, because I AM A LUMP. AN ISLAND. A CONTINENT.)
Hey, have I told you guys that I don’t sleep? Like, at all? I know, I know! I have! People think I’m exaggerating and all, but no no, really, I’m not. I start trying around 10:30, and without fail, I break out into an inexplicable full-body sweat by 11:30, at which point Adam falls asleep and snores ever so gently in tune with the dog, which is too much for my delicate little constitution to bear in this state, and I’m up! I’m up!
Enter hours and hours of television and infomercials mixed with tossing and turning and the occasional driftoff for no more than THIRTY MINUTES at a time, because I’ve been roused by the need to turn over — which believe me, is a process involving lots of heaving and more sweating, plus a body pillow — or I have to pee, or my arm (MY STUPID ARM) is throbbing from carpal tunnel.
Or — and this is the best part — I WAKE MYSELF UP SNORING. And by “snoring” I mean … oh God, you guys, I can’t believe the noises that come out of my face. Imagine a very large, very loud train full of snorting pigs screeching into megaphones. Now imagine that train in your bed. Or you know, ON YOUR FACE.
You see, perhaps, why I have come, however naively, to believe that the one- to three-hour stretches new parents complain about with newborns is beginning to sound downright LUXURIOUS. After all, I get exactly one (1) of those every day, usually between the hours of 7-10 a.m., during which the phone almost always rings, enraging me to the point of … well, blind rage. And even then, I wake up at least twice to pee and/or roll over and/or ALL OF THE DAMN ABOVE.
Here’s something also interesting! Do you know that sometimes stretch marks HURT while they are being created? You can actually feel your skin pulling apart! This of course, makes me think of OTHER nether-like regions pulling apart, only much faster and … oy, folks, OY. I am very excited for her to arrive, but I am not excited about the MODE of her arrival, and am wondering if there is some sort of alien osmosis way of getting her out so that none of us quite realizes it, until suddenly, OH LOOK, A BABY. HOW MAGICAL.
As for the marks themselves, I don’t actually care, because they aren’t that bad yet, AND I’m not inclined to get yanked out about such things, especially when there’s nothing I can do about it, short of duct-taping my skin together (a novel idea!). However, I am not all THIS IS THE SHAPE OF A MOTHER. I WEAR THEM AS BADGES OF HONOR. Um, no. They are what they are, and dude, I’m gonna assume those babies will fade. Or at least hope. If not, please don’t look for my midsection anywhere but underneath my shirts from now until forever and ever, amen.
Anyway, this will all be moot within the month, at least, as she’s due a week from Saturday, and I could go as long as 42 weeks. (Ha ha?) (HA HA HA?)
So. Other than an inordinate amount of very boring preparation and nesting (we have very clean toilets and bathtubs right now, because, you know, she’ll be born potty trained and showering solo, so those MUST BE CLEAN), there is little happening here. I am busy as hell doing things that are probably of little consequence (bills! repairmen scheduling in Florida! PANIC!) and watching my skin rip like an overinflated balloon.
And finally, Top Chef this season was really stinky. Thank God for Real Housewives. Or you know, I could watch something other than Bravo, but why start now?
Happy Thursday!
*Simon & Garfunkel
February 26th, 2009
Adam and I have been hellbound and determined to get all the sleeping, slothing and general do-nothingness we can in these last few weekends, to the point of not even LOOKING at what’s happening around us, because all we have planned — nay, all we WANT — to do is watch Weeds and The West Wing or whatever show we missed the first time around and are now catching up on. I think this went to the extreme when we went out for dinner last night and didn’t even notice the GIANT BONFIRE that could be seen from all points in town, which was apparently wrapping up some kind of town-wide winter carnival that had been happening all weekend long. And yet, when we finally did notice the fire, we almost called 9-1-1, because OMG FIRE WTF.
We’re involved in our community, is what I’m saying. ACTIVELY INVOLVED. I imagine this will change, however, when I am able to do anything for more than three minutes at a time, and I’ll have a baby who would probably like to do something other than watch Weeds (well, eventually anyway). By “anything,” by the way, I mean really mean all things that normal people do. I can’t eat more than an ounce at a clip because my stomach’s in my boob, I can’t walk for any distance because oh my God, my aching back, and for chrissake, I can’t even LAY ON ONE SIDE for more than three minutes, because the sheer heft of my own body makes my whole side go numb.
So! In light of the fact that we’re in a holding pattern here and did little else other than lay about like bumps in pickles, mail thank-you notes and other sundry sloth-like activities, how about a painful meme? I KNOW! I hate them, too! But my brain needs to do something, and I already did the cursed 25 things on Facebook (no, really, IT MADE ME).
This, too, is the worst of all, as it is the COUPLES MEME. HA HA HA. Oh, poor Adam.
What are your middle names?
Mine is Kay; Adam’s is Lewis. I really despise mine (sorry, Mom!), as it seems so … country western song, to me. Blech.
How long have you been together?
Ten years. We started dating in 1999; married in 2003.
How long did you know each other before you started dating?
We both went to Syracuse and ultimately, had all of the same friends, but I’d only ever heard of this mysterious Adam that everyone knew but I’d never met. He’d graduated the year prior, but had to finish up a credit or two while he worked a full-time job, so understandably, his schedule wasn’t really that of a college student anymore. However, finally, about a week before graduation, we met at a bar and I chatted his ear off drunkenly, and boy howdy, I liked him a whole lot, but we were both involved with other people at the time.
Eventually, after we’d both moved back to Boston a year later, I ran into him on the street on my way to the T and hugged him, we all started hanging out together and … that was kind of it.
Who asked whom out?
Uh, neither of us, I guess. It was an organic kind of thing that happened kind of shortly after we re-met. Although I did have a (bad, irrelevant and superboring) boyfriend at the time that we realized we were getting together and Adam basically demanded that I break up with him because there was sort of no point stopping the train we were on. (I’m making this sound like the Thornbirds or something, but it wasn’t really like that.) And I did exactly that the very next day, and we’ve been together ever since.
How old are each of you?
He was a year ahead of me in school and everything else, but we’re both 33.
Whose siblings do you see the most?
We each have more than one sibling, but we see my sister and his brother the most, probably equally these days, as they’re the closest to us (Boston and Syracuse, respectively).
Which situation is the hardest on you as a couple?
I’m going to go with impending parenthood, preemptively.
Did you go to the same school?
Yes. But again, we didn’t really know each other, and while I’d heard of him, I highly doubt he’d ever heard of me.
Are you from the same home town?
Nope. I grew up in eastern Pennsylvania, and he grew up in Boston’s MetroWest.
Who is smarter?
I’m no slouch, but he’s much smarter than me in every useful category imaginable.
Who is the most sensitive?
Neither one of us are super-sensitive types, but he’s not at all, while I am currently experiencing a pregnancy-induced bout of X-TREME SENSITIVITY 2009. I’m even embarrassed at some of the things that come out of my mouth, seriously, because I’m this wee little shrinking violet who is weirdly, hormonally needy. I believe I’ve said, “Will you still love me if/when [insert event here]” more times than I EVER imagined saying it before. I am an awful, miserable, needy sap which, you’re just going to have to trust me, is nothing like me normally.
If I had to guess, I’d say he’s not thrilled with it, because who IS this suddenly weird, needy woman who’s all, “WILL YOU STILL LOVE ME TOMORROW?” I mean, where is his WIFE, is probably what he’s thinking.
Where do you eat out most as a couple?
HA. Well, considering we live in a wee town with very little of anything decent to speak of, I’d say the diner up the street for lunch, which has the best reubens in town.
Where is the furthest you two have traveled together as a couple?
It’s sad to say we’ve both traveled far and wide separately, but we haven’t traveled that far as a couple. Pre-baby, when we took couple-y type vacations, we both worked so much that all we wanted to do was lay on a beach somewhere, so that’s what we did. So, uh, the Caribbean was frequented A LOT.
Who has the craziest exes?
That would be me. All of his exes are lovely, and the kind of women I’d be friends with if they lived closer. And there’s really only one of mine that went crazy, but he seems just fine now. I think.
Who has the worst temper?
Hm. I’m quick to anger, quick to cool. I will yell and rant for five to fifteen minutes, and then it’s over forever. Adam is one of those slow-burn types who takes a while to get angry, but takes just as long to cool down. This works out just as well as you can imagine, although we don’t fight much.
Who does the cooking?
I do, except when Adam makes his Asian stir-fry, which is delicious. He always cooks chicken perfectly.
Who is the neat-freak?
Adam. I thrive in chaos.
Who is more stubborn?
Oh God, it’s like living with two MULES.
Who hogs the bed?
HA HA. I do. Am miserable, bed-hogging cow these days, and now there are pretty much two of me, given the giant body pillow I require to get comfortable. Rolling over is a HILARIOUS ENDEAVOR that often results in thwapping Adam directly in the face with the zipper end of the pillowcase. God.
Who wakes up earlier?
Me, almost always, under normal circumstances. But lately, with my general preggo morning exhaustion, he’s up and at ‘em, while I’m prone and sloth-like, considering stabbing my own eyes out for a second more of actual sleep that lasts more than thirty minutes.
Where was your first date?
We had our first “date” by making the impromptu decision to stay up all night and watch the sunrise over Boston Harbor after a night out with friends. My best friend (and roommate at the time), Eve, was also with us, which she now remembers with painful awkwardness (“You guys were GETTING TOGETHER, what the FUCK was I DOING THERE?”), but truly, it was actually perfect that she was there and not at all awkward at the time, because it’s not like it was PLANNED and there was no kissing or hand-holding or anything date-y about it.
Besides, the two of them were better friends than Adam and I were then. They’d known each other for years at that point.
Our first alone-date was when we both opted to play hooky from work and randomly take a boat ride in the Boston Harbor on a gorgeous sunny day.
It’s worth noting that four years later, Adam proposed at that very spot, just behind the aquarium, right before we went out to dinner and drinks with all of our friends in Faneuil Hall.
Who is more jealous?
Neither of us are jealous. I don’t know any married people who are, or is that just me? It would be weird for us. I mean, we’re happily married, so there’s really nothing to be jealous of. It’s not like some appealing person of the opposite sex is going to come in and make any difference in our relationship whatsoever.
How long did it take to get serious?
About a minute. We were talking about getting married like, a week into it. I even told my mother I was going to marry this guy, to which she probably said something like, “Yes, sure, right, whatever.” But I was right.
Who eats more?
Oh God, probably me. But I’m pregnant and uh, Adam’s a snacker?
Who does the laundry?
I don’t let him, or anybody, near the laundry. It’s my weird little anal thing I have. I love doing laundry and it’s a chore I really don’t mind, although I will concede I should do it more often.
Who’s better with the computer?
Considering he’s always been a programmer, technology lead, VP of technology or CTO, I’m going to go with him. I always forget that most people don’t live with computer geniuses who can fix anything, anytime.
Who drives when you are together?
Adam. He claims I’m a bad driver, but WHATEVER. Am behind-the-wheel prodigy.
*curtain*
I’m off to scrounge up something for dinner and watch the Oscars. Oh and then MAYBE I’ll try to sleep, but trust me, no one is counting on this.
*Regina Spektor. She’s wicked hit or miss for me, but I love that song.
February 22nd, 2009
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