Current dilemma: I haven't slept all week and, despite tylenol PM, I think the heat is keeping me up. Dave was, of course, fine all night. But then again, Dave can sleep through nuclear winter and wake up thinking nothing happened. Despite the heat, he was also interested (unconsciously) in snuggling at 1:30 am as he was "sharing" my pillow. Uhm, Dave? There are already 2 people (me and bba) and a gigantic cat on my side of the bed, not to mention all the covers that came with you. BACK OFF!
Anyway. So here's the debate: Air conditioner? I'd just give in and get one if it were for the reality that we have vertical windows -- which means the $89 style won't work. We have to get a $300 or more one. Damn damn. Thoughts? My thoughts are that I'm knocked up and it's only june. Then again, I know it's not going to be bad forever... and by 3 am or so, it does cool down. Unfortunately, that leave mommy-pees-a-lot with only about 3 hours of sleep. I don't know. Do I chance it and just try to ride it out? or do I bite the bullet now and enjoy a reasonable summer despite the belly?
Donations accepted.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Clarification
Ok, just for clarification, the scratch on Rhianna's head really is just a little skidmark from falling on her head -- it really wasn't a "big deal," it just made me angry when I had to ask around to find out what happened. Sorry if I made anyone nervous.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Tears for Tots
So it was as my eyes filled to the brim this evening that I realized I've taken the elevator right on past crazy and up to histerical. Though I don't feel like I've hit worthy-to-be-hospitalized quite yet, it's within sight. I'd like to blame it all on hormones, but after being pregnant/nursing/horny/pregnant-again for almost the two years, I feel like I've pretty much played that card to death. I have to accept that I am just a raving lunatic.
Please don't misunderstand me. I do think it's perfectly reasonable that when my child has a head wound, I should get a call for it from daycare. Granted, it's not like she was gushing blood or anything, but a scrap/wound/injury that requires care beyond a kiss-to-make-it-feel-better, Mommy must know. Call me high-maintenance. Call me hormonal. Just pick up the damn phone and tell me that my child shed blood -- even if it's only a drop.
Where it becomes unreasonable is that by the time my drive home (about 10 minutes) was over, and I walked in the door, I was at the point of histeria. So a special thanks to those of you who have remained (or even become) my friend during this time of my life. I'm pretty sure.... yeah... I'm pretty sure that this is not "normal" for me.... but hey, what do I know about normal? I've managed to graduate college, move three times (2 states), get married, get pregnant, have a baby and get pregnant again all in the last 3 years. I know I've always been a bit of a control freak and I know, thanks to Sarah in first grade, that I can be "Bossy Bridget." But emotional? Inarticulate? Lazy? These seem to be new personality traits that I'm not so thrilled to acquire.
Please don't misunderstand me. I do think it's perfectly reasonable that when my child has a head wound, I should get a call for it from daycare. Granted, it's not like she was gushing blood or anything, but a scrap/wound/injury that requires care beyond a kiss-to-make-it-feel-better, Mommy must know. Call me high-maintenance. Call me hormonal. Just pick up the damn phone and tell me that my child shed blood -- even if it's only a drop.
Where it becomes unreasonable is that by the time my drive home (about 10 minutes) was over, and I walked in the door, I was at the point of histeria. So a special thanks to those of you who have remained (or even become) my friend during this time of my life. I'm pretty sure.... yeah... I'm pretty sure that this is not "normal" for me.... but hey, what do I know about normal? I've managed to graduate college, move three times (2 states), get married, get pregnant, have a baby and get pregnant again all in the last 3 years. I know I've always been a bit of a control freak and I know, thanks to Sarah in first grade, that I can be "Bossy Bridget." But emotional? Inarticulate? Lazy? These seem to be new personality traits that I'm not so thrilled to acquire.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
So you had a bad day
Today has been one of those please-don't-breath-near-me days when my nerves seemed to have been rubbed raw before I even crawled out of bed. Hopefully tomorrow will start fresh. It's funny how a poo-poo, everything-annoys-me day affects one's outlook on life. For example, instead of feeling the Yay! baby's kicking during one of Baby's little playtimes, I felt this little smirk cross my mind when a coworker was talking to me. Baby was bouncing around inside which gave me the perfect distraction to ignore whatever it was my coworker was telling me. Hopefully, it wasn't essential information she was trying to convey because I was having my own internal conversation. Inside my deep, dark places I was thinking "bla bla bla, I wish I were tumblin inside a uterus. La la.... that'd be fun... that'd be way more fun than working today... Huh, coworker's still talking, but I'm growing a baby so... Yeah, I think I'll just continue to play uterus bumper cars until there's a silence which I shall fill with the beginning of a totally unrelated topic so that she doesn't know I wasn't listening."
Belly Rubs
Ok Internet, let me make something perfectly clear just in case any of you end are wondering. The answer is a resounding No. It is not appropriate to rub a pregnant woman's belly. We are not Bhudda, we do not grant wishes, and we will not respond in kind.
Several preggers have brought this up to me in the past, but, until now, I've never had many personal feelings about it as it never happened to me with Rhianna. Apparently, things have changed with pregnancy #2. WAY too many people have passed the personal-space-threshold in the last five days. I don't understand what makes people think this is a reasonable thing to do. Do I rub your growing parts? No. I sure don't. Sure, I'll grab Aspen's boob on occassion, but that's a special understanding between close friends. So here's the rule: unless you have specific permission from mommy-to-be, keep your hands off. Let me explain.
Besides the obvious you-don't-touch-mine-I-won't-touch-yours social rule, you have to understand the plight of the pregnant woman and her belly. Sure, YOU may think it's a miracle -- it may be -- but to preggo chicks around the world, the swelling belly means a lot more than the beauty of life. It means saying goodbye to the body you once recognized as your own, stretchmarks, heartburn, potent gas, and lots and lots of expectations. Whether they know it or not, when someone reaches out to touch that preggo's swelling belly, they have sent her a message. The message, while innocent in intent, is frustrating to me. The message sent is "oh (sigh) how sweet, your baby is growing! it must be wonderful!" Notice the exclaimation points. These exclaimation points come with that look of "don't you feel all snuggly happy about all this glorious pregnancy crap." Well guess what Internet, not all of us feel that way and it's none of your business. Frankly, my belly grosses me out. While there are parts of babydom and pregnancy that truly are amazing, the don't-you-feel-whatever expectations really get to me. It reminds me of Jack Nickolson in the movie As Good As It Gets when he snaps at the Spanish lady that lives across the hall because she tries to make Greg Kinnear's life threatening beating sound like a blessing from the heavens. No, thank-you-very-much, I'm not thrilled about my belly leading my way down the hallway or that my boobs leak whenever I get emotional. And you know what else? That which I do find miraculous and wonderful, I don't feel I should share with the whole non-preggo world. If I do, I'll do it in my blog, not when you give me that look.
Several preggers have brought this up to me in the past, but, until now, I've never had many personal feelings about it as it never happened to me with Rhianna. Apparently, things have changed with pregnancy #2. WAY too many people have passed the personal-space-threshold in the last five days. I don't understand what makes people think this is a reasonable thing to do. Do I rub your growing parts? No. I sure don't. Sure, I'll grab Aspen's boob on occassion, but that's a special understanding between close friends. So here's the rule: unless you have specific permission from mommy-to-be, keep your hands off. Let me explain.
Besides the obvious you-don't-touch-mine-I-won't-touch-yours social rule, you have to understand the plight of the pregnant woman and her belly. Sure, YOU may think it's a miracle -- it may be -- but to preggo chicks around the world, the swelling belly means a lot more than the beauty of life. It means saying goodbye to the body you once recognized as your own, stretchmarks, heartburn, potent gas, and lots and lots of expectations. Whether they know it or not, when someone reaches out to touch that preggo's swelling belly, they have sent her a message. The message, while innocent in intent, is frustrating to me. The message sent is "oh (sigh) how sweet, your baby is growing! it must be wonderful!" Notice the exclaimation points. These exclaimation points come with that look of "don't you feel all snuggly happy about all this glorious pregnancy crap." Well guess what Internet, not all of us feel that way and it's none of your business. Frankly, my belly grosses me out. While there are parts of babydom and pregnancy that truly are amazing, the don't-you-feel-whatever expectations really get to me. It reminds me of Jack Nickolson in the movie As Good As It Gets when he snaps at the Spanish lady that lives across the hall because she tries to make Greg Kinnear's life threatening beating sound like a blessing from the heavens. No, thank-you-very-much, I'm not thrilled about my belly leading my way down the hallway or that my boobs leak whenever I get emotional. And you know what else? That which I do find miraculous and wonderful, I don't feel I should share with the whole non-preggo world. If I do, I'll do it in my blog, not when you give me that look.
Monday, June 12, 2006
The Horror Below.
Today's post began as a not-so-innocent email to friends, but has had such overwhelming response ranging from "Geez you're gross" to "wow, it really must suck to be pregnant" to "I'm glad I'm not the only one with issues." So I've converted said email into todays blog.
I warn you in advance (yes, despite my previous claim to throw disclaimers out the window) that today's post is not for the easily grossed out. So if you weren't thrilled with the boob post earlier this summer, you should stop reading now and just wait for my next "cute baby" blog installment. If you enjoy my "let's just get it all out there attitude" as it's recently been coined (formerly defined as tactless), this one might give you a nice "thank god I'm not knocked up" laugh. Keep in mind that I've performed in the Vagina Monologues 3 times.
So, I don't know if I've just let things get out of hand since my "down there" is slowly edging farther and farther out of view as my belly expands but wtf? When I got all ready to take a shower and clean up last night after a nice Sunday of yardwork and other chores and, I shit you not, I was actually STUCK TOGETHER. That's right. The combo of super-preggo-hair-growth-hormones and excess-preggo-goo can apparently form the world's best chastity belt. I swear, nothing could have gotten through that barrier.
I had to use scissors. (Which by the way, is awfully risky when your uterus is blocking all reasonable view of anything south of the equator.) To top things off after staring at my ever-expanding backside in the mirror with typical disgust, my eyes drifted to my prime meridian and it looked like I was ready to take root if I dared sit bare-assed in a nice flowerbed. Seriously, what do you do to control this? Even if I weren't pregnant, how in God's name can you see AND maneuver any object appropriate for trimming THOSE hedges?? I mean, I'm no porn star, but I generally keep things relatively coifed -- and whiile I know there's some crack fuzz, it's never been noticable to an outside viewer. There may be a stray hair here and there, but it's like my underside has suddenly been cast in as the lead role in the newest werewolf horror flick. And let me tell
you Internet, there was a full moon last night.
But ok, here's my real gripe about the whole teen-wolf-vagina issue. I said something to my husband -- granted, he didn't get the gory details, but he got enough for any reasonable person to hear "I'm feeling fugly." Let me start by explaining that my husband is similar to me in that very little bodily things really gross him out -- at least if there isn't a smell or other sensory offender accompanying the problem. He's very clinical about things. His reaction to my distress: absolutely nothing. It was like I told him I stubbed my toe -- except without the sympathy. On the one hand, I'm glad that he wasn't all grossed out. On the other, seriously, do I have to wear a shirt that says "tell me I'm beautiful in the next 30 seconds or dance the one-handed cha-cha in the shower (by yourself) for the rest of your days"? ....maybe I'll shave that into my new rug -- you think he'd notice?
I warn you in advance (yes, despite my previous claim to throw disclaimers out the window) that today's post is not for the easily grossed out. So if you weren't thrilled with the boob post earlier this summer, you should stop reading now and just wait for my next "cute baby" blog installment. If you enjoy my "let's just get it all out there attitude" as it's recently been coined (formerly defined as tactless), this one might give you a nice "thank god I'm not knocked up" laugh. Keep in mind that I've performed in the Vagina Monologues 3 times.
So, I don't know if I've just let things get out of hand since my "down there" is slowly edging farther and farther out of view as my belly expands but wtf? When I got all ready to take a shower and clean up last night after a nice Sunday of yardwork and other chores and, I shit you not, I was actually STUCK TOGETHER. That's right. The combo of super-preggo-hair-growth-hormones and excess-preggo-goo can apparently form the world's best chastity belt. I swear, nothing could have gotten through that barrier.
I had to use scissors. (Which by the way, is awfully risky when your uterus is blocking all reasonable view of anything south of the equator.) To top things off after staring at my ever-expanding backside in the mirror with typical disgust, my eyes drifted to my prime meridian and it looked like I was ready to take root if I dared sit bare-assed in a nice flowerbed. Seriously, what do you do to control this? Even if I weren't pregnant, how in God's name can you see AND maneuver any object appropriate for trimming THOSE hedges?? I mean, I'm no porn star, but I generally keep things relatively coifed -- and whiile I know there's some crack fuzz, it's never been noticable to an outside viewer. There may be a stray hair here and there, but it's like my underside has suddenly been cast in as the lead role in the newest werewolf horror flick. And let me tell
you Internet, there was a full moon last night.
But ok, here's my real gripe about the whole teen-wolf-vagina issue. I said something to my husband -- granted, he didn't get the gory details, but he got enough for any reasonable person to hear "I'm feeling fugly." Let me start by explaining that my husband is similar to me in that very little bodily things really gross him out -- at least if there isn't a smell or other sensory offender accompanying the problem. He's very clinical about things. His reaction to my distress: absolutely nothing. It was like I told him I stubbed my toe -- except without the sympathy. On the one hand, I'm glad that he wasn't all grossed out. On the other, seriously, do I have to wear a shirt that says "tell me I'm beautiful in the next 30 seconds or dance the one-handed cha-cha in the shower (by yourself) for the rest of your days"? ....maybe I'll shave that into my new rug -- you think he'd notice?
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Look Mom, Fuzz!!
So our baby girl is now a one-year-old. It's pretty cool. The weekend was filled with cake and presents and an unexpected swim in the creek. It was great and all are a little heavier after the sugar. The birthday girl had her 12 month doctor's checkup and topped off just an ounce under 19 lbs, hit 27" on the nose (still under the growth chart, but 2" taller than 3 months ago so I think it's pretty good) and is doing wonderfully with all the developmental stuff. It was a fun appointment.
"Does she drink from a cup?" Like a REAL cup? Who gives a baby a REAL cup with liquid in it? That's just waiting for disaster.
"Does she walk backwards?" Like...moonwalk? I can't even do that.
"Does she walk up steps?" The steps are up to her thighs. Can you walk steps that are that big?
"How many words does she have?" Does it count that she calls all inanimate objects "Dada"?
But in the end, we decided she's on track for being as close to normal as the combined genetic power that Dave and I can make.
"Does she drink from a cup?" Like a REAL cup? Who gives a baby a REAL cup with liquid in it? That's just waiting for disaster.
"Does she walk backwards?" Like...moonwalk? I can't even do that.
"Does she walk up steps?" The steps are up to her thighs. Can you walk steps that are that big?
"How many words does she have?" Does it count that she calls all inanimate objects "Dada"?
But in the end, we decided she's on track for being as close to normal as the combined genetic power that Dave and I can make.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Chunky
There are certain words that cannot appear in a compliment. Cellulite, for example, just can't be made to sound nice. "You have very little cellulite." Nope. Not even that. The fact that the word came to mind when looking at the person meant to recieve the compliment immediately reverses any positive energy meant in the statement.
Another word on the never-in-a-compliment list is chunky. Today a client said to me, "you're finally getting chunky!" What she MEANT (or at the VERY least, should have said) was "you're showing." What she SAID was "chunky." Thanks.
Yesterday I ran into a woman at the maternity store who is 20 weeks pregnant with her third. SHE said to me, "You inspire me to go home and jump on my treadmill." Now THERE's a compliment. Not that I really believed her, I'm sure she was just being nice, but still, it was a great pregnancy compliment nonetheless.
But today I get "chunky." What an ego-buster.
Another word on the never-in-a-compliment list is chunky. Today a client said to me, "you're finally getting chunky!" What she MEANT (or at the VERY least, should have said) was "you're showing." What she SAID was "chunky." Thanks.
Yesterday I ran into a woman at the maternity store who is 20 weeks pregnant with her third. SHE said to me, "You inspire me to go home and jump on my treadmill." Now THERE's a compliment. Not that I really believed her, I'm sure she was just being nice, but still, it was a great pregnancy compliment nonetheless.
But today I get "chunky." What an ego-buster.
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