My laptop mysteriously died the other day. Of course when I say mysteriously died I am really saying I am pretty sure J spilled something on it. This is a damn shame because I love my laptop and the glorious freedom of playing on the internets while lounging like a lazy trollop in bed. And also because there will be a seriously lack of blogging until it is returned to me. Though I will try.
I have entered the third stage of fucking giving up of pregnancy. The first stage is the first trimester where maybe you wash your hair slightly less often, rock the ponytail sometimes at work, maybe give up your most uncomfortable shoes. The second stage is the slightly portly stage, and more days without eyeliner. The third stage is the comfortable shoe stage and lord I bought me some clogs. Clogs which made my feet swell up like fat sausages and screech in protest (this is not due to the shoes but due to my instep and a poorly chosen size). They are not cute with my dress up work clothes and really signal my full descent into third stage. Where my hair is just cute enough and most of my makeup time is devoted to the dark cavernous circles under my eyes. I am sure fourth stage involves going to work in my adidas workout pants and baby pink t-shirt that reads "What's kicking" with little baby feet in puffy paint. And surfing the internet for minivan prices because FUCK WHAT ELSE PEOPLE.
I had lunch with a friend of mine today who has a fourth month old. She spent the whole time either giving me advice that I didn't ask for (and really didn't want), talking to the baby like I wasn't there (which FUCK I hate that) and telling me how AMAZING IT ALL IS. In all caps people believe me I could tell.
I hate the MY BAYBEEE IS AMAZING thing even though I am sure I will do it (and also the advice thing and possibly the damn talking to the baby instead of people who can answer) because it squicks me out. And also, I am just not mushy like that and it makes me feel guilty. I love my baby and all but I don't think that she is amazing. She is standing on my fucking bladder which makes me hate her a little (but just a little). This makes me less than mother of the year I am aware.
I am pretty sure this post guarantees that I will be the world's most annoying new mother. WOOT!
Friday, October 19, 2007
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Job Description
I've acknowledged that I am not the best at being pregnant. It's been very hard for me, with the puking and the heartburn and the killer fatigue. I tore my rectum people, in a hotel room a couple of thousand miles from home. I've struggled more with body issues than I imagined possible given that I look totally fine and normal. I don't like being pregnant and I really don't trust these women that claim that they loved it so damn much. I've yet to meet a currently pregnant woman who gasps in ecstasy about this conditional but I suppose the mythical creatures may exist.
But as much as I wanted to be pregnant, and I did for so long as those of you who have stuck with me through all of this are well aware, it wasn't for the experience. I don't give a shit about the gift of giving life, even though I do feel grateful that I was able to do this. I wanted a baby and there was no way else to get one (first one to mention adoption gets kicked in the balls, people with our middle class incomes and J's family history don't get to adopt, not without knocking over a convenience store and greasing a lot of palms). Actually, not so much a baby, I wanted us to have a child, a family and I am amazed every day that this is coming true.
But I hate being pregnant and I am no good at it. And J cannot wait for it to be over because as much as people want to believe that he is a cocksucker he actually does love me and he hates to see me this way. When people ask him how I am doing he makes snarky comments about the little parasite and I can see them think what an asshole he is. I don't make these comments, not because I don't think they are funny (they are) or because I don't agree (um I do) but because I know people tolerate these things from fathers but from mothers they speed dial CPS and forcibly deliver this kid now because GOD if I could say things like that I probably eat deli meat too. SAVE MY BABY.
I feel stretched to my limit. I work a lot, fifty hours a week, at a stressful job with a two hour daily commute. This is my busy season. And just maintaining my home, my marriage and treading water on everything else is all I can do. I cannot do drama. I cannot do conflict. Anything outside of getting shit done in the next couple of months is going to have to wait. People are making demands that oh fuck them, I know they love us and they love our baby but fuck . . .No one gets to make us do anything right now. If I don't want her bedroom to be pink, that is my choice. We can use whatever name we like. I do not have to take any belly photos (my sister is like GASP at this but actually she was nice about asking and lovely when refused unlike others who are ogres from hell). The other day I cried a little at the end of Iron Chef America and honestly that is a sign that things are Not Going Well. It is just too much.
So my job is this. Go to my actual job and do the best that I can and not freak out about the rest. Be a good partner to my husband and not make him panic. Maintain the bare minimum of livability in my home. And eat ice cream, I am definitely in charge of eating ice cream. Everything else? Fuck it.
But as much as I wanted to be pregnant, and I did for so long as those of you who have stuck with me through all of this are well aware, it wasn't for the experience. I don't give a shit about the gift of giving life, even though I do feel grateful that I was able to do this. I wanted a baby and there was no way else to get one (first one to mention adoption gets kicked in the balls, people with our middle class incomes and J's family history don't get to adopt, not without knocking over a convenience store and greasing a lot of palms). Actually, not so much a baby, I wanted us to have a child, a family and I am amazed every day that this is coming true.
But I hate being pregnant and I am no good at it. And J cannot wait for it to be over because as much as people want to believe that he is a cocksucker he actually does love me and he hates to see me this way. When people ask him how I am doing he makes snarky comments about the little parasite and I can see them think what an asshole he is. I don't make these comments, not because I don't think they are funny (they are) or because I don't agree (um I do) but because I know people tolerate these things from fathers but from mothers they speed dial CPS and forcibly deliver this kid now because GOD if I could say things like that I probably eat deli meat too. SAVE MY BABY.
I feel stretched to my limit. I work a lot, fifty hours a week, at a stressful job with a two hour daily commute. This is my busy season. And just maintaining my home, my marriage and treading water on everything else is all I can do. I cannot do drama. I cannot do conflict. Anything outside of getting shit done in the next couple of months is going to have to wait. People are making demands that oh fuck them, I know they love us and they love our baby but fuck . . .No one gets to make us do anything right now. If I don't want her bedroom to be pink, that is my choice. We can use whatever name we like. I do not have to take any belly photos (my sister is like GASP at this but actually she was nice about asking and lovely when refused unlike others who are ogres from hell). The other day I cried a little at the end of Iron Chef America and honestly that is a sign that things are Not Going Well. It is just too much.
So my job is this. Go to my actual job and do the best that I can and not freak out about the rest. Be a good partner to my husband and not make him panic. Maintain the bare minimum of livability in my home. And eat ice cream, I am definitely in charge of eating ice cream. Everything else? Fuck it.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Goodreads
I deleted my book blog. I am guessing no one but me noticed since I hadn't updated it in more than a year. It would just stare at me all accusingly on my dashboard on blogger. I felt guilty because I just couldn't type up the books I was reading, and then they added up and then . . .
I am pretty wimpy.
So I joined Goodreads. You will notice that I have zero friends. SAD. So feel free to join up (search for me under anyabeth@comcast.net) and add me. It is a wonderously geeky kind of tool to catalog all your books.
And clearly I need help figuring out what to read next. HELP ME
I am pretty wimpy.
So I joined Goodreads. You will notice that I have zero friends. SAD. So feel free to join up (search for me under anyabeth@comcast.net) and add me. It is a wonderously geeky kind of tool to catalog all your books.
And clearly I need help figuring out what to read next. HELP ME
Friday, October 12, 2007
Pregnant Face Goes to the Gap
I just want to say ALL HAIL THE MOTHER FUCKING GAP. I've been struggling with clothes, since my belly has just exploded and wearing the regular stuff just doesn't work anymore. My super long torso with a big belly is a recipe for the kind of exposure that traumatizes people (including me). I had to give up my regular pants weeks ago, something that delights me (because honestly I thought I would have to give them up in week three) even though I know I pulled it off through laziness. I had some pants that I hadn't bothered to alter the waists in, which were too large. Bless the lazy yo!
At any rate maternity shopping is fucking annoying. A lot of pants only run up to size 12 and the sales girls admit that they run small. Or they sag in a way that is just not ok. Or they are so ugly that I cannot stand to even think it. I was seriously thinking about using black electrical tape to cover the white stripes on my Adidas sweats and calling them dress pants. I don't think my boss understands that I was totally not kidding when I told her that was my plan for the week before I go on leave. But I am pretty sure I will be large and frightening enough that she won't fuck with me by then.
I ordered two pairs of pants from the gap plus a jacket and GOD BLESS THEM. They look like real pants, fit the leg nicely and were not a million dollars (they were not cheap though). The jacket is cute and soft and while note PERFECT will serve me well I think the rest of the way. I also have a couple of t-shirts and a sweater from the line and am pleased with the fit (just by your normal Gap size) and quality (seems to be normal Gap quality which is definitely higher than most maternity wear). Best of all? They carry large sizes, up to size 20. As some one who is just at the high end of regular sizing (hilarious that, since I am smaller than the average American woman so I can't be alone here) the other options are infuriating (I am aware that plus sized women have it even worse).
Gap isn't perfect. The jeans I bought are the best option I've found so far, but they are a hair shorter than I'd like and not the cutest wash. And it's annoying how few sizes and styles they have in-store. And their selection this summer was HORRIFYING, full of florals and baggy tops and capri pants. But this fall they have sensible and tailored career options and cute casual things.
When you are six months pregnant and tired and trying to do a million things you really don't want to have to worry about how you are going to cover your ass appropriately.
Of course I do wish that they had something that would somehow give the illusion that I do not have pregnant face. Which appeared this week. And J was too foolish to lie to me about.
SIGH
At any rate maternity shopping is fucking annoying. A lot of pants only run up to size 12 and the sales girls admit that they run small. Or they sag in a way that is just not ok. Or they are so ugly that I cannot stand to even think it. I was seriously thinking about using black electrical tape to cover the white stripes on my Adidas sweats and calling them dress pants. I don't think my boss understands that I was totally not kidding when I told her that was my plan for the week before I go on leave. But I am pretty sure I will be large and frightening enough that she won't fuck with me by then.
I ordered two pairs of pants from the gap plus a jacket and GOD BLESS THEM. They look like real pants, fit the leg nicely and were not a million dollars (they were not cheap though). The jacket is cute and soft and while note PERFECT will serve me well I think the rest of the way. I also have a couple of t-shirts and a sweater from the line and am pleased with the fit (just by your normal Gap size) and quality (seems to be normal Gap quality which is definitely higher than most maternity wear). Best of all? They carry large sizes, up to size 20. As some one who is just at the high end of regular sizing (hilarious that, since I am smaller than the average American woman so I can't be alone here) the other options are infuriating (I am aware that plus sized women have it even worse).
Gap isn't perfect. The jeans I bought are the best option I've found so far, but they are a hair shorter than I'd like and not the cutest wash. And it's annoying how few sizes and styles they have in-store. And their selection this summer was HORRIFYING, full of florals and baggy tops and capri pants. But this fall they have sensible and tailored career options and cute casual things.
When you are six months pregnant and tired and trying to do a million things you really don't want to have to worry about how you are going to cover your ass appropriately.
Of course I do wish that they had something that would somehow give the illusion that I do not have pregnant face. Which appeared this week. And J was too foolish to lie to me about.
SIGH
Monday, October 08, 2007
Cosmic Joke
Now that day seven of Operation Get That Yeast Out of My Cooter is past I welcomed back my regular underwear. I was in giant cotton boyshorts for the duration and I am not a fan. They are comfortable but I missed real underwear. I do not recommend yeast infections, by the way, may my lady bits never be visited by such things again.
My Cubs exited the playoffs in an unremarkable and rather pathetic fashion. I am in acceptance phase. In a weird development I have found myself rooting for the Yankees. Who are in the process of going down in flames too. MAYBE IT REALLY IS ME.
J and my dad did manly things this weekend and now we have an aqua second bedroom. Which is not the guest room anymore but I am not sure I am ready to call it the baby room. Having it all painting seems to have brought it all home though. Did y'all know they are going to let me take home a baby one day? MADNESS SURELY.
We are down to a list of three names for Muppet. And we had a very pissy argument via email today about the middle name. I thought it was settled and told my mother accordingly. J didn't think it was settled and mean things were said . .er . .written. I am still kind of mad but am trying to be an adult about it. We'll see how that works out.
Oh dear more swearing. Me thinks the Yankees are losing more now. SHIT.
One side of my belly is growing faster than the other. This would be interesting and maybe funny except earlier today the side that is growing just slightly less felt as though some one had Nancy Kerriganed it and DAMN I could barely walk. Like all sorts of strange and uncomfortable symptoms (yeast infection, deformed nipples, sinus swelling, and giant threatening toenails) this is completely normal during pregnancy. I feel confident if I wake up tomorrow with a blue nose and fangs my doctor would assure me that "that happens for some women during their second trimester." The crowbar slapped side isn't throbbing right now but I am sort of gun shy about it. I keep looking for a bruise because SURELY THERE IS A BRUISE.
There is an evolutionary purpose to all of this I am sure. Or it is a giant cosmic fucking joke on womankind.
My Cubs exited the playoffs in an unremarkable and rather pathetic fashion. I am in acceptance phase. In a weird development I have found myself rooting for the Yankees. Who are in the process of going down in flames too. MAYBE IT REALLY IS ME.
J and my dad did manly things this weekend and now we have an aqua second bedroom. Which is not the guest room anymore but I am not sure I am ready to call it the baby room. Having it all painting seems to have brought it all home though. Did y'all know they are going to let me take home a baby one day? MADNESS SURELY.
We are down to a list of three names for Muppet. And we had a very pissy argument via email today about the middle name. I thought it was settled and told my mother accordingly. J didn't think it was settled and mean things were said . .er . .written. I am still kind of mad but am trying to be an adult about it. We'll see how that works out.
Oh dear more swearing. Me thinks the Yankees are losing more now. SHIT.
One side of my belly is growing faster than the other. This would be interesting and maybe funny except earlier today the side that is growing just slightly less felt as though some one had Nancy Kerriganed it and DAMN I could barely walk. Like all sorts of strange and uncomfortable symptoms (yeast infection, deformed nipples, sinus swelling, and giant threatening toenails) this is completely normal during pregnancy. I feel confident if I wake up tomorrow with a blue nose and fangs my doctor would assure me that "that happens for some women during their second trimester." The crowbar slapped side isn't throbbing right now but I am sort of gun shy about it. I keep looking for a bruise because SURELY THERE IS A BRUISE.
There is an evolutionary purpose to all of this I am sure. Or it is a giant cosmic fucking joke on womankind.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
SOB
I was very calm about the Cubs losing last night. I am not doing as well with them being down tonight. In fact I am a sniveling wreck. So I am going to just pretend it isn't happening.
For those who emailed me about my mystery in the cooter. It's nothing too mystifying really (this is your cue to look away if you are squeamish) just a yeast infection. Which I had never had before and hope to god that I never do again because LORD GIVE ME STRENGTH. It has now been addressed but not before I scarred both myself and J with making him look at it repeatedly, caved and bought giant all cotton boy short underwear (which are SEXAY) and shot various creams up my ladyplace.
DAMN IT, I keep looking at the Cubs game and wailing. WHY DO THEY HATE ME?
Apparently yeast infections are one of those lovely things about pregnancy that just come with. Like killer heartburn and dry skin and zits on your boobs. At this point anything that is strange and ugly or uncomfortable is just something that "completely normal during pregnancy!" I could wake up tomorrow with my nose rotted clear off my face and I am sure that google would reveal that sometimes that just happens with all the extra estrogen during pregnancy. It's annoying and yet oddly reassuring.
I look somewhere between just pudgy and hugely ready to pop pregnant all depending on who you ask and how much I am abusing black at the moment. I was telling my sister that I would save my maternity wardrobe for her and she made fun of me. Asking how I could have a wardrobe yet. But I cannot wear regular clothes at all. Well other than my beloved Adidas sweatpants and since I have the kind of job that requires more than Adidas sweatpants (and sadly involves no lying around in my bed eating pretzels dipped in cheese--though if you know of a job like that available I am your girl) I had to invest in some clothes. So yeah, I have a wardrobe, even if it is small and kind of pitiful. I do remember before I was pregnant, and even at the beginning, thinking that oh I wouldn't need much and my long shirts would last until the end but HEE. My pants do not even come close to buttoning, and though I can still make the belly band thing work sort of the maternity sort are way more comfortable. Shirts are honestly worse, because they are too short. So yes, I have a couple of pairs of pants and an assortment of shirts and SISTERS WHO MIGHT WANT FREE CLOTHES (because this shit is expensive man) SHOULD NOT MOCK THOSE WHO MIGHT PROVIDE THEM AND EVEN PAY FOR SHIPPING.
But really I just need that job dipping pretzels.
And for the Cubs to stop making me cry.
For those who emailed me about my mystery in the cooter. It's nothing too mystifying really (this is your cue to look away if you are squeamish) just a yeast infection. Which I had never had before and hope to god that I never do again because LORD GIVE ME STRENGTH. It has now been addressed but not before I scarred both myself and J with making him look at it repeatedly, caved and bought giant all cotton boy short underwear (which are SEXAY) and shot various creams up my ladyplace.
DAMN IT, I keep looking at the Cubs game and wailing. WHY DO THEY HATE ME?
Apparently yeast infections are one of those lovely things about pregnancy that just come with. Like killer heartburn and dry skin and zits on your boobs. At this point anything that is strange and ugly or uncomfortable is just something that "completely normal during pregnancy!" I could wake up tomorrow with my nose rotted clear off my face and I am sure that google would reveal that sometimes that just happens with all the extra estrogen during pregnancy. It's annoying and yet oddly reassuring.
I look somewhere between just pudgy and hugely ready to pop pregnant all depending on who you ask and how much I am abusing black at the moment. I was telling my sister that I would save my maternity wardrobe for her and she made fun of me. Asking how I could have a wardrobe yet. But I cannot wear regular clothes at all. Well other than my beloved Adidas sweatpants and since I have the kind of job that requires more than Adidas sweatpants (and sadly involves no lying around in my bed eating pretzels dipped in cheese--though if you know of a job like that available I am your girl) I had to invest in some clothes. So yeah, I have a wardrobe, even if it is small and kind of pitiful. I do remember before I was pregnant, and even at the beginning, thinking that oh I wouldn't need much and my long shirts would last until the end but HEE. My pants do not even come close to buttoning, and though I can still make the belly band thing work sort of the maternity sort are way more comfortable. Shirts are honestly worse, because they are too short. So yes, I have a couple of pairs of pants and an assortment of shirts and SISTERS WHO MIGHT WANT FREE CLOTHES (because this shit is expensive man) SHOULD NOT MOCK THOSE WHO MIGHT PROVIDE THEM AND EVEN PAY FOR SHIPPING.
But really I just need that job dipping pretzels.
And for the Cubs to stop making me cry.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Starting NOW
In the coming weeks if you pay attention at all to baseball you will be bombarded with tales of the Cubs’ “curse.” This curse is stupid, and entirely the creation of sportswriters who really should have to write something original to get paid but instead trot out this nonsense every year. Like the Red Sox were prior to their World Series win, the Cubs have been defined by failure and this curse that seemed to follow their every season. Unlike the Red Sox, I have never met a Cubs fan that really believes in the curse.
This doesn’t mean that any of us are optimists. We aren’t. I firmly believe that the Cubs will blow this, as they have so many times before (but believe me I would LOVE TO BE PROVEN WRONG GUYS). But I don’t believe it because of a goat or whatever crap ESPN and Fox and whomever is going to trot out until we are knocked out. These are the same networks and writers who portray Cubs fans as know-nothings who just come to the games to get drunk and don’t care about or know anything about what is happening on the field. They are lazy writers in other words because Cubs fans are obsessive and crazy and spend a lot of time worrying about Kerry Wood’s pitching motion (yes, even now). There are countless Cub blogs and podcasts and message boards. There are people like me (and my grandpa) who have watched the team since they were little kids but have never been to Wrigley. Baseball is a game about history and emotion and feeling connected to a community. I love the Cubs because I remember watching them in the afternoons with my Grandpa. And having a crush on Mark Grace. That is my only reason. I have never lived in Chicago (I grew up in Iowa though so what were my choices—the White Sox? SHUDDER). But I feel that connection. It is literally the only thing I have in common with my grandfather or cousin at all. So I watch them. And obsess. And silently acknowledge that they will probably lose.
But I think the fans of the Cubs deserve more than the crap on ESPN about how baseball needs the Cubs to lose because you can’t create that kind of futility overnight (sure you can, it’s called the Nationals). They deserve more than whatever crappy goat graphic TBS is going to trot out through every game (though how thrilled am I that the National League isn’t on Fox? SO THRILLED). Broadcasters and sportswriters should just cave and learn the sports that they are working with (this is a little unfair because some of these guys are talented and manage great articles about other teams so MAYBE they are bullied by their employers for this crap but if you can write something interesting about the Royals than maybe you can come up with something about the Cubs that doesn’t mention their last World Series?). As annoying as the curse talk was during the Red Sox run at least their fans believed in it. They were more obsessed with it than their team. They reveled in that, gloried in it, and some of them seem a little psychotic now without it. But Cubs fans really aren’t like that. So leave us alone.
Let us blow it in peace.
This doesn’t mean that any of us are optimists. We aren’t. I firmly believe that the Cubs will blow this, as they have so many times before (but believe me I would LOVE TO BE PROVEN WRONG GUYS). But I don’t believe it because of a goat or whatever crap ESPN and Fox and whomever is going to trot out until we are knocked out. These are the same networks and writers who portray Cubs fans as know-nothings who just come to the games to get drunk and don’t care about or know anything about what is happening on the field. They are lazy writers in other words because Cubs fans are obsessive and crazy and spend a lot of time worrying about Kerry Wood’s pitching motion (yes, even now). There are countless Cub blogs and podcasts and message boards. There are people like me (and my grandpa) who have watched the team since they were little kids but have never been to Wrigley. Baseball is a game about history and emotion and feeling connected to a community. I love the Cubs because I remember watching them in the afternoons with my Grandpa. And having a crush on Mark Grace. That is my only reason. I have never lived in Chicago (I grew up in Iowa though so what were my choices—the White Sox? SHUDDER). But I feel that connection. It is literally the only thing I have in common with my grandfather or cousin at all. So I watch them. And obsess. And silently acknowledge that they will probably lose.
But I think the fans of the Cubs deserve more than the crap on ESPN about how baseball needs the Cubs to lose because you can’t create that kind of futility overnight (sure you can, it’s called the Nationals). They deserve more than whatever crappy goat graphic TBS is going to trot out through every game (though how thrilled am I that the National League isn’t on Fox? SO THRILLED). Broadcasters and sportswriters should just cave and learn the sports that they are working with (this is a little unfair because some of these guys are talented and manage great articles about other teams so MAYBE they are bullied by their employers for this crap but if you can write something interesting about the Royals than maybe you can come up with something about the Cubs that doesn’t mention their last World Series?). As annoying as the curse talk was during the Red Sox run at least their fans believed in it. They were more obsessed with it than their team. They reveled in that, gloried in it, and some of them seem a little psychotic now without it. But Cubs fans really aren’t like that. So leave us alone.
Let us blow it in peace.
Monday, October 01, 2007
Weekend
Saturday I got a massage. It's been years since I've had a massage, which is ironic since I am still a licensed massage therapist, and GOOD GOD I needed it. I also got my neck and back adjusted by the chiropractor and I was a new woman. Add to that a Dick's deluxe and fries and Saturday was one of the best days I've had in a long time.
Of course Sunday I had a mysterious thing happen with my cooter and the 49ers played like crap and J and I didn't do much but lay around and bitch about football and obsess about baseball playoffs. I spent too much time worrying about baby related finances and didn't wash my face for 24 hours and Sunday was just bad. Any time there is a Scooby worthy mystery in your cooter it is a bad day.
So today I trudged to the doctor and MYSTERY SOLVED which is excellent and then I realized that my driver's license expired a month and a half ago so shit it's a good thing I am not going to work anyway huh?
I am realizing that honestly just taking it day by day is the only way to do this pregnancy thing but it is still hard. Especially when you are googling inappropriate things at midnight on a Sunday trying to figure out what the fuck is going on down there.
Of course Sunday I had a mysterious thing happen with my cooter and the 49ers played like crap and J and I didn't do much but lay around and bitch about football and obsess about baseball playoffs. I spent too much time worrying about baby related finances and didn't wash my face for 24 hours and Sunday was just bad. Any time there is a Scooby worthy mystery in your cooter it is a bad day.
So today I trudged to the doctor and MYSTERY SOLVED which is excellent and then I realized that my driver's license expired a month and a half ago so shit it's a good thing I am not going to work anyway huh?
I am realizing that honestly just taking it day by day is the only way to do this pregnancy thing but it is still hard. Especially when you are googling inappropriate things at midnight on a Sunday trying to figure out what the fuck is going on down there.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Twin Globes Of TERROR
Today I did something that I have been putting off for months. I bought a new bra.
The Girls grew about ten seconds after I peed on the damn stick those many moons ago but I knew they would get bigger (oh and they have and will continue to do so) and I am a cheap cheap soul so I've delayed and delayed until . . well I couldn't wait any longer.
The fitter GASPED IN HORROR and actually visibly recoiled when I took off my shirt. I laughed because I know these women pride themselves on being professional and making the customer comfortable and she really didn't mean to. And she didn't. Oh this was my best fitting bra but it in know way fit. It didn't lay flat on my chest at all, it cut my breasts into fourths and SPRUNG OPEN when I undid it. I have little bruises where it was digging into me.
The reason. Oh my lands. I've gone up a band size and two cup sizes. Y'all, I am only five and a half months pregnant which means by the time I birth this child I should be in one of those bras that I used to (as in a year ago) giggle about that I could wear as a hat. And my head is enormous.
The new bra is marvelously comfortable and I am semi-regretting that I only got one (a DKNY for about thirteen dollars! STEAL) but I know that I will probably need another in like a month so it seemed pointless. Horrifying to me, my breasts actually look LARGER now since they are not trapped in some sort of flattening device.
I have to admit it was hard to stand in front of all the mirrors with no shirt on. On one hand, I do not have pregnant ass and still appear to have a waist from behind. But! There is a wee bit of back fat back there that was not there before. And those mirrors make it obvious that while my face hasn't broken out too much (I have had this same cluster of zits on my chin since the beginning they just shrink and grow and terrorize me to end) my chest has and WOW I believe Neutrogena makes something for that shit right? I have often cursed our lack of a full length mirror at the house (this leads me to all kinds of dumb standing on the toilet nonsense which I almost attempted the other day before thinking about how much J would kill me even if I didn't fall off) but now I see it is just protecting me. No mirrors until this time next year I think.
The Cubs just won, our magic number is 1, can I get a LETS GO PADRES?
The Girls grew about ten seconds after I peed on the damn stick those many moons ago but I knew they would get bigger (oh and they have and will continue to do so) and I am a cheap cheap soul so I've delayed and delayed until . . well I couldn't wait any longer.
The fitter GASPED IN HORROR and actually visibly recoiled when I took off my shirt. I laughed because I know these women pride themselves on being professional and making the customer comfortable and she really didn't mean to. And she didn't. Oh this was my best fitting bra but it in know way fit. It didn't lay flat on my chest at all, it cut my breasts into fourths and SPRUNG OPEN when I undid it. I have little bruises where it was digging into me.
The reason. Oh my lands. I've gone up a band size and two cup sizes. Y'all, I am only five and a half months pregnant which means by the time I birth this child I should be in one of those bras that I used to (as in a year ago) giggle about that I could wear as a hat. And my head is enormous.
The new bra is marvelously comfortable and I am semi-regretting that I only got one (a DKNY for about thirteen dollars! STEAL) but I know that I will probably need another in like a month so it seemed pointless. Horrifying to me, my breasts actually look LARGER now since they are not trapped in some sort of flattening device.
I have to admit it was hard to stand in front of all the mirrors with no shirt on. On one hand, I do not have pregnant ass and still appear to have a waist from behind. But! There is a wee bit of back fat back there that was not there before. And those mirrors make it obvious that while my face hasn't broken out too much (I have had this same cluster of zits on my chin since the beginning they just shrink and grow and terrorize me to end) my chest has and WOW I believe Neutrogena makes something for that shit right? I have often cursed our lack of a full length mirror at the house (this leads me to all kinds of dumb standing on the toilet nonsense which I almost attempted the other day before thinking about how much J would kill me even if I didn't fall off) but now I see it is just protecting me. No mirrors until this time next year I think.
The Cubs just won, our magic number is 1, can I get a LETS GO PADRES?
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Name That Muppet
There is a woman at my company who has the exact name (but with the feminized spelling) of a well known baseball player from the eighties. Every time I see her name on an email I laugh. I am sure she is bright and intelligent but I can't help but picture her with a mustache like his (and given her age I am guessing her parents did that to her on purpose).
I used to work a man who had a name that rhymed with Darth Vader (think Barth Jader but you know, different). He was born pre-Star Wars so this was just a coincidence. Does this mean that we were all mature about it and never did the big helmet breath around him? Heh no. Did his assistant (who hated him) get back at him by player that evil Star Wars music during meetings? YES HE DID.
My point is that names are important. And that they have power and meaning and also I am a big snob.
Names have connotations. They can sound smart or silly, they can sound rich or poor, we have a lot of code written up in names.
And J and I don't agree on them. He says I worry too much, that I care about things that other people would never think of. I wonder about how we have been married for so long and he knows shit about me. OF COURSE I AM OVERTHINKING THIS. It's what I do! And lucky him, he gets to walk through it with me hand in fucking hand.
We had a girls name picked out. We hadn't shook on it in blood like we did the boys name though and . . .I don't know. In some ways it is perfect. J likes it because it is in honor (at least in his head) of one of his favorite bands. I like it because it is a literary character from books I loved as a child (well and still do). It is an unusual name in the U.S which is important to us because our last name is one of the most common in the U.S. To me it is the name of a spunky, creative and interesting little girl. She could be a tomboy or a princess. She could grow up to be a judge or be a personal shopper.
At one point I really loved this name.
But then I found out that one of our friend's wife has this name, though she uses the dreaded nickname that was my one hate spot for the name. And, she is lovely honestly, but meek and mild and really not how I pictured some one with this name being. It's funny, but when a name is common you don't associate one type of person with it but if you have only met one person with that name well they embody the spirit of it. And, well, this isn't the spirit I think is growing in me.
I think my girl already is who she is and no matter what I name her she will be that girl. And if she is meek and mild I will love her just as fiercely (I will wonder how she got this way because LO we do not have such folk in my family). But I don't think she is, I can sense her a bit and while I don't know her habits or who she is completely, she's my muppet. She has a certain something. She needs the right name.
So . . .internet. I know you have an opinion. Name that muppet.
I used to work a man who had a name that rhymed with Darth Vader (think Barth Jader but you know, different). He was born pre-Star Wars so this was just a coincidence. Does this mean that we were all mature about it and never did the big helmet breath around him? Heh no. Did his assistant (who hated him) get back at him by player that evil Star Wars music during meetings? YES HE DID.
My point is that names are important. And that they have power and meaning and also I am a big snob.
Names have connotations. They can sound smart or silly, they can sound rich or poor, we have a lot of code written up in names.
And J and I don't agree on them. He says I worry too much, that I care about things that other people would never think of. I wonder about how we have been married for so long and he knows shit about me. OF COURSE I AM OVERTHINKING THIS. It's what I do! And lucky him, he gets to walk through it with me hand in fucking hand.
We had a girls name picked out. We hadn't shook on it in blood like we did the boys name though and . . .I don't know. In some ways it is perfect. J likes it because it is in honor (at least in his head) of one of his favorite bands. I like it because it is a literary character from books I loved as a child (well and still do). It is an unusual name in the U.S which is important to us because our last name is one of the most common in the U.S. To me it is the name of a spunky, creative and interesting little girl. She could be a tomboy or a princess. She could grow up to be a judge or be a personal shopper.
At one point I really loved this name.
But then I found out that one of our friend's wife has this name, though she uses the dreaded nickname that was my one hate spot for the name. And, she is lovely honestly, but meek and mild and really not how I pictured some one with this name being. It's funny, but when a name is common you don't associate one type of person with it but if you have only met one person with that name well they embody the spirit of it. And, well, this isn't the spirit I think is growing in me.
I think my girl already is who she is and no matter what I name her she will be that girl. And if she is meek and mild I will love her just as fiercely (I will wonder how she got this way because LO we do not have such folk in my family). But I don't think she is, I can sense her a bit and while I don't know her habits or who she is completely, she's my muppet. She has a certain something. She needs the right name.
So . . .internet. I know you have an opinion. Name that muppet.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
People are Ridiculous
I swear I did not mean to just disappear for a week but with Yom Kippur (J fasted, I did not) and some stressful sports shit (the CUBS have a 3.5 game lead y'all, you know you are rooting against the Brewers all week right?) I have just been all over the place. Well mostly my ass has been in bed because every moment I am not at work I am just so tired and sore and well. . .
Being pregnant makes you public property apparently. People feel free to comment about what I eat, my weight, my clothes, everything. The food thing especially pisses me off. Even when it is a compliment it's like I am three years old and adults are free to contribute their opinions about my nutrition. NOTE TO THE PUBLIC: pregnant women are adult enough to become mothers so don't sing song "WHAT A NUTRITIOUS BREAKFAST" into their cubes at 7 each morning unless you really love being an asshole and want to get punched.
As soon as we announced we are having a girl people asked about names. Since we don't have one chosen it is easy to deflect this shit but just by the opinions they offer I am not telling anyone what we are picking. Because . . .just no. I don't like the same things that other people like I guess because they have shitty taste? I don't know. But they all feel like they get a vote. They only get a vote if they are agreeing with me.
I understand that kids and pregnancy are just loaded subjects. Everyone wants to feel like they made all the right choices with what they have done. So if you deviate even slightly from what people did themselves then they take it as criticism. People of the world--I AM NOT MAKING A COMMENTARY ABOUT YOUR PARENTING OR YOU AS A PERSON PLEASE CHILL THE FUCK OUT. If you want to cause a huge explosion mention that you are not painting a nursery a pastel. For baby girls you are required to paint it pale yellow or pink or you are trying to raise some sort of feminazi riot grrl (by the way I am totally trying to raise a feminist here but not wanting to paint anything in my house pink has nothing to do with that shit). I am now just not answering questions when people ask because people don't want the answers, they want you to parrot back what they would do.
I am still doing whatever the hell I want anyway.
Being pregnant makes you public property apparently. People feel free to comment about what I eat, my weight, my clothes, everything. The food thing especially pisses me off. Even when it is a compliment it's like I am three years old and adults are free to contribute their opinions about my nutrition. NOTE TO THE PUBLIC: pregnant women are adult enough to become mothers so don't sing song "WHAT A NUTRITIOUS BREAKFAST" into their cubes at 7 each morning unless you really love being an asshole and want to get punched.
As soon as we announced we are having a girl people asked about names. Since we don't have one chosen it is easy to deflect this shit but just by the opinions they offer I am not telling anyone what we are picking. Because . . .just no. I don't like the same things that other people like I guess because they have shitty taste? I don't know. But they all feel like they get a vote. They only get a vote if they are agreeing with me.
I understand that kids and pregnancy are just loaded subjects. Everyone wants to feel like they made all the right choices with what they have done. So if you deviate even slightly from what people did themselves then they take it as criticism. People of the world--I AM NOT MAKING A COMMENTARY ABOUT YOUR PARENTING OR YOU AS A PERSON PLEASE CHILL THE FUCK OUT. If you want to cause a huge explosion mention that you are not painting a nursery a pastel. For baby girls you are required to paint it pale yellow or pink or you are trying to raise some sort of feminazi riot grrl (by the way I am totally trying to raise a feminist here but not wanting to paint anything in my house pink has nothing to do with that shit). I am now just not answering questions when people ask because people don't want the answers, they want you to parrot back what they would do.
I am still doing whatever the hell I want anyway.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Misc. Shit Crammed Together
I am currently obsessed with quesadillas, something that everyone around me deems a craving which it isn't but it suits me just fine that you think so. Then today I was thinking about how really cheese quesadillas are just really giant grilled cheese sandwiches that you eat with sour cream. Then I thought that grilled cheese sandwiches would be outstanding with sour cream. Oooh and tomato soup with a little dollop in it? Fantastic! And then I lost an hour thinking of all the foods I could eat sour cream with.
THAT is a craving.
* * * * *
The worst part about the Patriots kicking the shit out of the Chargers (worse even then the total dick sucking that the media immediately started in on about how they were UNSTOPPABLE now) is how now no one thinks that their cheating is a big deal. And it is cheating. Don't even start rationalizing it to me. And is there anyone who is not a Patriot's fan or like my grandfather who believes that most bank robberies are misunderstandings that really believes that this is the only rule that they broke? I mean they were doing this against his former assistant who is well aware of his activities. To me that just shows that it doesn't even measure on his morality meter.
I am over people acting with outrage over steroids in baseball. People who have tested positive for steroids play in the NFL all the time (Sean Merriman made the fucking Pro Bowl last season) and no one even mentions it. If this sort of cheating happened in baseball it would have brought on the apocalypse. So whatever assholes, you don't give a shit about "integrity."
* * * *
The next couple of games are going to be rough for me. The Cubs are really doing a great job but it is heart attack time. I mean tonight they were down by two and then rallied in the ninth. It is just not good for my stress level.
Add the fucking 49ers and their shitty offensive play calling and really I cannot handle it. All of my sports teams really need to get their acts together because I cannot handle the strain.
* * * *
People on my bus this morning didn't offer me a seat. They made a pregnant lady stand for forty minutes into the city. What the fuck people? Who they hell brought these animals up?
THAT is a craving.
* * * * *
The worst part about the Patriots kicking the shit out of the Chargers (worse even then the total dick sucking that the media immediately started in on about how they were UNSTOPPABLE now) is how now no one thinks that their cheating is a big deal. And it is cheating. Don't even start rationalizing it to me. And is there anyone who is not a Patriot's fan or like my grandfather who believes that most bank robberies are misunderstandings that really believes that this is the only rule that they broke? I mean they were doing this against his former assistant who is well aware of his activities. To me that just shows that it doesn't even measure on his morality meter.
I am over people acting with outrage over steroids in baseball. People who have tested positive for steroids play in the NFL all the time (Sean Merriman made the fucking Pro Bowl last season) and no one even mentions it. If this sort of cheating happened in baseball it would have brought on the apocalypse. So whatever assholes, you don't give a shit about "integrity."
* * * *
The next couple of games are going to be rough for me. The Cubs are really doing a great job but it is heart attack time. I mean tonight they were down by two and then rallied in the ninth. It is just not good for my stress level.
Add the fucking 49ers and their shitty offensive play calling and really I cannot handle it. All of my sports teams really need to get their acts together because I cannot handle the strain.
* * * *
People on my bus this morning didn't offer me a seat. They made a pregnant lady stand for forty minutes into the city. What the fuck people? Who they hell brought these animals up?
Friday, September 14, 2007
Oh My God This Is Practically A Novel
J has taken to greeting me at the end of the day with, “How are the girls doing?” Part of me finds this adorable and part of me wants to kick his face in (I also, have to admit that the first time I totally thought he was talking to my boobs). It is inevitable that at this stage I am pretty much just the host of what people really want to know about. It’s probably better that he isn’t lying so that the shock after I give birth and people really stop caring about me doesn’t knock me out. But still, the little parasite is still in there growing fingernails and such . . .can’t I be more at least as important as that?
Not really. I know.
A girlfriend of mine had a (big, nay GIANT!) baby in July. She and I are much the same and have bonded over worries about not being maternal, etc. And we were talking about something that has been bugging me for weeks—women have to change immediately. The second you pee on the stick you start to change. It’s gradual (but it doesn’t feel gradual anymore). You can’t deny what is happening the way the father can, because well first your are vomiting and can’t stay awake, they you are puffy and your clothes don’t fit, and then you are enormous and have developed a terrifying waddle. And that’s just the first week.
The shock of it has hit her husband a little oddly. And she resents it. He continues on with his old life, scheduling nights out and business trips without consulting her—without considering the burden that puts her under. He’s not thinking about how inconsiderate that is, how unfuckingacceptable it is. He’s just doing what he has always done. And it’s pissing her off. I am impressed she’s made it this long. It’s irritated me from the beginning that J can still be J and I can’t be AB. I cannot tell you the relief that I felt, how much I relaxed when he just TOLD ME one night all the things he was thinking about. They were in the not helpful category of “I really want to take the kid camping every summer as a tradition” instead of the “I’ve been researching strollers and this is what I think” category but then again, he did clean out his space in the basement last weekend and I think the baby’s room is next so I’ll leave him alone. He doesn’t worry about child care or whether it’s toxic to use plastic bottles or about getting a reasonable semblance of his body back this winter. He doesn’t worry that he won’t be good enough, motherly enough, that everyone will judge him (because no one gets judged like moms I have seen that first hand). He doesn’t have conversations with his mother (whom he loves with all his heart) and hang up screaming because she is harping about some crazy thing and using made up words and OH MY GOD ANY SECOND THAT WILL BE ME IT IS COMING I CAN TELL.
Just so you know my mother has already mentioned repeatedly that she hopes that this girl loves ruffles and lace since I basically ruined her life by refusing to wear such things. Admittedly, this was the early eighties when little girls didn’t wear the plain things that we came to call “tailored” at my house and that this meant that all of my sister’s perfectly good things went to waste. And it meant that my dad actually had a rule that I had to wear a skirt to school at least once a week through the sixth grade (I still do not understand WTF was up with this rule. NONE of the other girls wore skirts or dresses that often even the girliest. Honestly, I think my dad thought he was preventing me from becoming a lesbian or something which . . .?? Again WTF DAD? You cared about my dresses but let me get a femme-mullet?). It’s been more than 20 years MOM. I do vididly remember the Easter dress shopping trips that had to start right after Christmas so that we could find something that 1) wasn’t pink 2) wasn’t ruffly 3) didn’t itch. BUT CAN WE MOVE ON PLEASE? Wishing my daughter to like the crazy foofy stuff isn’t going to change history especially since we don’t do Easter.
Also, I totally remember my dad paying me to wear these horribly itching wool tights and kilt when I was like five years old. With a MONOGRAMMED SWEATER. A whole dollar! Which was a fortune to me since I got a quarter for my allowance. My sister wore the same outfit for free. SUCKER.
I am pretty sure I had a point here that was lost on my trip down WHY DID MY PARENTS CARE SO MUCH ABOUT MY CLOTHES lane. Anyway, I am terrified of becoming my mother and determined that if my child does like pink and ruffles (SIGH) I will try not to care so much. And if she doesn’t, I will try not to care too much then either. My parents really freaked out about how “weird” I was and now I see that they were worried about me never fitting in. But little kids are weird and if the worst thing that ever happens to your daughter is that she likes overalls and baseball caps then she will have a happy happy life. Unless you warp her because you compare her all the time to her feminine (in their eyes normal) and better in every way sister. WOW THERAPY. Heh, my parents didn’t mean any harm but that doesn’t mean I want to do the same thing. Even in reverse.
OOOOH! MY POINT I FOUND THEE. J doesn’t have to worry about this stuff. His current obsession is her hair color (which is my fault, I read this article on the internets about genetics and found that a couple with a black haired parent and a blond parent, both with freckles, have a 1-4 chance of having a red haired child—this is a gross simplification but heh who cares—and since J is for whatever reason terrified of having a red haired daughter I ran to tell him this) and that is about it. He is becoming a whole cliché right in front of my eyes. But does he worry about damaging her emotionally? NOPE.
I just realized I could have written this post in 84,000 fewer words by saying PREGNANCY = NO FAIR.
Not really. I know.
A girlfriend of mine had a (big, nay GIANT!) baby in July. She and I are much the same and have bonded over worries about not being maternal, etc. And we were talking about something that has been bugging me for weeks—women have to change immediately. The second you pee on the stick you start to change. It’s gradual (but it doesn’t feel gradual anymore). You can’t deny what is happening the way the father can, because well first your are vomiting and can’t stay awake, they you are puffy and your clothes don’t fit, and then you are enormous and have developed a terrifying waddle. And that’s just the first week.
The shock of it has hit her husband a little oddly. And she resents it. He continues on with his old life, scheduling nights out and business trips without consulting her—without considering the burden that puts her under. He’s not thinking about how inconsiderate that is, how unfuckingacceptable it is. He’s just doing what he has always done. And it’s pissing her off. I am impressed she’s made it this long. It’s irritated me from the beginning that J can still be J and I can’t be AB. I cannot tell you the relief that I felt, how much I relaxed when he just TOLD ME one night all the things he was thinking about. They were in the not helpful category of “I really want to take the kid camping every summer as a tradition” instead of the “I’ve been researching strollers and this is what I think” category but then again, he did clean out his space in the basement last weekend and I think the baby’s room is next so I’ll leave him alone. He doesn’t worry about child care or whether it’s toxic to use plastic bottles or about getting a reasonable semblance of his body back this winter. He doesn’t worry that he won’t be good enough, motherly enough, that everyone will judge him (because no one gets judged like moms I have seen that first hand). He doesn’t have conversations with his mother (whom he loves with all his heart) and hang up screaming because she is harping about some crazy thing and using made up words and OH MY GOD ANY SECOND THAT WILL BE ME IT IS COMING I CAN TELL.
Just so you know my mother has already mentioned repeatedly that she hopes that this girl loves ruffles and lace since I basically ruined her life by refusing to wear such things. Admittedly, this was the early eighties when little girls didn’t wear the plain things that we came to call “tailored” at my house and that this meant that all of my sister’s perfectly good things went to waste. And it meant that my dad actually had a rule that I had to wear a skirt to school at least once a week through the sixth grade (I still do not understand WTF was up with this rule. NONE of the other girls wore skirts or dresses that often even the girliest. Honestly, I think my dad thought he was preventing me from becoming a lesbian or something which . . .?? Again WTF DAD? You cared about my dresses but let me get a femme-mullet?). It’s been more than 20 years MOM. I do vididly remember the Easter dress shopping trips that had to start right after Christmas so that we could find something that 1) wasn’t pink 2) wasn’t ruffly 3) didn’t itch. BUT CAN WE MOVE ON PLEASE? Wishing my daughter to like the crazy foofy stuff isn’t going to change history especially since we don’t do Easter.
Also, I totally remember my dad paying me to wear these horribly itching wool tights and kilt when I was like five years old. With a MONOGRAMMED SWEATER. A whole dollar! Which was a fortune to me since I got a quarter for my allowance. My sister wore the same outfit for free. SUCKER.
I am pretty sure I had a point here that was lost on my trip down WHY DID MY PARENTS CARE SO MUCH ABOUT MY CLOTHES lane. Anyway, I am terrified of becoming my mother and determined that if my child does like pink and ruffles (SIGH) I will try not to care so much. And if she doesn’t, I will try not to care too much then either. My parents really freaked out about how “weird” I was and now I see that they were worried about me never fitting in. But little kids are weird and if the worst thing that ever happens to your daughter is that she likes overalls and baseball caps then she will have a happy happy life. Unless you warp her because you compare her all the time to her feminine (in their eyes normal) and better in every way sister. WOW THERAPY. Heh, my parents didn’t mean any harm but that doesn’t mean I want to do the same thing. Even in reverse.
OOOOH! MY POINT I FOUND THEE. J doesn’t have to worry about this stuff. His current obsession is her hair color (which is my fault, I read this article on the internets about genetics and found that a couple with a black haired parent and a blond parent, both with freckles, have a 1-4 chance of having a red haired child—this is a gross simplification but heh who cares—and since J is for whatever reason terrified of having a red haired daughter I ran to tell him this) and that is about it. He is becoming a whole cliché right in front of my eyes. But does he worry about damaging her emotionally? NOPE.
I just realized I could have written this post in 84,000 fewer words by saying PREGNANCY = NO FAIR.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Shana Tovah!
Apparently Ryan Dempster just needed me to scream "THROW STRIKES YOU MOTHER FUCKING COCKSUCKER!" in order to throw strikes. I wish I had known earlier.
Yes, I know that it's the New Year and I am blogging and not being spiritual and all. Which I actually feel bad about. But J and I are at an impasse with our temple. We were in the process of converting and about to complete the ceremony when I miscarried. Which just sort of derailed our lives for a few months. It's not that I didn't care about God anymore, I just wasn't up for some of the crap that comes with it. By the time we got our act together, I was pregnant again and our rabbi had left the community. There is a story there and I wish I knew it. But I don't. But this rabbi was really our favorite thing about this community. J's old boss has been a member of this community for quite some time, only leaving over a dispute with this rabbi. We suspect he will be back and since the dude couldn't be civil to us at a PASSOVER SEDER (so appropriate, so mature) we are not really excited about being in a very small community with him. Especially since J did nothing wrong but somehow is being treated like a serial killer by this person. Add in some stupid temple politic crap and yeah, we are skipping services this year. We are working on what to do to celebrate at home and at some other options (which I mean much of Judaism is celebrated in the home so this is not like a wild and crazy idea).
But I am saying here, I apologize to anyone here that I may have offended or hurt this year. I know that this lacks the personal touch that is warranted but since most of us have never met . . .it feels appropriate.
This year we are focusing on who we want to become as a family. We are looking for another community. There is a lot to work on.
But tonight we look forward to a sweet year.
Shana Tovah everyone!
Yes, I know that it's the New Year and I am blogging and not being spiritual and all. Which I actually feel bad about. But J and I are at an impasse with our temple. We were in the process of converting and about to complete the ceremony when I miscarried. Which just sort of derailed our lives for a few months. It's not that I didn't care about God anymore, I just wasn't up for some of the crap that comes with it. By the time we got our act together, I was pregnant again and our rabbi had left the community. There is a story there and I wish I knew it. But I don't. But this rabbi was really our favorite thing about this community. J's old boss has been a member of this community for quite some time, only leaving over a dispute with this rabbi. We suspect he will be back and since the dude couldn't be civil to us at a PASSOVER SEDER (so appropriate, so mature) we are not really excited about being in a very small community with him. Especially since J did nothing wrong but somehow is being treated like a serial killer by this person. Add in some stupid temple politic crap and yeah, we are skipping services this year. We are working on what to do to celebrate at home and at some other options (which I mean much of Judaism is celebrated in the home so this is not like a wild and crazy idea).
But I am saying here, I apologize to anyone here that I may have offended or hurt this year. I know that this lacks the personal touch that is warranted but since most of us have never met . . .it feels appropriate.
This year we are focusing on who we want to become as a family. We are looking for another community. There is a lot to work on.
But tonight we look forward to a sweet year.
Shana Tovah everyone!
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
It's a Girl
The headline on CNN this morning was "Americans Forget" which set the tone for my day. I am frustrated even now with how we deal with 9/11 in this country. Americans haven't forgotten (not that we could ever be allowed to forget even if we should want to) but as culture we are ill equipped to deal with tragedy and God knows we avoid dealing with death at all costs. 9/11 changed all of our lives whether we knew anyone in New York or DC that day, whether we are associated with the military, whether we even lived in the country that day. 9/11 has been used to justify all kinds of things, some of them positive but many negative and we are all still having the hangover six years later.
I have nothing new to add to the subject except scorn for the idea that Americans have forgotten. Fake patriotism and flag waving isn't honoring the dead nor is it particularly American. So shut the fuck up CNN.
Of course it feels inappropriate to talk about anything else today but I am going to do it anyway. I was up very late watching Monday Night Football (so stressful) last night. We were on edge watching the 49ers do absolutely nothing until the last minutes of the game (except for the defense which was fantastic) and then Alex Smith finally march on the field. Thank God because J was upsetting the whole neighborhood with his screaming of obscenities. Between football and baseball this time of year is just nerve-wracking in our house. And loud. And possibly R-Rated for language.
Yesterday we also found out that little Muppet is a she. Which, frankly, stunned me silly in the ultrasound room. I had pretty much decided that she was a boy and was extremely unprepared. Happy, of course, but shocked. J whispered very quietly in that room, "well there goes Boy Name We Chose" and then broke into a grin. Bittersweet is what you call it I think. Because that is what this whole thing is about for us, gaining something really lovely but letting go of possibilities. The possibility of a boy is gone (well I suppose the tech could have been wrong but I do have a picture of her labia so I doubt it) and the reality of a daughter has set in.
I am terrified to be a mother of a girl. First, the explosion of pink is coming now and I doubt I shall be able to stop it even though I will try and try and try. Second, gah my mind just blew up with all the shit to worry about--none of which I can do anything about right now so I will just stop. Those of you who have ever been a thirteen year old girl can probably guess what I am thinking about.
Plus, we don't have a name. We shook on the boy's name ages ago, it's been settled since long before the Muppet existed. For girl names we are continents apart and the battles are ugly. We hate what each other likes and can I just suggest to all of you ever considering having a child well EVER start negotiating now. Get the solution written out in blood. Otherwise you will find yourself shrieking during halftime of Monday Night Football about how NONAME LASTNAME SOUNDS GOOD RIGHT because that is rational.
So yes, it's a girl. How do I stop the pink?
I have nothing new to add to the subject except scorn for the idea that Americans have forgotten. Fake patriotism and flag waving isn't honoring the dead nor is it particularly American. So shut the fuck up CNN.
Of course it feels inappropriate to talk about anything else today but I am going to do it anyway. I was up very late watching Monday Night Football (so stressful) last night. We were on edge watching the 49ers do absolutely nothing until the last minutes of the game (except for the defense which was fantastic) and then Alex Smith finally march on the field. Thank God because J was upsetting the whole neighborhood with his screaming of obscenities. Between football and baseball this time of year is just nerve-wracking in our house. And loud. And possibly R-Rated for language.
Yesterday we also found out that little Muppet is a she. Which, frankly, stunned me silly in the ultrasound room. I had pretty much decided that she was a boy and was extremely unprepared. Happy, of course, but shocked. J whispered very quietly in that room, "well there goes Boy Name We Chose" and then broke into a grin. Bittersweet is what you call it I think. Because that is what this whole thing is about for us, gaining something really lovely but letting go of possibilities. The possibility of a boy is gone (well I suppose the tech could have been wrong but I do have a picture of her labia so I doubt it) and the reality of a daughter has set in.
I am terrified to be a mother of a girl. First, the explosion of pink is coming now and I doubt I shall be able to stop it even though I will try and try and try. Second, gah my mind just blew up with all the shit to worry about--none of which I can do anything about right now so I will just stop. Those of you who have ever been a thirteen year old girl can probably guess what I am thinking about.
Plus, we don't have a name. We shook on the boy's name ages ago, it's been settled since long before the Muppet existed. For girl names we are continents apart and the battles are ugly. We hate what each other likes and can I just suggest to all of you ever considering having a child well EVER start negotiating now. Get the solution written out in blood. Otherwise you will find yourself shrieking during halftime of Monday Night Football about how NONAME LASTNAME SOUNDS GOOD RIGHT because that is rational.
So yes, it's a girl. How do I stop the pink?
Sunday, September 09, 2007
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Mantra
For those concerned, the muppet is not dead. Cruising along, gaining weight steadily with a lovely and easy to find heartbeat.
My OB gasped at my weight, which might cause horror for others but made me laugh. It's not that I have gained too much but I am one of those people who can carry weight and not appear overweight or large. In a culture where the only women who admit their weight are those that are 120 lbs. or less, my weight is a surprise.
She said I was fine and not to worry but I think maybe I am growing a huge baby. This wouldn't surprise me much. J was nine pounds and while I was only five I was six weeks early. I will let those who know about infant growth do the math and GASP IN HORROR. Now they might have gotten my mother's due date wrong (likely) but I was in intensive care for those weeks so . . .I would have been a damn monster at full term.
Still, having an intense addiction to Discovery Health Channel has taught me that a larger baby (but still normal) is a blessing. If a little uncomfortable.
I will just repeat that as a mantra.
My OB gasped at my weight, which might cause horror for others but made me laugh. It's not that I have gained too much but I am one of those people who can carry weight and not appear overweight or large. In a culture where the only women who admit their weight are those that are 120 lbs. or less, my weight is a surprise.
She said I was fine and not to worry but I think maybe I am growing a huge baby. This wouldn't surprise me much. J was nine pounds and while I was only five I was six weeks early. I will let those who know about infant growth do the math and GASP IN HORROR. Now they might have gotten my mother's due date wrong (likely) but I was in intensive care for those weeks so . . .I would have been a damn monster at full term.
Still, having an intense addiction to Discovery Health Channel has taught me that a larger baby (but still normal) is a blessing. If a little uncomfortable.
I will just repeat that as a mantra.
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Helpful Even In The Womb
I had dead baby thoughts this weekend. This part of pregnancy is hard, because while I am happy to be out of the vomiting-want-to-die stage, the puking was re-assuring. I haven't felt the baby move yet, and I know that while some people feel something as early as sixteen weeks, some people don't feel a thing until twenty weeks. Still, it is hard to not feel like I am making this whole baby business up (my gut however is not making a damn thing up since it proceeds me by about twenty minutes).
I was just bragging to my boss about how even though I am so congested I could DIE I haven't puked in ages.
Y'all know where this is headed.
Yeah, the little whatsit gave me a GO AHEAD AND THINK I AM DEAD and I vomited all panicky into a (leaking!) baggie while driving--this time at the slow poke speed of thirty miles an hour. I have to admit it was grosser this time as I filled the bag (EW) and it was full of lettuce and chicken and bacon from my lunch salad.
The real delight was cleaning the leaked out puke out of my car when I got home. THANKS KID, I could have waited until tomorrow when I go to the doctor.
I was just bragging to my boss about how even though I am so congested I could DIE I haven't puked in ages.
Y'all know where this is headed.
Yeah, the little whatsit gave me a GO AHEAD AND THINK I AM DEAD and I vomited all panicky into a (leaking!) baggie while driving--this time at the slow poke speed of thirty miles an hour. I have to admit it was grosser this time as I filled the bag (EW) and it was full of lettuce and chicken and bacon from my lunch salad.
The real delight was cleaning the leaked out puke out of my car when I got home. THANKS KID, I could have waited until tomorrow when I go to the doctor.
Monday, September 03, 2007
Cubs Rant
Fucking Carlos Zambrano.
Such a damn drama queen. He makes a really damn stupid base running mistake and then loses his mind and can't throw a strike and it's the fans fault. They don't support him. Well you haven't won a game since the fans committed to paying you ninety million dollars fool. Maybe you could cut them a break too?
Throw a fucking strike tool.
Such a damn drama queen. He makes a really damn stupid base running mistake and then loses his mind and can't throw a strike and it's the fans fault. They don't support him. Well you haven't won a game since the fans committed to paying you ninety million dollars fool. Maybe you could cut them a break too?
Throw a fucking strike tool.
Sunday, September 02, 2007
A Dream That Better Not Come True
I had the most horrible dream the other night. And I know the internets are full of other people’s really boring dreams that they find just fascinating and actually I am totally guilty of posting my pointless dreams repeatedly this one chilled me to the bone. I was shaking off the aftershocks all day long, reminding myself that it wasn’t true.
In my dream I went to the doctor’s for a regular appointment (it must be noted that it wasn’t my regular doctor or her office but it didn’t seem to surprise me in the dream at all). I had been having pains all day and mentioned them to the nurse who hooked me up to a monitor and found they were contractions. I started to panic as I am just about eighteen weeks and that is certainly much too early for any sort of delivery but the nurse was nonplussed. She told me that it didn’t matter since my baby was dead anyway. We could just deliver now.
Since I was freaking out so much, because isn’t that the only possible response to that, they had another nurse come in. This one found that the baby wasn’t dead and gave me some sort of giant pill to stop the contractions.
I guess the truth is you never feel safe. Never feel as though you will be fine. I read a story online the other day (unintentionally as I had NO IDEA what I was about to read) about a couple who went in for a normal delivery (39 weeks so not really even early) and their baby died on the way to the hospital. How does some one write about that later or even have a later after something like that happens I have no idea. But since reading that story I feel much more aware of how unsettled I feel. How anxious. Finding out the gender in a week or so is causing me fits because I feel like I NEED to know. Despite the fact that I don’t actually care one way or another. It is like knowing what the baby is is going to keep it safe. Maybe not calling it an it?
I don’t think it ever stops. My mother worries about me every day. You are bringing something into the world that you love beyond reason so it is almost natural that you are terrified of losing it (IT AGAIN I NEED A BETTER NOUN PLEASE). I suppose the trick is to learn how to control that fear, to make it manageable so that you are not me—lying in bed, white faced and afraid to move, over a dream that is unlikely to come true.
And you know that if it does come true, there is nothing you can do to stop it.
In my dream I went to the doctor’s for a regular appointment (it must be noted that it wasn’t my regular doctor or her office but it didn’t seem to surprise me in the dream at all). I had been having pains all day and mentioned them to the nurse who hooked me up to a monitor and found they were contractions. I started to panic as I am just about eighteen weeks and that is certainly much too early for any sort of delivery but the nurse was nonplussed. She told me that it didn’t matter since my baby was dead anyway. We could just deliver now.
Since I was freaking out so much, because isn’t that the only possible response to that, they had another nurse come in. This one found that the baby wasn’t dead and gave me some sort of giant pill to stop the contractions.
I guess the truth is you never feel safe. Never feel as though you will be fine. I read a story online the other day (unintentionally as I had NO IDEA what I was about to read) about a couple who went in for a normal delivery (39 weeks so not really even early) and their baby died on the way to the hospital. How does some one write about that later or even have a later after something like that happens I have no idea. But since reading that story I feel much more aware of how unsettled I feel. How anxious. Finding out the gender in a week or so is causing me fits because I feel like I NEED to know. Despite the fact that I don’t actually care one way or another. It is like knowing what the baby is is going to keep it safe. Maybe not calling it an it?
I don’t think it ever stops. My mother worries about me every day. You are bringing something into the world that you love beyond reason so it is almost natural that you are terrified of losing it (IT AGAIN I NEED A BETTER NOUN PLEASE). I suppose the trick is to learn how to control that fear, to make it manageable so that you are not me—lying in bed, white faced and afraid to move, over a dream that is unlikely to come true.
And you know that if it does come true, there is nothing you can do to stop it.
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