Tag Archives: Parenthood

A Couple of Things (While My House is Peaceful…)

I know I have been really slacking on Baby O’s birth story. And, to be honest, I have written that post in my head about 70 times but I can’t seem to find the time to sit down and blog. I know! Imagine THAT, right?!  But it is forthcoming. I swear.

First, though, I would like to give you a little peek into how things have been going over here in Oopsieville.

1. Having two babies is interesting. Because the minute you deal with one and make them all calm and serene, the other one sprays pee across the room and completely blows your mind. And then, once you have dealt with Pee Fountain, you will then find your toddler digging through the trash.  Coffee grounds, you guys. For reals.

2. I sweep the floor no less that 36 times per day.

3. Baby L has had mercy on me since we brought Baby O home and she has been VERY cooperative when she is being put down for her naps and for bed. It is amazing. But I can’t help but think that she is plotting against me and that this is all just a ploy to catch me off guard. She’s an evil genius.

4. MB returned to work yesterday after almost two whole glorious weeks of being home and helping chase Baby L around while simultaneously feeding a newborn. I miss him terribly because I sometimes wonder if I will be able to handle so much at the same time. And because Baby L likes to tug on my pants when my hands are occupied, I am also wondering if I can manage to do all of this sans pants. Because she is now pulling them all the way down when she knows I can’t do anything about it. Good times.

5. Baby L has officially learned to walk. It happened yesterday and it was so amazing. And I cried. Like a little bitch. (You know, like I do when she does ANYTHING AT ALL…)

All in all, things are moving right along. I don’t feel quite as scared as I originally did. Partially because Baby O has been a completely different baby than Baby L right from conception and has proven that not all babies will require that you sleep on the couch for 5.5 weeks because you have to hold them 24 hours per day. I remember feeling, with Baby L, more inept than I had ever felt at anything in my entire life. And now, well, I am more experienced. And I only feel painfully inept about 50% of the time. Not too shabby, I guess.

We’re a work in progress!

An Open Letter to Baby L: ONE YEAR

Dearest Lilah,

Two days ago, you turned one year old.

Firsts are a really big deal for parents. When you got your first tooth, I cried like a baby and wondered how long it would be before you bit the hell out of me. When you ate solid food for the first time, I cried like a baby and thought about how, soon, you would be feeding yourself. When you took your first steps (which happened just a few days before your birthday on May 14th), I cried like a baby and thought about the definite end to those days when you depended on me to travel. And to explore. And while these are all really beautiful things you are doing, they make me feel a little lost. Up until now, my lovely, you have needed me for everything. And now, here you are, one year old and starting to walk.

I wanted to make sure that, since your brother will be born in just a few short weeks, that this first birthday would be for you, a true celebration of how much you mean to your father and me. I know you won’t remember it. And I know that first birthday parties are more for the parents of the children than for the children themselves. But, the important thing was, to me, that the people who love you the most got to share in your day. And they did.

You were a beautiful birthday girl, Lilah. But I don’t want to talk about your party. Because that’s not what this letter is about.

This letter is to let you know, and make sure that it is spelled out here so you don’t forget it, what an amazing addition you have been to my life for the last year. Before I had you, I had known love, but I could have never known a love like the one that you brought to me when I saw you for the first time. I am not sure that a mother can ever fully express the love that she has for her child. I am not sure that I will ever be able to make you understand how much you have enriched me and every minute of my life so far just by being with me. The thought of my life before you is a faint memory. One that I don’t care to revisit. I was unaware, before I met you, how much I was missing out on. And I am so thankful that you have shown me. I hope that someday you will have children of your own, so that you can understand the kind of joy that you have brought to me. (Just for your information, when I say “someday”, I mean, when you are 30. Not 14. Okay?)

Your smile is the reason that I wake up each morning and it is the last thing I think about before I fall asleep at night. You are truly, the love of my life. You and your mama

I hope that I can be the kind of mother to you that I have promised to myself that I will be. I hope that I can teach you all of the things that a girl’s mother should teach her. About respecting herself. And finding beauty in herself, even in her flaws. About what confidence is and why it is important that other people not be able to tear you down. I hope that I can lead you down a path to be a respectful, compassionate person. I promise you, my dearest, I will do my best. I want nothing but the best of everything for you.

Now that I have sufficiently soaked the keyboard with the tears of a year with you, I will just end here by saying that I love you.

 

I love you to the moon and back.

Mom

Milestones are Stupid Bastards

Since Baby L has discovered that, not only does she not hate her walker, but that she can move freely about the house without anyone chasing her and removing her from dangerous spots, she has become a fiend.  But not just for the walker. For standing and cruising and being mobile every way that she possibly can. Like, all the time. Even while sleeping.

I’ve read that it is normal for babies, while going through developmental changes, to have sleep disturbances. And that sometimes, with all the new stuff they are learning, it is difficult for their little minds and bodies to slow down enough to sleep like they had been used to doing. And man, internet, are we learning this or WHAT.

Baby L is a giant asshole when it comes to sleeping troubled sleeper.  She always has been. She wants to be on me. Or near me. And sometimes, she even manages to be curled up AROUND me. And she hates being put to bed. Generally, with a bottle and darkness and nature sounds, she will fall asleep in Daddy’s arms and stay asleep while he puts her, ever so gently, into her crib. Where she will stay for just a few hours before we start the “putting the baby to bed” process all over again. (We, decidedly, meaning me.)

But now, getting her to stop moving and go to sleep, even after the bath and the bottle and the quiet time with Daddy, is more and more like wrestling a tiny alligator. Or possibly even a regular sized alligator. I don’t know, you guys, but it is effing HARD. She fights and screams and can’t seem to stop her legs from just GOING. And really, she is just doing a bunch of kung fu all up on your ass. And it is TOTALLY FUN. And not at ALL uncomfortable with this giant pregnant belly I am currently sporting. And then, once you think the kung fu has finally stopped and she is finally in that place where the squirming has gotten to the point where you think that you might be able to put her into her crib, you attempt the transplantation from arms to bed. And then her giant, blue eyes pop open, looking offended and the kicking starts again. And this time, it might be accompanied by screaming.

So, you have no choice but to start again.

Don’t worry. Even though this process seems like it is very time consuming, the whole process takes about five minutes. But, because you repeat it several times and have to wear protective gear, it can seem like an eternity. But eventually, she will fall asleep. And she will stay that way while you put her little ass into the crib. Where she will stay for an hour or so. And then she will start to grunt. And you will be able to ignore the grunting because you are watching “Hannibal” with your husband and eating ice cream. But then the grunt turns into a whimper. And the whimper into a cry. And, if you wait too long, a full blown scream that will wake the dead. But, if you let it get that far, you have waited too long. And you are starting from the beginning. If you catch her at the grunt, you can place her pacifier into her little mouth and she will roll to her side and start to snore. I mean, usually. But now, she isn’t lying down anymore, guys. She is half-asleep, standing in her crib. Eyes closed. And when you pick her up, she will look surprised that you are even there. And confused about why she has been standing. And she will be, surprisingly easy to settle this time. She will go back to sleep. She will stay in the crib for 3-4 hours until she wakes up, stands in the crib and is ready for play time. PLAY TIME, you guys! At 3 in the morning! What in holy hell is going on?

I have tried to explain to Baby L that, while I know that she is super excited about her budding skillz, this walking thing she is trying to do can ABSOLUTELY wait until the sun comes up. Because, I say, this is when normal people walk around. And, I tell her, I will have no problem chasing her around the living room all morning if she just goes back to sleep now. I bribe her with the coziness of Mommy and Daddy’s bed where she gets all nestled in between the two of us and gets to cuddle with me and pull my hair freely. But it doesn’t work. She tries to stand on my face. And then I eventually bring her into the living room. Because now she will cruise for around for the next 2-3 hours before I try one last bottle and bedtime routine and finally succeed.

This is not a good gift for my first Mother’s Day, Baby L. Not at all. I am trying to be patient with you. But I am going to tell you right now that, if you think that this shit is going to fly in a month when your brother is here, you are sorely mistaken. You need to learn to walk RIGHT NOW and get all this crazy, kung fu ridiculousness out of your system. Thank you.

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35 Weeks and a Reminder of Things to Come

Last night, I decided to stay up a little later than usual to get some “me time” and watch a little “SVU” and play Candy Crush Saga (you might be familiar and if you are, you know that playing this game might as well be a full time job and that it will take over your whole life if you let it) so that I didn’t go completely insane from all the baby-chasing I’ve been doing. So, I took an hour. I relaxed. I watched some good TV drama and I headed to bed. And then, as I was lying down next to my snoring hubby, it hit me.

I have to deliver a fucking baby again. In, like, FIVE weeks. And I don’t want to deliver a baby, you guys. I know, I know. I have done this before. And I rocked it. But I also REMEMBER it. So, that whole, having experienced it thing? Not such a comfort. I am not necessarily scared. But I am not necessarily NOT scared either. I don’t want to vomit into that weird green container again. And I don’t want to spend 22 hours sleeping in 4 minute increments between contractions. And I don’t want to eat nothing but ice chips (which will make me vomit MORE).

I started having these horrible flashbacks of gushing water and hospital beds. And pitocin. And nurses who made me want to break things. (Namely, their faces.) And I guess this has all started to set in now because I usually am so preoccupied with trying to lasso Baby L into standing still for 45 seconds so that I can hoist my fat ass off of the floor that I forget that I am actually going to have to DO THIS THING. The fact that I have to hoist my fat ass off of the floor in the first place is somewhat of a reminder, but it is fleeting. Because I have a 25 pound outside-the-body baby to attend to.

But, I have definitely entered crunch time. I have also definitely realized, despite having just done this less than a year ago and knowing what to expect, I am totally not ready for this new meatloaf. I don’t have my bag packed. I don’t have a plan on what to do with Baby L when I am in the hospital (besides, you know, freaking out that she won’t be with me for SEVERAL DAYS! What the hell will I do?!). I haven’t toured this hospital that I have to deliver in. I don’t even know where the maternity unit IS. I need to get ON this, internet. I need a big slap in the face and a “GET IT TOGETHER, WOMAN!”

First, I’m going to have a cup of coffee.

Until I return, if you need a refresher on my first birthing experience, you can read it all here, here and here.

A Momish Moment

So, I know I’ve made you guys aware that Baby L is going to be ONE in just a matter of mere DAYS (18 to be exact) and that this sort of freaks me out. I mean. Okay, it totally, beyond anything I could describe to you, is FREAKING ME THE EFF OUT, you guys. And maybe because I am an irrational ball of hormones. Or maybe because it is just a BIG FREAKING DEAL. Either way. It is sort of like she decided at 11 months that she would cease this baby business and start doing grown up shit. Like staying up late and walking and all that crap that adults do (minus playing poker and smoking cigars, because those things would just be inappropriate). Okay, so she isn’t really “walking” yet. But she definitely won’t SIT either. She won’t sit, she won’t lie down, she won’t sleep. She needs to be UP. And MOVING.

ALL. THE. TIME.

And, you know, because I am still terrified of bumps and bruises, (and yes, I know that they will happen you guys, but I think we all know that I am insane and full of anxiety about ridiculous and irrational things. I just got over the fear of tripping, falling on my face and knocking out all of my front teeth that has plagued me since I was a little girl. And now that I am thinking about it, it is sort of freaking me out again. Thanks a LOT, internet.) I am constantly nervous. I have been working on it. I have not been piling our hardwood floors with 33 blankets to cushion the blow in case she falls down (anymore). I have just been letting her go. And this has been torture. Because then she inevitably does fall. And she bumps her head on said floor and she screams bloody murder until I put a pink, stuffed bunny in front of her face or give her a goldfish cracker. And for those 10.5 seconds wherein she is crying and looking at me with those big, blue eyes that seem to say, “Mama! How could you let this happen to me?!”, I feel like jumping off a bridge. But then she is noshing on a cracker. Or a bunny.  And she doesn’t even seem to remember that she just almost gave herself a concussion. But I do. And the trauma lingers. You know…for ME.

Yesterday was an especially good day for us. I was, despite my GINORMOUS belly, able to sit on the floor with her while she threw toys around the living room and then darted to retrieve them only to hurl them again (which, by the way, is one of her favorite things to do these days, aside from throwing things on the floor for her PARENTS to retrieve…). I was amazed that she was so content to be sitting with me without needing to try and do cartwheels or headstands or whatever kind of gymnastic maneuver she is normally trying to accomplish. I was pleased that we were playing so nicely. So calmly.

And then I realized that she was holding, in one hand, a plastic (noisy, annoying, ridiculously stupid) toy phone and in the other hand, a half of a dead leaf. And she was chewing. Now, I have never tried to eat a dead leaf so I can’t be sure, but I have this feeling that, even if you have a BUNCH of teeth (as I do), chewing a gross, dry leaf might be a little challenging. And because Baby L only has 8 (at the last count, before she was a piranha) teeth, and they are all in the front, I had a feeling that this could end badly. And sure enough, within seconds of realizing what she had done, I was being puked on. Because, you see, babies CANNOT chew dead leaves. (Just in case any of you were inspired to check this out…Don’t.) After the puke, even though I hadn’t seen the leaf, I assumed that this crisis had been averted and I was all, “Sweet! That wasn’t even chunky because we haven’t even had breakfast yet!” (Before being a mom, if someone puked on me, I would have unfriended them on Facebook. Because that shit is serious, y’all.) It wasn’t until I put her in her chair to have her first meal of the day, that I realized that the leaf was stuck, VISIBLY STUCK,  in the back of her throat, causing her to let out these tiny, annoying coughs every couple of seconds. It was at that moment that I became that crazy lady who has no fear of the gross consequences of sticking my fingers into the orifices of another person. It is at that moment that I become MOM. So, I did it. I stuck two fingers into the mouth of another person and retrieved…a leaf.

For real. Crisis averted. Everyone is alive.

But really, universe? Did you need to give me yet ANOTHER thing to be paranoid about? Really?

 

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A Happy Lack of Monkeys (Party Time!)

So…now that the sprinkle is over and the dust has settled from all the crazy of the move and the party and the finally coming to terms with being a pregnant lady again, it is time to start planning Baby L’s first birthday party. Which will take place in exactly 26 days. TWENTY-SIX DAYS, you guys! Are you paying attention? That means that in less than ONE MONTH, I am going to have a ONE-YEAR-OLD.

 

Oh. My. GOD.

 

I have to admit, I am not even sure where to start. I mean, we are obviously, being that we are a single-income household and everything, on a budget and not able to hire performers or rent a bounce house. (Which, let’s face it, I am terrified of anyway…and no, I am not going to get into the story about how one time, after too much Patron, I almost died in a bounce house…because this is a family blog, for fuck’s sake.) I know that I want a totally rad cake (which I am hoping to get from this lady, here, because she is an old friend and she makes some pretty fancy-pants cakes, these days). Said cake will obviously involve owls. Because I love them. And because if I let Baby L pick, it would probably be a monkey theme. And I strongly dislike monkeys. (And no, I won’t get into why. Because it involves poop-slinging. Because most stories involving monkeys, evidently, DO involve poop-slinging. I am not a fan.) I also know that we are going to have the party in our giant back yard. Which means that I am thinking that we should keep the food simple and able to be cooked OUTSIDE. (You know, and preggo-lady friendly. BURGERS AND HOT DOGS…YES.) Because I am pretty sure that, at 9+ months pregnant, I am not going to want to clean up the kitchen. Because, I can tell you, I did an event page on Facebook for the party and invited 50 people and many, many more family members do not have Facebook accounts. (In fairness, a bunch of these people live very far away and will not attend, but I felt the need to invite them anyway…) So, I’ll be damned if I am going to cook things. Like, in my house. Like, that I have to clean up later. Oh hells no.

But I am overwhelmed thinking about decorations and favors and things like that. And how much food to buy. And, holy god, why can’t I be craftier so that I can just make some awesomeness?! WHY!?

So, I ask you, interweb, do you know of any good places to get unique and supremely awesome party stuff? Better yet, any supremely awesome owl themed birthday stuff?

 

 

The Countdown has Begun

So, I’ve made it to week 33. And we have already established that I feel gigantic. And you can probably tell that I am over this whole being pregnant thing, that I have been doing for the last two freaking years. (Here is a little glimpse into 33 weeks during the LAST TIME…)

I am tired. Overwhelmed. Crampy. Irritated. Irrational. Impatient. You know, all of those things that will likely get worse in the next 7 weeks until this whole thing is over and I get to see our new meatloaf.

But I am hanging in there. I had a checkup yesterday and, it appears, I am stellar at being pregnant. My bloodwork is always perfect, my blood pressure, better than it ever was before pregnancy and I have gained a total of only 11 pounds. (Which some of my friends seem to think makes me some kind of freak. But let me assure you, this lady doesn’t go ONE DAY without a bowl of ice cream and a ferocious chocolate craving. And yesterday, to celebrate my 1 pound gain in the last 5 weeks, I had a McDouble. And some pizza. AND THEN ICE CREAM.) Baby O’s heartbeat sounds glorious and he moves around much like his sister did at this point. Only he isn’t quite as intent on actually hurting me. The doc says “boys are lazy” so exerting themselves that much is more of an annoyance. Which is a nice change of pace considering that Baby L, I’m convinced, might have been trying to somehow turn me inside out. But now she is on the outside. Kicking the shit out of me from a whole different direction. Good times.

I know that, at this point, it probably should have totally sunken in that I am about to have a baby. And some days, I can totally get all excited about nibbling on his tiny toes and smelling the top of his head (something that I still do to Baby L CONSTANTLY) but most days it just seems too surreal. I am SO excited about the prospect of not being pregnant anymore that sometimes I get happier about THAT part than the actual little munchkin that I am currently cooking. (Yesterday, I was sitting here thinking that after this seven weeks is over, I will never have to be pregnant again. And I literally started to cry like a total basketcase because I was so excited to feel normal again. My husband thought this was hysterically funny. But that is because he doesn’t have a uterus and has NO IDEA how much this body has gone through and how desperate I am to just feel like ONE person. Not a person growing another person, holding another person on her hip. Ugggghhhh.) But then, you know, reality sets in and I remember that yes, soon I will be UN-pregnant (empty) again and it will be so nice to have a glass of white wine. But then I will scarcely have time to drink said wine because I will be cleaning up spit up. And making bottles. And changing newborn diapers. And then I just don’t know how to feel anymore. Because I want this pregnancy to be over, but holy crap, I don’t think I am ready for this yet.

I guess these next weeks will be my prep time. I am really going to have to get READY for this. Like, mentally prepare myself for what is about to take place. I just really don’t even know where to begin. I mean, I don’t even know what things to buy! Like, since I have two kids, do I need two baby monitors? That might sound like an idiotic thing to panic about. But I am really, REALLY good at panic. So, I tend to do what I know.

I’m gonna try and get a handle on that. I swear.

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An Open Letter to Baby L at 11 Months (Holy SHIT!)

Dear Lilah,

Tomorrow, you will be eleven months old. I can’t really wrap my head around how this has happened. I feel as though I just brought you home from the hospital. And you were all tiny and resembling an alien. (I can say that, because I am your mom and really, all newborns look sort of like aliens.) Your dad and I were looking at pictures yesterday of the day that we brought you home and I was so amazed at how much you have grown and turned, from my little meatloaf, into an honest-to-goodness person. Like, with a personality. And likes and dislikes. And a VOICE. Because, holy cow, do you like to use your voice. You are so beautiful and REAL and perfect and I can’t imagine my life without you. Even if you are a pain in the ass when it is time for you to sleep. Or for me to sleep. Or, like, if someone in the neighborhood is trying to sleep. (You have a serious grudge against sleeping. Which I may or may not have mentioned to you before.)

You have eight teeth now (possibly nine, but I will be DAMNED if I try to stick my fingers in your mouth right now as you have discovered, and seem to have an affinity for, BITING) and you like to eat. Like, more than anything EVER. You love puffs, and lil’ crunchies and pears and bananas and grapes, strawberries and paper towels. (You know, because they are totally delicious when covered in all the aforementioned fruits that I have just wiped from your face, hands and feet…) It cracks me up that you are JUST about as finicky as your dad is when it comes to food. (Meaning, simply, you don’t like peas. The end.) You will eat just about anything that gets close enough to your mouth. And you have the cheeks to prove it. Let me tell ya, little lady.

Just the other day, I was telling a friend of mine (who had one of her daughters just six days after you were born) that you have absolutely no desire to figure out your walker (or be placed in any other freestanding contraption, these days) and that you will allow me to place you into it. But that you will then stare at me with those sad little eyes and start to cry, because, “MOM! THIS THING DOESN”T DO ANYTHING!” and then I usually give you a little nudge and you like that until you realize that, in order to keep the momentum, you have to actually MOVE your chubby little legs. And then you get pissed again. SO, needless to say, the walker has not been a favorite of mine. But yesterday, after explaining this to said friend, I thought I might give it another try. You know, because I am a glutton for punishment. So I put you inside the walker. And you didn’t get upset. But you also didn’t move. You shifted your attention to Rachel Ray on TV (I think she was making some sort of buffalo chicken deliciousness, which explains why you were so interested) and seemed not to mind that I was actually DOING something on the laptop. (You hate it when I touch ANY electronic devices that you cannot pound on or throw on the ground.) I called to you a couple of times from across the room. And I even planted by gigantic, pregnant ass on the hardwood floor to possibly coerce you to come to me. And you didn’t. And you didn’t. And you didn’t.

Until you DID.

And then you attacked. And you rolled over my toes while I was trying to stand up and make room for you to roll about. Then you took a giant crap (which seemed to please you immensely), and then you knocked over about 50 XBOX games and broke the tower that they used to reside in. But, I wasn’t mad, my dear. In fact, I was so proud that I started to cry. Of course, at first it was pride that made me cry. And then I realized that, in order to remedy the mess that you had just made, I would not only have to deal with poop, but I would have to get back down onto the floor again. And I don’t know if you know, but I am 33 weeks pregnant today. And mommy doesn’t enjoy the floor. But you got the hang of it, and I was proud. And then it took me 35 minutes to get up.

You have also started to wake up at ungodly hours of the night and insist upon playtime. No one is a fan of this. Except for you. I am having a hard time adjusting to waking up at 3 and then playing until 5 and then you sleeping until 10. As much as I have wished to sleep until ten, this is not exactly what I had in mind. I hope that you stop this soon.

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This face made cleaning up that garlic butter disgustingness totally worth it.

Tonight, you noshed on a breadstick. I gave it to you against my better judgment, but it turned out to be pretty hilarious and I am glad that you enjoyed yourself. You know, I WAS glad, until I had to clean you up. And you were covered in buttery garlic mess. That was not so much fun. And I just found some of this mess behind my ear. So, there’s also that.

All in all, you are a lot of fun. And you keep your father and I laughing all the time. And, you know, we love you despite your non-sleeping, mess-making, toe-breaking antics. Because we made you. And because you are, quite possibly, the cutest, most amazing little girl I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. Nay. You just ARE. You rock our faces off and we are excited about, next month, celebrating keeping you alive for an entire year. Because that, little one, is a big freaking deal for us. And you, I guess. Because, well…you’re the one who was in danger. After all, you got US as parents. But we are doing a damn fine job making you into all kinds of awesome. At least, I like to THINK we are helping with that. But it could just be all you. Whatever. You are one cool kiddo. And I ain’t afraid to say it.

Next month, when I write your ONE YEAR OLD letter, I will probably be a blubbering mess. And. for that, I will go ahead and apologize now. But hopefully, you will forgive me because you will see that it isn’t just the pregnancy hormones, but the fact that you are the best thing that has ever happened to me and I appreciate every miniscule thing that you do. Because you are my reason for getting up every morning. (Partially because if I didn’t get up, you would continue to pull my hair or kick me in the kidney.)

I love you, kiddo. I love you more than these letters will ever tell you.

Happy Eleven Months!

Love,

Mom

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Emotional Cliff Jumping

I have definitely reached “that point” in pregnancy where it is more annoying and exhausting than anything else. This is the part where you almost totally forget that you are doing a beautiful thing by baking this human being. Because you are so tired, achy, ornery and generally pissed off that it is all you can do not to stab random people while waiting in line at the grocery store, you know, because they are wearing bad shoes or a Billy Ray Cyrus tee shirt. Am I feeling a little illogical? Possibly. Unreasonable? Could be. But I am so CLOSE…yet so far away, people. And I just want to feel normal again. And I just want to sleep. For, like, more than 3 hours. (And yes, I am aware that I am about to have a baby and that this is a total pipe dream. Don’t remind me, okay?)

Up to this point, I have been really proud of myself. Because I have had very few incidents of psychosis. I have felt good. I have smiled, even when I wanted to hide in my bed for two days and eat ice cream. And I haven’t threatened to punch anyone in the throat. (Except at my Sprinkle. And then it was just my best friend’s wife. Because she kept talking about my having twins next time. Insinuating that there would be a “next time” to speak of. So she totally deserved throat punch threats. At least I didn’t actually DO it. But I like her. SO…)

And then the last few days, I have felt like I was drowning. Like, I felt overcome with all of this insane, pregnant lady anxiety and emotion. And I just couldn’t hang. All of that optimism I have been gloating about flew right out the window and I started, not only dreading having two tiny people to chase around and keep alive, but really hating everything about being a stay-at-home-mom. I started feeling lonely. And scared. And irritated at my husband for continuing to get me knocked up and not even being apologetic about it. And then expecting me to handle it with some sort of superhuman ease. (Which I thought I was totally capable of, until now.) I have been tired. And cranky. And close to tears at almost every moment. And I just wanted someone to take my precious Baby L for the day and let me marinate in this idea that I can DO this and I won’t fail. Because I need some assurance. I need some REAL PROOF that I am not going to fall flat on my face. But there isn’t anyone to take that precious baby for the day so I can marinate. There isn’t any “time out” for me at 8 months along. And MB, well, he just doesn’t get it. Because he feels stress too. But he doesn’t understand THIS stress. THIS kind of stress is reserved solely for the mother-to-be. And it is a shitty place to hang out alone. I am back at that place where I don’t want him to get to do ANYTHING that I can’t do. I don’t want him to smoke a cigarette. Or have a beer. Or hang out with his friends. I am jealous of his lack of fetus. Because I am huge and miserable and have two months left before I can have my body back. But even then, internet, things will never be the same. And that’s my fear. And he just doesn’t get it. And that pisses me off. And then I feel awful.

How will I make it through 4am feedings and spitting up and leaky boobs? I mean, I made it through the first time, and no one died. But I JUST DID THIS. And I am quite happy not having to wear giant pads in my bra. And not smelling like baby puke. And being asleep (most of the time) at 4 am. (Even if there is a small child wrapped around my face.) I was growing to like the fact that my little one is rolling around and readying herself to walk. And saying things that sound more like words than crazy baby babble. And now I am starting from scratch. And holy shitballs, how terrifying is that?

I know that this is all probably just some hormonal cliffjump I have just taken. And I am sure the parachute will open soon enough and I will coast through the rest of the way and then I will give birth to this meatloaf and love him and care less and less about breast pads and baby puke. But in the meantime, can I just get a nap? And some ice cream?

Sprinkling

So, that was pretty painless…

Yesterday was the “Sprinkle” for Baby O. I have to say, I was a little nervous about having another party for, yet another, baby. Because, you know, I didn’t want to seem greedy or like I have no desire to see people unless they are bringing me diapers or whatever. But, after a lot of thought about it, I was convinced that, since I don’t need a crib (already have it!) or a swing (check!) or any of the big stuff that you register for when you have your first baby, a “sprinkle” would be an acceptable kind of party. I didn’t register. And I honestly didn’t really even expect gifts. I just wanted to get some of my favorite people all in one place to see this gigantic belly-saurus-rex (because this is the last fucking time this is happening to me and that is ALL I have to say about that…) before it is all over. And, you know, this time I was a much better sport and I even encouraged beer drinking (not for the other two preggos who attended, though…duh.) because, I have accepted my fate as a non-drinker. Because I haven’t been able to enjoy cocktails, and I mean REALLY enjoy cocktails, in over a year. Because I am always pregnant. Because my husband has super human sperm that are, evidently, resistant to every kind of birth control known to man. Even when all of them are used simultaneously. But I digress…

Anyway, there was beer. And I coveted it. But not like I did last year at my shower. Not at all like that. There were munchies and there was BEAUTIFUL weather and there were good friends and I wasn’t the only one growing a baby. And I was happy. And now I am staring at a stack of boxes of diapers nearly as tall as I am and I am remembering that feeling of, “HOLY SHITBALLS. I’m about to expel a person from my body” Only this time, it is more like, “HOLY SHITBALLS. WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING?!” And it still doesn’t seem real. At least, not most of the time. Until there is a foot in my ribs. Then shit gets REALLY real. My due date is just under two months away. And it is surreal.

On the one hand, I can’t wait to see Baby O’s face and kiss his little toes. And on the other hand, I wish I could just take a month break from being pregnant, enjoy some un-pregnant lady sleep and some adult beverages and then go back to this after I have thoroughly prepared myself for what is about to go down. Because, internet, some serious MOTHERHOOD is about to take place on this here bloggy thang…FOR REALS. The sprinkle just made it seem like the beginning of the end. Which is great, because pregnancy SUCKS a whole lot of ASS but terrifying because if I am not pregnant, that means that there will be another CHILD. One who will only sleep two hours at a time and will spit up on me 74 times per day and make me smell horrible and behave like a mom zombie for the next several months. One who will care less than Baby L does about how exhausted I am or how long it has been since I have had a shower. (Not a baby shower, though, because I have those at least weekly, it seems…)

All in all, though, I am really glad we had the party. Mostly because, even though I am acutely aware that this baby is surely happening, moreso now than before the party, I got to spend some time with some really great people. And, you know, they brought diapers and didn’t at all seem to think I was a greedy bitch for having another party. (Thanks, guys. You really do rock my face off…)

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