Are you guys sending this baby-having juju? Because I am starting to doubt your commitment. I mean, come on, you guys. You can do better than this. I need you to REALLY concentrate.
Are you guys sending this baby-having juju? Because I am starting to doubt your commitment. I mean, come on, you guys. You can do better than this. I need you to REALLY concentrate.
Before you ask: No, I haven’t had this baby yet. And yes, I am due in 6 days. And yes, I am uncomfortable, annoyed and generally ready to do the damn thang. (But yes, I am still having nearly nightly panic attacks about having another baby to take care of. I don’t think that’s going to change until I prove to myself that I am Superwoman. And this will hopefully occur sooner, rather than later.) But this isn’t really what I want to talk about today. Because if I talk about, I could get pretty profane. And, well, no one wants that. Right?
Who am I kidding? I am most likely going to get really profane anyway. Because this shit is pissing me OFF, you guys.
Okay, so MB, Baby L and I moved out of my Mother-In-Law’s house for several reasons. One was because, when we found out we were pregnant with Baby O, I envisioned myself actually locking MB’s nephew in a closet for several months so my kids would be able to sleep peacefully. And when you see yourself doing things like this, you know you are in an unfavorable situation. (And maybe it isn’t the kid’s fault that he is disobedient, loud and generally obnoxious. But it doesn’t matter. He IS those things. And I knew that if we didn’t move, I might start to get really mean.) I was so relieved to get out of there. Not because I didn’t like the family (obviously, I love them) but because I couldn’t stand living with people who were on different schedules, doing different things, at different noise levels, all when I was trying to get my kid into a sleep pattern that didn’t require me to be up all night and then cleaning up after everyone all day. This was not ideal. And I hated the side of town that we were living on.
When we found our rental house, I didn’t love it either. And it is on the same side of town. But the price is right. And the size is right. And guess what, you guys! My in-laws don’t live there! Score! So, I sucked it up. I gave in and agreed that, since I am not currently employed outside of the home, and MB is the breadwinner and this place is not falling apart and doesn’t come with built-in annoying children, I could do it. And I would grin and bear it until I go back to work, and can contribute more financially. SO…here we are. On a side of town that I hate, but no longer bitch about because I am grateful to be here. Alone with MY little family. And with my giant back yard.
But, here comes the bitching.
Several times a week, after I have spent an hour trying to get Baby L ready for a nap and then waiting for her to fight sleep and finally give in so I can go and EAT A DAMN SANDWICH, I walk back into the living room, take a bite of said sandwich and notice, out my front window, people walking up to my front door. (It is important that you know, internet, that we don’t use our front door. It is locked at all times, and can only be opened (even from the inside) with a key. Because we use the carport door. Because that makes sense. You know, because we park there. All of our friends use the carport. Everyone uses the fucking carport.) It happens before noon. And, because I have to, then, frantically search for my keys in order to unlock the door, these people typically have time to ring the doorbell and within ONE SECOND of doing so, add in a good banging on the front door. You know, for good measure. And then Baby L is screaming. And there is a rotund black woman wearing a giant hat, and a tall gentleman wearing a suit standing there, anxiously waiting to tell me where to find Jesus.
I KNOW WHERE JESUS IS.
I went to church for the entirety of my childhood. Never once was I required to knock on a stranger’s door to tell them about where to find Jesus. Because it seems to be the opinion of the people in the congregation I was a part of, that if you WANT TO FIND JESUS, you will do that. You do not need some strangers to help you. It is creepy that people will come to your house to tell you about this stuff. It is creepy because they don’t know me. I could be ANY KIND of person. I could be the kind of person who would totally shoots the kind of people who are not the same as me. I could be the kind of person who would be offended by their religious views. I could be the kind of person who has a one-year-old child who doesn’t sleep and who gets very hostile at 39 weeks pregnant when her baby is awoken by strangers who want to tell her about Jesus. I AM THAT KIND OF PERSON.
(And I am, honestly, a little offended when people try and push their views on me in the first place. That takes some NERVE to come to MY HOUSE and disrupt MY DAY like that without any consideration about how your views might sit with me. But I won’t get all on a religious or moral kick here. Because that is not the kind of blogger I am, and frankly, it doesn’t matter what I believe. Except that I believe that you should not come to my house unless you are invited. And, preferably, have brought me wine.)
After this happens, and I try my damndest not to seriously injure these people (who are likely thinking they are doing some sort of Godly work or something), I am seriously angry. I mean, ANGRY. It is the most annoying thing I can think of. Like, ever. MB had to stop me today, from putting a sign on our front door that said, “I know where Jesus is. Do not knock on this door. Thank you.” He said that it would be in bad taste. I think knocking on my door uninvited and waking my kid up is in bad taste. But maybe that’s just me?
What IS it with this side of town?!
Since I posted this, I’ve gotten some awesome illustrations:
Okay, internet, if you have been following along, you know that I am not a giant fan of pregnancy. And you might also remember that my first one was full of fun and craziness. You know, with losing my job, fighting with Medicaid to even get prenatal care and then just feeling generally miserable for THE WHOLE EFFING THING. I have been lucky this time. Baby O hasn’t given me nearly the amount of physical agony that Baby L presented me with during my pregnancy. You know, until NOW.
Now I am not sleeping because, between trying to maneuver this giant belly and keeping Baby L from actually sleeping ON MY FACE, I have barely enough time for that sort of shenanigans. Sleep is for the weak, they say. They do say that, right? Anyway, if this is true, then I hereby declare myself, The Incredible Hulk of Insomnia. I do not turn green, though.
Except, wait. Yes, I do. Yesterday, I was taking out the trash and something smelled really awful and I turned green, and hurried and puked in the bathtub. Yep. 38 weeks and still puking. I guess there just wasn’t enough of that in the beginning of this whole thing for it to be over.
Then I took 45 minutes to effortlessly (read: with great effort and discomfort) ease on my maternity pants and haul my giant ass to my 38 week check up. Where I was told that nothing had changed. I am still pregnant and will remain that way until the time should come wherein…I am no longer pregnant. The good news is that my doctor praised me about my weight gain (only 17 pounds, which feels more like 850), which, you know, made me hungry. And when I realize that I am hungry, I usually do so because MY CHEST IS ON FIRE.
The heartburn has returned. And with a vengeance. I am not a fan. I am not a fan at all. I can’t even drink WATER without wanting to kill myself. Water = sandpaper. Bread = fire. Hot sauce? Well, hot sauce is expectedly hot. But since I love it and it has the same effect as ANYTHING ELSE EVER, I eat it. Have I mentioned to you, internet, how before I was pregnant, I got heartburn like ONCE PER YEAR and now I have it 36 times per day? No? Oh. Well, yeah. That’s what is happening in my esophagus. You’re welcome for the enlightenment.
Baby O is officially kicking me in the ribs. This is the kind of discomfort that one can never describe to someone who has not experienced it. I never had this experience with Baby L and, up until two days ago, had not had any trouble with Baby O. But now, he loves my rib cage. LOVES. That’s all I am going to say about this. Because it is so annoying that I feel like if I talk about it too much, it will happen again and I will either cry or punch something. Or both.
I am WAY too emotional. I have cried three times today and two of the three times were about nothing. I mean, probably not nothing exactly. But definitely stupid things. Like, that I didn’t have any more bottled water in the refrigerator and all that was cold was Dr. Pepper which, (if you can IMAGINE) gives me super bad heartburn. Then I decided, since my mom had my kid for the day, and my husband was out doing man things (or getting a massage. Yes. Seriously.) I would finish watching “Sophie’s Choice” (because I have this fascination about WW2 and the Holocaust and things of that nature, because I am a total dork and that stuff is interesting) and then I watched Meryl Streep have to CHOOSE between her CHILDREN. And then I had a breakdown and felt the need to punch a German soldier. Luckily for them, there aren’t many German soldiers around my neighborhood. And MB wasn’t home. (Sidenote: I did have a flash of the diploma that hangs on the wall in the house of the old man that I take care of sometimes that states that his middle name is Adolf. But I didn’t punch him either. Come on, that would be mean.) I am tired of crying for no reason. And I am tired of wanting to punch imaginary Nazis. (I mean, I would probably want to do that anyway, but I am WAY too serious about it today.)
(Another sidenote: Is there some reason that “Beaches” is ALWAYS on? I mean, I loved this movie when I was a kid (which may also be weird, but my best friend loved it too…) and I have a really hard time NOT watching it when it is on but how many times can a pregnant lady watch “Beaches” without sticking her head in the oven? Honestly.)
Also? The PEEING. I cannot stop peeing! That is all.
My point, internet? I am SO READY to feel like a normal person again. But I am SO NOT READY to have a baby. I just need a pause button. And that pause button should not only pause the progress of this pregnancy when pushed, but sort of make the pregnancy nonexistent so I can have beer. You know, until I push play again. I swear, I would push play again, you guys, I just need a break. Then I would need a bring me beer button. Because that would come in handy forever.
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.
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.
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?
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?