Tag Archives: Third Trimester

Gigantic

Okay, so I don’t know if I told you guys or not. But I’m pregnant. I know. It is shocking. Don’t worry though, internet, this pregnancy isn’t nearly as bad as my last one. When I was pregnant with Baby L, my world was a pretty dismal place. It was a world where people, including MB, could NOT POSSIBLY have understood how uncomfortable I was. Or how much peeing I was doing on a daily basis. Or how painful getting up to make it to the bathroom to DO all this peeing had become. With the back pain and the hip pain and the headaches and the giant belly, my life was hell. And I was SURE that if I left the house, some stranger would tell me how fat and hideous I looked and that I would either burst into tears and vow never to leave home again or punch them square in the neck…Or both. Because I was a total lunatic. And I make no bones about saying it. But I was miserable. And I needed a drink.

This time around, I have experienced heartburn and back pain and headaches. And I have avoided mirrors on certain days for fear of slitting my wrists at the sight of myself in this state. But I have fared pretty well here. I mean, I have been violently and deathly ill on FOUR occasions and have thought that I might never be able to eat anything again. (These illnesses weren’t your run-of-the-mill, pregnant lady morning sickness illnesses either. They were BRUTAL and lasted DAYS.) But once these days passed, I was able to go back to semi-normal, feeling like a regular lady instead of one who is baking a baby. You know, because if you avoid the mirror and there are no real pregnancy symptoms, it is really easy to pretend that none of it is happening at all. And I was blissful in those moments.

Over the past few weeks, my belly has started to take over my house. It has grown quickly and with a fury that I could not have expected. And I can no longer ignore it. I am the size now (at least, in my head) that I was when I delivered Baby L who was full-term. (I don’t really know for SURE that I am the same size, just that I FEEL it.) I can’t see my feet anymore. And those lovely comments I got during my last pregnancy about how I looked 5 months along the whole time…well…those aren’t coming this time. So, I have accepted that I look like a pregnant lady. And today, internet, I tried on clothes. Like, in a store. Under terrible lighting. And a few days shy of 8 months along. And to top it off, these were NOT maternity clothes. AND I HAD TO TAKE PICTURES OF THIS EXPERIENCE. (That’s really another thing altogether but the long and the short of it is, I did a “Sample and Share” Market Research study, wherein I had to try on some clothes, take pictures and have a friend do the same, and then we got the clothes for free…but maternity clothes were not an option.)

I don’t know when this happened, internet, but I am GIGANTIC. And now there is photographic evidence. TWICE IN THE SAME WEEK. (you know people didn’t even refrain from photos at my SPRINKLE?! THE NERVE!) And now, here I am, wondering if I could make it the next two months without actually ever leaving the house in order to spare myself the shame of possibly not fitting inside my Volvo. (Yes, I drive a Volvo. And this should give you an idea of how large I am. Or at least how large I feel. Because I drive a tank.)

What’s a girl to DO?

(Interested in getting some free “Sample and Share” goodies? You can sign up here! It’s free…and sort of awesome!
http://crowdtap.com/invitations_landing

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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Waiting for the Wine

So, I don’t know if I told you, internet, but I went ahead and took your advice and we are having a baby shower for Baby O after all. Okay, not really a shower. More like a sprinkle. Or, like, a small get together at our new place wherein people will eat sandwiches and drink beers (they will, obviously have to bring their own beers though, because lets face it, if I’m not drinking, I’m not paying. But you go right on ahead, have yourself a beer or 7.) I didn’t register or anything all “baby shower formal”, we just invited some people over. And we hope that they will bring diapers or gift cards. Or lots of wine for my post-delivery celebration. (Because you know that is really where MY head is. Because you guys have met me…you know I’m just waiting for the wine.) So, that will take place this Saturday.

And I can’t believe I am doing this again.

I feel like we JUST got done having Baby L’s baby shower. (Probably because it was exactly thirteen months ago.) And now, here we are, having another one. And Baby L will be scooting around all OUTSIDE of my body and stuff and we will be surrounded by dinosaur party favors and baby boy onesies. And OH. MY. GOD. In less then three months I am going to have another meatloaf.

I have so many questions about raising two tiny nuggets so close together. Like, will I ever sleep again? Is it worse having TWO tiny ones than one? Will I stop being such a crazy, anal-retentive freak about things being disinfected? Will I stop being so intensely worried about Baby L hurting herself? (I swear to Cheesus, I would have padded this whole house already if I weren’t afraid that MB would then promptly have me committed because he is of this mindset that kids sometimes hurt themselves. WHAT?! MY baby?! No.)  Will I ever get a pedicure or go out to dinner with my husband again? I mean, these things are already issues for us! (Especially my lack of pedicures. I mean, my toes are scary, you guys. And, OBVIOUSLY MB is totally concerned about the state of my toes, above all else.)

As you may be able to tell, the worry is finally starting to kick in a little. I mean, I am still mostly calm. Mostly. I only start really freaking out, like, in the middle of the night when I am awoken because I have to pee for the 750th time during the night and then I start realizing that I have to pee because there is a WHOLE NEW BABY residing in my PELVIS and soon I am going to have to EXPEL him and then he will be on the OUTSIDE and I will have TWO BABIES and then I will go completely INSANE because MB will be at work and OH MY GOD, I thought one was hard, how the hell am I going to have TWO?!

Yeah, I told you guys before, my head is a totally fun place to live. Especially at two in the morning.

I have to keep reminding myself that I am not the first person in the world to ever have two babies so close together. And that people have TWINS every day. And holy SHIT, how do people have twins? And is that worse? And what about triplets? And Octomom? (Not that I consider her a real person. She exists in my mind as some sort of cartoon character or something. It might be her lips.) What the hell do these people do? How do they not accidentally put the roast in the bassinet and the baby in the crock pot? How?! I need to KNOW, internet!

(Deep breath…)

Okay, this was obviously supposed to be a post about how we are having a Baby Sprinkle, not a literary panic attack. Sorry about that, you guys. You know how it is. Being knocked up makes you a little nuts.

Octomom

Octomom: Or maybe THIS is why I can’t take her seriously?

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Land of the Pressed and Devil Tots

English: These are what tater tots look like.

Devil Tots: Delicious, but potentially deadly.

Many of you might have seen that I was (finally) Freshly Pressed last Saturday! I have to say, I was pretty sure that the Land of the Pressed was somewhere far, far away and somewhere that I would likely never be invited to, but then, there it was in my email! “Congratulations!” And then I peed my pants. (I don’t remember if I ACTUALLY peed my pants, but I am currently 30 weeks pregnant and never really redeveloped any pelvic floor muscles after Baby L so it is safe to assume that I probably did.) Anyway, it was super exciting and WOW! What a ride.

I want to first thank all of the newbies who stopped by and/or started following! I have to apologize in advance for my foul language, probable impropriety, and, last but not least, my tendency to talk about my bodily functions with way too much detail (please see pelvic floor muscle comment above). Chances are, you may have already witnessed some of this, if you looked around a bit, and maybe aren’t offended or scared off, but if this is the first you’ve heard of it, don’t say I didn’t warn you guys. I’m most likely gonna tell y’all ALL about the state of my vagina on more than one occasion.

Moving on…

So, to celebrate/commemorate my invitation into The Land of the Pressed, I got the stomach bug from hell and dropped my iPhone into the toilet while simultaneously vomiting. Because, you know, if you’re gonna do something, you gotta really DO it. I’m not going to get into all the nasty I endured during this time (you’re welcome), but I will tell you that OH. MY. GOD, internet, I have never been so sick in my entire life. I may or may not have vomited into Baby L’s toy drum (a bath toy) because I have (evidently) lost my ability to vomit WITHOUT SIMULTANEOUSLY PEEING. (See pelvic floor comment above. Again, don’t say I didn’t warn you.) Because I have had four (FOUR!) of these “stomach bugs” since I became pregnant with Baby O, I am starting to suspect that this is his way of telling me that he hates tater tots. I know, that sounds weird. But literally, EVERY time I have gotten violently ill like this in the last several months, tater tots were involved. They will be called “Devil Tots” from here on out. So, I have, between trying to be a mom and a pregnant lady and trying to recover from this horrible illness (“Devil Tot Syndrome”), I have been out of commission. I haven’t responded to all of your lovely comments or had time to give them all of the attention that they deserve. So, I’m sorry. And I’m on it.

Bear with me, newbies, and don’t think I don’t appreciate you. I’ve just been busy trying not to pee on myself.

 

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An Open Letter to Baby L at 9 Months (Okay, 10. Sue Me.)

Dear Lilah,

You are WAY past nine months old now. In fact, you are ten months old, as of yesterday. But, as you know, your mother is nothing if she isn’t a total slacker. It isn’t that I don’t enjoy writing letters to you. Really. It is that between you insisting on trying to pound away at my laptop while I am doing so, and the miniscule amount of time I have without you attached to me, I am unable to do a whole lot of anything these days.

You are getting so big. I was at one of my check-up appointments the other day and there was a woman there with a baby who she “claimed” was 8 weeks old and weighed 11 pounds and I could barely remember you being that tiny ( say “claimed” because I swear to Cheesus, that baby was so small. SO SMALL). You are so full of personality now and you really are a little person and not at all like that little meatloaf that you were when we brought you home from the hospital. It is so strange to think you have changed so much. And also to think that, in just a few months, we will have another meatloaf. And this time it will have a tiny penis. Weird. Anyway, you shouldn’t concern yourself with such things. You just concentrate on being super cute and deliberately spitting on everything in a 20 foot radius of you.

You are not a crawler. And not because you can’t, mind you, but because having to crawl to get somewhere really pisses you off. I wonder if I am the only mom out there scratching her head on this one. I have seen you do it and I know that you are capable, but yet, for some reason, you would rather get in baby plank pose, scoot yourself about a foot backwards and then get super angry and start to screech. I am not as worried that you are behind in development as that you are going to be lazy until your brother is born and then take giant leaps when I don’t have the time or the energy to pad the entire house for you to fall all over.

You say things like “mama” and “dada” but I am pretty sure you don’t yet know that you are saying our respective names. Your dad, however, insists that you say “duck” when it is bath time. (You do have a rubber duckie or two that we have in there with you when Daddy bathes you, but I am not sure that I buy that you are yet calling them ducks. Not because I think you are a dummy, but because I haven’t heard this and your dad has a hearing problem. Meaning he hears what he wants to. And this applies to everyone, not just you.)

You love eating. You are indiscriminate completely about food unless I try to give you peas. Peas and carrots? “Sure, Mom! Bring it!” Peas by themselves? “No way, Mom, get that shit out of my face.” You should know that peas are delicious and you should eat them. Don’t listen to your dad when he talks about how gross they are. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. You especially love strawberries, pears, and green grapes. All three of my favorite fruits. And we have them just about every day for a snack together and it is really amusing for me to watch you master your dexterity and pick up tiny pieces of slimy stuff. Half of the time, most of it ends up in your lap, but I enjoy watching you stuff your face on the off-chance that you make it in there. (You are totally getting good at it, though. At first, I doubted that you had gotten ANY fruit into your mouth, now I only find a couple of slivers in your lap and on the floor…Good work, my love.)

You are still a really weird sleeper. We attempted to do this thing called “sleep training” wherein your father and I would train you about when and how to sleep on your own. What ended up happening was that you ended up training me and your father on how to sleep with you wrapped around our faces. We are about to start this process again because it is really important to me to have you in your own bed/room before your brother gets here and keeps me up all night.  In fairness (to me), it would have been pointless to go full force with sleep training if we were just going to uproot you, which we just did when we moved to this new house. So…yeah. I don’t suck as much as it might seem.

You are also working on getting tooth number 7. And let me tell you, Lilah, teething is a total bitch and you OWE me for this. Like, when you turn 18, you are going to need to buy me a kitten for each tooth that you have. Okay, that’s not a good idea. But I will think of something for you to do. Because this shit is DUMB. (And also makes your sleeping WORSE. Yes. That is possible, it would appear.)

So, again, I am sorry that I was a slack ass during your ninth month, but we had a lot going on. I mean, be for real, we had to move so that we had room for your brother and so that you didn’t catch disobedience and general badness from your cousin. I’m just saying. By the time you read this, you will know exactly what I mean. No need to get too involved.  Either way, your father and I are very proud of you. You crack us up every day and you are so effing cute with your growing front teeth and your chubby, delicious cheeks. We can’t get enough of you. You are the love of my life. Duh.

Love always,

Mom

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Once Upon a Time…….(Continued)

So, where was I? Oh yes…proposing to the anesthesiologist. He laughed at me. The end. I am still engaged to MB. Which I suppose is as it should be…

After the epidural, the pain stopped altogether. I mean, I couldn’t feel anything from the bottom of my ribcage to the tippiest tips of my toes. And it was glorious. After about fifteen minutes, though, machines started beeping and a woman bolted into my room and stood in front of my heart monitor, looking clueless. At first, I thought she might just be lost. Or mildly retarded. But then when my nurse came in looking a little frazzled, I started to get a little concerned. Mind you, this is where things get a little hazy for me. Baby L’s heart rate slowed and my blood pressure plummetted to 70/45 and I felt weak and panicked and completely out of my mind. My nurse assured me that it was nothing to freak out about (SERIOUSLY?!) but I was convincing myself that one of us was not going to make it. And not because I felt like I needed to be all doom and gloom about the birth of my daughter. But because I had never had so much as a tooth pulled up until about two years ago and being in a hospital and hooked up to all these crazy things and all the beeping machines was the most terrifying thing that I could have imagined. After a few minutes of the “everything’s okay” and “these things happen” from the nurses, they dropped a bit of ephedrine into my IV.

Now I want you all to keep score here, okay?

First, they give me pitocin. Which I don’t want in the first place. And which evidently makes me puke.

Then, I get the epidural. Which is amazing because I can’t even feel this “pressure” that I keep hearing so much about, but which also, evidently, wants to kill me.

THEN, they basically dose me with methamphetamine. Which I am pretty sure was the reason that I was suddenly acutely aware of the growth of every, single strand of my hair.

That’s a lot of stuff…But, they aren’t done, internet…Oh no…

After about an hour of monitoring the bejesus out of my pulse, BP and baby L’s heart, and things had started to return to normal (all except for my pulse, which was ridiculously high, but probably because I was on METH), they upped the pitocin. Because, naturally, when someone says they DO NOT want something, the best thing to do is to give them MORE.

And then I puked again. And again. And then again. And every time I threw up, MB called the nurse and told her. And she rushed into the room and handed me a weird, green contraption to vomit into and then she gave me more ice chips. (I never thought I could hate ice as much as I have grown to…)

At this point, I had been in labor for about 12-14 hours. And the contractions were getting stronger. To the point where this “pressure” that I hear so much about, was beginning to become “a thing”.  I was tired. I was cold. I was hungry and vomiting. And now I felt like someone was attempting to push a cantaloupe out of my rectum. Yes. So, they told me I could start pushing. And I thought to myself, “SWEET! This is almost over! Because once you start pushing, the baby comes out. And then they put the baby on your chest and you cry and then you get to go home.” (This is totally inaccurate, as it turns out…) I pushed and I pushed for a couple of hours and I even made some progress. There was mention of some sort of vacuum that the doctor could use to expel the baby, but I wasn’t progressed far enough yet for this to be used and it became evident that Baby L was warm and cozy and completely content to stay inside a little longer. So, the nurse told me to go ahead and rest for an hour or two and that she would be back to resume pushing around 4am.

And then I threw up again. Because who can rest when a cantaloupe is trying to get out of them?

After the last puketasm, the nurse offered to give me some Phenergan. Which, if you are familiar with medications, is an anti-nausea medication which has a tendency to make you VERY, VERY sleepy. This, on top of the meth and everything, made my mind…well? WRONG. Everything was wrong.

The ephedrine was making me feel like a crackhead, the pitocin was forcing the NOTHING out of my stomach, the epidural made me paralyzed completely, and the Phenergan made me so tired that I was actually mumbling incoherently in between the contractions. Which, by this time, were painful again. Not that I really had any idea what was going on or anything.

Then it was time to push. Again. This time, I, being on a host of medications which were very contradictory to each other, I couldn’t even remember HOW to push. Or make sentences. Or stay awake.

(AND…to be continued again…Sorry, ladies and gents, my kid is hungry…again!)

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Once Upon a Time…(A Totally Incoherent Birth Story with a Lot of Parenthetical Statements…) Part One…

…I was able to write a blog post because I didn’t have a baby. I know, it seems unrealistic to think that I might have 4.5 seconds to check in with my bloggy peeps. Bear with me, I’m working on it!

So, I am here. But I must warn you, Baby L likes to be held. Like, all the time, and I am currently typing and therefore NOT HOLDING HER (gasp!) so this might get cut short.

I wanted to share my birth story with you before it became old news, but alas, with all the visitors (oh, so MANY VISITORS) and hours of cuddling and shushing my new spawn, I am a little slow getting to it. So, I’ll try my best (taking into consideration the many, many sleepless nights recently and my inability to form a complete thought) to tell you ladies and gents how it went down!

So, as you know, I was pretty anxious to get that little nugget started on “life on the outside” because I was tired of being tired and spontaneously vomiting and waddling around the house like a giant penguin and I was beginning to think that she was, despite all the spicy food and the yoga poses that no pregnant woman should even attempt and the everything else I could think of that might induce labor, never going to come. Of course, because I am nothing if not on a schedule (and when I say on a schedule, I mean that I always stress about being on time and doing things when they should be done, but am often a little late anyway and then I beat myself up about it even though the reason for my tardiness is usually just slack-assiness) and it wouldn’t have been right if my daughter didn’t inherit this trait from me. So, just like clockwork, I rolled over in my bed on my due date, May 18th, and felt a gush. Yes, my water broke first thing in the morning, on my due date. (Remember? Intentions of being on time…)

Because I wasn’t in any pain, I really also wasn’t in any hurry to get to the hospital, because, lets face it, internet, labor is long and painful, and why would I want to rush into THAT when I could take a nice, hot shower and maybe do a load of laundry? Okay, I didn’t do laundry. But I could have. And I did do some dishes while I was waiting for MB to get home from work and take me to the place where they pull that alien out of your pelvis. But anyway, my mom came over within minutes of my phone call to tell her that I believed it was “time” and she immediately started trying to make me eat food. Because if you know my mom, you know that this is what she does. And in such an exciting time, who wouldn’t be hungry? Right?! Shockingly, when you feel like you are peeing an ocean into a giant maxi-pad and anticipating the most excrutiating pain of your life, you don’t really want a hard-boiled egg or strawberry yogurt. Go figure.

We got to the hospital about two hours after my water broke and I still wasn’t having any contractions. And I was okay with this, internet, because I really felt like I was gonna coast through this labor thing like no woman ever had before. I really believed that the lack of pain was a total indication of my impending EASY LABOR and DELIVERY. And then, once I was strapped to the bed and bound by an IV of pitocin (which I adamantly stated that I did NOT WANT, but was told that because my water had broken, I had no choice…) and my cervix was checked, the pain began. I wouldn’t even say that it was that terrible, but definitely not too much fun. Because when you go from just feeling like you’re constantly peeing on yourself to pretty bad menstrua-like cramps every six minutes, it is not only uncomfortable but sort of…well…terribly annoying. Things went on like this for about four hours. I contracted, I squeezed MB’s hand and whimpered until the shit stopped, and then I braced myself for the next one. When the contractions started getting more painful, I mentioned the epidural to my nurse and, since I was only about 2 centimeters dilated at that time, she thought it would be better to wait about an hour before calling the anesthesiologist. And I didn’t argue, because I was still coherent, my hair still looked decent and I wasn’t yet dehydrated or starving. But then the vomiting began. And when I buzzed the nurse to tell her that I was puking up the ice chips that I was using to keep my mouth from feeling like I was eating sandpaper, she immediately called the anesthesiologist. Literally, within five minutes of my first puketastic event, I was getting a needle stuck INTO MY BACK. (This is where the crying began. And not because epidurals hurt, because they don’t, those of you who are scared of them, but needles scare the bejesus out of me. And even though I never saw it, I KNEW WHAT THAT GUY WAS DOING BACK THERE…and I was terrified. But seriously, ladies, if you are scared of the needle, don’t be. You will propose to the anesthesiologist as soon as your feet start to tingle. Promise.)

And now…I have to say…

TO BE CONTINUED…The spawn is waking up and will be demanding nourishment momentarily. But, I’ll be back. I swear…

Still No Baby. (Insert a bunch of expletives here.)

Well, internet, my due date is two days away and here I sit…STILL pregnant. I haven’t been having any more significant signs that labor is near, besides feeling generally craptastic and large. But I DID see the doctor and have my “membrane stripped” on Monday. And yes, that is exactly as much fun as it sounds like it would be. The doctor said that I am 60% effaced and about 2 centimeters dilated, which was a little uplifting, because, lets face it, progress is progress. Right?

I have been searching the internet intently, trying to find all of the natural methods of inducing labor and have tried just about everything I can to get this baby OUT OF ME (and I am sure I was quite a site over the weekend in my mom’s pool, furiously kicking my legs while swimming and muttering, “GET OUT OF ME.”) . (I did not, however, try the “mustard seed/nipple method” suggested by Southern Fried’s mom. Mainly because I would have to a) go to the store to buy mustard seed and b) locate some sort of tape that isn’t duct tape.) Later today, I plan to eat jalapenos and pineapple while doing jumping jacks. And then I plan to seduce MB. Because there is nothing more irresistable than this giant belly, let me tell you. (He actually doesn’t seem to find me any less attractive with the baby dome, however, I find myself to be a heinous, gigantic beast.) I will not be trying the castor oil method because I am not a fan of being deathly ill. (Crazy, right?)

The doctor did tell me that, after my next appointment, next Tuesday, if I still don’t have a baby instead of a baby bump, we will talk about induction. And I really don’t want to have to get to that point. I just want this to happen. Like…you know…on its own terms…and…well…NOW-ISH.

So, that’s basically all I got. Still pregnant. Still suffering heartburn, backache, insomnia and general crankiness. And yes, friends, I know you want an excuse to blow off work, but I cannot MAKE Baby L join us, she is stubborn “like her mom” as you all keep saying. Grrrr…

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A First

I have this friend who sends me a Happy Mothers Day text message every year even though he knows that I don’t have any kids. I was never sure if he just didn’t pay attention to who he was sending out his mass texts to, or if he just did it…well…because he is a moron. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had sent it to MB too, actually. Anyway, this morning, I rolled over and before my eyes were even open, I heard my phone vibrate and then I heard MB whisper, “Happy Mother’s Day, baby. You’re the prettiest mommy ever.”  And then I melted into a heap of goo on my side of the bed. Because seriously, you guys, like, within days, I’m gonna be someone’s mommy. And not in that figurative way that happens when your friends call you mom at parties because you hold their hair when they puke. No. Like an actual mommy.

I’m planning to spend today just like I spent yesterday: floating in my own mommy’s pool and wishing I could have some sort of delicious alcoholic concoction to take the edge off all of this waiting and hoping that, by the end of my swim, I am in labor. (Just as an aside, though, can I just tell you how wonderful the water feels when you feel as though you are the size of a house? If you haven’t yet taken advantage of a swimming pool or other body of water, you should get on that. I felt like myself. Almost.) But I wanted to come by here and wish all of you mommies and soon-to-be mommies a Happy Mother’s Day. I hope that you all get to spend it doing something that makes you happy.

An Open Letter to My Daughter (Just Minutes Before Her Birth)

Dear Baby L,

I want to start by being honest with you hear and telling you that you will not be born in mere minutes. You are perfectly content to continue to reside in my uterus and according to the doctor that I saw this morning, will remain there for several more days. The title of this post is mainly just to send a signal to the universe (and you, I suppose, letting you know that IT IS TIME, and lets get this show on the ROAD.) But before you do grace us with your presence, I wanted for us to have a little talk, you know, our first mother/daughter.

If you have ever read this blog, then you are well aware that I was not really totally excited about becoming a parent. I didn’t really trust myself to be someone’s mom. And, to be honest, I am still not so sure I know what the hell I am getting myself into. I was pretty open about how crazy and horrible and beautiful making you was and you might be offended about the fact that I sometimes cussed at you here or called you a parasite. But seriously? Let’s face it, girlie, you kind of WERE a parasite. (Just sayin’.) You’ll understand all that when you have kids. But I want you to know, nonetheless, that even though I may not have been ready for all of this crazy that has happened or to become your mom, I am pretty sure I am ready now. And I am going to do the best damn job I can. But if I do happen to put your diaper on backwards or forget to put those weirdo mitten things on your hands and you scratch yourself in the face, it is NOT because I don’t love you. It is because I am a completely incompetent parent and am totally learning. I swear, it will get better. (Until I have to talk to you about boys and/or puberty. Then I just might totally fuck you up. And yes, your mother just said “fuck” because you aren’t born yet and cannot repeat everything I say like a parrot.)

Secondly, we should talk about your father. You may notice that he is a complete softie for you. And you may also have noticed that if you bat your eyelashes enough, you can pretty much attain anything your little heart desires. (This works for me too, by the way, and I rather like it. Don’t screw it up.) You should know that he already loves you more than anything in the entire universe. And your father has the biggest, purest, most amazing heart anyone could possess and you should treat him with respect. Because he is moral and loving and generous and will give of himself in ways that most people cannot. He is a gift to the universe and his kindness is rare. And he helped make you. And I have NO doubt that he will someday embarrass the bejesus out of you, and you will want to run and hide from him, but that’s normal. Just try and remember how special he is and be kind to him (and to others) because if not, you will break his heart.

I would like to explain the rest of the family to you here, but I just don’t have that kind of time. You will encounter some really interesting characters and some of them you will totally adore and some of them will make you want to shove sharp things into your eardrums. And that’s okay. I will warn you about those ones on a private and individual level.

Just know that, in these final days of your hostile takeover of my body gestation, your entire family is looking so forward to meeting you. Your father and I have everything set up for you, including 47 potential places for you to sleep, as we were not sure where you would be most content once removed from my body. We love you infinitely and we will do our best to avoid turning you into a psychopath or a douche canoe.

Love and kisses,

Mom