If you don’t believe in evolution, I think you’ll still agree with me on this one. We as a society have continued to evolve and grow and have a population explosion despite our children’s best attempt at making us throw them out the car window going 70 miles an hour on the freeway.
toddler turned two, life has been… Interesting? No… um.. Wild? Yes, but.. Hell? YES! Hell.
She is coming in to her own. She MUST be the one to put on her shoes. She WILL be the one to not drink out of her straw, but rather open the lid and dump the precious expensive gold that is “Organic Valley Milk” on to her lap/carseat/books. She will refuse to walk when you ask her to, she’ll slump, boneless, when prompted to get in to the car and she’ll scream for hours in her crib instead of relaxing like Mommy could do if she would only SHUT UP for an hour or two. I’m just sayin’.
Today was one of “those” days.
Running errands with a toddler is less than enjoyable (and so my heart goes out to you people with a toddler AND an infant because I’d probably have to drive off a short cliff if I had to buckle the car seat twice as much while fighting the “ME HOLD IT ME HOLD ME!” child who would take thirty hours to strap herself in). She’s a wild animal past her nap time. She’s a cream de’leatute (or whatever) of tantrums and not-listening. She’s got the “seek and destroy” portion of war down pat and when prompted can take on an entire isle including a sales lady, two old women and a man in a wheelchair. She literally can have the place dismantled within seconds.
I couldn’t be more proud.
We ventured over to Kinko’s where people are conducting business of some type or another. My new trick is to dress in my work clothes so I feel more professional when I’m going to be around other people or when I know my child, the savage beast, may make me feel less than put together. At least I can have nice shoes and a matching choker. One can always feel good with the right shoes and accessories, I say.
So here I am trying to hold myself together and look as if I know a thing or two about behaving in public while The Child hops up and down the store and pulls most things off the shelf. I conduct my business, start walking her to the car when I notice her jeans are full of milk. (Either that or her pee has turned bright while and smells of cow utter.) I reach the car and notice the milk cup turned upside down on the floor next to my prescription and a few papers I need for the OB doc. Fantastic.
Once I wrestle her in to the car, we fight over the strap “ME DO IT ME DO IT” “MOMMY WILL DO IT!” and I start driving home. She’s crying. I’m crying. It’s a regular Oprah Audience.
Lemme spare you the tantrum details, the shoes thrown at me and the screams as we go up the stairs. I tell her she’s too tired to do anything but go to bed now. “POTTY! POTTY!” NO! NO POTTY! GO TO BED! Except this feels cruel so I let her sit on the potty.
And she pees.
I think God gives us these moments to prevent the entire species from dying off. The fact that a litte trickle of urine can turn a Mom’s entire focus from wanting to huck her kid across the room to doing the biggest party pee dance ever, is really why we keep going on as humans. The fact that your three week old gets those gassy smiles that make you think he really is looking in to your eyes with adoration and appreciation for the hours and hours you’ve been awake soothing him keep you from shoving the pillow over his face. This is how we, as mankind, have gone on for ages.
I’m sure during the caveman days some snotty little teenager came *this* close to getting her head bashed in to bits by a large wodden club just as she says, “Mom! I got an A on the test you helped me study for! Thank you so much for your help. I love learning!” and CaveMom stops the club, smiles, and goes about her business making dinner and thinking what a great child she helped spawn.
I’m not wrong. Trust me.
**Added: Thanks to Bloggy Gossip for the birthday wishes. Seriously. You people sure make hovering over the sink all morning not seem like such a bad day after all! XO
**Added even later: Thanks to Amalah for the Coffee Bean shout out. Curling up by the toilet is totally worth it because this lil’ guy (yes, I keep saying GUY) is already celebrated by gobs of people. And now I’m going to cry again...
I silently prayed that I would not spend my 31st birthday this weekend sitting in a dark corner bawling over a baby I lost. I prayed every day since I found out I’d be seen this week, that I did not want to hear bad news days before my birthday. Not that 31 means anything. Actually, it means pretty much nothing. Just another year in the bag, another day in the pot, an excuse for a pregnant lady to eat cheesecake, maybe, but over all just not much more than 24 hours and 31 years of life marked “finished.”
As fate would have it, I’ll be bawling any way.
I’ve been crying most of the past two weeks or so. This is very confusing for LB. “Mommy sad?” she’ll ask. “No. Mommy is happy, sweetie. See?” I cry when I remember I’m pregnant. I cry when I’m so tired I feel woozy and dizzy. I cry when I’m nauseated, which is about 20 hours a day, and I cry when I see a tiny baby, or baby clothes, or baby socks, or baby blankets (you get the idea here) because I want another one. And I get to have that.
And oh my god we are having another baby.
I read tonight that there’s now less than a 10% chance of miscarriage. Guess what? I cried. That’s awesome. I’m thrilled. I’m relieved. I’m also crying. I cry because I’m so tired already, so impatient with LB now and so fragile to my core. Who is this weepy lady? Who is the thickening woman sitting on the couch crying at a commercial. It’s so stereo-typical, it’s a bit sad.
I’m a freakin’ cliche.
This weekend I get to be celebrated. Paige has offered to take LB so Mr. Flinger and I can go on a date. We’ll have to go to a comedy. I’m sure I’ll cry anyway.
Now, excuse me, but I need to grab another tissue. Mr. Flinger is watching WWE and the midget finally won and, well, that’s just the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen. :: sniff ::
Talk about anxiety. I think I started building up the worst case scenarios in my head in the past 48 hours. What’s that? Right. I had them in my head three weeks ago. You’re right.
It’s amazing to me that a lab tech gal (with a very strong southern accent, by the way, y’all… Go Team South) will stick to complete protocol in the face of a very hormonal pregnant lady. “Will you tell me if there’s a heartbeat?” I begged. “Well, usually we give the results to the Doctor and they will talk to you…. (fill in awkward excuse and protocol here). “But.. um.. see, I had a miscarriage and… (fill in teary voice and begging very unbecoming of a woman dressed in a sheet with a wand up her hayhay).
It’s quiet as she looks on the screen and I guess some flat line as a non-heartbeat and start crying. She looks at me, “oh! That’s the blood flow to your ovary. I didn’t find the right spot” she explains. OH. Right. Nice to know.
We’re heading to the doctor today for my first checkup. I know I’m nauseated, I’m weak, I’m dizzy and weepy. These are all fantastic signs.
I just want to see a heart beat. Then I’ll be able to just be pregnant.
So if you see me doing some sort of sacrificial dance to the gods of all things baby heartbeats, you’ll know why. No need to panic. Just join in.
Ready for another shocker? I have body image issues. HOLY CRAP! Shut up, I know that’s just another stop in the road to middle-class-america. Raise of hands of people who HAVE NOT had an eating disorder? Three of you? Well, you missed out. Trust me. (Don’t)
I’m guessing it’s no surprise I have issues about gaining weight when I’m pregnant. I actually stay up at night pondering how I can prevent the sixty pound weight gain (and only 55 pound weight loss) from last time around. But I’m up late, starving, eating (LIGHT) Laughing Cow Cheese and I know for a fact that if I don’t eat, I’ll hurl. And this time I’m not trying to.
There’s a video I’ve seen going around the Internet. It’s a good promotion about self esteem. I ache to think my pole-thin little girl will one day call her tiny legs fat. She’ll want to starve herself because she can’t wear a size 0 and she’ll eat 400 calories a day and feel like shit. And yet, still to this day, I wish I could be one size smaller, my belly a little more flat, my arms a little more toned and why, JESUS, why can’t I just look like her*? Or her? Or .. hell.. her? (For the record, I have a better shot looking like Evangeline Lily here. If I had a shot at all that is…)
The truth is, I’m trying to be realistic. Look, I had a maple strudel muffin last night, a chocolate chip cookie tonight (the big ones! From Barnes and Noble, of course) and .. wait.. make that two of those chocolate chip cookies this week. Crap.
I try to eat well. I’ve made choices like cottage cheese and pears for a snack instead of animal crackers. I’m trying to eat actual food instead of pringles and poptarts like last go-round. The She Child was grown on chocolate and pop tarts, my ass was grown on the same, incidentally.
It’s not that I obsess about my weight every morning when I step on the scale (believe that, do ya? right.) or every day that I don’t work out, or every damn magazine picture that makes my lumpy size 10/12 feel gooshy and heavy on my 155 pound frame. It’s not that I’ve wanted to get back to 145 before I got pregnant again (my wedding weight) or at least zip up my jeans and be able to breathe at the same time. It’s not that I know that morning sickness is best soothed with food and my belly is going to grow regardless of what I eat, it’s my ass that I’m worried about.
And so far, the baby is the size of a pen prick but my ass? Is so so not.
I think it’s a bit unfair that society makes me feel that my growing and changing body is a shame and not something lovely to be proud of. My body is a working body. It is real. It is mine. It has created life, it runs after a toddler, it sits in a chair to write and make web designs. It is sleep deprived, it survived Post Partum Depression, it survived the 80s and a seven year eating disorder in the 90s. It carries me up stairs and hiking trails and bike paths. It does not have a personal trainer, a nanny, a personal diet chef, a photo shoot. It walks in to the Gap and laughs at the “size 10” jeans made for a ten year old the size of my daughter. It is my body, it is real, it works hard.
I wish I could grow to love my body as it grows to love my baby. Maybe this pregnancy, I will.
Googling “Laughing Cow Cheese Early Pregnancy” doesn’t produce the results one would hope. (Unless you’re looking for a lot of women talking about eating cheese and cows and laughing about it, or eating cheese feeling like a cow and laughing while growing three headed children from the soft cheese in early pregnancy. Then you’d be right on.)
As you are probably not aware ( ::cough snort cough:: ) I’m a bit of a control freak. OH! Shocking isn’t it? Stop rolling your eyes. I promise not to talk about my hairy legs this time. But I am going to talk about the pregnancy. And my complete lack of control, whatsoever.
If there is any question that God has a sense of humor lemme tell you this: He does. She does. He/She is laughing his or her mighty ass off right now in pure joy and elation. It’s really funny if I think about it. How many times will I get knocked up because “I don’t think I’m ovulating” and “I don’t know my cycle” and “I think I’m getting the flu or something, I just don’t feel right.” In fact, how many times am I going to take a pregnancy test on Friday the 13th and have it be positive?
Hopefully not more than twice. What’s that saying? “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me three times, I’ll jump off the next bridge because MY GOD am I that retarted?” I paraphrase.
I had blood work done last week before we left town. Friday my numbers were 3,912 (HCG) and Sunday they were around 7,560 (HGC). This is great news. We are looking for a double in 48-72 hours and I tested about 42 hours apart. I bawled when the nurse told me the number. Actually, I haven’t stopped crying since.
I wake up hungry and I pee all the time. But then I’ll think I’m not hungry enough! I’m not sick enough! I’m not gagging enough! I’m trying to remember back to when, exactly, I became so debilitated with nausea I couldn’t stand to look at a TV or computer or any moving object. I’m trying to remember when I started leaving class three to five times to throw up. My graduate professors all mocked me because there I’d go again. Puking in the hall. Again.
The funny part that God keeps rolling on the floor over is that I have no earthly idea how pregnant I am. “I just found out I’m a little pregnant. I don’t know HOW MUCH pregnant yet, but I am!” This is my pat answer as of late. People roll their eyes, “You are either pregnant or not, you can’t be a little pregnant.” “Um. Didn’t you know? You CAN be a little pregnant.” I think since the miscarriage was August 28th, I believe I am a little pregnant. I will not be a lot pregnant for months and I will not be mostly pregnant until I see a heart beat. The first three days I talked myself out of caring if I had another miscarriage. It became obvious that I really did care when I got the call, the numbers look great and I bawled, “I don’t want anyone to take the baby away this time. Please don’t take the baby away” as Mr. Flinger held me and told me nobody is taking the baby away.
When I call him and tell him my boobs don’t hurt enough or that I just changed a diaper and didn’t gag he laughs. “Um. Are you crying?” :: sniffle :: “Is it obvious?” “Let’s call that symptom enough for now” :: sniffle :: “Ok. I’m just so.. :: sniffle :: happy :: sniffle :: to be pregnant :: sniffle:: ”
This is a daily occurrence. Be glad you’re not my husband.
It’s easy to second guess when I have no dates. I have no idea when this happened. I’m am blissfully in the dark. I can’t obsess. I have nothing to hold on to. No dates. No charts. No ovulation sticks. Just two (I only peed on two) very dark pee sticks and two great numbers. And I even threw the sticks away.
I really am making progress. I just wish I’d believe my body when it says it’s nauseated and not second guess my constant state of emotional distress. And if I calculated correctly, I’m due sometime in June. June. What a great month. Now, could you pass a tissue? I’m just so happy to be due at all.
:: sniffle ::
Yesterday, LB officially turned two years old. Two years ago we made this movie. Two years ago I visited the ER. Twice. And got a uterine infection. Two years ago I became horribly depressed, crazy, and tired. But the thing is? It’s been a wonderful two years. Two years ago had you told me I’d WANT to be knocked up again, I’d laugh. Maniacly. Two years ago if you said she would be the joy of my world, I’d roll my eyes. Two years ago, if you told me how fast life goes, I’d say bad things about you on my blog and cuss at you in my brain because the nights are SO DAMN LONG. But you’d be right. It does go fast. And two years later, I’d not change a single thing. Well, maybe a few things. But that was two years ago.
To see the change in my daughter, the not so obvious daily changes in addition to the slap-you-in-the-face realizations that she has full sentences now and can tell me “Mommy off Computer Now,” takes me by surprise for some reason. The fact that she can talk on the phone for twenty minutes with Oma is only a small glimpse of my life to come.
It reminded me of the time my Bamma sent me a sweatshirt with a fuzzy bear on it. I was fourteen. I was wanting guess jeans and high tops and fluffy bangs (lay off, it was the eighties). I felt so out of touch with her. I realized she still thought I was eight. She didn’t know I wanted a boyfriend and makeup and a curling iron.
It hit me how possible it is to lose touch with reality. Life is so fast, so amazingly fast, that suddenly you’re telling a lady at the store that your daughter is two years old even as she’s driving her new toyota truck to get your old ass from the store. ‘Hey! Ma!’ she yells and you scooch your dimply old ass into the truck and tell her, “Why do you listen to music so loud? That’s bad for your ears. Here. I got you a sweatshirt.”
(** For a sappy version of LB turning two, go here. **)
I found my razor this afternoon. This is very good news since I haven’t shaved my legs since we packed up the bathroom in our old townhouse on Friday. If you count the days, that’s ... let’s do the math… five days. For those of you that don’t know, I’m a small step away from the ape woman. So five days for you, thin blonde chick that I’d hate but you’re too nice, might not be a big deal, but for me? Well. It is.
So, what with the peeing, the nausea, and the incessant hunger, I got up with my nighty bra-tank and panties and walked downstairs for some cocoa and graham crackers. Mr Flinger (god bless this man) says, “You should walk around in panties more often.” I glance down and see nothing great, short of a small forest of leg hair, some growing thighs and future varicose veins. But he kisses me, morning breath and all, and rubs my belly growing his next child.
Apparently, the man is attracted to Yetis in Panties. ‘Cause I swear to you, that is what I am. A big pregnant Yeti. With pretty panties.
I know I’m only five weeks past the miscarriage but I feel weirdly optimistic. And sick. Very. Very Sick.
Here’s how I break it down:
Reason #1: Hormonal. Wheee! Care to join the “I’m so excited to be preg…. WTF ARE YOU DOING ON THE DVR! I SAID TO NOT STAND ON THE DVR! ... gawd I love my kid…” ride? ‘Cause I’d like off.
Reason #2: Stuff stinks. Bad. The house? Smells like ass. That beer you’re drinking? Also like ass. My Pad Tai? Totally like wet dog. I’m not kidding.
Reason #3: Ralph. I’m feeling slightly pukey. Excuse me but your beer is making me want to hurl (and I like beer).
Reason #4: Sore boobies. Damn. ‘Nuff said.
Reason #5-100: I. Am. So. Fucking. Tired. I. Am. Going. To. Die.
Reason #101: Why not? It’s our turn.
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