In case you’re wondering, it does freeze in Hell. I thought I’d settle that up front with you. It does. And it does often.
I realize some of you enjoy the snow. I realize you love to cozy up with hot cocoa and sit and watch movies. I realize you enjoy going out in it to play and romp and you revel in the sound of “Whhoooossshhh” as it glides out of the sky to lightly land on the ground below. I get it. I, do. It’s beautiful. It makes everything bright and peaceful.
It scares the living shit out of me.
I know, I know, this sounds familiar. It’s just that when there’s an inch or more on the ground, I freak. We turn around. We go home. Today I slid each time I would try to break and watched trucks fishtail down the hill by our home. Really? I’m not a thrill seeker. (Anymore) So, I take my screaming toddler home and bribe her with play-dough and paint. “I know you want to go to the Jump Park, Sweetie, but how about some paint? And chocolate milk? And a pony?” It’s what any good parent would do, really. Bribes! Sugar! False hopes! Don’t beat yourself up. I’m sure you would’ve done the same. Go easy on yourself.
So we’ll be here, again, like we were all last week. The two of us. These same four walls. The same toys and movies. The same nap-less frenzy. The same work to ignore. The same. The. Same.
Which is why you’ll forgive me if I don’t go joyously streaking down the block naked in the glorious snow. Or even in boots and a heavy coat. Unless you count grumpily following my child around the block snapping pictures and cussing. Then, yes, I guess I do love it here.
Well, at least someone with our name is having great sex.
*Mr. Flinger would like me to clarify that it’s not our site. My reply? “No shit. You think people think we’re that hot?”
Now that I’ve over-reacted in public, (lord knows I wasn’t going to actually move on and be able to write something if I didn’t) I have a startling realization.
We’re finishing up week 25 and starting week 26. Holy. Crap. Y’all.
Aside from varying times of distress “Hello Little Mister, ya there?” I’ve almost forgotten I’m pregnant. Aside from the butt issues and the acid reflux and the fact that my old lungs forgot how to expand and my ribs hurt. I mean aside from all of that, I’m so wrapped up in day to day life this time that I’m not obsessing about what week I’m in. In fact, being pregnant now is a lot like having birthdays after 25. Who cares? Birthday? Pshaw. It’s just another year. It’s Tuesday? Whatever. Just another week down in the chain of baby-growing.
According to a couple of books, I’m entering the third trimester. These are the same books, though, that will tell you pregnancy is nine months long and then howl with laughter with you crouch with your legs spread on the nine month waiting to give birth to a kid who stays in another four weeks. It’s some evil math error the gods made and the same geniuses that tell you you’ll forget about labor as soon as you see your child are the ones that perpetuate the nine month lie.
My good bloggy friend Erin is due just over three weeks before the Little Mister is set to arrive. I find myself completely jealous of those three weeks most of the time I read her site. Except today something unique happened. I realized she’s three weeks closer. Three weeks more uncomfortable. Three weeks further in to the flux. And suddenly I wasn’t jealous, I was sympathizing.
Then I saw the graphic she posted of how things are shaping up for her at 28 weeks. And I decided to empathize a little.
So here’s my version of how things are shaping up as we near 28 weeks.
(graphic stolen and modified with complete lack of any sort of permission what-so-ever)
Or rather, when the Blog Gods slay you. I’ve talked before about why I’m glad God is not a blogger. I’m going to assume God is out there doing more useful things instead of ignoring her/his children and putting in Elmo for the tenth time that day. I’d like to pretend God does not tune me out when his/her website goes wonky or when there is a deadline for work. I’d like to think God never drops me off at day care or leaves me to nap on cots three inches off the floor while she/he grabs a latte.
But sometimes that God is a hardass. Sometimes when she says, “Thou shalt not blog” and one particular person goes, “Oh yea? You wanna watch?” like the inner-two-year-old she is, God will lay-ith the smackdown on the site. God and my website have been in the ring for a week now duking it out. I’m really not sure who’s winning. I will say, though, my website is taking a few hits pretty hard. She’s a site for sore eyes, I tell ya.
About a month ago, I crawled in to bed and asked Mr. Flinger how long I expected to keep up this website. How long did I think people would want to read about our pathetic sex life or my musings of motherhood. I asked him what I will do when we have this other baby. I pestered him to tell me to stop. I wanted him to tell me I’m a much better person when I’m not blogging. That blogging is interfering with our lives and I really need to cut it out. He didn’t. Instead he told me to post about our sex life as much and as often as I wanted to. “You laugh more when you blog,” he replied. “Personally I don’t need our family reading about my sex life but on the other hand, you seem to need to write and that’s on your mind so write about it. Laugh about it. Don’t stop.”
I was shocked.
All these years I forced him to read an entry here or there. “Read this,” I’ll say. It’s a theme in our house; me posting about him and then asking him to read it. He’ll laugh, because he gets me, turn away and say, “That’s a good one.” Either he’s being extremely insincere or he really doesn’t care that I write about us. “US” as a topic, which so many of you can relate to. “US” as parent. “US” as individuals lost in our own goo of parenting and work. Somewhere in there, blogging helped me remember we are “US”.
Then shit went down and I started to write a list of reasons I thought the Universe was yelling at me to stop. I actually started a list. I’m really that anal. I’d scan it for you but really, it’s a lot of BLAHBLAHBLAH All- Those- Things- Each- Of- You- Ask- Yourselves- Every- Effing- Night- Before- You- Hit- Post. I just never think before I hit post and I started to think one day and couldn’t turn it off. Then there was the near death experience. The realization that moments after almost getting swiped to the Netherlands I think, “Oh, I’ll have to blog about that…” There was the pathetic realization that I am blessed beyond the computer, beyond a metaphor for real life. I was actually blessed. In. Real. Life.
And I tossed and turned and still have no answer. But the longer my site and God rack it out in the ring with slow-loading-pages and DNS issues, the more I’m feeling it’s a sign.
And I thought I didn’t believe in signs.
So far this morning, LB has been in three time-outs, hasn’t stopped crying because I will not make pancakes (apparently the French piss her off because French Toast does not bode well) and the baby hasn’t moved once in three hours. I thought by boss was tough. I thought trying to please 36 students and 12 administration was bad. I thought design deadlines were stressful.
Nobody tops a pissed off toddler. Nobody.
If this were the Brady Bunch my maid (who does all my cleaning, laundry, and talking to my kids after-school-special-style) would have something witty to say and we’d laugh and the credits would roll.
Instead, welcome to my Monday. Grab on. I hear hell is a rocky ride.
Forget the politics and the Oscars. I realized about an hour after posting my snarky comments regarding Al Gore and his Oscar-Winning :: cough :: movie that it really didn’t matter. Because shortly after the Oscars, we tuned in to this episode of South Park and, as all true South Park episodes are wont to do, it became utterly clear that it’s all between a big Douche and a Turd Sandwhich.
That reminds me. I need to register to vote in this state. Thanks.
Anyone else feel like you’re treading under water? Grey’s Anatomy aside here, we’re all drowning in snot and a megga slow server. I swear I’ve tried to update only to get a “page loading” message for, oh, more than the .2 nanoseconds that I have patience to wait so I close my browser and decide my site hates me. No, it’s not you, it’s me. It’s the snot. It’s the fever. It’s the holy-hell-sinus-pressure-that-I-can-only-take-farking-saline-spray-for (!?) and the other things the Internet was telling me you don’t need to hear about.
Being sick is boring as hell, y’all.
Whilst laying around for days (as in five) trying to get the She Child to just not kick mommy in the belly and let me sleep while she plays with knives and electrical outlets (at the same time), it never occurred to me to turn on Oprah. Y’all, I’m home almost every day at 4pm, the heralded Oprah hour around the country, and to this day I’ve seen Oprah about 6 times ever. That includes a few times that I tuned in on accident when trying to flip to a Sesame Street on TiVo.
I don’t dislike her. Except that I do. I didn’t realize I felt anything for Oprah until Thursday night when I watched the stars interviewing each other about the Oscars. Julia Roberts? So my kind of gal. George Clooney? Hot. Ovbiously. Hot and hilarious and I don’t mind telling you that shortly thereafter I went upstairs and begged my husband to put out, what in my sexy snot-o-mania voice and all. But the Operah portion of the Oprah show is a tad bit.. much.. for me. For some unknown reason, she gets under my skin and crawls around like a dung beetle wearing too much mascara. Runny mascara, maybe. Maybe she’s born with it? Maybe it’s too much plastic surgery.
Mr. Flinger asked me if I ever watched Oprah during the day. I laughed, said “all the time, beyotch! While eating bon-bons and stuffing my bra, duh.” Then I wondered why I don’t. Why don’t I like Oprah? What has she ever done to me? I like that she’s out there doing good in the world and spreading the luff. All good for her and those who watch. And if you watch, I am not judging you in the least. Instead, I’m wondering what the hell is wrong with me that I can’t seem to get behind someone with so much influence, for the better even, on working and stay at home people everywhere.
Maybe my heart is stone. Or maybe my kid is too busy to watch an hour talk show in the middle of the day. Or maybe Jamie is right, women are more in to blogging than watching TV. Either way, I think I’d prefer reading Sweatpants Mom‘s version of Oscar Night. And as far as Bon Bons and Day Time TV, well, I’ll have to get back to you on that one. As soon as I figure out what a Bon Bon is.
With the impending arrival of #2, Mr. Flinger and I often find ourselves discussing how a family of three now incorporates a fourth. The transition from two people to three was a difficult one but with a mature outlook and (at times) patient attitudes, we found a rhythm to the family that works for us. LB meshed in to our lifestyle fairly easily and we meshed in to hers. Our personalities go well together, for the most part, with only tiny rebuttals at almost predictable times.
This pregnancy is so different to me. Last time around I was unaware of what I was growing, of the person living inside of me. I worried like one would worry about a cancer tumor. Pregnancy was a medical condition to me and while I felt LB moving inside of me, she was a concept I couldn’t quite grasp. The thought that there was a baby in there was beyond anything I could understand, so I just didn’t. Two years later, watching my child do a little dance with her daddy in the kitchen or hearing her tell me “Mommy, hold this one second while I’m busy” makes me see that the person that grew inside me two years ago is an actual little person. She’s real now. I fell in love with her.
The process of falling in love with #2 happens a lot earlier. He is a little HIM in there now. I whisper to Mr Flinger, “I like this one more in my belly” but what I really mean is that I already understand that he will become a little Who. He will tell me he would prefer cheerios to oatmeal one day. He’ll let me know he is ready for his superman undies. He’ll tell me when I drop him off at school to not kiss him in front of his friends. I know this now. I’m a mom this time. I already know I will love and miss him when he is at school and care for him when he is sick.
This understanding brings me to another level of wonder; How will he fit in to the family? I knew with LB we would have to adjust to her personality. We were two adults who chose to make a baby so our meshing to her needs seemed like a natural step. This little man, though, now has to mesh in to our world. We’ll make the initial changes, the welcoming of a new person, having LB adjust to being a big sister and sharing mommy and daddy, but then, at some point, he will share a room, share a table, share the crayons. He will have to live up to the rules already in place. LB has pioneered an entire path of expectations and he will follow in these footsteps while maintaining his own individuality. As a parent, I’m not exactly sure how to facilitate this.
Mr. Flinger and I are both the eldest children in our family, which according to some books means we’re doomed to have over-achieving and obsessive children. It also means we should never have meshed as well as we did and one of us should end up in a straight jacket in the hospital down the road. In actuality, we work well and we realize our second child may not posses the same compulsive behaviors that we do. Which brings up the question: How do we help him feel independent but encourage him to achieve if that’s not his natural state of mind?
We both went to college and expect the same of our children. They will do well in school because we did well in school. They will enjoy learning because we foster a sense of learning at all times and LB adores showing off her knowledge like the true people pleasing type A that she is. :: cough just like her mom cough :: But what if #2 is like both of our siblings? The sibling that chose to rebel? The one that rejected the idea of college and embraced the fun-loving life-enjoying path that Mr. Flinger and I were too anal to enjoy?
I’ve had many conversations with my own Mom about choices she made as a parent and what she would choose to do differently. She’s told me, repeatedly, that her worst mistake was not being around as much when we were in Jr. High and High School. That if she could do just that one thing over, that’s the thing she would choose. I’ve listened to her tell me this and her own guilt and I remind myself to learn from her mistakes. I’ve never been a parent before and she’s been one for thirty years. In this case, I think experience counts. And I’d be a fool to not listen.
I think about how hard it was for my Mom to bring home a collicy baby when her first one was so quiet. I’ve heard my MIL say a similar thing, “#2 was not a sleeper while Mr. Flinger loved his naps!” I wonder if I’m destined to have a #2 that is full of life and energy with a hate for sleep and quiet. I wonder if he’ll beat up on his sister when he finally outgrows her. I wonder if they will play nicely or if they’ll pick on each other until I yell at them in the grocery store to knock it the fuck off already, don’t make me turn this cart around! I wonder if I’ll remain me or if I’ll end up in that straight jacket.
For now I have hope. I believe I can learn from other parents. I believe I can grow a baby that will mesh with our little family and one that will enjoy sleeping as much as I do. For now he is a little man, all 1.25 pounds and 8 inches, who has an entire family waiting to meet him and welcome him in to our home. I just hope he’s as happy to have us as we are to have him.
This weekend I was much blessed to go on a Girl’s Weekend with two of my best friends from college. We took a ferry over to a little island just off of Seattle. (Thank you, Grey’s Anatomy, for making me a complete spaz about Ferry rides.) We indulged in copious amounts of chocolate and pastries and shopping. It was exactly what I was needing. It was quite lovely, in fact.
Since we planned on doing a lot of laying around at the hotel, we rented the first season of Sex in The City. Now, mind you, I am not a virgin like my mom was when I was born, but overall, my sex life is fairly… um… normal. In fact, it’s about as exciting as rat pellets. And, really, I like it that way.
So, let’s just say that Sex in the City was educational for me. It was a learning experience. It was, oh my god, so many booby shots. So. Many. Boobs.
My life as a single woman did not come anywhere near the llfe of single, sexy, stylish New York magazine writer who spends 400 dollars on a pair of shoes. My life as a single girl was so very placid and tame. It’s almost too boring to recall. Boring and utterly normal.
Life as a pregnant woman is some-what spicier. I’m able to talk with a sense of knowledge. I’m a married woman who both farts and seduces her husband in the same
ten minutes. I have a sense of freedom now that I’m secure in who I am to share things and laugh about the state of affairs in Flingerville. It’s nice. It’s comfortable. It’s boring as hell.
I ordered some room service per CB’s raging need for meat. The girls and I were on disc two of season one and well in to an episode about blow-jobs. There is a knock on the door and as I open it up, take the food, and sign the receipt, there is a male voice on the TV, “Oh, come on! At least lick my balls!” The gal from the hotel looks at me, I blush profusely, and she heads off.
And that’s when I looked like the pathetic pregnant woman ordering food while watching Porn. Thanks to the beds where the girls sat hid from the doorway, there could be no other explanation. It was porn. And I’m a horny, hungry pregnant lady.
But what else is new?
Right now on iTunes, you can download four Elmo Videos for Free. (That’s right, Free!)
You know what that means, don’t you? I can cut back on fiber for a bit.
*I was not paid in any way to tell you about this. Unless you call being sick and searching for “Free Crap For Your Kids To Do While You Pass Out On The Couch” payment.
**Also, you need itunes for that above link to work (it’ll launch the application and take you directly to the download area). You can get iTunes here.
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