6/11/2006

And a parachute Stories

Permalink

I admit I’m a wee bit preoccupied with things of the uterus, gagging, farts and boobs (mostly mine). You wouldn’t think this would be the prerequisite for the line, “which reminds me of that time…” but it is. Did I ever tell you about that time… (stop me if you heard this)...

One Thanksgiving a long long time ago, perhaps 15 years or so, The Pre-Flinger Family were in Salem (that’s in Oregon.. pronounce OR-GAN) visiting the Ancient Flingers. As it was, the Ancient Flinger’s home was booked full of relatives so the Pre-Flinger Family stayed in a hotel. Oma Flinger was so enjoying her time with Ancient Flingers that Pappa Flinger and I decided to head back to the hotel early with my sister to catch some TV and relax without the old people chatter. (You know how you really care about old people chatter at 16? Or 42 if they’re not your parents?)

So there we are in the hotel, Pappa Flinger, my sister and myself. Now, Pappa Flinger had some bad gas. Like Paint-Peeling gas. Like “OH MY GOD I AM GOING TO PASS OUT” gas. You think pregnancy gas is bad? This is gagging power without high levels of HCG and Estrogen causing your nose to inhale at 500% maximum power. The man could work for the CIA as a natural toxin. He’s proud of this fact.

As I recall, the gas was horrid that night at the hotel. In fact, it was so horrid we opened up the window in between yelling, “Dadddd! GROSS!” The heavy hotel drapes weren’t letting enough of the sub 40’s air in, though, so I took off my bra and tied the drapes with it to allow more air in. That’s right, Internet, I tied my 38 Double D, pre-breast-reduction bra around the curtains to let in air.

About thirty minutes later Oma comes in laughing so loudly we heard her coming down the hall. “What’s so funny?” we ask her. Between her gulps and giggles she spits out, “I didn’t have to ask which hotel room was ours. I pulled up, saw the braw around the curtains and knew where to go.”

Officially wearing lycra since 2004 Parenting

Permalink

You know how your balance is off during pregnancy?  And you know how I already have issues with being a klutz? Disaster is sure to follow.

I won’t list them out for you (trying to keep some level of pride here) but lately? I’m not just off balance, I’m off kilter, off skilter and hilter.  I’m a loose hinge. I’m a leaning Christmas Tree. I’m.. well, you get it.

Already my belly is big enough to make my back ache. Already laying on my back or stomach is painful. When I lift my arms above my head in public (don’t ask me WHY I am doing this, just go with me here) my belly will shove out from under my shirt and show the entire world just how white and stretched out it already is. SEXY!

So it’s not a huge surprise that our leaning tower o’ treeza completely tipped over yesterday when my BOOBS brushed, ever so softly, against it as I tried to plug in the lights.

Between my belly, my boobs and my ass? I’m hopeless. I don’t think I’ll be sitting in LB’s little table and chair set she gets this Christmas. *sigh*

I will never be your Great Aunt Marcy

Permalink

My Grandfather’s sister, Marcella, lives in San Antonio. I grew up in Houston so we’d go there every so often and Uncle Charles would tell us about the pecan trees in his backyard and Aunt Marcy would make us pecan pie and we’d eat brisket and mash potatoes. It was always cooler in San Antonio than when we left Houston and the adults would talk about humidity while my sister and I did cartwheel and handstands in the yard. I have this memory etched in my brain from a variety of visits spanning years and years. It was always the same.

After we moved to the North West, Aunt Marcy still sent us birthday cards, promptly, starting in 1989. There are a few things you can count on in life. Death, Taxes, and your birthday card from Aunt Marcy. She is timely, she never ever forgets, and there is never any money or a gift card in it. It’s a card. That’s it. Every year. And I love it.

Right now, with the move and all the puking and nausea, I go to the mailbox a lot less often. The trek up the hill to the group of boxes is a major undertaking and even then, the stash of mail gets piled in the “in box” until bills are (past) due. We’re living a new, very unorganized version of ourselves. (This is saying A LOT, people.)  I could’ve titled this post, “Please don’t let me hold your baby or I will drop it like all the other balls in my life right now.” ‘Cause that’s about right.

I’m losing it quickly.

Friends have had birthdays, anniversaries, children, moved locations, graduated, won academy awards, the lottery, and lost relatives all while I sit in the midst of my boxes with my laptop and my two year old running around my silver puke-bowl and say, “Ummmm… Errrr…. Uuuhhhhhhhhh…......” and then I go take a nap because I can’t imagine what I was going to do.

101 reasons I think this baby will stick

Permalink

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.

4/10/2006

Heartbeats and ultrasounds Parenting

Permalink

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.

I gave her more than butt dimples Parenting

Permalink

It’s really obvious that my daughter is her father’s kid. I knew it from the 20 week ultrasound where we got a profile shot and realized she had her daddy’s pug nose. (Incedentally, this did not keep me from having dreams that she was a black baby four feet long when I birthed her.) The first thing we noticed when we saw her, just minutes old, was her olive skin tone and perfectly shaped mouth, all thanks to Daddy. She was perfect. She was everything you’d see if you pictured Mr. Flinger as a little girl. With hair.

This bothered me somewhat as all I got to contribute was a large scar on my belly, some wicked post partum depression and butt dimples. Yes, I have two dimples above my ass and now, so does my only child. I’m so proud to pass that on.

I know many families that always say, “Oh, she looks just like so-and-so” while the other side will say, “She’s a spitting image of you-know-who.” I hate to tell you this but one of you is wrong. Obviously the child looks more like her mother (or father) and you’re reaching for straws with “but her eyes look just like Great Aunt Jane’s.” Does anyone even remember Great Aunt Jane? I didn’t think so. Nice try.

I don’t have that luxury. When Mr. Flinger’s family goes on and on and on and on about how she looks JUST LIKE HE DID when he was little, I have to bite my lip because, well, she does. Mr. Flinger, with his long seventies flowing golden hair, really would’ve made a very pretty little girl. And now he does.

So when my family wants to contribute something in LB’s personage we stretch it a little far. “Oh, her personality is so like you. Oh, the way she rolls her eyes? SO TOTALLY YOU. Oh mah gah, did she just give me sass? That’s you!” Thanks. I gave my daughter her bitchiness. Add that to butt dimples and I’m a real genetic winner.

Conversations from the backseat Parenting

Permalink

Today, as we were driving home from playing at the park with Paige, I decided to go through town so LB could go on a bridge over water and see the big buildings. We drove by Mr. Flinger’s Alumni and I pointed out that is where Daddy went to school. LB was quiet, and I repeated, “See? That is Daddy’s college. Daddy went to school there.”

We drove a bit more and she could see it better so I told her again, “That’s where daddy went to school.” And again after we rounded a corner and could see a different view.

About ten minutes later as we’re passing a mall and the surrounding stores, LB gasps and says,

“Oh! I see! Daddy’s school is Target!”

*sigh* Now I just need to inform her that when I tell her she will go to college after high school, I don’t mean be a cashier at Target.

The problem with a “go baby” Parenting

Permalink

When LB was three weeks old, I decided she would be a “go baby.” I’m not one to be happy at home for very long and the thought of staying in the house with this new person who cried and pooped and ate all the time made me roll my eyes constantly and weep in to piles of tissue. I needed out and she was going to go with me.

image

I started walking with her every day in the Bjorn. I was determined she’d figure out this whole “day time is for wakey and night time is for sleepy” thing.  Also, I needed to walk off the sixty pounds I gained during pregnancy and figured hauling her around was a sure way to do it. 

LB's first outing!

We visited the Jelly Bellies, we went to the park, we went to playgroup. We never stayed home for an entire day without going somewhere, even if it was just a ride to Starbucks so she could flirt with the Baristas. I prided myself on this child that could go most places, enjoyed being out and craved people as much as I did. I thought it was fantastic.

Oh, my three foot knight in shiny armor

Permalink

We purchased a garbage can today.  [I’m sorry, did you just roll your eyes and mutter, “that is not blog worthy”? You are *obviously* not aware what this garbage can means to me. Or what it took to get it. Or why we went two and a half months without one at all.]

It’s all because of the mister. [And love squabbles are always blog worthy. :: eye roll :: ]*

First there was the $4.99 garbage can I picked up at Target the week we moved in. We chose not to bring up our old garbage can since it was broken and had several tears in the plastic that didn’t seem strong enough to make the 250 mile uhaul trip. Plus? It’s a farking GARBAGE CAN. FYI. At any rate, I chose the most reasonable and cheap garbage can that struck me. Hey! It costs just a little more than a latte! Go me.

Mr. Flinger poopooed it almost immediately. “It doesn’t have a lid. We need one with a lid. Plus it’s too small.”  “It fits under the sink where National Garbage Can Law says it must go.” “It’s too small. I don’t like it. Let's (you) take it back and find one together.” MmmmK. Didn’t know the man wanted a say in the garbage receptacle.

Three weeks later we head to Bed Bath and Beyond specifically to find a garbage can. We spend, no kidding, three hours in the store. We debate size. Color. Peddle Popup? Or lid you lift? What about this $109 chrome dilly that you wave your hand in front of and the lid pops open for you? LB pooped twice while at the store and I had to take a seat when I started getting gaggy. Finally we settled on a black, medium size, plastic garbage can with a lid. “Think it will fit under the sink?” he asks. “Sure. Whatever. I need to eat again.”