4/10/2006

Heartbeats and ultrasounds Parenting

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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

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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

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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

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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.

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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

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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.”