Well, bed rest could only have taken this blog in one of two directions, and to my surprise, the direction has been less posting instead of more.
It turns out, lying around being generally useless makes me fuzzy (figuratively, not literally. Rest assured, I am still managing to shave my legs, albeit with growing difficulty; it has to do with belly protrusion and optimal razor angling...it's all very complicated).
I'm growing duller by the day. I blame it on the endless marathons of Keeping Up With The Kardashians and lack of sleep from all the nightly baby punching (No, I'm not punching them. They're punching me. But don't think I haven't considered it 3 hours into their mixed martial arts sessions).
I honestly don't think I have an original, witty, or clever thought left in my head. If it doesn't have to do with onesies, labor, or Khloe and Lamar, it probably doesn't cross my mind these days. I kind of hate myself. I hate what I've become, and I hate what I've resorted to for entertainment. But this too shall pass, and I'll soon be entering a new phase in life, where I can stop hating myself and start hating normal things, like the price of diapers. And anyone who has the ability to just up and go out without securing a babysitter and checking their clothes for vomit stains.
The worst part about it is watching Brian bust his ass all day at work...only to come home and continue to bust his ass doing ALL the chores, preparing for the babies, and taking care of this grouchy, overheated, short-tempered beeyatch. I've always prided myself in my ability to pull my own weight and then some. But now, not only am I not pulling my own weight...I'm getting heavier by the day. Literally and figuratively, folks.
I went to my OB today and I had not progressed, cervically speaking. This should have made me so happy. It means the kids are safe and doing well and will be in the best environment for the as long as possible. But honestly, all I could think about is another month of bed rest, and what that meant for me. Being a parent is supposed to mean you automatically sacrifice everything for your children, without complaint. So why am I secretly wishing that they'd come, like, now, so I can fix a meal or get more milk without having to burden anyone? Does this mean I'm a bad parent? Am I destined to be selfish, to struggle with putting their needs before my own?
I dunno.
Probably best not to dwell on it. I'm sure at some point my mothering instinct will kick in. (right? RIGHT?!?)
But in the meantime, I just have to keep reminding myself that a few weeks (or months) of bed rest is a small price to pay for the two miracle babies that I'll get to meet soon enough.
Still...
The days are long.
And boring.
And I have all the time in the world to think about all the things that I'm missing out on. My favorite season and holiday are gearing up, and all I can do is stare out the window and watch the leaves start to change.
But there will be plenty more falls to come. More Halloweens to enjoy. More days to ride horses and hike and stack firewood and drink apple cider.
And those days will be all the more sweeter because I'll be sharing them with my children.
My children.
When you put it that way, what's a few weeks of bed rest?
Friday, September 30, 2011
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Obsessed
I'm sure it would surprise none of you to hear that bedrest tends to cramp one's style (unless one's style typically involves bedsores and crappy daytime TV).
Being that my world has been reduced to everything that spans the distance between the bedroom and the livingroom and my daily activities have been reduced to eating, sleeping, working, and staring at various TV and computer screens, I'm also sure that you wouldn't be surprised to find that I'm tending to obsess on things that generally wouldn't hold my interest or care for more than like .02 seconds in my pre-bedrest life, when I had the luxury of being a contributing member to our society. But now that I'm less useful than a two-legged table (and about as unstable, emotionally speaking)...well, things are different.
So allow me to present to you the Things I'm Embarrassed To Admit That I Spend Way Too Much Time Thinking About (version twin.0)
1. Stupid people who have managed to become parents
Watching stupid people do stupid things is a great pick-me-up, second only to cake. Or freebasing. After all, why do you think reality TV has become so popular? So naturally, I'm obsessed with watching any reality TV that shows stupid people being stupid parents. Because I figure hell, no matter how badly I may f*ck up my kids, at least I'll never hit my baby daddy, causing him to call the police, which lands me a jail cell and provides me with months of Child Protective Services house calls. In other words, Thank you, Amber from MTV's Teen Mom, for making my life choices seem so spectacularly awesome by comparison. I also owe a big, heart-felt "thank you" to about two-thirds of the stupid moms on TLC's A Baby Story for planning on natural childbirth/trying to raise your infant son on a vegan diet/crying because your child's life-saving c-section wasn't on your "birth plan"/insisting that you absolutely cannot give birth without your 23 "support people" (including your brother's wife's cousin's niece's friend's orthodontist). I may not have cribs yet, but I'll always have my common sense, which is more than I can say for some of these nitwits who have subjected themselves to TV cameras for my personal judgement. God bless America.
2. Shaving my legs
Honestly, I don't know why I insist on shaving my legs. I don't wear shorts, and any sort of bedroom action has long ago been prohibited. But for some reason, I find it a source of pride to say, Yes, I may be confined to my bed and the couch, and yes, I may be nearly 8 months pregnant, but my legs are now and will continue to be smoother than the bottoms of my unborn children. It's like I'm clinging to the last shred female sexuality and desirability that I have. Because LORD KNOWS there is nothing else that is sexy or desirable about me (unless double chins and saggy butts happen to be your thing. Ooh baby).
3. My dad's sweet rolls.
They're in the fridge right now, and they're calling my name. And sure, I tend to obsess about all things baked and delicious (and this fact is 100% unrelated to my pregnant state), but allow me to remind you that my dad has some serious Pennsylvania Dutch roots going on up in hear. And everyone knows that if there's one thing the Amish excel at, it's baking. Okay, and creating sturdy wooden things. And growing oddly-shaped beards. But mostly baking. I think it's actually one of their commandments: Thou Shall Not Create Mediocre Cakes, Pies and Pastries. Seriously, one time my dad made a cake that was a little doughy in the middle, and I caught him flogging himself in the back yard later that night as penance.
It's just not okay.
So if my dad bakes something, you can be assured that it'll probably be better than anything you've ever tasted. Like his sweet rolls. Which are in the fridge right now. mmmmmmm....Mennonite-derived baked goodness.
4. Facebook.
I've always been a bit of a Facebook troll. I love knowing intimate details about my friends' lives without having to call them (because I ABHOR talking on the phone). I guess it appeals to my slightly anti-social nature. Or my penchant for voyeurism. But now that I'm confined to my house, Facebook has seriously become my lifeline to the rest of the world. Bring on the pictures, quotes, comments, and messages. "Like" my status updates. Post a funny video of a cat falling out of a window for my amusement. I love it all. It's the virtual equivalent of me rolling around in a pile of puppies. Trust me, you've never had a more rapt Facebook audience than this girl, so if you have something to say, SAY IT. I'll hear you. And comment on it. And repost it. And then check back in 10 minutes to see if YOU commented on my comment.
I know...I'm pathetic.
OOH, maybe I'll write about how pathetic I am on my next status update!!
5. My cervix
Again, pregnancy is a STRANGE, TWISTED thing. I mean, when else in your life (since the age of 4) are you as obsessed with your girly parts? Now that I know I'm at least a centimeter dilated, I'm constantly worried that my cervix is gonna peace out all together. No joke - I sneezed yesterday and then froze like a deer in the headlights, waiting to see if my "innards" felt any different. Every Braxton Hicks contraction scares the snot out of me, and I find myself counting down the days to my next internal exam, hoping and praying that there's been no progression.
Dear Cervix
SIT! STAY! If you're good, I'll buy you a pony.
Love,
The Terrified Mom-To-Be.
I'd love to say there's more that I'm thinking about...but there's not. Facebook...sweet rolls...impending cervical demise....that pretty much sums up my world right now.
I'm not complaining. I know that all too soon my world will revolve around feeding, burping, changing, and finding time for a quick nervous breakdown. But until then, my mind is less on diapers and more on judging people, eating, and having fabulously smooth legs.
Someday, this will all seem luxurious, I'm sure.
Being that my world has been reduced to everything that spans the distance between the bedroom and the livingroom and my daily activities have been reduced to eating, sleeping, working, and staring at various TV and computer screens, I'm also sure that you wouldn't be surprised to find that I'm tending to obsess on things that generally wouldn't hold my interest or care for more than like .02 seconds in my pre-bedrest life, when I had the luxury of being a contributing member to our society. But now that I'm less useful than a two-legged table (and about as unstable, emotionally speaking)...well, things are different.
So allow me to present to you the Things I'm Embarrassed To Admit That I Spend Way Too Much Time Thinking About (version twin.0)
1. Stupid people who have managed to become parents
Watching stupid people do stupid things is a great pick-me-up, second only to cake. Or freebasing. After all, why do you think reality TV has become so popular? So naturally, I'm obsessed with watching any reality TV that shows stupid people being stupid parents. Because I figure hell, no matter how badly I may f*ck up my kids, at least I'll never hit my baby daddy, causing him to call the police, which lands me a jail cell and provides me with months of Child Protective Services house calls. In other words, Thank you, Amber from MTV's Teen Mom, for making my life choices seem so spectacularly awesome by comparison. I also owe a big, heart-felt "thank you" to about two-thirds of the stupid moms on TLC's A Baby Story for planning on natural childbirth/trying to raise your infant son on a vegan diet/crying because your child's life-saving c-section wasn't on your "birth plan"/insisting that you absolutely cannot give birth without your 23 "support people" (including your brother's wife's cousin's niece's friend's orthodontist). I may not have cribs yet, but I'll always have my common sense, which is more than I can say for some of these nitwits who have subjected themselves to TV cameras for my personal judgement. God bless America.
2. Shaving my legs
Honestly, I don't know why I insist on shaving my legs. I don't wear shorts, and any sort of bedroom action has long ago been prohibited. But for some reason, I find it a source of pride to say, Yes, I may be confined to my bed and the couch, and yes, I may be nearly 8 months pregnant, but my legs are now and will continue to be smoother than the bottoms of my unborn children. It's like I'm clinging to the last shred female sexuality and desirability that I have. Because LORD KNOWS there is nothing else that is sexy or desirable about me (unless double chins and saggy butts happen to be your thing. Ooh baby).
3. My dad's sweet rolls.
They're in the fridge right now, and they're calling my name. And sure, I tend to obsess about all things baked and delicious (and this fact is 100% unrelated to my pregnant state), but allow me to remind you that my dad has some serious Pennsylvania Dutch roots going on up in hear. And everyone knows that if there's one thing the Amish excel at, it's baking. Okay, and creating sturdy wooden things. And growing oddly-shaped beards. But mostly baking. I think it's actually one of their commandments: Thou Shall Not Create Mediocre Cakes, Pies and Pastries. Seriously, one time my dad made a cake that was a little doughy in the middle, and I caught him flogging himself in the back yard later that night as penance.
It's just not okay.
So if my dad bakes something, you can be assured that it'll probably be better than anything you've ever tasted. Like his sweet rolls. Which are in the fridge right now. mmmmmmm....Mennonite-derived baked goodness.
4. Facebook.
I've always been a bit of a Facebook troll. I love knowing intimate details about my friends' lives without having to call them (because I ABHOR talking on the phone). I guess it appeals to my slightly anti-social nature. Or my penchant for voyeurism. But now that I'm confined to my house, Facebook has seriously become my lifeline to the rest of the world. Bring on the pictures, quotes, comments, and messages. "Like" my status updates. Post a funny video of a cat falling out of a window for my amusement. I love it all. It's the virtual equivalent of me rolling around in a pile of puppies. Trust me, you've never had a more rapt Facebook audience than this girl, so if you have something to say, SAY IT. I'll hear you. And comment on it. And repost it. And then check back in 10 minutes to see if YOU commented on my comment.
I know...I'm pathetic.
OOH, maybe I'll write about how pathetic I am on my next status update!!
5. My cervix
Again, pregnancy is a STRANGE, TWISTED thing. I mean, when else in your life (since the age of 4) are you as obsessed with your girly parts? Now that I know I'm at least a centimeter dilated, I'm constantly worried that my cervix is gonna peace out all together. No joke - I sneezed yesterday and then froze like a deer in the headlights, waiting to see if my "innards" felt any different. Every Braxton Hicks contraction scares the snot out of me, and I find myself counting down the days to my next internal exam, hoping and praying that there's been no progression.
Dear Cervix
SIT! STAY! If you're good, I'll buy you a pony.
Love,
The Terrified Mom-To-Be.
I'd love to say there's more that I'm thinking about...but there's not. Facebook...sweet rolls...impending cervical demise....that pretty much sums up my world right now.
I'm not complaining. I know that all too soon my world will revolve around feeding, burping, changing, and finding time for a quick nervous breakdown. But until then, my mind is less on diapers and more on judging people, eating, and having fabulously smooth legs.
Someday, this will all seem luxurious, I'm sure.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Shower-Less. In Every Sense Of The Word.
As if I needed another reason to lament my current state of bedrest.
I spoke with my OB today, and while we're all quite thrilled that my participation in all things sedentary has delayed any further cervical dilation and greatly reduced the number of Braxston Hicks contractions I experience in a day (well, that and the 12 gallons of water force down my gullet), she says that there's absolutely no way that I can participate in a "surprise" baby shower next weekend.
Yanno...if somebody were planning on throwing me a "surprise" shower next weekend.
I pleaded my case of essentially being carted to the facility and laid out on some sort of reclining apparatus like a modern-day Cleopatra, but she insisted that all the "excitement" and "crying" and "opening presents" would be counter-productive to our goal of keeping the babies all in utero 'n shit.
This woman obviously doesn't know me well enough to know that I don't exactly fall to pieces during traditional female rituals. My general motto when dealing with some sort of estrogen-soaked shower is, "the cake had better be good." Of course, with the hormones a-ragin' it's quite possible that the sight of adorable matching onesies might actually get me worked enough to go into pre-term labor.
So it's probably for the best.
But still, a missed opportunity for cake is a missed opportunity for cake.
Sad face.
So the wait continues.
Day 4 of bedrest has left me cranky and frustrated. The novelty of lying around has absolutely worn off, and I'm not yet accustomed to sitting around all day. It doesn't help that I've been waking up earlier and earlier every day (I was up and on the couch by 4:15 this morning), which makes the day that much longer and harder to bear.
But it could always be worse, no?
The babies are healthy.
I'm healthy.
I'm at home, and not in a hospital, still able to work and surrounded by people who care about me.
So what if showering is greatly frowned upon?
So what if the most exciting part of my day is when I find a Ghost Hunters marathon on TV?
So what if my dog partially released his anal glands on the couch and I spent the rest of the day forced to sit in close proximity to some sort of horrendous-smelling ass-nastyness until my husband came home and rescued me by washing the couch covers?
It's all good.
I'm sure when I look back on all of this, it'll be a brief little blip on my path to motherhood.
But in the meantime...my OB estimates that I have about 4 more weeks of this nonsense until the twins bust outta this joint. And I'll tell ya...4 weeks has never felt so long and so short at the same time. I'm completely unprepared for the twins, yet unable to do anything other than sit around for hours on end and think about how completely unprepared I am.
Like, I'll be browsing facebook, and I'm suddenly like, Oh my god, I don't even have SOCKS for these kids!! What kind of terrible mother doesn't even have SOCKS for her CHILDREN?!?!?
And then I panic and add "buy foot coverings for your kids, you negligent asshole" to the growing list of stuff that needs to get done in the next 4 weeks.
Right in between "make sure stroller fits in trunk (or buy a new car)" and "investigate stages of labor and delivery" (because I have absolutely no clue what to expect in that department, which is probably both a blessing and a curse at this point).
It's a little insane.
Okay, alotta insane.
But I'm sure mothers less prepared than me have successfully birthed and raised children.
Right?
Right?!?
Okay, enough with this.
I'm working myself into a frenzy over baby socks, which is a clear indication that I need a little Tastykake therapy.
And maybe a shower, to remind myself that I'm still human.
The dog's ass, however, is still a problem.
Any volunteers to sort out his anal glands?
I'll buy you some socks...
I spoke with my OB today, and while we're all quite thrilled that my participation in all things sedentary has delayed any further cervical dilation and greatly reduced the number of Braxston Hicks contractions I experience in a day (well, that and the 12 gallons of water force down my gullet), she says that there's absolutely no way that I can participate in a "surprise" baby shower next weekend.
Yanno...if somebody were planning on throwing me a "surprise" shower next weekend.
I pleaded my case of essentially being carted to the facility and laid out on some sort of reclining apparatus like a modern-day Cleopatra, but she insisted that all the "excitement" and "crying" and "opening presents" would be counter-productive to our goal of keeping the babies all in utero 'n shit.
This woman obviously doesn't know me well enough to know that I don't exactly fall to pieces during traditional female rituals. My general motto when dealing with some sort of estrogen-soaked shower is, "the cake had better be good." Of course, with the hormones a-ragin' it's quite possible that the sight of adorable matching onesies might actually get me worked enough to go into pre-term labor.
So it's probably for the best.
But still, a missed opportunity for cake is a missed opportunity for cake.
Sad face.
So the wait continues.
Day 4 of bedrest has left me cranky and frustrated. The novelty of lying around has absolutely worn off, and I'm not yet accustomed to sitting around all day. It doesn't help that I've been waking up earlier and earlier every day (I was up and on the couch by 4:15 this morning), which makes the day that much longer and harder to bear.
But it could always be worse, no?
The babies are healthy.
I'm healthy.
I'm at home, and not in a hospital, still able to work and surrounded by people who care about me.
So what if showering is greatly frowned upon?
So what if the most exciting part of my day is when I find a Ghost Hunters marathon on TV?
So what if my dog partially released his anal glands on the couch and I spent the rest of the day forced to sit in close proximity to some sort of horrendous-smelling ass-nastyness until my husband came home and rescued me by washing the couch covers?
It's all good.
I'm sure when I look back on all of this, it'll be a brief little blip on my path to motherhood.
But in the meantime...my OB estimates that I have about 4 more weeks of this nonsense until the twins bust outta this joint. And I'll tell ya...4 weeks has never felt so long and so short at the same time. I'm completely unprepared for the twins, yet unable to do anything other than sit around for hours on end and think about how completely unprepared I am.
Like, I'll be browsing facebook, and I'm suddenly like, Oh my god, I don't even have SOCKS for these kids!! What kind of terrible mother doesn't even have SOCKS for her CHILDREN?!?!?
And then I panic and add "buy foot coverings for your kids, you negligent asshole" to the growing list of stuff that needs to get done in the next 4 weeks.
Right in between "make sure stroller fits in trunk (or buy a new car)" and "investigate stages of labor and delivery" (because I have absolutely no clue what to expect in that department, which is probably both a blessing and a curse at this point).
It's a little insane.
Okay, alotta insane.
But I'm sure mothers less prepared than me have successfully birthed and raised children.
Right?
Right?!?
Okay, enough with this.
I'm working myself into a frenzy over baby socks, which is a clear indication that I need a little Tastykake therapy.
And maybe a shower, to remind myself that I'm still human.
The dog's ass, however, is still a problem.
Any volunteers to sort out his anal glands?
I'll buy you some socks...
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Cervical Overachiever
So, I'm on bedrest from here on out.
Apparently the trouble-making twin on the left is about as low as he could possibly be without actually taking up shop in my vajayjay, and I'm a centimeter dilated.
Which is interesting, because my cousin is also pregnant (a few weeks ahead of me) and also a centimeter dilated. As she put it, cervial overachievement must run in the family.
(BTW, isn't it wild that I'm allowed to talk about the status of my and my cousin's cervix on a public blog? Pregnancy is so weird)
Apparently, I'm supposed to be happy about this situation.
People keep saying, "enjoy it while you can, because once the babies come you'll WISH you were able to just lie around all day"
...which irritates me to no end, because 1) I'm fully aware that raising twin infants will keep me on my toes, Kthanxbye, and Sandwich) telling me that I'm supposed to enjoy bedrest because I'll eventually be frazzled and sleep deprived is like telling someone that they're supposed to enjoy water boarding because the next step is to toss them out in the desert to die. For the record, neither bedrest nor raising twin infants is supposed to be fun. Just because they're totally opposite forms of torture doesn't mean that one is any more enjoyable than the other.
And yes...bedrest is torture. This is coming from quite possibly the laziest woman in the tri-state area. Sure, it seems all glamorous to be ordered to lay around as much as possible...until you realize you're completely dependent on your overworked, under-appreciated spouse for everything, and any time you need a drink of water or your cell phone charged you have to ask him to stop doing ALL of the work around the house to further cater to you and your ridiculous needs.
It's like, "hey, babe, I know you're busy doing the dishes and all the laundry and cooking dinner and getting the nursery ready (because I procrastinated for the last 7 months), but could you stop everything and hand me the TV remote that's lying RIGHT THERE just beyond my reach? Thanks...you're a peach."
So you see...total suckage.
(at least, for anyone who loves and respects their domestic partner. If you hate them and want to see them suffer? Bedrest might just be right up your alley. Here's hoping that my ex-husband is married to someone on bedrest right now. Although the thought of him procreating scares the BAJESUS out of me. So maybe not.)
The only ones benefiting from my bed-ridden state are the pets. And I'll tell you, they are making out like bandits. As we speak, I have 3 domesticated animals lying on the couch in a glorious state of accompanied bliss. My lap is never empty, and the house is never quiet for all the contented snoring and farting that generally comes along with lazy, napping dogs.
So for the next few weeks, I'll either be blogging every day (from sheer boredom) or not at all (because absolutely nothing is happening). Only time will tell.
I the meantime, if anyone feels like taking a drive out to my house to keep me company...well...needless to say, I'll be here.
Me, a few in utero kids, a couple of lazy, good-for-nothing pets, and a husband on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
Apparently the trouble-making twin on the left is about as low as he could possibly be without actually taking up shop in my vajayjay, and I'm a centimeter dilated.
Which is interesting, because my cousin is also pregnant (a few weeks ahead of me) and also a centimeter dilated. As she put it, cervial overachievement must run in the family.
(BTW, isn't it wild that I'm allowed to talk about the status of my and my cousin's cervix on a public blog? Pregnancy is so weird)
Apparently, I'm supposed to be happy about this situation.
People keep saying, "enjoy it while you can, because once the babies come you'll WISH you were able to just lie around all day"
...which irritates me to no end, because 1) I'm fully aware that raising twin infants will keep me on my toes, Kthanxbye, and Sandwich) telling me that I'm supposed to enjoy bedrest because I'll eventually be frazzled and sleep deprived is like telling someone that they're supposed to enjoy water boarding because the next step is to toss them out in the desert to die. For the record, neither bedrest nor raising twin infants is supposed to be fun. Just because they're totally opposite forms of torture doesn't mean that one is any more enjoyable than the other.
And yes...bedrest is torture. This is coming from quite possibly the laziest woman in the tri-state area. Sure, it seems all glamorous to be ordered to lay around as much as possible...until you realize you're completely dependent on your overworked, under-appreciated spouse for everything, and any time you need a drink of water or your cell phone charged you have to ask him to stop doing ALL of the work around the house to further cater to you and your ridiculous needs.
It's like, "hey, babe, I know you're busy doing the dishes and all the laundry and cooking dinner and getting the nursery ready (because I procrastinated for the last 7 months), but could you stop everything and hand me the TV remote that's lying RIGHT THERE just beyond my reach? Thanks...you're a peach."
So you see...total suckage.
(at least, for anyone who loves and respects their domestic partner. If you hate them and want to see them suffer? Bedrest might just be right up your alley. Here's hoping that my ex-husband is married to someone on bedrest right now. Although the thought of him procreating scares the BAJESUS out of me. So maybe not.)
The only ones benefiting from my bed-ridden state are the pets. And I'll tell you, they are making out like bandits. As we speak, I have 3 domesticated animals lying on the couch in a glorious state of accompanied bliss. My lap is never empty, and the house is never quiet for all the contented snoring and farting that generally comes along with lazy, napping dogs.
Exhibit A: Milo spooning the couch cushion
(I had to call his name 6 times before he picked his head up. Life is tough when you're a dog):
(I had to call his name 6 times before he picked his head up. Life is tough when you're a dog):
So for the next few weeks, I'll either be blogging every day (from sheer boredom) or not at all (because absolutely nothing is happening). Only time will tell.
I the meantime, if anyone feels like taking a drive out to my house to keep me company...well...needless to say, I'll be here.
Me, a few in utero kids, a couple of lazy, good-for-nothing pets, and a husband on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
Monday, September 12, 2011
My Inappropriate Nursery
Well, it took me 2 months, $100 in painting supplies, the majority of my sanity, and hours of back-breaking, feet-swelling, oxygen-denying labor, but I finished painting the boys' nursery this weekend.
I had thought long and hard about what kind of theme would best represents my unborn fetuses. Naturally, firefighters and horses were on the top of the list. Brian even suggested some sort of montage involving unicorns putting out fires, but as much as I'd love to paint my nursery in a tribute to some sort of 80's hair-band ridiculousness, it just didn't sit well.
Because I'll be damned if I'll raise a bunch of sissy, unicorn-loving pyromaniacs.
In the end, I went with monsters.
But not just any monsters...
The monsters from Where the Wild Things Are, which might possibly be my favorite all-time childrens' book.
I figure, why paint the nursery with some sort of cute, fru-fru infant design just so I have to paint over it by the time they turn 3? Why not paint something that will transition well from infancy and toddler-hood to childhood?
Plus, as a writer, I totally dig the idea of surrounding them with literature-inspired greatness from the get-go.
Because I will beat writing appreciation into them whether they like it or not.
So yeah.
I painted the nursery with monsters.
But in my defense, they're mostly friendly looking.
Take a look:
Okay, so that rooster-thing is a little scary looking.
And the yellow half-man half-bird thing kind of looks like a cross between a pedophile and a hippie.
But the overall look is generally benign, in my opinion.
What these pictures don't show, however, is the ridiculous amount of non-nursery designated furniture and miscellaneous crap that still lives in that room.
Blame my brother-in-law, who returned from Afghanistan in April, told us to hold on to the bedroom set and all of his stuff (which we've been storing for the past year), promptly moved to South Carolina, and HAS YET to pick any of it up.
And before you get all support the troops on me, allow me to argue that he was in Afghanistan on contract work making obscene amounts of money, so the use of our house as a storage unit is in no way justified by any "sacrifice" he made living in a secure air force base and making crazy bank.
Dear brother-in-law
We're SO, SO glad you're home safe and sound. But allow me to remind you that the birth of one or more children is generally not a flexible deadline that we can push back for your convenience. So if you don't come and get this furniture and all of your other crap OUT OF MY NURSERY I will start a shit-storm that will make Afghanistan look like a Palm Springs Resort. Do you hear me?!? I will take you down to China Town, family or not.
Love,
Your extremely pregnant and impatient sister-in-law
So the furniture has been a bit of an issue. Last I heard, he was coming to pick it up the first weekend in October. Unfortunately for Brian, I made it clear that I would tolerate the furniture for as long as I was painting, but if it was still there when I was finished, I was going to drop the hammer.
And as of last night, the nursery is done.
In other words, it's on like Donkey-Kong
So the nursery is painted.
It's a huge check off of my "To Do" list, which is great, because climbing a step ladder at almost 7.5 months pregnant was getting to be a little like playing a game Russian Roulette with gravity. But it also sucks, because the "To Do" list is 99.9% comprised of things I'm unable to do (and am therefore dependent on Brian to get done), and .1% pregnancy-friendly activities.
Like washing baby clothes (when I get around to buying them).
And feeling superior to the idiots on MTV's Teen Mom. (yes, "feel superior to Teen Mom cast" is actually on my To Do list, right in between "nap" and "second lunch")
So with the nursery finished, I'm kind of out of things to do, other than judge people on reality TV shows.
It's not the worst situation to be in, but it's certainly the most boring.
So now I'm left trying to fill the time between now and the inevitable delivery of the twins. I suppose repeat threatening phone calls to my brother-in-law could be fun, but what am I supposed to do with the other 20 hours of my day??
Well, yanno, other than work, which is truly overrated and I'm pretty sure gives me agita.
Any suggestions?
I had thought long and hard about what kind of theme would best represents my unborn fetuses. Naturally, firefighters and horses were on the top of the list. Brian even suggested some sort of montage involving unicorns putting out fires, but as much as I'd love to paint my nursery in a tribute to some sort of 80's hair-band ridiculousness, it just didn't sit well.
Because I'll be damned if I'll raise a bunch of sissy, unicorn-loving pyromaniacs.
In the end, I went with monsters.
But not just any monsters...
The monsters from Where the Wild Things Are, which might possibly be my favorite all-time childrens' book.
I figure, why paint the nursery with some sort of cute, fru-fru infant design just so I have to paint over it by the time they turn 3? Why not paint something that will transition well from infancy and toddler-hood to childhood?
Plus, as a writer, I totally dig the idea of surrounding them with literature-inspired greatness from the get-go.
Because I will beat writing appreciation into them whether they like it or not.
So yeah.
I painted the nursery with monsters.
But in my defense, they're mostly friendly looking.
Take a look:
Okay, so that rooster-thing is a little scary looking.
And the yellow half-man half-bird thing kind of looks like a cross between a pedophile and a hippie.
But the overall look is generally benign, in my opinion.
What these pictures don't show, however, is the ridiculous amount of non-nursery designated furniture and miscellaneous crap that still lives in that room.
Blame my brother-in-law, who returned from Afghanistan in April, told us to hold on to the bedroom set and all of his stuff (which we've been storing for the past year), promptly moved to South Carolina, and HAS YET to pick any of it up.
And before you get all support the troops on me, allow me to argue that he was in Afghanistan on contract work making obscene amounts of money, so the use of our house as a storage unit is in no way justified by any "sacrifice" he made living in a secure air force base and making crazy bank.
Dear brother-in-law
We're SO, SO glad you're home safe and sound. But allow me to remind you that the birth of one or more children is generally not a flexible deadline that we can push back for your convenience. So if you don't come and get this furniture and all of your other crap OUT OF MY NURSERY I will start a shit-storm that will make Afghanistan look like a Palm Springs Resort. Do you hear me?!? I will take you down to China Town, family or not.
Love,
Your extremely pregnant and impatient sister-in-law
So the furniture has been a bit of an issue. Last I heard, he was coming to pick it up the first weekend in October. Unfortunately for Brian, I made it clear that I would tolerate the furniture for as long as I was painting, but if it was still there when I was finished, I was going to drop the hammer.
And as of last night, the nursery is done.
In other words, it's on like Donkey-Kong
So the nursery is painted.
It's a huge check off of my "To Do" list, which is great, because climbing a step ladder at almost 7.5 months pregnant was getting to be a little like playing a game Russian Roulette with gravity. But it also sucks, because the "To Do" list is 99.9% comprised of things I'm unable to do (and am therefore dependent on Brian to get done), and .1% pregnancy-friendly activities.
Like washing baby clothes (when I get around to buying them).
And feeling superior to the idiots on MTV's Teen Mom. (yes, "feel superior to Teen Mom cast" is actually on my To Do list, right in between "nap" and "second lunch")
So with the nursery finished, I'm kind of out of things to do, other than judge people on reality TV shows.
It's not the worst situation to be in, but it's certainly the most boring.
So now I'm left trying to fill the time between now and the inevitable delivery of the twins. I suppose repeat threatening phone calls to my brother-in-law could be fun, but what am I supposed to do with the other 20 hours of my day??
Well, yanno, other than work, which is truly overrated and I'm pretty sure gives me agita.
Any suggestions?
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
My Boobs Are Leaking. I've Just Reached A New Level Of Sexiness
Today, I hit 30 weeks. Meaning that the meatloaves will be here most likely within the next 2 months.
And no joke, guys...I honestly think that it just sunk in that Brian and I are going to be parents. He, the man who created gastronomic hand grenades while brewing his home-made root beer and me, the woman who drops the F bomb more times in a day than Samuel L. Jackson.
WE...are going to be responsible for raising twins.
(Did it get cold in here or is it just me?)
(Okay, I'm lying. I'm never cold. I've been in pit-stain, swamp-ass hell since June)
30 weeks also settles me firmly in the third trimester.
Because in an age where we can use satellite transmissions to communicate across the globe in like 3 nanoseconds, we're still debating the point at which you're officially two thirds of the way through your pregnancy. This may no be a point of contention to you, but to us pregnant women? defining the trimesters has the importance of discovering penicillin.
We preggos are a strange, sweaty, impatient people.
But the trimesters of pregnancy undoubtedly require defining. Because each trimester is associated with its own obstacles and challenges. For example, in the first trimester, you spend the majority of your day insisting to friends , coworkers, and strangers that you're not hung-over. Because why else would you drag yourself in to work, hair askew, shirt untucked, green to the gills, racing to the bathroom every hour to deposit your breakfast burrito (and everything else you ate since you were 5) in the porcelain bank? The first trimester looks more like a late night out with Southern Comfort than the budding stages of procreation.
And then there's the second trimester, where you spend the majority of your day insisting to friends, coworkers, and strangers that you're not fat. Granted, some women appear pregnant by the 13th week. But for many (myself included), the second-trimester baby bump looks like nothing more than a beer gut. People who should be opening doors for you and surrendering their seats are simply staring at your stomach and judging you for your apparent overindulgence in all things yeast-fermented.
And then the third trimester hits. You're obviously not hung-over, and you're obviously not just fat. You're more like a cuddly, waddling circus freak. Everywhere you go, people stare at you. And inside, you're counting down the weekends you have left until the baby (or babies) come, and spending the majority of the day insisting to yourself that you're ready for parenthood, all the while you're scared shitless because you just realized for the first time that you're about to be responsible for one or more human lives, and they didn't even make you pass a test or anything.
Meanwhile, (and there's no way to say this delicately)....you're fat. You're a whale. You're a walking Mac truck. Your balance fails you and joints stop working, so you constantly trip and smash into things and drop things on the floor. You're emotionally unstable, so your reactions to being so huge and klutzy are far from mature. (for example, when I dropped my toast on the ground last night. First I cried because it was on the floor and just so far away. Then I cried because the dog wandered over and ate it. Then I cried because I was crying over a piece of toast. It wasn't pretty.) Your body is rebelling and doing weird, alien things, like farting without warning, and causing your boobs to leak. You get Sideshow Bob feet and are forced to relinquish your wedding rings because your swelling digits are no longer the slim size 7 band that they were when your husband actually wanted to marry you and, like, spend time with you. And because of all of this, you've never felt less sexy or desirable...or even human.
Which causes you to cry.
Again.
But despite all of this, I'm glad to be pregnant. Not only because it took so much damn time and effort to get here, but also because the next time I won't be pregnant, I'll also be a sleep-deprived, vomit covered mess. I may be a sloshing sack of retained fluid now, but at least I'm a well-rested sack of retained fluid. As someone who never did well on too little sleep, I'd gladly take all the symptoms of pregnancy and then some before I'd accept less than 7 hours of sleep per night.
And by 7 hours, I actually mean 10 hours.
I take the resting part of pregnancy very, very seriously.
So I have a maximum of 10 weeks where I'm free to burp, leak, and cry to my heart's content.
After that point, it'll be the boys' turn to burp leak and cry to their heart's content.
I guess that's kind of fitting, isn't it?
At any rate, the countdown is on.
In about 2 months, I'll be a mom.
God help those kids.
God help us all.
And no joke, guys...I honestly think that it just sunk in that Brian and I are going to be parents. He, the man who created gastronomic hand grenades while brewing his home-made root beer and me, the woman who drops the F bomb more times in a day than Samuel L. Jackson.
WE...are going to be responsible for raising twins.
(Did it get cold in here or is it just me?)
(Okay, I'm lying. I'm never cold. I've been in pit-stain, swamp-ass hell since June)
30 weeks also settles me firmly in the third trimester.
Because in an age where we can use satellite transmissions to communicate across the globe in like 3 nanoseconds, we're still debating the point at which you're officially two thirds of the way through your pregnancy. This may no be a point of contention to you, but to us pregnant women? defining the trimesters has the importance of discovering penicillin.
We preggos are a strange, sweaty, impatient people.
But the trimesters of pregnancy undoubtedly require defining. Because each trimester is associated with its own obstacles and challenges. For example, in the first trimester, you spend the majority of your day insisting to friends , coworkers, and strangers that you're not hung-over. Because why else would you drag yourself in to work, hair askew, shirt untucked, green to the gills, racing to the bathroom every hour to deposit your breakfast burrito (and everything else you ate since you were 5) in the porcelain bank? The first trimester looks more like a late night out with Southern Comfort than the budding stages of procreation.
And then there's the second trimester, where you spend the majority of your day insisting to friends, coworkers, and strangers that you're not fat. Granted, some women appear pregnant by the 13th week. But for many (myself included), the second-trimester baby bump looks like nothing more than a beer gut. People who should be opening doors for you and surrendering their seats are simply staring at your stomach and judging you for your apparent overindulgence in all things yeast-fermented.
And then the third trimester hits. You're obviously not hung-over, and you're obviously not just fat. You're more like a cuddly, waddling circus freak. Everywhere you go, people stare at you. And inside, you're counting down the weekends you have left until the baby (or babies) come, and spending the majority of the day insisting to yourself that you're ready for parenthood, all the while you're scared shitless because you just realized for the first time that you're about to be responsible for one or more human lives, and they didn't even make you pass a test or anything.
Meanwhile, (and there's no way to say this delicately)....you're fat. You're a whale. You're a walking Mac truck. Your balance fails you and joints stop working, so you constantly trip and smash into things and drop things on the floor. You're emotionally unstable, so your reactions to being so huge and klutzy are far from mature. (for example, when I dropped my toast on the ground last night. First I cried because it was on the floor and just so far away. Then I cried because the dog wandered over and ate it. Then I cried because I was crying over a piece of toast. It wasn't pretty.) Your body is rebelling and doing weird, alien things, like farting without warning, and causing your boobs to leak. You get Sideshow Bob feet and are forced to relinquish your wedding rings because your swelling digits are no longer the slim size 7 band that they were when your husband actually wanted to marry you and, like, spend time with you. And because of all of this, you've never felt less sexy or desirable...or even human.
Which causes you to cry.
Again.
But despite all of this, I'm glad to be pregnant. Not only because it took so much damn time and effort to get here, but also because the next time I won't be pregnant, I'll also be a sleep-deprived, vomit covered mess. I may be a sloshing sack of retained fluid now, but at least I'm a well-rested sack of retained fluid. As someone who never did well on too little sleep, I'd gladly take all the symptoms of pregnancy and then some before I'd accept less than 7 hours of sleep per night.
And by 7 hours, I actually mean 10 hours.
I take the resting part of pregnancy very, very seriously.
So I have a maximum of 10 weeks where I'm free to burp, leak, and cry to my heart's content.
After that point, it'll be the boys' turn to burp leak and cry to their heart's content.
I guess that's kind of fitting, isn't it?
At any rate, the countdown is on.
In about 2 months, I'll be a mom.
God help those kids.
God help us all.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Baseball Is For Animals. And Drunks.
When somebody asks me if I enjoy baseball, I usually say yes.
Of course, if somebody actually bothered to ask my why I like baseball, they'd find that I mostly enjoy it because it's an excuse to sit outside in the fresh air and get hammered.
So when I went to the Camden Riversharks game Friday night, although the air was most certainly fresh (well, as fresh as Camden air can be. Which is not so much fresh as it is....tangy), I was most definitely not hammered, which brought the enjoyment level down about 83%.
Yes, 83%.
(Don't ask - the math is complicated)
And it's not that I don't care who wins...it's just that...well, yeah, I don't really care who wins.
Just because somebody tells me that the Camden Riversharks is "my" team and that other team is the "bad" team doesn't make it so. I mean, what if I like the colors of the other team better? What if their pitcher is really cute? More importantly, what if "my" team sucks?
I'm supposed to just go down with the ship?!? Just bend over and take it because I happen to live in so-and-so township??!?
What the fuck?!?
Never.
I will choose which team I root for, thankyouverymuch. And if I happen to choose the team after the final scores have been tallied (or after I've gotten a good look at their Matthew Mcconaughey-esk pitcher with the firm backside), then it's nobody's business than my own.
Because I am a winner, and winners stick together.
Of course, I rarely know who's winning. Usually because I'm toasted, but last night I didn't really know who was winning for pure lack of enthusiasm. To be honest, the only thing I did care about was the possibility of a tie...which would have dragged the game out longer than the 3 hours it took to crawl through 9 excruciating innings (there's 9 innings in a game, right?).
The only excitement was from the fly balls, which dropped dangerously close to me on several occasions, causing me to duck and cover and comment in horror, (if I may quote myself here), "This game is for ANIMALS. You're all ANIMALS!"
Okay, so it wasn't that bad. It was a beautiful evening, and the Riversharks venue is lovely, offering spectators a panoramic view of Philadelphia and the Benjamin Franklin bridge.
That said, what does one do when one is afforded nice weather, a pretty view (of the pitcher), and not a lot else?
One eats.
I might have been at a minor league game, but I ate like a pro.
It's kind of what I do.
And I yelled at the umpire (or whatever he's called) when everyone else did, because the only thing I do better than eating...is screaming obscenities.
It's actually quite unfortunate that I have all the skills necessary to be a great fan:
I curse.
I fume.
I eat and I judge people.
And usually, I get drunk and rowdy and stir up the crowd.
See? All the makings of an excellent, die-hard fan.
All this raw talent...completely gone to waste for lack of care.
I'm like the high-school basketball player who gets a full scholarship to an ivy-league college, but ends up refusing it and running away to NYC, because deep down, I just want to dance, man!
Or something like that.
I'm not sure where I was going with this, other than to say that baseball is only fun when you're three sheets to the wind, but at least they supply junk food at the games.
So.
Lesson learned.
Don't go to ball games unless you're planning on A) drinking your weight in beer or B) eating your weight in funnel cake and soft pretzels.
Sure, the pitcher might be cute. But there's only so long you can stare at him before a fly ball gets winged past the first-base line and knocks your teeth out.
Any questions??
Of course, if somebody actually bothered to ask my why I like baseball, they'd find that I mostly enjoy it because it's an excuse to sit outside in the fresh air and get hammered.
So when I went to the Camden Riversharks game Friday night, although the air was most certainly fresh (well, as fresh as Camden air can be. Which is not so much fresh as it is....tangy), I was most definitely not hammered, which brought the enjoyment level down about 83%.
Yes, 83%.
(Don't ask - the math is complicated)
And it's not that I don't care who wins...it's just that...well, yeah, I don't really care who wins.
Just because somebody tells me that the Camden Riversharks is "my" team and that other team is the "bad" team doesn't make it so. I mean, what if I like the colors of the other team better? What if their pitcher is really cute? More importantly, what if "my" team sucks?
I'm supposed to just go down with the ship?!? Just bend over and take it because I happen to live in so-and-so township??!?
What the fuck?!?
Never.
I will choose which team I root for, thankyouverymuch. And if I happen to choose the team after the final scores have been tallied (or after I've gotten a good look at their Matthew Mcconaughey-esk pitcher with the firm backside), then it's nobody's business than my own.
Because I am a winner, and winners stick together.
Of course, I rarely know who's winning. Usually because I'm toasted, but last night I didn't really know who was winning for pure lack of enthusiasm. To be honest, the only thing I did care about was the possibility of a tie...which would have dragged the game out longer than the 3 hours it took to crawl through 9 excruciating innings (there's 9 innings in a game, right?).
The only excitement was from the fly balls, which dropped dangerously close to me on several occasions, causing me to duck and cover and comment in horror, (if I may quote myself here), "This game is for ANIMALS. You're all ANIMALS!"
Okay, so it wasn't that bad. It was a beautiful evening, and the Riversharks venue is lovely, offering spectators a panoramic view of Philadelphia and the Benjamin Franklin bridge.
That said, what does one do when one is afforded nice weather, a pretty view (of the pitcher), and not a lot else?
One eats.
I might have been at a minor league game, but I ate like a pro.
It's kind of what I do.
And I yelled at the umpire (or whatever he's called) when everyone else did, because the only thing I do better than eating...is screaming obscenities.
It's actually quite unfortunate that I have all the skills necessary to be a great fan:
I curse.
I fume.
I eat and I judge people.
And usually, I get drunk and rowdy and stir up the crowd.
See? All the makings of an excellent, die-hard fan.
All this raw talent...completely gone to waste for lack of care.
I'm like the high-school basketball player who gets a full scholarship to an ivy-league college, but ends up refusing it and running away to NYC, because deep down, I just want to dance, man!
Or something like that.
I'm not sure where I was going with this, other than to say that baseball is only fun when you're three sheets to the wind, but at least they supply junk food at the games.
So.
Lesson learned.
Don't go to ball games unless you're planning on A) drinking your weight in beer or B) eating your weight in funnel cake and soft pretzels.
Sure, the pitcher might be cute. But there's only so long you can stare at him before a fly ball gets winged past the first-base line and knocks your teeth out.
Any questions??
Friday, September 2, 2011
Today's Post Brought To You By Oxygen Deprivation
Water boarding, Schmater boarding.
If you really want to torture someone, give them about 3/4 the oxygen that they need to survive, and then tell them they're expected to shower, shave their legs, blow-dry, AND flat-iron their hair.
THAT...my friends...is truly torture for someone who is 29-some-odd weeks pregnant with twins.
This pregnancy has caused routine exercises in basic hygiene to become a marathon event. Half-way through applying lotion to my poor nicked and cut legs (because I access them properly for shaving purposes to shave my life), I swear to god I had to douse my face with a dixie cup of water to regain consciousness.
And don't even ask me why I got so dizzy blow-drying my hair that I literally had to plop my naked butt down on the bathroom floor before I threw up and passed out. Last time I checked, hair styling wasn't an olympic event, so there should have been no need for a pit-stop. But that's what pregnancy does to you. Or, to me, at least.
Let me let you in on a little secret:
You know that "pregnancy glow" everyone talks about? It's really the sheen of sweat that precedes hypoxia
And I know I swore that I would never complain (in excess) about this pregnancy, considering it took us years and lots of physician-patient awkwardness and a couple of procedures involving sharp, pointy things in my hoo-hah to get here. But that was before I really understood what it's like to experience the non-stop, day-in, day-out, nothing-you-can-do-about-it-because-all-medications-are-off-limits symptoms of being knocked up.
I mean, for chrissake! when I asked my OB about my severe oxygen deprivation, he pretty much just said, "Yeah, that sucks." and I am not even kidding about that. The inability to breathe - like all pregnancy symptoms - is apparently something that must just be endured.
I'm like a modern-day martyr. Except instead of eternal heavenly bliss, all I get is hemorrhoids.
Now, all I can say is thank sweet, candy-coated Jesus that I'm getting twins out of the deal, because that whole "one pregnancy per kid" deal is a total scam.
Brian keeps talking about maybe trying again for a girl.
And I'm all, "sure, that sounds great. But this time, why don't YOU carry the kid in your body for 9 months, okay?"
Because - while I'd LOVE to have a little girl to dress in tu-tus and play My Little Ponies with...
...I'm just not sure I can take another slow death by asphyxia to get one.
If you really want to torture someone, give them about 3/4 the oxygen that they need to survive, and then tell them they're expected to shower, shave their legs, blow-dry, AND flat-iron their hair.
THAT...my friends...is truly torture for someone who is 29-some-odd weeks pregnant with twins.
This pregnancy has caused routine exercises in basic hygiene to become a marathon event. Half-way through applying lotion to my poor nicked and cut legs (because I access them properly for shaving purposes to shave my life), I swear to god I had to douse my face with a dixie cup of water to regain consciousness.
And don't even ask me why I got so dizzy blow-drying my hair that I literally had to plop my naked butt down on the bathroom floor before I threw up and passed out. Last time I checked, hair styling wasn't an olympic event, so there should have been no need for a pit-stop. But that's what pregnancy does to you. Or, to me, at least.
Let me let you in on a little secret:
You know that "pregnancy glow" everyone talks about? It's really the sheen of sweat that precedes hypoxia
And I know I swore that I would never complain (in excess) about this pregnancy, considering it took us years and lots of physician-patient awkwardness and a couple of procedures involving sharp, pointy things in my hoo-hah to get here. But that was before I really understood what it's like to experience the non-stop, day-in, day-out, nothing-you-can-do-about-it-because-all-medications-are-off-limits symptoms of being knocked up.
I mean, for chrissake! when I asked my OB about my severe oxygen deprivation, he pretty much just said, "Yeah, that sucks." and I am not even kidding about that. The inability to breathe - like all pregnancy symptoms - is apparently something that must just be endured.
I'm like a modern-day martyr. Except instead of eternal heavenly bliss, all I get is hemorrhoids.
Now, all I can say is thank sweet, candy-coated Jesus that I'm getting twins out of the deal, because that whole "one pregnancy per kid" deal is a total scam.
Brian keeps talking about maybe trying again for a girl.
And I'm all, "sure, that sounds great. But this time, why don't YOU carry the kid in your body for 9 months, okay?"
Because - while I'd LOVE to have a little girl to dress in tu-tus and play My Little Ponies with...
...I'm just not sure I can take another slow death by asphyxia to get one.
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