Real Life 101

April Showers

I have a bridal shower to go to next weekend, and a baby shower the weekend after that, and according to my latest calculations I have now wasted 7.24 bajillion hours of my life trying to find an outfit that does not make me 1) itch, 2) look like I wrapped myself in a bedspread, or 3) freeze my ass off because, perhaps the folks who run the maternity department at the Gap didn’t get the memo but, HELLO!, it’s MARCH, not July, so what the hell is up with the tank tops and Capri pants?? I mean, I guess I could understand shopping for shorts when there is still snow on the ground. I still think its crazy but at least there is a good chance that if you’re a size 4 now then you will probably still be a size 4 when the time finally comes to actually wear the shorts. But maternity clothes? I don’t know what will fit me tomorrow, never mind three months from now. But thanks to Those Who Control the Retail Fashion Industry I must now choose between wearing an adorable but blatantly seasonally inappropriate camisole and a pair of capris or stretching one of my sweaters out beyond recognition so that it covers the homemade elastic band/paper clip contraption that I’m using to rig up my jeans.

Where I live there are only a handful of stores that sell maternity clothes, the closest one being Motherhood. Now I know that some people really like Motherhood. To each his own. Maybe the one near you is not the same mecca of wash-it-once-and-it’s-useless, overpriced-for-what-it-is, stiff cotton crap that I’m familiar with. Personally, I die a little inside every time I walk into that store. I haven’t seen so much rayon and polyester since the thankfully brief revival of 70’s fashions sometime around my sophomore year of college. A local(ish) mall just opened up a BabyStyle store. I had high hopes of finally finding clothes that I actually liked and could also afford until I came across a pair of jeans that I loved only to discover that they were $175. The last time I was willing to pay that much for a pair of jeans was never, so instead I opted for a $68 pair at the Gap and I wear them Every. Goddamned. Day. I kid you not. No, not because I’m cheap and I refused to cough up the cash for more than one pair (okay, maybe because of that) but because they were the only (decent looking) things under $100 that any store carried that actually covered my entire legs.  Also, that were not crafted from polyester or could possibly be referred to as “slacks”.

As for an outfit that is suitable to wear to a shower, I’ve got nothing. Actually, I’ve got one pair of black Capri pants and seven (yes, seven) versions of the same sleeveless sweater, in varying sizes and colors (thus the problem with online shopping, you never know what’ll fit). None of which are appropriate for a 30 degree, overcast and possibly snowy day (because it WILL be cold, this is my luck), and all of which I hate.

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What’s it been, a month? Are you still here?

Thanks to everyone who’s checked in and inquired about my whereabouts! All is well and sometime in the near future I hope to regain my ability to come up with somewhat interesting narratives to post up on this site. This pregnancy has sucked all of the motivation out of me to do just about anything. I am just starting to feel like a version of my former self again but the progress has been slow. I look forward to that point in time when I can finally unclench the bottle of antacids.

And then there’s work, which, to put it mildly, has been crazy.

And, as luck would have it, all this craziness happens to coincide with the exact point in my life when all I want to do is yell, “LEAVE ME ALONE! Can’t you people see that I feel like ASS?? Now, if you don’t mind, I am going to crawl under my desk and take a nap. Right after I go throw up.”

Only I can’t say that because I’m to busy doing other things like learning how to write HTML pages and trying to hide the fact that I’m pregnant!

There is also this business of taking care of a two-year-old who only naps once every leap year, finishing up the laundry room remodel (Holy shit, it’s not finished YET? Hasn’t it been months? … Yes. Yes, it has. I’m not in a place where I’m ready to discuss it), avoiding doing my taxes (for no other reason than the fact that I am extremely lazy), shopping for maternity clothes (which is an entry in itself), addressing six thousand four hundred seventy two million (give or take a few) bridal shower and wedding invitations for my best friend’s upcoming nuptials (because I love her but she has the penmanship of a kindergartner), taking a photography class, and watching American Idol (which I promised myself I’d quit but I Just. Can’t. Stop.)

So, yeah, busy. But I’ll be back. And, on the upside, I think the constant nausea has finally passed so that’s one less thing you’ll have to hear me bitch about. But the heartburn? Not so much. Sorry.

Finally an entry that’s not about how shitty I feel (which I still do, by the way. You know, in case you were wondering.)

After trying nearly everything short of spiking his milk with a shot of Codeine to get Christopher to go to sleep without hours upon hours of drama, we finally found a solution that works: We took the front rail off of his crib and replaced it with the toddler rail. It has been about two months now and the bedtime hysteria has gradually decreased from a 12 on the crazy scale to a mere 2.5. 

Bedtime is … (I really hesitate to put this in writing because the instant I hit ‘publish’ Christopher will instantaneously regress back to the maniacal, screaming, crib climbing child of days not long enough ago, as if the past two months had never happened … but here it goes … ) easy.

Now naptime, well, that’s a different story. There’s minimal screaming and crying (at least on his part) and he has all but given up on rattling the door and yelling, “Mama! Door locked!” relentlessly, only to hear me confirm his findings from the other side. Resigned to the fact that he will be stuck in his room for the next two hours, but still unwilling to actually go to sleep, he does whatever he can to occupy himself until I come to release him. And, since we had the forethought to remove all of the interesting toys (i.e. anything that wasn’t a stuffed animal) from his toy box so that he wouldn’t be tempted to get out of bed and play trains into the wee hours of morning, his choices are limited. Or so we thought.

Lately he has taken to rearranging the furniture. Yesterday he had pushed his bed into the middle of the room. The day before that he relocated the rocking chair to the left side of the room and emptied the contents of his drawers onto the floor (yes, they have child locks but he figured those out about a year ago).  

Another favorite pastime of his is dressing (or undressing) himself. A few weeks ago I went in to check on him and found this . Another afternoon found him lounging on the floor reading a book, dressed in only a t-shirt and snow boots. Michael discovered him asleep in his bed one night wearing his slippers (which were NOT on him when we put him to bed) and surrounded by every shoe that he owns, paired up and neatly placed at the foot of his bed.   

This afternoon I put him down for a nap around noon. I gave him a few books, turned on his CD player, gave him a kiss and closed the door behind me. All was quiet until about an hour later when I heard him start to scream. In a panic I ran in to his room to see what was the matter. And there he was, sitting in the middle of his floor, pissed of as all hell because he couldn’t get his jeans on over his sneakers and sweatpants. And to think, when I put him down for his nap he was wearing his pajamas.  

Two entries in one day - and all without puking!

I forgot to mention that it’s de-lurking week.

I’m trying to break my record from last year (a whole two comments!!) so if you’re still hanging around despite my absence and all my bitching and moaning, feel free to say hi.

Also, if you know of a way to fast forward through the first trimester of pregnancy (or sixteen weeks, if my last pregnancy was any indication of how long this misery will last), share the knowledge. I will be eternally grateful (as will my husband, my friends, my son, my relatives, my fellow shoppers at Stop and Shop who are not fond of the dry heaving ....)

Greetings from the S.S. Toilet Bowl

Here’s the thing - I’ve tried writing a million times, I really have. But it all just seems to come out as, “blah blah blah nauseous, whine bitch moan, headache, tired, cranky, blah blah heartburn”. For further proof, read on.

What I really want (I mean besides winning the lottery and becoming a full-time lady of leisure. Oh, and also, a child that naps on a regular basis) is to lock myself in my bedroom, draw the shades, crawl under the covers and watch CSI reruns for the next seven or so weeks until all of this passes.

I am cranky, I am miserable, I feel like shit, and I can’t seem to muster up the motivation to do anything. I don’t want to grocery shop or cook or clean or do laundry or go to work or shower. I am hungry, which makes me nauseous, so I eat, which gives me heartburn, so I take Tums, which make me nauseous and leave a chalky film in my mouth, so I brush my teeth, which makes me gag … it’s an endless cycle. AND if that weren’t enough, I have a constant bad taste in my mouth. Food makes it worse and it is virtually impossible to get rid of. The only shitty advice that Dr. Google seems to offer up is “brush your teeth”. So I brush my teeth. Which makes me gag. And around and around we go …

I keep having to remind myself that I asked for this. That I should be grateful for this. That eventually it will go away. But when I am overwhelmed by the simple task of tying my shoes or wondering how the hell I’ll make it through a business meeting without falling asleep or a trip to the grocery store without dry heaving in Aisle 7, or when I’m trying to decide whether I’d rather go hungry and deal with the nausea or eat and deal with the heartburn and bad taste … I’ll be honest – it’s hard to remember the upside to all of this.

So there you have it. I apologize for all the whining. Other women seem to handle pregnancy much better than I do. And if you’re still trying to have a baby and are reading this thinking that I should suck it up and be thankful … well, you’re right. And I’ll try. Just give me another month or so.

Bah Hum-blog

It appears that my presumed reputation as somewhat of a drinker was not entirely all in my head after all. Approximately thirty seconds after arriving in New Hampshire for a weekend getaway with Michael’s family, they were onto our little secret. You see, I ordered a sparkling water at the bar. After that, my mother-in-law was on me like a hawk, practically trying to force feed me champagne and make me pee on a stick. Michael and I tried to keep our cool and I even went so far as to order a margarita with dinner (making Michael drink it when no one was looking), but seeing as how I was still upright at the end of the meal, I don’t think I was fooling anyone.

We’ve decided to make our official announcement this weekend. It will be a nice Christmas surprise. Also, no one was buying the “Oh, I think I’ll just have a water for now” routine the first time around.

And speaking of Christmas …

In the spirit of this fine holiday season I ventured out on Monday morning to finish up my Christmas shopping, giving the finger to no fewer than four other drivers on the road between my house and Target, because people drive like assholes. And also, where the hell did all those people come from? It was Monday morning, for the love of God. Do people not have jobs to be at? My car also got hit while I was in the store. Fortunately there was no damage, and a nice elderly man, who was waiting in the car next to mine while his wife finished up her shopping, witnessed the incident. He gave me his name, his number, his life story, a tirade about insurance companies, an anecdote about that time someone hit his car but never left a note, a run down of all the things his wife needed to get while they were out shopping … and while I thanked him over and over and over again, what I really wanted to say was, “Merry Christmas. Now will you please SHUT THE FUCK UP??” Then I went home and got into an entirely one-sided email fight with the people from Yahoo Photos because Christmas was a mere six days away and my Christmas cards (which I had ordered over a week earlier with express shipping) had not yet arrived. They kindly let me know, via auto reply, that my patience was appreciated and that they would get back to me at their earliest opportunity. It’s now Thursday and still no cards. Also, no response from Yahoo. Perhaps my last (all-caps) email (containing a number of words that weren’t exactly in-synch with the spirit of this joyous season) offended someone?

Christmas and hormones don’t mix.

A handful of presents to wrap, an apple pie and a cheesecake to bake*, seventeen naps to take, and an insurmountable amount of housecleaning to do and then I can finally sit back and enjoy Christmas.

Happy Holidays!

* Last night at the dinner table Michael said, “I used a stick of butter. I just wanted to let you know before you started baking. You know, because of what happened last year? With the oil? I thought I’d just tell you now.” Smart man. Perhaps I can’t blame the hormones after all.

The first in a long line of posts that will contain the words 'nausea' and 'napping'

Thank you for all the good wishes and encouraging comments. If I haven’t gotten around to replying to you personally, please forgive me, I have been very busy napping. During the two or three hours a day that I am at least somewhat coherent, I have been trying to finish up my Christmas shopping, packing for our upcoming trip to New Hampshire, baking cookies for a Christmas party, doing my best to keep Christopher from decorating the dog with the Christmas lights that I took down from the attic and plan to string along the staircase sometime before the New Year but will probably never get around to, ordering Christmas cards, wrapping gifts, relocating the dryer from the middle of my living room to some other less conspicuous place in order to make room for the tree, wiping down the ½ inch layer of sheetrock dust from the dining room table, trying to squeeze in a shower in at least once this week, and hoping to accomplish at least half of these things before collapsing into a puddle of tears. So, you see, I’ve barely had any time to even think about this pregnancy. Thank God the nausea and the bone-crushing exhaustion are there to remind me or I’d be halfway through the New Years Eve champagne stash already just trying to deal with the #$%^&*@ holiday season.

I did manage to take another pregnancy test (or two) and the line has been getting progressively darker, and what with the nausea and the napping and the almost constant peeing (yes, already), I can pretty much say with confidence those seven or so pregnancy tests were incredibly and annoyingly vague, but nonetheless accurate. I can officially cross “Get Pregnant” off of my to-do list. Only seventy hundred more items to go.

We are still debating when to tell our friends and families. With Christopher we told everyone around the sixth week or so. We see the majority of our close friends and family on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day so it would seem like the perfect time, but I don’t really want to make the whole day about me. On the other hand, the minute that someone notices that I have arrived bearing the usual armload of gifts and pies, but strangely absent from the assortment of goodies are the staples of any halfway decent holiday celebration – champagne and more champagne – the secret will pretty much be out. I think it would be fair to say that I have earned myself somewhat of a reputation for my love of all things bubbly and alcoholic.

If thinking of myself in terms of being a “mother of two” wasn’t enough to drive the point home that I am no longer as young as I like to think I am, the fact that I asked for this for Christmas pretty much put the nail in the Young and Carefree coffin. I’m embarrassed to tell you how excited I am about it. I’m also embarrassed to tell you how badly I need it, as the last time that I “washed” the kitchen floors with something other than a few paper towels and a some strategically aimed sprays of Windex was … I don’t know when. Sometime in the spring? Of last year?

Christopher, of course, will be getting Thomas and a whole shitload of Thomas train tracks (or what we are calling “Thomas” train tracks but is really some brand I’ve never heard of but couldn’t pass up a 70-piece set of for $19.99 at the Christmas Tree Shop). We will also be asking Santa for an addition on the house because, with the expected mid-August arrival of an extra person and his or her requisite three metric tons of baby gear, a washer and dryer that most likely will still be in the dining room come September, and our own scale model of the Island of Sodor, discount-store style, I haven’t a goddamn clue where the hell we’ll be putting everything.

The Fifth One’s the Charm

You honestly didn’t think I could wait a whole entire day to take another test did you? Hell no! I ran right back out to Happy Dollar last night and bought another fistful of tests. A toddler in one arm and half a dozen pregnancy test in the other - perhaps more awkward than buying condoms!

I did have enough restraint to wait until this morning to take one. And there it was, as clear as … well, not really clear at all. Kind of faint, cloudy, murky even, but definitely there: a second little pink line.

Michael and I stared at it, held it up to the light, turned it left, turned it right, held it up close and then at arms length, blinked really hard and then looked again. He then confirmed that I wasn’t crazy (or at least I wasn’t hallucinating. The jury’s still out on crazy.)

So I am … pregnant? Hopeful? Cautiously optimistic? Done peeing on sticks for the time being?

I am giving it a week – ok, four or five days, maybe three – and then retesting!

Ambiguous

I’ve never been a pregnancy test taker. I’ve taken exactly two in my life: One on New Years Eve, so that I could give myself permission to drink like a sailor without feeling guilty about it, and one when my period was almost a week late and I was absolutely certain that I was pregnant. My cycles are so regular that I always get my period between day 25 and day 30.

Today is day 30, and still nothing.

I started testing on Saturday morning. I really can’t tell you what’s so different about this month other than the fact that I had picked up a few pregnancy tests a few months back and this is really the first opportunity I’ve had to use them. And there they were, sitting unopened in the medicine cabinet on Saturday morning when I decided, “What the hell.”

Four dollar store home pregnancy tests later and I don’t know if I’m pregnant, hallucinating or just plain crazy. On Saturday morning there was no second line. When I pulled the test out of the trash Saturday evening there was an oh-so-faint second line. Two ambiguous maybe-its-there-or-maybe-its-just-a-shadow lines followed on Sunday and then again this morning. Then I switched brands figuring that maybe the first brand of test was just faulty. New brand, same damn vague line.

I spent the afternoon Googling. Really, I should know better to open THAT can of worms. Google told me that any second line means that the test is positive – unless, of course, it’s an evaporation line. I threw the sticks in the trash and then dug them out again so many times that I honestly don’t know if those second lines were there or not within the first five minutes after taking the tests. Only I could so badly screw up the simple task of peeing on a stick.

Due to my lack of experience in this area, I don’t know if what I’m seeing is an evaporation line or a positive result or a faulty test or perhaps there is nothing there at all and I just need new glasses. What I do know is that there are currently 4 HPTs in my trash with what appear to be two very, very faint pink lines. Also, the next 12 or so hours are going to go by very, very slowly because I am out of HPTs!

Who is this man, and why wasn’t he my father?

On Friday night, my seventeen year old sister got suspended from school for ten days for drinking at the Homecoming dance.

Idiot. While it may be true that “It’s not fair! Everyone else was drinking too!”, everyone else was at least smart enough to hide this fact from the security guards and faculty members.

After relaying to my friend Annie the latest developments in the saga of my delinquent sister and her moronic teenage antics, she remarked, “Well, I hope they give her an in-school suspension, because an out of school suspension is like getting a ten day vacation.” To which I replied, “That’s exactly what I said!” This, from the same two girls who spent a good deal of their adolescence in a haze of vodka and Purple Passion. The same girl who, when she was eighteen, illegally acquired her twenty-three year-old sister’s birth certificate from the town hall and went down to the DMV to get a fake ID, and her best friend, accomplice, and fellow underage bar-hopper, yours truly, the girl who was also allegedly responsible for several teenage keg parties and other miscellaneous crimes and misdemeanors. We are now The Responsibility and Consequences Squad. Coming soon to a town near you! We utter phrases like, “Well, I hope she has learned her lesson”, “Where is the rest of her skirt?”, “I’m so disappointed in your behavior”, and “Kids these day, my God!”

We have officially turned into our parents.

Actually, I have turned into my parents, not my sisters’ parents, because I don’t even recognize my sisters’ parents anymore. They have officially thrown in the towel. After telling me all about what my sister had done, how my mom had to get out of bed at 11 pm and go down to the high school to pick up her drunken daughter, how my sister swore that she hadn’t been drinking (and later recanted: “Well, of course I was drunk but I wasn’t going to admit it!), how she got suspended, my father and I had the following conversation:

“Well, how long did you punish her for?”

“I didn’t.”

“Excuse me? Come again?”

“I’ve been doing this parenting thing for 31 years now. I’m tired. I’ve got nothing left.”

“But she got suspended! For drinking! At school! And lied about it!”

“Oh, don’t act like you didn’t do the same things and worse. You were just smart enough not to get caught.”

The man has a point. But, still! Had I gotten caught doing any one of those things, I would still be punished. What has become of the father that I grew up with? The man who once grounded me for 56 days because I went to a concert and was supposed to call home to check in at 11:00 but didn’t call until 11:56? The parent who would ground me when I got a B? The father, who, despite my begging and pleading and threatening to run away from home and swearing to God that I would be forever brandished an outcast by my 8^th grade classmates, would not let me wear hairspray or nail polish or make-up? It was the 80’s for God’s sake – hairspray was necessary in order to lead a normal teenage life. Some kids snuck beer and cigarettes. I snuck Aqua-Net. And beer.

The disparity is alarming. Somewhere in between my adolescence and my sisters’, “don’t let me ever catch you near that liquor cabinet” became “Kim, what the hell happened to the vodka? Have you and your sister been making Jell-O shots again?”

After 4 kids and 31 years of parenting, I guess you need all the vodka you can get.