So I’m in a bit of a conundrum. Now that we are all moved in to our new place and all the shopping and hell that is putting together miles upon miles of IKEA furniture is complete, I’ve only got one thing to focus on - which is this shortly coming to an end pregnancy. I’ve done my best to keep my pregnancy related topics out of this blog because personally I don’t find it particularly interesting, especially with everything else that’s been going on. But now that it’s all that’s left I feel like I have to dip my toes in water – or leave this blog unattended with animated tumble weeds blowing through.
Truth is I’m grumpy and uncomfortable and don’t feel much like writing much. To stop writing until I get out of this funk (i.e. give birth) is like a death sentence to the blog itself. I’ve found that if I stop writing one week, that one week turns to two, then a month then god knows how long while I come up with lame posts that begin with “I’m sorry for neglecting you.” I figure it’s probably best to bore you shitless with the crap I do have sitting in my head like a neglected turd that no matter how many times you flush the water never reaches it then to stop writing until I have something entertaining to say.
So yes…grumpy and uncomfortable. I’ve got two weeks until my due date which means absolute crap in relation to when babies decide they want to come out into the world and start their invariable journey of screaming louder than a fog horn and stealing from your purse. I’m not going to lie, it’s no secret to anyone that I absolutely despise being pregnant. Some women reveal in this shit but they are utter lunatics that don’t like whiskey (or, to be fair, tried for years and years to get pregnant unsuccessfully before finally cracking the code). I hate it. I hate every single aspect of it. The stupid pants with elastic belly waists that come up to your boobs (but never manage to stay there). The grunting when you put on your socks. Going for a pee then feeling like you have to pee again before you’re even finished washing your hands. Feeling justified for eating Oreos for breakfast only to have that sinking feeling on how hard it’s going to be to lose the Oreo cookie thighs when it’s all said and done. The backaches, the stomach aches, the hip aches, the puking, the tossing and turning trying to sleep, and the utter constant fucking question, “when are you due?” FUCK OFF PREGNANCY, I HATE YOU.
You know what pregnancy is like? Writing a complete paragraph ranting and raving and after re-reading it all you can think to yourself is, “I could really go for some Oreos.”
SIDE NOTE: The Tesco by our new house sells Oreos - and Philadelphia cream cheese. Small miracle.
I’m ready to be done. That is to say, I’m ready to not be knocked up anymore. I’ve been ready since October really, but now that it’s safe for him to come out, even more so. The nursery is ready – it’s actually the most decorated room in the house now as we’re still waiting for our stuff from the States to come in. (It’s actually a bet I have with myself – wondering which will arrive first, our things or the kid.) Andy joked today about putting a piece of chocolate by my crotch and telling the kid, “If you come out, you can have some candy!” I bought a fucking pineapple yesterday because someone told me eating pineapple can help bring on labor (though apparently only if you eat like 7 whole pineapples a day)(dammit!). I’d go jogging if I had enough energy to put on shoes and leave the house for more than 15 minutes – or if I knew that I wouldn’t pee my pants in the first 30 seconds.
I’d like to mention that patience has never been my strong suit and seriously, I cannot stop thinking about Oreos now.
Blah.
I’ll return shortly, hopefully in a better mood, hopefully 8 pounds lighter and buzzed on whiskey. If not, I’ll warn you in advance so you can skip the post and move on to a list on why Chuck Norris is better than Superman.
Showing posts with label Baby M. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Baby M. Show all posts
22 March 2011
24 January 2011
Even girls like me get baby showers...
So after reading Vegemite Wife’s recent picture post on a baby shower, I couldn’t help but feel a little bit smug coming home this past Saturday night from our baby shower (California edition) and going away party. First of all, our baby shower (CA edition) was at the pub. I think even the most heated Baby Shower Haters (read: Men) can appreciate a baby shower at the pub. Secondly, there were no stupid baby shower games like “Guess what that brown substance is that we smeared in a diaper!” or “What objects could successfully pass through a 4 inch dilated cervix?” – (having never been invited to a proper baby shower (for obvious reasons), I’m only guessing these are the games women play at them. I could be wrong. They could be playing ‘Spin the Bottle’ or ‘Let’s Get a Male Stripper to dress up in a bee costume while we hurl donuts and condoms at his “stinger”!’). What we did have at our baby shower was plenty of beer, a cornucopia of fried food and of course, cake. Who doesn’t like cake?
I want to give a huge thanks to Michele, Mari and Marilyn for throwing us this awesome party. Sadly, unbeknownst to them and me was that a good chunk of the invitees (including my sister) had already made plans (with tickets) to see the English Beat in LA that same night. When Andy and I first walked into the Harp there were balloons covering most sections of the pub. I went out to the girls on the patio and said, “I think we seriously overestimated how many people were actually coming tonight.” All in all, I think we had about 20 people (who probably all went into a cholesterol filled shock after all the fried food) and it was a great group and it turned out to be a really good time. I also got some awesome gifts.
Some pictures from the evening:
I will say that as the sole pregnant lady at the pub, I was really jealous as I slowly watched all my friends get hammered. Then again, I also had a good time watching them get hammered as there is nothing quite like fucking with a drunk person, albeit kindly since they were, after all, my friends. I don’t reserve the same restraint for strangers.
In a couple weeks, we’ll be having another baby shower\going away party at my parents’ house in Wisconsin. I’m sure it will be more of the traditional type of shower where I won’t get to feel smug, or eat my weight in fried food or get to watch my relatives get smashed (well, not most of them anyhow). I probably won’t blog about that one either. I will, I assume, be blogging about watching our beloved Packers play in the Super Bowl from a stool at Champion’s - my old home pub.
I want to give a huge thanks to Michele, Mari and Marilyn for throwing us this awesome party. Sadly, unbeknownst to them and me was that a good chunk of the invitees (including my sister) had already made plans (with tickets) to see the English Beat in LA that same night. When Andy and I first walked into the Harp there were balloons covering most sections of the pub. I went out to the girls on the patio and said, “I think we seriously overestimated how many people were actually coming tonight.” All in all, I think we had about 20 people (who probably all went into a cholesterol filled shock after all the fried food) and it was a great group and it turned out to be a really good time. I also got some awesome gifts.
Some pictures from the evening:
I'm so stoked that someone got baby Henry a PGA Tour video game. How else is he going to learn his 8 iron from his 6 iron?
Andrea, Michele, myself and Mari. Bunny ears supplied by Andrea's son, Oliver. Sure, I could have cropped the ears out, by why? Totally makes the photo.
Patrick, Brendon and Gunter letting me know exactly how they feel about attending traditional baby showers.
I totally commend Andrea for her attempt at photo bombing this picture. It would have been better if she had one of those horrible orange tans or a random tassel, but this will have to do.
No, I'm not strangling the giraffe. Sadly, this is how I hold most things - Homer Simpson style.
Andy, with beer, trying on Henry's new clothes.
Spot the sober person! I actually yelled at Andy for ruining this photo but on reflection, I think my obvious sobriety is what kills it.
I will say that as the sole pregnant lady at the pub, I was really jealous as I slowly watched all my friends get hammered. Then again, I also had a good time watching them get hammered as there is nothing quite like fucking with a drunk person, albeit kindly since they were, after all, my friends. I don’t reserve the same restraint for strangers.
In a couple weeks, we’ll be having another baby shower\going away party at my parents’ house in Wisconsin. I’m sure it will be more of the traditional type of shower where I won’t get to feel smug, or eat my weight in fried food or get to watch my relatives get smashed (well, not most of them anyhow). I probably won’t blog about that one either. I will, I assume, be blogging about watching our beloved Packers play in the Super Bowl from a stool at Champion’s - my old home pub.
09 November 2010
Don't you just HATE posts about babies?
We had the gender determining ultrasound today (well, it was really a “check if all the bits, not just the gender determining one, is OK” scan and I’m thrilled to report that all the bits are in fact OK). It appears that we are having a no-doubts-about-it boy. Seriously, the penis practically slapped me upside the head it was so blatantly obvious on the screen. That didn’t stop me from asking the technician, “Are you sure?” though. I’d actually have the balls (ha!) to post the picture of my son’s endowment if I wasn’t somewhat fearful that by doing so would somehow convince him to become a porn star later in life. “I don’t know why you’re so upset Mom, you’ve had my penis on display before I was even born.”
So yes! A boy. I’m in a bit of shock due to the fact that I had been convinced that I was having a girl. Truth be told, I was convinced that I would have a girl even before I got pregnant so perhaps it was more wishful thinking than it was “mother’s insight”. I’m not sure how I’m going to handle a boy. I was really looking forward to having a girl who would be nice and quiet and who would like to draw and play with stuffed bunnies instead of a boy who is going to sleep with a pile of dirt and scream “poopie” from 6 AM to 9 PM and ram monster trucks into my ankles and who will think that bugs are like, The Best Thing Ever. Boys are loud, energetic, and messy. Those three things are totally against what I stand for. Oh why oh why can’t I give birth to a 60 year old librarian?
I already told Andy that I’m going to spend the next 18 years following my son around with a Dustbuster.
Before I get hate mail – or hate comments – I’m actually very happy (shocked, but happy). The baby is doing great. Nice and healthy, which is all I could ever ask for (well, that and a million dollars which I don’t mind admitting that I would totally get pregnant for again if I could somehow shoot $100 bills out of my crotch). I just need to wrap my head around having a boy.
Because this isn’t a pregnancy\baby blog, this is most likely the last pregnancy\baby centric post you smart-enough-not-to-have-children readers will have to sit through until I pop this thing out, I have to get one last pregnancy\baby thing off my mind. I’ll be done with this topic for the time being then – cross my fingers, hope to pie.
The thing I really need to get off my chest is the people who assume that since I’m breeding now, I will want to continue to breed forever and ever until my uterus falls out. I can’t tell you how many people I’ve had discussions (read: arguments) about this with. This child I’m carrying around now? It’s the last one that will grace my insides. I DO NOT WANT MORE THAN ONE CHILD. I don’t know why people find this so hard to believe. Like since I’ve done it once, surely I’d want to do it again! You know, I almost drowned once – boogie boarding in the Pacific, which to be fair is about as pleasant as being pregnant, and I’m telling you, I don’t want to do it again. I wanted one kid, one kid to grow and teach all my bad habits to, and then let it be. I didn’t grow up thinking that being a mom (and just a mom) was what I was destined to do. Having a single child gives you the flexibility to be a great mom and also have a life of your own. It’s not going to be, “Johnny’s* got soccer at 5, then Jenny’s dance lesson at 6, then I’ve got to get the baby to the doctor to check out the rash”; it’s going to be, “Johnny’s got soccer at 5 but he’s spending the night over at his friend’s house, so sure, I can meet you for a couple of drinks later tonight.” I might actually be somewhat delusional about my flexibility once my son is older (I’ve never done this before, remember?) but I’m certainly not delusional about my feelings about having more than one kid. So you out there! Stop your fucking smuggy-smugness, “oh, just wait – once you have one, you’ll want more.” Bite me. I DON’T WANT MORE THAN ONE CHILD.
Just so I don’t offend anyone, I would like to say in all seriousness that I know that there are mothers out there with more than one child who manage to have a very full life (career and personal) outside of motherhood. I admire and respect those women more than I can say. I wish I could be like them, I really do.
*We are not fucking naming our son ‘Johnny’.
End of pregnancy\baby talk, I swear. Just to prove my earnestness in that, here is a picture of the cat:
So yes! A boy. I’m in a bit of shock due to the fact that I had been convinced that I was having a girl. Truth be told, I was convinced that I would have a girl even before I got pregnant so perhaps it was more wishful thinking than it was “mother’s insight”. I’m not sure how I’m going to handle a boy. I was really looking forward to having a girl who would be nice and quiet and who would like to draw and play with stuffed bunnies instead of a boy who is going to sleep with a pile of dirt and scream “poopie” from 6 AM to 9 PM and ram monster trucks into my ankles and who will think that bugs are like, The Best Thing Ever. Boys are loud, energetic, and messy. Those three things are totally against what I stand for. Oh why oh why can’t I give birth to a 60 year old librarian?
There's still a chance, right?
I already told Andy that I’m going to spend the next 18 years following my son around with a Dustbuster.
Who throws nuts and bolts around? Oh, that's right...BOYS.
Before I get hate mail – or hate comments – I’m actually very happy (shocked, but happy). The baby is doing great. Nice and healthy, which is all I could ever ask for (well, that and a million dollars which I don’t mind admitting that I would totally get pregnant for again if I could somehow shoot $100 bills out of my crotch). I just need to wrap my head around having a boy.
Because this isn’t a pregnancy\baby blog, this is most likely the last pregnancy\baby centric post you smart-enough-not-to-have-children readers will have to sit through until I pop this thing out, I have to get one last pregnancy\baby thing off my mind. I’ll be done with this topic for the time being then – cross my fingers, hope to pie.
The thing I really need to get off my chest is the people who assume that since I’m breeding now, I will want to continue to breed forever and ever until my uterus falls out. I can’t tell you how many people I’ve had discussions (read: arguments) about this with. This child I’m carrying around now? It’s the last one that will grace my insides. I DO NOT WANT MORE THAN ONE CHILD. I don’t know why people find this so hard to believe. Like since I’ve done it once, surely I’d want to do it again! You know, I almost drowned once – boogie boarding in the Pacific, which to be fair is about as pleasant as being pregnant, and I’m telling you, I don’t want to do it again. I wanted one kid, one kid to grow and teach all my bad habits to, and then let it be. I didn’t grow up thinking that being a mom (and just a mom) was what I was destined to do. Having a single child gives you the flexibility to be a great mom and also have a life of your own. It’s not going to be, “Johnny’s* got soccer at 5, then Jenny’s dance lesson at 6, then I’ve got to get the baby to the doctor to check out the rash”; it’s going to be, “Johnny’s got soccer at 5 but he’s spending the night over at his friend’s house, so sure, I can meet you for a couple of drinks later tonight.” I might actually be somewhat delusional about my flexibility once my son is older (I’ve never done this before, remember?) but I’m certainly not delusional about my feelings about having more than one kid. So you out there! Stop your fucking smuggy-smugness, “oh, just wait – once you have one, you’ll want more.” Bite me. I DON’T WANT MORE THAN ONE CHILD.
Just so I don’t offend anyone, I would like to say in all seriousness that I know that there are mothers out there with more than one child who manage to have a very full life (career and personal) outside of motherhood. I admire and respect those women more than I can say. I wish I could be like them, I really do.
*We are not fucking naming our son ‘Johnny’.
End of pregnancy\baby talk, I swear. Just to prove my earnestness in that, here is a picture of the cat:
The damn cat trying to steal some of Andy's ice cream. Hey! At least it's not a baby picture.
01 October 2010
Some news, then some more news.
So I’m a bit disappointed that no one but Andy commented on my going to jail post. It’s by far the best life story I have in my arsenal; if it did not amuse then things are looking very dire indeed. I’m guessing I’m going to have to step things up and finally spill forth all the going-ons behind the going-ons in order to keep you all interested. And yes, since you asked, I AM fishing for comments.
The first order of business is to admit why I have strayed off my beloved sauce – that is to say, why nary a drop of whiskey, Harp lager, vodka mixed with anything (Chocolate sauce? Why not?), and house margarita has breezed past my lips in two months. Anyone with a brain in their head and any inkling of my lifestyle can probably guess this teetotalism isn’t voluntary. My comfy seat on the wagon is of course due to one of these brewing:
One of the first thoughts I had when I found out is, “Oh Jaysus. People are going to think the end of the world is coming.” You see, I’m not really what you call a child-liker. I don’t coo over babies, I don’t offer to babysit someone's rug rats, and I certainly never (used to) browse through Target wistfully caressing the soft fabric of a toddler’s size 2T pant set. I also get really annoyed at the kids I see running around restaurants screaming (OK, I’m actually more annoyed at the parents). Anyone who knows me- and even knows me very well – might be shocked that I of all people decided to breed.
I don’t know if I can really explain it. I think being married put me more in the perspective of family. Because of this feeling of family I am experiencing, after I came home from my yearly this past June, I sat down with Andy and said, “You know, I’m getting older. I’m definitely fatter. I don’t know if I can even physically have kids. I think that if you agree, that we should stop being careful and let whatever happen, happen.” I said this for a couple reasons – 1) I didn’t think having a child with Andy would terrible – in fact, I thought it could be a Very Awesome Thing and 2) Because I thought it would take at least a year to happen, if it happened at all.
As it turned out, it took approximately 1 week…and Andy and I aren’t exactly “Zack and Miri Make a Porno”. (I probably shouldn’t have said that on the Internet.)
So there’s that news, and that’s all I’m really going to go into about it here. This isn’t a pregnancy blog and it’s not a baby blog. I just thought you all should know why I haven’t had a hangover in two months. Is it weird to miss hangovers? I think I just miss Carl's Jr cheeseburgers tasting so good.
What could possibly top the news of a (now) 3-inch human growing beneath the layers of my belly fat? Well, our final moving plans of course! Andy is going to read this and get all paranoid that my work will also read this and get all, “if you’re leaving, we’re going to fire your ass” on me – but I think it’s very doubtful. I could be wrong, but no one mentioned the earthquake post which I think is much more damning then my intent to move. Moving on…(pun, bad but intentional) The final word is that in January Andy and I are going to be British. Well, he’s already British and I can only ever pretend to be British and then very badly so, but we will be in England nevertheless. We’re going back to his hometown of Liverpool which means that my child will be a Scouser. What this really means is that I will never understand a god damn word my child says. So yes! Liverpool! Home of the Beatles and the Super Lambanana! I’m actually really really stoked about this move. I’m excited to eat biscuits. I’m looking forward to be so close to other foreign speaking countries (I’ve commanded Andy to take me to Rome for my next birthday).
I’m actually sitting here trying to think of other things I’m going to look forward to but my mind has suddenly gone blank. I must really like their biscuits so that every other positive aspect of the British Empire has been wiped away from my head.
If anyone is keeping track, I have just admitted that not only am I having a very life changing baby but in less than 4 months, I’m uprooting every little American fiber of my being and hurling it across the ocean. I may seem very calm and collected (I’m just really tired) but I’m actually freaking out quite a bit. The worst thing about it all is that now, of all possible times, is when I could really use a drink.
The first order of business is to admit why I have strayed off my beloved sauce – that is to say, why nary a drop of whiskey, Harp lager, vodka mixed with anything (Chocolate sauce? Why not?), and house margarita has breezed past my lips in two months. Anyone with a brain in their head and any inkling of my lifestyle can probably guess this teetotalism isn’t voluntary. My comfy seat on the wagon is of course due to one of these brewing:
One of the first thoughts I had when I found out is, “Oh Jaysus. People are going to think the end of the world is coming.” You see, I’m not really what you call a child-liker. I don’t coo over babies, I don’t offer to babysit someone's rug rats, and I certainly never (used to) browse through Target wistfully caressing the soft fabric of a toddler’s size 2T pant set. I also get really annoyed at the kids I see running around restaurants screaming (OK, I’m actually more annoyed at the parents). Anyone who knows me- and even knows me very well – might be shocked that I of all people decided to breed.
I don’t know if I can really explain it. I think being married put me more in the perspective of family. Because of this feeling of family I am experiencing, after I came home from my yearly this past June, I sat down with Andy and said, “You know, I’m getting older. I’m definitely fatter. I don’t know if I can even physically have kids. I think that if you agree, that we should stop being careful and let whatever happen, happen.” I said this for a couple reasons – 1) I didn’t think having a child with Andy would terrible – in fact, I thought it could be a Very Awesome Thing and 2) Because I thought it would take at least a year to happen, if it happened at all.
As it turned out, it took approximately 1 week…and Andy and I aren’t exactly “Zack and Miri Make a Porno”. (I probably shouldn’t have said that on the Internet.)
So there’s that news, and that’s all I’m really going to go into about it here. This isn’t a pregnancy blog and it’s not a baby blog. I just thought you all should know why I haven’t had a hangover in two months. Is it weird to miss hangovers? I think I just miss Carl's Jr cheeseburgers tasting so good.
What could possibly top the news of a (now) 3-inch human growing beneath the layers of my belly fat? Well, our final moving plans of course! Andy is going to read this and get all paranoid that my work will also read this and get all, “if you’re leaving, we’re going to fire your ass” on me – but I think it’s very doubtful. I could be wrong, but no one mentioned the earthquake post which I think is much more damning then my intent to move. Moving on…(pun, bad but intentional) The final word is that in January Andy and I are going to be British. Well, he’s already British and I can only ever pretend to be British and then very badly so, but we will be in England nevertheless. We’re going back to his hometown of Liverpool which means that my child will be a Scouser. What this really means is that I will never understand a god damn word my child says. So yes! Liverpool! Home of the Beatles and the Super Lambanana! I’m actually really really stoked about this move. I’m excited to eat biscuits. I’m looking forward to be so close to other foreign speaking countries (I’ve commanded Andy to take me to Rome for my next birthday).
Super Lambanana, how I love thee!
I’m actually sitting here trying to think of other things I’m going to look forward to but my mind has suddenly gone blank. I must really like their biscuits so that every other positive aspect of the British Empire has been wiped away from my head.
Hob Nobs make me lose my mind.
If anyone is keeping track, I have just admitted that not only am I having a very life changing baby but in less than 4 months, I’m uprooting every little American fiber of my being and hurling it across the ocean. I may seem very calm and collected (I’m just really tired) but I’m actually freaking out quite a bit. The worst thing about it all is that now, of all possible times, is when I could really use a drink.
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