Fragrance Free
About a week before Robinson's due date, it suddenly dawned on me that since he is brand new to the world, he may feel overwhelmed by all of the fragrances I wear in daily life. Not just perfume, but body splash, body lotion, deodorant, etc. I decided right then that I would not bombard by newborn son's delicate olfactory senses with such pungencies, and I set about purchasing fragrance-free everything. You may want to consider this a little sooner, in case you don't have the luxury of being pregnant for ten months like me.
Epsom Salt
This c-section mama loved her epsom salt baths after returning from the hospital. It helps relieve minor aches and pains, it's relaxing, and it eases some of the swelling.
Lactation Station
During my short but spectacularly disastrous stint as a nursing mother, I acquired quite the arsenal of supplies, which I ended up assembling on my coffee table in what I lovingly referred to as my "lactation station". Some of the supplies were obvious ones (nursing pads, wipes, lanolin) and some were added as I took to the internet in search of helpful tips (vaseline, olive oil, nipple butter). I housed all of my items in a corningware dish, but if that seems too pedestrian, you could go rustic with a galvanized bucket, or crafty with a glazed ceramic bowl from Color Me Mine. You're really limited only by your imagination.
Compression
I'm told that compression garments were not always used post-delivery. Just another reason I'm glad to have given birth in the 21st century. They're standard-issue if you have a c-section, and I say wear it as long as possible. Binding helps the tummy go down more quickly, it relieves discomfort, and helps the skin to tighten up. Once my hospital compression garment became too roomy, I switched to the Belly Bandit, lauded by such "hot moms" as Brooke Burke and Kourtney Kardashian. One or both of them gets paid to sing the Belly Bandit's praises. I'll sing their praises for free. It really helps. I'm wearing mine now.
Shapewear
Wrapping myself in super-strength lycra gives me the courage to face the world. Spanx it til it fits, ladies!
Big Accessories
Do these earrings make my butt look big? No, they don't! Accessories always fit and can make you feel like a glam girly-girl, which is a shot in the arm to any new mom who is months away from fitting into her jeans. Just throw on your big Jackie O sunglasses and go on with yourself, big girl!
Coffee
It's my favorite way to get caffeine, and the best way to start my day. You're probably going to be sleep deprived. Do I even have to tell you this?
Forgiving Footwear
I started this journey wearing a size 7.5 shoe. Sometimes I would buy my stilletos in a size 8. Now I'm pretty much a size 8 all the time, and my feet were extremely swollen for at least a month after Robinson's birth. I made the mistake of cramming my foot into a size 7.5 shoe to run errands one day. Never again.
Haircut
Many will disagree with me on this: brave mommy warriors who declare that their baby will not rob them of their hotness or their bangin' hair. I agree with those mommies wholeheartedly. I don't even want to tell you that it was my girlhood dream to be in a Pantene commercial, but I will share this tidbit of information: the hormones that caused your hair to grow longer, thicker, fuller, faster will reverse. Don't fret--you won't lose hair in clumps or have bald spots. In fact, nobody will even notice--however, as I've watched about 1/3 of my hair fall out over the past couple weeks, I'm glad it's not still super long and layered. It's just a big freakin' mess to vacuum my bathroom floor every day and clean my shower drain daily. For those reasons, I'm glad for my all-one-length hair that falls just past my shoulders. See, I'm not saying to go get a bob or a pixie. Actually, it wasn't a conscious decision on my part. I just had a hormonal post-partum moment one day where my hair was annoying me and so I took a pair of scissors to it and lobbed off four or five inches. It was less of a Britney Spears head-shave moment and more of a Pedro from Napoleon Dynamite moment.
Skincare
There was so much of my old skincare regimen that was against the rules when I was pregnant. It had been so long since I engaged in my twice-daily skincare rituals that I had nearly forgotten them. Resuming this routine helps to give me some much-needed "me" time and start feeling like myself again.
What else, moms? Are there any other post-partum lifesavers that you wouldn't have thought of prior to becoming a mom?
Showing posts with label pregnancy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pregnancy. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Pregnant Envy
For one fleeting moment today, I kinda missed being pregnant.
I said for a moment. Before you call me crazy, hear me out:
I was on my way to visit the doctor. "What kind of doctor?" you ask? Well, Nosey Nelly, I have a friend who calls it "the stirrup doctor" because of a certain apparatus in the exam room, and whenever she says "the stirrup doctor", she lifts one bent leg into the air and touches her toes as if to demonstrate the posture one would assume during the exam. Still confused? I'll give you a hint: it rhymes with "schmynocologist". Still don't know? Go read Perez Hilton. I have no use for you.
I had a 1:00pm appointment, which means I started getting ready at 9:30am. The process of getting myself ready and preparing to take an infant outside the home is a lengthy one. Plus, while some stay-at-home moms are the spend-all-day-at-the-mall type, or the "playgroup" type, I'm more of the home-bound type, so going to the doctor is an occasion that merits getting all dolled up. We're talking hairspray and everything! While getting dressed, I assessed my "fatness". Today I was too fat for my jeans, but slim enough to squeeze on my engagement ring (but not my wedding band). I would gauge that as a successful day. As I'm parking my car at the hospital, I realize I don't have Rob's stroller. Steve took it out of the car last week so he could take Robinson for a stroll through the neighborhood (the jerk). I have a moment of slight panic, trying to imagine how I'm gonna hoof it all the way to my doctor's office on the third floor, lugging 25-30 bulky pounds of baby and car seat while wearing 3.5 inch heels for the first time in about eight months. It's embarrassing to look like you're struggling while trying to haul your own baby. Let's face it, I'm no teacup poodle. I look...beefy...like I could lift a car, and yet I'm huffin' and puffin' and teeterin' and totterin' trying to carry this bulky-ass car seat from my car to the doctor's office. Picture the bear on the unicycle at the circus, and that's me.
So there I am, five minutes later, successfully inside the hospital and aboard the elevator. It's just me (and Rob) and a pregnant lady. She looks wonderful. She's probably six or seven months along--she's very visibly showing, but she hasn't exploded yet. She's wearing a dress and cardigan with a pair of sensible heels. She looks chic and lovely. She's clearly on her way to a prenatal appointment, and I remembered the feeling of going to my own prenatal appointments--the hopefulness, the anticipation--even at it's most mundane, and when it felt like a drudgery, pregnancy is still a special time of excitement about being a sacred vessel who is bringing new life into the world.
Now I'm just a fat chick getting a pap smear.
I said for a moment. Before you call me crazy, hear me out:
I was on my way to visit the doctor. "What kind of doctor?" you ask? Well, Nosey Nelly, I have a friend who calls it "the stirrup doctor" because of a certain apparatus in the exam room, and whenever she says "the stirrup doctor", she lifts one bent leg into the air and touches her toes as if to demonstrate the posture one would assume during the exam. Still confused? I'll give you a hint: it rhymes with "schmynocologist". Still don't know? Go read Perez Hilton. I have no use for you.
I had a 1:00pm appointment, which means I started getting ready at 9:30am. The process of getting myself ready and preparing to take an infant outside the home is a lengthy one. Plus, while some stay-at-home moms are the spend-all-day-at-the-mall type, or the "playgroup" type, I'm more of the home-bound type, so going to the doctor is an occasion that merits getting all dolled up. We're talking hairspray and everything! While getting dressed, I assessed my "fatness". Today I was too fat for my jeans, but slim enough to squeeze on my engagement ring (but not my wedding band). I would gauge that as a successful day. As I'm parking my car at the hospital, I realize I don't have Rob's stroller. Steve took it out of the car last week so he could take Robinson for a stroll through the neighborhood (the jerk). I have a moment of slight panic, trying to imagine how I'm gonna hoof it all the way to my doctor's office on the third floor, lugging 25-30 bulky pounds of baby and car seat while wearing 3.5 inch heels for the first time in about eight months. It's embarrassing to look like you're struggling while trying to haul your own baby. Let's face it, I'm no teacup poodle. I look...beefy...like I could lift a car, and yet I'm huffin' and puffin' and teeterin' and totterin' trying to carry this bulky-ass car seat from my car to the doctor's office. Picture the bear on the unicycle at the circus, and that's me.
So there I am, five minutes later, successfully inside the hospital and aboard the elevator. It's just me (and Rob) and a pregnant lady. She looks wonderful. She's probably six or seven months along--she's very visibly showing, but she hasn't exploded yet. She's wearing a dress and cardigan with a pair of sensible heels. She looks chic and lovely. She's clearly on her way to a prenatal appointment, and I remembered the feeling of going to my own prenatal appointments--the hopefulness, the anticipation--even at it's most mundane, and when it felt like a drudgery, pregnancy is still a special time of excitement about being a sacred vessel who is bringing new life into the world.
Now I'm just a fat chick getting a pap smear.
Monday, August 9, 2010
That's Just the Epidural Talking
I've just about mined the topic of pregnancy and childbirth for all the blogging material possible. I have one, maybe two of these posts left in me. I apparently made a few colorful remarks during my time with the epidural. I'm not sure you can attribute it to the actual epidural. You can decide for yourself:
To the Nurse Anesthesist administering my epidural, who asked me to describe the sensation of a needle in my spine as "sharp" or "pressure":
"It feels like...you're all UP in my spine!"
To the Labor and Delivery Nurse, who gave me kudos for being a real trooper:
"I'm just trying really hard not to be a punk."
To my second Labor and Delivery Nurse, who asked me to describe how I was feeling after I indicated that I was in severe pain during hour ten or eleven of labor:
"I feel like my body has betrayed me."
[Blogger's Note: That nurse was at least 40 years old, and claimed that nobody had ever said that to her before.]
To my mom, who, after about an hour of watching me struggle through the pushing process, sweetly asks if I'd like her to pull my long hair into a ponytail:
"Absolutely not."
[Blogger's Note: by the time I was actually out of surgery and holding my baby, it was so late that most everybody had already gone home and I was too out-of-it to think of taking pictures, but I was told that my hair looked awesome. They even let me wear my hair down for my c-section instead of stuffing it into one of those blue caps!]
We watched 6 movies during my labor:
1. Forgetting Sarah Marshall
2. Napoleon Dynamite
3. Old School (Frank's wedding reception featuring The Dan Band's performance of "Total Eclipse of the Heart" was playing while my epidural was being administered)
4. Mean Girls
5. Anchor Man
6. Sweet Home Alabama
As it became time to push, Sweet Home Alabama was ending. The nurse thought this was weird, but I needed background noise and distraction and so I insisted Steve put on another DVD, and I didn't care what it was. His choice: Drop Dead Gorgeous, an indie flick/mockumentary/black comedy about a small-town beauty pageant starring Kirsten Dunst, Kirstie Alley, Ellen Barkin, Denise Richards, Brittany Murphy, and a then-unknown Amy Adams. So between pushes, I was being asked questions such as: "Is that Amy Adams?! Oh my God!"
To the Nurse Anesthesist administering my epidural, who asked me to describe the sensation of a needle in my spine as "sharp" or "pressure":
"It feels like...you're all UP in my spine!"
To the Labor and Delivery Nurse, who gave me kudos for being a real trooper:
"I'm just trying really hard not to be a punk."
To my second Labor and Delivery Nurse, who asked me to describe how I was feeling after I indicated that I was in severe pain during hour ten or eleven of labor:
"I feel like my body has betrayed me."
[Blogger's Note: That nurse was at least 40 years old, and claimed that nobody had ever said that to her before.]
To my mom, who, after about an hour of watching me struggle through the pushing process, sweetly asks if I'd like her to pull my long hair into a ponytail:
"Absolutely not."
[Blogger's Note: by the time I was actually out of surgery and holding my baby, it was so late that most everybody had already gone home and I was too out-of-it to think of taking pictures, but I was told that my hair looked awesome. They even let me wear my hair down for my c-section instead of stuffing it into one of those blue caps!]
We watched 6 movies during my labor:
1. Forgetting Sarah Marshall
2. Napoleon Dynamite
3. Old School (Frank's wedding reception featuring The Dan Band's performance of "Total Eclipse of the Heart" was playing while my epidural was being administered)
4. Mean Girls
5. Anchor Man
6. Sweet Home Alabama
As it became time to push, Sweet Home Alabama was ending. The nurse thought this was weird, but I needed background noise and distraction and so I insisted Steve put on another DVD, and I didn't care what it was. His choice: Drop Dead Gorgeous, an indie flick/mockumentary/black comedy about a small-town beauty pageant starring Kirsten Dunst, Kirstie Alley, Ellen Barkin, Denise Richards, Brittany Murphy, and a then-unknown Amy Adams. So between pushes, I was being asked questions such as: "Is that Amy Adams?! Oh my God!"
To Steve, who, between pushes is watching Drop Dead Gorgeous and asks, "Is that Denise Richards?":
"Yes, this is Denise's finest work, and today we celebrate it!"
To the Labor and Delivery Nurse who, between pushes, strongly urges Steve to look (at you-know-what), despite Steve repeatedly declining her offer:
"Steve has expressed his wishes not to look, and I support that!"
[Blogger's Note: this statement is met with a look of gratitude from Steve, because it finally shut the nurse up]
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Labor and Delivery By The Numbers
This is neither creative, nor writing, but I have to ease back into this blogging thing. So much has transpired in the past two weeks that if I devoted the time to writing real posts about everything, it would take forever to get caught up. "By the Numbers" was a little feature in Maxim, a magazine I used to read until Steve allowed his subscription to lapse in 2003. This will tell you in a nutshell about my experience with labor, delivery, and post partum without sharing too much information! Spoiler alert: childbirth is messy business.
Days past my due date: 5
Hours of sleep I got the night before the induction: 4.5
Hours of labor: 13.5
Hours of labor before asking for the epidural: 4
Attempts to administer the epidural: 2
Times I suggested booking the OR for a C-Section: 4
Labor and Delivery nurses assigned to me (due to shift changes): 3
Labor and Delivery nurses I expected to have assigned to me: 1
Movies watched during labor and delivery: 7
Cups of apple juice consumed: 5
Cups of apple juice consumed during the last 20 years (outside a hospital): 0
People I allowed to be present for the delivery: 3
Days I was required to go without eating: 2
Days I expected to go without eating: 0
Days spent in hospital: 4.5
Most consecutive hours of sleep since July 22: 3.5
Robinson's birth weight: 9lbs, 9oz
Number of pounds I've lost since the birth due to fluid retention: 10
Days past my due date: 5
Hours of sleep I got the night before the induction: 4.5
Hours of labor: 13.5
Hours of labor before asking for the epidural: 4
Attempts to administer the epidural: 2
Times I suggested booking the OR for a C-Section: 4
Labor and Delivery nurses assigned to me (due to shift changes): 3
Labor and Delivery nurses I expected to have assigned to me: 1
Movies watched during labor and delivery: 7
Cups of apple juice consumed: 5
Cups of apple juice consumed during the last 20 years (outside a hospital): 0
People I allowed to be present for the delivery: 3
Days I was required to go without eating: 2
Days I expected to go without eating: 0
Days spent in hospital: 4.5
Most consecutive hours of sleep since July 22: 3.5
Robinson's birth weight: 9lbs, 9oz
Number of pounds I've lost since the birth due to fluid retention: 10
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Showtime, Synergy!
I don't know. When Juno went into labor, she announced it to her father by shouting "Thundercats are go!" Remarkably, he knew exactly what she meant, and they zoomed off to the hospital (rather frantically, I might add). Since I learned everything I know about life pregnancy from movies and television, I assumed I too needed an 80s cartoon catch phrase to sound the arrival of the blessed child. I'm a big fan of Jem. She's truly outrageous. When she would transform from Jerrica to her rock star alter ego, Jem, using her holographic computer (as you do), she'd say "Showtime, Synergy!" If only I could touch my Jem star earrings (featuring remote hologram micro projectors, duh) and be magically transported to the hospital, into a designer hospital gown a la Tori Spelling, with my epidural already administered. I don't think that's asking too much.
Anydiva, Steve and I have spent the entire pregnancy speculating as to whether our son will be born looking like me, with a red pompadour, or like Steve, who was nicknamed "possum" during infancy because, well, he looked exactly like a possum.
Now I'm off to the hospital for some child birthin'. I'm all verklempt. Talk amongst yourselves. I'll give you a topic. Am I about to give birth to Possum Junior, or Mini Conan O'Brien? Discuss.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
No Baby Today, and No Baby Tomorrow
I've been saying since the very beginning of this pregnancy that I'm gonna go to the very end, past my due date, and straight on to induction town. Nobody believed me then, and nobody believes me now, because I still get lots of emails, messages, and texts asking "Baby?!?" Always with the question marks and the exclamation points. It's kind of funny, as if after all this time--40 weeks of pregnancy, a baby shower, a baby blog, baby Facebook status updates--that I would now conceal the existence of a child.
I'll be induced Thursday morning and by dinner time I should be holding a big, fat baby. He better be fat. I've been pregnant so long, he could be born with a full set of teeth and I wouldn't be surprised. I crossed a threshold when I passed my due date and transformed from calm and patient to miserable and disgruntled. I can't wait to not be a pregnant lady anymore. I'm especially excited to stop looking like present-day Val Kilmer and return to better days. Top Gun Val Kilmer, The Island of Dr. Moreau Val Kilmer, Batman Val Kilmer...I'm not asking for The Doors Val Kilmer, that's just too much to hope for, but The Saint Val Kilmer or Tombstone Val Kilmer would be nice. I'm just sayin'.
I'll be induced Thursday morning and by dinner time I should be holding a big, fat baby. He better be fat. I've been pregnant so long, he could be born with a full set of teeth and I wouldn't be surprised. I crossed a threshold when I passed my due date and transformed from calm and patient to miserable and disgruntled. I can't wait to not be a pregnant lady anymore. I'm especially excited to stop looking like present-day Val Kilmer and return to better days. Top Gun Val Kilmer, The Island of Dr. Moreau Val Kilmer, Batman Val Kilmer...I'm not asking for The Doors Val Kilmer, that's just too much to hope for, but The Saint Val Kilmer or Tombstone Val Kilmer would be nice. I'm just sayin'.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Insult, Meet Injury
Friday, July 16, 2010
All The Pregnant Ladies
I love me some parodies, and this one is good. It's a sassy redheaded pregnant chick (I guess I'm not the only one) re-creating Beyonce's "Single Ladies" while 38 weeks pregnant. I'm impressed with her vocals and her moves, her clever re-writing of the lyrics, and her ability to fit into a leotard. I would not be up for the task at this point.
Thanks, Jennye!
Thanks, Jennye!
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Chateau Samantha is Still Occupied
Apparently I provide such gracious and cozy accommodations that Robinson never wants to leave. I'm too nice to kick him out, so unless he comes to the decision to be born on his own, we're inducing on Thursday, July 22! I am comfortable with this because I like the number 22. The doc promised me that if we induce on July 22, I will have a baby in my arms on July 22. None of this making-me-labor-for-36-hours business. I'm grateful for that.
The baby and I are both doing well, so there is no medical reason to induce earlier. My doctor and I have agreed to try and let nature take its course. There are plenty of medical reasons to not want the pregnancy to continue beyond 41 weeks however, so that is why there is an induction date on the books just in case he doesn't get here the old fashioned way by the deadline.
I'm super sleepy today. That's why I haven't blogged about The Hills finale yet. George and I barely slept a wink last night, because around 3:30am, we both heard this really loud "boom" sound. I guess I've seen that ADT commercial too many times, because I immediately had an image of a strange man with pantyhose or a ski mask on his head trying to kick in my door to invade my home.
In my nightmares when this happens, I always try to hide or escape without the burglar seeing me. Also in my nightmares, I'm mute. When it happened in real life, George and I jumped out of bed and were running around hollerin' (I really tried to type "hollering" just now and I couldn't do it. Must be a southern thing). Well, I was hollerin'. George was barking. It was just the two of us. I couldn't believe the entire house didn't wake up. I made Steve join me in the investigation. Laney and Libby stayed in bed. They are the worst watch dogs ever. I felt kind of dumb later, because usually George runs around the house, barking all by himself and looking like a jackass and everybody just points and laughs at him, but last night we were both jackasses. It was like we had this one moment where we were on the same wavelength. Being on the same wavelength with George is about as cool as being on the same wavelength as Stimpy, so I might be losing my mind.
I suspect they're calling because business is down. I had to finally unsubscribe to their email updates last week because they were sending me emails every single day. It just reeks of desperation, like Lady Gaga's publicity stunts. I haven't been donating my disposable income to their cash registers for the past seven months, and now they're probably gonna go bankrupt and I won't have a place to shop for MILF attire. The day I go to the mall and their store is closed will be a sad one.
The baby and I are both doing well, so there is no medical reason to induce earlier. My doctor and I have agreed to try and let nature take its course. There are plenty of medical reasons to not want the pregnancy to continue beyond 41 weeks however, so that is why there is an induction date on the books just in case he doesn't get here the old fashioned way by the deadline.
I'm super sleepy today. That's why I haven't blogged about The Hills finale yet. George and I barely slept a wink last night, because around 3:30am, we both heard this really loud "boom" sound. I guess I've seen that ADT commercial too many times, because I immediately had an image of a strange man with pantyhose or a ski mask on his head trying to kick in my door to invade my home.
Also in "I've been pregnant forever" news, the friendly staff at Cache called to check on me because I haven't shopped in their store since December. They wanted to let me know there is a terrific sale going on now! In my pre-pregnancy days I was a loyal Cache shopper. What can I say, I'm a big fan of slutty cougarwear. Unfortunately, they don't manufacture their clothes in size: Goodyear blimp so I've had to do without.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Let's Play The Glad Game
Didn't we all grow up watching Hayley Mills movies? This is the part where Steve says, "When I was a kid, we only had two channels, and one of them came in real fuzzy." Then I feel guilty for growing up in a home with a VCR. Anyways, Hayley Mills was a childhood favorite of mine, and I fondly remember her classic, Pollyanna. If you also grew up without Disney movies in your VCR, or if your memory has been wiped out by recreational drug use, Pollyanna was a high spirited orphan from the early 1900's. She goes from living a modest lifestyle as the child of missionaries to living with her aunt, the richest woman in town. Also, her aunt is a frigid bitch. Some people in Pollyanna's position would have a case of the sads, but Pollyanna is unfailingly optimistic and cheerful. She likes to play a game she calls "The Glad Game", where she lists all the things she has to be happy about. This really pisses off the bitter old hags in her town. Spoiler: Pollyanna falls out of a tree, everybody realizes what assholes they've been, and the whole town plays The Glad Game. The End.
Well, in the final month of pregnancy, I've had moments of misery and self-pity, but as I'm entering my 39th week of pregnancy, I seem to have adjusted and learned how to accomodate the physical changes in my body. While I am at many times uncomfortable, I can't help but think of all the things I have to be glad about. After all, I've had an uncomplicated pregnancy and am merely days away from delivering a full term baby. A boy, no less. Just what I always wanted! And I didn't even have to log my basal temperature, use ovulation test strips, or consult a fertility specialist to get to this point. If that doesn't put a smile on my face or a bounce in my step, I'm in need of a stern talking-to.
Steve says, "The Glad Game sounds super-gay". Fair enough, it's a little more negative and perhaps mean spirited, but we could flip this game around and call it "It Sucks To Be Them". That's where we point out other people who have it worse than us and say to ourselves, "It sucks to be them!" I've been doing a lot of that lately, too. It helps to keep me from complaining. Here are some examples of people who, in the last month, have led me to think: "It sucks to be them!":
1. Lindsay Lohan
Tori begged her husband Dean to give up his juvenile, unnecessarily dangerous midlife crisis pastimes, and old squinty eyes refused to listen to her. Where did he end up? He ended up getting thrown off his dirt bike and puncturing a lung, landed in Intensive Care, and got a catheter stuck in his junk. And who's left worrying that she narrowly missed being a dirt bike widow? Tori. Also, Tori has wasted away to nothing, which makes her boobs look really weird. She blamed it on swine flu, but I'm beginning to suspect there's more to it. It's none of my business, but I think she looks really frail. Whatever the reason, for right now I'd say that it sucks to be Tori!
8. Lady Gaga
Steve says, "The Glad Game sounds super-gay". Fair enough, it's a little more negative and perhaps mean spirited, but we could flip this game around and call it "It Sucks To Be Them". That's where we point out other people who have it worse than us and say to ourselves, "It sucks to be them!" I've been doing a lot of that lately, too. It helps to keep me from complaining. Here are some examples of people who, in the last month, have led me to think: "It sucks to be them!":
1. Lindsay Lohan
This is Lindsay, learning that she'll be serving 90 days in a jail that prohibits makeup, hair extensions, booze, and cigarettes. Oh, and Twitter. Why don't you prohibit water and oxygen too, Lynwood Correctional Facility?! Everyone knows Lindsay can't survive without all that stuff. If I were in prison, I'd need cigarettes. I'd probably get a tattoo denoting my membership in a prison gang that I joined for my protection. Then my lawyer would be like, "Uh, Samantha, you were only sentenced to 90 days, of which you'll only serve 23. You really didn't have to take such drastic measures." Boy, would I feel dumb! I'm not cut out for life behind bars. It sucks to be Lindsay!
2. Mel Gibson
First he called a female police officer "sugar tits". After being stopped for driving under the influence. Then, while on a drunken tirade, he blamed the Jews for all the wars in the world. Then he left his wife of nearly 30 years, the mother of his 7 children, to be with a Russian woman he knocked up. I know that karma is a vengeful slut, but even I didn't know that Mel would knock the teeth out of said Russian baby mama, tell her she deserved it, use the N-word, hurl racial slurs at Latinos, let's see...am I forgetting anything? Mel is nothing if not consistent. Consistently hateful. His venomous words know no bounds, and I think he's pretty much insulted every gender, religion, race and ethnicity, insuring he will have no friends or supporters...except for maybe the KKK. Oh, and it's all on tape! All I can say is, it sucks to be Mel!
3. Jeremy London
At first I thought it sucked to be Jeremy London when I read that he was kidnapped from Palm Springs and forced to smoke crack and buy booze for gang members. What a nightmare! Turns out it was all lies. Lies! Jeremy is a crazy crackhead [allegedly]. Forcing a crackhead to smoke crack isn't torture at all! Note: if my Facebook status ever says that I was kidnapped in Cabo and forced to have a pedicure and eat hot fudge sundaes and drink apple martinis, call Dr. Drew. Time to ship my crazy ass to rehab. Anycrackhead, then I learned that Jeremy and his wife (the ventriloquist dummy photographed above) lost custody of their child, and that Jeremy ran away to a Ramada Inn and tried to shimmy up a palm tree. I can safely say: It sucks to be Jeremy!
4. Tammy Lynn Michaels
When I first saw Tammy Lynn, she was on a sitcom. You know, the kind that gets cancelled after a few episodes and you quickly forget the title of it. But I remember Tammy. She was funny! She gave up her career to be Melissa Etheridge's wife and give birth to and raise their twins. And what does she get? She gets unceremoniously dumped and left with nothing. That's cold, Melissa. Come to my window, and let me give you a piece of my mind: You wanna marry a woman? You wanna give her your name and call her your wife? You wanna leave that woman? You better be prepared to leave half of everything. It's how they roll in California. Unless you holla, "We want prenup! We want prenup!" Perhaps justice will prevail, but either way: It sucks to be Tammy!
5. Ed O'Neil
Ed was the biggest star to join the ensemble cast of ABC's hit sitcom, Modern Family. I agree with critics that it's one of the best new shows of the year. In the spirit of being part of an ensemble, Ed opted not to submit his name for consideration to Emmy voters in the category of Best Actor, but instead submitted his name for Best Supporting Actor. Come nomination day, Ed was the only member of the Modern Family cast not to be nominated. It's possibly the biggest snub of this year's Emmys. In many ways, it's great to be Ed O'Neil, but in this way, it sucks to be Ed O'Neil!
6. Jessica Simpson
Oh, Jessica. Poor, poor Jessica. Jessica wants to be an icon. Jessica wants to be a legend. Jessica wants to rule the world. Instead, she gets no respect. No respect at all. She's mocked for her music. Mocked for her films. Mocked for her television shows. Mocked for her endorsements. Her ex-boyfriends kiss and tell and nickname her "Sexual Napalm" (I'm referring of course to one ex-boyfriend: John Mayer). Guys she casually hooks up with pretend they barely know her (I'm referring of course to one Jeremy Renner). She's dying to be in magazines, but when she is in magazines, it's because they're reporting on how fat she is, or how nobody wants to marry her, or how Dallas Cowboys fans hate her, or how a coyote ate her dog, or how her new boyfriend is technically still married. I dunno. She's rich and all, but I still say: It sucks to be Jessica!
7. Tori Spelling
8. Lady Gaga
Lady Gaga is a highly celebrated, world famous pop sensation! How could I possibly think it's better to be a chubby preggo melting like an M&M in the hot Texas sun than to be her? Let me count the ways: 1. She lives in disguises--hiding behind costumes and an alter ego. That would exhaust me. 2. She constantly craves attention (if you attend a baseball game in your underwear and attend your sister's graduation dressed like a crazy beekeeper, something is wrong with you), 3. Half of America thinks she has a penis (the other half jokes that she has a penis), 4. Jerry Seinfeld thinks she's an asshole. 5. She was recently photographed falling on her face in an airport while wearing yet another ridiculous outfit and impractical shoes. The public consensus was "HAHAHA!" I think it sucks to be Lady Gaga, but it must have sucked even more to be Stefani Germanotta. Why else would she reinvent herself so dramatically? I'd love for Dr. Phil to get to the bottom of this. For those who think it's perfectly fine for her to be so eccentric, imagine this: What would happen if one day Steve began dressing in spandex and declared he wanted to be called "Lord GooGoo". He'd say, "What? I'm simply expressing my theatricallity". I would have my boo on a 5150 psychiatric hold so fast, Jamie Spears would say, "Atta girl!" That is absolutely insane. It sucks to be Lady Gaga!
Saturday, July 10, 2010
When Will There Be Nesting?
I've seriously been looking forward to nesting this entire pregnancy. After the nausea, bloating, mood swings, fatigue, and cravings that accompany pregnancy, nesting was a pregnancy symptom I could get excited about. I imagined waking up one day with this burst of new found energy, and I would set about the house cleaning and organizing everything like some kind of domestic wonder woman. I could picture it in my mind, and it was glorious. Like that time I took Adderall.
We thought I might be nesting a couple of weeks ago when Mom was in town:
Mom: You've been a lot more active today.
Me: Yeah, ya think so?
Mom: Yeah, you're really up and moving. I think this might be it. You might be nesting.
Me: Really? Well, I am getting more accomplished, but it doesn't feel compulsive. Know what I mean?
Mom: It doesn't? See, for me it was compulsive. But that's not how you're feeling?
Me: No, I definitely don't feel compulsive...I feel...diligent.
Mom: Diligent.
[silence]
Me: What if "diligent" is the closest I get to nesting? What if "diligent" is my "compulsive"?
The past two weeks I have been lethargic to the point of worthless, so I have let a lot of chores and action items accumulate because I told myself, "Ehh, I'll save it for when I'm nesting!" Yeah, my due date is in seven days, and while that doesn't mean that nesting will never happen for me, I am beginning to think I better drag my lazy bones out and finish taking care of business in case the nesting instinct doesn't kick in before I deliver this baby.
We thought I might be nesting a couple of weeks ago when Mom was in town:
Mom: You've been a lot more active today.
Me: Yeah, ya think so?
Mom: Yeah, you're really up and moving. I think this might be it. You might be nesting.
Me: Really? Well, I am getting more accomplished, but it doesn't feel compulsive. Know what I mean?
Mom: It doesn't? See, for me it was compulsive. But that's not how you're feeling?
Me: No, I definitely don't feel compulsive...I feel...diligent.
Mom: Diligent.
[silence]
Me: What if "diligent" is the closest I get to nesting? What if "diligent" is my "compulsive"?
The past two weeks I have been lethargic to the point of worthless, so I have let a lot of chores and action items accumulate because I told myself, "Ehh, I'll save it for when I'm nesting!" Yeah, my due date is in seven days, and while that doesn't mean that nesting will never happen for me, I am beginning to think I better drag my lazy bones out and finish taking care of business in case the nesting instinct doesn't kick in before I deliver this baby.
Unleashing the Idiosynchrasies
I'm 39 weeks pregnant and feeling great! Here's the scoop: I am due Saturday, July 17. I have a doctor's appointment next Wednesday, July 14. At that time, we will tentatively schedule Robinson's birth for the following week so we have a plan in case he doesn't arrive on his own by his due date. Normally my doctor would give me up to a week beyond my due date to allow nature to take it's course, but with my due date falling on a Saturday, she's going to opt to evict Robinson 3-5 days post due date rather than 9-11 days post due date. Makes sense to me.
It's entirely possible this will all be moot and that Robinson will arrive ahead of his due date, but I don't expect that outcome. I have experienced zero signs that labor is imminent, Robinson seems quite content, and my brother and I were both late arrivals. That, along with my "mother's instinct" tells me that we will be going in after him!
This leaves the possibility that I will have the opportunity to choose my child's birthday. I hadn't considered the possibility before now. This is where I start to reveal my weirdness. If my child is to be born the week of July 19-July 23, I definitely want to do it early in the week so that Robinson is a Cancer and not a Leo. No offense to Leos out there, but the simple fact is that Leos don't tend to like me or get along with me as well as Cancers do. In fact, if you're a Leo you probably already find me and this post annoying and should stop reading my blog. Having a child who likes me is sort of important to me. Don't try to tell me that he'll like me no matter what. I need a Cancer baby and that's that. Also, I don't think I like July 19th. It's not only an odd number, but a prime number. July 20th is better, but then he'll share a birthday with Billy Mays (the bearded pitch man who annoys me even in death) and Larry Craig (the self-loathing closeted senator who provides one of Steve's favorite quotes--say it in a deep, booming "man" voice: "I am not gay, nor have I ever been gay!") This leaves July 21. I like the number 21. It's a perfect blackjack score and it's divisible by 7 and 3. There are several notable people who share that birthday, all of whom are talented and influential, but also rather strange (Earnest Hemingway, Cat Stevens, Robin Williams). I can live with that.
So, if Robinson doesn't come into this world on his own, the way nature intended by Wednesday, July 21, we're hopefully having a c-section. I don't know if Doc is gonna go for the scheduled c-section, but I say if we're gonna schedule this birth, let's go all-out!
It's entirely possible this will all be moot and that Robinson will arrive ahead of his due date, but I don't expect that outcome. I have experienced zero signs that labor is imminent, Robinson seems quite content, and my brother and I were both late arrivals. That, along with my "mother's instinct" tells me that we will be going in after him!
This leaves the possibility that I will have the opportunity to choose my child's birthday. I hadn't considered the possibility before now. This is where I start to reveal my weirdness. If my child is to be born the week of July 19-July 23, I definitely want to do it early in the week so that Robinson is a Cancer and not a Leo. No offense to Leos out there, but the simple fact is that Leos don't tend to like me or get along with me as well as Cancers do. In fact, if you're a Leo you probably already find me and this post annoying and should stop reading my blog. Having a child who likes me is sort of important to me. Don't try to tell me that he'll like me no matter what. I need a Cancer baby and that's that. Also, I don't think I like July 19th. It's not only an odd number, but a prime number. July 20th is better, but then he'll share a birthday with Billy Mays (the bearded pitch man who annoys me even in death) and Larry Craig (the self-loathing closeted senator who provides one of Steve's favorite quotes--say it in a deep, booming "man" voice: "I am not gay, nor have I ever been gay!") This leaves July 21. I like the number 21. It's a perfect blackjack score and it's divisible by 7 and 3. There are several notable people who share that birthday, all of whom are talented and influential, but also rather strange (Earnest Hemingway, Cat Stevens, Robin Williams). I can live with that.
So, if Robinson doesn't come into this world on his own, the way nature intended by Wednesday, July 21, we're hopefully having a c-section. I don't know if Doc is gonna go for the scheduled c-section, but I say if we're gonna schedule this birth, let's go all-out!
Friday, July 9, 2010
Maybe My Baby is Psychic!
Ehh, maybe not. However, he could be born at any time and has wisely chosen to stay indoors. Did he know what events would transpire in the hours following my obstetrician appointment yesterday?
2:30pm Weekly doctor's appointment
2:41pm I arrive for my weekly doctor's appointment
3:15pm The doctor will see me now
3:30pm No baby today, and probably no baby this weekend, to nobody's surprise
3:45pm My car (Caroline) won't start
4:00pm It begins pouring rain. I am grateful to be in a parking garage. Yes, it's hot. And I'm thirsty.
4:15pm Hospital security guard unsuccessfully attempts to jump start my car
4:50pm Steve arrives and unsuccessfully attempts to jump start my car
5:10pm After calling several tow companies, I find one whose truck is short enough to enter the parking garage. I am slightly less grateful to be in a parking garage.
5:20pm We leave a key under my floor mat for the tow guy as instructed, and begin driving towards Sears Auto to drop off my other set of keys in their after-hours drop box.
5:40pm Steve says, "I think I locked your car". We turn around and return to the hospital to double check. In rush hour. In the rain. On the access roads, because of Steve's refusal to get a Toll Tag.
6:00pm We arrive back at the hospital. Yep, he locked the door. We unlock it and resume our journey to Sears. Yeah, I don't know why the tow company requested I leave a key and the door unlocked. A locked door and the absence of a key has never stopped tow trucks from hauling my car away.
6:30pm We're back home. As Steve watches me ungracefully shimmy out of the Tahoe (named Lola in case you were wondering) he stares at me like I'm a two-headed alien.
Me: It's harder than it looks!
Steve: That's what she said.
9:30pm The tow truck dispatcher confirms my car is parked safely at Sears Auto.
Today:
10:30am Jennifer from Sears Auto calls to say I need a new battery and new wire kit. Luckily, the alternator is fine. I will also need to take my car to Auto Electric Systems for a full diagnostic to ensure there is not an electrical problem with my car that will cause further problems.
As I said yesterday, Caroline is mighty fine, but I need a golden calculator to...tabulate the grand total for the towing, diagnostics, parts and labor: $543
So, while there is excitement in the air and questions of "Is Robinson here yet?" The answer is "Nope!" and I'm stranded at home with no car. Maybe Robinson is one smart little baby. I'd relax and stay put if I were him, too.
2:30pm Weekly doctor's appointment
2:41pm I arrive for my weekly doctor's appointment
3:15pm The doctor will see me now
3:30pm No baby today, and probably no baby this weekend, to nobody's surprise
3:45pm My car (Caroline) won't start
4:00pm It begins pouring rain. I am grateful to be in a parking garage. Yes, it's hot. And I'm thirsty.
4:15pm Hospital security guard unsuccessfully attempts to jump start my car
4:50pm Steve arrives and unsuccessfully attempts to jump start my car
5:10pm After calling several tow companies, I find one whose truck is short enough to enter the parking garage. I am slightly less grateful to be in a parking garage.
5:20pm We leave a key under my floor mat for the tow guy as instructed, and begin driving towards Sears Auto to drop off my other set of keys in their after-hours drop box.
5:40pm Steve says, "I think I locked your car". We turn around and return to the hospital to double check. In rush hour. In the rain. On the access roads, because of Steve's refusal to get a Toll Tag.
6:00pm We arrive back at the hospital. Yep, he locked the door. We unlock it and resume our journey to Sears. Yeah, I don't know why the tow company requested I leave a key and the door unlocked. A locked door and the absence of a key has never stopped tow trucks from hauling my car away.
6:30pm We're back home. As Steve watches me ungracefully shimmy out of the Tahoe (named Lola in case you were wondering) he stares at me like I'm a two-headed alien.
Me: It's harder than it looks!
Steve: That's what she said.
9:30pm The tow truck dispatcher confirms my car is parked safely at Sears Auto.
Today:
10:30am Jennifer from Sears Auto calls to say I need a new battery and new wire kit. Luckily, the alternator is fine. I will also need to take my car to Auto Electric Systems for a full diagnostic to ensure there is not an electrical problem with my car that will cause further problems.
As I said yesterday, Caroline is mighty fine, but I need a golden calculator to...tabulate the grand total for the towing, diagnostics, parts and labor: $543
So, while there is excitement in the air and questions of "Is Robinson here yet?" The answer is "Nope!" and I'm stranded at home with no car. Maybe Robinson is one smart little baby. I'd relax and stay put if I were him, too.
'Electronic Bitch Slaps'. Or, 'Sassiness Via Email'.
I've already told you all about my evil ex-boss, Ursula, whose evil ways caused me to say "peace out" to my job two weeks ahead of schedule. Well, my last paycheck was issued two weeks ago, and I emailed Fairy Godmother asking to have the check mailed to my house so I can avoid driving the 60 miles round trip while nine months pregnant to retrieve my check. Seems like a reasonable request, right? Well, I still don't have my check. How am I handling this?
Not well.
After a string of "Where is my paycheck?" emails over the past week between Fairy Godmother and me that are filled with reassurances that "the check is in the mail", and still no paycheck in my mailbox, this the email I received today from Ursula:
Smantha,
So sorry I assumed you would be in to pick up your check last week since I did not recieve a call from you. I had to look for it and only just sent it out yesterday. You should recieve it this week.
Hope you had a great Holiday week end!
Ursula
I kept her typos so you could get the full effect. You see what Ursula did there, the way she made excuses and turned it around and made it my fault? Yeah, I picked up on that too. Mommy no likey. I fired back and made sure to copy Fairy Godmother. I am substituting Fairy Godmother's real name with "F.G." Get it?
Ursula,
I see, so it's my fault I haven't received my paycheck. I'm not at all surprised you'd take the time to point that out to me. As for your assumption that I would call you, I didn't call you because I went straight to F.G., and on July 1, I received an email from F.G. stating that she spoke to you and you told her you would mail my check that same day. I trusted that you did exactly that. I thought at the very least, you'd delegate the responsibility of mailing my check. You're so good at delegating.
I will once again trust that you've done as you were told and that this matter will soon be resolved.
Samantha
Do you see what I did there? I basically called her a lazy, incompetent, lying bitch without using the words "lazy", "incompetent", "lying", or "bitch". Don't underestimate how immensely gratifying this was for me. I designed the email so as not to illicit a response. I mean, what can she say? Imagine my (somewhat) surprise when I received a reply from Ursula several hours later:
It is great hearing from from you. I am certain your anxiously awaiting your bundle of joy and are a bit stressed. I won't take your e-mail personally.
I seriously hope your doing well.
Take care,
Ursula
Once again, I kept the typos for your pleasure. This was actually her second attempt to send this email. In the first attempt, she had even more spelling errors and omitted words, and she forgot to copy Fairy Godmother. Now I can add "insincere", "weak" and "ineffective" to her growing list of negative qualities. Ursula can "take" my email any way she chooses, but any interpretation other than: "I think you're awful and look forward to the day you are unceremoniously fired" is incorrect. It's just like I've been saying for months: pregnant women are like Sophia from The Golden Girls. We are free to be as bold and outspoken as we want and everyone will excuse it because we're pregnant, whether we like it or not.
And I'm still waiting on my damn paycheck.
Not well.
Smantha,
So sorry I assumed you would be in to pick up your check last week since I did not recieve a call from you. I had to look for it and only just sent it out yesterday. You should recieve it this week.
Hope you had a great Holiday week end!
Ursula
I kept her typos so you could get the full effect. You see what Ursula did there, the way she made excuses and turned it around and made it my fault? Yeah, I picked up on that too. Mommy no likey. I fired back and made sure to copy Fairy Godmother. I am substituting Fairy Godmother's real name with "F.G." Get it?
Ursula,
I see, so it's my fault I haven't received my paycheck. I'm not at all surprised you'd take the time to point that out to me. As for your assumption that I would call you, I didn't call you because I went straight to F.G., and on July 1, I received an email from F.G. stating that she spoke to you and you told her you would mail my check that same day. I trusted that you did exactly that. I thought at the very least, you'd delegate the responsibility of mailing my check. You're so good at delegating.
I will once again trust that you've done as you were told and that this matter will soon be resolved.
Samantha
Do you see what I did there? I basically called her a lazy, incompetent, lying bitch without using the words "lazy", "incompetent", "lying", or "bitch". Don't underestimate how immensely gratifying this was for me. I designed the email so as not to illicit a response. I mean, what can she say? Imagine my (somewhat) surprise when I received a reply from Ursula several hours later:
It is great hearing from from you. I am certain your anxiously awaiting your bundle of joy and are a bit stressed. I won't take your e-mail personally.
I seriously hope your doing well.
Take care,
Ursula
Once again, I kept the typos for your pleasure. This was actually her second attempt to send this email. In the first attempt, she had even more spelling errors and omitted words, and she forgot to copy Fairy Godmother. Now I can add "insincere", "weak" and "ineffective" to her growing list of negative qualities. Ursula can "take" my email any way she chooses, but any interpretation other than: "I think you're awful and look forward to the day you are unceremoniously fired" is incorrect. It's just like I've been saying for months: pregnant women are like Sophia from The Golden Girls. We are free to be as bold and outspoken as we want and everyone will excuse it because we're pregnant, whether we like it or not.
And I'm still waiting on my damn paycheck.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
I Have Nothing to Say For Once
If you put your summer vacation plans on hold because I might give birth soon, go ahead and take that trip. Baby Robinson is exercising his option to stay in the womb for the duration. I fully expect to go beyond my due date. I'm doing fine, other than the fact I'm not sleeping well and am pretty uncomfortable most of the time. I spend my days eating, sleeping, and trying to sleep, and I walk away with a grand total of 7 hours sleep over a 24 hour period. I'm pretty worthless. Also, I'm craving sugar worse than Buddy the Elf. No good can come of this.
I'm blogging less, because I have less to say. I'm home alone with the mutts most of the day, so I don't have funny stories from work...or from any interaction with anybody for that matter. Y'all are bored with my dog stories. I have nothing interesting to contribute regarding the latest in movies and television. I'm neither Team Edward, nor Team Jacob, I have no vested interest in who Bachelorette Ali is going to pick, and I have no plans to see Despicable Me or Knight and Day in the theatres, though I have been subjected to endless advertising and promotion for these films. So, that leaves me with...a whole lotta nuttin'. I'm looking forward to seeing Danielle's weave get yanked out on The Real Housewives of New Jersey next week. So I have that going for me. Until then, I have a doctor's appointment on Thursday afternoon. I'll let you know if anything good happens!
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Things I'll Miss About Being Pregnant
I know, I haven't always spoken favorably of pregnancy. I haven't particularly enjoyed it, but that's ok. I would do it all again to bring this little man into the world. I certainly have a list of things I won't miss about pregnancy, but I thought I would take a break from being a Negative Nancy and publish a post about the things I will miss about pregnancy.
1. Never a bad hair day. Thanks to prenatal vitamins and pregnancy hormones, I have like, three head's worth of hair right now. It's shiny, bouncy, happy hair. Apparently hormonal changes after the baby's birth will cause me to lose a lot of it, so for now I am enjoying it. While we're on the subject of physical appearance, I'd like to give a shout out to my belly button. It's the one body part that hasn't disappointed me during this whole experience. It didn't get all big or turn into an outie. It's still a cute little innie, and it's the only thing about me that is cute and little. So I'm thankful for that.
2. Excuse to just sit. My "give-a-damn" is busted, so lucky for me people's expectations of me are at an all-time low and it's perfectly acceptable for me to remain seated, prop my feet up, and relax.
3. (Mostly) guilt-free eating. Pizza? Cake? French Fries? Might as well.
4. License to stay home. I RSVP'd "no" very seldom during this pregnancy, but other than those events like birthday parties and weddings, we did stay home a lot more than we normally would. I must say, I have rather enjoyed myself and I think Steve would agree.
5. Preggo camaraderie. There's nothing quite like it. I've made new friends and reconnected with old friends through the bonds expectant mothers share. It's been lovely. Learning that a friend is expecting, and later hearing "It's a girl!" and finding out the name they've chosen is more exciting for me than an American Idol elimination show.
6. The pitter patter of little feet (in my ribcage). I think the ability to bear children is a privilege and an honor, and the experience of feeling those kicks, flutters, and rolls from a little baby is indescribable and something that men (and women on I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant) will never know. And that is as mushy and philosophical as I will get regarding this matter.
7. Getting the last lettuce wrap while eating with friends at P.F. Changs. It'll never happen again.
8. Time to take care of business. Nothing incites a sense of urgency like the impending arrival of a new baby. We had a running list of home improvements that just continued to build like an avalanche, and since we've been preparing for the baby's arrival, all of those items became top priority and were completed in quick succession. Now we are bringing Robinson into a lovely family home and I have such a sense of accomplishment.
1. Never a bad hair day. Thanks to prenatal vitamins and pregnancy hormones, I have like, three head's worth of hair right now. It's shiny, bouncy, happy hair. Apparently hormonal changes after the baby's birth will cause me to lose a lot of it, so for now I am enjoying it. While we're on the subject of physical appearance, I'd like to give a shout out to my belly button. It's the one body part that hasn't disappointed me during this whole experience. It didn't get all big or turn into an outie. It's still a cute little innie, and it's the only thing about me that is cute and little. So I'm thankful for that.
2. Excuse to just sit. My "give-a-damn" is busted, so lucky for me people's expectations of me are at an all-time low and it's perfectly acceptable for me to remain seated, prop my feet up, and relax.
3. (Mostly) guilt-free eating. Pizza? Cake? French Fries? Might as well.
4. License to stay home. I RSVP'd "no" very seldom during this pregnancy, but other than those events like birthday parties and weddings, we did stay home a lot more than we normally would. I must say, I have rather enjoyed myself and I think Steve would agree.
5. Preggo camaraderie. There's nothing quite like it. I've made new friends and reconnected with old friends through the bonds expectant mothers share. It's been lovely. Learning that a friend is expecting, and later hearing "It's a girl!" and finding out the name they've chosen is more exciting for me than an American Idol elimination show.
6. The pitter patter of little feet (in my ribcage). I think the ability to bear children is a privilege and an honor, and the experience of feeling those kicks, flutters, and rolls from a little baby is indescribable and something that men (and women on I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant) will never know. And that is as mushy and philosophical as I will get regarding this matter.
7. Getting the last lettuce wrap while eating with friends at P.F. Changs. It'll never happen again.
8. Time to take care of business. Nothing incites a sense of urgency like the impending arrival of a new baby. We had a running list of home improvements that just continued to build like an avalanche, and since we've been preparing for the baby's arrival, all of those items became top priority and were completed in quick succession. Now we are bringing Robinson into a lovely family home and I have such a sense of accomplishment.
Monday, June 28, 2010
The Final Fruit
Hooray! It's my last trip through the produce department. Baby is the size of a watermelon, and I believe it. Steve says I'm not that big. I really don't know what he expected. There's only one kid in there. I asked if he'd seen bigger baby bumps and he said, "Oh, yeah." Mmm kay. Look who's an authority now. I've taken to referring to my bump as "the medicine ball" because it feels like I'm carrying a big ol' medicine ball with a tiny person tap dancing inside. It's especially heavy when I lie on my back, and rolling from side to side and getting out of bed is a well-thought-out and sometimes painful maneuver. I'm also plagued with nighttime leg cramps that make me think my legs are trying to quit my torso. Other than that, I'm good.
I had an ultrasound a week and a half ago. I've heard how inaccurate they can be at measuring. I've known babies who measured 8-8.5 pounds in an ultrasound, only to be 7 pounds at birth, and I've known babies who measured around 8 pounds and were 9.5 pounds at birth. For what it's worth (clearly, not much), it said that Robinson weighed 6 pounds 9 ounces and his stomach and thigh bone measurements were both in the 50-ish percentile for a 36 week fetus. So he's growing as scheduled. The head measurement was a whole other story. The ultrasound said his head measured in the 97% percentile for a 40 week fetus. This measurement, however inaccurate it may be, has me totally rethinking my baby's exit strategy.
There has been much conversation in our home as to whose head this baby would have. I have a giant pumpkin head, I can't even wear hats. Steve has a peanut head. Steve's not going to be pleased when he finds out I told you that. He's the first one to say he has a peanut head, but for some reason it's only ok if he says it. I've always said we're like Bert and Ernie. Steve isn't amused by this characterization, but dammit it's accurate.
left: me; right: Steve
I haven't seen my doctor in a couple weeks, which isn't typical for this stage of pregnancy, but she went out of town. I hope this means she will be all refreshed, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed when I see her on Wednesday. Her appointment scheduler said my appointment would be crammed into the mid-afternoon following a surgery, two c-sections, and several other appointments. Her advice: "pack a lunch." Not like I have anything better to do, but the waiting room chairs make my butt hurt. Oh well. I'm just waiting to hear the magic words: "Let's schedule a c-section!" Thanks to all the melanoma and pre-cancerous business I had removed earlier in the year, I already look like I did the tango with Edward Scissorhands. What's one more scar? Especially if my baby's head is bigger than a blue ribbon pumpkin.
Too Much Information?
I think most first-time expectant moms would agree with me that it is so comforting and helpful to have my own mom around as I prepare for my baby's arrival. Since my mom lives in Alabama and I live in Texas, I typically only see her about ten days out of the year. With a baby on the way, I've gotten more quality time with Mom than I am used to, but I had to go on blogging hiatus because, well...Mom doesn't know I blog!
Mom is a social networking hold-out. She finds it baffling that people want to share so much detail about their personal lives on the internet. In a lot of ways, I understand where she's coming from. We as a society do share a lot of information - from the intimate to the mundane - with friends, acquaintances, and even strangers via social networking tools like Facebook and Blogger. For the uninitiated, I can see how this practice could be viewed as bizarre. I have not helped matters in how I introduced the concept of social networking to her.
She once asked me to explain Facebook, so I described the profile page, the pictures, the ability to add "friends" and post status updates. I lost her at "status update":
Me: I can share with my friends whatever I am thinking or feeling at the moment: "Samantha is excited about the Sex and the City Movie", "Samantha is shoe shopping", "Samantha is craving a chimichanga". Then, one of my friends might respond, "OMG, I could totally go for a chimi right now!"
Mom: Are you serious? That sounds really narcissistic and self-indulgent.
Me: Hi, I'm Samantha. Have we met? Whatever, it's a great way to keep in touch with old friends. Remember Xxxx Xxxxxxx from middle school?
Mom: Sure. I haven't seen her in 15 years. How is she?
Me: Fine, I guess. I haven't spoken to her in years. But I know she had a ham sandwich for lunch today. And remember Xxxxxxxxx Xxxxxx from high school?
Mom: Oh yeah, that cute girl?
Me: Yeah. That cute girl. Well, I saw pictures of her newborn baby all covered in blood and afterbirth. It's like I was right there in the delivery room!
Mom: That seems so wrong.
As time went on, I continued to say things to her that reinforced her belief that Facebook is for weirdos bent on over sharing:
Me: Hey, guess what? So-and-so is engaged!
Mom: That's wonderful! When did that happen?
Me: About two hours ago.
Mom: You read that on Facebook?
Me: Yep.
Mom: How is so-and-so doing?
Me: She's one centimeter dilated.
Mom: She told you that?
Me: Yeah, she told me...and her 749 other Facebook friends.
Mom: She discusses her cervix on the internet with 750 other people?
Me: Uh huh.
So today, I'm talking to her about the other mommies-to-be who I know, and I am a surprising wealth of information. This leads her to ask me quizzically, "You don't blog, do you?"
Me: Oh no. I don't do that.
Mom: Oh, good. I think that is so weird.
Me: Totally weird.
Mom: I just cannot understand how people are so self-involved and attention-seeking, they feel the need to write down their innermost thoughts and feelings and post it on the internet. And then there are people who actually read it!
Me: Downright disturbing is what it is!
I realize that I'm 28-years-old and that lying to my mom about the existence of a blog is the dictionary definition of "loser". Given what she had said about blogs though, I didn't really feel like divulging that I freely publish every thought, idea, and opinion that crosses my mind, up to and including thoughts, ideas, and opinions related to my reproductive parts. She would find my complete lack of inhibitions surprising. I'm sure she'll discover my blog eventually, but for now I'll just continue being a closeted blogger.
Blogger's note: to my blogging buddies whose blogs are intended to share family photos, daily adventures, and your travels with far-flung family and friends, my mom does not think your blog is weird. Like you care.
Mom is a social networking hold-out. She finds it baffling that people want to share so much detail about their personal lives on the internet. In a lot of ways, I understand where she's coming from. We as a society do share a lot of information - from the intimate to the mundane - with friends, acquaintances, and even strangers via social networking tools like Facebook and Blogger. For the uninitiated, I can see how this practice could be viewed as bizarre. I have not helped matters in how I introduced the concept of social networking to her.
She once asked me to explain Facebook, so I described the profile page, the pictures, the ability to add "friends" and post status updates. I lost her at "status update":
Me: I can share with my friends whatever I am thinking or feeling at the moment: "Samantha is excited about the Sex and the City Movie", "Samantha is shoe shopping", "Samantha is craving a chimichanga". Then, one of my friends might respond, "OMG, I could totally go for a chimi right now!"
Mom: Are you serious? That sounds really narcissistic and self-indulgent.
Me: Hi, I'm Samantha. Have we met? Whatever, it's a great way to keep in touch with old friends. Remember Xxxx Xxxxxxx from middle school?
Mom: Sure. I haven't seen her in 15 years. How is she?
Me: Fine, I guess. I haven't spoken to her in years. But I know she had a ham sandwich for lunch today. And remember Xxxxxxxxx Xxxxxx from high school?
Mom: Oh yeah, that cute girl?
Me: Yeah. That cute girl. Well, I saw pictures of her newborn baby all covered in blood and afterbirth. It's like I was right there in the delivery room!
Mom: That seems so wrong.
As time went on, I continued to say things to her that reinforced her belief that Facebook is for weirdos bent on over sharing:
Me: Hey, guess what? So-and-so is engaged!
Mom: That's wonderful! When did that happen?
Me: About two hours ago.
Mom: You read that on Facebook?
Me: Yep.
Mom: How is so-and-so doing?
Me: She's one centimeter dilated.
Mom: She told you that?
Me: Yeah, she told me...and her 749 other Facebook friends.
Mom: She discusses her cervix on the internet with 750 other people?
Me: Uh huh.
So today, I'm talking to her about the other mommies-to-be who I know, and I am a surprising wealth of information. This leads her to ask me quizzically, "You don't blog, do you?"
Me: Oh no. I don't do that.
Mom: Oh, good. I think that is so weird.
Me: Totally weird.
Mom: I just cannot understand how people are so self-involved and attention-seeking, they feel the need to write down their innermost thoughts and feelings and post it on the internet. And then there are people who actually read it!
Me: Downright disturbing is what it is!
I realize that I'm 28-years-old and that lying to my mom about the existence of a blog is the dictionary definition of "loser". Given what she had said about blogs though, I didn't really feel like divulging that I freely publish every thought, idea, and opinion that crosses my mind, up to and including thoughts, ideas, and opinions related to my reproductive parts. She would find my complete lack of inhibitions surprising. I'm sure she'll discover my blog eventually, but for now I'll just continue being a closeted blogger.
Blogger's note: to my blogging buddies whose blogs are intended to share family photos, daily adventures, and your travels with far-flung family and friends, my mom does not think your blog is weird. Like you care.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
I'm on a Non-Plan Plan
It's already started: the mere sight of me walking is met with giggles and "Oh my gosh, are you gonna have that baby right now?!" I try to be good-natured about it. Half the time I'm not even listening, because I'm too busy chanting in my head, "Stand up straight. Don't waddle. Don't be that girl." over and over. Being graceful and (almost) nine months pregnant is harder than it looks.
I guess the time has come to mull over my "birth plan". I originally mocked the concept, then I decided it was worth considering, and now after reading thebump.com's "Birth Plan" pregnancy tool, I'm back to mocking it. What a "tool" indeed.
"What is a birth plan?" you ask? Here's what The Bump says:
"A "birth plan" is just that -- a game-plan for baby's arrival. You can never be totally in charge of your labor and delivery (childbirth is generally a pretty out of control thing), but a birth plan ensures that you and your mate are at least on the same page as your doctors and nurses."
Fair enough. So I hand my nurse and doctor a piece of paper that says "yes" to an epidural and "no" to letting my dad watch me push a watermelon out of my bajengo. Seems like a good idea. Then I read the six-page birth plan form, which includes such gems as:
I’d like to spend the first stage of labor:
[ ] Standing up
[ ] Lying down
[ ] Walking around
[ ] In the shower
[ ] In the bathtub
I’d like labor augmentation:
[ ] Performed only if baby is in distress
[ ] First attempted by natural methods such as nipple stimulation
[ ] Performed by membrane stripping
[ ] Performed with prostaglandin gel
[ ] Performed with Pitocin
[ ] Performed by rupture of the membrane
[ ] Performed by stripping of the membrane
[ ] Never to include an artificial rupture of the membrane
As the baby is delivered, I would like to:
[ ] Push spontaneously
[ ] Push as directed
[ ] Push without time limits, as long as the baby and I are not at risk
[ ] Use a mirror to see the baby crown
[ ] Touch the head as it crowns
[ ] Let the epidural wear off while pushing
[ ] Have a full dose of epidural
[ ] Avoid forceps usage
[ ] Avoid vacuum extraction
[ ] Use whatever methods my doctor deems necessary
[ ] Help catch the baby
[ ] Let my partner catch the baby
[ ] Let my partner suction the baby
"What is a birth plan?" you ask? Here's what The Bump says:
"A "birth plan" is just that -- a game-plan for baby's arrival. You can never be totally in charge of your labor and delivery (childbirth is generally a pretty out of control thing), but a birth plan ensures that you and your mate are at least on the same page as your doctors and nurses."
Fair enough. So I hand my nurse and doctor a piece of paper that says "yes" to an epidural and "no" to letting my dad watch me push a watermelon out of my bajengo. Seems like a good idea. Then I read the six-page birth plan form, which includes such gems as:
I’d like to spend the first stage of labor:
[ ] Standing up
[ ] Lying down
[ ] Walking around
[ ] In the shower
[ ] In the bathtub
I’d like labor augmentation:
[ ] Performed only if baby is in distress
[ ] First attempted by natural methods such as nipple stimulation
[ ] Performed by membrane stripping
[ ] Performed with prostaglandin gel
[ ] Performed with Pitocin
[ ] Performed by rupture of the membrane
[ ] Performed by stripping of the membrane
[ ] Never to include an artificial rupture of the membrane
As the baby is delivered, I would like to:
[ ] Push spontaneously
[ ] Push as directed
[ ] Push without time limits, as long as the baby and I are not at risk
[ ] Use a mirror to see the baby crown
[ ] Touch the head as it crowns
[ ] Let the epidural wear off while pushing
[ ] Have a full dose of epidural
[ ] Avoid forceps usage
[ ] Avoid vacuum extraction
[ ] Use whatever methods my doctor deems necessary
[ ] Help catch the baby
[ ] Let my partner catch the baby
[ ] Let my partner suction the baby
image via Everett Collection
I read six pages of this, folks. Six pages. I am not equipped with the knowledge or experience to comprehend or make a decision on about 85% of this birth plan. Here's a birth plan: how about I choose a board certified obstetrician, pay my insurance deductible and let my doctor guide me down the path she deems best? Is that too apathetic? My ideal birth plan involves a stork. Everything else is just whatever for me. I'm often asked whether I plan on having an epidural. In a word: yes. I am a girl who enjoys the luxuries and comforts of modern life. I speak to my husband daily on a telephone. I style my hair each morning with the aid of an electric hair dryer. I drive to work in a sport utility vehicle. I have plastic fingernails and my sun tan comes in an aerosol can. I had my first Botox injection at age 26. So what, now I'm gonna reject the pain relief offered by western medicine, bite down on a leather strap and push this baby out like the pioneers did? No, thank you. Childbirth is not the place I would choose to be "natural". I guess if you're someone who likes to take the Physical Challenge, natural childbirth may appeal to you.
I don't run marathons. I don't climb mountains. The closest I've come to wilderness survival is playing Oregon Trail in 8th grade computer lab, and do you know what happened then? I got typhoid and I died. I'm what you call an "indoor cat."
Oh, and spoiler alert: there's no medal ceremony after the baby is delivered. The Labor and Delivery nurses don't score the day's moms and award the ones who display the most bravery and physical strength and endurance. So, even if I did set my aside lack of rugged survival skills and adventurous spirit, there's no glory in doing so. No Wheaties box or nothin'. I figure I'll spend the rest of my life willingly making sacrifices for this little baby. I don't see the benefit in sacrificing my comfort and mental health to deliver him. [soapbox dismount]
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