I've got a daughter who gets the hiccups a lot.
And they tickle. Which means that occasionally, I just start giggling because somebody's tickling me on the inside.
A lot.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Imma tell you a little something
about being pregnant in the South in the summer.
You don't need to tell me it's hot. I know it's hot. I am currently carrying around my own personal heater who kicks.
Or, for an analogy that will make sense to those of you who have never been pregnant, imagine an extra twenty pounds on you. Yup. That's a lot of padding.
Here's what I want: I want a totally empty pool. I want to get into water up to my neck and just stand there. Forever, maybe, or for at least an hour. Maybe I'll walk around. Maybe I'll just stand there.
You know. Chilling.
You don't need to tell me it's hot. I know it's hot. I am currently carrying around my own personal heater who kicks.
Or, for an analogy that will make sense to those of you who have never been pregnant, imagine an extra twenty pounds on you. Yup. That's a lot of padding.
Here's what I want: I want a totally empty pool. I want to get into water up to my neck and just stand there. Forever, maybe, or for at least an hour. Maybe I'll walk around. Maybe I'll just stand there.
You know. Chilling.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Motherhood Lesson No. 1* (Okay, probably not the real first one I've learned, but definitely the first one I've blogged.)
I am starting to wonder why my bulging stomach means there is only one topic of conversation I can have.
Motherhood.
Subcategories:
1. How bad labor and delivery is. I won't go into too much detail, but "tearing" has been said to me more than once. Way to pump up the mom-to-be.
2. Women who have catastrophic things happen during labor and delivery.
3. Stories about their pregnancies and experiences as a mother. Mostly the pregnancy stories are negative (except for my friend M who always tells me how much she loved being pregnant and that really does make me feel somewhat sunnier about my swollen extremities and acne) and the motherhood experience stories run the gamut.
4. Breastfeeding.
5. How I'm going to deliver this baby (currently, I'm planning on a walking epidural, not that it's any of your business. Not that you have been nosy enough to ask, but people have, and I feel like the only people who have a right to ask that are the Merry Midwives.)
6. Diapers. For the record, disposable, and if you hate it you can suck it. I've done extensive research, and cloth really isn't all that more environmentally friendly, what with the energy wasted in washing and soap and stuff.
7. (And this is my favorite) How big my stomach is.
And I love my daughter. When she kicks, I pretend like I'm annoyed (and occasionally at 5am I am annoyed) but mostly I love it when she lets me know she's there. I'm so happy I'm having her, and I've started planning her nursery and buying teensy little hats and socks (the socks will break your heart) and a blue corduroy stuffed elephant because it looked like it needed a friend.
But I have been growing frustrated with the general public's inability to see past the protuberance and realize that I have a brain.
However, today I think I figured it out.
So I'm visiting my in-laws, and we stopped to pick them up some Subway. I'm in line, and I've already got my milk in my hand. There's a woman in line ahead of me about my age who looks at the milk, then me, and smiles. I smile back. It's nice to have a good choice acknowledged.
She orders a sub and a pizza, and requests an extra box to use when she splits the pizza amongst the kids. We chat about what a good idea that is. I get my husband to hold the door for her on her way out.
We order our food. As we're leaving, I see the mom and her husband and kids picnicking in the parking lot. She catches my eye again and waves like we're old friends. And that's when it hit me.
I'm in the Motherhood Sisterhood now. My application is signed and accepted and sticking way out in front. I'd been inducted and all that is happening in the mommy chats is, essentially, woman's wisdom to me, the neophyte.
So while I reserve the right to be annoyed, I am also grateful. It's nice to be in a club like this -- membership is international. We'll know each other just by sight -- no special handshake needed.
Oh, and when I am inducting new members, I promise to be more like M. Some (okay, a lot) of stuff will suck, but it will be worth it. And some of it will be awesome. I will tell you the truth about the stuff that sucks, though I will not focus on it, and I will do my best to help you focus on the awesome.
*I promise this won't become a Mommy Blog, though it will be hijacked from time to time (probably with increasing frequency through the end of this year.)
Motherhood.
Subcategories:
1. How bad labor and delivery is. I won't go into too much detail, but "tearing" has been said to me more than once. Way to pump up the mom-to-be.
2. Women who have catastrophic things happen during labor and delivery.
3. Stories about their pregnancies and experiences as a mother. Mostly the pregnancy stories are negative (except for my friend M who always tells me how much she loved being pregnant and that really does make me feel somewhat sunnier about my swollen extremities and acne) and the motherhood experience stories run the gamut.
4. Breastfeeding.
5. How I'm going to deliver this baby (currently, I'm planning on a walking epidural, not that it's any of your business. Not that you have been nosy enough to ask, but people have, and I feel like the only people who have a right to ask that are the Merry Midwives.)
6. Diapers. For the record, disposable, and if you hate it you can suck it. I've done extensive research, and cloth really isn't all that more environmentally friendly, what with the energy wasted in washing and soap and stuff.
7. (And this is my favorite) How big my stomach is.
And I love my daughter. When she kicks, I pretend like I'm annoyed (and occasionally at 5am I am annoyed) but mostly I love it when she lets me know she's there. I'm so happy I'm having her, and I've started planning her nursery and buying teensy little hats and socks (the socks will break your heart) and a blue corduroy stuffed elephant because it looked like it needed a friend.
But I have been growing frustrated with the general public's inability to see past the protuberance and realize that I have a brain.
However, today I think I figured it out.
So I'm visiting my in-laws, and we stopped to pick them up some Subway. I'm in line, and I've already got my milk in my hand. There's a woman in line ahead of me about my age who looks at the milk, then me, and smiles. I smile back. It's nice to have a good choice acknowledged.
She orders a sub and a pizza, and requests an extra box to use when she splits the pizza amongst the kids. We chat about what a good idea that is. I get my husband to hold the door for her on her way out.
We order our food. As we're leaving, I see the mom and her husband and kids picnicking in the parking lot. She catches my eye again and waves like we're old friends. And that's when it hit me.
I'm in the Motherhood Sisterhood now. My application is signed and accepted and sticking way out in front. I'd been inducted and all that is happening in the mommy chats is, essentially, woman's wisdom to me, the neophyte.
So while I reserve the right to be annoyed, I am also grateful. It's nice to be in a club like this -- membership is international. We'll know each other just by sight -- no special handshake needed.
Oh, and when I am inducting new members, I promise to be more like M. Some (okay, a lot) of stuff will suck, but it will be worth it. And some of it will be awesome. I will tell you the truth about the stuff that sucks, though I will not focus on it, and I will do my best to help you focus on the awesome.
*I promise this won't become a Mommy Blog, though it will be hijacked from time to time (probably with increasing frequency through the end of this year.)
Thursday, March 10, 2011
A blog update, courtesy of an email
Yes, I emailed most of this to my friend. Don't judge. I'm grading and pregnant and sick. That's right -- I have a cold right now (for which I can use nothing stronger than OJ and a humidifier -- sucks), and I am also trying to dig through a massive pile of papers to grade. Massive. Next semester, my policy on late work is officially changing to "if it ain't on time, don't bother turning it in, unless you have a note from a doctor, a judge, or a coroner." But on to the update:
1. I hate being sick.
2. Baby is probably okay, except that I can't see it, so it's hard to say for sure. I look like I have a beer gut, and while I hadn't told my students as of last week, some of the sharper knives in the drawer figured it out on their own. All medical checkups have been good (only hiccup came when I told my midwife I was having leg cramps, at which the most laid-back person I've ever met ramped all the way up to a mild raise of the eyebrows, and told me I needed more calcium. To put this in perspective, I equate this to another medical professional yelling "WHAT! GO GET SOME ICE CREAM RIGHT NOW!" Which is what I did.) My first cousin, who is approximately the size of a very tall cricket, is also pregnant, and still has her waist. I am doing everything not to let this get to me, since I've had to escape to maternity pants already.
3. Let's talk about maternity pants. Lately, I spend a lot of my time walking with my hands in my pockets, because most of the time I feel like my too-big mommy pants are falling down -- and sometimes they are. My mother, ever-helpful, suggested suspenders which I'm sure would make me feel so much better about this. But I read somewhere that anything tight on your waist (tights, pants, whatever) contributes to nausea and back pain, and I had/have both, so I chose to swim in my clothing.
What's going on with you fine folks?
1. I hate being sick.
2. Baby is probably okay, except that I can't see it, so it's hard to say for sure. I look like I have a beer gut, and while I hadn't told my students as of last week, some of the sharper knives in the drawer figured it out on their own. All medical checkups have been good (only hiccup came when I told my midwife I was having leg cramps, at which the most laid-back person I've ever met ramped all the way up to a mild raise of the eyebrows, and told me I needed more calcium. To put this in perspective, I equate this to another medical professional yelling "WHAT! GO GET SOME ICE CREAM RIGHT NOW!" Which is what I did.) My first cousin, who is approximately the size of a very tall cricket, is also pregnant, and still has her waist. I am doing everything not to let this get to me, since I've had to escape to maternity pants already.
3. Let's talk about maternity pants. Lately, I spend a lot of my time walking with my hands in my pockets, because most of the time I feel like my too-big mommy pants are falling down -- and sometimes they are. My mother, ever-helpful, suggested suspenders which I'm sure would make me feel so much better about this. But I read somewhere that anything tight on your waist (tights, pants, whatever) contributes to nausea and back pain, and I had/have both, so I chose to swim in my clothing.
What's going on with you fine folks?
Friday, February 11, 2011
Nice shoes, lady! or, a blog about vomit.
I'm pregnant.
I feel that this would have been obvious to the average person who knew me pretty well and saw me on a day to day basis -- if you had been working with me for the last two months, you would have undoubtedly noticed that I (1) stopped wearing all high heels and (2) stopped wearing anything with a waist, and (3) perhaps the most obvious -- I am not drinking coffee like it's a life support system.*
This means, of course, that I'm down to five outfits and three pairs of shoes. Maybe my new coworkers think I'm poor. Or that I don't care what I look like. I mean, they've seen me on wild hair mornings when I just don't have the energy to dry my hair -- or when I think the hair dryer might make me hurl.
You know, pregnancy is teaching me a great deal of humility. I had to tell my boss earlier than I intended for a number of reasons, most notably that the fall schedule was already being created and because I figured I should tell him in case somewhat reports that I am frequently in the ladies' ralphing.
The problem ultimately is (if you'll let me whine) that people are really happy for me. And I'm really happy, too -- but all I can feel right now is sick. Like I have the stomach flu all the time. So when someone comes up to me and is really overjoyed and says, "CONGRATULATIONS!" mostly all I can come up with is a wan smile.
Seriously, folks -- I will do an overwhelmingly gooey, happy, overjoyed post. Just as soon as toothpaste stops being disgusting. Promise.
*I swear Starbucks is going to send my husband a condolence card soon.
I feel that this would have been obvious to the average person who knew me pretty well and saw me on a day to day basis -- if you had been working with me for the last two months, you would have undoubtedly noticed that I (1) stopped wearing all high heels and (2) stopped wearing anything with a waist, and (3) perhaps the most obvious -- I am not drinking coffee like it's a life support system.*
This means, of course, that I'm down to five outfits and three pairs of shoes. Maybe my new coworkers think I'm poor. Or that I don't care what I look like. I mean, they've seen me on wild hair mornings when I just don't have the energy to dry my hair -- or when I think the hair dryer might make me hurl.
You know, pregnancy is teaching me a great deal of humility. I had to tell my boss earlier than I intended for a number of reasons, most notably that the fall schedule was already being created and because I figured I should tell him in case somewhat reports that I am frequently in the ladies' ralphing.
The problem ultimately is (if you'll let me whine) that people are really happy for me. And I'm really happy, too -- but all I can feel right now is sick. Like I have the stomach flu all the time. So when someone comes up to me and is really overjoyed and says, "CONGRATULATIONS!" mostly all I can come up with is a wan smile.
Seriously, folks -- I will do an overwhelmingly gooey, happy, overjoyed post. Just as soon as toothpaste stops being disgusting. Promise.
*I swear Starbucks is going to send my husband a condolence card soon.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Pardon me while I vent.
If you are the host(ess) you have certain responsibilities. These responsibilities include, but are not limited to: who, what, when, and where. If I am your guest, I really don't want to have to be in charge of making these decisions. I mean, I don't mind having input, but ultimately the work should be yours.
In specific terms, this mean that if I am coming to your house for dinner, and I've already told you our dietary restrictions, then I don't want to choose the meal from a list of ten. You are not a restaurant. Even if I hate it, I will eat it and tell you it's good.
And when I am the hostess, I will tell you when dinner will be served, what will be served, and where it will be. I'll handle the decision-making, because it's my event, and therefore my responsibility.
So please, pick a damn entree. I'd do it for you.
In specific terms, this mean that if I am coming to your house for dinner, and I've already told you our dietary restrictions, then I don't want to choose the meal from a list of ten. You are not a restaurant. Even if I hate it, I will eat it and tell you it's good.
And when I am the hostess, I will tell you when dinner will be served, what will be served, and where it will be. I'll handle the decision-making, because it's my event, and therefore my responsibility.
So please, pick a damn entree. I'd do it for you.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Studies in Gratitude
My friend the Kitchen Bitsch (or is it the Kitschenbitsch?) is vowing to post every day between now and the end of eternity January 1 about things she is grateful for.
I will try to join her, although let's face it -- I'm a slacker. Mostly I'm a slacker because this is some Deep Shit over here at The Door In the Page, and sometimes I just can't get into it.
Also, I'll be away from a computer (and also away from a Starbucks) for the next three days, during which time I will be holding on to my temper with both hands and praying that someone will walk in and say "Hey, I've got a venti nonfat Pumpkin Spice Latte with three extra shots and no whipped cream, and I don't even DRINK these. Anybody want it?"
It should go without saying that I would knock over my frail, nearly blind father-in-law to get to that lukewarm prize. Which I would be sooooooo grateful for. But at this point, it is only hypothetical. Do we count hypotheticals?
As you've no doubt figured out by now, I'm spending the holidayin the sixth circle of hell with my in-laws. One day, blogosphere, you and I will get into a contest over whose in-laws are worse, and I will win. I've only been taken down by a man whose mother-in-law went to prison for manslaughter. She killed her husband.
But I digress yet again. A thousand apologies. And now, in the spirit of the holiday, and recognizing that I would not survive this trip with my sanity and my relationships with my in-laws intact (and I only really care about maintaining one of those, but still) I give you five reasons I am grateful for the ways my husband tries to make these trips tolerable for me:
1. He checks the bed we sleep in for spiders for me. This is very important, because I am really afraid of spiders. Once, I went to bed before he did and there was a spider as big as my thumb under my pillow. I freaked out and sat on the floor and cried. And watched to make sure it wasn't coming for me. When Travis came in to bed, he killed it (and also its spouse) and removed all the covers to make sure they were all gone.
2. Speaking of bed, he encourages and enables me to bring my own bedding. I have a notoriously hard time sleeping anywhere but my bed. If I'm headed out to be a houseguest somewhere, I normally have to bring sleeping pills. Even if it's a hotel. The bedding in the guest room at my in-laws is a horrible synthetic that is supposed to look like silk but feels just gross and is hot as all hell. Travis and I sneak sheets and blankets and pillows in (we tell them I pack a lot) and remake the bed each night to sleep in it.
3. He takes me out for coffee every morning, under the guise that we need to check our email/call my mom to wish her a happy whatever-the-holiday-is/whoopsies I forgot my toothbrush so we're going to town to pick one up. And I get to go to the shell station, where the coffee is really good, and get a monster cup of java and some twizzlers, and the bathroom is gloriously clean and smells of pine-sol.
And speaking of food,
4. He manages to find a way that we can bring our own food. I know it seems weird to those who know me because I eat a lot, but I'm really picky. If it's gross, I won't eat it. After two visits in which I subsisted solely on driend fruit, granola bars, and pringles that I snuck, he hit on this idea and now we are a self-sustaining unit when we travel. (I'm drawing the line at a tent in the yard.) Every time we go we load up a cooler, and eat salads and sandwiches and homemade soup and fruit. They eat pork chops and the cheap version of velveeta. This time, I'm bringing Thanksgiving dinner, which we are looking forward to eating, and I suspect we'll all end up eating the same meal for once, instead of the awkward mealtimes that usually ensue. (Lest y'all try to report me to the Southern Council on Womanhood, I bring a gracious plenty of whatever it is I'm packing in the cooler -- enough for the entire family plus a few more. For reasons I don't understand, they opt for their own food. Whatever.)
5. He tries to keep me entertained. Here's what my in-laws do: 8 am breakfast. 8:30, TV. 11am, lunch. 11:30, tv. 4pm, dinner. 4:30pm, tv. 7:30pm, snack of dinner-like proportions. 8pm, tv.* Now, I'm not saying that I don't like to eat and watch tv as much as the next guy, but they prefer three kinds of programming, in order: Nancy Grace and her ilk, Game Show reruns, Country Music videos. Travis normally tries to find a way to get me out to go see a park or something around the time I get so restless I can't stand it.
*If my sister-in-law is there, we have to play a game of some sort that she has made up the rules to, and then have awkward conversations.
And that, my friends, is five reasons I am grateful for my husband. In the spirit of bird-killing that goes alongside Thanksgiving, I have successfully killed two birds with one stone -- I have made a list of five things about my husband for which I am grateful, and I have complained about my in-laws.
Happy Thanksgiving, y'all!
I will try to join her, although let's face it -- I'm a slacker. Mostly I'm a slacker because this is some Deep Shit over here at The Door In the Page, and sometimes I just can't get into it.
Also, I'll be away from a computer (and also away from a Starbucks) for the next three days, during which time I will be holding on to my temper with both hands and praying that someone will walk in and say "Hey, I've got a venti nonfat Pumpkin Spice Latte with three extra shots and no whipped cream, and I don't even DRINK these. Anybody want it?"
It should go without saying that I would knock over my frail, nearly blind father-in-law to get to that lukewarm prize. Which I would be sooooooo grateful for. But at this point, it is only hypothetical. Do we count hypotheticals?
As you've no doubt figured out by now, I'm spending the holiday
But I digress yet again. A thousand apologies. And now, in the spirit of the holiday, and recognizing that I would not survive this trip with my sanity and my relationships with my in-laws intact (and I only really care about maintaining one of those, but still) I give you five reasons I am grateful for the ways my husband tries to make these trips tolerable for me:
1. He checks the bed we sleep in for spiders for me. This is very important, because I am really afraid of spiders. Once, I went to bed before he did and there was a spider as big as my thumb under my pillow. I freaked out and sat on the floor and cried. And watched to make sure it wasn't coming for me. When Travis came in to bed, he killed it (and also its spouse) and removed all the covers to make sure they were all gone.
2. Speaking of bed, he encourages and enables me to bring my own bedding. I have a notoriously hard time sleeping anywhere but my bed. If I'm headed out to be a houseguest somewhere, I normally have to bring sleeping pills. Even if it's a hotel. The bedding in the guest room at my in-laws is a horrible synthetic that is supposed to look like silk but feels just gross and is hot as all hell. Travis and I sneak sheets and blankets and pillows in (we tell them I pack a lot) and remake the bed each night to sleep in it.
3. He takes me out for coffee every morning, under the guise that we need to check our email/call my mom to wish her a happy whatever-the-holiday-is/whoopsies I forgot my toothbrush so we're going to town to pick one up. And I get to go to the shell station, where the coffee is really good, and get a monster cup of java and some twizzlers, and the bathroom is gloriously clean and smells of pine-sol.
And speaking of food,
4. He manages to find a way that we can bring our own food. I know it seems weird to those who know me because I eat a lot, but I'm really picky. If it's gross, I won't eat it. After two visits in which I subsisted solely on driend fruit, granola bars, and pringles that I snuck, he hit on this idea and now we are a self-sustaining unit when we travel. (I'm drawing the line at a tent in the yard.) Every time we go we load up a cooler, and eat salads and sandwiches and homemade soup and fruit. They eat pork chops and the cheap version of velveeta. This time, I'm bringing Thanksgiving dinner, which we are looking forward to eating, and I suspect we'll all end up eating the same meal for once, instead of the awkward mealtimes that usually ensue. (Lest y'all try to report me to the Southern Council on Womanhood, I bring a gracious plenty of whatever it is I'm packing in the cooler -- enough for the entire family plus a few more. For reasons I don't understand, they opt for their own food. Whatever.)
5. He tries to keep me entertained. Here's what my in-laws do: 8 am breakfast. 8:30, TV. 11am, lunch. 11:30, tv. 4pm, dinner. 4:30pm, tv. 7:30pm, snack of dinner-like proportions. 8pm, tv.* Now, I'm not saying that I don't like to eat and watch tv as much as the next guy, but they prefer three kinds of programming, in order: Nancy Grace and her ilk, Game Show reruns, Country Music videos. Travis normally tries to find a way to get me out to go see a park or something around the time I get so restless I can't stand it.
*If my sister-in-law is there, we have to play a game of some sort that she has made up the rules to, and then have awkward conversations.
And that, my friends, is five reasons I am grateful for my husband. In the spirit of bird-killing that goes alongside Thanksgiving, I have successfully killed two birds with one stone -- I have made a list of five things about my husband for which I am grateful, and I have complained about my in-laws.
Happy Thanksgiving, y'all!
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