Monday, November 28, 2011

Getting rusty.

I haven't blogged in 10 days - and it shows - b/c I can't think of a single interesting thing to say.

Except that I dragged my creeky bones out of bed this morning for an OB appointment, waddled through the hospital and arrived just in time. For my appointment on...Wednesday.

But I'm glad I did, because since I was already there, I waddled up a few more floors to schedule a different appointment and they were able to squeeze me in for my regular twice-weekly quick and easy non-stress test.

Except Henry had a temper tantrum, which earned him most of the morning on a monitor, a bag of IV fluids, an exam, and multiple threats of an induction. Good. Times. I bet he'll think twice before he decides to do that again.

So when I'm not pleading with Henry to behave,


Bob Ross in 'paintin' in duh kitchun':


'Woking' with her friends AC and....DC:


and generally acclimating herself to Henry's impending arrival:


That is, when she's not "wunning fast in da yawd":


All kinds of heartfelt holiday posts forthcoming..

Thursday, November 17, 2011

It's my aeroplane.

Actually, no, no it's not.

I just read an article on Yahoo! where parents are bellyaching about airlines creating 'baby ghettos' on the back of a plane so that the crying and general shenanigans won't upset other passengers.

...The parents complain that their seat assignments get screwed up and they're constantly at the mercy of  other travelers to help their families stay seated together.
...They complain that spacious seating - best for privacy in diaper changes and facilitating squirmy toddlers - is too expensive for families to afford.
...They complain that they get the stink eye too often from other passengers.
...and that the airline won't check their big stroller, only their small one.

Allow me to introduce a foreign concept:

Don't. Fly.

Duh, emergency situations will present themselves where 'it' (the fresh hell that is flying with a toddler) can't be helped. Where you have no other choice. And friends, you'll just have to white knuckle it through, but...

Did you not think your life would change when you had children?

Did you think you'd be able to do everything you used to do as a goofy, stink-eye-doling, cheap Chardonnay-sipping, business class-flying single or couple, whose heads you skim with your diaper bag on the way back to the 'baby ghetto' at the back of the plane?

Seriously, shut up.

If you're flying for 'convenience' to be where you want to be for the holidays or for vacation in a timely manner, suck it up.  You're making the choice to go there. And while, yes, you did acquire three super human abilities shortly after the birth of your child - an impervious shield to the atrocities of poop, vomit and screaming - others have not. And those three things? Bad for business.

Don't tell me you haven't winced at the sound of a crying baby before you had one.

Yep, I'm lookin' at you.

...If you want to avoid the small quarters, the hours in the airport, the stink eye, the 'no privacy' for diaper changes, pack up your big ass minivan, arm yourself with juice boxes and Goldfish crackers and drive to your destination. If you do it just right, you might even have enough space for that mobile home you like to call a jogging stroller.

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

where I draw parallels between pregnancy and those fainting goats

The 36th week of pregnancy. The week that separates the men from the boys. And fainting goats.

Common sense and experience have been forsaken in the name of tallying up a laundry list of first-world problems I'd really love to rattle off to anyone who'll listen, but I don't usually... b/c:

I'd be remiss in not mentioning this not-so-rare jerk. Do you know her? She's at the grocery store, Target, the park. . . .

Jerk says: "How far along are you?"
Me: "36 weeks."
Jerk: "Oooh, you're almost there!"
Me: "He can come anytime he wants!  I'm ready to meet him!" (I swear, I'm delivering this line as good naturedly as possible..not all Gilda Radner/Wendy Whiner)
Jerk: "Oh, you'll be so tired in those first couple of weeks, you'll wish he was back in there ((motions to my stretched-beyond-all-recognition womb))."

Don't say that, ok? It doesn't help and could get you punched in the nose. Pregnant women be crazy.

With that in mind, I'll carry on.

I'm officially out of room. Wanna know how I know? Henry just kicked my sternum and it popped. Audibly.

And yesterday morning? I had to get low on a hospital bed because Henry's head is so far down that the ultrasound tech couldn't get a picture of it.

That, of course, came after a med student tried to measure the size of my uterus with ye olde tape measure. Mid-palpation/comfortable rhetoric about the exact location of my pubic bone, Henry punched him so hard that the med student yelled, "Holy crap!" and dropped the tape.

Speaking of breathing, every time I bend over, all of the air rushes out of my lungs and my "extremely long! how tall is your husband?!" baby cuts off all circulation below the waist, and I feel like I'm going to pull one of these:



I've developed a prehensile foot for picking things up off the floor.  Or when I can't be motivated to do that, I'll just stare and cuss. Nothing good happens after a 45 degree bend at the waist.  
Melissa & Doug, I've had it with your Velcro pepperoni. HAD IT. I'm thinking about firing up the outdoor fireplace just so I can bask in the glow of your wooden block pizza, wedding cake, realistic food groups and educational puzzles.

My friends Braxton and Hicks are coming hard and fast and unpredictably. They leave me uncharacteristically breathy and very Marilyn Monroe. Except not hot. At all. Maybe more like this:



There are no comfortable sleeping positions left. I compensate by falling asleep sitting up, then falling over (goat-like or drunk-like), waking up to my own snore/drool/dead arms and waddling through the house at all hours of the night eating extra strength peppermint Tums. I'm living the life of a Golden Girl.

I have only two shirts and two pairs of pants that fit. 

That's all for today. It's time for me and Harper to run to Blockbuster so that I can knock over another candy display with my belly.

Friday, November 11, 2011

Possibly Unpopular Opinion of the Week

Today, I'm thankful for all of the people who show their thankfulness in November by, each day, writing how thankful they are for frivolous things and publishing them on Facebook. Thank you. And thank you again. I am thankful.


Tuesday, November 1, 2011

how to tame a black cat

We've been practicing for a week, now.

We've watched many showings of the Dora Halloween special.

We bought ears and tail two weeks in advance so that she could warm up to the idea. Mainly, this manifested itself in my own (and Brandon's..which was infinitely more entertaining) wearing of the ears and tail. She liked for us to meow, also. "Ooooh! Deh's duh scawy bwack cat! Meooooow bwack cat!"  ((cue uncontrollable giggle fits))

We planned the costume with her normal clothes - not scratchy, not strange. Familiar. Unassuming.

Brandon was a doubter, "She's not gonna go!"

But, I talked it up all day.

We started putting on the costume one piece at the time at 5:30.

Black pants.

Leopard socks.

Black tutu.

Black shirt with cat face.

We had to appear apathetic - because Harper rarely wears anything I want her to - but with the successful donning of each piece of black clothing, my excitement grew.

When she let me paint whiskers on each cheek and a black heart-shaped nose and she started to meow and smile at herself in the mirror instead of scream in horror, I knew we were getting somewhere.

And as soon as the first princess and pirate came to our house for candy, she was ready to hit the trail.

I barely got her coat on in time - in a clutch & coordinating play, Grandma just happened to arrive yesterday with a double-breasted black pea coat that completed the outfit.

Stealthily and unbenownst to Harper, Brandon pinned a long black tail on her coat as we headed out the door.

I threw on her cat ears headband while she was busily examining the two pieces of  'starter candy.'

As our rookie stalked across the grass with her lime green pumpkin and up to the front door of our most friendly neighbors, we rehearsed, just as we had for a week:

me: "What do you say when they answer the door?"

H: "Twick oh Tweet!"

me: "Great! And how many pieces of candy do you take?"

H: ((silence))

me: "One."

me: "And what do you say after they give you candy?"

H: "Dank you! Happeh Hawwoween!"

Our girl had this down cold. She was so, so ready.

And much like her momma, the girl went on auto pilot as soon as our neighbor greeted her sweet and soft little knock at their door. Much to my (and Brandon's...and every neighbor's) delight, our rehearsals went out the window in favor of instinct:

She excitedly sat her bucket at their feet (I do not know why... but it was fantastic.) and said, "Hiiiiiii! Put duh candy, pwease! Dank you!"

Our plan was to go to 3 houses...

And after the 11th, she began to slow - weighed down by the considerable booty she insisted on carrying herself.

At the late hour of 7:15, a small, tired, 'scawy bwack' kitty cat - a seasoned pro - trudged back through our yard and proclaimed that she would like a few "de-wish-us tweats."

Happeh Hawwoween, indeed.