- It takes two to make a baby.- this one was usually said to me after complaining that men don't do anything during pregnancy and was usually stated by a man.Without specifying particular gender roles, one member contributes by downing 5 shots of whiskey and a maximum of 7 minutes, while the other endures 40 weeks of torture and 13 hours of intense labor. (Babe, if you read this, I'm totally kidding, you're the man.)
- It's all worth it in the end. - This one was like a cheese grater applied directly to my nerves. It's as if by saying this you're suggesting I don't understand the value of my own child's life. Chemotherapy is worth it in the end too once you're in remission, but no one said it was enjoyable.
- You look like you're ready to pop!- Shockingly enough, I own a mirror and while I'm only 15 weeks pregnant, I too have noticed I've transformed into a beached whale, but thank you ever so much for noticing!
- When I was in labor, much like the movie Saw, I was torn to shreds from one hole right to the next.- Dude. Why? Why would you tell me that? And for the record with modern medicine it's possible to forgo all pain with an epidural so I don't feel bad for you. (And to the ladies new to pregnancy, maybe you WILL need stitches, but your body was made to heal. You're not a zombie and wounds don't gape wide open and profusely bleed for the rest of your life.)
- I went all natural and loved every minute of it!- Well your darling husband begs to differ. During one of your more excruciating contractions you blamed his very existence for your pain, and then demanded a divorce and a gallon of morphine.
- If you slather vitamin E all over your belly you wont get a single stretch mark!- Not true. Stretch marks are genetic, and the only way you won't get them is if you are lucky enough to have been born to a mother, have an aunt or a grandmother who also didn't get them.
- You do know you're allowed to have a glass of wine or a beer once a day during pregnancy?- I could also ride roller coasters all day, go tanning and sumo wrestle if I felt so inclined, but why are you peer pressuring me? In case you've forgotten an untoasted, plain piece of bread made me nauseous, so what do you think alcohol is going to do to me??
- The first trimester is the worst, but don't worry, it goes by quick.- I don't experience life during pregnancy in weeks and days, I count time by ingested meals that didn't come back up, and seconds until the next nap. So, no, it's not going fast, and are you suggesting the third is easier? I weighed 200 pounds, I couldn't sleep, I peed every 6 seconds, I couldn't climb my own stairs, and there was a small human performing a kickboxing routine against my ribs, bladder and spinal cord.
- Get all the sleep you can before the baby comes!- During my last trimester with both babies I slept on average 2-3 hours a night. I didn't get any more sleep before the babies then I did after, and telling me to rest just infuriates me. It's 3 am, I'm running on fumes, and I HAVE TO PEE AGAIN!!! At least after the baby, when you are able to sleep, you can blissfully lay on your stomach. It's truly heaven for all of 15 minutes.
- I never bought a single pair of maternity pants.- Ya, we know. Your belly band is stretched to the limit in an attempt to hide your unzipped, unbuttoned size threes you've barely managed to yank up over your butt.
- This one is a silent opinion, but annoying nonetheless. The silent judgement you receive for having the baby blues. First of all everyone is hormonal after a baby because your body is raging with...hormones. I would never take postpartum depression lightly but insinuating a new mom has it because for no reason, she starts to sob at the dinner table is nothing short of ignorant. Postpartum depression is a diagnosed form of clinical depression, whereas the baby blues are similar to a severe bout of PMS. Either way, if you even vaguely suggest someone is suffering from it, your head will be ripped off and used as a new diaper bag. Just. Don't.
- What if you poop on the delivery table?- Oh please, this doesn't happen. Just kidding, it does, but when you are in the middle of squeezing a human being out of your V, does it really matter?
- Any advice on jump starting labor- None of it works, I have literally tried it all. Your kid is stubborn and will come when he or she is good and ready. Similarly two years later when you whisper hiss at them to climb down off the grocery store shelves, they will do so when they please.
- Any advice regarding pregnancy and child rearing in general- the moment a woman expels a kid from their privates, they've suddenly ascended to super nanny status and know everything there is to know on mothering. Especially when it comes to women just a mere two weeks behind. They just know. (Rolling my eyes...)
- You shouldn't be so ungrateful, I would love to be where you are right now.- Perhaps that's true, and my heart goes out to you, but would you please trade me places when I am vomiting so violently I simultaneously piss my pants and start bleeding from my nose?
- I was all belly!- I hate to be the one to break it to ya sister, but you were belly, butt, thigh, boob, face and ankle too.
Tuesday, April 15, 2014
Please don't ever utter these words to a pregnant woman.
When I was pregnant, almost everything annoyed me. The sound of people breathing, skinny people, rainbows, puppies...But there were a few things that irritated me more than others. I was inundated with comments, advice and opinions from everyone under the sun, and I have created a list of the opinions held by some that put them at risk of physical injury.
Sunday, April 13, 2014
WWCD
I profess to be a Christian, and I try to lead the life of one, however, we are all human and we all think and act like humans. That means that we are outrageous a-holes most of the time. I have been taking my kiddos to church with me, and for the most part I really enjoy it and so does my son, who I send off to Sunday School. The church I attend is rather large, so all the kids get special badges with special codes imprinted on the name tags and the parents then receive matching codes so that no one can steal your child while you are in the sanctuary. I think it's great, but for some reason the kiosks and the badge printers never seem to work for me, so I spend fifteen minutes punching letters into the touch-screen, swearing under my breath, forgetting where I am.
After everything is printed and documented and sent off in plain manilla folders to CIA head quarters, your next step is to sign your child into their specific classroom. When I first took Dominic I clearly gave our mother-son bond far too much credit, because I expected a tearful good-bye where the teacher would have to pry him from my arms, but he ran away from me, stood at the doorway and reached his arms up waiting for the Sunday school teacher to lift him up over the baby gate and into the classroom. I waved farewell to the the back of his head. He didn't even remember who he came with. Standing in between the one year old and the two year old classrooms is a rotund woman with peroxide blonde hair, a blue tooth piece in her ear, a clip board and just enough power to be truly infuriating. She barks at the parents and taps her pen impatiently trying to herd little toddlers into their appropriately aged class. It seems to me like perhaps any literate parent who knows how old their own child is can easily perform this task on their own but "Maude", ( I rechristened her. She reminds me of the mean lunch lady from elementary school... totally not cut out for work with children. Pit bulls, convicts and perhaps sharks are more her calling.) stands there each Sunday pointing and yelling.
As I dejectedly walk away from the first-born who has completely abandoned me, I remember I need to sign him in on a paper that asks for information that may be needed during the time they are in charge of my son. I sign his name, his age and in the spot reserved for allergies and other important medical history I write, "He's a punk :)". Maude will enjoy that I think. I then follow my dad, who is with me this week, to the small cafe the church houses where he buys a muffin, takes a bite and tells me how gross it is.
"It's banana! Ew!" Apparently instead of asking what kind of muffin, he just pointed at one. Maybe he was hoping for manna, given where we were. He finished off his coffee and his muffin and we entered the gigantic sanctuary that is quickly filling with people of all kinds. I love that my church is lax on dress code, but if you don't have time to brush your teeth and hair and change out of your pajamas, maybe Bedside Baptist should've been your choice church today. I am completely for worshiping just as you are, but I'm not sure it is meant to be taken as literally as some take it. I flip my hair and think to myself how on top of things I am, showing up looking decent, with two perfect children and my dad, ready to get my spiritual fill for the week.
Just as I am congratulating myself, my husband's ex girlfriend walks past us, and sits very nearly right behind us! I can't be positive it was her, we have never met, and I've never seen her in "real-life", but after some moderate Facebook research, I can be fairly certain, it was her. Well now what? I have to spend the entire hour sucking in my gut and flexing my buttcheeks. And for those of you reading this and thinking to yourselves how disgusting it is of me to participate in such petty behavior in church of all places, well, good for you, for being the most perfect humans alive! I made you some gluten-free, all organic eggplant brownies for your outstanding personalities!
I tried to whisper to my dad what was going on, and he pointed and stared excruciatingly obviously, and whisper shouted "what?!?!" ten times. I decided to myself that I was acting like a 13 year old, so I let it go, and paid rapt attention to the sermon, which would've been wonderful had it not been marred by my three month old spitting up all over my super cute, yet conservative, jean jacket. I swung my hair over the puke to hide it, only to smear the regurgitated formula into my locks. Things were not going as planned. Here I was being the epitome of religious, I showed up, I judged the people who were literally wearing pajamas, I was passive-aggressive with Maude and I was attempting to show off when I saw someone I felt threatened by. I wouldn't even take communion today because the bread was all clumped together in one gross, bacteria and virus-filled basket and I reasoned that now was not a good time to get sick.
When all was said and done the last song of the sermon was being sung, I realized what today was even about. Christ coming to Earth to pay for our sins. All of us. Mean, old Maude, those without fashion sense, all of us. I had wasted the entire time acting like a complete brat, instead of being truly grateful for what God had done for us. I made fun of everything, including the banana muffin. I was ashamed. As the saying goes, pride goes before a fall. My daughter throwing up on me was a way to bring me back to Earth. I was just like every single person in the room with me. I felt humbled to have realized when I did how I was thinking and acting. Even worse was getting my son from his class and see him happily waving a palm branch around. Like the palm branch, we are to lay our insecurities, our judgements, and our agendas down and focus solely on Jesus. I realize we as people as far from perfect, and life is a crazy roller coaster ride, but this Easter think of my jean jacket, and Maude and remember what and who you are celebrating, and why. Happy Easter readers!
After everything is printed and documented and sent off in plain manilla folders to CIA head quarters, your next step is to sign your child into their specific classroom. When I first took Dominic I clearly gave our mother-son bond far too much credit, because I expected a tearful good-bye where the teacher would have to pry him from my arms, but he ran away from me, stood at the doorway and reached his arms up waiting for the Sunday school teacher to lift him up over the baby gate and into the classroom. I waved farewell to the the back of his head. He didn't even remember who he came with. Standing in between the one year old and the two year old classrooms is a rotund woman with peroxide blonde hair, a blue tooth piece in her ear, a clip board and just enough power to be truly infuriating. She barks at the parents and taps her pen impatiently trying to herd little toddlers into their appropriately aged class. It seems to me like perhaps any literate parent who knows how old their own child is can easily perform this task on their own but "Maude", ( I rechristened her. She reminds me of the mean lunch lady from elementary school... totally not cut out for work with children. Pit bulls, convicts and perhaps sharks are more her calling.) stands there each Sunday pointing and yelling.
As I dejectedly walk away from the first-born who has completely abandoned me, I remember I need to sign him in on a paper that asks for information that may be needed during the time they are in charge of my son. I sign his name, his age and in the spot reserved for allergies and other important medical history I write, "He's a punk :)". Maude will enjoy that I think. I then follow my dad, who is with me this week, to the small cafe the church houses where he buys a muffin, takes a bite and tells me how gross it is.
"It's banana! Ew!" Apparently instead of asking what kind of muffin, he just pointed at one. Maybe he was hoping for manna, given where we were. He finished off his coffee and his muffin and we entered the gigantic sanctuary that is quickly filling with people of all kinds. I love that my church is lax on dress code, but if you don't have time to brush your teeth and hair and change out of your pajamas, maybe Bedside Baptist should've been your choice church today. I am completely for worshiping just as you are, but I'm not sure it is meant to be taken as literally as some take it. I flip my hair and think to myself how on top of things I am, showing up looking decent, with two perfect children and my dad, ready to get my spiritual fill for the week.
Just as I am congratulating myself, my husband's ex girlfriend walks past us, and sits very nearly right behind us! I can't be positive it was her, we have never met, and I've never seen her in "real-life", but after some moderate Facebook research, I can be fairly certain, it was her. Well now what? I have to spend the entire hour sucking in my gut and flexing my buttcheeks. And for those of you reading this and thinking to yourselves how disgusting it is of me to participate in such petty behavior in church of all places, well, good for you, for being the most perfect humans alive! I made you some gluten-free, all organic eggplant brownies for your outstanding personalities!
I tried to whisper to my dad what was going on, and he pointed and stared excruciatingly obviously, and whisper shouted "what?!?!" ten times. I decided to myself that I was acting like a 13 year old, so I let it go, and paid rapt attention to the sermon, which would've been wonderful had it not been marred by my three month old spitting up all over my super cute, yet conservative, jean jacket. I swung my hair over the puke to hide it, only to smear the regurgitated formula into my locks. Things were not going as planned. Here I was being the epitome of religious, I showed up, I judged the people who were literally wearing pajamas, I was passive-aggressive with Maude and I was attempting to show off when I saw someone I felt threatened by. I wouldn't even take communion today because the bread was all clumped together in one gross, bacteria and virus-filled basket and I reasoned that now was not a good time to get sick.
When all was said and done the last song of the sermon was being sung, I realized what today was even about. Christ coming to Earth to pay for our sins. All of us. Mean, old Maude, those without fashion sense, all of us. I had wasted the entire time acting like a complete brat, instead of being truly grateful for what God had done for us. I made fun of everything, including the banana muffin. I was ashamed. As the saying goes, pride goes before a fall. My daughter throwing up on me was a way to bring me back to Earth. I was just like every single person in the room with me. I felt humbled to have realized when I did how I was thinking and acting. Even worse was getting my son from his class and see him happily waving a palm branch around. Like the palm branch, we are to lay our insecurities, our judgements, and our agendas down and focus solely on Jesus. I realize we as people as far from perfect, and life is a crazy roller coaster ride, but this Easter think of my jean jacket, and Maude and remember what and who you are celebrating, and why. Happy Easter readers!
Wednesday, April 9, 2014
Easter Bunnies, tantrums and Lo Mien.
The day started out positive enough. We were going to go to the mall, visit the Easter Bunny, capture the adorable memory in photo form for 76 dollars a piece, and then eat at the food court and buy our son some new birthday shoes. While I primped in the bathroom, my husband was wrangling the kids. I sent him a text from two rooms over listing several things he would need to remember to pack, because in a matter of two hours, you always end up needing 7 diapers, 4 bottles, the sippy cup with Spongebob on it and baby wipes, the cure-all for every mess imaginable. When we were finally set to walk out the door, luggage in hand, the dog, who has severe separation anxiety, prepared herself for the panic attack she was going to have before we even left and took a dump in the hallway. So I set everything down, and cleaned it up, all the while muttering unspeakable curses to the dog, who was shaking in the corner like some kind of mentally ill canine weirdo. Once that was taken care of, we all had to slowly step-by-step go down the basement steps, because my two year old son is Mr. Independent and likes to descend the steep staircase on his own. If you attempt to assist him, he will thrash and kick until you drop him on his head and let him roll down to the bottom. Broken bones not being on the agenda, we just sigh loudly and allow him to tyrannize us.
We all then piled into the car where the two year old converted himself to a two-by-four, refusing to use any kind of flexibility to help us strap him into his car seat. The seat-belt song I sing didn't even work this time. "We all have to wear seat belts, yes we do! We all have to wear them, it's safer for you!" He then had the audacity to cover his ears, which implied my singing voice was bothering him. As if his stubborn, anti-seat belt act of defiance wasn't bothering me in the slightest! At this point in the trip we were still in our own garage and I was panting and sweating already. I don't know why I ever bother to attempt to look decent, I always sweat my make-up off before we even leave. As we pulled into the mall's parking lot, my husband circled the place three times, hoping to snag the parking spot reserved for pregnant women and young families, and as we hone in on one, a young twit pulls in, with no belly bump, no kids, and a cigarette hanging from her lip glossed mouth. As I curse her under my breath, worse than I did my dog, my husband parked three miles from the entrance.
We have one stroller designed for one child, which means that my son has to be a big boy and walk everywhere on his own. Thankfully, usually this isn't a problem, unless he decides to inspect chewed gum on the ground or jump into a filthy puddle. We were now an hour into our journey, and we had just entered the building, like a miniature parade. We load the stroller with so much STUFF, it nearly could pass as a float, and since my son likes to throw things at people, we truly are a parade of four when we go places. We made a bee-line for the Easter Bunny because I wanted darling pictures of the kids with him before they ruined their hair and clothes with ketchup and other stain-worthy condiments.
The Easter Bunny is a massive costumed man or woman, who besides being a heavy mouth-breather, is disturbingly mute. Even to the parents. I tried to ask him a question and his vacant eyes stare back in silence. The photographer speaks for him, and tells me to place both kids on each one of his knees, and then she will take the picture for me. My three month old complies, mainly because she can't move, and has no choice, but my two year old runs wildly in the opposite direction, terrified. Understandably so, the bunny was a monstrosity and his silence was giving me the creeps. While I attempted to chase after him, my daughter's pacifier fell out and she began to wail. So what did my husband do?!? He sanitized it by sticking it into his own mouth from off the mall floor, and then shoving it back into our daughter's mouth!
The "photographer" had given up pretending to think my son's behavior was cute and started to sigh and roll her eyes, so I gave up on him being in the picture, and had her snap one of just my daughter. We paid 94 dollars for an atrocious photograph of my three month old and the Bunny, and walked away, defeated. Our next stop was the shoe store. Our son immediately moved all the toddler shoes within reach off the shelf and replaced them with men's running shoes. We found a pair we liked for him,on sale of course, and while my husband tried to get him to try them on, my daughter started to scream. I grabbed her diaper bag, thinking it would be an easy-fix. I would make her a bottle and she would settle.
Well, wouldn't you know, because I had forgotten to specifically include bottles on my text-list I sent my husband that morning, he had only packed formula and water, and NO bottles. Through gritted teeth, and in hushed tones, we fought with each other over who was to blame for this massive screw-up. All the while, my son is running through the store barefoot and my daughter is screaming still, only more urgently. We had successfully irritated every employee and customer in the store and once we had gotten shoes back on our son, we left the store dragging him along by the arm behind us, still fighting bitterly over who caused our daughter to go hungry.
What had started as a fun family outing had turned into a family brawl in the food court. I was starving to death at this point so I ordered my food and sat down, pretending not to know any of them. I did however, have to figure out how to feed my daughter, so I mixed formula and water in a Styrofoam cup and spoon-fed her. My husband was mortified I was publicly displaying such white trash behavior, but when I hissed at him, reminding him who had forgotten the bottle, the insults ceased. He refused to eat, apparently too worked-up and embarrassed, but I shrugged it off and enjoyed my Lo Mien. I offered some to my son who threw it to the floor and fought tooth and nail to escape the filthy mall high chair we had practically tied him to, so again, I ignored him, and proceeded to also enjoy my egg roll.
The trip had been a disaster. I had no positive way to end my story, because we left furious with each other, and the teenager at the door who callously ignored us and wouldn't hold the door got an earful. We threw everything and everyone into the car and drove home. Then we put everyone to bed for a nap, and didn't talk to one another for an hour. I had no way to positively spin the day into some kind of cutesy life lesson. Sometimes having kids just isn't fun. And sometimes it's too soon to laugh it off, so I waited a few days before I wrote it all down, and like I hoped, I now can look on it with affection and I guess days like that, make the good days that much better. Already the memory is a funny one, and I did end up with a hilarious picture of my daughter and the Bunny. Sometimes you just have to take a breath, wait a few days, and look back with fresh eyes. And would you look at that! I was able to make it a happy ending!
We all then piled into the car where the two year old converted himself to a two-by-four, refusing to use any kind of flexibility to help us strap him into his car seat. The seat-belt song I sing didn't even work this time. "We all have to wear seat belts, yes we do! We all have to wear them, it's safer for you!" He then had the audacity to cover his ears, which implied my singing voice was bothering him. As if his stubborn, anti-seat belt act of defiance wasn't bothering me in the slightest! At this point in the trip we were still in our own garage and I was panting and sweating already. I don't know why I ever bother to attempt to look decent, I always sweat my make-up off before we even leave. As we pulled into the mall's parking lot, my husband circled the place three times, hoping to snag the parking spot reserved for pregnant women and young families, and as we hone in on one, a young twit pulls in, with no belly bump, no kids, and a cigarette hanging from her lip glossed mouth. As I curse her under my breath, worse than I did my dog, my husband parked three miles from the entrance.
We have one stroller designed for one child, which means that my son has to be a big boy and walk everywhere on his own. Thankfully, usually this isn't a problem, unless he decides to inspect chewed gum on the ground or jump into a filthy puddle. We were now an hour into our journey, and we had just entered the building, like a miniature parade. We load the stroller with so much STUFF, it nearly could pass as a float, and since my son likes to throw things at people, we truly are a parade of four when we go places. We made a bee-line for the Easter Bunny because I wanted darling pictures of the kids with him before they ruined their hair and clothes with ketchup and other stain-worthy condiments.
The Easter Bunny is a massive costumed man or woman, who besides being a heavy mouth-breather, is disturbingly mute. Even to the parents. I tried to ask him a question and his vacant eyes stare back in silence. The photographer speaks for him, and tells me to place both kids on each one of his knees, and then she will take the picture for me. My three month old complies, mainly because she can't move, and has no choice, but my two year old runs wildly in the opposite direction, terrified. Understandably so, the bunny was a monstrosity and his silence was giving me the creeps. While I attempted to chase after him, my daughter's pacifier fell out and she began to wail. So what did my husband do?!? He sanitized it by sticking it into his own mouth from off the mall floor, and then shoving it back into our daughter's mouth!
The "photographer" had given up pretending to think my son's behavior was cute and started to sigh and roll her eyes, so I gave up on him being in the picture, and had her snap one of just my daughter. We paid 94 dollars for an atrocious photograph of my three month old and the Bunny, and walked away, defeated. Our next stop was the shoe store. Our son immediately moved all the toddler shoes within reach off the shelf and replaced them with men's running shoes. We found a pair we liked for him,on sale of course, and while my husband tried to get him to try them on, my daughter started to scream. I grabbed her diaper bag, thinking it would be an easy-fix. I would make her a bottle and she would settle.
Well, wouldn't you know, because I had forgotten to specifically include bottles on my text-list I sent my husband that morning, he had only packed formula and water, and NO bottles. Through gritted teeth, and in hushed tones, we fought with each other over who was to blame for this massive screw-up. All the while, my son is running through the store barefoot and my daughter is screaming still, only more urgently. We had successfully irritated every employee and customer in the store and once we had gotten shoes back on our son, we left the store dragging him along by the arm behind us, still fighting bitterly over who caused our daughter to go hungry.
What had started as a fun family outing had turned into a family brawl in the food court. I was starving to death at this point so I ordered my food and sat down, pretending not to know any of them. I did however, have to figure out how to feed my daughter, so I mixed formula and water in a Styrofoam cup and spoon-fed her. My husband was mortified I was publicly displaying such white trash behavior, but when I hissed at him, reminding him who had forgotten the bottle, the insults ceased. He refused to eat, apparently too worked-up and embarrassed, but I shrugged it off and enjoyed my Lo Mien. I offered some to my son who threw it to the floor and fought tooth and nail to escape the filthy mall high chair we had practically tied him to, so again, I ignored him, and proceeded to also enjoy my egg roll.
The trip had been a disaster. I had no positive way to end my story, because we left furious with each other, and the teenager at the door who callously ignored us and wouldn't hold the door got an earful. We threw everything and everyone into the car and drove home. Then we put everyone to bed for a nap, and didn't talk to one another for an hour. I had no way to positively spin the day into some kind of cutesy life lesson. Sometimes having kids just isn't fun. And sometimes it's too soon to laugh it off, so I waited a few days before I wrote it all down, and like I hoped, I now can look on it with affection and I guess days like that, make the good days that much better. Already the memory is a funny one, and I did end up with a hilarious picture of my daughter and the Bunny. Sometimes you just have to take a breath, wait a few days, and look back with fresh eyes. And would you look at that! I was able to make it a happy ending!
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