On Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving isn't really a big deal to vegetarians. I mean, the last thing we want to see is a big ol' bird carcass sitting on the table while everyone picks the poor thing apart. However, to each their own. I used to be a carnivore, I can't be all uppity about people eating some bird on bird day.

Luckily, the family makes some killer "fixin's." I get to dive in to two different kinds of sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, Waldorf salad, rolls (who doesn't love carbs?), deviled eggs, stuffing, olives, and whatever else. Never mind the freshly baked home made pies. Damn!

For me, Thanksgiving is about hanging out with the family. Having a cocktail or two. Listening to the boy cackle with delight as he gets to eat dinner with a ton of people. This is his thing lately, eating around the table with a lot of people, he can't get enough of it. Luckily, I've got a good set of in-laws and there isn't any bickering on the holidays. No one gets pissed off and flips the table over. Everyone just grazes, drinks, chortles, passes out sitting up, you know, whatever. I'm also pretty lucky that the parents get along, not like Clark and Ellen Griswold's parents, so I get to have my homies at the dinner table as well. Score.

Thanksgiving also allows me the time to accept that Christmas is next month. Once "Black Friday" rolls around, I'm all like, "Yeah, bring on the Christmas carols, get Santa's fat ass over for some cookies." I'm actually quite a bit of ahead regarding Christmas this year. The gifts are bought, the Christmas cards have arrived, though I regret not making them snarky, I apologize in advance to those of you who will be in receipt of our cards. The decorations will go up this weekend, despite my house being a torn apart shit hole thanks to foundation work.

On a completely unrelated note, I must mention, because it needs to be mentioned because I find it hilarious, J was shaving his beard off this morning, and G was sitting on the toilet watching him. G began whispering under his breath, "Daddy's not shaving his butt. Daddy's not shaving his back. Daddy's not shaving his boobies. Daddy's shaving his face." I don't know why it's hilarious, but maybe he feels that Dad needs to shave these items and is trying to drop a hint." I tell ya, this kid, he really comes up with it.

So, what are you guys doing on this Thanksgiving weekend? Eating a frozen dinner alone? Working? Hanging out with your family? Hanging out with people you loathe? Whatever you're doing, do it well, Turkeys!

On Being a Mother (You're in For a Long Post)

I've neglected my poor blog for nearly a year. You poor readers, all one of you must have been desperately wondering what's been going on in my life for the last year. How did having a kid turn out? Did he arrive on time? How's he doing? These are all valid questions.

 

Yes, my due date was June 22, 2013. I never expected to either go into labor on that date or have my son be born on that date. In fact, I was hoping he'd come a little early, you know, like maybe a week or a few days, give a big, fat, pregnant bitch a break, you know?

 

Since he did not show up on his due date, I hoofed it back to the doctor on June 24th, only for her to tell me there was no change, there was no way in hell I was having a baby any time soon... but that didn't mean that he couldn't come any day now. At that point she also tentatively scheduled me for induction on July 2 since she didn't want me going two weeks past my due date. Believe you me, I was not looking forward to being induced, however, I felt a twinge of relief knowing there was now an actual end date. Every day I waited with baited breath wondering if I'd drop that kid like it was hot. I'd be thinking, oh God, don't let my water break at work, everyone will think I pissed myself, or I sure hope I don't go into labor when J is at work, I don't want to tell his boss I'm popping out a baby. Every day that he did not show up, I grew bigger, and more pissed off. I was like, what the hell, kid? Show up already! We're all anxiously awaiting your arrival. I went to work every day, waddled around and completed my tasks and wondered when I'd be telling my boss I wasn't coming since the kid was coming.

My last day of work was July 1. Early in the morning on July 2nd, the day I was supposed to be induced, I went into labor, at 1:30 in the morning exactly. J joked around that if I went into labor in the middle of the night that I better not wake him up. It didn't occur to me to wake him up when the contractions started, because, what was he going to do, really? Watch me waddle around, huffing and puffing until it was time to go to the hospital? Besides, I figured since I was holding him captive for the whole birth, he was going to need his rest. He woke up around 10:30 and found me hunched over on the couch panting like our dog. He made me a quick breakfast and goaded me into the bathtub because I was insistent upon trying to be clean for the hospital since I knew I wasn't going to get to shower for a day or two.

Around noon he decided it was time to head for the hospital. Contracts were under five minutes apart and I could barely walk because it felt like I was going to drop a watermelon, okay. So we get there, check in, whatever. They put us in a pre-screen room, just to make sure I'm actually in labor... yeah, I was. Then they put us in a room where I seemed to be progressing fairly quickly. My actual doctor was there when we arrived at the hospital, but she was like "good luck with your labor, I'm leaving at 5:00 today." Shit! I decided to go with an epidural because, for me, the contractions were worse than kidney stones, there you have it. I had to wait an inordinate amount of time for the epidural because there was a girl ahead of me that had to go in for an emergency C-section. So, while I was like, where the hell is my %&^%@% epidural? I understood that the girl ahead of me took precedence.

Finally, I got the epidural, and let me tell you, it was heaven. I did not like that they sent J out of the room while they literally stabbed me in the back, and that stab hurt! Once it was hooked up and running, it was marvelous though. However, allegedly the epidural was slowing down the process. It was getting closer to midnight, they had broken my water a few hours before, and I had no inclination to start pushing. Gradually they started easing off on the epidural, so I could start "feeling" the contractions more, and maybe start pushing. Well, I still had no inclination to push, but I was definitely feeling those damn contractions.

Over three hours of pushing went by, and nothing was happening. We saw the top of his head, and that was it. This kid was stuck! Never mind that my doctor had mentioned that part of my pelvic bone jutted out in a manner that would make it nearly impossible for a kid to pass through. You think this information would be on my chart? No!

27 hours of labor went by. I was exhausted. I hadn't slept since Sunday night. It was now early Wednesday morning. Around 4:00am they decided I could either keep pushing... if I wanted to, or they would do a C-section. Really? Keep pushing, when they and I knew the kid was stuck and he hadn't moved in three hours! Believe me, a C-section was literally the last thing I wanted, but I also knew that if I kept going at this rate, the kid might be in danger of infection, so I decided to let them gut me like a fish.

4:20am, high off my ass, and having to stop the surgeons in the middle of the operation because I feel them working on me, our son was finally born! 8lbs., 10oz., 20 1/4". I was so out of it, I could barely see him when they put him in front of my face for a millisecond. After they cleaned him up and checked him over, they gave him to J to hold while they sewed me back up. So he had a baby in one hand, and my cold, clammy hand clamped on his other hand.

True to form, the first thing our boy did was take a big dump on his old man. Hey dad, I'm finally here, I gotta shit!

The next few hours were a blur. I shook violently from the meds in the IV. I couldn't hold our boy for over an hour after the surgery. He got poked and prodded while we all had to watch. Finally, it calmed down for a short while, and the three of us got to pass out.

Being in the hospital sucked. Someone was always coming in just as the baby fell asleep. Which, hey, I'm glad they were checking in on the two of us, but shit, that baby was pissed, and I was too. Recovering from major abdominal surgery was rough, and nursing a baby while being split open was no field day.

We got to go home on July 5. Living in a Bungalow at the time and our bedroom being upstairs, we had to camp out in the living room for 2 weeks as I was ordered not to climb stairs for said amount of time. As I gradually healed, J and I got more used to being parents.

Now, our little boy is about to celebrate his first birthday. I cannot believe how fast this year has flown by. He's already taken a few trips and passed several milestones. He's been sitting up independently since he was four months old, started walking at nine months, he's got eight teeth, he eats full man meals, as of his nine month check up he weighed 21lbs., and was 29" tall. I'm confident he's over  30"+ by now. He's incredibly bright, and he's pretty much a whirlwind.

So, being a parent is exhausting. There is no more free time, no more "me" time, and working full time cuts down on that even more. It's tough to juggle work and a little one, but he seems to be adjusting, even though I think he's secretly pissed when his dad and I go to work.

When he's older, I look forward to harassing him about how it took 27 hours of labor and being gutted like a fish for me to bring him into this world.

On "The Last Month"

I'm down to about 2 1/2 weeks until my due date. I've been so busy organizing everything at home and toiling away at the office, that it hasn't really hit me that... I'm going to be someone's actual mother soon.

I've considered myself a "pet mom" ever since Leopold came into our lives nearly 6 years ago. Obviously, being someone's pet mom is totally different than being a human's mom, I mean, I'm going to have to raise this little person to be a respectable member of society. My parrot, cat, and dog can be little assholes for anyone cares.

Speaking of Leopold, I must enter this quick little note. The poor cat has been dealing with a humungo bladder stone since March which has caused him discomfort, made him not feel well, and most importantly added a lot of blood to his urine and made him leak everywhere. Naturally, the vet wanted to dive into removing the stone surgically as that was the quickest and easiest way to relieve him. Now, while I'm all for my little fuzz ball being comfortable and happy all day every day, after everything he went through with his previous urinary surgery, I couldn't justify jumping right to the surgical option. Overall, he was in decent spirits and was doing relatively well, considering. I opted to try a special diet designed to dissolve the stone. My hopes weren't very high that it would work, however, when we went back to the vet a few weeks ago for another x-ray, there was the proof that the stone had gotten considerably smaller! The food was working.

Here we are in June now, and he's doing so much better. He's still on the food, but he's not leaking anymore, and there seems to be no blood in his urine at all. Every day I look at him, I'm glad I went this route and didn't traumatize him with another surgery.

As for this impending kid, I will be thrilled when he is actually here. Simply because, I cannot catch my breath, I'm achy all the time, I get heinous leg cramps, I only have about 5 outfits I can actually wear, sleeping is impossible, I can't do simple things without feeling terribly sore the next day. This being said, I'm still terrified about the actual "birth" part.

Hospitals horrify me. I've never liked them, they've never equated to anything good. Of course, our teacher at the birthing class told us, "you're not coming to the hospital to be a patient, you're coming to bring your child into the world." Sounds like bullshit to me. They're admitting you, slapping a bracelet on you, you're a patient. I'm confident that I'll get through the process itself, I'm not overly worried about the pain, though, don't get me wrong, I'm not looking forward to it. But, as J has reminded me, I've dealt with kidney stones, which is allegedly worse than labor. Well, now I'll be able to tell you all if that's the truth.

I'm down to weekly appointments at the doctor. As of last Thursday, I was still all sealed up. Going again next Monday and then perhaps the following Monday and hopefully this baby comes after that. I certainly don't want him to overstay his welcome. He's been trying to punch his way out for at least a month now.

On Etiquette

Let me preface this by saying, I understand that the majority of outsiders are excited by the sight of a pregnant bitch. They're curious, they want to make small talk about the pregnancy and impending baby, and that's fine, I suppose.

I've never been one of those people. I don't care about your pregnant ass or your impending shit machine. I won't try to talk to you about how your pregnancy is going, how you're feeling, your excitement level, and so forth.

I don't even mind these sorts of questions here and there, but on the daily gets on a fatty's nerves after a while. I'm not sure if it's those hormones everyone likes to talk about, or if it's my general personality of not wanting to talk to people that's making me so irritable, but I'm really trying to maintain my grace and be friendly about the inquiries. It's all a part of my plan to not be such a bitch.

There is one thing I will not stand for however, and I'd say at least 90% of people with a brain in their head should know this. Whether a chick is pregnant or just plain large and in charge, you never, ever say to her: "Wow, it looks like you're going to pop any day now!" Especially when said chick still has two months to go before expelling the occupant of her gut. Yes, being knocked up leads one to have a giant gut, it's obvious to everyone, especially the person with the gut. Whether a pregnant chick actually looks good or not, she still feels like a huge whale and incredibly unattractive. She doesn't want to hear about how big her gut is. Come on people, have the decency to talk about her behind her back like everyone else.

I know that I'm having a good pregnancy, weight-wise. I'm not a huffamoose. I'm eight months knocked up and have gained roughly 15 pounds, all baby related. My face isn't fat, nothing is swollen yet. I still look like me, but with a basketball under my sweater. I look fairly decent I suppose, as far a knocked up girls go, but in my pregnant head, I'm a whale, I feel like a whale and I don't want anyone commenting on my gut. I know this is completely irrational, but being irrational is one of the perks of being knocked up, right?

Finally, it's said that Leos love to be in the spotlight, and love attention. I myself am a Leo (just barely) I really ought to be a Cancer. One of the few Leo traits I possess is that I love my hair, it is my centerpiece, it's long and lustrous and I know it's gorgeous. With that being said, I hate being the center of attention, like most Leos. Being knocked up has unfortunately made me the center of attention. People will look at my gut instead of my face while talking to me, they'll come at me and try to feel my fetus, they're always asking about him, what he's doing, what's going on, what's happening. People have told me that once he's born, all the attention will go directly to him, and no one will bother with me anymore, so I shouldn't be upset when the attention shifts. You know what I say? GOOD! Let the kid have all the attention! I'm looking forward to being left alone. At least I won't have to field any more baby questions.

On Registering for Baby

Since our baby shower is now impending, and invitations are going out next week, it was probably about time to register for baby boy Dresden's needs.

Let me just tell you... registering for a wedding is much more fun than registering for a baby.

First of all, I have no idea what the hell this child needs. There are so many different options are far as clothes and bottles, teethers, etc. I couldn't tell you the difference in sizes of clothes, I mean, what does 3T mean? Shit, a newbie like me needs a life coach for this sort of thing.

While browsing through onesies and little outfits for the kid, I became infuriated look at what was available to a little man. Everything has zoo animals on it or some stupid ass saying, like "Mommy's co-pilot." Who thinks of this shit? What if I want my boy to wear solid colors?  GOOD LUCK! I did end up caving in an registering for some items with some sort of critter on them. Finding some decent socks for a newborn is damn near impossible. I'm not pushing sports propaganda on my son and I don't want him wearing giraffe prints or zebra prints, or whatever the hell else. I just wanted him to have some simple, white crew socks. NOT AVAILABLE! It's like the baby clothing marketing people are plotting against me and they think babies should just wear nothing but cutesy shit. What if I want my kid to look like a tiny little grown up person? I mean, I'm sure he wants to look respectable out in the world by wearing a solid color onesie and a nice solid pair of pants, not some ridiculous panda outfit.

Another conundrum I ran across was asking for the basic things, like a stroller, car seat, high chair, that sort of thing. I have no idea what's the highest rated and safest, what's garbage and what. Luckily, my sister-in-law did all the heavy lifting on that front since she just had her son last month, so I could straight up copy off her registry. I can't believe how much some of this stuff costs, by the way. I feel guilty even asking for some of this stuff. I don't want my family and friends to think I'm some high falooting bitch asking for this expensive stuff. For example, the stroller I've requested is $300! However, it's like the Optimus Prime of strollers. It's got a car base to strap into your backseat and leave, it's got a detachable car seat which starts out as an infant carrier and morphs into a regular car seat as the kid gets bigger, options galore I tell you. The stroller itself folds up for easy traveling. Well shit! Sign me up.

I'm think I've covered the basics of what I need for this kid. If I should have forgotten something, well, I suppose I can always send my dear husband out to the store to grab it, or maybe leave the kid home with him after a few weeks and get it myself. With about 3 more months to go, I'm totally aware, that I'm going to be some person's parent very, very soon, and it's horrifying. I'm sure it's nothing like being a pet parent. Though when my little Chihuahua was up all night with a fever this past fall, I was up with him, worrying, and trying to comfort him and the second the vet opened I called to get him in there to make sure he'd be okay. I guess you could say my little furry/feather companions have given me some pretty good practice to level up and actually take care of a person.

On Being Pissy

To the outsider, I suppose being knocked up gives you cause to be emotional for whatever reason. Hormones are raging, the body is changing, and so forth. I've been fortunate enough to thus far... not be a weepy little bitch.

However, I have noticed that it really doesn't take much to piss me off lately. It could be something small and insignificant, like a sunny day turning to rain directly after getting a car wash. Or, it could just be the sound of someones voice.

For instance... J and I went to the doctor on Monday for our regular check up. His job is awesome enough to allow him to have paternity leave when the baby comes, but he's got to fill out a few forms for FMLA. Well, we filled them out... mostly, and just needed a signature. My doctor said, "have the nurse sign it." Fair enough, I figured she'd scribble or stamp a signature. No, no, no, nothing is ever that easy, is it? We sat down in her office for at least 20 minutes, burning alive by the way because it felt like 90 degrees in there, listening to her stutter in our faces about how they need to fill out the forms and it's going to cost $10.00 per page, and there's going to be at least a two week wait to fill the forms out. (They were due today by the way.) She wouldn't listen to us about just needing a signature, or the fact that we're not entirely sure about what kind of leave J is going to take. She seemed to think she knew everything about his job, when in fact, she didn't know shit.

I'm sure my blood pressure rose the longer we sat there. Just listening to her stuttering face was driving me crazy. I know, I know, it's insensitive to be judgemental of someone with a stutter. I know it's not her fault, but it was pissing me off.

Today, all it took was for me to hear the sound of a certain person's voice (and no, I'm not speaking of my dear husband.) There's just certain people you don't want to be around under normal circumstances, and it seems like now that I'm getting even more pregnant, something very little can just set me off. It's pretty bad when I visualize myself choking people out.

In conclusion, now more than ever, I don't believe those chicks that say pregnancy is beautiful, and such a glorious experience. Those broads must have been in deep seclusion and didn't have to deal with ass hats on the daily. They must have never felt extreme "morning" sickness, or had cat shit smelling gas, or had terrible, terrible stomach and back pain from not being able to drop a deuce thanks to prenatal vitamins. Pregnancy is disgusting, and I'll let you know that. Birthing the child will probably be even more disgusting. However, on the lighter side, I'll say, the final outcome of having a mini J and I running around will be pretty cool, provided he's not a little ass hat.