On Christmas and a 17 Month Old

Ah, the Christmas Season is upon us again, and has been since Halloween. Those old Christmas carols have been on repeat since November 1st. I mean, what the hell? How can you get into the Christmas spirit when you haven't even disgustingly gorged yourself on Thanksgiving food until you feel like you want to die. I just don't get it.

I'll admit, I broke down and started listening to Christmas tunes a few days before Thanksgiving, only because it was sub-zero outside, and I felt jolly. Not to mention, the jingle bells and shit made the kid bop his legs in the back seat. Anything that makes for a peaceful car ride I'm down for.

Speaking of the kid, he is 17 months old today. I'll call him a year and a half, he's close enough. I'll call him a year and a half until June, when I'll say, he's almost 2. I really hate it when parents say, "Oh, Mindy is 47 months, and Carson is 76 months." Nobody cares! It's like me saying I'm 376 months old. Phew, with that out of the way, I must mention, this child really is his father's son apparently. He's a bonafide hot dog. Climbing and testing his physical limits. He invokes mini-heart attacks on the daily. He's repeating everything, and has been for a while, which is limiting for his mother who typically swears like a sailor. He's a bit of a character, running around the house with a smirk on his face, being independent playing alone in his room, sitting and building shit with his blocks, he's really his own man. I also really appreciate that he's an observer, he really has to stand back and really take in a situation before he decides whether or not he wants to be involved. That's pretty good for a kid of his age.


Back to Christmas. The tree and decorations went up Thanksgiving weekend. I thought for sure the tree would have come down at least 5 or 6 times by now. Not the case. However, the boy loves ripping the ornaments off the tree and yelling "BALL!" and giggling as he gallops away with the goods. Which is why, all our ornaments are plastic. This year, he's more engaged in Christmas. He admires the lights, he explores the tree, which makes me think... I won't be able to put presents under the tree because all that shit will be open in 3.5 seconds.

And now, for the sentimentality of it all. Christmas is a magical time of year. Maybe it's the lights, the snow, the frigid temps, the stupid Christmas music, or maybe it's being lit up by holiday cocktails, but even at my age, I still feel something in the air around Christmas time. Of course now, presents aren't a priority, it's about hanging out with family and friends, going to holiday parties, imbibing, dancing, celebrating, and enjoying being alive. I find myself looking forward to holiday parties, instead of dreading them, I'm even looking forward to hosting Christmas dinner at the new house even though I have no idea what the hell dinner will be. I'm looking forward to laughter and good stories that may or may not be remembered. That's what Christmas is all about after all, right?

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 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.

On Being "Out"

I'm pretty sure that virtually everyone knows about the impending kid now. I kept it a secret at work for quite a while, with the exception of telling my boss, because well, I sort of had to tell him since I have to go to the doctor every five weeks... during business hours nevertheless. I didn't want him to think I was deathly ill or something.

Despite knowing and seeing that there's an actual kid in my gut, it still seems surreal. I mean, I haven't gained any weight (yet) which I find to be a blessing, though I'm literally all uterus and some of my work pants won't button without suffocating me. For instance, right now my pants are unbuttoned simply because I would be gasping for air otherwise.

I resisted spreading the word like a STD because I've never been much for being fussed over by throngs of people. That's not to say that I don't like attention from time to time, but from only one or two close persons at a time. When a lady is knocked up, everyone is interested. They want to know how you're feeling, is the kid moving, what are you going to name it, how are you going to decorate its room? Most importantly, they want to touch you. Peers, strangers, it doesn't matter, they see that baby gut and they come at you like a spider monkey jacked up on Mountain Dew. It's like an all out assault. I'll be honest, I don't like to be touched, I get defensive. I see a hand coming at me and my bony little fingers curl up into a fist.

However, since I've decided to try to be a nicer person lately (we'll see how long that lasts) I thought, maybe I ought to let other people revel in this kid. Maybe I ought to fight the urge to deck someone who comes at me palm first with a kidnapper's grin on their face. Maybe I should field all their questions politely and let them just be jovial because they get to be talking about kids. I suppose for people who truly love kids or whatever, talking about kids is just delightful. I can understand, I always light up when I talk about Leopold, Jameson, and Paco, so maybe it's the same.

Despite everyone knowing, I'm still reluctant to show off my gut proudly. Right now, I just look like I have a food baby, so I think it's still best to keep it under wraps. Maybe if I pop out a little more in a month or so I'll show this thing off.

On Lyrics that Resonate

On my way in to work this morning, I decided some Jeff Buckley was in order. It's a melancholy, foggy morning with rain threatening... RAIN in January. Yes folks, we had ourselves a thunderstorm last night into this morning if you can believe it. Temps near 60 today and tomorrow and... down to 20 by the end of the week. Classic.

In any case, I was listening to "I know it's over" originally by The Smiths and some of the lyrics stuck out:

If you're so funny, then why are you on your own tonight?

And if you're so clever then why are you on your own tonight?
And if you're so very entertaining then why are you on your own tonight?

It's so easy to laugh it's so easy to hate,

it takes strength to be gentle and kind,
over and over and over.
It's so easy to laugh it's so easy to hate,
It takes guts to be gentle and kind

I'll be honest, I can be a catty bitch, but the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem, right? So, while I recognize that I can in fact be catty, I'm trying to reform myself into a nicer person. This does not relegate me to being a door mat, but I do see that maybe sometimes I could be a little more tender hearted toward people. I wouldn't go so far as calling this a "New Year's resolution" since it's practically February, and nobody cares about resolutions anyway, so I'll consider it a "Life Resolution."

On a side note, yesterday I had my first ultrasound, the sex determining ultrasound, and I'll admit that in the morning before work, I talked to my gut, trying to sweet talk the kid into showing us its garbage so we could refer to it as a he or she rather than it. I'm not gonna lie, I felt like an idiot talking to my gut, and the cat and dog looked at me as if I were a fool.

I'll you what though, I think the sweet talking worked because J and I found out we're having a perfectly healthy little boy. I already feel bad for him though, because I think the boy is going to be stricken with his mother's turtle-like upper lip. Sorry kid.

On "Finding Out"

Alright, J and I were passively planning on cooking up a kid. I was under the assumption that I was barren since I had several x-rays and scans done on the uterus region in the past for kidney stones. So, I figured, if it happened, it would take a while... boy was I mistaken.

For those of you that know me, you know I don't go over the moon for other people's babies. I prefer peace and quiet, sleeping through the night, and participating in hot doggery when possible. Case in point, there is no such thing as "extreme sledding" this winter with a b-word on board.

I had a sneaking suspicion that I was Prego, not Ragu back at the beginning of October when J and I took our fall vacation to Traverse City. I was feeling a little funky, and the famous shark week had not made its appearance as of yet, though if you must know, it's never generally on time. I didn't think much of it at the time, and enjoyed plenty of samples of wine at the various wineries. We began to joke that I was probably knocked up and he started talking at my gut. I strayed away from jumping into the hot tub with the old folks having a party each night because all I could think about was a lobster boiling in a pot.

Once our vacation was over and shark week still had not arrived, I began to take this kid thing a little more seriously. I dragged J to the drug store to purchase some of those little piss sticks to find out the truth. Since I didn't know how I felt about the whole thing, I was hesitant and quite frankly, didn't want to look in that evil little window because I had a feeling that two lines were going to up instead of one.

Needless to say, I did my business and right away two lines appeared, screaming out at me "bitch, you pregnant." I stared at the stick for a minute in disbelief and then took it out to J with a grim look on my face. "Well?" he asks. I point the stick at him and say, "knocked up." Now, I'll admit that I'm pretty lucky in that my man partner was extremely excited about the whole thing, his face lit up like a little kid getting a lollipop. He didn't fall down on the couch in despair howling "what are we going to do?" like maybe some dudes would do. No, no, no, I did that for him. I immediately burst into tears because I was horrified. All I could think about was the scene in Juno where Rainn Wilson tells Ellen Page as she's shaking her own piss stick, "this is one doodle that can't be undid home skillet."

A few weeks later, as I finally got over the shock, I decided, I should probably go to the lady parts doctor to confirm. Did you know that the doctor won't even see you until you're two months along? Yeah, nothing like leaving you in suspense. In the meantime, I took the other test, just to sure. Sometimes you get a false positive, you know? Oh no, again, right away, two lines. It was like the tests were taunting me.

In any case, if you're one of those chicks who didn't jump up and down upon finding a plus sign or two lines on your pee stick, don't feel bad, you're not alone. But if you're lucky enough to have a baby daddy who is over the moon, count your blessings.