On First Overnight Separation

Last week, Thursday, I was presented with the idea of my husband taking G-Money up north a day early, leaving me completely alone until roughly 7pm Friday night.

At first, I was in a tizzy. What the hell do you mean you're taking my baby up north without me? He'll miss his mommy! I came to my senses shortly thereafter.

Just think of the things I could do totally unencumbered. I wouldn't have to worry about planning meals, bedtime, sleeping curled up in the fetal position fearfully waiting for the boy to wake up. I could do whatever the hell I wanted! Immediately I sent the word out. I was desperate to go out for a cocktail, on the fly, not having to worry about being home for bed time. I got home from work, itchy to start my child-free day as soon as possible. I waited and waited for responses. When I heard nothing, I began to feel deflated, like I was going to be wasting my "day off" just hanging out at home. I cleaned the house (though much quicker since G wasn't there to "help me.) I did some laundry, changed the sheets on my bed. I packed for the weekend. Then I started to sulk. WTF, where was everyone? I started to accept the fact that I might not be doing anything that night.

Finally... a simple text... "You coming?" Holy hot shit! A response! I ran out of the house on the fly, something which I haven't done in a year, honestly, most of my life because I'm perpetually late. I eagerly drove down the road and met my best pal for a couple cocktails and dinner. I didn't think about the kid once while I was there, except for the time or two I mentioned him.

When I got home to go to bed, I thought, oh, maybe I'll be upset because he's not around. Surely I won't be able to sleep knowing he's not in the house. I'm going to cry myself to sleep. Wrong again, my friends! I slept like a friggen' log. That is, until about 5:30 when I had a half hour coughing fit that totally ruined my slumber. Of course the whiskey might have had something to do with my fitful sleeping.

The next morning, I got out of bed without having to worry about the cat and dog waking him up. I got to eat my entire breakfast without my little scavenger begging for scraps. I got to leave the house without feeling guilty about leaving him again. It was all very refreshing.

I was expecting some huge fanfare when we got back together Friday night. I was expecting him to be so geeked, for him to run up to me and not let me go. Boy, was I disappointed. Sure, he was thrilled to see me. He had a big smile on his face and came over and gave me a big hug, but after a few minutes, he tossed me aside like yesterday's bitch.

Yes, I'll admit it. I missed G while he was gone... but, I certainly won't turn down another opportunity to be child free if his daddy wants to take him somewhere over night sans me.

On "That Writing Itch"

Lately I've had thoughts swirling through my head to write. To write something, to write anything. If y'all remember, I was working on another manuscript before I became knocked up with G-Money. Of course, I thought what I was writing was a huge, flaming turd, but rumor has it, that all writers feel that way about their work.

This itch has returned with a vengeance. It's uncontrollable, it's a tick, I'm jonesin'. Yet, I've done nothing about it. Why? I'll blame it on the kid. I'll say, between working full time and trying to give G-Money a happy childhood, there's just no time for writing. Go ahead, you can call bullshit. It's probably true. If I was a total die-hard, my ass would be in the chair after the boy goes to bed. I'd spend an hour or so after his bedtime and before mine feeding my addiction, hunched over the computer desk, staring at the white screen, blinking cursor, thinking of some sort of twisted shit to write.

Do you want to know what I do instead? I chill for five minutes and enjoy the silence and wind down from the tornado that boy is. I let the dog out, and stand out on the deck, listening to crickets and bullfrogs. I pick up the myriad of toys he's strewn all over the house. I tell the cat to shut his fat mouth because he's not eating AGAIN. I plop down on my bed and start reading some quality fiction and escape for a half hour or so before I pass out. Basically, I'm making up excuses not to park my ass in the chair and write.

Lately, I've been thinking about revamping "Stress Test" so it's not so cagey. I've been thinking about rerouting the whole plot, but then, it would cease to be its former self. I think part of the reason I didn't go hard into promoting that book is because, I didn't feel like it was my best work, but it was the best that that story was going to get, at that time. But now, a few years later, maybe I have more to offer to the story. I think revamping the former work is also giving me an excuse not to work on my current "sitting in the drawer" manuscript.

The bottom line is, no matter what else I'm doing with my life, deep down, I've still got the urge to write. Even though, I don't do it nearly as much as I should, (or at all right now for that matter.) It's been a constant for two decades, and I'm sure it will never amount to anything, but at least it will be out there.

On Turning 31

Yes. I've done it. I've had another birthday, and I've turned 31. I'm even still being honest about my age. This might change in the next decade though.

I'm really afraid of heights. I get vertigo if I'm somewhere high and I look down. Heights and I aren't the best of friends. So, for my birthday, I decided I should tackle something I'm afraid of, because, why not?

I heard about "The Adventure Park" on the news a few months ago when it opened, and thought it looked pretty cool. Horrifying, but cool. Basically, it's obstacles and zip lines up in trees, at varying heights, with varying difficulties. Most of the obstacles move up there in the trees, so you really have to use your strength and concentration to keep yourself from falling. It's rated like a ski/snowboard hill. Purple, yellow, green, blue, black diamond, double black diamond. The diamonds are obviously the hardest. We didn't touch those. Some of us started on the yellow, and thought it was pretty good, the green was a little tougher, but still fun. The blue... the blue was a bad choice, for us in particular. The first two obstacles were fun, but the rest of the course just felt like torture. It was definitely tough, and forced us to push ourselves. I'm pretty sure two of my pals hate me by now, but, I think overall, it was an interesting time.

I think about the last year, and I realize that of course, this last year has been devoted to my boy. I've just been his mom. I haven't been Kate, I haven't been J's wife, just G's mom. Which, don't get me wrong, I'm pleased to be G's mom, but, I miss my old self, and I'm completely aware that I'll never fully get my old self back again, but I think I need to make a date with the old girl every now and then so I don't totally lose my shit.

Now that the little boy is getting older, and since he eats table food, he relies on me a little less as far as feeding, which gives me a little freedom. I don't have to make sure we're back together every two hours so he can go to town, I can have a cocktail every now and then, I don't have to worry if he's got enough milk or baby food on hand. The kid will find something to nosh on.

This isn't to say he needs me less. He still cries when I leave for work, and clings on tight when I get home, he still needs reassurance in the middle of the night and clings on when I take him out of his bed. He likes for me to sit down next to him while he plays with his toys, even if he ignores me. I think... he just likes having me around, it's a novel thought. Of course, the older he gets, the less he'll want me around, so... I might as well enjoy it while it lasts.

In closing, it's been a good year. Full of ups and downs, stress, no sleep, worrying, tantrums, screaming, learning, and new experiences. I'm looking forward to another year of much of the same, maybe with a little less stress, tantrums, and screaming.

On Having a One Year Old

A few weeks late, but yes, I now have a one year old. It's hard to believe how fast the last year has gone by. When I was knocked up, those nine months took FOREVER! Even the first weeks and months with G-money seemed to feel like an eternity. Possibly because I was sleep deprived and had no idea what the hell I was doing... nothing's changed on that front.

Seeing him change from a helpless infant into a trixy toddler has been pretty amusing, I'll admit. His personality is starting to shine through a bit more, and I realize, he just doesn't give a shit about much of anything. Granted, he'll have his little toddler frustrations when he doesn't get his way or something pisses him off, but for the most part, this kid is chill. Someone stole my toy? No big deal, I'll just go play with something else. Some curly headed bitch knocks me down at the kid gym, whatever, I wanted to sit down anyway. He even amuses himself with the smallest things. For example, the other day I was in the kitchen, and he was somewhere else, all was quiet, I thought oh shit, he's probably flushing the dog down the toilet, however, I heard his trademark giggle around the corner in the living room. I walked over to see what was so funny, and there he was, standing up on one of the chairs making it bounce back and forth.

It's things like this that make me miss being young. Something as simple as bouncing in a chair amuses this kid. I simply like to see people get slapped in the face.

Of course I threw a first birthday bash for him. Yes, I know he won't remember, he won't care, he could give a shit less, but I thought, maybe someday when he's older, he can look at the pictures and be like look at all these people who wasted a perfectly good afternoon to come a one year old's birthday party. G had his first take of homemade cake and homemade ice cream. He hated both. He had maybe two bites of cake and spit out the ice cream (I'm guessing on account of it being so cold.) He had no problem taking a few spoonfuls a few days later though. He got a lot of nice swag from his family and his parent's friends, he was only mildly cranky, but was better after a nap. Overall, great success.

Since I've been a mother for a year now, one might think I've warmed up to other children. You're dead wrong. I still loathe most every other child. I don't want to hang out with them, I don't want to schedule play dates with them and my son, I don't want to hang out with them at child friendly places. I like my kid, that's all. I am however, looking forward to watching this boy grow up, so there.

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 "The Final Stretch"

So far, May has been a busy month. I've completed painting the kid's room, with the exception of the trim around the windows, and possibly the closet doors and regular door. We still need to build the furniture, at the very least, his cradle, as that's where he'll be sleeping for a few months.

We attended baby shower #1 (friends and family.) Moderately successful. No one tried to accost me or coo over me too much, which is much appreciated. We received a lot of stuff for the meatloaf and in order not to make myself feel overwhelmed, the night of the baby shower I obsessively wrote out ALL the thank you cards and sent them out by Monday morning. I washed and sorted all the baby clothes we received, even though I have absolutely no where to put anything yet.

J and I attended birthing class on Saturday. We opted for the one day class instead of the three week class, just to get it out of the way. 7 1/2 hours later... we learned nearly nothing. Not to mention, the birthing videos they showed were damn horrifying and nearly threw me into a full blown panic attack. It wasn't a complete waste of a day, but let me tell you, I'm glad the weather wasn't beautiful.

Yesterday I had my 34+2 check up with the doctor. All is still well and it seems like the little poltergeist is head down and ready for the big show, and hopefully he stays that way. Another appointment in 2 weeks, where I'll be officially 9 months knocked up... eek! Then we'll break it down to an appointment a week.

Baby shower #2 takes place this Sunday (work homies.) Should be a decent little afternoon. Not to mention, I'm still trying to work through Leopold's bladder stone, so I have to take him back to the vet on Saturday for a x-ray to see if the stone has gotten any smaller. We're keeping our fingers and paws crossed that it has.

Dad and brother's birthdays coming up in the next few weeks, a dentist appointment, and one more hair cut before D-Day.

I'd like to say that June will be quieter, but I think my "quiet" months have left me far behind.

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 Humming

I'm grateful that April is a fairly quiet month as far as events go. Sure, there's a couple birthdays in the loop, no big shakes. It's been raining consistently for days, which I suppose is alright, April Showers... and all.

The weather still hasn't been warm enough to get in the kid's room and paint anything. I'm a stickler for keeping the bought heat inside the house and not getting dopey on paint fumes in a closed room. This is turn doesn't leave much time (I feel) to do anything. We need to clean, sand, and paint the windowsills, the trim, and the actual walls. Probably a day or two project... maybe three if we stretch it out. Of course we then need to build the furniture. We recently received the crib set (crib, changing table, and dresser) which is sitting in the bird's room until we can actually build it. Paco stares at vindictively since we just cleaned his room out, and now there's more shit piling in.

I'll be hitting my 30 week milestone tomorrow. 30 weeks! Shit! That leaves an alleged 10 weeks left to dropping it like it's hot. I don't want to be unprepared for his arrival, so I might just have to suck it up and let some of that much coveted bought heat out. His first shower is in three weeks. Getting a bunch of stuff for him feels like it might be overwhelming in that, we really have no where to put it right now. Lots of laundry will need to be done so his clothes are prepped. Organizing of his room will need to be done.

I've been thinking of asking to cut my work week down to four days starting next month, but I really can't afford that. Though, the extra day would be nice to get stuff done. Being knocked up and working full time leaves one exhausted and not wanting to do additional items when finally at home. But... you gotta do what you gotta do.

On Realization

Now that there's about three months to go to carry this little meatloaf around, I'm really starting to realize that, holy shit, I'm going to be someone's parent! Of course, you reader, might be thinking... umm, no kidding dumbass, you've known you were knocked up for the last seven months.

When you first find out you've got a BOB, it doesn't seem real, because you look the same, even though you might feel like ass. Then your gut gets bigger, you get an ultrasound, you hear a heartbeat, then you're like, hot shit, there's a person in there! But maybe, you're still choosing to ignore the fact that there's an impending baby.

Finally at seven months, I think I'm finally starting to accept that there's a tiny little poltergeist in my gut. It might be because he's an active little bugger and likes to party. It might be that his baby shower is just about a month away. It might be that I've got a cradle sitting in my basement waiting to be put together for him to sleep in and his nursery furniture on the way. I won't lie to you guys, I'm pretty terrified.

Having a kid wasn't in the cards for a lot of years. I generally dislike other people's children because most of them are assholes. Yes, I said it, children can be assholes. However, I've admittedly come across a few kids that I actually didn't mind because they were like tiny little midget adults with proper manners and everything. I know everyone says, it'll be different when it's your kid, and maybe that's true. I know I'll love the kid no matter what because I shat him out, but there still may be times when I think he's an asshole, and I'm sure he'll think I'm an asshole too, it's a given.

To be honest with you guys, right now I'm trying not to dwell on the fact that in three short months I'm going to be responsible for a tiny little person because if I dwell on it, I might as well just drive myself to the loony bin right now. Instead, I'm trying to concentrate on the fact that a tiny little baby will grow into a hopefully pretty bad ass toddler who hangs out in the woods with his father and I.