To “ERR” is human……

You know how I’ve been yammering about being hungry around the clock for the last 2 weeks or so? It’s finally catching up to me.

Yesterday morning, I jumped on the bathroom scale to prepare myself for the weigh-in at my doctor’s appointment on Wednesday. I knew I had gained a few pounds; but I really wasn’t too stressed out about it.

Much to my dismay, the scale didn’t come up with a number. It flashed “ERR” in giant, bold, neon letters. Apparently, I’m now enormous and over the capacity on our old bathroom scale.

Time to stop gulping down strawberry milk and start stocking up on celery and rice cakes, eh?!?

I can’t believe the baby will be here in 10 weeks or less. For the last few days, he’s been really really active (even though the kicks are almost always in the same spot, so I’m 99% sure he’s still breech). When I get out of the shower, I can usually see my stomach moving around as he kicks & stretches to make himself comfortable.

I’m still waiting to “feel” pregnant. I mean, I feel him moving around in there all the time. But it’s still so strange to me. Everyone else is calling him Mason; but I can’t bring myself to use his name yet. It’s like talking about an imaginary friend – he won’t seem real to me until I get to feel his soft little baby skin against my own. Is that weird? Should I feel more connected to him?

On Saturday night, we spent some time with my brother & sister-in-law and their 11-week old daughter. My brother and I have never been close, which is odd, considering we’re only 11 months apart. But you couldn’t find two more different siblings if you searched the entire planet.

Anyway, my sister-in-law is definitely what I’d consider a “Type A Mom”. Any time the baby makes the tiniest of whimpers, one of them is right there to pick her up & shove a bottle or a boob in her mouth. I don’t think she’s ever going to learn to self-soothe.

And she still co-sleeps in the bed with them. At 11 weeks, shouldn’t she at least be in the bassinet or the pack & play; if not her crib?

And they absolutely refuse to give her a pacifier, so she’s taken to sucking on her hand. Really, which is the lesser of 2 evils there? The paci or her thumb?

I know you have to go with what works for you and your baby. But she and I are going to be such different parents.

Yes, I know it’s terrible to listen to your baby cry. But s/he has to learn to how to comfort himself or herself, don’t they? Seriously, they never ever let her cry it out. I used to think it was impossible to cuddle a baby too much . . . but now, I’m not so sure. If she cries for longer than 30 seconds, they’re running to get her out of her bouncy chair or swing or wherever she is. Shouldn’t they at least let her fuss and cry it out for 5 or 10 minutes?

At the restaurant Saturday night was a prime example. I don’t think they take her out much, so she’s used to the quiet comforts of being at home. Well, the restaurant was loud and bustling of course; and every time someone spoke too loud (me) or laughed too loud (me again), she would start to cry. Instead of letting her calm herself down, they would take her out of the room and into an empty part of the restaurant. Come on, guys! Take her to Walmart amongst the screaming masses once a week or so, so she gets used to noise. Otherwise, I’m worried she’s going to be in for a huge shock when she starts daycare in a couple weeks.

I guess I’m just old school boisterous and she’s new age quiet.  We each have our own parenting styles, and I’ll respect the way they choose to raise their children.  I just hope they do the same for us.

Like a sparrow.

Does “nesting” mean I want to pick up all of the crap my husband has left laying around the house for the last ten months and throw every last bit of it in the garbage?

If so, I’m nesting. Boy oh freaking boy, am I nesting.

Waking nightmare.

Last night, I had one of the most horrible dreams of my life.

Dave and I went in for a routine ultrasound, but the baby had died.

Fortunately, I don’t remember the entire dream; but bits and pieces have been haunting me.  All day today, I’ve felt uneasy.  The baby is moving around a lot, almost as if to reassure me, but it was still unnerving and left me a little spooked.

I think I’m going to eat a cookie before bed tonight, and see if I can conjure up some sweet dreams.

The baby made me do it!

For dinner tonight?

Two humongous handfuls of freshly fried potato chips, while waiting at the bar for our drinks.
Cheese and crackers from the salad bar.
Cottage cheese.
A bunch of baby carrots.
A 4-ounce lobster tail.
An 8-ounce tenderloin.
A baked potato with sour cream.
A slice of fresh bread with real butter.

And God help me, I’m still hungry.

Next weigh in = July 2nd.  I’m already dreading it.

Is extraordinary just extra ordinary?

I’m having such a hard time writing this. I don’t want to sound selfish or ungrateful or spoiled; and no matter what I write, it comes off the wrong way. Please know, no matter how this all comes out, I love my family and appreciate everything they’re trying to do.

We went to my parent’s house for dinner tonight, and much to my surprise, my aunt was at the house. It turns out that she & my mom were separating door prizes for the baby shower next month (also known as “Babygate”).

My mother is the one who “organized” this shower, but that’s really where her involvement ends. She called the restaurant and ordered the cake; but that’s been about it. She’s a HORRIBLE procrastinator, so I’ve tried to give her gentle nudges to stay on top of things. Thus far, it’s not really working.

I purchased and printed up my own invitations. If left to her own devices, she would have mailed them out 3 days before the shower. Sadly, I’m not exaggerating. If I got an invitation 3 days before an event, I would know I was invited as an afterthought and not show up, just for spite. My mother doesn’t feel the same way, because her life is one last-minute crisis after another.

I also bought the gift bags and the tissue paper for the door prizes; because again, I knew she would wait until the last second, and I’m trying to make sure things go as smoothly as possible. On one hand, this makes my blood boil. Why should I care if she’s running around like a madwoman the night before the shower? She offered to plan it, knowing full and well how much responsibility it is. On the other hand, the guests are my friends, and I want them to have a nice time; without feeling guilty when my mother starts openly complaining about how much “hard work” she put in to giving me this shower.

And my aunt bought all of the door prizes, so far. My family is big on door prizes – they like to make sure that everyone who shows up leaves with a little something. I think it’s a nice idea; and who doesn’t love going home with some Bath & Body Works soap or a nice little jar candle?

Except this time, the door prizes are beyond tacky; and I’m mortified that my friends will be receiving some of this crap. My aunt works for a local department store, and she’s been snatching up sample items and returned goods to give away at the shower. Some of the stuff they’re planning on giving?

• Christmas Candles. As in, decorated with Santa heads and reindeer and the whole nine yards.
• Christmas Tins. Stuffed with stale Christmas candy.
• Mismatched Hand Soap & Lotion. Like a bottle of mandarin orange hand soap with a bottle of cherry blossom lotion. Is it too much to ask, to match one scent with another?!?
• An Easter table decoration.
• A Valentine’s Day floral arrangement.
• Christmas hand towels.
• A Thanksgiving cornucopia.

And there’s more. So much more. Because they have to conjure up enough stuff for 50+ people.

How would you feel, going to a friend’s baby shower in July, and receiving and open tin of Christmas candy or leftover Valentine’s Day flowers? I would think that either a) I had been punked, or b) that the hostesses had dug through their basements, looking for tasteless sh*t to give away.

I tried telling my mother that if it were me, I would much rather receive a nice set of kitchen spoons or spatulas from The Dollar Store, tied up with a set of dishcloths or some other practical item. Or a glass jar and a bag of potpourri. Anything, anything but leftover holiday garbage. But she insisted that my aunt bought this stuff specifically for the shower, and by God, they’re going to give it all away.

As if the door prizes weren’t bad enough, my mother told me tonight that she’s recycling all the decorations from my sister-in-law’s baby shower in February. Used crepe paper. Leftover mismatched plates & napkins. Used banners and plastic tablecloths and dented centerpieces.

I guess deep down, that hurts more than anything. We’ve waited so long to have this baby; and she makes me feel like I don’t even deserve my own decorations.

I just want this baby shower to be special. To be surrounded by my friends and the people I love, to help me adjust to my upcoming life as a new mother. I’ve waited so long for this – a lifetime it seems – and my own mother doesn’t realize how this baby represents something wonderful and extraordinary for me.

I know it’s only one day. And people will forget about the stupid door prizes and the secondhand decorations.

But for just one day, I wanted something special for my little boy. Just this once, I wanted to feel exceptional. Instead of ordinary.

Not the one starring Jim Carrey……

As we were walking through Babies R Us today, my mother turned to me and asked if Dave and I had had a fight. I, of course, said no and asked why on earth she would ask me such a question.

“Well”, she said. “It’s because you’re sporting a black eye.”

I insisted that I was only tired, that I probably had bags the size of New Hampshire under my eyes, and that my husband had not punched me. First of all, my husband has never hit me. Ever. And second of all, if he ever did, I would hit back. Hey, as a big girl, I’ve always been able to take care of myself.

At the next stop, I went into the bathroom and checked in the mirror. Sure enough, I had a huge dark spot under my eye, right at the top of my cheek. And it looked like a shiner.

All of a sudden, a lightbulb went off. Guess who’s sporting the mask of pregnancy? I only spent about 90 minutes in the sun yesterday (with SPF 15 sunblock), but it must have been enough to trigger a reaction on my face.

Is this going to go away? Or at least fade a bit? I’ve only got a few more days in the sun, before it will inevitably get too hot & far too humid for me to be outside. I’d like to be able to enjoy them, and get a little color on my snow white legs. I know, I know. But I firmly believe that tan fat looks better than pale fat, and my cankles really need a shot of the sun.

It seems impossible to believe that I’m 28 weeks along, and the baby will be here in only 8-12 weeks. So far, my blood pressure has been pretty good & I’m shooting to make it at least 36 weeks. There are so many unknowns, though. What if pre-eclampsia kicks in? What if he stays breech & doesn’t turn? I’ve tried gently poking & prodding & pushing on my belly, but he’s just not turning around.

What if what if what if?

Ignore Yesterday…

Feeling better today.  It’s amazing what eating an ice cream sandwich for breakfast can do to elevate a girl’s mood!

I was supposed to spend the day with my delicious 10-week-old niece; but my brother decided not to come up for a visit.  His wife thinks the 2-hour car ride is too much for the baby; and while I agree to a certain extent, the baby did just fine when she and my sister-in-law made the 2+ hour drive to Chicago to visit her family.  Both last Saturday and the Saturday before.

But it’s okay, really.  Because it frees up the day for me to do absolutely, gloriously nothing.  We’re having a perfect summer day in Wisconsin - upper 70’s with no humidity, and not a cloud in the sky – and I’m going to take full advantage of it.

I’m turning off the tv, the phones, and the computers.  Call it Chubby Mummy Unplugged.  At least until the thunderstorms move in tomorrow.

Hormone overload.

I feel like a broken record, but my lower back is really starting to ache.  A lot. 

I ran to Walmart this morning for weed killer and peppers, and walked around the entire store.  Literally covering all 4 walls and everything in between.  By the time I left, I was pushing the cart with one hand and alternating between wiping away tears and holding my back with the other. 

I know it’s because I’m carrying so low and bending & lifting so much.  Yesterday, I vacuumed the entire house, cleaned the toilets, and did 6 loads of laundry.  This morning, I shaved my legs and could barely lift my foot up to the edge of the tub.  I tried to take a nap this afternoon, but I couldn’t get comfortable & my racing brain wouldn’t quiet enough for a snooze.

So I got up, did 2 more loads of laundry, took out the garbage, made dinner, and scooped the dog poop.  By the time I got done, I couldn’t stand up straight and sat outside, crying my eyes out.

Not so much because of the pain (although it does hurt).  It’s because of my exasperating buckethead husband.  When his mother had problems with her sciatic nerve a year or so ago, he called her every, single day to see how she was doing and make sure she was resting and staying in touch with her doctor.

Here I am, in my 7th month carrying our child, and he doesn’t so much as offer to rub my back or bring me an ice pack.  He made sure that *she* took it easy; so why can’t he show me any of the same consideration???

I just hate how we live in the same house and he’s more interested in the baseball game than he is in me.  The pregnancy books are filled with stories of husbands who treat their wives like delicate, breakable china when they’re knocked up.  Massaging their backs and painting their toenails and taking over the grocery shopping and cleaning duties.

Where are these men, and how do I get them to tell my husband to step up to the plate?????

Lullaby.

I’m not a big fan of the Dixie Chicks. And yeah, it was over that whole George Bush thing.

But this song. Oh, it makes me cry.

“How long do you want to be loved? Is forever enough? Is forever enough?”

Listening to it makes my bitter, cynical heart melt a little. I can’t wait to sing this to my new son.

Babygate.

How come nobody told me how hard this pregnancy thing was going to be????? Or did they, and I just ignored it because I wanted it so bad? And for the love of God, know that I’m only grumbling. I wouldn’t change this pregnancy for anything.

I’m starting to waddle. Even though my mother tells me that I don’t “look” pregnant. “Have you looked at my feet?”, I yell at her, because each foot is roughly the size of a watermelon. “Have you seen how I have to hold my back when I walk?”. “Have you noticed that my shirts are starting to strain over my belly?”. And to tell me I don’t look pregnant. Ugh. I should have asked her if she wanted me to start running my underwear over, every time I sneeze and pee myself.

We had another large argument over Babygate this weekend. Please don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for the baby shower and the windfall of gifts it’s sure to bring. But we’ve now surpassed 50 invitees, and I keep waiting for her to tell me that she’s hired a pony and some fire-eating acrobats to keep the crowds entertained.

And she didn’t invite one of my favorite cousins, who’s going through infertility hell of her own right now. She had a blocked tube, and needed surgery to have the cyst removed. Fortunately, they were able to save both ovaries & both tubes, but she still can’t seem to get pregnant. And to add insult to injury, her brother (who got married less than a year ago) is expecting his first baby late this fall.

I know how she feels. Hell, we all know the anger and the bitterness and the isolation and the loneliness all too well, don’t we?!? I’ve spent the last 6 years avoiding baby showers, and I just wanted to see her and hug her and cry with her, so she knows she’s not alone in all this.

And I would have understood if she didn’t feel up to coming. But to not even invite her just feels so wrong.

Instead, my mother got pressured into inviting her brother’s 2 useless daughters to the party. Rebecca is 30, has one child of her own, and has given up 4 children for adoption (all conceived with different fathers). She’s also miscarried at least six times, and has bragged about having somewhere between 10-15 abortions.

Her younger sister Kim is 27, also has one child of her own, and has given up 2 children for adoption (again, all conceived with different unknown fathers). And she had one child taken away from her for abuse and neglect.

Neither one has ever held down a job. They rely on state assistance and child support and handouts from other family members. Within hours of their dad dying last year, they were both raiding his home, looking for cash and food and anything else they could get their hands on.

About ten years ago, on Christmas Eve, Rebecca and her boyfriend went out for a cigarette and stole some money from me. I left my purse in my truck; and when I went out to leave, I noticed fresh footprints in the snow leading up to my door. I thought I had locked the doors, so I never thought to check my wallet until I got home. And when I finally did, there was $120 missing.

And I firmly believe that once you’re a thief, you’re always a thief. And the last thing I want is to hug people at the baby shower, and have to tell them, “Oh, hey, it’s great to see you again. But make sure you keep your purse closed at all times. Or better yet, lock it in your trunk, because it’s safer out in the parking lot with the general public than it is in here with my family!”.

And God, can you imagine if they worked the room, asking for money????? I would die. They do it at every family gathering, kissing up to their aunts & uncles & cousins, hinting for $20 for gas or groceries or to buy their babies diapers.

I suppose, though, it’s not entirely my mother’s fault. She’s just trying to keep peace with her two meddling sisters, who’ve tried to guilt her into inviting my cousins. “What would grandma say?”, they both say to her; as if my dead grandma would really care whether or not she invited these 2 lowlifes to one simple luncheon. Besides, isn’t it bad luck to speak for the dead?!?!?

I finally told my mother to deflect all future questions about my cousins to ME. *I* am the one who Rebecca stole money from. Not her, and not her sisters. I have every right to keep my distance, especially at an event being held in my honor. And if her sisters don’t like it, maybe they shouldn’t come, either.

And God, I don’t mean to sound selfish or spoiled or like a whiny little princess. But it’s really hard for me to look forward to this baby shower, with such an enormous black cloud hanging over the event.

I’m sure it will be fine.  I’m just want to keep the family drama to a minimum . . . even if it’s only for a day.