Countdown: 28 days to go
Baby talk is boring, I think, if you’re not actively involved in the baby process. And yet, I’ve gotten to that point in my pregnancy where I can’t really afford to think of much else. So forgive me for the one-topic fixation that’s currently going on around here. I have no idea what my plans are with this website, but for now I’m just going to write what’s on my mind. We still have so much to do before she gets here, and I’m trying to take it just one thing at a time and not completely stress out.
Of course, this makes for a spectacularly AWFUL time for both J and I to come down with miserable head colds. This long weekend has been awful, simply awful. I’ve done laundry and dishes, and rearranged my kitchen appliances to make room for a baby bathtub area, but that’s about it. We didn’t finish painting her room as we promised. We didn’t pick out new baseboards or carpet. We didn’t finish cleaning the ferret cage and move it to its new location in the house.
I did, however, start to go through her newborn clothes tonight (generous people have blessed me with enough hand-me-downs to easily clothe multiple babies) and picked out a few things to have ready, just in case she comes early. Since her room isn’t done, and her dresser isn’t here yet, I’ve been putting off my urge to wash and fold all her clothes – but at 36 weeks, it’s time to get at least a handful of things ready to wear. It’s crazy to think that these itty bitty clothes are going to be a regular part of my laundry in just a few weeks!
Countdown: 29 days to go
This is why I don’t give a damn about how much I weigh, so long as she comes out healthy (and so far, all reports have shown her to be 100% healthy and perfect):
My sweet baby girl, my daughter. It still sounds so strange to say! I’m so completely in love with her, and I’m astounded by the fact that whatever I feel for her now will feel like nothing in comparison to how much I’ll love her when she arrives.
Countdown: 30 days to go
My baby is due in 30 days. Now, I’m well aware of the fact that she (SHE!) could come before or after that date, but it’s hard to countdown to the unknown, so here we are.
In the past 8 months, I have gained 40 pounds. As of yesterday, I weigh 342 pounds, more than I ever have in my life. And I am totally okay with that. I’m more comfortable in my skin today than I ever have been. Not that I’m physically comfortable most of the time, but I’m happy.
J has gained some sympathy pregnancy weight as well. He asked my doctor if it was normal that he was matching me pound for pound (a slight exaggeration), and she said absolutely. A couple weeks later, he went to his doctor, who was concerned that he had gained quite a bit of weight this year. J started to say, “My wife is pregnant…” and his doctor stopped him. “Ohhhh. Well, that explains it. Just try to lose it after the baby gets here.”
So he’s promised to get in shape with me after our daughter is born. I know it’s going to be a bit cold in January/February, but I don’t expect to really start exercising until 6 weeks after she’s born, which should be mid-March. By that time, the weather should be great to go on long family walks. To train That Damn Dog to not be terrified of the stroller, we’re going to start out with me wearing the baby (I adore my new Moby wrap) while J pushes the empty stroller/carseat and holds the leash. We were going to start walking her with the empty stroller now, but I just really don’t feel like being surrounded by neighbors asking when we had the baby, when clearly she’s not here yet. Bah.
I feel rusty writing, but I’m determined to start doing it more often. Try to help me remember.
Things I don’t like
1. Getting kicked in the bladder. Seriously, kid. I’m sure it’s a fun, squishy, plaything for you, but it’s becoming a bit of a nuisance. I love you, don’t get me wrong, but suddenly getting sharp urges to pee isn’t at the top of list of favorite pasttimes.
2. Arranging to purchase an awesome car seat and stroller combo for a GREAT price from someone on craigslist, setting a time to pick it up, getting in the car to drive across town, then getting a call saying that she sold it to someone else this morning. What the hell, lady, what the hell? Just not right, and it left me in a grumpy mood for the rest of the afternoon.
3. In a similar fashion, getting an email from Eventful saying that Jill Sobule is playing a show in Dallas, shrieking at J because we ADORE Jill so very much (and she never ever plays shows down here), clicking to purchase tickets, and discovering that this “show in Dallas” is actually located in Los Angeles. NOT COOL. Also, I think Eventful needs to send their employees to geography class.
Written, oh, nine weeks ago?
I can’t even count how many times in my life I’ve started a journal entry with, “I don’t know why I stopped writing just before the most [crazy/dramatic/confusing/exciting/etc.] time in my life!” and then go on to skip over the explanation of the craziness/drama/confusion/excitement and go on to the present situation. I kick myself for it, of course, when I’m reading my 14-year-old words and wondering what the hell the most dramatic time in my life was all about. So I’m not going to say that this time, although I almost certainly could.
My last post was on May 19, so I think that my old standard journal starter is entirely appropriate right now, because May 21 really was, without exaggeration, the day that my life has taken its most important turn to date.
May 21 is the day I first found out about Toaster.
This is Toaster. Toaster lives in my uterus. Toaster and I have been roommates for 11 weeks now, though I am officially 13 weeks pregnant. This fact hurts my logical brain, but at least I get to shave 2 weeks off the countdown.
On the morning of May 21 (and, okay, the mornings of May 16, 17, 18, and 19 as well), I woke up and peed in a cup. Unfortunately, after 4 negative tests in a row, I wasn’t quite as eager on this particular morning, and didn’t get up until after J left for work. Which means that I found out all by myself, while sitting on the toilet, no less. What a charming story to tell the baby someday.
At first, I couldn’t believe my eyes. “Holy crap! That’s a second pink line!” I stumbled back into my room, fell on the bed, and smiled. But then, I really couldn’t believe my eyes. I had, after all, just woken up, and my eyes were still blurry, and the second line was very faint. I tried bringing the test closer to my eyes, and then moving it further away. I couldn’t tell whether it was really there or not. Then I got out my camera, thinking that if a second line showed up when I zoomed in really far on the preview screen, then it was definitely there. But it turns out that you can’t really focus very well on a tiny test strip. Eventually, I accepted the fact that, yes, there were two lines, and yes, I was pregnant. Pregnant!
I didn’t trust my voice to not give me away, so I sent J a text message, asking if we could have lunch. I even made myself wait until after 10 to send it, because I thought it would be suspicious if I sent it immediately after he left. He agreed, and I left the house a little before noon, my precious test strip stashed inside an empty pack of Orbit gum.
As it turns out, I would not be telling my husband about the baby during lunch, because just before we left his office, we got a phone call from his grandmother’s assisted living home. Grandma was on the way to the emergency room after complaining of chest pains. We’ve been through this time after time – she gets heartburn, assumes it’s a heart attack, and gets rushed to the hospital. Every time, she’s just fine when she gets there, and she gets sent home after a few days of observation. This time was no different. But it did make for bad timing for an exciting announcement, so I spent the afternoon hours sitting quietly next to my husband and father-in-law, with my inner voice screaming, “I’m pregnant! I’m pregnant!”
And then it was time to go to school, and I had to try to concentrate on microbiology while my inner voice was screaming, “I’m pregnant! I’m pregnant!” And when I called J after school, he was still at his friend’s house, so I stopped by the grocery store to pick up some things for dinner, with my inner voice screaming with every passing second, “I’m pregnant! I’m pregnant!” It was a bit unending for the first several days, actually.
Eventually, we both made it home. I still hadn’t figured out how I was going to break the news to my beloved. He has a history of being outspokenly anti-procreation, and though he was a very active (and willing) participant in this little gamble of ours, I wasn’t certain of how he was going to take it. Hell, I still wasn’t certain how I was taking it.
I was kneeling on the edge of the bed when I asked him to come hug me. Then, at a complete loss for words, I reached into my nearby purse and pulled out my pack of Orbit. (Later, J would say, “I couldn’t figure out why the hell she called me over to give me gum.”) Hands shaking, I pulled out my little test strip and showed it to him.
“Okay…what am I looking at?”
“That’s two lines.”
“Okay…so what does that mean?”
“That second line? That’s Ebenezer.”
“What?”
“It’s positive. Two lines means positive.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yup. Positive.”
I, naturally, turned into an uncontrolable, sobbing mess, leading J to ask me if this was a good thing or a bad thing. “I don’t knoooow!” I cried into to his chest. He, however, was a bit more in control.
“I feel totally at peace right now. If it happens, it happens, and that’s fine.”
“Uh, sweetie? It’s already happened!”
“And I’m totally okay with that. It’s you and me. It’s part of my Chelle. And how could that ever be anything other than wonderful?”
I loved him so much right then. While I was struggling with my emotions, feeling both elated and scared out of my mind (in other words: pregnant), he managed to bring me back down to some sense of calm and normalcy. Yes, part of me was frustrated by his calmness. How could he be standing there like everything was perfectly fine, when I was struggling with how I had the right to be happy about this while mentally calculating our budget? Because he’s different than me, that’s all. Not better, not worse, just different. And it’s a damn good thing, too, because sometimes I really need his steadiness.
The Hugh Hefner of the 1600s
Tonight, my teacher was tellling us about Anton van Leeuwenhoek, who is often considered to be the father of microbiology for his observations of bacteria with his carefully designed magnifying lens setup. He described him as being, among other things (painter, germaphobe, eccentric, haberdasher), “basically the Hugh Hefner of his time.”
Now, Mr. van Leeuwenhoek certainly sounded like an interesting guy, but I got a little bit confused when my teacher told us about how ol’ Anton was very secretive with the lens design on his microscope, and would invite the Royal Society of London over to look at his things, but insisted that they come in single-file and keep their hands in their back pockets, “much like Hugh Hefner,” so that no one would steal his microscope to analyze.
Huh? Hugh Hefner makes people walk around with their hands in their pockets? So they don’t steal…what, pictures of women? Sooo confused. We move on to other men and women in the history of microbiology (Louis Pasteur is basically responsible for the wine industry in France. Yay, Louis!), finish lecture, go to lab, come home.
I start telling J about how I really like this teacher, and how he goes more in depth on these historical figures than the textbook does. I start telling him everything the teacher told us about Anton van Leeuwenhoek, and he was the Hugh Hefner of his time. We laughed at that. Then I admit my confusion about him making sure the Royal Society fellows didn’t steal his inventions, and start to ask what the Hugh Hefner connection is.
J interrupts me.
“He’s talking about Howard Hughes! Howard Hughes is the paranoid, eccentric, germaphobic billionaire, not Hugh Hefner!”
We both die laughing. I briefly wonder if it’s at all possible that I misheard or misinterpreted my teacher. Lucky for us, I record my lectures. I just pulled out my recorder and played the clip for J. Sure enough, the teacher was saying Hugh Hefner. The second he did, J says, “Oh my GOD, he’s talking about HOWARD HUGHES.”
So we’ve established that I was hearing him correctly. What is yet to be determined is whether or not I’ll ever be able to convince my husband that my new teacher is, in fact, pretty damn awesome.
Three months? Really?
I knew my life was chaotic, but I had no idea it had been so long since I’d found the time to write.
My hellish spring semester ended last Monday, and one of my goals for my offtime was to start writing again. Well, that plan was foiled by all the catching up on real life activities that had to be done. Well, not HAD to be done, as I suppose that my clothes were still technically in working order, though I really preferred them to be clean. And then J went to Las Vegas this weekend, and I’m always abnormal when he’s out of town. I went shopping with my best friend, and painted part of my kitchen. Yes, the same in-need-of-paint kitchen that I was bitching about over a year ago.
Which, if I may indulge in a small tangent, reminds me of the song Bitchin’ in the Kitchen, from Shock Treatment, the pseudosequal to the Rocky Horror Picture Show. Bizzare, yet hilarious.
And, for the record, of course this song has never made me randomly start singing to inanimate kitchen appliances! That would be crazy!
Ahem.
Anyway, best laid plans of mice and men and all of that…long story short, I wrote nary a word on my break. And, as of 5:30 last night, I am back in school again. Not even a full week’s break. This time around, I’ve only got one class, Microbiology, but it meets four times a week for 3-1/2 hours a night. The good news is that if I get an A in this class, I’ll have a 4.0 GPA in my science classes, which is what the nursing program cares more about than the overall GPA. I’ll take Medical Terminology and CPR For Healthcare Providers in late summer, take my TEAS test, and then turn in my application for nursing school in September. If all goes according to plan, I’ll be starting nursing school in January!
Whiny wants
I want more hours in the day. I want to be able to stay up late catching up on things. I want to get a full 8-10 hours of sleep. I want to be productive in the mornings and afternoons. I want to get my housework and my 12 pages of chemistry homework done before my husband comes home from work, because I want to give him my undivided attention. I want my freaking uterine lining to shed itself already. I want to be happy and cheery all the time, instead of so freaking BLAH. I want my face to clear up. I want a pony. Well, a horse. I’m a bit too big for a pony.
But you know what I would settle for? Pita chips, hummus, and a big bowl of fruit. Because I didn’t eat lunch until 4:15, and I just got viciously starving for dinner. But it’s too late for a proper dinner, isn’t it? So…baked pita chips, hummus, and fruit. Yum.
Nanny rambles
Why, oh why, oh WHY do I stay up late on Sunday nights? Not only do I have to wake up at 5:43, but I also don’t get home from school until nearly 10:00. And of course, in the hours between, I’ve got to keep up with the energy and demands of a rambunctious 4-year-old boy. I don’t usually write about Thomas on here, but it’s been one long day, and he’s the clearest thing in my head right now.
These days, for better or worse, I’m not alone at work. The bosses have sold their business, and they’re both currently at home a lot. This has led to a few super-easy days (Let’s All Go To Mommy’s Ultrasound And Great-Grandpa’s Urologist Day! Let’s Go Sit At The Doctor’s Office For Three Hours And Find Out That Thomas Has Strep Throat Day! Let’s Go To Karate/Gymnastics Class Day!), but it’s also led to a lot of fits and whining. If Thomas doesn’t like something, he goes running to the office to bother his parents. He doesn’t want me, he wants them. Again, there’s a good and a bad side to this. The good? I managed to not get strep throat from the kid, because he didn’t want to snuggle with me. The bad? He doesn’t understand that they’re actually doing business when they’re in the office, and he thinks that every day is a super happy funtime weekend.
Also? He’s four now, and he’s absolutely brilliant and terribly (yet hilariously) cheeky.
“I don’t want to sit down, Thomas.” Daddy leans against the kitchen counter. “I’m going to stand right here and wait for you to finish your strawberries”
“Okay, Daddy.” Thomas leans against the refrigerator. “I’m going to stand right here and watch you be patient.“
I took some photos of Thomas today while he was taking pictures with my old camera. It’s not really old at all, as I got it 2 months ago, but he’s taken more pictures with it than I have. Anyway, while I was reviewing the photos, I gasped at how OLD he looks now. There’s hardly a trace of the little munchkin I started watching 2 years ago. He’s a little boy now. He’s a kid. He’s growing up. My god, is he growing up.
He looks serious in the pictures I took, because he’s concentrating on his own photography. He works really hard at setting up the exact shot that he wants. It’s why I’ve pretty much given him free reign with the camera. I want to encourage this trait in him, because it reminds me of how I always was as a kid. I don’t want to hold him back if he’s got such meticulous interest in it. And, if I do say so myself, the kid has some talent. I wouldn’t dare let him touch MY! FANCY! NEW! CAMERA! but I’ll certainly let him play with the Kodak EasyShare (which I purchased at CVS for less than $30 out of pocket after clever use of coupons and ECBs BECAUSE I AM AWESOME!) to his little heart’s content.
Hello, February!
My god, that feels weird. Also? Only 13 more weeks left in this semester! Hurrah! I’ve become a bit eh about school, a bit burned out. I think part of the problem is that, last semester, I focused entirely on it, and let everything else in my life fall into disrepair. Cleaning? No time, have to study! Cooking? But I’ve been out of the house all day! My marriage? You know I’ve got to get As to get into nursing school! Best friend? I can’t hang out, I’ve got a quiz tomorrow and a test on Wednesday!
And so on. And so on. And so on.
So, to paint a clearer picture of my life at the moment: my house is more of a wreck than it ever has been, my eating habits have returned to process crap, I’ve gained back all the weight that I lost last year, plus 7 pounds, my marriage hit the roughest patch ever (but we’re working on it, and are quite happy at the moment), and I rarely talk to my best female friend anymore.
And that 6-week break I had between semesters? I was so tired from last semester that I did…well, practically nothing. The entire time. It’s not something I’m proud of.
Anyway, I’m taking two classes this semester, and I’m trying to figure out a way to balance that and also get my life back in order, because, frankly, it can’t go on like this. And so, somehow, I’ve decided that I’m going to write on here every single day this month. Not because I’m a glutton for punishment, but because I really do feel better when I’m able to write. So…that’s the plan.
And with that, I think it’s time for me to shower and head to my parents’ house for a Super Bowl party. But just between you and me? I’m really only going so that I can watch the special episode of The Office on the more-gigantic-than-ever-would-be-necessary television that my father owns. Oh, and to cheer on whichever team no one else in the room is supporting. Which I think will be…the Steelers?
