Dear Cletus,
Congratulations! You are three months old tomorrow! You know what that means - it means that your dad and I have had you for three months and have managed not to maim/starve/overheat/underheat/underfeed/overwrap/burn/bite or beat you. Forget about you for a second - I feel like as parents, we're the ones who have reached a milestone.
You're pretty cute now, by the way - you're rocking the baby chub and your thighs and arms have rolls that the Pillsbury Doughboy would be envious of. You're smiling and gurgling all sorts of sounds. Your dad and I have no idea what you're trying to communicate, but they sound cute.
I must say, though, that you take up an extraordinary amount of time. I wake up every day and think of all the things I want to do before your dad gets home from work. This list usually involves showering, cleaning, laundry, perhaps some grocery shopping, and hopefully taking you on a walk or doing some exercise while you nap. Here is the way my days usually pan out:
6:30 AM - alarm goes off. Hit snooze button.
6:45 AM - alarm goes off again. Roll out of bed, stumble to kitchen, try to pour coffee into mug.
6:50 AM - realize we forgot to set the coffee timer the night before, so there is no coffee. Curse loudly since you are not awake to hear and wouldn't understand curse words even if you did. Make coffee.
7:10 AM - coffee is ready, pour cup, realize you are awake and your bottle is not ready. Curse again.
7:15 AM - get you up while your bottle heats up. Change your diaper, take you in to wake up your dad (if he is not already awake).
7:30 AM - your dad feeds you a bottle.
8:00 AM - you and I play while your dad gets ready for work. I look longingly at the kitchen where I know breakfast awaits me, but you cry if I put you down to make myself some cereal.
8:30 AM - your dad leaves for work. You and I stare at each other, taking the other's measure the way karate masters size up their opponents. I decide to lay you under your baby gym and risk your crying because I am starving.
8:31 AM - 8:35 AM - you scream because you feel I have no right to eat breakfast.
8:35 AM - 8:45 AM - you sit triumphantly on my hip while I try to eat cereal one-handed.
8:45 - 9 AM - I prep you and put you in your crib for a nap.
9:05 AM - you wake up screaming, a clear demand to be up.
9:15 AM - I realize you're not going to "cry it out" and go in to pick you up. You smile beatifically at me to reassure me that you're not really tired after all.
9:19 AM - you fall asleep in my arms.
9:20 AM - I put you in your crib to continue your nap.
9:30 AM - I shower, wash hair, put on clean clothes, and get ready to do some housecleaning.
9:45 AM - you wake up, dismayed to find yourself again in your crib, and commence screaming.
9:45 AM - 10 AM - I do my best to ignore your screaming as your father and I have said that we need to teach you to "cry it out".
10:05 AM - I pick you up since you clearly do not agree with us when it comes to self soothing. You continue to scream in my arms to punish me as I make your bottle.
10:15 - 10:45 AM - I feed you your bottle while you try to fall asleep while drinking.
11 AM - THE MOST MASSIVE POO EVER.
11:10 AM - I do a load of laundry that contains your clothes and my clothes that are now covered in poo. You watch me from your bumbo seat and giggle delightedly at your accomplishment.
11:15 AM - I discover poo on the couch cushion and scrub it with Oxyclean while mumbling curses.
11:30 AM - you get fussy and rub your eyes, but resist my attempts to put you in your crib for a nap.
11:50 AM - you fall asleep in your swing, where you can awaken at any moment to make sure I am still behaving.
12:00 PM to 1 PM - I try frantically squeeze as much housecleaning as I can into one hour before you wake up.
1 PM - you wake up and I feed you a bottle.
1:30 PM - playtime. As if to apologize for your behavior in the morning, you are particularly ingratiating with your coos and chuckles. I take pictures and send them to your dad on his phone so he will be jealous and think I am the perfect mother who has her baby completely under control.
2:00 PM - I attempt to make a PB&J sandwich with one hand, while balancing you on my hip. You decide that this is not challenging enough, so you keep jerking backwards to give yourself an adrenaline rush and also to work out my biceps as I keep you from falling to the floor.
2:15 PM - You get fussy and resist falling asleep.
2:30 PM - despite your best efforts, I triumph and get you to fall asleep. I put you in your crib.
2:45 PM - you awaken and are majorly pissed off to find yourself foiled again and in your crib. Commence screaming. I count the days until I can go back to work and feel jealous of your dad, who gets to spend his day talking to adults who don't require bottles and who presumably don't scream.
2:55 PM - I go in to check on you and you stop screaming when you see me and start smiling, even though I haven't picked you up. It's like you're saying, "Hey Mom. I'm not hungry, wet, or gassy, but I missed you. Please feel guilty that you put me in this stupid crib instead of holding me all day."
3:10 PM - I rock you to sleep and you go back in the crib.
3:45 PM - I congratulate myself on the fact that you have slept for over a half hour in your crib and text your dad to tell him we have made a breakthrough and you might learn to sleep in your crib after all.
3:47 PM - you wake up and are pissed that the crib has foiled you again. Commence screaming.
4:00 PM - I get you up and give you your bottle. As you eat, your eyes look at me reproachfully because I should know better than to ever put you down, ever, ever. I wonder how I am ever going to go back to work because in spite of your difficulties, I just love you so much.
4:30 PM - your dad gets home and you are all giggles and coos because you haven't seen him all day and I am chopped liver.
4:35 PM - I pour myself a glass of wine as I think of all the things I had planned to accomplish but somehow didn't get around to doing.
Ok, the days aren't always like that....but there are ENOUGH days like that to make me hope that you will someday invent something that makes you a lot of money so that you buy me a really big house that comes with a pool and a billboard that says, "Thank you for being such a great mom when I was a baby and didn't let you get anything done." Because goddammit, I'm doing my best, but it's exhausting.
You are pretty cute, though.
Love,
Your Mom
Monday, September 10, 2012
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
There Are Days When You Are Pabby
Dear Cletus,
So I know in my last post I said we are going to call you the DSG because of your crazy pooing skills. However, we have since come to realize that the title of Diabolical Shitting Genius does not fully encompass your machiavellian deviousness. We had to think of a new nickname that could apply to all of your antics, and thus we have decided to refer to you as the PAB: Punk-Ass Baby. And Cletus, there are days when I think that your Pabbiness knows no bounds.
Take, for example, your refusal to nap more than 20 minutes at a time during the day. I understand that you spent nine months in a comfortable amniotic jacuzzi, constantly being rocked whenever I moved. By contrast, your crib must seem like a vast, desolate desert - if a desert was made up of MEMORY FOAM, FUZZY BLANKETS, AND A SLEEP SHEEP, not to mention climate-controlled at 77 degrees. Seriously, Cletus. How can you not sleep in THAT? Children in Nigeria would kill for your crib.
Let's also talk about the fact that so far, your conversation skills are lacking. I realize that you might not understand the finer details of politics, but when I am explaining to you the political differences between the red and blue states in the upcoming presidential election, try to forget that you can't see colors yet and just follow the flow of conversation. Trust me, your ability to talk about the Affordable Healthcare Act will impress your second grade teacher someday when all of your classmates are still learning to read.
Okay, maybe I'm being too hard on you. One of the things I have to remember now that I'm a parent is that there are two sides to every coin. So you don't sleep during the day. You do sleep at least 5 hours at night, which is nice (I'm not sure what changes when the sun goes down, but I am so grateful that you and the crib agreed upon a nightly truce early on). Also, while you might not have a lot to say during our political discussions, you have started to make some very adorable coos. You're also smiling on a regular basis. Your dad swears that you went so far as to laugh at a joke of his this morning. However, I know this is not true, since you and I both agree that I am funnier than your dad.
I must admit Cletus, I do admire your tenacity. Whether you're screaming for 20 minutes straight because you're refusing to sleep, or continuing in your efforts to hold your head up, you manage to stay focused. Speaking of holding your head up, we both know that you're doing this because you have discovered your nemesis - the ceiling fan. I don't quite understand your fascination, but you can't take your eyes of it when we're in the living room. It doesn't matter if the fan is turned on or not - there's nothing I can do to distract you. It's like you're staring at it and thinking, "I'll figure you out one day, you rotating bastard."
Also, I can tell from our morning dance parties that you appreciate the Beatles - which is good, because a love of the Beatles is not optional in this house. You and I may disagree as to whether the White Album is superior to Abbey Road, but let's not quibble; we both enjoyed a special moment when Rocky Raccoon started to play, and you smiled.
So, while there are days when you are pabby, I have to admit - you're good company. Now, if I can get you to learn Star Wars references like this kid, you will be the perfect baby.
Love,
Your Mom
So I know in my last post I said we are going to call you the DSG because of your crazy pooing skills. However, we have since come to realize that the title of Diabolical Shitting Genius does not fully encompass your machiavellian deviousness. We had to think of a new nickname that could apply to all of your antics, and thus we have decided to refer to you as the PAB: Punk-Ass Baby. And Cletus, there are days when I think that your Pabbiness knows no bounds.
Take, for example, your refusal to nap more than 20 minutes at a time during the day. I understand that you spent nine months in a comfortable amniotic jacuzzi, constantly being rocked whenever I moved. By contrast, your crib must seem like a vast, desolate desert - if a desert was made up of MEMORY FOAM, FUZZY BLANKETS, AND A SLEEP SHEEP, not to mention climate-controlled at 77 degrees. Seriously, Cletus. How can you not sleep in THAT? Children in Nigeria would kill for your crib.
Let's also talk about the fact that so far, your conversation skills are lacking. I realize that you might not understand the finer details of politics, but when I am explaining to you the political differences between the red and blue states in the upcoming presidential election, try to forget that you can't see colors yet and just follow the flow of conversation. Trust me, your ability to talk about the Affordable Healthcare Act will impress your second grade teacher someday when all of your classmates are still learning to read.
Okay, maybe I'm being too hard on you. One of the things I have to remember now that I'm a parent is that there are two sides to every coin. So you don't sleep during the day. You do sleep at least 5 hours at night, which is nice (I'm not sure what changes when the sun goes down, but I am so grateful that you and the crib agreed upon a nightly truce early on). Also, while you might not have a lot to say during our political discussions, you have started to make some very adorable coos. You're also smiling on a regular basis. Your dad swears that you went so far as to laugh at a joke of his this morning. However, I know this is not true, since you and I both agree that I am funnier than your dad.
I must admit Cletus, I do admire your tenacity. Whether you're screaming for 20 minutes straight because you're refusing to sleep, or continuing in your efforts to hold your head up, you manage to stay focused. Speaking of holding your head up, we both know that you're doing this because you have discovered your nemesis - the ceiling fan. I don't quite understand your fascination, but you can't take your eyes of it when we're in the living room. It doesn't matter if the fan is turned on or not - there's nothing I can do to distract you. It's like you're staring at it and thinking, "I'll figure you out one day, you rotating bastard."
Also, I can tell from our morning dance parties that you appreciate the Beatles - which is good, because a love of the Beatles is not optional in this house. You and I may disagree as to whether the White Album is superior to Abbey Road, but let's not quibble; we both enjoyed a special moment when Rocky Raccoon started to play, and you smiled.
So, while there are days when you are pabby, I have to admit - you're good company. Now, if I can get you to learn Star Wars references like this kid, you will be the perfect baby.
Love,
Your Mom
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Just Because She's Crying Doesn't Mean She Thinks you're a Bad Mother and Wants to Become a Stripper
Dear Cletus,
First of all: just because you've been born doesn't mean I'm dropping your nickname, at least for the purpose of this blog. Letters to Rebecca just doesn't have the same ring to it as Letters to Cletus; also, Letters to Rebecca sounds like the screenplay for a Lifetime movie starring Valerie Bertinelli. So, while to your face I will always call you Rebecca Renee, I'm a little nostalgic for the days when your only name was Cletus the Fetus (did I mention that I'm taking a lot of narcotics as a result of my c-section?).
We've had you home for about a week and a half, and between feeding you every two hours, getting up in the middle of the night, and dealing with an unholy amount of poo, I don't really have the presence of mind to write a perfectly-constructed blog post. So you're going to have to settle for the following thoughts that I have jotted down while feeding you at 2 in the morning:
* My boobs can now double as squirt guns. You're my first kid, and therefore I'm a rookie at breastfeeding (it would be weird if I wasn't). It's a strange adjustment to make, to go from thinking of my boobs as assets to get me free drinks, to realizing my boobs have actually become my daughter's free drinks. So when I inexpertly try to shove some of my boob into your mouth, I'm sometimes distracted by memories of the good old days, when I only used those suckers to flash bartenders (that's how I met your dad, BTW). While you desperately try to get a latch onto said boob, milk just tends to spray in every which direction. Useful fact: wet wipes will clean breastmilk when it gets into your eye.
* You are a diabolical shitting genius (DSG). Cletus the Genius, I dub thee. How do I know this? Let me break it down for you. Your first bath took place in the kitchen sink, and you managed to poo and pee into your dad's hand within 2 minutes. You also time your poo and pee to come out just as we are changing your diaper. At your finest moments, you manage to poo and pee both onto the dirty diaper and the clean diaper. You've gone for the ultimate win a couple of times by getting both diapers dirty, as well as the diaper changing pad. At first, I chalked it up to you just being a baby, but then I thought: "Wait a minute - this is too well-timed." That was when I realized that you are doing this on purpose. I don't know your end game yet, but I have 17 years and 350 days before you turn 18 and storm out of our house while declaring that we're not the bosses of you anymore. I will figure your shit out, DSG.
* Hormones are such a bitch. Nursery finished? Check. Pre-registered at the hospital? Check. Diaper bag packed? Check. Equipped to deal with the CRAZY-ASS roller coaster that constitutes my body regulating itself post-partum? Uh, no.
Cletus, I'm not insane, but I understand if you think I am. It's not exactly normal to read a review for the movie "Seeking a Friend for the End of the World" and then to cry because what IF an asteroid really did hit the earth, what would I do to care for my baby THEN?
Yeah. That actually happened.
Before you were born, I didn't love anyone as much as I loved your dad. Now that you're born, I realize that I still love him a lot, but he's pretty capable and self-sufficient. I also love you, but I know I'm solely responsible for you because you're incapable of doing anything except crying, eating, and smiling (it's NOT gas, babycenter.com - my diabolical shitting genius of a daughter smiles, goddammit). So your life is literally in my hands. It's an awesome responsibility, and by awesome, I mean overwhelming and scary for someone who has been comforted by the thought that my cat could feed itself on field mice if I ran out of catfood. (don't worry, Cletus; if the boob milk doesn't work out, I know that field mice are not an option for you).
Thankfully, your dad is not dealing with crazy-ass post partum hormones. While I would not normally say that men are more rational than women, in this house, at this time, it is absolutely true. If I tried to say otherwise, I would remember just last night, when your dad said to me: "Sweetie, just because she's crying doesn't mean she thinks you're a bad mother and wants to become a stripper to spite you."
Yeah. That also actually happened.
So your dad is helping hold down the fort while my body sorts itself out. In the meantime, I love you like crazy and am so glad you got my nose, because it's so much cuter on an infant than your dad's nose (sorry, but it's true. My nose is way adorable).
My next blog post will be more rational and we'll talk more about your expert shitting at that point.
Love,
Your Mom
First of all: just because you've been born doesn't mean I'm dropping your nickname, at least for the purpose of this blog. Letters to Rebecca just doesn't have the same ring to it as Letters to Cletus; also, Letters to Rebecca sounds like the screenplay for a Lifetime movie starring Valerie Bertinelli. So, while to your face I will always call you Rebecca Renee, I'm a little nostalgic for the days when your only name was Cletus the Fetus (did I mention that I'm taking a lot of narcotics as a result of my c-section?).
We've had you home for about a week and a half, and between feeding you every two hours, getting up in the middle of the night, and dealing with an unholy amount of poo, I don't really have the presence of mind to write a perfectly-constructed blog post. So you're going to have to settle for the following thoughts that I have jotted down while feeding you at 2 in the morning:
* My boobs can now double as squirt guns. You're my first kid, and therefore I'm a rookie at breastfeeding (it would be weird if I wasn't). It's a strange adjustment to make, to go from thinking of my boobs as assets to get me free drinks, to realizing my boobs have actually become my daughter's free drinks. So when I inexpertly try to shove some of my boob into your mouth, I'm sometimes distracted by memories of the good old days, when I only used those suckers to flash bartenders (that's how I met your dad, BTW). While you desperately try to get a latch onto said boob, milk just tends to spray in every which direction. Useful fact: wet wipes will clean breastmilk when it gets into your eye.
* You are a diabolical shitting genius (DSG). Cletus the Genius, I dub thee. How do I know this? Let me break it down for you. Your first bath took place in the kitchen sink, and you managed to poo and pee into your dad's hand within 2 minutes. You also time your poo and pee to come out just as we are changing your diaper. At your finest moments, you manage to poo and pee both onto the dirty diaper and the clean diaper. You've gone for the ultimate win a couple of times by getting both diapers dirty, as well as the diaper changing pad. At first, I chalked it up to you just being a baby, but then I thought: "Wait a minute - this is too well-timed." That was when I realized that you are doing this on purpose. I don't know your end game yet, but I have 17 years and 350 days before you turn 18 and storm out of our house while declaring that we're not the bosses of you anymore. I will figure your shit out, DSG.
* Hormones are such a bitch. Nursery finished? Check. Pre-registered at the hospital? Check. Diaper bag packed? Check. Equipped to deal with the CRAZY-ASS roller coaster that constitutes my body regulating itself post-partum? Uh, no.
Cletus, I'm not insane, but I understand if you think I am. It's not exactly normal to read a review for the movie "Seeking a Friend for the End of the World" and then to cry because what IF an asteroid really did hit the earth, what would I do to care for my baby THEN?
Yeah. That actually happened.
Before you were born, I didn't love anyone as much as I loved your dad. Now that you're born, I realize that I still love him a lot, but he's pretty capable and self-sufficient. I also love you, but I know I'm solely responsible for you because you're incapable of doing anything except crying, eating, and smiling (it's NOT gas, babycenter.com - my diabolical shitting genius of a daughter smiles, goddammit). So your life is literally in my hands. It's an awesome responsibility, and by awesome, I mean overwhelming and scary for someone who has been comforted by the thought that my cat could feed itself on field mice if I ran out of catfood. (don't worry, Cletus; if the boob milk doesn't work out, I know that field mice are not an option for you).
Thankfully, your dad is not dealing with crazy-ass post partum hormones. While I would not normally say that men are more rational than women, in this house, at this time, it is absolutely true. If I tried to say otherwise, I would remember just last night, when your dad said to me: "Sweetie, just because she's crying doesn't mean she thinks you're a bad mother and wants to become a stripper to spite you."
Yeah. That also actually happened.
So your dad is helping hold down the fort while my body sorts itself out. In the meantime, I love you like crazy and am so glad you got my nose, because it's so much cuter on an infant than your dad's nose (sorry, but it's true. My nose is way adorable).
My next blog post will be more rational and we'll talk more about your expert shitting at that point.
Love,
Your Mom
Monday, May 28, 2012
Frank Breech: World's Worst Porn Name
Dear Cletus,
So after months of anticipation (read: fear) and excitement (read: anxiety) about experiencing labor, it turns out you're going to buck expectations and be born via c-section. If nothing else, this proves that I have passed along to you the "f-it" gene. Congratulations.
So last week we go in for our now-weekly appointment with my OB/GYN, a person I now see more regularly than my best friend (and who, coincidentally, may know just as many personal details about me. When you know someone who is so familiar with your nether regions, you - or at least, I - just decide to screw it and go whole hog in terms of intimacy. I now tell her my life story every time I go in, from my worries about breastfeeding to my phobia of sharks. She didn't know she was a therapist when she took me on as a patient, but she has settled into the role nicely).
Anyhoo. Before the actual exam, we have an ultrasound. Hooray! Fun baby pictures! We haven't seen you since the five-month mark, at which point, according to babycenter.com, you were the size of a banana. Since then, you have apparently grown enough to be considered the size of a crenshaw melon. We weren't entirely sure what a crenshaw melon was, but we understood that you apparently had changed a lot and so were very excited.
So we go in for the ultrasound, the tech slathers my belly with the goo and starts moving the sensor-thingie around. We see you on the screen, and then the tech says, "Well that's not where the head's supposed to be." We are then told that you are in a frank breech position, which means your head is facing up toward my ribs and your legs are folded up around your head. If nothing else, you're flexible.
How your dad gets from Point A to Point B
Your soon-to-be mom
So after months of anticipation (read: fear) and excitement (read: anxiety) about experiencing labor, it turns out you're going to buck expectations and be born via c-section. If nothing else, this proves that I have passed along to you the "f-it" gene. Congratulations.
So last week we go in for our now-weekly appointment with my OB/GYN, a person I now see more regularly than my best friend (and who, coincidentally, may know just as many personal details about me. When you know someone who is so familiar with your nether regions, you - or at least, I - just decide to screw it and go whole hog in terms of intimacy. I now tell her my life story every time I go in, from my worries about breastfeeding to my phobia of sharks. She didn't know she was a therapist when she took me on as a patient, but she has settled into the role nicely).
Anyhoo. Before the actual exam, we have an ultrasound. Hooray! Fun baby pictures! We haven't seen you since the five-month mark, at which point, according to babycenter.com, you were the size of a banana. Since then, you have apparently grown enough to be considered the size of a crenshaw melon. We weren't entirely sure what a crenshaw melon was, but we understood that you apparently had changed a lot and so were very excited.
So we go in for the ultrasound, the tech slathers my belly with the goo and starts moving the sensor-thingie around. We see you on the screen, and then the tech says, "Well that's not where the head's supposed to be." We are then told that you are in a frank breech position, which means your head is facing up toward my ribs and your legs are folded up around your head. If nothing else, you're flexible.
Frank Breech: world's worst porn name
Thirty minutes later, once we are ushered into the exam room, the doctor says she wants to "check" me. This involves slathering goo onto a gloved finger, which she then inserts into the hole you're supposed to come out of. As you can imagine, it was uncomfortable on a variety of levels.
Apparently, "checking" me confirmed what she had thought when seeing the ultrasound images, and your dad and I were told that although you might turn on your own between now and your due date, it's really best to schedule a cesarean section. She said this in a very calm voice, while still managing to convey that the chances of you turning on your own were on par with Coco Crisp being named baseball's 2012 MVP (that's right - it's a sports reference, everybody! I've been putting my maternity leave to good use!).
Even though your dad and I were taken by surprise by the idea of a c-section, I think we rolled pretty easily with it. I don't know about your dad, but the reason for my quick agreement had to do with the fact that I had watched an online video of a natural birth the day before.
Cletus, I don't know who these people are that talk about the "miracle" and "beauty" of giving birth. It was the grossest thing I have ever seen. Ever. No one should ever have to look at anything like that. They should show that video to every twelve-year-old who takes sex ed. It will scare girls into locking up their legs until they are in their forties. Homeland Security should show this video to potential terrorists as an interrogation method. And FYI, the woman in this video had had an epidural and seemed pretty comfortable, so I'm not talking about the pain - I'm just going based on the pure gross-out factor.
If your morbid curiosity leads you to want to watch said video, you can see it here. But don't click on the link unless you want your retinas to wish that they had been seared with a red-hot iron in place of what they just saw.
So with that gory image still fresh in my mind, the idea of a nice clean c-section - in particular, the part where I get a curtain up so I don't see what is happening with my belly - sounded like a great option. The icing on the cake was that we got to pick your delivery date. It kind of felt like playing God, to be able to pick your birthday - a day that you will live with forever. Anyways, we settled on June 11th - we figured 6/11/12 has a good ring to it and it's on a Monday, which gives your dad the chance to finish out the work week prior to meeting you. Assuming I don't go in to labor beforehand and have to have an emergency c-section. In which case, eph it all.
Your dad, by the way, was only half listening to anything that the OB/GYN was telling us about what to expect during and after the surgical procedure. Once he realized that a c-section was in the cards, he began madly texting his sister, mother, best friend, and probably his entire fantasy baseball team to tell them the news. I would have been irritated with him for not being more focused, except that we heard back almost immediately from his best friend, who made possibly the greatest observation ever when he texted that the fact that you are facing the wrong way means you are definitely Mike's kid, since you inherited his horrible sense of direction.
How normal people get from Point A to Point B
How your dad gets from Point A to Point B
You think I'm exaggerating, but I'm not. Your dad once drove from San Francisco back to Sacramento, and his convoluted route somehow got him back home without actually crossing any bodies of water. We're still not sure how he did it.
So it only makes sense that you'd be facing the completely wrong way in utero. Genetics, baby!
So anyways: get ready, Cletus. You're going to be born on 6/11/12 at the latest, and unless you change positions, you can expect to be pulled out of your warm amniotic fluid and into a cold sterilized operating room by my OB/GYN/therapist's gloved gooey hands. But hey - it can only get better from there, right?
Love,
Your soon-to-be mom
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
I Wonder If These People Are High
Dear Cletus,
So today I got my weekly bulletin from babycenter.com about your prenatal progress (33 weeks along). I have a love/hate relationship with that site. Some weeks, the updates and information are very helpful and make a lot of sense. Other weeks, I wonder if these people are high. Take today's weekly update:
"Many women are still feeling sexy at this stage — and their partners often agree."
- First of all, I think I do look sexy - from the shoulders up. However, my Buddha-esque belly is not getting me a lot of offers for one-night stands from random men.
- Secondly, OF COURSE YOUR PARTNER IS GOING TO AGREE WITH YOU IF YOU SAY YOU ARE SEXY. FOR GOD'S SAKE, HE'S NOT LOOKING TO PREMATURELY END HIS LIFE. Mike knows that there is only one response he can give if I ask him, "Do I look sexy?", even if as I ask, I am simultaneously shoveling lard down my throat and talking about how my goal in life is to have more children than the Duggars. That response is: "Absolutely. Now get that spoonful of lard out of your mouth and let's hit the sheets."
"Bored with pregnancy? Try this! "Every time I start to get bored with my pregnancy, I lie down and rub my belly. Sure enough, my baby starts to kick, and I think about how wonderful it will be when I'm able to hold him." — Barbara"
- Who are these people like Barbara who get bored with pregnancy? Did they not see the movie Alien? Do they not know what is going on in there?
I experience a lot of emotions surrounding pregnancy. Fatigue? Yes. Exhaustion? Impatience? Frustration? Of course. But boredom? Hell no. That is because I am always aware of the fact that there is a small person inside of me that will ultimately cost me hundreds of thousands of dollars before she turns 18. I will pay for her college and probably her wedding, and there is a fair chance I will pay for her therapy someday too. This little tiny human inside of me, while still IN me, has all the genetic trappings of a completely separate person who will think nothing like me, who will have her own ideas and thoughts, and will probably think I'm an idiot. Knowing all of this does not invoke boredom; it invokes anxiety as well as a healthy sense of competition, since I am determined to win all arguments until she is at least 9 (review my therapy comment above).
"This Week's Activity: Wash your baby's clothing and bedding. You know all those adorable outfits you bought or received at your baby shower? You should wash anything that will go near your baby's skin to remove any irritants in the fabrics. The gentlest detergents are those designed for babies and those that are labeled hypoallergenic or good for sensitive skin."
- Yeah, ok. Super excited about doing tons of laundry. Thanks, babycenter.com. I'll get right on that after I've worked an 8 hour day, commuted home, done my workout that is supposed to also be essential for prenatal vitality, eaten a healthful dinner full of fetus-healthy vitamins, and gotten at least 8 hours of revitalizing sleep. Yup. Laundry is at the top of that list.
Also, Cletus, I don't know if you realize this, but babycenter.com has compared you with various fruits and vegetables almost from day one. At one point, I was told you were the size of a lentil, a blueberry, a fig, etc. In today's bulletin, I was informed that you are now approximately four pounds, or the size of a pineapple.
Maybe it's just the hormones kicking in and making me testy, but I'm not sure why the folks at babycenter.com think I don't know what four pounds feels like. Seriously, every time I heft a gallon of milk into a shopping cart at the grocery store, I'm lifting about that much. Why the continuous comparisons? Just say four pounds. No need to make the experience of your growth more "tangible" - my freaking huge belly is all the tangibility I need.
If babycenter.com really wanted to keep the weight comparisons, they should at least make them more interesting. I would much rather read an update that compares you to an uncooked pheasant or something equally weird, than something as mundane as a pineapple (I would at least then be prompted to google "uncooked pheasant weight"). Or even better, a weight comparison such as: "Your baby is now twelve weeks old and weighs half an ounce; if your baby were cocaine, the street value would be over $500!"
Ooh, Cletus: at four pounds now, think of how much you would be worth if you were made out of cocaine.
We'll just chalk that random thought up to the wanderings of a hormone-crazed mind.
Love,
Your Soon-To-Be Mom
So today I got my weekly bulletin from babycenter.com about your prenatal progress (33 weeks along). I have a love/hate relationship with that site. Some weeks, the updates and information are very helpful and make a lot of sense. Other weeks, I wonder if these people are high. Take today's weekly update:
"Many women are still feeling sexy at this stage — and their partners often agree."
- First of all, I think I do look sexy - from the shoulders up. However, my Buddha-esque belly is not getting me a lot of offers for one-night stands from random men.
- Secondly, OF COURSE YOUR PARTNER IS GOING TO AGREE WITH YOU IF YOU SAY YOU ARE SEXY. FOR GOD'S SAKE, HE'S NOT LOOKING TO PREMATURELY END HIS LIFE. Mike knows that there is only one response he can give if I ask him, "Do I look sexy?", even if as I ask, I am simultaneously shoveling lard down my throat and talking about how my goal in life is to have more children than the Duggars. That response is: "Absolutely. Now get that spoonful of lard out of your mouth and let's hit the sheets."
"Bored with pregnancy? Try this! "Every time I start to get bored with my pregnancy, I lie down and rub my belly. Sure enough, my baby starts to kick, and I think about how wonderful it will be when I'm able to hold him." — Barbara"
- Who are these people like Barbara who get bored with pregnancy? Did they not see the movie Alien? Do they not know what is going on in there?
I experience a lot of emotions surrounding pregnancy. Fatigue? Yes. Exhaustion? Impatience? Frustration? Of course. But boredom? Hell no. That is because I am always aware of the fact that there is a small person inside of me that will ultimately cost me hundreds of thousands of dollars before she turns 18. I will pay for her college and probably her wedding, and there is a fair chance I will pay for her therapy someday too. This little tiny human inside of me, while still IN me, has all the genetic trappings of a completely separate person who will think nothing like me, who will have her own ideas and thoughts, and will probably think I'm an idiot. Knowing all of this does not invoke boredom; it invokes anxiety as well as a healthy sense of competition, since I am determined to win all arguments until she is at least 9 (review my therapy comment above).
"This Week's Activity: Wash your baby's clothing and bedding. You know all those adorable outfits you bought or received at your baby shower? You should wash anything that will go near your baby's skin to remove any irritants in the fabrics. The gentlest detergents are those designed for babies and those that are labeled hypoallergenic or good for sensitive skin."
- Yeah, ok. Super excited about doing tons of laundry. Thanks, babycenter.com. I'll get right on that after I've worked an 8 hour day, commuted home, done my workout that is supposed to also be essential for prenatal vitality, eaten a healthful dinner full of fetus-healthy vitamins, and gotten at least 8 hours of revitalizing sleep. Yup. Laundry is at the top of that list.
Also, Cletus, I don't know if you realize this, but babycenter.com has compared you with various fruits and vegetables almost from day one. At one point, I was told you were the size of a lentil, a blueberry, a fig, etc. In today's bulletin, I was informed that you are now approximately four pounds, or the size of a pineapple.
Maybe it's just the hormones kicking in and making me testy, but I'm not sure why the folks at babycenter.com think I don't know what four pounds feels like. Seriously, every time I heft a gallon of milk into a shopping cart at the grocery store, I'm lifting about that much. Why the continuous comparisons? Just say four pounds. No need to make the experience of your growth more "tangible" - my freaking huge belly is all the tangibility I need.
If babycenter.com really wanted to keep the weight comparisons, they should at least make them more interesting. I would much rather read an update that compares you to an uncooked pheasant or something equally weird, than something as mundane as a pineapple (I would at least then be prompted to google "uncooked pheasant weight"). Or even better, a weight comparison such as: "Your baby is now twelve weeks old and weighs half an ounce; if your baby were cocaine, the street value would be over $500!"
Ooh, Cletus: at four pounds now, think of how much you would be worth if you were made out of cocaine.
We'll just chalk that random thought up to the wanderings of a hormone-crazed mind.
Love,
Your Soon-To-Be Mom
Saturday, March 31, 2012
No Weird-Ass Togas: Thoughts on Pregnancy Photo Shoots
Dear Cletus,
Don't start yelling at me because I haven't posted a blog in a while. I'm only 7.5 months along and I'm tired all the time, my back hurts, my belly skin is all weird and stretched out, and you keep INSISTING on crawling up into my ribs. If this is a sign of your intelligence, then we might have a problem, because you're supposed to head toward the other direction. There's only one exit out of this uterus.
Anyways, I am trying to decide if I want to have a "maternity photo shoot" done. I'm not normally that type of person, but then a little voice in my head was like, "Well, you never know, what if you only have one kid and you look back on this time and wish you had some pictures to document it." I don't know, it could happen.
However, my non-sentimental self is really fighting it. Jessica Simpson showing up nude and preggers on the cover of a magazine didn't make me think the idea was any better; in fact, I just thought, "Why would you want to nakedly display yourself like that when you are 50 pounds heavier than you were 6 month ago?"
I did a lot of research (read: random Googling) of pregnancy photo shoot ideas to see if it was my kind of thing. I don't think it is. Sorry Cletus. Once you're born, it's game on with the camera - there will be so much footage of you that you'll think we are filming a reality TV show. But when it comes to paying someone to professionally stage me in photos featuring you as a huge lump on my stomach, I just don't think I'm that interested. Furthermore, I am automatically against any maternity photo shoot that involves any of the following:
Nudity:
If I didn't take my clothes off for photos for the camera when I was single, in college, and in the best shape of my life thanks to Bikram yoga, I'm certainly not going to do it now when my stomach looks like someone stuck an entire cantaloup inside it.
Couple Nudity:
I understand that this is supposed to portray the intimacy of a couple expecting their child and the beauty of life created, etc. But to me, it looks like a still from a fetish porn shoot.
(okay, Cletus, I secretly think this photo is AWESOME, but for all the wrong reasons. This couple is super creepy but I also respect them, in a weird way, for being so unabashed about it. I showed this photo to your dad and told him that I would pay him $1000 and/or buy his next 6 rounds of golf if he would do this pose for a photo shoot. He looked at me like I had just asked him to shoot a kitten. Apparently it's okay for him to make jokes threatening to implement "Naked Tuesdays" in our household, but ask him to get naked and grab a preggo belly in front of a camera and he becomes the poster boy for burqas and long underwear)
Earth Mother Goddess Photos (these are apparently very popular, judging from my online searches):
Cletus, you will soon learn something very important about me: I can't go camping because when my hair dryer breaks, I announce that I'm going to have to "rough it" by letting my hair air-dry. I'm not exactly the outdoorsy type, so seeing a preggo woman romping through the woods enjoying nature makes me wonder how long it will take for killer mosquitos to eat her, and then where will she and her baby be? In a bunch of killer mosquito bellies, that's where. And that's what romping out in the woods with a basket and weird hoodie gets you.
I also feel like these types of photos want me to go through an all-natural labor so that I can experience the joy of drug-free delivery. I have a fundamental disagreement with this idea. I want to be pumped so full of drugs during my labor that I am higher than a hippie on the 7th day of Burning Man. Therefore, if I were to try this type of pose for a photo shoot, I'd feel a little hypocritical.
Random Weird Stuff Pregnancy Stuff:
Your eyes are not deceiving you. This is what appears to be a pregnant Little Red Riding Hood.
I think this is supposed to be a pregnant mermaid. Which of course begs the obvious question - how does she give birth if she has no legs??? My money is on the belly button.
I guess this is the inevitable result for some of those girls who worked at the Playboy Club.
So Cletus, I think that pretty much rules out most pregnancy photo shoots. Therefore, you won't be able to look back at a set of professional photos of me with you in utero. I hope this doesn't disappoint you too much. To compensate, I offer you this extremely non-professional picture of my belly with your soon-to-be pet pug:
Watch out. He snores really loud. You could probably hear him when your dad took this photo. If you're still upset over not having professional photos taken of you, then knowing a dog likes to use your bump as a pillow probably doesn't help. But here's to hoping it does, because it's the closest thing you're going to get to a photo shoot.
Love,
Your soon-to-be-mom
P.S. The best advice about pregnancy photos was from my friend Sara, who said: "I think you would just want some nice snapshots around while you're pregnant, but not necessarily professional. And in your normal clothes, not in some weird-ass toga or something."
Exactly. No weird-ass togas.
Don't start yelling at me because I haven't posted a blog in a while. I'm only 7.5 months along and I'm tired all the time, my back hurts, my belly skin is all weird and stretched out, and you keep INSISTING on crawling up into my ribs. If this is a sign of your intelligence, then we might have a problem, because you're supposed to head toward the other direction. There's only one exit out of this uterus.
Anyways, I am trying to decide if I want to have a "maternity photo shoot" done. I'm not normally that type of person, but then a little voice in my head was like, "Well, you never know, what if you only have one kid and you look back on this time and wish you had some pictures to document it." I don't know, it could happen.
However, my non-sentimental self is really fighting it. Jessica Simpson showing up nude and preggers on the cover of a magazine didn't make me think the idea was any better; in fact, I just thought, "Why would you want to nakedly display yourself like that when you are 50 pounds heavier than you were 6 month ago?"
I did a lot of research (read: random Googling) of pregnancy photo shoot ideas to see if it was my kind of thing. I don't think it is. Sorry Cletus. Once you're born, it's game on with the camera - there will be so much footage of you that you'll think we are filming a reality TV show. But when it comes to paying someone to professionally stage me in photos featuring you as a huge lump on my stomach, I just don't think I'm that interested. Furthermore, I am automatically against any maternity photo shoot that involves any of the following:
Nudity:
If I didn't take my clothes off for photos for the camera when I was single, in college, and in the best shape of my life thanks to Bikram yoga, I'm certainly not going to do it now when my stomach looks like someone stuck an entire cantaloup inside it.
Couple Nudity:
I understand that this is supposed to portray the intimacy of a couple expecting their child and the beauty of life created, etc. But to me, it looks like a still from a fetish porn shoot.
(okay, Cletus, I secretly think this photo is AWESOME, but for all the wrong reasons. This couple is super creepy but I also respect them, in a weird way, for being so unabashed about it. I showed this photo to your dad and told him that I would pay him $1000 and/or buy his next 6 rounds of golf if he would do this pose for a photo shoot. He looked at me like I had just asked him to shoot a kitten. Apparently it's okay for him to make jokes threatening to implement "Naked Tuesdays" in our household, but ask him to get naked and grab a preggo belly in front of a camera and he becomes the poster boy for burqas and long underwear)
Earth Mother Goddess Photos (these are apparently very popular, judging from my online searches):
Cletus, you will soon learn something very important about me: I can't go camping because when my hair dryer breaks, I announce that I'm going to have to "rough it" by letting my hair air-dry. I'm not exactly the outdoorsy type, so seeing a preggo woman romping through the woods enjoying nature makes me wonder how long it will take for killer mosquitos to eat her, and then where will she and her baby be? In a bunch of killer mosquito bellies, that's where. And that's what romping out in the woods with a basket and weird hoodie gets you.
I also feel like these types of photos want me to go through an all-natural labor so that I can experience the joy of drug-free delivery. I have a fundamental disagreement with this idea. I want to be pumped so full of drugs during my labor that I am higher than a hippie on the 7th day of Burning Man. Therefore, if I were to try this type of pose for a photo shoot, I'd feel a little hypocritical.
Random Weird Stuff Pregnancy Stuff:
Your eyes are not deceiving you. This is what appears to be a pregnant Little Red Riding Hood.
I think this is supposed to be a pregnant mermaid. Which of course begs the obvious question - how does she give birth if she has no legs??? My money is on the belly button.
I guess this is the inevitable result for some of those girls who worked at the Playboy Club.
So Cletus, I think that pretty much rules out most pregnancy photo shoots. Therefore, you won't be able to look back at a set of professional photos of me with you in utero. I hope this doesn't disappoint you too much. To compensate, I offer you this extremely non-professional picture of my belly with your soon-to-be pet pug:
Watch out. He snores really loud. You could probably hear him when your dad took this photo. If you're still upset over not having professional photos taken of you, then knowing a dog likes to use your bump as a pillow probably doesn't help. But here's to hoping it does, because it's the closest thing you're going to get to a photo shoot.
Love,
Your soon-to-be-mom
P.S. The best advice about pregnancy photos was from my friend Sara, who said: "I think you would just want some nice snapshots around while you're pregnant, but not necessarily professional. And in your normal clothes, not in some weird-ass toga or something."
Exactly. No weird-ass togas.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
The Grossest Thing I Have Learned So Far
Dear Cletus,
Things have been going well with you. You're kicking away, and I'm wearing maternity clothes pretty much full time. Now that we are solidly in the middle of the fifth month of your gestation, I finally look and feel pregnant.
But none of that compares to the gross-out I got this morning from the Babycenter website, with its weekly email about your development. It started out innocuously enough, talking about how you finally have eyebrows (which is good - because eyebrows make a difference). But then came the grossest thing I have learned so far: According to Babycenter.com, this week's major update is as follows: "If you're having a girl, her vagina has begun to form as well."
That is the grossest thing I have ever heard.
The thing is, you never hear about your daughter's vagina in a good way. There is no scenario where you would be happy to hear, "By the way, Maizie has a wonderful vagina!" - even if it was a gynecologist saying that to me, I'd be weirded out. It's also not dinner-table conversation ("Had a good lacrosse practice, got an A on my chemistry test, and everything's good in the vagina department too, Mom.")
Don't get me wrong, Cletus. I'm glad your female parts are all developing - life is going to be challenging enough for you without having a Middlesex-esque experience. But I don't necessarily want to know what goes on down there with you, any more than I absolutely have to. Even when the doctor did the ultrasound to find out your gender, I complained that the "money shot" was a little too graphic.
I don't know where my distaste on this subject comes from. Despite the hard work of the feminist movement, I am still grossed out by the subject. I tried to educate myself, and even to embrace the wonderful-ness of being a woman that having a vagina is apparently supposed to now symbolize. In college, I saw The Vagina Monologues not once, but twice - and it didn't help (I left the theater both times wondering how on earth someone found 2 hours worth of stage material surrounding a woman's genitalia, but the closest male equivalent is a silly 30-second strip-tease in The Full Monty where you don't even get to see the goods).
So anyways, I've come to the realization that among the many, many shortcomings I will have as a parent, being unable to teach you to talk freely and openly about your body ranks pretty high. Rest assured that you and I will go through potty training at some point, but after that you won't hear me bringing up your nether regions until you're around 11, at which point a very awkward conversation will ensue. It will probably involve me vaguely gesticulating and mentioning cramps "down there", before finally shoving a box of maxipads and this book at you. Just assume now that you'll have to rely on the conversations with your girlfriends in bathrooms at school in order to get your information. I'm truly sorry.
So anyways... congrats on having a vagina, Cletus. Let's never talk about this again.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Giant Walking Uteruses
Dear Cletus,
So I'm at the gym tonight, trying to burn off enough calories to keep me from feeling guilty when I eat 12 molasses cookies before bed (a trend that has become disturbingly regular this week). I'm on the elliptical machine, and gradually I notice that a guy working out near me has been looking my way ever so often. As I keep pedaling away, I become ever more aware of this guy's periodic fits of staring. I get a little self-conscious, followed by a little proud. I have this thought: "Yes! Almost five months pregnant but still getting checked out!" Followed by this thought: "Weird guy, to be checking out a pregnant chick." Followed by this thought: "Pervert." Followed by this thought: "How dare you, sir. I am with child. My body is a vessel, not something to be objectified by your lascivious glances."
Then I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, breathing raggedly as the elliptical picks up the pace. My mouth is hanging open and clearly between my teeth I can see a big hunk of broccoli, left over from my pre-gym snack, snagged right between my two front teeth.
So: To the health-conscious gentleman who frequents the Planet Fitness on Woodmore Oaks and Sunrise Blvd: All is forgiven.
But on to other things.
One thing I've noticed about being pregnant, Cletus, is that there is a pregnancy club. It's like a country club or having a credit card membership, complete with levels of hierarchy. Regular club members include anyone who has ever known anyone who is pregnant. Silver Club members are women who have been pregnant in the past and share stories (which all seem to involve excessive gas, horrific C-Sections, and epidurals gone terribly wrong). Gold Club members are women who are pregnant right now, just like me. These are the members to watch out for, because they tend to come in two types, in my experience: the first type is normal women who just happen to be pregnant, and the second type is women who were once normal, but upon having become pregnant have now turned into giant walking uteruses.
Type 2 Gold Club members are an interesting breed (hah! pregnancy pun). They are super neurotic. Depending on what mood I'm in and how judgy I'm feeling, I find them difficult to relate to. They all seem to be obsessed with eating exclusively organic foods and researching doulas and water births because they just watched The Business of Being Born. They are already buying appliances to make home-made baby food with produce bought entirely from the local farmer's market, and plan to give their children all-natural wooden toys to play with, to limit their babies' exposure to the potential chemicals found in plastic toys that are made in China.
I have a grudging admiration for Type 2 Gold Club members, because of their dedication to being healthy for their baby, during and after pregnancy. But I know myself too well to think I would ever try to emulate them because I'd fail miserably. I can see myself trying to make my own baby food from scratch. I'd give it a half-hearted attempt and then feed my 8-month old mac-n-cheese with cut-up hotdogs, full of nitrates. But please don't judge me too harshly Type 2s; in thirty years your kids will probably all be Rhodes scholars while my baby will be busy finding new paint fumes to sniff. Have fun huffing, Cletus.
I tend to relate more to the Type 1 Gold Club members - those women whose attitudes seems to be: "Who me? I'm just a normal gal, carrying on a normal life and working my normal job, all except for this huge basketball hidden under my shirt." They're excited and concerned with baby and pregnancy stuff, but they aren't obsessed. And Cletus, before you point it out, yes, I am aware that I'm disparaging people who obsess over pregnancy in a blog that is completely devoted to chronicling my own kid's gestation. Self-awareness! Now I have it.
Love,
Your soon-to-be-mom
So I'm at the gym tonight, trying to burn off enough calories to keep me from feeling guilty when I eat 12 molasses cookies before bed (a trend that has become disturbingly regular this week). I'm on the elliptical machine, and gradually I notice that a guy working out near me has been looking my way ever so often. As I keep pedaling away, I become ever more aware of this guy's periodic fits of staring. I get a little self-conscious, followed by a little proud. I have this thought: "Yes! Almost five months pregnant but still getting checked out!" Followed by this thought: "Weird guy, to be checking out a pregnant chick." Followed by this thought: "Pervert." Followed by this thought: "How dare you, sir. I am with child. My body is a vessel, not something to be objectified by your lascivious glances."
Then I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, breathing raggedly as the elliptical picks up the pace. My mouth is hanging open and clearly between my teeth I can see a big hunk of broccoli, left over from my pre-gym snack, snagged right between my two front teeth.
So: To the health-conscious gentleman who frequents the Planet Fitness on Woodmore Oaks and Sunrise Blvd: All is forgiven.
But on to other things.
One thing I've noticed about being pregnant, Cletus, is that there is a pregnancy club. It's like a country club or having a credit card membership, complete with levels of hierarchy. Regular club members include anyone who has ever known anyone who is pregnant. Silver Club members are women who have been pregnant in the past and share stories (which all seem to involve excessive gas, horrific C-Sections, and epidurals gone terribly wrong). Gold Club members are women who are pregnant right now, just like me. These are the members to watch out for, because they tend to come in two types, in my experience: the first type is normal women who just happen to be pregnant, and the second type is women who were once normal, but upon having become pregnant have now turned into giant walking uteruses.
Type 2 Gold Club members are an interesting breed (hah! pregnancy pun). They are super neurotic. Depending on what mood I'm in and how judgy I'm feeling, I find them difficult to relate to. They all seem to be obsessed with eating exclusively organic foods and researching doulas and water births because they just watched The Business of Being Born. They are already buying appliances to make home-made baby food with produce bought entirely from the local farmer's market, and plan to give their children all-natural wooden toys to play with, to limit their babies' exposure to the potential chemicals found in plastic toys that are made in China.
I have a grudging admiration for Type 2 Gold Club members, because of their dedication to being healthy for their baby, during and after pregnancy. But I know myself too well to think I would ever try to emulate them because I'd fail miserably. I can see myself trying to make my own baby food from scratch. I'd give it a half-hearted attempt and then feed my 8-month old mac-n-cheese with cut-up hotdogs, full of nitrates. But please don't judge me too harshly Type 2s; in thirty years your kids will probably all be Rhodes scholars while my baby will be busy finding new paint fumes to sniff. Have fun huffing, Cletus.
I tend to relate more to the Type 1 Gold Club members - those women whose attitudes seems to be: "Who me? I'm just a normal gal, carrying on a normal life and working my normal job, all except for this huge basketball hidden under my shirt." They're excited and concerned with baby and pregnancy stuff, but they aren't obsessed. And Cletus, before you point it out, yes, I am aware that I'm disparaging people who obsess over pregnancy in a blog that is completely devoted to chronicling my own kid's gestation. Self-awareness! Now I have it.
Love,
Your soon-to-be-mom
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Please Don't Become A Stripper
Dear Cletus,
I REALLY don't want to stop calling you that. But more on that later.
Okay, okay, I know, I haven't blogged recently about my maternity experiences. But that's mainly because I haven't had any. You, Cletus, are a frustratingly boring kid so far. I have had no nausea, bloating, heartburn, insomnia, cravings, or raging hormones during the past 17 weeks of this crazy experiment we call pregnancy. Before I start getting crap for complaining about a child-bearing experience that some expecting mothers would kill for - in between stints leaning over the toilet to puke their guts out - let me say this: while it's been nice not to feel like my body isn't turning against me, it definitely messes with my mind not to have ANY physical symptoms. The worst part is not being able to drink my wine (and Mommy loves her wine). It's basically being the boring person at the party without any payback. Now I know how designated drivers feel.
So anyways, Cletus, you're really boring. I can only hope you will be this low-maintenance once you are actually out of me.
That being said, the holidays were still fun. I've already talked about how Thanksgiving was a smorgasbord of gluttony; ditto for Christmas. New Year's was actually pretty low-key; since neither one of us was drinking, your dad and I just stayed in, drank cocoa in bed, and watched episodes of Homeland on the DVR until our neighbors celebrated 2012 by firing off a bunch of guns and freaking out our dog Molly.
So you didn't miss much.
Although, something exciting has happened in relation to you: a week after New Year's, we found out your gender. I was convinced you were a boy, so of course you proved to be a girl. It's things like this that convince me that you're my kid (well, aside from the fact that you're growing inside of me) - the delight in proving people wrong. And yes, I'm holding your gender against you, at least for the purposes of this blog.
Actually, I'm pretty excited that you're a girl. Except for this: when I thought you were a boy, my worries were limited to you someday knocking a 16-year-old chick up. Now, I have to worry about you actually being that chick. Someone's getting homeschooled...
Here's the thing, Cletus: I was reading this article recently that said that it was important to have a stable and healthy household when you are raising kids. Just when I was about to put down the magazine and flag it has having the biggest "no shit" moment ever, it went on to elaborate further. It said dysfunction is never good for kids, and they will act it out in different ways. In general, boys tend to "act out" more - they do the rebel-without-a-cause stuff, like get drunk at 16 and get into trouble with the law. Girls, on the other hand (according to said article), internalize their emotional problems which then eat away at them and manifest in such ugly symptoms as cutting, anorexia, bulimia, and stripping. (okay, I added that last one, but it really seemed to be the next logical step)
In other words, if I am not a fully-functional parent, there is a good chance that you will turn into a dysfunctionally anorexic, cutting, potentially-stripping woman when you grow up. According to this magazine. Talk about pressure to be a good parent.
So in addition to worrying about a healthy pregnancy, I now also worry about being an adequate mom once you're actually here. You have to know me to understand my worries - see, I tend to push myself to the limit and demand perfection of myself, which is great normally, because everyone just says, "Oh, Type A" and gives me kudos because they don't see the neurotic workings of my inner mind. But I don't want to project those qualities when dealing with a three-year-old. A three-year-old just wants me to love the glue-stick-and-macaroni art project she made for me. She doesn't want me to be a neurotic, crazy Tiger Mother that screams at her for choosing the wrong brand of glue stick ("Why did you choose Elmer's when Scholastic is clearly superior" is just the sort of thing that could come out of my mouth if I'm not careful).
I'm going to try my hardest not to mess you up. I swear. Although the next last paragraph of this blog might seem to contradict that statement.
So even with this new-found anxiety, I love that you are a girl. I love imagining dresses and ribbons. I also love the idea of teaching you how to be distinctively un-girly by having an unhealthy knowledge of the trivia from the Star Wars and Back To The Future movies (greatest movies ever made). I also love the name we have picked out for you: Rebecca. I hope you like it, because, although it's one of the most important things about you, you sadly don't get a say in choosing it. I hope you find a way to make it work for you.
While I love Rebecca, I miss Cletus. Cletus the Fetus was catchy and it made me laugh. I might still call you Cletus on this blog, I love it so much. And then, while I was mourning the loss of your moniker today, it occurred to me: why not take these two names that I love so much, and combine them? It's the best of both worlds!
Congratulations on being a girl, Rebeetus. Please don't become a stripper.
Love,
Your soon-to-be mom
I REALLY don't want to stop calling you that. But more on that later.
Okay, okay, I know, I haven't blogged recently about my maternity experiences. But that's mainly because I haven't had any. You, Cletus, are a frustratingly boring kid so far. I have had no nausea, bloating, heartburn, insomnia, cravings, or raging hormones during the past 17 weeks of this crazy experiment we call pregnancy. Before I start getting crap for complaining about a child-bearing experience that some expecting mothers would kill for - in between stints leaning over the toilet to puke their guts out - let me say this: while it's been nice not to feel like my body isn't turning against me, it definitely messes with my mind not to have ANY physical symptoms. The worst part is not being able to drink my wine (and Mommy loves her wine). It's basically being the boring person at the party without any payback. Now I know how designated drivers feel.
So anyways, Cletus, you're really boring. I can only hope you will be this low-maintenance once you are actually out of me.
That being said, the holidays were still fun. I've already talked about how Thanksgiving was a smorgasbord of gluttony; ditto for Christmas. New Year's was actually pretty low-key; since neither one of us was drinking, your dad and I just stayed in, drank cocoa in bed, and watched episodes of Homeland on the DVR until our neighbors celebrated 2012 by firing off a bunch of guns and freaking out our dog Molly.
So you didn't miss much.
Although, something exciting has happened in relation to you: a week after New Year's, we found out your gender. I was convinced you were a boy, so of course you proved to be a girl. It's things like this that convince me that you're my kid (well, aside from the fact that you're growing inside of me) - the delight in proving people wrong. And yes, I'm holding your gender against you, at least for the purposes of this blog.
Actually, I'm pretty excited that you're a girl. Except for this: when I thought you were a boy, my worries were limited to you someday knocking a 16-year-old chick up. Now, I have to worry about you actually being that chick. Someone's getting homeschooled...
Here's the thing, Cletus: I was reading this article recently that said that it was important to have a stable and healthy household when you are raising kids. Just when I was about to put down the magazine and flag it has having the biggest "no shit" moment ever, it went on to elaborate further. It said dysfunction is never good for kids, and they will act it out in different ways. In general, boys tend to "act out" more - they do the rebel-without-a-cause stuff, like get drunk at 16 and get into trouble with the law. Girls, on the other hand (according to said article), internalize their emotional problems which then eat away at them and manifest in such ugly symptoms as cutting, anorexia, bulimia, and stripping. (okay, I added that last one, but it really seemed to be the next logical step)
In other words, if I am not a fully-functional parent, there is a good chance that you will turn into a dysfunctionally anorexic, cutting, potentially-stripping woman when you grow up. According to this magazine. Talk about pressure to be a good parent.
So in addition to worrying about a healthy pregnancy, I now also worry about being an adequate mom once you're actually here. You have to know me to understand my worries - see, I tend to push myself to the limit and demand perfection of myself, which is great normally, because everyone just says, "Oh, Type A" and gives me kudos because they don't see the neurotic workings of my inner mind. But I don't want to project those qualities when dealing with a three-year-old. A three-year-old just wants me to love the glue-stick-and-macaroni art project she made for me. She doesn't want me to be a neurotic, crazy Tiger Mother that screams at her for choosing the wrong brand of glue stick ("Why did you choose Elmer's when Scholastic is clearly superior" is just the sort of thing that could come out of my mouth if I'm not careful).
I'm going to try my hardest not to mess you up. I swear. Although the next last paragraph of this blog might seem to contradict that statement.
So even with this new-found anxiety, I love that you are a girl. I love imagining dresses and ribbons. I also love the idea of teaching you how to be distinctively un-girly by having an unhealthy knowledge of the trivia from the Star Wars and Back To The Future movies (greatest movies ever made). I also love the name we have picked out for you: Rebecca. I hope you like it, because, although it's one of the most important things about you, you sadly don't get a say in choosing it. I hope you find a way to make it work for you.
While I love Rebecca, I miss Cletus. Cletus the Fetus was catchy and it made me laugh. I might still call you Cletus on this blog, I love it so much. And then, while I was mourning the loss of your moniker today, it occurred to me: why not take these two names that I love so much, and combine them? It's the best of both worlds!
Congratulations on being a girl, Rebeetus. Please don't become a stripper.
Love,
Your soon-to-be mom
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