Learning and relearning this week

1. I am not superwoman, and I need to rest.
2. Breastfeeding is hard . . . . at first, but more on that in another post.
3. Nothing is more sweet or dangerous than big brother love.
4. The best meal you’ll ever have is after you give birth.  Even if it’s a plain cafeteria turkey sandwich. 
5. The Husband and I have very different ideas on what a “clean house” means.
6. The Husband and I have very different ideas what is grocery shopping, what a list should include, and how much money to spend.
7. My breasts need to be informed that I did not give birth to triplets and should stop producing milk as though I had.
8. When one child pees the bath and I replace the water, I do not care if the other one pees in it; I just add more water and soap.
9. It’s ok to ask for help.  It’s ok to ask for help.  It’s ok to ask for help.
10. No matter how many babies you have had, you will always check to make sure that newborn is still breathing several hundred times a day.

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My future doctor

Last Wednesday.

I sat there, breathing through another uncomfortable contraction.  Hey, this breathing thing actually works!  When there’s no pain!

Tornado E: Mommy, are they going to cut you open to get the baby?

Me: (chuckle) No, sweetheart.  They do that for some women, but I doubt they’ll do that to me.

Tornado E: Oh.  Ok.

He ran off.  I sighed.  Like I needed The-how-do-babies-get-out-of-Mommy’s-womb talk during labor.

A couple hours later.

Tornado E: Mommy, I’m going to be a doctor.

Me: Awesome.

Tornado E: (pulling out his Kung Fu Panda sword) And I’m going to help you.  Let me cut you open and get the baby.  (He sliced me open.)

Me: Thanks, baby.

A Quick Note from a Sleep Deprived Mama

I think it’s going to take a little longer than planned to put up The Tornado A Birth Saga.  As I’m only a few paragraphs in and I was called away by a baby that thinks it should have gas this early in his life.  Pre-Chocolate!  So I don’t know how I gave it to him, since I haven’t consumed any of the usual suspects.  But I will.  Oh, I will.  So instead of the baby saga, I’ll post little antidotes.  Because I don’t have a lot of time right now.  Because Tornado E and Tornado S have cracked me up so well so often lately.  Because I can hardly string to coherent sentences together beyond “Could you hold the baby?” and “Could you go pick up Tornado E from school?”  (Note to self: Ask The Husband in a two minutes to pick up Tornado E.)

As I waited for my dreaded first bowel movement, I read the label of that awesome pain reliever spray the nurses send you home with after having a baby.  (God Bless the spray since my mom has said twice already, “Fae, she did give you quite a few stitches.”  Yes, I know.  I felt every damn one.  Ok, where was I?) Spray.  The spray says to use it no more than two to three times a day.  You know, unlike what the nurses say to use, which is like every time you pee, which should be like eight times or so.  I like the nurses’ instructions better.  Much Better.

Sushi and Pregnancy

Back in the days when I was pregnant with Tornado E and working and the economy was rolling, The Husband and I ate out about three dinners a week or more.  Our favorite was sushi.  We had a neighborhood sushi restaurant with the most amazing rolls like an awesome dynamite roll and my favorite a killer spicy tuna roll.  We probably went at least once a week from the grand opening on, and yes, we got to know the owner quite well.

But then I was pregnant.  And all those books and websites said NO SUSHI.  And that lasted about two weeks when I learned The Husband felt no moral obligation to give up sushi as well.  (Bastard.)  So we returned to sushi.  My beloved sushi, how I missed you.  For several months, we did well and only ordered the cooked stuff.  We feasted on crab, shrimp, scalloped and the occasional cooked fish.  But in time, my beloved spicy tuna handroll began to call me again.  I gave in to its spicy yumminess.

For The Husband’s birthday (when I was 36 weeks), I surprised him with a huge sushi party platter custom made from our favorite sushi place and a few friends.  As I indulged, I forgot that one of our friends worked for my OB/GYN.  Ok, I didn’t forget.  I just wasn’t sneaky enough.  She caught me.  And lectured me.  Damn.

So the next doctor’s appointment, The Husband felt the need to confess.  (Which is odd, because he’s not the Catholic one.)

Doctor: So any questions?

The Husband: Yes, one.  Well, and a confession.

Doctor: Oh?

The Husband: Well, um, we, Fae has been eating sushi, and we were told that was bad for the baby.

Doctor: The reason we don’t want Fae eating sushi is because of the danger of food poisoning.  If you go to a reputable place, there shouldn’t be any harm.

We sighed with relief.

Me: So, sushi tonight?

Random pregnancy thoughts

Everyone is trying to get me out of the house.  Everyone being The Husband and my mom.  (Yeah, I married my mom, go figure)  I just want to stay home and prepare the house.  Hello, pregnant woman nesting.

But no, The Husband thinks we need a movie this afternoon (and my mom agrees) because we won’t have couple time for months (not that we have it that often  to begin with).  He’s right.  But I would rather be home blogging, reading blogs, sleeping.  If he wants to make me happy, he could pick up his stuff in the bedroom or hand me a couple hundred so I can buy everything I want for the baby.  I’m not holding my breath for the either.

My mom has decided she’ll treat me to a pedicure tomorrow.  Of course, this is sweet and wonderful and all, but again, I would rather be home doing the same stuff I mentioned in the last paragraph.  Heck, I’m trying to keep on top of the chores because I know they’re going to fall to the wayside.  So mom, if you want me to be happy, grab a sponge or an apron; I’ve got some more nesting to do.

In other pregnancy news, Tornado E and Tornado S are declining to be in the hospital when the baby is born.  Which is fine because they weren’t going to be there any ways.  But they are now both boys are convinced that the baby is going to “pop” out of mommy’s tummy.  And that would be gross and messy.  Let’s thank all the people who said I look like I’m about to pop.

Until I have a moment to write and read again.

These Final Days

I’m days away.  My mom is over the moon.  I’m quite hesitant.  The Husband is nonchalant.

In these last days, I realized we’re woefully underprepared.  We still don’t have a name.  The bills are due, and I’m the only one with all the passwords to pay them, and I’m waiting on the paycheck.  Not to mention, my doctor’s office would prefer if we prepay so that we don’t have to worry about the bill after the baby.  We still owe a couple hundred dollars.  I finally dragged The Husband to the hospital so he knew where it was, but he was on the phone the whole time there.  I’m hoping backtracking will stick in his mind.  I still don’t have a take-home outfit or a baby book or a new cover for Tornado E’s old seat, since over four years can really wear out denim.  I need to finish the receiving blankets I started.  I have to wash the stroller cover.  I have to finish washing the baby clothes, but I need to put the clean ones in something.  I know.  Details that I shouldn’t worry about.

But in the last days, if I sit in one place for five minutes without eating, I fall asleep.  So if any of my posts don’t seem to flow as well or don’t make the same amount of sense as they used to, it’s because I fell asleep in the middle and sometimes had two naps during a writing session.

Since I’m falling asleep, I’m behind in my blog reading and commenting.  And doing the monthly budget, but we won’t talk about that.  I miss reading on my bloggy buddies.  I look forward to reading everyone off my phone, which I did last week, but I miss commenting so you know I was there.

In these final days, I’m sore.  My hips are sore.  My feet are sore.  My thighs are sore.  My butt is sore.  Really?  My butt?  I never had that happen before.  I’m searching for stretches to loosen those muscles up.  But nothing to kick in labor.  As I mentioned before, I’m hesitant.

In these final days, I realize my patience is wearing thin.  And that my kids can’t to do anything without me telling them a dozen times or yelling.  Oh, and Tornado E is developing teenage attitude.  And Tornado S had decided he’s a baby.  Should I drop the F-bomb now?

Lately, I want a nut bar.  A bar of nuts.  Nuts in a bar form.  Don’t say Payday because The Husband and my dad already asked me that.  I just want a healthy snack of nuts . . . in bar form.  It reminds me in the last days before Tornado E was born I started searching for the perfect trail mix, and I ended up making my own because I couldn’t find anything I wanted.

You know, fresh coconut sounds good right now.  So does vanilla ice cream.  Separately, not together.

In the last day or so, I finally packed my bag.  Mainly because I was tired of hearing my mom nag me about it.

In the last several days, it dawned on me that I should be taking it easy.  Like sitting and resting more.  You know so I don’t send myself into early labor, since I’m hesitant about it.  Bless The Husband for having a laptop so I can write from the cushy couch.

For the last several days, I’ve been trying to vacuum, but something keeps barring the way.  I wonder if I should give up.  I also have started asking The Husband to take out the trash.  I may try nagging again.

In the last days, I wonder if I’m having some sort of psychic block that keeps me from having the baby (NOTE: I meant to say naming the baby, but maybe that was a Fruedian slip).  Maybe I have some real deep issue that needs to be solved.  Or I’m a procrastinater.

It’s just a few more days.

And you thought the fear about how to get the baby out was the worst part

This post is about sensitive material.  Too Much Information Material.  Things like pooping, breastfeeding and sex, so if you’re not into reading this stuff, especially if you have a Y chromosome, I suggest you keep on moving and join us tomorrow.

There were a few things that scared me nearly to death after I gave birth.  One fear was how was I going to take care of an infant when I felt I was barely able to take care of myself.  What crazy God thought I could take this little bitty innocent thing and nurture him to manhood?  Obviously someone who is either not omniscient or just has too much faith in me.

But more immediately I feared having a bowl movement.  As in dear-God-if-you-would-remove-this-cup-from-my-lips fear.  I dreaded it, wondering if somehow my stitches would come undone just by that.  Things are just so fragile down there.  Of course, nature takes its course, and everything turns out just fine.

Then there’s sex.  There are so many concerns about sex.  Or at least I had so many concerns about sex.  I wondered what kind of damage birthing did to my lady parts.  (I’m torn because I’m one of those people who uses biological correct terms, but euphemisms are so much fun.)  Again, those stitches worried me, and I wondered if everything was as pretty as it used to be.  I wondered, like so many others, was I little stretched out.  Finally I worried that I would squirt milk on The Husband at an intimate moment.

The first concern was the last to be resolved because I became a convert to lights out sex after pregnancy.  Not only was I concerned with how my stitches looked, I became very much aware that my tight little belly pooch hung down and out now.  So it wasn’t until one afternoon long down the road, that I completely forgot about my new religion that I was assured I was fine.

The second concern I mentioned to my mom one day, soon after Tornado E’s birth.  She looked at me funny.  “Sweetheart, if we never went back to normal, the tampon industry would only be selling to teenage girls.”  Um, good point.  I’ve yet to hear of a man that was as thin as a tampon, so I think we’re all safe.

But my real concern, my real fear, the thing that keeps The poor Husband celibate much longer than I attend or he would want, is squirting milk during sex.  Once my milk comes in, it stays in abundance.  I could feed several babies if I wanted.  My breasts are always ready and waiting for the next feeding.  If I just think about feeding, my breasts start to leak.  It doesn’t take me long to picture what some fun bedroom activity would do to my swollen, ready-to-feed breasts.  While I’m sure The Husband would shrug it off, I would just be mortified.  It would feel like the ultimate betrayal of my body, reminding me that it’s not just MY body anymore.  My body also belongs to the hungry monster sleeping in the bassinet at the foot of the bed or the crib down the hall.  So rather than try and put my fear aside, I feign an uninterest in sex for the first several months until the kid is feeding every four hours or so, not every two.

Now Fie Upon This Quiet Life has this wonderful post about how she coped with motherhood and sex, and I thought how different my experience was from hers and yet it really is very similar.  She didn’t feel sexy because she was a mommy, and I don’t feel sexy because I was a mommy (that leaked).  It’s so hard to be sexy when you’re coming to terms with a body that has changed so dramatically.  I was worried that if The Husband watched me push a baby out of my vagina that he would have flashbacks for months.  It didn’t happen.  While he was uncomfortable with third trimester pregnancy sex, he couldn’t wait to get back on the ball after the six week all clear.  Granted, I wasn’t ready with all the lack of sleep and all.  (Sweetheart, that feels . . . ZZZZZZZZZZZZ.)  But in the end, I gained a comfortablitly with this new body, much like when I went from a tall, lanky kid to a tall, curvy woman.  It was awkward, uncomfortable, and weird to go through puberty, but I liked me and my body afterwards.  Just like pregnancy is often awkward (at least the waddling is), uncomfortable (which is how you feel when the baby lays on your bladder), and weird (ok, your belly is being moved around by something inside you and you can See It), but in the end, you’ll grow to love the new parts of you, stretch marks and all.  And so will your husband.

The Weekly Ten on Saturday

1. When BFF is in town, chores and blog reading are pushed to the side.
2. Once again I love that I can read my bloggy favorites anywhere with my phone.
3. First time mothers are hilarious.
4. I’m not sure if I should be worried or flattered when people say I “don’t look that big.”
5. I now own a driver’s license with a pregnant face.
6. No one can shake Tornado S from calling the baby “Kit Fisto.”
7. Tornado E is now my camera hog.
8. The more I get done, the more I have to do.
9. It confuses the hell out of vendors when you buy a bunch of baby boy stuff and then something for a baby girl.
10. My boys like fried okra, and I can’t stand the stuff.  Yuck.

The Friday Recap

1. Double check texts before you send.
2. Blame me if you must, but never criticize the Program.  The Program is good.  The Program is solid.
3. Tornado S thinks Kit Fisto is the perfect name for a baby.
4. It’s been way too long since we saw the inside of a church; it’ll probably be longer still before we do.
5. A pregnant woman cannot be held responsible for candy purchases for Easter baskets.
6. If I make kid friendly meals (like mac and cheese or quesadillas), they’ll eat better, but I can only do THAT for so long.
7. Budgeting is hard; I miss the inside of book stores.
8. Tornado E believes he’s a monkey, a daddy, a comedian, and a food critic.  I’ll accept the third one.
9. Tornado E is tall enough and curious enough to look into the shopping bags left on the table; he’s not getting Peeps in his basket.
10. I only have a few more weeks of a chocolate diet.  It’s not going as well as I hoped.

So this is what I get?

You know what’s hard?

Checking out cute guys in kilts.

When you’re pregnant.

When you’re holding the hand of a two year old.

When you run by later trying not to pee your pants while cursing the recreation department for putting the bathrooms so far from the playground.

You know what’s hard?

Trying not to flirt with the incredible cute cashier with a British accent.

When you’re pregnant.

When you have a four year old and two year old dancing around you and trying to pull out the moving counter for wheel chair check writers.

When your husband is waiting at the end of the line for you.

Someone is mocking me.