Me, Ready?

I’m ready for the baby.  I’m tired of waiting.  I want to get this over and done with.  Let’s roll.

But in reality, I’m not.  There’s no way I’m ready.

I’ve never been inpatient for a baby to be born before this.  With both Tornado E and Tornado S, when people asked if I was ready, if I couldn’t wait, I would pat my bulging tummy and say, “Not yet.”  But rather than feel like I could wait until everything was perfectly ready to the point of refusing to believe those are actually labor pains, I feel like saying “Just give me the baby already.”

First off, there are the medical issues of having a preemie.  I am more than happy to wait and let the kid cook at his own rate.  Now I would feel guilty for every minute I devoted to the hospital and not with the other boys.  Time management would be a huge issue.  That doesn’t mean if the little character came early that I wouldn’t be done there every second I could.  I just would worry about the boys during such an issue.

Second, the house is no where ready.  We’ve decided to stay with our little rental for another year, saving money for a potential house purchase next year.  Now we have to reorganize the master to accommodate a new little guy.  Thank God it’s a master suite, something The Husband and I didn’t like originally.  We have to pull out all the baby stuff from the garage and my parents’ house.  Not to mention, I really would like our carpets and furniture cleaned and a half of dozen other things that would be nice to have done before the little tike comes to take all our time and energy.

Third, I have to buy stuff for the baby.  Our diaper bag is on its last legs, even though The Husband keeps trying to convince me that we could pull it out for another baby.  Um, no.  I don’t want a hole in it.  I have to buy Tornado E a booster seat, so the baby can have his.  Heck, the water proof pad for the basinet is under Tornado S’s sheets, so I need one of those.  Not to mention, I need to get us a little more organized so I’ll need more racks and stuff.  Yeah, I have a list.

Fourth, we don’t even have a name yet!  Sure, The Husband has all sorts of names picked out, but there’s not one that sounds just right.  Nor have I really looked.  Two kids, a house, a blog, and now a Farmville Farm (completely not my fault, I’m doing it only for my mom), I just never seem to have time to read, much less look for names.  Maybe I should do a contest?

So with all those reasons, why the hell am I “ready” for this baby?  Why do I feel like I’m waiting around for the main event?  Hell, I’m in complete denial for the first hours of labor because I’m so NOT ready.  So why do I feel ready now?

Maybe I really have flipped.

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Underwater Gymnastics

My mom has a story she tells of the differences of her pregnancies.  (Ok, really, she has several.)  She smiles and begins, “With Fae, she moved around so much, I couldn’t even sit down.  She was in constant motion.  But when she was born, she was calm and serene. Face (Here by the new name for my middle brother, once known as T, because he’s a good looking guy and is very aware of it, plus the kid loved The A-Team growing up.) never moved at all.  I would have to sit still and wait, counting his movement.  I was always afraid I lost him.  Then when he was born, he bounced off the walls.”

Aside from the fact, that the story shows the perfect illustration of the eldest and middle child, (the more calm one and the one on the throttle), which I don’t have yet because they are both on the throttle, it illustrates the difference between those moving little fish in the womb.

I have yet to have a calm fetus.

I’ve read articles in which women express their concern.  I received pamphlets on how to count fetal movements.  My doctors and nurses have asked with concern, “How’s the baby moving for you?”

The baby won’t stop.

Unless someone, like The Husband or my mom, wants to feel the movement, then that little stinker will enter a Zen meditation state.  Cute.  My kids are anti-helpful even in the womb.

Like his brothers before him, this character is no different.  He twirls.  He kicks.  He punches.  He lands on my bladder, treating it like a bean bag chair.  Not funny.  Nor is it funny when he decides to reach out and punch a major organ.  The time it really sucks is when I’ve just eaten and the character is cramped for space.  Not only does the pressure of feeling for full you’re going to pop, no matter how small the meal was, the character has to move, push, kick, punch, shove, trying to get more space and making you really wish you could digest at a normal rate or faster just to stop the annoyance.

When I was pregnant with Tornado E, a few of my co-workers were amused that I would scold him when he became too active.  Not that he ever listened.  We started our mother-child relationship early.

So how’s the baby moving for you?

The character won’t stop.

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To pee or to sleep? Not that is the question

Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The pains and urgings of outrageous misfortune

Or to take arms against a sea of liquid

And by opposing ignore them and get a diaper.

I forgot something when I talked about the worst things about pregnancy.  Every night about midnight or two or three or four-thirty or if I’m real lucky all of those times, I wake up to pee.

Having the bladder the size of a pee is annoying at the best of times.  It means going to the bathroom at almost every place you run an errand.  It means having to go at least once, usually twice during the once in a blue moon dinner with your spouse.  It means going to the bathroom during movies.

At least there is an upside to day peeing.  You know where every bathroom is in every store you visit.  You become less concern of germs, but you do wash her hands and spray them with anti-cuties.  You learn always to pee before you go, just in case you get stuck in traffic.  You become a pro at peeing into a cup.

But the bitch is the middle of the night wake up call.  Like you need that.  Like you need to wake up from your precious sleep.  Sleep that will soon become terribly more precious in a few months when you’re woken up at least once a night or several times a night to feed, change, and sooth a baby.  I have to agree with one of my pregnancy books that people who say that this is to prepare the mother to deal with sleepless nights is like saying dieting prepares someone for starvation.  And I personally think we should be able to wrap that person on the back of the head.  Sure, violence isn’t the answer, but it would make this pregnant mama feel better.  Or is that the hormones talking?  Or the lack of sleep?

Speaking of lack of sleep, did I ever mention the lack of sleep Tornado E had as a baby?  The kid woke up several times a night to feed, even one horrible night where he fedd EVERY TWO HOURS.  Tornado S slept through the night around the sixth week or so.  Yeah, I obviously don’t birth normal babies . . . yet.  But I do remember with Tornado S, I was a happier mama even with a two-year-old trying to boycott naps, still crawling in bed with us, and demanding to have a voice to say no.

Ah, sleep the root of and solution of all life’s problems.

Yes, I am at that point of my life that when asked which would I prefer sex or sleep, I would say hand me the pillow and shut the lights.  Because I don’t get to snag a cat nap when I want; I don’t have down time to relax; I have much more to do during the day then I ever had pre-children.

So if you excuse me, I have to go pee.

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Dark Confessions

I wanted to write this post last week because it was bad last week, but then I stumbled on some truths that I didn’t know if I wanted to share.  Once I open my mouth, it’s like an avalanche.  Ask anyone who knows me.  But I feel I have to write because it’s going to seep in, like it always does every time, like smoke seeping into clothes, furniture and walls.  It’s seeping into me.

I noticed I was loosing patience with the boys.  It wasn’t like I had a hard day or they were being especially on the throttle.  I couldn’t smile when they were being actively cute-crazy.  I just wanted to be done.

Then I noticed I was tired.  Bone wary tired.  In a time when I shouldn’t be.  Even if I napped or drank lots of water, even if I took it easy.

Then I noticed I was sad.  Not sad in that was a sad movie or the sadness that comes from watching horrible events on the news that make you feel helpless.  No, this was a sadness that went to the core of my soul.  A depression.

Crap, I’m depressed.

Since I have a history of depression, I know I have to take this seriously.  I have to mark on my calendar when I’m depressed.  I have to analyze my thoughts.  I have to do something or I slip away, slowly but surely, from everything that I love and everything I am.

I’ve made a brief nod to my teenage depression, where it got so bad that I was actually coming up with plans of killing myself.  Frightening plans of when, Monday nights because everyone would be at the Boy Scout meeting, where, my bedroom, how, cutting.  I was able to ask for help when I realized I was starting to look for the perfect dress.  Stupid and creepy.

Then I had depression in college, but my parents were able to cue in the warning signs, insisting I go to a counselor, who helped me tremendously.

So last week when I began writing, I was going to say that I never was depressed during pregnancy.  I had the two bouts before, and I had a bout of post-partum after Tornado E.  But other than that I was fine.

Then I started thinking.  When I was pregnant with Tornado E, I insisted that The Husband and I start martial counseling.  We needed it.  We weren’t able to go more than a few times because I had a horrible work schedule that was never posted until the day before the week began.  You can imagine how hard it was to set a haircut appointment, much less a counseling appointment.

Then during my pregnancy with Tornado S, The Husband and I had our worst time in our marriage.  We fought a lot.  He would yell and call me names, but the worst part was he would just leave, disappearing how ever long he wanted, never calling, leaving me to worry.  I wanted us to go back to counseling, and he refused.  I went any ways, learning more about myself and about The Husband.  It looked like all Hell was about to break loose when The Husband all of a sudden reigned in the month before Tornado S was born and for some reason I never got post-partum even though I was waiting for it, ready to battle it.

(As a side, we did end up going to counseling for a year, a year after Tornado S was born.)

Now I’m pregnant again.  Even though I knew our marriage wasn’t strong to begin with (And yes, people, I debated, prayed, meditated on this little fact before I got myself knocked up).  Now there are other issues, like The Husband having to work in California weeks at a time (which I understood and we make the most of) and money is tighter than it has ever been in our marriage (which causes stress on both The Husband and I).  And now I’m depressed.

I want to rail against it because this is not the right time.  I’m pregnant!  I have two boys that depend on me to be strong and with it, ready to play and laugh, moving at the speed of light with them.  I have a household to run.  I have other issues I have to deal with, like the real possibility I’m co-dependent.  I need to be strong.

If money wasn’t so tight, I’d march myself into a counseling office.  But that’s not really an option right now.  So I have to come up with other ways to deal with this.  Don’t worry; I plan on telling my OB/GYN this week at the appointment so she is well aware of the situation.  The Husband has been informed.  I figure I should cram in some exercise somewhere into my schedule and make it a real point to actually be out in the sun to soak in some rays, since I hear that’s suppose to help.  And I might have to use you all as a sounding board as I try to work through this because the best therapy I ever had was just to talk.  I hope I don’t come off as bitter when I do.

I’m just so upset over the whole thing.  I really didn’t need this right now.  I don’t want to cry every day.  I don’t want to feel like a shadow.  I don’t want to disconnect.  Depression is a horribly selfish disease because you can’t look beyond that stupid disease no matter how hard you try.  The twist is that you no longer take care of yourself because you are the disease and you just want it to die.

So here I stand in front of you, not knowing what to say, wondering about how lame this post is, wondering if I said too much or too little, knowing it really isn’t my best work, worrying about what you’ll think.

The Worst Things of Pregnancy

My BFF has been on me about writing The Top Ten Worst Things About Pregnancy since I wrote The Top Ten Best Things About Pregnancy.  I told her I would write it soon but before I became too bitter.  She believed I should wait until I’m bitter to make the whole post more humorous.  The real problem is that I don’t think many women can come to an agreement on the worst part of pregnancy.  Every pregnancy is different, and then those hormones come along and wipe our brains clean of the horrors that were visited upon us.  So I’ll try to capture them all, and I hope there are people willing to add if I miss one.

Morning Sickness.  I hate hate HATE the first trimester.  I think I complained about it enough here, here, here, here, and here.  Oh and here.  To say I’m sick and tired through those first months is to miss the point of what I endure.  I’m drag-your-ass-through-another-grueling-day-to-daydream-about-sleep-instead-of-sex-and-naps-are-like-orgasms tired.  I’m please-Lord-don’t-make-me-loose-this-meal-hey-shouldn’t-that-be-digested-by-now-and-I-peed-all-my-pants-again sick.  Every pregnancy it has become worse, and to top this last pregnancy off, I became sick, making morning sickness take longer, just to make sure I’ve given up that crazy dream of four to six kids I used to have.  Goodbye, dreams.  (It should be noted that not all women have morning sickness, and they are lucky; while some women are sick with it through their whole pregnancies, and they are saints, especially if they went on to have another child after experiencing that.)

Heartburn.  It sucks.  Your favorite foods turn on you, just when you’re getting good and hungry.  You snack on TUMS just to get by.  I had it bad with my second pregnancy.  So bad, I wasn’t gaining weight, so my doctor had me take an antacid every day for the entire pregnancy.  Unlike many women, spicy foods don’t cause me to have heartburn; oatmeal and water do.  No wonder I’m always thirsty.  I know I’m about to start a fire with a gulp.

Sore Breasts.  I only had this with this last pregnancy, but I have heard many women talk about it.  It’s honey-don’t-even-stare-at-my-huge-boobs-that-you’re-drooling-over-because-they-hurt-when-you-look.  If this doesn’t show a sense of humor in designing humans, I don’t know what does.  You get this huge rack, and before you can test them out or let your husband play with them, they hurt like a bi-itch.  Fun times.

Sore Muscles.  There are a variety of aches and pains women go through, and many women experience different ones.  Many of my friends had horrible back pain, which sent them running for a massage.  (Which is highly recommended.)  My aches are the inner thigh and around my uterus.  Not so massage friendly.  I get to wear a stupid belt that some days helps, some days doesn’t.  But swimming is highly recommended for all aches and pains.

The List of Don’ts.  Nothing like having your favorite things taken from you.  Like alcohol.  Like caffeine.  Like sushi.  Like even sex in that last month.  Thanks.  Luckily your doctor will give you the ok to have a glass of wine every once in a while in the last trimester.  Maybe your doctor will let you have a cup of coffee or a soda if you’re good.  My doctor confided in me that the only reason to stay away from sushi is the fear of food poisoning, but I’ve never caught food poisoning from sushi, only chicken, shrimp, and fried fish.  (Yeah, you’d think that a bath in hot oil would have killed those suckers.)  But most doctors would agree, n o sex because no one wants you to accidently go into labor early.

Other people.  Now let’s say you got the ok to drink ONE glass of champagne at your sister’s wedding, someone is going to give you the stink eye.  Or you’re shopping, minding your own business when someone comes up to rub your belly like a good luck Buddha.  Or (my favorite) someone (stranger, family, friend, friend’s cousin) will tell you about a) a horrible birth experience (like you needed that), b) how she didn’t gain a pound (someone’s fibbing, fibbing, fibbing), or c) some helpful advice about pregnancy, labor, birth, or child raising.  Like you care.  I never had the pleasure of stink eye, and I always look f-ing tough that no one would dare place a hand on my body, but I’ve heard enough about horrible labors, lies about pregnancy and babies, and child advice to feel a book or a blog post.

Your Body.  Whether it’s desiring strange foods you never liked before, despising foods you usually love, or just feeling like your body has been high jacked, your body is not always your friend while you’re pregnant.  I always feel like I’m going through puberty AGAIN.  No one wants that.  My body is doing strange things.  I don’t feel pretty, much less sexy.  I have to buy a whole new wardrobe because I’m growing too fast.

Being Big.  I never had a problem being big.  My dad, a big guy himself, and I always had fun with it, even taking belly pictures together.  But I know my friends hated it.  They couldn’t wait to get that baby out of them.  (Not that they wanted early labors, just they were tired of being big.)  Even though I didn’t mind it too much, I was annoyed by it.  In the middle of the night, you have to wake up to roll because that belly is so big it needs a tractor pull.  If your baby is big or you’re tiny, you’re going to feel hard pressed to get a good deep breath in your lungs.  Sometimes you even out grow your maternity clothes.  I recommend swimming because if you feel like a whale, you’ll be graceful as a whale in the water.

Stretch Marks.  Some women are lucky enough not to get them, but the rest of us, not so much.  We become desperate to get rid of them with all kinds of creams, ointments, and even breast milk, smeared onto out bodies.  “Science” says there is nothing to be done about them, but who’s going to listen to “science” when it looks like a road map was imprinted on your belly?  When I was pregnant with Tornado S, I had an adorable stretch mark shaped like a butterfly on the front of my belly.  After Tornado S, it wasn’t so cute nor did it look like a butterfly.

Labor.  I won’t lie to those of you who haven’t had the experience.  Labor is scary, and it hurts.  As one female comedian said “Smart women don’t forget about that kind of pain.”  Smart women do.  I personally start freaking out a little the month before hand, but the day of, I freak out because I’m not ready as in “The blinds aren’t up in the baby’s room “ or “I haven’t bought him a coming home outfit.”  Basically stupid stuff.  I also have quick births, so much so that my dad suggested I become a surrogate.  Of course, I would have to forgo the first trimester.

So does anyone else have anything else to add?

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Baby! Not Belly!

There’s a wonderful side effect to being pregnant and having a toddler.

Tornado S: (running up, pulling his shirt up to reveal his belly, and patting it) Baby!

Me: No, not baby.  Belly.

Tornado S: (laughing with shirt still up and patting his belly) Not belly!  Baby!

Me: Mommy has the baby.  Tornado S has the belly.

Tornado S: (laughing and patting) Baby!

Yes, Tornado E did this too when I was pregnant with Tornado S.  Now Tornado E just plays with his baby doll, Bobby.

Tornado E: Mommy, Bobby is crying.  He doesn’t like daddies.  You hold him.

Me: Babies love their daddies.  Feed him a bottle.

Tornado E: (giving the baby doll a bottle) He likes it!

Me: Don’t forget to burp him.

Tornado E: Ok.  (Burps the doll.)  Mommy, Bobby’s stinky.  I need to change him.  (Tornado E proceeds to change the doll.)  Mommy, why doesn’t Bobby have more clothes?

Note to self: buy the doll some more clothes.

Tornado E: No, Tornado S!  It’s my baby.

Note to self: buy Tornado S a doll.

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The Top Ten Best Things About Being Pregnant

  1. Cravings must be obeyed at all cost, even if it means eating a sundae every day.
  2. When deciding on a restaurant, you have final and ultimate say.
  3. When restaurants give a loaf of bread cut with one more piece than the party or the appetizer has one more than the party, you get it.
  4. If your significant other has something on his plate that you want, you get it.
  5. Most of the time you don’t have to worry about your weight and every little thing you put in your mouth.
  6. Everyone will tell you how good you look, whether it’s true or not.
  7. Nap time is back!  And every one understands.
  8. Shopping for baby stuff is quite fun.
  9. You have the ultimate conversation starter.
  10. Feeling that baby kick you. (Until the last month when you just yell at it to stop.)

So does any one else have anything to add?

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Things that bug me

The fact that I couldn’t write because I was spending the day at my parents’ house where my mom is addicted to computer games.  Does she seek help?  Nope.  No matter how many emails I send her about programs.  She just stays on the computer all afternoon, and I can’t write.  I prefer it if she would go back to her nice safe reading addiction.

The fact that I pulled four maternity shirts out of the laundry to find them stained.  This is probably my last pregnancy.  I didn’t want to buy anymore clothes.  It was bad enough most of my maternity clothes are summer based without sleeves, so now I have to buy some more shirts.  Dang.

The fact that when I’m pregnant I have no self-control.  It’s not one cookie; it’s a half a dozen.  It’s not one helping of mashed potatoes; it’s two large portions.  It’s not a scoop of ice cream; it’s nearly the whole carton.  I really need to find some exercise routine.

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Comebacks and names

I know.  I know.  Everyone is busy with the holidays.  My stats have plummeted, which is my fault for appealing to moms who are obviously busy right now.  Though I could post another post on crafts, I think I might start getting hate mail, so I’ll save it.

I have a favor to ask you all.  As I mentioned before I’m going to have to deal with my large family learning my third child is a boy and some of you came up with some great comebacks (you know who you are AND you rock).  But I’m working on a preemptive comeback.  So when I say I’m having another boy  . . . .  I’ve been telling people that I always wanted my own Boy Scout troop, but that sounds pretty lame.  So if anyone has some creative juices left over, I could use some. 

Oh, yeah.  I got my I’m-so-sorry look from someone after I told her I was having another boy.  Really?

I’ll try to keep the posts short this week, since we’re all running around.  Godspeed and Good luck.

Another Pregnancy Complaint

Somewhere in the third semester of carrying Tornado S, I felt a horrible pain around my uterus.  Not a cramping pain, not a labor pain, just a pulled muscle pain.  And it hurt!  But there was no blood.  I figured I might as well wait until my next appointment so I could show my doctor where the pain was.

Doctor:  Fae, how we doing today?

Me: All right.  But I think my uterus is detaching.

Doctor: Really?

Me: Yeah, I have pain here and here.

Doctor: (chuckles) Well, your uterus doesn’t detach.  You’ve just pulled the ligaments.

Me: (mumbling) It feels like it has.  (louder) What can I do?

Doctor: You’ll have to get one of those pregnancy belts.  Any other questions?

Me: No.

Doctor: Well, let’s hear the little guy’s heartbeat, shall we?

So I started wearing one of those belts, and guess what.  Babies do not like those things.  They kick and punch at them all the time.  All.  The.  Time.

With this pregnancy, the pulling started a month ago.  I started wearing the belt.  The little dude kicks at it.  All.  The.  Time.  While it took eight months of pregnancy to become stiff in my inner thighs at night, I’m already feeling that bliss.  The pain crawls up both inner sides to meet in a happy reunion just above my crotch.  Which makes it hard to jump out of bed when Tornado E started having nightmares every night for the last four nights.  Yup.  Someone remind me this in the third guy no longer wants to cuddle, and I start dreaming of holding another sweet smelling baby.

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