Stories from the front lines of an unplanned pregnancy.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Coming from a holiday-mad household, I never realized how incredibly easy it was to entirely skip out on Christmas. This year, with every penny earned being stashed away for diapers, or doctor's bills, or a breast pump, it was pretty obvious that we'd be scaling back on the holiday festivities. But what was amazing was how fast we went from "scaling back" to "what's... Christmas?" It started out simple enough. No tree. Trees mean moving furniture and buying lights and ornaments and one of those stupid tree skirts and all the rest of the crap that comes with it. And as I'm not one for frugality, there would be no 99 cent store waxy faced angel on top or some sorry assed Charlie Brown tree to put it on. So, skip the tree, save a wad of cash. But no tree begot no wreath. No wreath begot no house decorations. No decorations begot no holiday parties... and on and on and on it went until just like that, we had about as much Christmas cheer as the local Jewish Community Center.
Of course this slow crawl towards grinchdom was not entirely without incident. You have to understand, I come from the kind of family that felt it was not only appropriate, but entirely necessary, to festoon every square inch of our home with as much tinsely, shining, sparkling, cinnamon scented decorative schmaltz as was physically possible. We sang Christmas carols from 12:01 am the friday after thanksgiving until the tree finally got lugged out to the trash at the end of january. We sent Christmas cards by the dozen and made spiced cider by the gallon. Not only do I know what figgy pudding is... but I have eaten it, my friends. So it is entirely understandable that I actually wept a few silent tears when I found out that the mister didn't even know the words to Deck the Halls (see: the title of this entry). And that I've secretly been reading The Night Before Christmas to the squatter, lest a general apathy towards the holidays is genetic and he's got his father's genes. But besides a few mini meltdowns in the face of the Williams & Sonoma holiday catalog and nearly every Kay Diamonds commercial that comes on... I think I'm handling it pretty well. Or I was, anyway, because now even without stockings hung by our chimney with care... I'm having a proper Christmas!
That's right, my darlings, the mister's gift to me this year was a pair of round trip tickets to new york so that I can have the holiday I so richly deserve-- I mean we. We so richly deserve. Anyway, the hubby, the squatter, and I fly down on Christmas eve, the mister flies home alone on Christmas night (quelle tragique), and then I follow him about a week later on new year's eve. The only thing that could make this whole plan better would be if the mister didn't have to rush home 24 hours after we get there to be at work the next day. But "the man" that's keeping him down is also "the man" who's paying for our mini vaca.
Shit! I wanted to wrap this up all cute and tidy and say happy holidays to all and whatever, but there's a pound of fetus doing a little softshoe routine on my bladder and i have got to--
Friday, December 7, 2007
(Random Thought No. 1: Shawn Kingston (performing with Natasha Betyourass, or whatever) has the BEST obnoxiously large and extraordinarily expensive shiny thing on a chain ever. It's a flipping box of crayola crayons. The sixty-four pack! Now that's gangsta.)
So this is cool: Yesterday was a major pregnancy milestone for yours truly. The cashier at IKEA actually asked me if I was expecting! Shut up. I know it's not as exciting as, say, that one time the mister and I got caught with the gimp in a Denny's bathroom, but it's huge for me. I'm carrying pretty small (I'm halfway there and unless you know me, I look like most of you prolly did directly following thanksgiving dinner, meaning bloated but not necessarily pregnant) and I'm still kind of sensitive about people just thinking I'm rocking a serious beer gut and not give me the fawning attention that we pregnant bitches so richly deserve. So last night I was all kinds of stoked when she actually called me out on my knockedupedness. Although, looking back, she could've just been reacting to the ginormous heap of Swedish snacks that we brought to the register. Technically, I'm only supposed to be eating for, like, one and an eighth... but recently I've taken the liberty of eating for an small third world country. Just another reason I wish I looked more pregnant-- it would stop all the damn stares I get when I'm ordering at dinner.
(Random Thought No. 2: Did you know that the tree this year is the first "green" one they've had? I love when shit is "green". I rarely fully understand the concept behind it (the tree's lighting involves solar panels and like, witchcraft or something, I think) but having anything to do with it makes me feel like a better person. Or it makes people think I am, anyway, which is really just as good.)
In other news, the mister and I are driving down to Fort Meyers Sunday night to meet his fam. Or so he says. Ha, we'll see what extenuating circumstances keep us from getting there this time. And to make an already awkward situation even awkward...er, we're spending the night down there before coming home on monday. Oy. I've always dreaded this situation, even before I met Christian. Every romantic comedy I've seen seems to have the dreaded "meet the parents" scene that involves a really uncomfortable sleeping arrangement discussion that ends with me sleeping in his little sister's room where the boyfriend in question then knocks on the door, begs for a little secret nookie, and we both end up caught with our pants around our ankles when mummy comes in with fresh towels. Okay, maybe not every romantic comedy... but you get my point. And seeing as how Christian's parents still refer to me as "Christian's girlfriend" (No joke, when I met his mom and sister, after spending the entire day with them his mom turns to his sister and says, "Well hopefully Christian and his girlfriend will come by for thanksgiving later this month." While I was standing there. Named my Alex. Apparently, I just haven't earned the right to be called by name yet), I get the feeling it might be even more uncomfortable than that. Or, I'm just being ridiculous and am going to have a fantastic time and they're going to love me and it's going to be beautiful and happy and wonderful and warm and welcoming and--
(Random Thought No. 3: Ashley Tisdale is the worst performer I have ever seen. It's like one of those creepy baby pageant contestants grew up, lost the bouffant, and has decided to lip sync her way through the Pro-Am section of the competition. I think I'm going to be ill.)
So... wait. What the fuck was I going on about, again? Whatever. I should prolly go wash dishes. I've got to keep up this facade of being totally domestically competent for the mister. Yeah right. He's totally on to me-- The other day I forgot to dry an entire load of laundry and I haven't made the bed properly in like a month.
Anyway, with love and... and... oh, I don't know,
(Random Thought for the Road: You think when I finally pop out the squatter I could become a Rockette? No. Seriously, do you? Let me know...)
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
I.... am.... a.... "Nestie".
Not to be confused with a "nasty", which i also happen to be occasionally (see: this past week when I realized that shaving my legs has become far too much effort and have more or less given up on it). No, a "Nestie" is the cloying nickname given to women who have joined the online community The Nest, a spinoff of their original wedding-centric website, The Knot. While I've managed to avoid The Knot and all its doves and diamonds trappings, somehow I've gotten sucked into the pastel wonderland that is The Nest's other offshoot, The Nest Baby.
A sweet idea in theory, I quickly learned that the NB is actually an underground cult of fetus obsessed broads who devote a staggering amount of their time to such incredibly important conversational topics as, "Window Treatments for Jillian Marie's Nursery-- What Do U Think? :-) " and "Mean People Suck (long vent!!)". Think I'm kidding? Here's an actual message board topic posted earlier today:
Subject Line: "Wal-Mart Stole my Baby Name!!!"
Body: "I was watching a commercial for Wal mart the other night. It was about a mom getting her little girl an iPod. The mom says something like, "Why do I choose Wal Mart? Because of Mackenzie Lynne..."
THAT'S MY BABY'S NAME! Well, it will be if it's a girl! I thought that was too funny! I've never heard the combination of names before, and I thought I was being all original!"
Seriously. These are the women with whom I hoped to find solidarity. Turns out the only thing I have in common with 97.3% of them is the fact that we're knocked up. Hooray for us. But until I pick up the glue gun and get to work glitzing up my 400 page Pregnancy Journal, or finally order that belly casting kit from PreggersParadise.com... well we simply won't have much to discuss. I guess it doesn't help that a good chunk of these chicks have at least ten years on me and have been shooting fertility drugs since before i graduated middle school, so this is a superhugeohmygodthankthelordhallelu! sort of event for them (which would explain the sparkly shrine erected around their pregnancy test) and should, therefore, be treated as such. But for me, excited as I am, lucky as I feel, I just can't muster up that kind of unbridled enthusiasm for crib bumpers and breast pumps.
But I say all this to show you just how insane it is that a few weeks casually browsing through people's nursery photo albums and soul crushingly dull blogs ("Ate a slice of chocolate cake today :0 !! And I've been soooooo good so far!! Oh well.")... and now I think it's starting to suck me in. Not only do I keep a blog there-- actually, it's this blog with a few minor omissions and additions. c'mon i'm a lazy shit, remember?-- but now I actively post and respond on that damn Second Trimester message board that they've got. Next thing you know, I'll be uploading pictures of Christian and I wearing matching santa hats with his hand on my belly and referring to the due date as the Blessed Event!! (two exclamation points). Grody.
However... lucky lucky lucky for me, I have managed to draw a few of the saner women out of the woodwork with my snarky commentary and liberal usage of profanity. So now, when I want someone to complain to about how wretched this heartburn is and how I'm this close to peeing my pants every time I sneeze, they'll be there with a witty reply and a refreshing lack of emoticons and exclamation points. And maybe, if I'm lucky, some Tums. I guess some sisterhood isn't all that nauseating, afterall. Anyway, sure beats the hell out of trying to talk to my eighteen year old middle school crush about leaky nipples. Trust me.
With love and-- "Ew, did she say leaky nipples?!"
I call this one, Real Thugs Suck Thumbs*
(subtitled: Fool, do not make me pop this thumb out my mouth and bitchslap yo ass)
With love and a wee little pecker,
*That hovering mass to the right of his nose is not some partially developed sister growing out of his eye socket (as I feared), but his other hand. The pimp hand. Way strong.
Monday, December 3, 2007
But what is it with people and their sonogram photos? With the exception of those nifty 4d ones (which to be honest, I still don't need to see, thanks), for the most part it's like looking at a Rorschach test. Oh how adorable! A motorcycle! A hamburger? A prairie dog wrestling with a laundry basket? Oh it's a girl! I'm sorry, of course it is... and there's her darling little-- wait, is that a... a... is that a tentacle?
Spare me, alright? I promise I'll spare you. Well unless you're my mother, who's so desperate to get a glance at the little squatter that I'm surprised she hasn't simply tipped me over and shined a maglite up my choch' yet. I'm fully aware that precious few will be as interested in my grainy blob of a black and white fetus as me and the mister, so I will not be going for the 12 wallet sized photo option, and I will not yank the damn thing out of my purse every time someone so much as glances at my belly. Their confused, polite smile as I attempt to outline what may or may not be a pair of antennae is not needed to validate what I already know-- this kid's going to be hella good looking.
Anyway, the only thing I'm really concerned about is whether this kid's got all his bits in the right spots. I'm about as dipsy with my prenatal pills as I was with my birth control ones, and I'm hoping that a lack of supplemental folic acid hasn't somehow produced an extra limb or something equally disturbing. Clearly, I have no working knowledge of vitamins. Or fetal development. Either way, the only emotion I'm looking forward to tomorrow is relief when I can see for myself that the squatter isn't floating upside down at the top of my uterus like a carnival goldfish five minutes after you get it home. Also, I'll hopefully be finding out whether I've been accidentally creating a flaming homosexual or just a girl with dreadful taste in music by swapping out that Mozart for Embryos crap for The Best of 80's Pop One Hit Wonders. What?! I've got to listen to it too, you know.
With love and Wham!a.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Grandma: Digs a pen out of her purse to mark one of the two straws in their large coke with an A for Alex.
Alex: Um... You know it's not contagious, right?
Grandma: Yeah. (Beat) But slut is.
And then for about three minutes we laughed so hard we couldn't breathe. This, my friends, is why my grandmother is amazing. Also, why everyone in my family is terrified of her.
See? It's in the genes.
With love and hereditary cruelty,