Month: March 2008 (page 1 of 3)

Full Term Pregnancy: A Haiku And A Poll

Labor contractions
kept me up all night last night
False, but still painful.

I’ve finished my 37th week of pregnancy and Lucy is nice and big, which means this pregnancy is considered full term. My body is whispering: this baby is almost ready to come. I’m having a lot of false labor; it’s irregular, but getting progressively more painful. And I’m starting to have other symptoms that my due date is near – you know, the gross ones.

My scheduled c-section is about two weeks away. Dave is convinced that I’m going to go into labor early. My doctor says it’s unlikely. What do you think?

You May Say I’m A Dreamer*

It’s another Buck The Monkey weekend. There’s chocolate peanut butter monkey love exploding all over the place here. So, I’ve got photos.

Check it out.

How would you feel if this showed up on your doorstep?

Could that be...buckeyes?

And then you opened it up and realized, “Holy Heck, those are Leslie’s Buckeyes!!!”


Would you totally love that? I sure hope so. If not, you can lie. I don’t mind.

I’ve got a stack of boxes to deliver in our neighborhood tomorrow because my husband has been promising my buckeyes to people all over this land. He spends them like they’re currency. “Hey, can I use your front end loader? I can’t pay you, but my wife will make you some awesome buckeyes!

And I’ve got a box shipping out on Monday to one of my favorite bloggers in the whole wide world…one of the few people I love enough to send a bunch of my big balls. I hope she likes my balls. I haven’t told her they’re coming. It’s going to be a surprise! Well, not so much once she reads this…

Anyway! Here’s our latest Psychedelic Sock Monkey.

Newest Psychedelic Sock Monkey

As I was photographing that monkey for my Etsy store, Julia asked, “When are you gonna be done making sock monkeys? When everyone in the world has one?”

My Mom and I looked at each other and said, “Yeah! Sock Monkey World Domination!”

So, that’s my new dream: Peace, Love and Sock Monkeys! It’d be pretty hard to fight with a sock monkey in your hand, right? Unless you use the sock monkey as a weapon, but then that’s just wrong.

Make monkey love, not war!

*lyric from Imagine by John Lennon

Mamaaaaa! Oooooo.*

So, I’m “Mama” again.

About a year and a half ago, Julia officially began calling me “Mom.” I blogged about it. Back before I had readers. Or even knew how to center my photos.

Now, we’re back to “Mama.” I know this because she repeats it exactly six times before she’ll actually sputter out what she really wants to say.

“Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama! I want a popsicle!”

“Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama! Will you play with me?”

“Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama! What is that? Mama? What is that, Mama? Mama! I asked you WHAT.THAT.IS. Mama?!!”

Why is she doing this? I guess she wants to be sure I am aware that she is addressing me and not some other mama. Like the other mama she is threatening to replace me with.

Yeah, that’s right. Julia is ready to replace me with another mother.

Last night, after getting in trouble for the thirty-second time, she said, “I guess I’ll just have to get another mama since you’re mad at me all the time.”

You see, this is her new Julia vs. Mama war tactic. I revealed my weakness recently when she asked if she had to pick a new mom if I exploded. I let her know then that the idea of Julia having a new mom made me very upset. I told her that I was her one and only mom and that she would never have another one. And then I went on about how I carried her inside me and gave birth to her which made me her mommy in a way no one else could ever be, even if I did happen to explode, which I won’t. I may have even cried. (Oh, come on. You know I cried.) I thought she was expressing concern over losing me. Nah. Nope. She was just gathering intelligence to beat me down later.

So, last night she made the comment, again, about picking a new mommy. I took great pleasure in informing her that she is stuck with me. And that no matter where she goes or what she does or how much she hates it, I will always be her mommy. Even if I’m mad or sad or exploded. I am her mommy. FOREVER.

Ha ha! Take that, you three footer!

Then she says, “Well, you’re getting a new baby, so I thought I’d get a new mama.”

Ouch. Talk about shot through the heart and you’re to blame, Bon Jovi. Damn.

I told her that I wasn’t the only one getting a new baby; she was, too. I told her that no matter what, she will always be my first girl and that I’m going to love Lucy, but I will always love Julia in a special way and nothing could ever change that.

Then she said, “Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama! I want a popsicle!!!!”

*That was supposed to be from Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen. And it is meant to be sung.

Need To Resuscitate Your Love Life?

Check out Dave’s guest post over at Smoke & Mirrors.

The Bizarro Mommy

This morning, Julila woke up and came stumbling to the table where I was working and said, “I had a dream last night.”

“What did you dream, Honey?”

“I dreamed that you sold all my Easter treats.”

“Well, that sounds like a bad dream.”

“Yeah. It wasn’t very nice.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“You should say sorry.”

“Well, it was a dream. I didn’t really sell your Easter treats.”

“You should still say you’re sorry.”

“Okay…well, I’m sorry I sold your Easter treats in your dream.”

“That’s okay. You won’t do it again.”

Now I know how Dave feels.

Ew! Ew! Icky-Poo! Yuck!

At this point in my life, I have few illusions about my appearance. I look how I look and I’m pretty much okay with it, save for one particular feature: skin tags.

I have skin tags. On my neck. And I dislike them very, very much.

The first one popped up when I went to college – I gained the freshman fifteen and some extra skin. Another appeared after I got married. When I got pregnant with Julia, all hell broke loose. And now?

Even more skin tags!  Ahhhh!

Skin tags galore!

It looks like I have about fifteen tiny brains growing out of my neck. If only they served to make me smarter.

I visited the doctor prior to getting pregnant with Lucy about having them removed. She took a look and said, in layman’s terms, “Dude, those are so freakishly big and plentiful that you need to see a specialist.”

So I did.

The specialist told me, in layman’s terms, “I really don’t want to remove these from you because, first of all, you’re kind of fat and as long as you’re fat, you’re probably going to have these skin tags. Secondly, I think you just want them removed for vanity’s sake, not due to pain and discomfort, and your insurance won’t pay for that. So, go home Fatty McWartyWart and thank the good Lord there isn’t hair growing out of them, because that would probably mean you’re a witch.”

So I went home. And I cried, because that’s what I do sometimes, and I contemplated buying an assortment of scarves to cover up my malformations. I could pull off a Bohemian kind of fashion vibe, right? Sadly, no. Not really. Instead, I’ve just been living with them. And despising them.

Last night, Julia was hanging from my neck (because she’s not really happy right now unless she’s physically attached to me in some way) and she ripped one off. RIPPED. With blood. And pain. More pain than I expected, yet less than being called “fat” or “vain” or “a witch” or even being stared at like I’m The Elephant Man. Now, if I can only get her to do that fifteen more times…

My Radical Little Feminist

Julia has declared that she will no longer listen to music sung by boys because she only likes songs that girls sing. She’s in a very Pat Benetar kind of place right now, musically.

I pointed out that her current favorite song – Build Me Up Buttercup – is sung by boys. She responded by saying, “Boys don’t sing Build Me Up Buttercup. I sing Build Me Up Buttercup. Remember my video? That’s me and I’m a girl.”

I said, “Alright, Sister Soldier.” And we rocked out to Invincible.

The Fine Print Of Wish-Making

Last night, my parents took Julia and me out to dinner. On the way home from the restaurant, Julia was looking out the car window, admiring the full moon when she noticed a star.

“Mom! Mommy! There’s a wishing star! A wishing star! We all need to make wishes. Okay? Alright. I wish that I could fly! Yes! Grandpa, what do you wish for?”

Grandpa said, “Uhhh, well, I wish for a super-tractor for my garden.”

“Good one, Grandpa!” Julia clapped enthusiastically. “What do you wish for Mommy?”

“I wish for a million dollars,” I said.

“Okay, Mom,” Julia replied. “What about you Grandma?”

Grandma said, “I wish we would get home fast so I can pee!”

“Aw, Grandma,” Julia said screwing up her face, “That’s a bad wish! You’re gonna make the stars mad, Grandma. That wish was bad. Your wishes need to be magic to come true!”

Ups And Downs

Yesterday, our playgroup visited one of our local nursings homes. The kids dressed up as princesses, ballerinas and football players. They sang If You’re Happy And You Know It and played Ring Around The Rosie for the residents. They handed out a combination of tissue paper flowers we had made at a previous playgroup and some real flowers. Julia played Twinkle Twinkle Little Star on the piano. The residents were delighted to spend the morning with the children. And the children were absolutely adorable; they were kind, courteous and mannerly.

I was so proud of my little girl.

Today, not so much. Actually, today? I checked her body for evidence that it had been invaded by some alien life form, because today, Julia was an extraordinary jerk.

At piano class, she was rude to her teacher. She questioned everything he told her. He’d say, “Julia, please play key G.” She’d ask why. And when he asked her to play something again she said, “I just did!” I was mortified and practically crawled out of the lesson on my hands and knees. I couldn’t believe she acted that way.

I gave her a firm talking to in the van after class. She agreed that she hadn’t behaved well and told me she was sorry. We decided she would write her teacher a note apologizing for her behavior.

With that behind us, we stopped at the store on the way home to pick up a few necessities. Julia didn’t want to ride in the cart, which I told her was fine as long as she stayed with me and didn’t touch everything. And so she ran away from me, touching everything she could get her hands on. By the time I caught up, she’d already grabbed an item from the shelf and disassembled it. I cornered her against the shelves in the aisle while I but the item back together and made sure it wasn’t broken. Then, I told her that she had to get in the cart and began to pick her up and put her in. She screamed, “NOOOOOO!” and let herself go limp until she was back on the floor, a stunt she hadn’t pulled in more than a year. It caught me totally off guard.

That was it. I’d had enough.

I took her hand, led her toward the door and said, “We’re going home.”

She ripped her hand out of mine and tried to make a run for it. I’m not sure how, but I caught her within about three steps. She screamed. She threw herself down. She kicked her legs. Everyone in the vicinity stopped to stare while I picked her up and carried her out to the van like a bundle of firewood while she threw the mother of all temper tantrums – a temper tantrum that lasted nearly the whole way home while I drove, stone-faced and simmering.

By the time we made it back to the house, I was still too mad to even think about disciplining her. We walked in the door and she asked, “What do we do now?” I told her that I just needed her to leave me alone for a while, until I wasn’t so mad. I told her no goodies or television – just go to her room and spend some time, which she did. She emerged about twenty minutes later with a drawing she’d made for me to help me feel better. She had attempted to write some words on it, but after “I love you” it was illegible to me, so she translated, “It says, I still love you, even when you’re mad.”

Then, she went to the kitchen and brought me a bowl of strawberries and a glass of water. She’d even washed the strawberries and pulled the green caps off them. She put them next to my chair and scrambled up into my lap. She kissed my cheek, patted my belly and said, “I love you, Mommy. I’m sorry I made you mad. Are you happy now?”

Well, after that, I knew I wasn’t mad anymore, but I was completely exhausted. And I’m about to add another passenger to this wild ride. How the hell am I going to manage it?

And It’s All Thanks To Doubting David And His Infectious Incertitude

A few weeks ago, I asked my doctor if there was any chance that I’d get to have another ultrasound before Lucy’s birth. She said, “It isn’t likely. Your pregnancy is going along wonderfully. We will only do another one if it is medically necessary.”

At my last baby appointment, I asked my doctor to expound upon the phrase “medically necessary.” She talked about “risk” and “problems.” And I said, “So what if my problem is that my husband’s life is at risk if I don’t get another ultrasound to double check the gender of this child?” She laughed. I didn’t.

When we were told that we were having a girl at my 20 week ultrasound, we accepted it as fact. The ultrasound technician said she was certain it was a girl and I saw proof of that with my very own eyes. From that point forward, we called our unborn child by the name we’d chosen should she be a girl: Lucy. We purchased little girl clothes. When people asked what we were having, we said proudly and unwaveringly: “It’s a girl.”

Then, I added Lucy’s name to the growth chart on the wall in her bedroom. With paint. And Dave FREAKED.OUT. Suddenly, he didn’t feel so sure that we were having a girl. He began to ponder the possibility that the ultrasound technician had made a mistake. He expressed concern frequently, claiming I put a jinxy voodoo curse over the whole thing when I painted that name on the wall. Where we used to call our unborn child Lucy, he began to add an “IF it’s a girl.” When people asked what we were having, he’d say: “We think it’s a girl.”

At first, I brushed it off. “I am having a girl,” I’d tell myself. I saw her girl parts on that ultrasound screen with my very own eyes. I AM HAVING A GIRL!

But then, those little whispers of uncertainty would swirl around my head. And when I had to pick out the travel system, I went with a neutral color rather than the brown and pink cherry blossom pattern I loved. I told myself it was just in case we had another child and that child was a boy. I explained to myself that I was thinking ahead when really, I was being hypnotized by Dave’s speculativeness.

I realized I was under his spell of dubiety today when I set out to purchase the outfit my baby will wear home from the hopsital and I chose something gender neutral. Just to be sure.

And so, I made a plan: When I go to the doctor later this week, I’m going to bring up the ultrasound and how I need one. Again. I am going to tell her that I will go batshit crazy insane if I don’t get one to make sure there’s really a girl in there, so I figure we can do one of three things: we can give me an ultrasound, do another ultrasound or have just one more ultrasound.

When I shared this plan with Dave and asked him to back me up at the appointment – because I know he is just as unsure as I am – he said, “I’m not worried so much that it’s a boy. I just think there are two in there.”

Sometimes husbands just shouldn’t speak.

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