Came home, had contractions (little ones), had back ache, took nap (three hours), woke up, snowing in April outside, no contractions, no back ache, still crazy tired.
Dorothy and I talked about the dissolving of the good girl complex and how nice it is to have the strength and the scapegoat of pregnancy to justify the being bitchy. I should really spend some time chatting about that, it’s absolutely one of the BEST perks of pregnancy… But for now, must stretch hip and eat some food : )
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Me: “I’m afraid my kid is going to come out as a combination of the Arby’s menu, chocolate pudding and frozen peaches.”
Ivy: “Well at least you know he’ll be something you love!”
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“You’re here?”
“You’re here!”
“I wondered if you’d be here today.”
“What are you doing here?”
“WHEN are you due?”
All comments heard all freaking day from anyone who I remotely regularly talk to at work.
Along with the follow up question:
“Do you think you’ll go early?” (because clearly I’m fucking omnipotent and have compwete and tow-tal contwol over dis pwegnancy)
Advice from Heidi at work (unfortunately she gave me this advice after it was too late – but I SOOO wish I could have done this):
Tell everyone your due date is a week later than it actually is. By the time people start making all these comments to you, you will actually be past your due date, it cuts down on well meaning, but still annoying questions.
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Easter.
Still not loving Easter.
Today was meltdown day again. Scared. Scared of change, scared of what could go wrong, really not happy that after 10 months of sheer bliss I’m rewarded with some hella pain to make the 10 months of sheer bliss end. I mean, really, wouldn’t a tantric orgasm covered in chocolate really be better payback. And I mean an orgasm like a guy has one – something easy, not this female must work hard and concentrate on it to make it happen after losing it three times shit.
Off to go take a bath. Must return to work tomorrow. Normally I’m all sad at the end of spring break, but it’s not like I have to go back to work for long, just a few days. Okay, maybe 10 days, we’ll see.
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I always knew where I fit with my mom’s pack of family. To screw me up, all you had to do was throw me to a weekend at my dad’s during the teen years and I knew I was the octagonal peg and I had no clue what shape the hole was I was supposed to fit.
Fast forward a decade or so and I learned that all four of us kids felt that way. I didn’t know till two years ago that my oldest brother actually moved out his senior year of high school because he couldn’t take it anymore. I should have clicked on the fact my middle brother had to feel out of sorts what with all the locking himself in bathrooms and volatile outbursts he had, and the youngest, well, he was just screwed, he was stuck in that nest of insanity after the rest of us fled for college and never went home on the weekends. I finally realized that none of us fit in that family, and that out of place feeling may just be what bonds us together now. If nothing else, we have tons of fodder to discuss over many beers.
I know my mom can’t watch Bonanza (it might be Gunsmoke) or Lawrence Welk because of uncomfortable, hair on the back of the neck standing up sensations left over from growing up. I was watching a little Kevin James stand up on Comedy Central a little while ago and he mentioned growing up in a home with a/c but with a father who would rarely use it. I think my blood pressure actually went up as I remembered hot sticky?Ǭ† summer nights when Dad would turn the a/c to … oh lets say 90 just for exaggeration sake … and not understand why we bitched about being hot. Guess who’s bedroom had a fucking fan on full blast? Guess who’s bedrooms did NOT. I remember Deacon used to pile on all of his covers while he was sleeping on the TOP bunk (hot air rises) and crawl under them for several minutes, just to feel the relief of the cooler air when he’d throw the covers off. Kinda like hitting yourself in the head with a hammer just b/c it feels so good when you stop.
I was huddled on the floor today trying to take some pressure off my back and contemplating Alex being an only child. Which is a sure sign of how ready I am to be done with this preggers thing b/c this would mean I would not be having a daughter in my future. I think mostly I’m afraid of getting pregnant again and having it be another boy. This led me to think of my step mom and how she had three boys, then married my dad – who had a girl. I wonder if she was excited b/c she was getting the daughter she’d wanted. Then I realized that I really must have been disappointing to her, b/c I really never was the kind of daughter she would have imagined. This isn’t a pity party statement (for once). This is actually me learning to understand this woman who I really rarely understood while growing up.
Deacon says I should write the book on our family, change the names and see how many people wouldn’t buy it because they would assume it was just too far fetched to be taken seriously.
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I’m processing. I’m being really really honest here. We aren’t Pollyanna’s here – we don’t do trite, this is probably as far from idealistic as I will ever admit to being.
I have one of the worst jobs on the planet to have while pregnant. Early on, there were just a couple of people at work who seemed to understand that. Most people when they hear I’m a special ed teacher and I express my concern over having a special ed kid go “ooooh but you’d know what to expect.”
Yeah, exactly. I’d know what to expect. I know all about the preschool like tantrums thrown by teenagers, I know all about the bruises on the teachers from having to restrain students, I know about the constant snot, the never quite toilet trained 100%, the gross dry desert lizard skin, the verbal outbursts, the booger eating, the bizarre vocalizations, the drooling, the seizures, the bad teeth, the feeding tubes, the failure to communicate, the constant head bobbing or tapping of hands or feet, the outright refusal to move, the social ineptness. Let’s get more honest – these kids often aren’t attractive, then they sometimes get really obese on top of not being attractive to begin with.
I know these things would never really get better, these kids will never be independent, they will never live alone, they will never sit and share stories about crazy shit they did in college, they won’t get married, have kids …. Meanwhile, as much as we all think about having kids, we also think about ourselves – we still want our me time, our we time, we don’t want to be 24 hour caregivers until we die.
I’ve seen children who can’t move on their own, can’t communicate much at all, and can’t eat on their own. Every time I work with a child like this, the song “Pets” goes through my head – you know the one “They’ll make great pets, they’ll make great pets” etc etc. I’m not proud of this, but there it is. I’ve seen parents and grandparents come in with their child pet and it’s sad. And I don’t mean to say these parents are doing a thing uncalled for – they love their child pet just like we love our Rolli, Tavish, Winston, Fran …. all of our pets who we cherish and adore and feed and spoil. These people are doing the very best they can, don’t get me wrong. I mean, I love my cat, but I want a child, not a pet. I look at these children and I feel like somehow we’ve trapped their soul inside this body that wasn’t meant to stay here.
I think about Alex and the unknowns that still haven’t worked themselves out. I’m still on conditional love status. I feel him move and I think “I love my boy”. And then I realize that I love an idea. I love this vision of this boy growing inside me, causing me pain, giving me stretch marks and mega boobs. I have conditions on this right now. I have played the game with God of “I can totally handle learning disability, language disorder, hearing loss… there’s a whole bunch of things I can handle, so if you need to give me some kind of burden to carry, any one of those will do – just don’t give me more than I want to handle”.
See that, “more than I want to handle”. How’s that for an honest statement? I don’t want to find out how much I can handle, to hell with that, I’ll put the limitations on what I can handle and you just stick with that God okay? Cuz you know crappy things never happen to us right?
Pausing while y’all laugh your asses off as you think about a broken neck, a two year old with leukemia, a dash of colitis, never knowing your father, wishing you didn’t know your father …..
And then I take all of this and contrast it with Laura’s boy dying the week before he was supposed to be born. Which is a whole other hell that I try to not spend too much time thinking about. Which is the blessing? Which is better? Which would fit more nicely into “what I want to handle”
Where in the hell are the adults who are supposed to be in charge?
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Okay, I just watched the movie “Saved!” on (save me) the Oxygen channel. I actually really liked it – other than the fact that Jena Malone was walking around 39 weeks pregnant in a prom dress and not bitching non stop : ) But I thought they did a pretty decent job at it. Even the Mandy Moore character who strikes a certain resemblance to ……. managed to put herself out there as doing her best, even if she was a complete screw up too.
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So we’ve had two showings of the house on Monday, we got a call this morning that the very first people who looked at the house want to come back and look tonight. Scary. Good Scary, but Scary.
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My husband is 34 years old (I think….)
His mother just put HIS baby clothes in the mail for us to use.
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