Rant #35

Here is something that my lovely husband had to hear me rant about recently: The one and only book we refer to for pregnancy information has a week to week format that describes the baby’s development and what is going on with me physically for each week. This is week 18 and apparently the baby is five ounces, can hear loud noises, and will experience anxiety if I get stressed out. Now the book didn’t come out and say, “don’t get stressed out or you’ll hurt the baby” but why else is that information relevant? And don’t they know that by simply informing you that you are harming the child if you get stressed out they are going to stress you out? In my experience, if I am even just a little stressed out, the absolute worst thing to say to me is, “relax” or “calm down.” Anyway, for me, this information felt like a last straw of some sort. I mean, it’s not enough that I have given up booze and rare meat, can’t digest dairy (that means no pizza, no ice cream), feel exhausted all the time, have hormonal surges the likes of which I have not felt since I was thirteen, am about ten sizes bigger than I was three months ago, or produce stinkier gas than my dog? In the midst of the most life altering thing I have ever done, I also have to avoid getting stressed out??? What’s next? No reality television? No pools? No wedge heeled shoes? No US Weekly? No pedicures? Do I need to start whipping myself in the morning?

Wisely, B does not answer these questions and tells me I look great.

I'll take a bored on the rocks, please

If a tree falls in the forest but no one is there to hear it, did it make a sound? Or alternatively, if I am not out having cocktails, is it really Friday night? I’ve pondered this recently as I sit at home on a Friday night and try to think of what I ever did with myself before I was of legal drinking age, and just what is so great about Friday night if you aren’t sipping a mojito at a bar and reviewing the new season of Project Runway with your friends? One might suppose that your ability to sleep late the next day differentiates the night from the rest of the week, but this is an aspect of Friday night that, to my mind, just rubs salt in the wound. It means I stay up later than I would on a Thursday night -which may result in one more sodoku puzzle or another re-run of Law and Order. Hardly a bonus if you’re trying to convince yourself you are not a loser. It also doesn’t help that my dog seems to have more of an agenda for Friday night than I do and doesn’t seem to think that playing dress-up with her fits into it.

First Impressions

As if this baby were a mini-Martha Stewart, I have begun to worry about how our house looks and whether it is ready for a visitor with consummate taste and white kid gloves to check the dust level. When we moved in the house, the basement was a dump – I mean that literally and figuratively because the previous owners had left behind a whole bunch of their crap and, following suit, their dog had also left behind a whole bunch of his crap. We were doing about a million things when we moved in, so we cleaned what we could in the basement and then pretty much shut the door and avoided it for the last year. On Sunday I forced us to tackle the situation and clean out the basement. Now, if our infant wants to look at the hot water heater or needs a hammer for any reason, the room will not put me to shame. I am also trying to remove all of my stuff from our second bedroom so that the baby will immediately have a room to itself. This means cramming our tiny bedroom with furniture to the point where there is hardly an inch to maneuver, but if our child wants to just shut the door and get away from it all, he or she will be able to. In my very best case scenario, our baby would not see any torn screens on the porch and come home to a side yard that is not full of weeds taller than its parents. And in a perfect world there would be tidy garden beds, but I am fairly certain any offspring of mine won’t know the difference in that category, so I’m ok with letting that one go.

Starting to show?

So I got up today and B was all, wow! You're really starting to show. I can't see it personally, but he took a picture for posterity.

Secret food journal

There are lots of dos and don’ts for what you can eat during pregnancy. In order to help you pay attention, many sources will advise keeping a food journal, which I have done somewhat sporadically... But if I stuck to it yesterday was a day that I would not record anything because if I did, it might be used as evidence against me later on. However if I were forced to write down what I ate, this is what I would write and what it would really mean:

Breakfast: Whole grain toast and fruit (A bite of B’s pop-tart and a fruit smoothie with extra sugar because I was too lazy to use a spoon and there was an avalanche when I tipped the bag over). Mid-morning Snack: Chocolate protein drink (Mochachino with some milk). Lunch: Pita with lean meat and vegetables (Pizza with pepperoni, sausage, mushrooms, and green peppers). Afternoon Snack: Peanuts and juice (Snickers and a coke). Dinner: Salad with chicken (Salad with chicken because I ate like a college freshman all day).

George Michael's still got it.

So my taste in food these days has been really bland. I like fried things with ketchup and honey mustard, smoothies, tuna sandwiches, and plain pasta. If you come at me with garlic, curry, or basically anything seasoned beyond salt and pepper you can just keep walking. And apparently this taste for the bland applies to anything musical as well. Before I got pregnant, I had been listening to rap like it was my job (when I close my eyes and picture it I am SUCH a baller). But now the jam to me is an easy listening mix of some Lionel Ritchie, Peter Cetera, Seal, Phil Collins, and REO Speedwagon. It has made me wonder, as I drive along and sing with feeling about Careless Whispers, if this is the beginning of some kind of chemical mom transformation. One that begins with Light FM and moves through the stages of practical haircut, jeans with white sneakers, t-shirts with Walt Disney characters, and finally culminates in the ubiquitous mini-van. If so, I’m just saying, mini-vans come with televisions and automatic doors these days and personal airvents for each seat...maybe I could do worse.

The gift and the curse

My sense of smell is nothing short of bionic at this point. I smelled a cigarette butt that was in someone’s pocket from across the room, and I can smell our basement on the second floor. I think I can smell the difference between coke and pepsi, although that has not been fully tested by an impartial third party. My new favorite thing is a lavender candle that sits by my bed that I don’t even have to burn to be able to smell. Anyway, if I could be an X-Men character I would be the one that smells out enemies and dangerous situations. When I was not fighting crime I could use my powers for the benefit human kind. I could smell out designer or fake, for example. I only wish that I could turn my nose off for the unpleasant smells. Poor B practically has to go through radiation decontamination when he gets home from work because I can smell raw seafood on his clothes. I also have started to take a ridiculous path to the bathroom at work to avoid a rite-aid perfume wearer who obviously believes that more is more.

Supreme Ruler of the Universe Buckley

We’ve been talking about names since before we even agreed to have kids. Betty Buckley is a favorite because we figure with that name she would either be the most popular girl in school or a complete hellraiser. But she could also just be Betty, totally normal, and that’s cool too. I think it is funny the way some parents name their kids as if they are giving them an identity, like Ceasar and Prince (not the rocker, but a guy I know called Prince Taylor). I mean, are you serious? Do you think you are somehow instilling the qualities of a ruler into your child? If so, then why not go for King, Zeus or Apollo? I got two emails today from a woman named Delight Allen that were very charming to be sure… but still. And Hope… that name just bugs me. Like hope for what? World peace? Free love? Or like your child has to be named the literal way you feel about her? If I did that, depending on my hormone balance, we could wind up with Fear, Trepidation, Elation, or just plain I’m not Ready Buckley. B’s suggestion along this vein was Rock Your World Buckley, or Rules for short.

Dropping bombs

I’m going to be frank. I have never experienced gas like this in my life. I used to call B Toots McGillicutty because he’ll sound the horn once or twice every morning like clockwork and likes to perform a little reverie in the evenings if we are watching TV. But I can’t talk anymore because what I produce these days is like napalm. It has brought B to his knees and also made him move more quickly than I have ever seen him move before. And beyond the fact that I feel like some kind of monster, I also feel I have lost a very important upper hand in the relationship; a moral high ground of sorts. Every time it happens (I am but a vessel, I can’t control it) I sense a little credibility falling away. If this continues I fear I will have lost all claim to the remote, any veto power on movies, any preference for grilled not fried, netflix choices, pizza toppings, justification for expensive toilet paper, who sets the alarm clock, closet space, and who is responsible for oil changes. This list may not seem coherent, but they are all things I have put my foot down about it the past. Their loss would be like a harmful radiation effect. For now I still have a tenuous stake in our major purchases, but if my feet start to stink then I might as well just go ahead and state my preference for the color of the brand new Charger that B will feel completely empowered to go out and purchase.

Team Buckley

The gleam in a daddy’s eye usually refers to a man thinking lustful thoughts about a woman. In B’s case the gleam is caused by the vision of a Carolina Hurricanes jersey with the name Buckley on it and his offspring in it. Therefore, one of our most sincere wishes for this child, beyond health of course, is that he or she will inherit B’s athleticism. We have discussed the alternative and politely agreed that our child’s career in athletics, with my genetic input, would be an uphill battle. Not that B hasn’t tried to elicit some kind of athletic response from me. In fact, through his patience and my determination, we’ve gotten to the point where I can play nine holes with him as long as we stock me up with plenty of old used balls, play best ball, allow me to use a tee on the fairway, and do not keep my score. With this victory, he has stopped the horrific practice, thank God, of tossing me things out of the blue like keys or grocery items. Deer in headlights was all he ever got with that particular tactic. But I would imagine that this child, very early on, will have things, soft things, tossed in his or her direction. I think all we’ll need to see is a reaction of any kind and we can rest easy.

Buckleys at the beach

Yesterday, B and I took a road trip to Carolina Beach and spent the day enjoying beautiful weather and perfect water. Besides the normal things we do at the beach: eat, sleep, eat, swim, eat, and play cards, we engaged in a new game called what kind of parents will we be/what kind of kid will we have? We decided the following: 1. B will be the type of dad to hurl kids into waves. 2. Our child will be the type to enjoy being hurled into waves. 3. If we have a girl, she will definitely wear a cute green bathing suit that has an ice cream cone on the front and the word “chillin.” 4. She will not be allowed to use water guns until she has learned to respect the phrase, "not in the face sweety." 5. We will use spray on sunscreen. 6. Water wings are cute in and out of the water… they will be had. 7. We will consume cold bud lites while watching our child build sand castles. 8. Our consumption will not stop us from retrieving said child when he starts to wander. 9. We will have every toy and inflatable device known to man and bring every single one to the beach. 10. We will probably forget half the toys when we leave.

Optimism

So that is my EPT test and also me with my EPT test and a plate of poptarts. When B and I found out we were enciente I immediately requested a box of strawberry poptarts with icing. I think every female has a particular food item that is not by any means allowed to cross the threshold of her home because its mere presence causes her to transform into a ravenous animal. Maybe not every female, but for me, that item is strawberry poptarts with icing. So naturally, when I found out it was the time in my life to start gaining weight, I welcomed an eight-pack box into my home, fully prepared to enjoy at least four before work. I call this picture, "optimism" because shortly after it was taken my stomach completely went off the program and allowed nothing to enter it that contained sugar, dairy, vegetable, or more than 75% carbohydrate (read, sugar). B wound up finishing the box of poptarts, and has developed a taste for them, albeit the frosted brown sugar and cinnamon flavor, which he has stocked in our cupboard ever since.