But I don't even like peppermint.........

We were in a restaurant. A really nice restaurant. The kind with cloth napkins and people taking your order instead of the garbled voice of a teenager through a speaker at the drive-thru.
I was so looking forward to a nice thick steak (something I never would have touched before this pregnancy but is now a constant craving).
The waiter turned and asked me what I would like.
I opened my mouth and..........


nothing.

Or more specifically, a mouth so full that I could not speak.

My mouth was suddenly so full of gum that I could no longer close it.
No matter how much gum I pulled out of my mouth, more would quickly take it's place. I was starting to panic but everyone around me just watched as though this were all perfectly normal.

"I'll just bring you a nice plate of chicken parmesan."

NO!! I hate chicken parmesan! I want steak!

But all I managed to do was spit out more gum.


I'm not sure what it all means but at least it wasn't as bad as that ice cream truck dream.

As Promised..........

Yes, I threw that shirt Joe is wearing in the trash just as soon as he took it off.

Why My House Will Be Getting Egged

When we were kids, we would hang out well after curfew talking, running, just being kids. But we did manage to keep the volume down, if only because our parents would have taped our mouths shut if we got out of line.

Which may partially explain why I've become the Old Bitch Woman Down The Street.

It's Friday night and the kids are asleep. Joe has to work in the morning so he went to bed a few hours ago. I'm sitting in my living room watching a movie and trying to ignore the screaming teenagers hanging out in the street in front of my house.
It's only 10:30.
I see my neighbor come out and know that she's asking them to keep it down.
I turn the volume on the tv up just a little bit more.
They continue screaming.
It's 11:00 and I'm contemplating whether or not it's worth it to go out and tell them to shut up.
That's when one of them decides it would be fun to run down our street yelling 'fuck' at full volume.

Fuck indeed. How about 'fuck this, now I'm pissed'?

I went outside but held my temper in check.

"Hey guys, it's 11. Can you please stop screaming?"

That's when one of those asshats lost their mind and came back with "My curfew isn't until 1."

Time-out for a moment before I tell you about the bloodshed that followed that idiotic statement.

1) He was (clearly) underage. Not for a minute do I believe that the curfew here for minors is 1 am. Maybe his parents don't care how late he is out, but the cops do.

2) He was not a neighborhood kid. In fact, only one kid out of the 14 that were outside actually lived here and she belonged to the people who think it's ok for their 15 year old daughter to dress like a hooker (half shirt with thin straps, mini-skirt, make-up by Tammy Fay?) so clearly, they weren't going to care that their daughter and her friends were annoying the piss out of their neighbors.

3) That poor fool apparently doesn't understand that when you mess with a tired hormonal pregnant woman you will lose a limb. Possibly one that you really need.

On to the bloodshed.... (ok, not literally but given the fact that they all left immediately after, rather quickly in fact, I think I may have scared them a little).

"I don't give a shit when your curfew is you half-wit! It's 11 at night, my kids are sleeping and if I have to hear another one of you little assholes yelling in front of my house we're going to have a problem! Now, your choice is to shut the hell up or shut the hell up. Which is going to be?"

"yes, ma'am. Sorry."

Yes, that's kind of what I thought.

Doesn't sound to bad, except I have a very loud voice and I spit acid.

Joe asked me why I didn't just call the cops.
Answer?

I'm scarier.

Hot- and not the good kind.

I can no longer trust my own ability to judge temperature. This is especially bad for David since I'm the one who gets him dressed every morning. Lately, he is just as likely to end up in sweatpants and his winter coat on a warm day as he is shorts and a t-shirt when it's cold and wet.
Usually, it's the cold I can't feel.
I sleep with the window open, and if I can get away with it the fan is on, even though it's 40 degrees out at night. If I don't, I wake up several times a night in a sweat after dreaming that I'm being suffocated by mutant moles (those things just freak me the hell out).
It's not that I didn't expect this, I knew it was coming. When I had Bre (in November in PA where it actually gets cold) I was running my air conditioning all. the. time. So what if it was snowing? All the better actually because then I could go sit in the snow and cool down.
No, the problem isn't me.
The problem is my husband.
Because despite having been through this before, despite clearly remembering all the nights he slept in the guest room because our room was too cold for his poor delicate skin (freakin' wear pajamas and sleep under the covers then!), he just didn't think we'd have to go through this again.
Because I'm pregnant in the summer and therefore it cancels out that whole over-heated thing?
I had the air conditioning on for about 30 minutes just to cool down while I was making dinner.
He chose this moment to tell me that he had turned the heat back on.
I threatened to run naked down on our street.
I think I got my point across because the heat is now off.

He Just Doesn't Understand.

"My new maternity clothes came today and I think I'm in love."

"Delivery guy that cute?"

"I've never had a more comfortable pair of pants. My ass is completely covered no matter how much I dance and they feel so good!"

"They look like sweat pants."

"No they don't. They're yoga pants. I'm never taking them off."

"Well, eventually you're going to have that baby and they'll have to come off."

"Nope. Never. In fact, if you ever want to have sex again, you're going to have to find a way to get around these pants. My ass is permanently encased in these pants."

"Our neighbors can only hope."

"In Pants. Cannot hear you. Lalalala......"

She's At It Again!!

Remember my oh-so-fun adventure with the moles and how well that day I decided to be rid of them turned out?
My head aches just thinking of it.
So you can imagine how thrilled I was tonight when our neighbor came over, right after we ate dinner, to show us what he caught (barehanded) in his garden.

A mole.

In a bucket.

Except he didn't tell me it was a mole. He just held out the bucket and said "look what I found". So, like any moron, I looked.

And then I did my perfectly naturally 'icky' dance.
You know, the one where your whole body looks like you're convulsing and you shake.
Except that I was wearing non-maternity pants that are just hanging on there (I hadn't planned on going anywhere).
Thankfully I was mostly behind the door when my pants fell down so he didn't see anything except my very red face and my husband laughing.

Taboo

I started to read another book yesterday. I thought I could drag this one out for a few days since I had other projects that really needed my attention.
Within the first few chapters I knew I wasn't going to be able to go to sleep until I got to the end. There wasn't going to be a perfect ending. Happy. Maybe, but not the clean happily ever after that most books seem to have. Hope. Yes.
The Kindness of Strangers is... I don't even know how to describe it. It just brought up so many feelings, thoughts, gut reactions... and I think that's what it was supposed to do.
Because it is taboo. One of those Things Not Spoken Of.
It's about a child's sexual abuse at the hands of his parents and the turmoil it caused in his life, in the life of his best friend's family who soon became his family, and in a community.
It's fiction.
It's true.
It left me with unanswered questions that made sleep difficult even after the last page had been turned.

Too Tired To Care Right Now

First... I passed my GD test. Dr B said that though the baby seems small, numbers are perfect and given that both previous tots have been small, well.... Yes. Bre was my largest at a whopping 6 lbs 13 oz (and two weeks late). He (Dr B) seems certain that this one will be my smallest yet thereby assuring that I will be giving birth to a 15 lb screaming sumo wrestler.
I plan on kicking the Dr at birth.

I am eagerly searching for a photographer and not at all cringing at the money this little indulgence will cost us (at least not outwardly cringing. limping does not count).

I am attempting optimism. Or at least my version of it.

Which I believe means I am reverting to previous form of pretending. Something has to work.
*********

In the 'Ew, how the hell?' department of my life......
Bre has a fungus. On her head.
At first we thought it was dandruff. My stepmom suggested a build-up since she doesn't always properly rinse her hair. And I know this will sound odd, but she suggested Listerine to help remove the patches of dry flakes we were finding.
Though the patches didn't quite fit what the description of what we thought it was, we tried the listerine.
Bad idea.
As I combed out her hair, it started to bleed. And then I looked closer. Those patches were round (ish) and scattered. All over her head.

Her Dr insisted that it couldn't be fungal because, um, it's her head. But she tested some flakes anyway.

Two days later and.... it's a fungus. "How did she get a fungus on her head?" Well, gee, I don't know. I thought that was why I was paying you medical type people.
She is currently taking 6 weeks of a very strong antibiotic under much protest.
Of course everything she does lately is under protest. And eye-rolling. Because she's 9 going on 30 and knows everything.
Honestly? She's making me crazy. I don't say a lot about the things we're going through with her and I won't. I think it's enough to say that I love her, I'm glad she's here, but there are days where even the thought of having to listen to my pre-teen complaining in that whiny snotty tone makes me want to jam a dull knife in each ear in hopes of going deaf.
And there is a very long summer stretching out before me.
*********
I do have a very lovely picture of the family at disco night which I will share just as soon as I can get my camera dock connected properly again.
*******
One thing I hadn't expected this time around was my constant need to nap. I've never been so damn tired. I thought for sure that it would end once the 2nd trimester hit but it didn't. Now that I'm in the 3rd, I'm thinking it never will. I must find some way of not being so damn tired all the time. There are things that I have to get done and falling asleep in the middle of washing windows is not one of them.

Random

When I was pregnant with Bre, they made me drink this thick syrupy orange goo for my GD test. I remember having to squeeze the stuff out of the tube because it didn't drip. It oozed.
I also remember throwing up all over the nurse's shoes right before I passed out.
Even though the stuff is less road paving material now, it still fills me with dread to have it done. Still, I know that I have too. Gestational diabetes doesn't seem like a grand party to me.
When I was pregnant with David, they had this stuff that just tasted like really cheap cola. Gross, and fuzzy, but it worked.
This time I was offered fruit punch or......
orange.
I wasn't tempting fate again so I chose 'fruit punch'. It tasted like someone had mixed cheap cough syrup with an otter pop.
While I didn't throw up on anyone or pass out, I did actually feel sick this time. With David I was craving cheeseburgers within 2 minutes.
I'm not sure what this says for the results. I'm not going to worry about it. No really, stop laughing. I'm not. I have enough other stuff I can send myself into a tizzy about.
I think if we do this baby thing again (stop laughing), I'm going to get frisky and ask for a combo of orange and fruit punch. Maybe I'll get to puke in technicolor.
***************
I did something today that never ends well and always leaves me feeling a little sick.
I bought clothes.
I have one pair of maternity pants that fit so comfortably (the rest either show off entirely too much ass-crack and though lovely it may be, it's not for public viewing or are so loose that I have to staple them closed. And it's just awkward to carry a stapler in your purse for when you have to use the bathroom.) and I wear them all the time. I also have no shorts. Something I think I may actually need this summer (I freeze Joe out every night with the window open even though it's like 30 degrees at night).
Today my comfy jeans sprouted a hole in the knee and I cried. Mostly because I already knew that every pair of jeans I saw lately had 'low-rise' in the name and do we really need to discuss how much I loathe low-rise?
But I did it. I found a pair of non-low-rise (aka- ass-crack revealing), non-embroidered (????? on that fashion statement) denim maternity pants that would not cause me to take out a loan. I also found a pretty shirt and capris. I'm pretending not to notice how much I spent.
***************
David has this really great habit of pointing out the obvious.
To the lady in front of us at the store when she foolishly smiled at him:
"Dis is my butt. See?" (and yes, he pointed to it)

To the teacher who just wanted to get her mail when I was putting in flyers at Bre's school:
"I farting" (I could hear her laughing down the hall. I so hope he has her when he starts school)

To me, though thankfully not in public this time, as I was bending over to pick up his giraffe:
"Is BIG"
And then he poked me in the butt.
This kid is killing me.

Blah, blah asshat.

When I was 16 my shrink put me on Zoloft. Yes, my shrink. The one my parents made me see because I was 'rebellious'. More like I had pretty much had enough of my mother's nonsense and had been left to my own devices one too many times but really, was cutting school and refusing to speak to my mother shrink worthy? Anyway, Zoloft.
Yes, that stuff that is now a big no-no for teens.
I was on a really low dosage. 25 mg. Within 2 days I was taking a quarter of that 25 mg pill because of the effect it was having on me. I was foggy all the time. Dizzy. It's fun to drive while you're seeing two of the road. I couldn't eat. Everything made me nauseous. I stayed on Zoloft for a month and nothing changed as far as the side effects went. In fact, I was so miserable from the way it was making me feel physically, that I have no idea what it could have done for me emotionally. Especially since I don't think I was actually depressed. Or at least I wasn't before I started taking it. And I definitely wasn't depressed the day I flushed those pills and told my dad I'd sooner shove a steak knife through my eye than swallow another one of those pills.
All this to say that I try to avoid taking any sort of medication. It wasn't just the Zoloft. Even any pain medication I've ever taken has had an intense effect on me. I'm a cheap drunk. I think maybe it's genetic. And while it never stopped my mother, she of the favored boxes of wine and Prozac, it has stopped me.
I've tried other means of controlling what I now know is anxiety attacks. Sometimes they work and sometimes they don't.
They got worse after Bre was born and I was given a prescription for it. But I was always too afraid to take it so I never bothered getting it filled.
I know my anxiety is high right now. I've been trying to distract myself with other things. It works, sometimes. But then I have to stop and all the things I've been trying not to admit hit me like a ton of bricks.
I worry that I haven't gained much during this pregnancy. It's not that I haven't tried (mmm! cheeseburger!), it could be the 4 months of constantly throwing up.... or it could be the 'what if's'. And that's where my trouble starts. That's how I end up thinking that I don't deserve this and I've done something so horrible that everything I love will be taken from me. It's stupid and ridiculous but it's real.
I am trying to not freak out. I am trying to concentrate on other things. Better things. Things like, Disneyland is only 6 months away and to make it even more awesome our friends (who I love like family) are coming with us. Things like the look on David's face when he felt the baby move and the amazed little 'o' his mouth made. Things like Bre coming up to me during her first school dance to tell me that a boy just danced with her (fast dance, no touching but....) and her malicious little smile (that I know she gets from me) as she ran off to tell her dad (not because dancing with a boy is such a big deal but because she knew he would act like it was). Things like walking into my room to go to bed and finding David curled over Joe and the two of them just snoring, content. And then waking up in the morning to David's little hand on my cheek and his stinky breath whispering "mornin' Mama", the sleep still in his eyes.
Little moments to carry me through.

Slow steps.

Deep breaths.

Wimp

I like denial. It's a game I play and I am good. Like, Olympic gold kind of good.
In my defense, it's gotten me through these past months of pregnancy in one piece. It's kept me off my bathroom floor at 3 am crying. It's kept me from spending every waking moment of these pregnancy not asking about the 'what ifs?'
But it's also made me a very unfair kind of person. It's made me someone I don't particularly like very much.
It's the hermit in me. It's my inability to trust my own judgement and to believe that my friends do actually care about me and won't think I'm an idiot for being scared.
It's made me avoid people and make excuses for why I'm not around or why I can't go out when really.... I totally could.
But if I'm perfectly honest with myself, and to be frank I'm not a very good liar in even my best moments, I'm petrified.
I'm in my Black Year again just waiting for things to go wrong. Because I know that they can. They have before.
And because there is still a part of me that doesn't believe I deserve to be a mother. That I've done too many bad things to have the right to any bit of happiness. And, aside from this insane fear, I am happy.
I have the one thing I always wanted but my mother was certain I couldn't. I have a family. I have a husband who loves me and would do anything to make me happy. I have beautiful, happy kids who never have to wonder if they're loved.
So why am I so sure that it's going to be taken from me?
I do my best to remember that my Dr is unconcerned, for the moment, with my contractions. I do my best to remember that I am feeling the baby move (constantly) and stretch (why yes, that is a rib). That alone should give me some piece of mind.
Instead I rely heavily on denial.
Something that I cannot do if I have to talk regularly to the people who know me best and are outside the worry.
I joke about my husband's concern because to admit that I share it means that there isn't anyone who can assure us, and that would leave me on my bathroom floor again and I can't do it.
I count down the days and just hope it goes quickly and pray that it will be alright.
And I hope that the people I've neglected won't hate me when it's over.

On Animal Anatomy

David has been fascinated by giraffe's lately. He asks for a giraffe shirt every day (and of course I can't find one). He talks about his pet giraffe and how it's afraid of his pee-pee (I didn't understand why until... well... you'll see).
For Mother's Day, I decided that we should go to the zoo (because nothing says 'taking it easy to prevent further contractions' like a trip to the zoo! It was fine. I sat a lot.) It was perfect (and crazy busy). The bear was in the water and David came face to face with him. It was slightly unnerving to realize that the only thing separating my child from this very large brown bear was a piece of plexi-glass. His fur was matted to the glass right by David's hand. He whispered, "Whoa" and I think that pretty much summed it up perfectly.
The hippos were playing 'tag' and goosing each other so that it was a chorus of snorts, grunts, and growls. One elephant actually reached out and ripped down some branches from a nearby tree for a little treat. The monkeys (please don't ask me which ones) watched us watching them.
But the best par of the day was when we came to the giraffes and David imploded because he Could. Not. Contain. His. Excitement! Oh! Look! Giraffes!! Whoa!!
We bought him a stuffed giraffe (even they didn't have any t-shirts!) and Bre an orangutan and went home. Tired, happy and together.
This morning after Bre went to school, David and I went through our usual routine of 'Name That Animal' (he still insists that monkeys are Daddy). He picked up his stuffed giraffe and gasped.
"Mama? Where giraffe's pee-pee?"

"Oh. Um. I guess he doesn't have one."

He looks in closer to see if maybe he just missed it. He sadly shakes his head.

"Giraffe scared of pee-pee."

Indeed.

Disco Fever

"It's research."

That was my husband's excuse and why I found myself quietly renting Saturday Night Fever and wishing the glittery-faced (seriously? What the hell is up with the glitter at 11 am on a Thursday?) clerk would stop looking at me like that. I wanted to point out that I was not the one with glitter all over my face, but.... Saturday Night Fever?

Bre's school is having a Disco party soon. During this party there will be a John Travolta look-alike contest.

A contest my husband is determined to win.

Determined enough that I am renting freaking Saturday Night Fever.

I spent a total of 15 minutes with Joe and and the kids while this movie played. Just long enough to determine that my kids are doomed to be very bad dancers.
Just long enough to hear my husband tell my daughter that he was getting some great dance movies out of this.
Just long enough to see me son attempt that finger-hip move and fall backwards over his own butt.

Joe says that there are few times where you get to truly embarrass your kids and he is taking this responsibility very seriously.

All I can promise is that there will be photos.

Conversations

"Are you being a bug, David?"

"No, not a bug. I'm a Dapid."

"Yes, and David is a bug."

"No, Dapid is a handsome boy."

**********************
"Do you want some mac 'n' cheese?"

"No."

"Pizza?"

"No."

"Sandwich?"

"No."

"What do you want?"

"Cookie."

"No cookie until after dinner."

"Samich."

"What kind of sandwich?"

"Cookie samich."

******************
"Where's mommy's keys?"

"In there."

"Where is there?"

"Yeah."

"Do you know where mommy's keys are?"

"In there."

"Can you point to where 'there' is?"

"No."

"I think you don't know where mommy's keys are. I think you don't know where your butt is wise guy."

"My butt right here. Your butt there, there, there....."

"That's enough of that wise guy."

"No, I'm Dapid."

"You win."

"Yeah."

********************
You know it's going to be a bad day when you're being outsmarted by a 2 year old.

Think of Your Own Damn Title. I'm tired.

Do you know what I haven't done in awhile?
How about embarrass myself publicly and then tell you about it?
Right.
See, it's not that I haven't done or said really stupid things in public lately, it's just that I've been in enough of a funk to not find the humor in it.
But not now.
No, I think after the day I had it is a requirement to share.

I had a regular check-up (which I just.... urg! More later.....) and, as always, managed to pee all over my hand instead of in that stupid cup.
Seriously? Who's ingenious idea was it that a pregnant woman who can barely tie her shoes should pee into a tiny cup? Because I'd like to beat them. Preferably with something heavier than that stupid cup.
After that frustrating appointment I thought I'd take David to the library.
He has a runny nose. Not sick, just runny. I really thought we'd be ok. This should have been my first clue.
I was standing there talking to the librarian about the book I'd just read (she asked- The House of Scorta) and about some other recent books when I felt something rubbing my leg.
I didn't think anything of it, just figured it was David trying to get my attention, until the librarian got this really grossed out look on her face and suggested that the library wasn't the place for sick kids.
I looked down to see that David hadn't been trying to get my attention. No, he had just used my pants to wipe his nose and now I had a giant snot trail down my leg and my little monster was standing there staring at a booger on the end of his finger.
He offered it up to me with a very pointed "ew".
Yes.
Thanks.
Need I point out that this is the same library where he pulled up my shirt and flashed the patrons my boobs?
Right.
I think the library is just a very bad place for me.
I tried to clean the snot trail, but it was pretty... ew. And despite my best efforts with the tissue I had in my purse, I think I only made it worse. And to make it really awesome, it was shiny.
And nothing says 'great time to run into people you avoid at all costs' like a giant shiny snot trail on your pants. And it was.
*****
I didn't get to see my Dr this time. No, I got to meet with the nightmare that lectured me about how I was gaining to much weight with David (even though by the end of my pregnancy I had only gained 30 lbs) and that I was going to end up getting GD if I didn't listen to her. I didn't listen to her and I was fine.
This time she commented on how I wasn't gaining enough weight and wanted to know exactly what I was eating.
"The faces of bitches who piss me off and I'm feeling a bit hungry lady."
I ignored the question because I've decided she's insane. And possibly a little obsessed with weight. My weight is fine, thank you. If you don't believe me, just ask my son who insists on using my ass as a bumper.
I'm also contracting. Nothing to worry about at this point. It's inconsistent. I may have 3 one hour and then go another 2 before another one comes on. As long as it stays that way, it's nothing to be concerned with.
Of course, telling Joe was a mistake because now he's completely convinced that this kid is going to fall out of me if I sneeze.
I've been fake sneezing all night just to mess with his head.

The Volume of Silence

I think about the mornings I wake up and the kids are already fighting over whether to watch SpongeBob or Scooby Doo. I think about their afternoon games of 'Scream' where they, literally, try to out scream the other as they run back and forth around the hallway and living room. I think about David's full throttle, unabashed laughter as his sister makes silly faces at him and hers in return as he attempts to mimic her.
The sounds of my daily life. Sometimes it makes me crazy and I find myself wishing for a moment of peace. Sometimes it fills that leftover spot I missed from my own childhood. Mostly it just bleeds from one day into the next; an unalterable course of being. A simply matter of fact.
Now the house is quiet and I am unnerved by it.
Joe took the kids to a friend's house. I am supposed to be using this time to finish up some projects that never quite seem to get done; projects often interrupted by the noise of daily life.
Instead, it feels too hollow.
The radio can't quite drown out the absence of their laughter.
So I watch the clock and hope that they'll return soon.
I find it a little funny, but not in the ha-ha sort of way, that the very thing I've found myself wishing for is making me sad. A little peace. A moment to myself. I seem to have more of that with them here, not occupying my thoughts but simply here. Without the regular hum of their voices, the motion of their play, I feel off-balance.
I've grown accustomed to chaos and without it I am out of place.

What does that say about me?

Old-Fashioned

It started at 8:30 in the evening. Bre was sitting at the table and the phone rang. I checked the caller ID, and then ignored it.
It's not that I don't think Bre should be allowed to talk on the phone, I really don't care. But 8:30 on a school night? No.
Her friend hung up.
5 minutes later, she called back.
I told Bre to let her friend know tomorrow that she couldn't get phone calls after 7:30 on a school night. Her friend left a message and I thought that was that.
Bre went to bed and I settled in to finish House of Scorta (very good, by the way).
It's 10 pm and the phone rings again.

Are you kidding me?

I answer it thinking I can simply explain to her friend that it isn't ok to call this late.

She said ok.

And then asked to speak to Bre.

At 10 pm on a school night.

Did I mention she's 9?

Am I crazy here? Am I just old-fashioned and doomed to be the 'uncool' mom?

I remember as a kid always telling my parents how my kids would be allowed to do whatever it was they were forbidding my from at that moment. Whether it be talking on the phone at 10 pm, or having an unsupervised party.
Now I see the neighborhood kids playing flashlight tag in the middle of the street at 11 at night and I shiver.
I see the 13 year old across the street in a mini-skirt, high heels and make-up done by Tammy Faye and I cringe.

I like to think that I haven't become my parents, but maybe I have.

So Not Like Me

Remember when it was Easter? And maybe there were like, pictures or something?
Remember how I'm always, um..... procrastinating?
Right. So...............

Hey! Look! Easter pictures! Because I'm not at all lazy and forgetful. No, not me!

Clearly impressed by the chicken that hatched the pink sparkly egg!
(Not to self: Do not buy the glittery egg dye ever again. Much hate. Really.)


And proof of my child's OCD. He wiped off every single egg he found before he would put it back in the egg tray (and yes, I actually have an egg-shaped tray just for Easter eggs for I am lame and I do not even know where I got the thing from but I keep it).
(Further Note to Self: Glittery egg dye= DEATH!! HATE!!!)

This concludes another lame ass, lazy person post.

Ranting

Blank. Blank. Blank.
While I can think of a million things to blog about, I can't seem to get them down on... um... keyboard.
Pregnancy brain has taken over.
It started slowly.
Forgetting a check or a meeting. Things I had even made note of but then lost the note, or my day planner and then I got lost in a fog of pickles and grapes (a fine substitute for olives which I still refuse to eat because, ew).
But it's getting worse. And I know that it will continue to go downhill from here.
And then the dreams will come.
I'd search my archives and make a link but I'm afraid of getting distracted and then probably not remembering to come back, but I've mentioned the dream with the ice cream truck and the police before. And then there was the one where Dog the Bounty Hunter was chasing my husband because he farted in downtown Seattle and set off a panic that we'd been gassed by terrorists (it did get him to stop eating tacos before bed during the rest of that pregnancy so it wasn't all bad).
There have been dreams where the baby was more snake than human and was swallowing me from my toes up. Or the one where I gave birth to a 7 year old child (that was my first pregnancy and to be fair, she was nearly 2 weeks late by then).
Those dreams are so real. Real enough that I had to wake my husband after the ice cream dream just to be sure that it was a dream.
I wonder what hormone in the human body accounts for the insanity brought on by pregnancy?
*******

Right up there with strangers trying to touch my belly (and I am so getting to that in a minute), is the moron who asks me how much I weigh now.
Seriously? I barely know you enough to say hello and in case you didn't notice I totally coughed when I said your name because I couldn't remember you. I think that means that asking me how much I weigh is grounds for having a cantaloupe shoved up your nose.
You're just lucky you can run faster than me right now.
Even my husband, the man who has to sleep next to me and pretend not to notice that my ass has expanded to the size of a small walrus, knows better than to ask me that.
While I realize that my husband can be mildly intimidating, he is a big teddy bear. Nicest guy you'll ever meet. Also the guy who will protect your hand from being bitten off should you decide to be stupid enough to reach that dirty paw on over to my belly. Because while he may be a big old teddy bear, I'm a fucking grizzly. Don't touch me.
Last time, I simply told people that I bite. Or I'd reach over and start touching their belly.
Now I'm just a bitch. Keep your mitts to yourself.
*****
Can you tell I'm pissy?
I think it may be part lack of sleep. Or the middle of the night nausea. Or hormones (I love having those hormones to lay some blame to). Or this never-ending rain is starting to make me crazy. Or whatever.
I don't usually swear this much.
Really.
*****

Gratitude

It's an odd little ritual of mine; hardly worth noting. But I find great comfort in the sound of those little white pills sliding around in the bottle as he takes one every night. I picture that pill as a little soldier; off to kill the very thing I fear and let my husband's liver repair itself a bit.
Every pill is another day away from That Thing We Don't Talk About, even if it is always there in the back of my mind.
It seems almost ridiculous to worry. At his last Dr's appointment there was almost no trace of what's been slowly killing him since he was a child.
But I do anyway. I know, worry is something I'm very good at. But it's more than that.
This is temporary. We don't know how long this medication, new and improved though it may be, will work. We don't even know what the long term effects will be, new and improved as it is. All we have is this hope. All we have is a little relief from the worry we faced last year.
I'll take it.
We've had so many downs that even a temporary respite is a high.
We have so much to look forward to that I try not to dwell on what will come.
We have now. Then is out of our control. My gratitude is for now.
My gratitude is for whatever time those tiny white pills are buying us.
His skin looks good. No bit of yellow to make me wonder.
And I am grateful.
He snores when he sleeps so that the only way I can get him to stop is to poke a rib or pluck some chest hair (subtlety is not in my nature).
And I am grateful.
We argue over something stupid but I find it hard to be angry with him because I am just so damn grateful to be able to argue with him.