It's been one of those Saturdays where I had mighty plans to accomplish big things....and just looked at the clock, saw the time, and wondered how it got to be evening. Oops. Amazing how a 3 hour nap, despite the weed wacker-weilding neighbor's best attempts to waken me, eats up a day. Lest you think I'm a total bum, I did work this morning and run a few errands after that. Then I plopped on the couch with a Quizno's sub and watched some Kardashian drama ("I'm getting a Bentley!" "You're a bitch!" "No, you're a bitch!"), which made me very sleepy, which necessitated the nap. Annnnnd the day is toast.
22 weeks. Tick tock. Can't time hurry up? Whenever I admit to someone that I'm just ready for it to be September and to actually hold this baby, they look at me like "what a shame" and urge me to just enjoy being pregnant, sleeping when I want to, and revel in the anticipation. Which I am (when I'm not worrying). But I'm not a patient girl, and while I think that without the horror that was last year I'd likely be one of those "I love being pregnant, never felt better, this is amazing and beautiful and I'm glowing" types....because of all the misery that preceded this pregnancy, I just kind of want the end result already. Being pregnant for the better part of the past 14 months will do that. Big ultrasound coming up on Tuesday. Send us your "ten fingers, ten toes, healthy little baby in every possible way" vibes.
My week in a nutshell:
1) Griffin was dying of cancer, then he wasn't. Learned not to trust crooked vets in dirty clinics who insist on immediate surgeries, and that the very good, kind, experienced vets are hiding out in the country. Also learned it's a very good thing to trust my budding "motherly instincts" to avoid my dog being sliced open for no good reason at all.
2) Jonathan sick with a cold, me with Clorox in one hand and Vitamin C in the other. Haven't slept in the same bed in 4 nights. Kind of miss the guy. The dogs are enjoying it- no Jonathan in bed = lots of room for dogs in bed. Cats are angry. Dogs in bed = cats not in bed.
3) Lars and the Real Girl last night on pay per view. Brilliant. Man loves blow up handicapped sex doll. Oddly touching and just the kind of offbeat flick I needed after a string of syrupy chick flicks. And too much of that weird Kardashian show.
4) Our boat is sold. My refusal to boat while pregnant and our realization that a 9 month old wouldn't be a very good ski boater next summer necessitated the sale. I was very proud of J for not crying as the nice man hooked our boat to his Suburban and pulled it on down the road. He looked like a little boy giving away his puppy, but he held it together.
5) Maternity swimsuits are not your friend, and were created as a way to ensure your husband will never want to touch you again, because the image of you in glorified granny panties and a tent for a top will be etched in his memory forever. (Hint: not sexy.) I tried on about 10 before doubling over in laughter at the thought of actually donning one of these beasts in PUBLIC....not even in my (dark) closet would I wear one. I'll stick to land until next summer, and J will thank me. We may even have a 2nd child someday. Pretty sure if he saw me in one of those suits he'd prefer I never become impregnated, ever again.
This post is about as fascinating as my day has been. I'll be back soon with something majorly exciting and introspective. Or a picture of my cats or something.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Friday, May 9, 2008
lightening up
I hate to say it, but I do think blondes may have more fun. I consider myself a blonde at heart. I was a white blonde kid, a medium blonde young adult, and full adulthood brought with it a shade somewhere between "cardboard box" and "dull tree bark". Not a pretty shade. Expensive, time consuming highlights ensued- I do believe that if I totaled up the amount spent on my blonde hue over the past 9 years, I could buy J that airplane he wants. Last fall, I had my beloved highlights filled in with lowlights and just let it grow. I was depressed, I felt dark, I just didn't care to deal with my blondeness. It was pretty at first, with the stylists' strategically placed mahogany pieces, but as that uninspired natural shade took over...not pretty. (Take a close look at the 20 week belly photo below for proof.) It became so homely that when I asked J last week if he'd mind me spending $200 on highlights (despite the fact that we're less frivolous with our cash these days, what with that mile long "ridiculously expensive and likely very useless things we need for baby" list) he responded with a cheery "yes! That's a GREAT idea! Shall I drive you?" Gotta love the man for his support. Or hate him for his closeted lust for blondes. Whatever.
I had my highlights, and I'm happy. I looked in the rearview mirror on the way home and thought- "now THIS is me". The dark hair didn't fit, seemed a disguise of sorts. It reflected a dark mood, a dark outlook, a desire to blend into the background. ((I mean NO offense to brunettes- those that are meant to be brunette are stunning and I'm envious of that "Kelly Kapowski" look I'll never rock- I'm just not meant for the darker tones.)) I can't help but think my lighter hair reflects my lighter place in life. Like maybe I'm restoring a part of who I was, allowing back a superficial aspect of the happy girl at heart.
My mood has lightened too. Wednesday was a tough day that moved into a tough night, and I woke up Thursday feeling a bit lighter. The fact that a year ago today I was in surgery, a surgery I never even knew existed before being told by the sad doctor that I'd need one, went by without any tears, just a sigh, a shake of the head. The crusty hospital, the shockingly insensitive anesthesiologist, the overwhelming feeling of emptiness that filled me as the drugs wore off- all seem so distant, so alien- like a story of another person's sad memory. Instead...onward and upward. Today marks 21 weeks. OVER halfway. Closer to the big, anticipatory third trimester than the frightful first trimester. I can't wait. Bring it on- all of it. Even that unsightly little spider vein that appeared overnight where my butt meets my leg, I'll take it- because I'm ready. Ready for what comes next, and just happy as a (pretty blonde) clam to be this damn close, this full of life and hope.
I had my highlights, and I'm happy. I looked in the rearview mirror on the way home and thought- "now THIS is me". The dark hair didn't fit, seemed a disguise of sorts. It reflected a dark mood, a dark outlook, a desire to blend into the background. ((I mean NO offense to brunettes- those that are meant to be brunette are stunning and I'm envious of that "Kelly Kapowski" look I'll never rock- I'm just not meant for the darker tones.)) I can't help but think my lighter hair reflects my lighter place in life. Like maybe I'm restoring a part of who I was, allowing back a superficial aspect of the happy girl at heart.
My mood has lightened too. Wednesday was a tough day that moved into a tough night, and I woke up Thursday feeling a bit lighter. The fact that a year ago today I was in surgery, a surgery I never even knew existed before being told by the sad doctor that I'd need one, went by without any tears, just a sigh, a shake of the head. The crusty hospital, the shockingly insensitive anesthesiologist, the overwhelming feeling of emptiness that filled me as the drugs wore off- all seem so distant, so alien- like a story of another person's sad memory. Instead...onward and upward. Today marks 21 weeks. OVER halfway. Closer to the big, anticipatory third trimester than the frightful first trimester. I can't wait. Bring it on- all of it. Even that unsightly little spider vein that appeared overnight where my butt meets my leg, I'll take it- because I'm ready. Ready for what comes next, and just happy as a (pretty blonde) clam to be this damn close, this full of life and hope.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
one year ago
May 7, 2007. If I had kept a journal, that day surely would have been the most depressing entry of all my days, 26 years worth of days. That morning I woke up innocent. Blissfully naive. Unfortunately and stupidly confident. Truly believing all the contrived statistics that say once you have a heartbeat, you won't be miscarrying unless you're in that incredibly slim 2%- too tiny a number to even be considered real, laughable really. I drove downtown to the doctor's office excited to see our little one again, sure he/she would be wiggling about, more interesting than the creature we'd seen 4 weeks before. J and I waited forever for the doctor, reading In Touch, looking out the window at the steam rising off the street, eager to head out and over to Whole Foods, where I'd seen adorable natural onesies a few weeks before. I thought I would buy one as a celebration gift after my appointment.
Instead, the day became the one that cracked our surface, brought so much pain into a previously fortunate existance. The one that took away bits of my sunny nature and substituted some bitterness, a harshness that wasn't there before, a sadness that I just don't know that I'll ever entirely leave behind- a hole. I don't remember leaving the office. I remember crawling into the car, slumping into the seat, dialing my parents' phone number by instinct alone, and just wailing, wishing I was wrong, hoping they would make it better. I remember mom's tears, her shock. J's face, as he faked a mask of strength, pale complexion and watery eyes in contrast. His voice on the phone to his dad, a hushed voice, like he didn't want me to hear what he was saying, like I didn't already know. I felt empty, I felt robbed, I felt crushed beneath the weight of all my hopes and dreams and plans for our November baby. And then, the perinatologist's office, there for a second opinion I already KNEW wouldn't be any better, that had I been thinking clearly (thinking at all) we would have declined. Sinking to the cold tile floor as we waited for the doors to open, my head on my knees, the huge bellies too much for me to handle in the waiting room, being escorted to the privacy of an exam room to be signed in. Leaning against J as the world spun, my head spun, words like "social security number" and "primary OBGYN" bleeding together on the paperwork, foreign and meaningless to me. I wanted only my bed...my blanket...darkness...my baby. I wanted my baby. The baby still inside me, so still and lifeless on the screen, gummy bear arms and legs, vaguely human but so beloved. Gone. Without me ever knowing it. Gone while I continued to love, to plan, to share the news. I just kept murmuring "I wanna go home. I wanna go home. I wanna go home." Home, when I was there last, was happy, was safe. Where "if" wasn't a word that applied to babies...just "when".
A year. A year that has been the fastest and the painfully tortured, slowest year of my life. A year that aged me. A year that, despite my hesitation to tack anything positive onto this experience and turn this into some BS "on the bright side" posting (there is no bright side), will make me a better mother. A strong, thankful, gracious mother. Has made me a better friend. Has taught me who I trust and whose love is pure...has shown me who was never really there, not in the way I thought. A year that has shown me who J really is, his strength, his unfiltered optimism, his refusal to let me slip away into dark places, irretrievably. The limitless patience of his love for me, so unlovable in my misery. A year that has shown me the unshakable love of family, the instinctual, unquestionable support they offer, the safe place they hold in my world.
And as I sit here sobbing, American Idol blathering in the background (just get to it, already, we all know that stupid puppy faced kid is safe), Baby Boy kicks at my belly button. I imagine him saying "mom...you're okay! I'm okay! We're okay! More Sunkist!" I hate to let this day be one of sadness, because it somehow cheapens my love for this baby boy, makes me ungrateful, takes away some of the joy I should feel, the joy of a mommy to be, the joy that has been tainted by the fear, the memories, the tears of this past year.
That's all. I'm eager for 12:00am. A new beginning, this date no longer looming dark on my calendar. One day closer to THIS baby, to the peace he'll bring, the love he'll be born into. The other babies are forever loved. No amount of love lavished on this baby (and those I hope will follow) will detract from that. I hope they know.
Instead, the day became the one that cracked our surface, brought so much pain into a previously fortunate existance. The one that took away bits of my sunny nature and substituted some bitterness, a harshness that wasn't there before, a sadness that I just don't know that I'll ever entirely leave behind- a hole. I don't remember leaving the office. I remember crawling into the car, slumping into the seat, dialing my parents' phone number by instinct alone, and just wailing, wishing I was wrong, hoping they would make it better. I remember mom's tears, her shock. J's face, as he faked a mask of strength, pale complexion and watery eyes in contrast. His voice on the phone to his dad, a hushed voice, like he didn't want me to hear what he was saying, like I didn't already know. I felt empty, I felt robbed, I felt crushed beneath the weight of all my hopes and dreams and plans for our November baby. And then, the perinatologist's office, there for a second opinion I already KNEW wouldn't be any better, that had I been thinking clearly (thinking at all) we would have declined. Sinking to the cold tile floor as we waited for the doors to open, my head on my knees, the huge bellies too much for me to handle in the waiting room, being escorted to the privacy of an exam room to be signed in. Leaning against J as the world spun, my head spun, words like "social security number" and "primary OBGYN" bleeding together on the paperwork, foreign and meaningless to me. I wanted only my bed...my blanket...darkness...my baby. I wanted my baby. The baby still inside me, so still and lifeless on the screen, gummy bear arms and legs, vaguely human but so beloved. Gone. Without me ever knowing it. Gone while I continued to love, to plan, to share the news. I just kept murmuring "I wanna go home. I wanna go home. I wanna go home." Home, when I was there last, was happy, was safe. Where "if" wasn't a word that applied to babies...just "when".
A year. A year that has been the fastest and the painfully tortured, slowest year of my life. A year that aged me. A year that, despite my hesitation to tack anything positive onto this experience and turn this into some BS "on the bright side" posting (there is no bright side), will make me a better mother. A strong, thankful, gracious mother. Has made me a better friend. Has taught me who I trust and whose love is pure...has shown me who was never really there, not in the way I thought. A year that has shown me who J really is, his strength, his unfiltered optimism, his refusal to let me slip away into dark places, irretrievably. The limitless patience of his love for me, so unlovable in my misery. A year that has shown me the unshakable love of family, the instinctual, unquestionable support they offer, the safe place they hold in my world.
And as I sit here sobbing, American Idol blathering in the background (just get to it, already, we all know that stupid puppy faced kid is safe), Baby Boy kicks at my belly button. I imagine him saying "mom...you're okay! I'm okay! We're okay! More Sunkist!" I hate to let this day be one of sadness, because it somehow cheapens my love for this baby boy, makes me ungrateful, takes away some of the joy I should feel, the joy of a mommy to be, the joy that has been tainted by the fear, the memories, the tears of this past year.
That's all. I'm eager for 12:00am. A new beginning, this date no longer looming dark on my calendar. One day closer to THIS baby, to the peace he'll bring, the love he'll be born into. The other babies are forever loved. No amount of love lavished on this baby (and those I hope will follow) will detract from that. I hope they know.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
bellies
I'd venture to say that at this point, 20 weeks, my midsection can no longer be mistaken for a gut- the belly looks less "beer" more "baby". And J.....well, he just wanted his picture taken. We were on our way out for a rare dinner date, thanks to J being off work before 8pm for the first time in a million zillion years. 
Nothing else to report. An uneventful weekend in store. J's working, I'm supposed to be cleaning, doing laundry, proving myself useful. Instead, I'm eating a hot dog and watching Girls Next Door. (Yes, a hot dog. Heated to steaming. Back off.) It's looking increasingly likely that the most ambition I'll display today will be cracking open my new UsWeekly and putting the backyard lounge chair to use. So be it.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
hormonal hungry hippo
It's been a long day. While nothing bad or worthy of distress actually happened, I've cried more times than I can count. But here, for the hell of it and because Wheel of Fortune college week bores me, I'll try.
Episode #1. 8am. Breakfast table. George jumped into my lap. He rubbed his little kitty face up to my chin, and I burst into tears. I don't know if it was the pure, unfiltered look kitty adoration in his eyes that got me...or the realization that he's just left the litter box and probably had crap on his feet.
Episode #2. 9am. Shower. I'm all soapy and warm when I realize there's not ONE towel in the bathroom. I'd hauled each and every dirty towel down to the washer an hour earlier (and by each and every dirty towel...I mean our entire towel stock. I'm a bit behind on laundry.) I'm nakey and wet and have no towel. Tears flow. I haven't vacuumed in days, so rolling around on the carpet isn't appealing. My sweatpants worked in a pinch.
Episode #3. 3:30pm. Wallyworld. Some mental midget was hangin' outside the store, greasy mullet blowing in the wind, likely waiting for his ball and chain to come out with his Natty Lite and nudie magazines- it's pay day, folks. Smoking away. Beside his FREAKING NEWBORN BABY. The poor bambino (who looked to be all of a week or two old) sat innocently in her infant seat, stacked precariously atop the Walmart cart, while Father of the Year puffed away. The wind was positioned just right to waft the second hand smoke right into her tiny little defenseless face. I bit my tongue and kept walking as tears sprung at my eyes. Not my baby, and certainly people do FAR worse, but it made me sad. Made me pissed as hell that people like him have kiddos while so many more worthy people don't. And also made me wonder how harshly, exactly, the state of Texas punishes kidnappers. I sat in my car and cried for a few minutes, then left before I stole a baby.
Episode #4. 4pm. The big kahuna. When I came home from lunch, a large box was waiting. This, I knew, was the bridesmaid dress I'd ordered for my cousin's wedding. The one that's in 5 weeks. The dress I had to get into a screaming match with the bridal store over in order to get it in time for alterations. The dress I purposely ordered a whopping 4 sizes up from normal, thinking I'd have enough fabric left over to fashion a jacket, purse, headband and some leggings. Maybe even a boutenairre for J. I dash inside, rip open the box, and think...hmm...looks small. Up in my room, I realized the dress was HOPELESS. Wouldn't zip over my bum, squeezed me in all the wrong places, basically looked like something I'd stolen from a kindergartner. MAJOR, HEAVING SOBS. The wedding's in 5 weeks! My cousin doesn't need this stress! I'm so faaaaaaat! $200 in the toilet! No dress for the wedding IN 5 WEEKS! I called mom and all that came out was "waaaaaaaaahhhh!!!!" which of course, scared the daylights out of poor mom. Imagine her relief upon finding out it was a stupid dress inducing the hysteria. (Update: found new dress, spoke to designer's rep, will be here by May 16. Halle-freakin-lujia. Even better, because I was STILL crying like a lunatic when I called about the dress, they dropped the standard $75 "mega super crazy rush" charge.)
Episode #5. 10 minutes ago. My DVR is broke and is forcing me to choose between Grey's, The Office, and CSI. How unfair is life? My remote broke too, so my night's pretty much shot.
Yeah, I realize life is pretty good when my litany of complaints includes a misfunctoning DVR box. But, too bad. It's my blog, and I'll cry if I want to.
Episode #1. 8am. Breakfast table. George jumped into my lap. He rubbed his little kitty face up to my chin, and I burst into tears. I don't know if it was the pure, unfiltered look kitty adoration in his eyes that got me...or the realization that he's just left the litter box and probably had crap on his feet.
Episode #2. 9am. Shower. I'm all soapy and warm when I realize there's not ONE towel in the bathroom. I'd hauled each and every dirty towel down to the washer an hour earlier (and by each and every dirty towel...I mean our entire towel stock. I'm a bit behind on laundry.) I'm nakey and wet and have no towel. Tears flow. I haven't vacuumed in days, so rolling around on the carpet isn't appealing. My sweatpants worked in a pinch.
Episode #3. 3:30pm. Wallyworld. Some mental midget was hangin' outside the store, greasy mullet blowing in the wind, likely waiting for his ball and chain to come out with his Natty Lite and nudie magazines- it's pay day, folks. Smoking away. Beside his FREAKING NEWBORN BABY. The poor bambino (who looked to be all of a week or two old) sat innocently in her infant seat, stacked precariously atop the Walmart cart, while Father of the Year puffed away. The wind was positioned just right to waft the second hand smoke right into her tiny little defenseless face. I bit my tongue and kept walking as tears sprung at my eyes. Not my baby, and certainly people do FAR worse, but it made me sad. Made me pissed as hell that people like him have kiddos while so many more worthy people don't. And also made me wonder how harshly, exactly, the state of Texas punishes kidnappers. I sat in my car and cried for a few minutes, then left before I stole a baby.
Episode #4. 4pm. The big kahuna. When I came home from lunch, a large box was waiting. This, I knew, was the bridesmaid dress I'd ordered for my cousin's wedding. The one that's in 5 weeks. The dress I had to get into a screaming match with the bridal store over in order to get it in time for alterations. The dress I purposely ordered a whopping 4 sizes up from normal, thinking I'd have enough fabric left over to fashion a jacket, purse, headband and some leggings. Maybe even a boutenairre for J. I dash inside, rip open the box, and think...hmm...looks small. Up in my room, I realized the dress was HOPELESS. Wouldn't zip over my bum, squeezed me in all the wrong places, basically looked like something I'd stolen from a kindergartner. MAJOR, HEAVING SOBS. The wedding's in 5 weeks! My cousin doesn't need this stress! I'm so faaaaaaat! $200 in the toilet! No dress for the wedding IN 5 WEEKS! I called mom and all that came out was "waaaaaaaaahhhh!!!!" which of course, scared the daylights out of poor mom. Imagine her relief upon finding out it was a stupid dress inducing the hysteria. (Update: found new dress, spoke to designer's rep, will be here by May 16. Halle-freakin-lujia. Even better, because I was STILL crying like a lunatic when I called about the dress, they dropped the standard $75 "mega super crazy rush" charge.)
Episode #5. 10 minutes ago. My DVR is broke and is forcing me to choose between Grey's, The Office, and CSI. How unfair is life? My remote broke too, so my night's pretty much shot.
Yeah, I realize life is pretty good when my litany of complaints includes a misfunctoning DVR box. But, too bad. It's my blog, and I'll cry if I want to.
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