Category Archives: Pregnancy

If children’s books were actually realistic

Posted on May 22, 2016 | Leave a comment

Hello! My name is Aprill. I have a son. His name is Riker. He is 2-years-old. He is a wonderful boy!

Riker likes to laugh and play. And he really loves to read!

We read books all the time together. They all sound exactly like this.

Because who doesn’t love short sentences! And lots of exclamation points!

Mommy, that’s who! Or at least not after reading 27 books in a row. Twenty-seven books in a row that feature no less than 4,000 exclamation points!

Yay!

books4

The worst kinds are the “informational” children’s books. Do you know what an informational children’s book is? It is a book designed to teach children things! But teach them in the most annoying and condescending manner possible!

Mommy may be biased though. She has read a bunch of these books lately. She is trying to prepare Riker for the arrival of his new baby sister! So every day she reads books with titles like “I’m a Big Brother” and “I’m Going to be a Big Brother” and “Why Is Mommy Crying at That Commercial?”

These books are indeed informative. And repetitive! And redundant! And repetitive!

And oh-so-dumb!

This is why Mommy wrote her own children’s book to prepare Riker for a new baby! A more realistic version! A version that includes stretch marks and curse words!

Because sugar-coating is for babies!

The Adorable Fetus That Is Slowly Destroying Mommy

Chapter One

Riker loves his Mommy. His Mommy is the best. He loves sitting on his Mommy’s lap.

But lately, Mommy’s body is changing. Her belly is getting bigger and bigger. So are her butt and boobs. And her feet and hands. And her hips and thighs. She also now has two chins. Count them.

One.

Two.

Two chins!

Daddy says this is because a baby is growing inside Mommy! Mommy says it’s a parasite that feeds off of Mommy’s nausea. This is why she needs to eat cheeseburgers at 7 a.m.

I am going to be a big brother! I am so excited!

new baby family

Chapter Two

Mommy’s brain is changing too. She says it’s just for show now. We play fun games like “Where Did Mommy Leave Her Keys?” and “Where Did Mommy Leave The Dog?” and “Where Is That Horrible Noise Coming From?”

(The answer to all of them is in the fridge!)

Pregnant Mommy can be very fun! This morning she served Skittles and cheese for breakfast. And last week we had ice cream for dinner! Mommy says it’s OK because she’s building a human from scratch and it’s wicked exhausting. Well-balanced meals are for people not currently making a tiny baby spleen.

But if anyone asks, we ate granola and goji berries with organic honey. Yum!

Her skin also looks like a tiger now. I told Mommy I want to have a baby and have tiger skin too. She growled at me. Daddy quickly grabbed me and we went for a long walk. Mommy is so silly.

Chapter Three

Sometimes Pregnant Mommy is not so fun. I gave her a stick I found in the park once. She cried and cried and hugged me super tight! She said “never leave me!” and then she ate my Go-Gurt.

One time Daddy accidentally ate Mommy’s donut. Mommy got really angry. She said a bunch of new and exciting words!

Mommy farts a lot. It is super smelly.

She also makes funny noises when she gets up off the couch. It makes me giggle. Mommy says that’s what happens when you grow to be as big as a planet and have your own gravitational pull.

new baby planet

Chapter Four

When it’s time for the baby to come, Daddy will take Mommy to the hospital. I’m not allowed to go until the baby is outside Mommy’s belly. Mommy said it’s because she will be using even more new and exciting words that I am not supposed to know!

new baby birth

While Mommy is busying being destroyed by my new baby sister, my grandma is coming to stay with me. My grandma is very fun! She gives me giant bowls of sugar! And non-Mommy approved toys that are loud and have no “off” button!

A few weeks later, my other grandma will come stay with us. She is also very fun! She will also spoil me in non-Mommy approved ways. Because that is her job.

Chapter Five

When our new baby gets home, Mommy and Daddy said things will be different for awhile. They will be very tired. They will be very tired because babies don’t like it when mommies and daddies sleep. They also hate clean clothes. But not as much as they hate letting parents eat a hot meal.

new baby tired

Chances are good I will spend a lot of time doing things Mommy and Daddy never let me do before, like sitting in front of the TV binge-watching “Sesame Street” and eating animal crackers from a giant tub! Fun!

Mommy says things will go back to normal soon. Although we’ll still eat ice cream for dinner occasionally.

But if anyone asks, we ate gluten-free spaghetti with non-GMO heirloom tomato pasta sauce and free-range, grass-fed beef.

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Posted in Books, Family, funny, Humor, Parenting, Pregnancy

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My Not Knocked Up Bucket List

Posted on April 10, 2016 | Leave a comment

You know that game you play where you come up with the title of your autobiography? Like, for example, a few years ago, mine would have been “Why Yes, I Will Have a Fifth Glass of Wine.” Or maybe “And That’s Why I’m Not Allowed Back Into Delaware.” Or even perhaps “The $8.23 In My Checking Account & Other Numbers That Make Me Sad.”

Ah, but how all that was a lifetime ago. Because currently, the working title of my memoir is:

“So, How’s the Pregnancy Going?”

This question is pretty much my life now. Because when you are pregnant, you as a human person no longer exist. You are simply a fetal cheeseburger delivery system wrapped up in a sweaty muumuu. All anyone cares about now is 1. How is the baby doing? (Answer: Fantastic minus the fact she’s kicking my bladder like it owes her money) and 2. When will the baby get here? (Answer: Hopefully before I get to a size that includes my own personal gravitational pull).

Not that I can blame people for only caring about the baby right now. Creating life is a fascinating process. A fascinating, farty, sausage-fingery process. Think about it. Humans go from an egg and a sperm to a mango-sized tadpole who drinks his own pee to a 7-pound ninja who uses your ribs as substitutes for board breaking. I mean, who cares that I have hopes and dreams and fears and regrets and deep thoughts about how a universal love of melted cheese unites all of humanity. None of that matters. Because you don’t care. Because in your eyes I’m just a loud, messy-haired incubator for an adorable infant.

So, to answer your question, the baby is doing great and I have finally entered my third trimester.

THE THIRD TRIMESTER, PEOPLE!

Which means I’m almost done!

Only 8,712 more days to go.

Give or take.

And now that I can see the tiny, tiny light at the end of the birthing canal, I can officially start daydreaming about what it will be like when I’m finally not pregnant anymore. Coming up with my Not Knocked Up Bucket List, if you will. Because when you are pregnant, you can’t have any fun. In fact, there are panels of doctors whose only job is to just sit around all day thinking up new ways to make sure pregnant women can’t have any fun.

And so, here are all the things I’m going to do when I’m not pregnant:

Sleep on my stomach. Oh, sweet, sweet patron saint of mattresses, I’m going to sleep on my stomach SO HARD.

Enter a hotdog eating contest. I don’t even really like hotdogs. I just want to eat 74 of them because I can’t right now.

Drink coffee until I’m physically vibrating so hard that I defy the laws of physics and can pass through walls. And then I will bathe in a bathtub filled with Red Bull.

Ride a goddamn rollercoaster while eating day-old gas station sushi. Because I can, bitches.

Drink all the alcohol. All of it. And then when I’m done, I’m gonna finish your beer.

Drink all the Diet Coke. All of it. And then when I’m done, I’m gonna add some Captain Morgan to your Diet Coke and drink that.

Finally dye my hair any color other than its current shade of “Awkward Warm Honey Orange-ish With Four Inches Of Dark Brown Roots Showing.”

Throw all those stupid, ineffective Tylenol pills into a ceremonial fire during a Black Mass and fill my medicine cabinet with Nyquil and Claritin and Ibuprofen and Aleve and Pepto and Unisom and Benadryl and all the pretty, pretty over-the-counter drugs available to modern man so we never have to actually feel symptoms of anything.

Eat cold cuts in a hot tub. Which sounds gross. And probably will be gross. But who cares? I’m free!

 

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When pregnant women attack!

Posted on March 20, 2016 | 5 comments

The other day, my husband woke up, rolled over in bed and just stared at me, his bleary eyes full of fear.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I had a dream. A long dream. That you were mad at me. Just one, long, giant dream of you being really angry at me,” he replied mechanically while shivering involuntarily.

And there it was. Out of the mouths of babes. Or shell-shocked husbands, in this case. I have managed in my pregnant state to thoroughly traumatize an adult man. So much so, in fact, that he can’t even catch a break in his dreams.

In my defense, this is at least 50 percent his fault. He made his bed and now he has to lie in it while a huge, puffy, irrational wife yells at him because Tina Fey is no longer on “SNL” and why the hell did they take Cecily Strong off Weekend Update? Huh? HUH!?!

Still, I feel deep down that I should apologize. But I can’t. I just can’t. I’m lucky if at this point I can choke out a “good morning” without literally growling afterward.

feeding rage 1

Honestly, trying to pretend to be a normal human being when really you’re drowning in lady hormones that make you want to light everyone on fire is one of the hardest, yet overlooked, accomplishments of womankind.

Have you been set on fire by a pregnant woman? No? That proves right there how much inner strength we females have. Cause somewhere down the line, I guarantee a pregnant woman really, REALLY wanted to do you significant harm. You might not even know her. She could have been standing in line behind you at the grocery store when you were taking too long to find your debit card, unlike a normal person who would have already had their card out and at the ready while the FREAKING CASHIER WAS SCANNING YOUR DUMBASS ITEMS, YOU STUPID, BLOODY MORON, I HOPE YOU DIE.

prego rage 1

It’s worse this time too, believe it or not. Because now I have a toddler and every ounce of non-crazy in my pregnant body (which ain’t much) is used up calmly trying to explain to him for the 33rd time why we don’t headbutt Mommy’s face, no matter how hilarious he thinks it is. And any leftover non-crazy is used up trying not to hurl the sofa at my dog every time he barks (which is any time anything within a three mile radius of our house slightly moves).

Which means my husband gets the full brunt of crazy thrown at him on pretty much a daily basis.

For example, here are some reasons I got mad at him today:

  1. He let me eat too much cheese
  2. Someone drank a martini on TV and I got really jealous
  3. He knew Sookie wasn’t asked to be in the “Gilmore Girls” revival and didn’t tell me because he was worried I’d get irrationally mad about it
  4. He let me eat too much fried chicken.
  5. I fell asleep and missed the end of “Supernatural.”
  6. I’ll never be able to read all the books in the world before I die.

Exacerbating all this hormonal craziness is the fact that all the fun has been taken out of modern day pregnancy. Because science hates fun. So, drinking, smoking, fancy foreign cheese? Fuggetaboutit. Opium dens? Nope. You aren’t even allowed cheap thrills like a heady dose of NyQuil (just non-coma-inducing Tylenol for you, missy) or chugging a Red Bull until you are so caffeinated that the number 11 smells like purple.

You can’t even get properly fat anymore. It used to be you were supposed to take it easy and eat for two. Now my doctor is telling me hurtful things like “eat salad” and “exercise every day” and “your weight gain is unprecedented.” Plus, all those annoying people screaming at me to love my new soft, squishy, pregnant body; the same people, mind you, who for the past 30 years were screaming at me that the ultimate definition of feminine beauty was to be shaped like a scarecrow.

Is it any wonder we go crazy?

So, no, I won’t apologize to my husband. At this point, I’m just trying to survive until my due date.

But I do want to thank him. A huge thank you, in fact. As hard as pregnancy is, at least I know my partner won’t burst into tears and throw the remote against the wall if I ask him to turn down the TV. He has dealt with everything like a gentleman and a scholar. Even when I want to eat dinner at 4:30 p.m. because food is literally the only thing I look forward to anymore or I decide we have to go through all the closets RIGHT NOW and get rid of EVERYTHING because I am nesting and NESTING HARD.

Still, through all this, even when I’m getting ready to sling the last crazy arrow of the day at him, he kisses me, gathers all the pillows in the house and makes me a pillow fort on the floor because I can no longer get comfortable lying down on our lumpy couch.

And each night I fall asleep and sleep the peaceful, dreamless, beautiful sleep of the woman who knows she is truly loved.

prego rage 2

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The real reason I’m only having two kids

Posted on February 21, 2016 | 2 comments

My baby just turned 2-years-old. My teeny, tiny, itty-bitty, little baby is now a steak-chewin’, question-askin’, opinion-havin’ little man.

Sigh. Ah, how time flies and all that.

Of course, any time you get to celebrate a child’s birthday, it’s a time of joy. Perhaps a bittersweet joy but a joy nonetheless. And it remains a joy all the way up until the moment your adorable, big-eyed offspring looks lovingly up at you and asks you to open their giant pile of small, impenetrable toy jails.

Seriously, have you ever had to liberate a child’s toy from modern day packaging? It’s like the escape scene in “Shawshank Redemption,” only on a slightly smaller scale. Giving birth was less frustrating and complex.

First there is the plastic. But not just any plastic. Oh, no. No, this plastic was whipped up in the bowels of Hell and no weapon forged by man can destroy it. That alone is bad enough. But then the toy manufacturers decided that these pieces of demonic plastic that encase the toy needed to be fused together in an alchemy concoction that is so supernaturally strong it likely lists virgin blood and unicorn tears among its unholy ingredients.

Then there are the zip ties that are usually included, because imprisoning baby dolls and shiny cars in Satanic plastic doesn’t go far enough. These zip ties usually fasten said toy to a piece of superfluous cardboard like tiny choker collars and S&M cuffs. Oh, and standard scissors can’t cut these things. They don’t even make a dent. In fact, I’ve broken no less than three sharp knives trying to free Barbie and G.I Joe from their respective miniature torture chambers. As far as I can figure, a grenade might do the trick but only like one of those really big bang-bang military grade ones.

Sometimes toy makers like to switch it up and also add random gigantic staples that can only be removed with three bottles of wine, a steady supply of Vicodin and a sturdy butter knife (or, better yet, a tiny titanium crowbar).

And let us not forget the sadistic bastards who use full-on bolts to secure the toys in their packaging. BOLTS. Those things used to fasten steel in cars and houses and skyscrapers are also apparently needed to keep Buttercup, the shiny, new My Little Pony, from shifting during transportation.

What do these people think is going to happen from the time a toy leaves the factory to the time it arrives in an eager child’s sticky little jam hands? A tsunami of volcanic lava will flood a toxic waste dump and as a result become a sentient volcano monster named Magma Mike and the only way to defeat him is to throw tightly packaged toy tractors and farm animals at him?

Or perhaps this is some sort of secret government plan to enforce population control in a way that can’t be traced back to our elected officials. Sure, you’d love to have more kids. So would I. But the thought of having to go mano a mano with even MORE toys every Christmas, let alone another whole birthday, is simply too much to bear.

Whatever the reasoning is, at least it’s a relief to know that all your hard work and not insignificant hand wounds are well worth it once you get to see the look of pure happiness on your child’s face as they play with their great new toy. Which they do for all of seven minutes before discarding it to go roll around in some bubble wrap.

And let us not forget that on the plus side, should the apocalypse happen, we can all rest easy knowing that an army of Fisher-Price Little People and Bratz dolls will survive in mint condition and hopefully keep Magma Mike satiated once we’re all dead.

 

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With liberty & naps for all

Posted on February 7, 2016 | Leave a comment

There are a lot of things wasted on the young. Youth. Beauty. A ridiculously high metabolism. Expensive toys when junk mail and an empty shampoo bottle are apparently just as exotic and entertaining.

But perhaps worst of all are naps. Naps are so completely wasted on the young. Yet we hand them out to children like beads on Mardi Gras. Yes, we, the parents, who haven’t had a chance to nap since 2009, give unlimited sleeping time to any two-bit juvenile who can fake a halfway decent yawn.

Actually, no. Forget the young. You know what it is? It’s a bigger issue. A much bigger issue. Because in our society, naps are wasted on the undeserving.

You know who needs naps? High school kids. These awkward creatures have jam-packed schedules, piles of homework and a tsunami wave of hormones assaulting them at all times. Not to mention, they have a daily routine that is the complete opposite of what their biological clock is telling them. I’m old but not so old that I don’t remember what it was like. I routinely didn’t fall asleep until 2 a.m. when I was 17. And yet, I had to be up at 6 a.m. to get ready for school (because eyes don’t aggressively slather black eyeliner on themselves). And yet these teenagers get yelled at for finally succumbing to the siren call of sleep just because it happens to be in the middle of chemistry class. Or, worse yet, woken up early on weekend mornings because it’s apparently illegal when you’re a parent to let your child “sleep all day on such a beautiful day.”

You know who else needs naps? The middle-age-ish sect that are busy taking care of both their offspring and their aging parents. Because you know who the two most ungrateful species in the world are? Aging parents and children over the age of 12.

And let’s not forget pregnant ladies. They need naps most of all. And I’m not just saying that because I happen to be knocked up right now. They really do. One, because creating life cell-by-cell is wicked stupid hard, and two, everyone will be much safer if I can JUST CLOSE MY EYES FOR 10 FREAKING MINUTES, OK!?!

But NO. No. Who do we give naps to? Babies. Babies who have their entire lives ahead of them to nap. They literally are experiencing the world for the first time and what do they do with this wonderful new discovery? Sleep through everything.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, you have old people. Old people who could die at any moment. And what do they do with the precious time they have left? They nap. And I mean, hardcore nap, like napping is an audition for death and they’re trying to get it perfect. And yeah, sure, you could argue that they’ve earned all these naps after a lifetime of working and raising their family but I can guarantee that when they really needed all these naps was when they were working and raising their family.

And then there’s these guys. Children. With the energy they give off 20 minutes after eating a candy bar, young children could fuel most European cities for a year. Yet, we INSIST they take a nap. And then they have the nerve to FIGHT it. Tooth and nail. In front of their exhausted parents who haven’t seen the inside of their own eyelids in over 19 hours and it’s only noon.

But perhaps most twisted of all, we give unlimited napping privileges to cats and dogs, the only family members who don’t contribute anything to the household (and please, no cheesy comments like “oh, but animals contribute so much love to your home”…of course pets love you but what I need right now is for my loving dog, Buffy, to get off his lazy ass and make dinner for everyone). No job. No responsibilities. Food and water just magically appear. Yeah, no, I can totally see why they need to sleep 22 hours a day.

Well, I say it’s time we finally take a stand and end this madness. We should march on Washington! No more naps for the undeserving! Naps for all or naps for none! Attica! Attica!

Or, I don’t know, something like that. I’ll put it on my to-do list. Right now I have to put my toddler down for night-night.

Sigh.

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8 Things I’ll do differently with my 2nd baby

Posted on January 25, 2016 | 2 comments

I. Accept any and all help

If you would have told me three years ago that I’d be the kind of new mom who felt she had to do everything herself, I would have laughed so hard at you I would’ve farted, laughed even harder, farted even harder and then finished chugging my comically large glass of wine. But let me tell you, the second I heard my first born’s screams, it felt like they were physically tearing into me, causing me to whisk him away from whomever was nice enough to try to give me a much-needed break. I felt like I HAD to be the one to comfort him.

But this time? Good luck getting me to even take him/her back. My immunity to cries is nearly impenetrable.

2. Breastfeed in public

I’ll be honest. I’m probably the biggest breastfeeding in public advocate you will ever meet who has never actually breastfed in public. I always wanted to. I always meant to. But my son and I never quite mastered the smooth and barely perceptible mouth to boob maneuver. It was more like an awkward five minutes of fumbling, the breastfeeding equivalent of a freshman trying to unsnap his first bra. So I always chickened out and brought a bottle with us.

But I refuse to be intimidated this time. It’s just a boob. It’s not like I’m showing off my ankles like some kind of two-bit hussy.

3. Not worry about how fast I can drop the baby weight

I’ll lose it eventually. But there’s a only a small-ish window of time after having a baby that you can get away with still wearing maternity clothes and I plan to stretch that window to the limits of human decency.

4. Remember that crying is not indicative of my skills as a parent

And by crying, I mean both by the baby and by me.

5. Prepare the coffee the night before

The only thing that takes longer than labor and delivery is the amount of time it takes to separate coffee filters at 3:30 in the morning while you’re holding a hungry and screaming newborn against your leaking boobs that have transformed into rock hard (and painful) granite overnight. Life with a newborn would improve a thousand times over if I can only remember to take 90 seconds and set up the coffeemaker before I go to bed.

6. Stop worrying if I’m posting too many photos of my baby online

I am. Of course I am. I one hundred percent am. But who cares!? I created life, jerkwads! Look at it! I SAID LOOK AT IT!

7. Stop apologizing for being moody and hormonal

Am I being irrational? *hurls Diaper Genie at your face* Maybe. But my only job right now is keeping this tiny, demanding infant alive. And I have to do it with 20,000 tons of weapons-grade hormones hurling themselves through my exhausted body. So I can’t always be polite about it. Everyone should just automatically assume I don’t really mean it when I call them a “useless idiotic assface.”

8. Share every single intimate (and disgusting) aspect of my baby’s existence a little less

As a new mom, it’s impossible not to be obsessed with your baby. But it’s important to remember that even though to you, lil’ junior’s poop color and consistency is the most fascinating story you’ve encountered since you finished reading “Infinite Jest,” everyone else doesn’t give a crap (pun COMPLETELY intended). Even your partner and the grandmothers can only take so much. Practice in front of the mirror if you must:

“How is the baby?”

“Well, he’s kind of really mangled my left nipple with his overly vigorous sucking so right now he’s just drinking from the right breast so I’m a little concerned he’s not getting enough to eat although the doctor said as long as his poop is consistent there is no reason to worry but then he got that butt rash…I mean, he’s doing fine. How are you?”

And here are a few things I’ll do exactly the same…

  1. Skip laundry, let the dishes pile up and order pizza for dinner just so I can spend one more hour lounging on the couch while my newborn sleeps on my chest. I just made a human and I’ll be damned if I don’t make time to enjoy it.
  2. Continue to dress my baby in whatever ragtag outfit is the most diaper accessible. Cute, unstained, matching clothes are for creatures that don’t vomit and poop every 26 minutes.
  3. Trust my instincts. Everyone told me this before I became a mother and I thought every single one of them was insane. I barely had enough instinct to keep myself alive. But lo and behold, when I popped that gigantic Viking baby out, those instincts kicked in and they have yet to steer me wrong (introducing him to that little red demon Elmo notwithstanding).

 

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Having witch babies & other pregnancy fears

Posted on January 18, 2016 | Leave a comment

Now that I’m the mother of an almost 2-year-old with another baby on the way, I’m an expert at pretty much everything.

Ha! Kidding. That’s all those other blogs written by smug parents of small children that I can’t stop hate-reading.

I, on the other hand, almost take a kind of perverted pride in just how little I have figured out about life, let alone about parenthood. I mean, I have no less than four light switches in my house that I have no idea what they do and currently my toddler is begging me to throw his giant Mr. Bouncety-Bounce ball directly at his face. Then he laughs hysterically, chases the ball, hands it to me and asks me to throw it directly at his face again.

We’ve been playing this for 45 minutes and I haven’t questioned for a second whether this is a good idea or not.

And it’s only going to get worse. Take this second pregnancy. You’d think by now I’d know what to expect when I’m expecting since I expected not even two years ago. But this pregnancy is different from my first in a lot of ways. For instance, with my first one I was convinced I was pregnant with a ninja-trained dragon. And this pregnancy, I’m convinced I’m pregnant with Satan. (It would definitely explain all the projectile vomiting and all the chasing my husband around the house with a baseball bat because he forgot to get the big wheel of cheese from the super fancy grocery store).

Even my food cravings are different this time. All I wanted with my son, Riker, was cheeseburgers. All day, every day. And with this new baby, all I want are bacon cheeseburgers.

But perhaps the most striking difference is what my biggest fears are this time versus last time. Because now I no longer have the gift of ignorance. I now know what I truly need to be afraid of.

For example, the first time around, I can’t tell you how much sleep I lost over worrying what my son’s nose would look like, all because in his ultrasound it looked like he had the exaggerated nose of a cartoon witch. I had repeated nightmares the doctor would hand me a swaddled bundle and when I moved the blanket off his face, there was Miracle Max’s wife from “The Princess Bride” staring up at me, screaming “Humperdinck!”.

But now I know that having an ugly witch baby is nothing compared to dealing with the witching hour. And let’s be honest, it’s witching HOURS. Hours and hours where nothing else exists except the sun sinking into the horizon, burying your hope with it, and the banshee screaming ceaselessly into your ear.

I also wasted a lot of time the first time worrying about how fragile the baby would be and how likely it was that my giant troll hands would hurt it. And now I know that not only are babies tougher than they look, but they hold all the power. In fact, they’re tiny little dictators and I just pray that this one will be a benevolent ruler, unlike his/her brother who was a ruthless albeit charming despot.

And unlike last time, I’m not wasting any energy being afraid of labor or delivery or even another C-section. Because now I know that no matter how my body is violently ripped open to provide an exit for little junior, the pain pales in comparison to the utter mind-blowing torture that is the first six weeks of breastfeeding. Now, I know I’ve complained about breastfeeding before (here, for example, and here and here). But this time around is so much worse. Because now I know what’s coming. I survived the first time only because I was naïve enough to think “it has to get better” every day. But it doesn’t get better. It doesn’t get better until two weeks past forever. And even then you’re too sleep deprived to notice.

To put it in Hollywood movie terms, it’s like escaping from an angry psychopath’s dungeon and realizing with increasing horror that in less than six months you have to go marching right back in there VOLUNTARILY and undergo the torture all over again. Only this time you can’t scream at the top of your lungs the whole time because your husband says it, quote, “stresses him out.”

Luckily, however, I also know that it will all be worth it. Because no matter how bad things get, no matter how much pain or crying or forgotten wheels of cheese there are, one glance at your sleeping baby’s face makes you forget everything else.

That is, until it’s time to breastfeed again.

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The beauty of pregnancy *fart* *burp* *sob*

Posted on January 4, 2016 | 1 comment

I made myself a promise, you guys. A promise back months ago when I was lying sleepily in my husband’s arms discussing expanding our little family. A promise that the next time I got pregnant I wouldn’t complain. Not even a little bit. Because creating life is a beautiful thing. And I should be so lucky to get to experience it all again.

Aaaaaaand then I got pregnant again.

Needless to say, now I consider it a good day if I resist the impulse to set everyone and everything on fire.

joy

And we’re only on week 12.

But no. No, there I go being all negative again. I mean, I’m building a life, cell by cell! If you think about it, the way pregnancy changes your entire body, mind and soul really is an amazing expression of love. Some might say the ultimate expression of love.

I mean, pffft. Who can complain in the face of something that powerful?

It’s just these constant headaches, you know? And the puking. Oi, so much puking. Not just nausea but full-on “The Exorcist” re-enactments (complete with the colorful language). I never had that with my first born. They say that every pregnancy is different. But my suspicion is that they say this because they’re too polite to say the truth (that truth, of course, being that every pregnancy sucks, but each one sucks in its own unique way).

And this one sucks in that “I wake up every morning feeling like I have the flu AND a hangover” way.

But no, no. The whole process really is miraculous. I need to remember that. A mere nine months of some discomfort in exchange for a perfect tiny creature with your eyes and his mouth and tootsies so cute you just have to stuff ‘em in your mouth or else die? Sounds like some pretty good math to me.

Then again, I always did get C’s in algebra. I mean, do you know what it’s like to have to pretend to be human when in actuality all you are at this point is a bloated walking ball of raging hormones and ginger ale? What it’s like to have to interact with other humans when every time you sit down it’s like you got hit by a tranquilizer dart? Like, people expect me to care about ridiculous things like deadlines and bills and basic hygiene when it’s taking all my self-control not to curl up and fall asleep at their feet like some sad, hairless, always slightly sweaty dog.

Not to mention, when you say hello to me now, I can instantly tell you everything you ate and drank that day. It’s the worst superpower ever.

But there I go again. Complaining. I mean, I got my wish. I’m pregnant! I wanted this with all my heart! Or at the very least, three-quarters of my heart! (The other quarter is still mourning the loss of my post-night-night time cocktail).

And just think of all the wonderful upsides to pregnancy. The gigantic boobs that spring up out of nowhere seemingly overnight. Eating steak for breakfast. The knowledge that you have a tiny tadpole/gummy bear hybrid growing inside you. The…um…well, I know I already mentioned the boobs, but seriously, they just become a work of art.

In fact, it almost makes up for all the bosom area soreness and tenderness you also experience. And the industrial strength farting. And the craving for half a gallon of milk even though your doctor told you to slow down with the first trimester weight gain because in all her years as an OB-GYN, your weight gain is, quote, “unprecedented.”

And then there’s the constipation.

And the sausage fingers.

And the having to pee every 11 minutes.

And the uncontrollable sobbing because there’s only one donut left in the box and it looks so lonely and you just wish it had a friend and so you know you have to eat it so it’s no longer alone but you’re already a fatty fat mcfatty face.

So, obviously, as you can tell, this pregnancy is something I plan to treasure. Especially since this one is likely to be my last due to me and the mister being firmly entrenched in the “two and through” baby making camp.

And I look forward to sharing this amazing journey with all of you. Especially those of you who can help chip in for my bail when I finally do lose it and light someone on fire.

 

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If my life were a movie, it would be called…

Posted on December 9, 2015 | 4 comments

“Parenthood 2: The NeverEnding Awakening”

Sorry I haven’t been writing a lot lately, gang. I’ve been too busy working on my family’s new Christmas portrait:

xmaspix

Oh, and the puking. Been SUPER busy with the puking.

Yes, dear friends, we are having another demon spawn. Because when your life is picture perfect and everyone is finally sleeping through the night and peace and harmony has descended upon your house, it only makes sense to destroy all that with eight pounds of squishy, angry human dynamite.

Needless to say, we are thrilled. Well, my husband is thrilled. Our dog is horrified. Our toddler is oblivious (although he does he keep pointing to my stomach and asking “poop?” so take that however you need to). And I’ll be thrilled as soon as I don’t need a ginger ale IV to function.

And no worries. My writing will be back on schedule here shortly. The first trimester can’t last forever, can it? Ha! Ha! Right!? RIGHT!?!?

*hysterical laughter mixed with sobbing*

Seriously though, it can’t, right?

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If Schrodinger’s cat was trying to get pregnant

Posted on November 8, 2015 | 3 comments

You guys remember learning about Schrodinger’s cat?

Yeah, me either. I mean, I vaguely recall something about a dead cat in a box but as for the rest…well, college is a hell of a time, kids.

Luckily, college is pointless now that we have Google and as it turns out, a quick search unearthed that Schrodinger’s cat is indeed a dead cat in box that is also simultaneously alive. Due to something, something, blah, blah, blah, a bunch of smart science junk. But the point is, the cat is both dead and alive until someone opens the box to find out.

cat1

I bring this up because it is the perfect metaphor for when you are trying to get pregnant. See, now that our toddler son has gained some independence and is sleeping like a dead cat in a box through the night, my husband and I decided we want to ruin our peaceful lives by starting over with a new needy nipple-shredding newborn. And so every month, we shed our Snuggies and have really giggly sitcom sex. And then for a few weeks every month, I’m both possibly pregnant and possibly not pregnant, with no way of knowing until someone (preferably a doctor but I’m not picky) checks inside the box.

(Get it? Cause “box” is slang for “vagina”? How have I not won a Pulitzer yet?).

Yes, for those few weeks, all possibilities are possible. And it’s the worst. As much as I want another baby, I can officially say that this is no way to live your life. It’s like being permanently in limbo and all my time is now spent debating and justifying every choice I make based on highly limited knowledge.

“Hmm…maybe I shouldn’t drink two pots of coffee this morning. In case I’m pregnant. Then again, I might not be pregnant and drinking all this coffee increases the chances I won’t murder someone today.”

“A glass of wine probably won’t hurt even if I am pregnant. Right?”

“I may not be pregnant yet so I can’t justify eating this ENTIRE bag of Doritos. Can I?”

“Two glasses of wine probably won’t hurt. I mean, these are small wine glasses. Smaller than normal. So technically, it’d be just like having one glass of wine.”

“Protein is good for growing fetuses so I should definitely order two cheeseburgers. Just in case.”

“If I mix this third glass of wine with coffee, they cancel each other out, right?”

It’s like you know the jailer is probably coming soon but maybe he got lost on the way and won’t arrive until next month. Then again, she could already have snuck past you and is living in your uterus. So LIVE IT UP before your freedom is taken away! But not really cause you may already be imprisoned!

It’s exhausting. Especially when you already have a kid and know exactly what to expect when you’re expecting. I fooled myself the first time with dumb, naïve platitudes like “I can survive anything for nine months!” and “It’ll all be worth it when they’re born!”

But the thing is…

  1. You’re not pregnant for nine months. You’re pregnant two weeks past FOREVER.
  2. It’s worth it six months after they’re born. The first six months you are just a feral animal surviving on stale Triscuits and instinct.

As unromantic as it sounds, I also want to be pregnant and out of limbo just to get the whole thing over with. I know I only want two kids, so once I safely pop out another gigantic Viking baby, I can shut down the whole damn factory and forget I even have inside lady parts. (That is, of course, until menopause kicks in and takes an entire decade to slowly strangle everything down there to death).

Of course, I shouldn’t complain too much. I mean, I’m just trying to get pregnant. It could be much worse.

I could be a zombie cat stuck living in a box.

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