Tag Archives: mommy bloggers

Having witch babies & other pregnancy fears

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.

Looking for like in all the wrong places

The one thing about moving to the city and being just another face of the faceless masses?

It can be hard to make new friends.

In the year or so that I’ve been in Boston, I’ve managed to snag a small group of good friends that I occassionally get to see when our (OK, their) schedules allow it (I’m a freelancer…my schedule is as wide open as Paris Hilton’s legs). However, these friends are all somehow or other related to my husband’s job, meaning the number of friends I’ve made on my own is…let’s see…carry the one…divide by pi…yup…zero.

Because you know what makes it really hard to make new friends? When you work from home, are no longer in your 20’s and happen to be married. Because you know what’s really creepy? Having a married 30-year-old freelance writer come up to you at a bar and ask if you want to be besties.

Of course, it doesn’t help that Boston isn’t necessarily known for being a city full of friendly, happy, shining faces (voted Meanest City in America, ya’ll!!!! Woot!). And it also doesn’t help that I’m not necessarily what you’d call a “joiner.” Unless your book club, sewing circle, writer’s collective, flash mob, steampunk convention or volunteer organization is meeting at the bar, I’m likely to just stay at home (and drink).

And it seems I’m not the only one struggling with this. A quick Google search (NOTE: make sure to type in ‘how to make friends as an adult’ NOT ‘how to make adult friends’ unless you want to be taken to a WHOLE different section of the Internet), brought up 30,900,000 results, at least 12 of which weren’t spam or thinly veiled porn.

Granted, the vast majority of articles on this subject belong to Mommy Bloggers, who are lamenting the fact they don’t know how to make friends anymore since their life has been reduced to wiping up the various fluids and semi-solids that spew forth from their offspring. Which didn’t help me much considering 1. I don’t have kids and 2. I think having kids would be a super easy way to make friends. You literally have an adorable 13-pound excuse to talk to someone else with an adorable 13-pound poop machine.

Because you know what else is really creepy? Having the childless 30-year-old woman come up to you at the playground and start trying to bond with you over how taking care of her neurotic dog is just like what she imagines taking care of a baby is like.

(Although in Buffy’s defense, he is wicked smart for a dog. Yes him is. Him such a smart, wittle puppeh).

The rest of the results were pretty much lame tips on how to make non-sexual adult friends, like join a gym, start a hobby, go to church and hang out at Starbucks, all of which are qualities I am not looking for in a friend.

So what’s a girl to do?

Well, although it hasn’t worked so far, I think I’m going to continue with my Lazy Friend-Making Plan (mainly because it doesn’t involve putting on real pants), which is two-fold:

1. Continue to stalk my virtual Boston-based Facebook and Twitter friends like @BarHavoc until they take pity on me and invite me somewhere.

2. Finally work up the courage to ask my hairstylist, Vildan, out on a friend date, since I’m pretty sure we’re soul mates. Although there’s a good chance that could blow up in my face due to the Hairstylist Theory.

(Quick summary of my Hairstylist Theory: They are trained like courtesans, skilled in the art of flattery and anticipating your every need, which is why we all want our hairstylist to become our best friend. Alas, for them, it’s just strictly business. They tell all their clients they have amazing cheekbones.)

And in the meantime, I’m going to take my dog to the park so he can terrorize little children as I chat up their moms.

“Isn’t he just the cutest! What’s that? Oh, no. They’ll be fine. He’s neutered. And he only humps the kids he really likes.”