Thursday, December 31, 2009
Monday, December 28, 2009
On a seemingly unrelated note, I was doing a lot of puking in the weeks after Valentine's Day.
I broke out the Mary Kay stuff the other day. It's still wonderful. But the scent of it makes me feel instantly nauseated. It seems the size of my hips is not the only present left from pregnancy.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
For as long as he can remember, Paddy's family has purchased their Christmas trees from the same people. We call them the Christmas Tree People, which I think is fitting if not overly creative, and we take them hot chocolate every time we go. The first year we were married, we took our tiny tree back to our tiny apartment strapped to our Honda Civic. The tree trunk was too skinny to stand upright in the stand, so Schmoopsie propped it up with cardboard and duct tape. We called it the Charlie Brown tree, and it's my favorite tree ever.
There are a million ways to decorate a Christmas tree, of course. We are not themey-type tree people, not that there's anything wrong with that. I've seen some lovely trees with color-coded lights and ornaments.
(Ok, I have to admit something here. Go ahead and call me a Scrooge, but can I just get it off my chest that I hate the Festival of Trees? It's a great cause and all and I've been paid by Primary Children's Hospital so maybe I have Festival money in my bank account right now--though it's unlikely given the amount of end of the year bills we've just paid, not that that's the point-- but I just don't like it. I think it has to do with a trip to the Festival in the 3rd grade that sort of scarred me. So bah hum bug.)
Anyway, it's just that we're not theme people. We have patriotic glass balls from Grandma Nancy and an ornament for every year of my life from my Bandie. We have ornaments from every year of our married life, too. Our honeymoon to Park City, Utah, for example.
By the next year, the furriest member of the family had joined us.
Last year, we bought a house.
And this year, of course, the Bug joined us. (She's not as hairy as Lupe.) (Also, she did not come by stork, but we've been over that.)
So this one Christmas a couple of years back my mom's house was decorated just the way it always is. The hideous caroler ornament with the gaping mouth was hung on the tree with pride. (It's the only material thing my siblings and I have agreed to fight over once my parents die.) The hand painted nativity scene was set up on the mantel. (Have I ever told you about how there is an unidentified figurine in her nativity? It's a black man baring one breast draped in striped clothing. We call him Balthezar. I don't know why. Every year I let him watch while I set up the scene and then put him back in the box. Because bare chests are not allowed at the holy birth.) (Have I also ever told you that I over use parentheses?) The whole house was sparkly. Halls decked, you might say.
Until the 26th of December. You know, the DAY AFTER CHRISTMAS? Like when you wake up the next day? THAT DAY. I came home from work (don't ever work for Toys R Us over Christmas break) on the 26th of December, a.k.a the day after Christmas, and there is my mother working furiously with all the ornaments put away and half the pre-lit artificial tree in a heap on the floor.
There was simply no explaining it. She still can't really give a good explanation for what she was thinking, beyond that maybe her happy pills weren't quite up to snuff. We now refer to it as the year my mom hated Christmas.
And the reason I am thinking of all of this is because the neighbors across the street from my parents have decorated their home for Christmas. They might be theme people, I don't know. If they are, the name of their theme is Giant Inflatable Things Staked Into The Frozen Ground. With a touch of High Pitched Carols Blasting From Their Crappy Yard Decorations 24 Hours A Day thrown in for fun.
And I'm telling you what, it makes me hope they take it down on the 26th of December. Otherwise, between that terrible music and the Festival of trees and FM 100 playing that %$#^! Christmas Shoes song, a tiny part of me might start hating Christmas, too.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
I'm sure some of you are interested in imagining what a tiny version of Paddy would look like with a bow and a diaper. I am happy to oblige.
For example, engrossed in SportsCenter, Baby Girl Husband would look like this:
The resemblence is particularly startling when she is unhappy.
Grouchy Baby Girl Husband looks like this:
Feeling a bit shy, Timid Baby Girl Husband is a doll:
And, deciding this diaper business isn't all that bad,
Cheerful Baby Girl Husband:
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Speaking of princesses, Daddy gave you a blessing in church the other day and you should SEE the dress you got to wear. Grandma D bought it for Mama to wear 26 years ago, and you looked stunning in it. Look, I'll prove it to you:
Don't tell your Nana, but I let you go to church barefoot because you don't fit into shoes yet. Plus, cutest feet ever.
You are beautiful and I love you. My heart nearly explodes when I see you smile, which you're getting better at every day. Daddy and I cannot believe how blessed we are to have you. There are no words.
Here's the deal, though, darling. Someday I hope you will be a mom, too, and I want to be honest with you. Being your mother is wonderful, and it's hard.
For example, having you sort of hurt. The day after you were born, I made Daddy accompany me to a breastfeeding class that ended up starting 45 minutes late, and they made me sit on a metal folding chair. For an hour and a half. Without you. And here's this nurse groping her own breast and going on and on talking in a way that would've been fabulous if we were three years old. (We're not.) And then, when I was nearly in tears because it hurt (remember? Only 27 hours since I pushed you out) that nurse looks at me and she says in her sickeningly sweet little voice, "oh honey, does your bottom hurt?" with a little smile. And Bug, I'm telling you right now, if I hadn't had an exam glove filled with entirely melted ice sloshing aroung in my mesh underwear, I would've killed her right on the spot.
See what I mean? Hard.
Also, babies poop a lot. There's a lot of diaper changing going on around here, and let me let you in on a little secret. You are a pro at waiting until the exact instant I am switching from dirty diaper to clean and WHAM! You pee. And It. Goes. Everywhere. This necessitates a bath and a change of clothes. You're not big on having your clothes changed. (Consider refraining from peeing all over them, maybe?) A little funny when you're reading about it, I guess, but in real life? Hard.
And nursing? I'm happy to do it for you because it's healthy and all. And really, we're getting pretty good at it now. But you're six weeks old, and honey, that means Mama's nipples have been sore for a long time. Just saying.
(Side note: the word nipples has now appeared in two of the last 3 blog posts. I'm not sure how I feel about that, and I'm sorry.)
You have a gassy tummy in the evenings, and it gives you a tummy ache until you fart about a million times. It breaks my heart to hear you cry when your belly hurts. Your daddy is so patient, and he rocks you for hours without ever getting mad. It's only fair, really, since I think you get it from him, but still. It's hard, Bug. I haven't eaten Mexican food or enjoyed a Dr. Pepper since you were born, all for the sake of your little tummy. That's hard, too.
Please do not misunderstand me. There is nothing in the world that compares to having you. I am exactly where I want to be. I just wanted you to know that someday when you are a new mom and you are tired and you haven't showered in a couple of days and brushing your teeth is an accomplishment and your laundry is full of poop and you are frustrated, you are not alone. Every mom and dad feel this way sometimes, including yours. Because it's hard.
And somehow I think I love you more not in spite of it, but because of it. I put you into your bed at night and pull the door shut and climb into bed with Daddy, and I'm so tired. I hurt and I think I can't possibly wake up to feed you one more time. Daddy holds me in his arms while I fall asleep and then, hours later when you cry out, I am somehow ready and happy to do it again. It's not because I'm strong or brave. It's because in the dark your eyes are black pools against your pale skin and your tiny hands are waiting for me and I can barely imagine that Heavenly Father loves me enough to let me feel this way.
I love you, Bug. I love you to the moon and back again.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Sadly, this does not completely stop me from shopping there from time to time. When a girl finds herself in want of milk, bread, table cloths, and Christmas lights at 9:00 at night, she is left without many options.
And so it was that Darling Face and I found ourselves at the local WalMart last night hunting the store for nursing pads.
Allow me to first announce that two departments I considered to be the most likely suspects, Infant/Baby and Pharmacy/Feminine Hygeine, are exceedingly far apart in a large store. Schmoopsie and I had combed both departments more than once before I finally broke down and approached a strawberry blonde employee who was straightening the shampoo.
Me: "Excuse me, could you tell me where to find nursing pads, please?"
I received in response that blank stare only acheived by those for whom English is not a primary language.
Employee: "Eh... for, um, ah-dults?"
Me: (thinking of all the lactating juveniles I know) "Yeah."
E: (confidently) "Obah deah." (Points to wall of Depends.)
Me: "Uh, no. Not that. Nursing pads. You know, like for breastfeeding mothers."
E: (stares) "Perhaps dah pharmacy?"
Sighing, Pookie Bear and I turned to search the shelves by ourselves. Several seconds later, however, our helpful friend joyfully bounded around the corner and shouted to get my attention.
E: "Oh, like dis?" And that is when, with great animation, she began circling her own nipples with her index fingers.
Me: "Uh... yeah."
And, still wildly gesturing at her own breasts, she excitedly explained that we could find them "by the di-pahs." I thanked her and started back across the store toward the Infant section. She, still eager to be helpful, strode purposefully parallel to our path, shouting "di-pahs" each time she caught a glimpse of us between the aisles.
In her defense, the pads were supposed to be right by the diapers. As it turns out, the box I was looking for was simply out of stock. We did locate a box of more expensive name-brand nursing pads. They are individually wrapped, which I consider a little wasteful.
Also, by individually wrapped, I mean INDIVIDUALLY. You know, for all those one-breasted nursing mothers.
Who may or may not be ah-dults.
Trust me, it's tough.
P.S.- It was a tough call, but we will not be naming her The Bug. Or Floyd.