Wednesday, November 30, 2011

My tasty holiday treat

I know I didn't do the traditional I'm Thankful For post this year. Just know that I am standing in a blizzard of the most amazing blessings, with bits of undeserved happiness and joy swirling all around me until I can't see myself for the whiteout. I am happy and healthy and loved and safe and overwhelmed with gratitude.

Life is good.

I have my Schmoopsie, my Bug Princess dancing in her jammies, my Sherman kicking my kidney and bladder and whatever else he can target in his little space, my silly, lazy dog who gets fatter every single day, and a Cocomotion supplied with Steven's Peppermint Hot Chocolate.

Life is SO good.
Bet you wish you had enjoyed this slice of pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving the way I did.

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

Thank heavens I made it with low-fat milk.

Does being pregnant justify the amount of chocolate pudding I want to eat today?

Monday, November 14, 2011

My fragile sense of vanity

I am six months pregnant. I have precious little personal vanity left to cling to at this point. I can wear only tops designed to expand to accommodate a belly the size of a Michelin all-weather tire, and my skin looks like the average junior high student before they discover the wonders of facial cleanser. I am far from the most stylish dresser around even on my best day, so while experiencing all the quirks of growing a human--including the pleasure of regularly weighing myself in front of a stranger--I claim the right to fiercely take advantage of any shred of wardrobe dignity available to me.

I had a doctor's appointment today to check Sherm's progress. I finally broke down and admitted to my doctor that, unlike when I was pregnant with Floyd, I have been experiencing a reasonably significant amount of lower abdominal pain with this pregnancy.

(This happened right after I finally broke down and admitted to myself that apparently I have issues with appearing to be anthing less than a pregnancy rockstar. Don't mind me. I'm fine! Just GROWING A BABY over here with absolutely no discomfort or unusual complaints. Carry on.)(In my defense, in my line of work I come across a lot of award winning whiners, so maybe I'm a little sensitive about becoming one.)

My doctor, who is fantastic and did not appear to immediately shun me for being less of a rockstar, suggested that perhaps a maternity support belt worn under my tummy to help heft the weight of this growing boy would help.

Long story short: a quick google search of 'maternity girdle' revealed some truly frightening options.

And that's why despite the pelvic and hip pain that has been plaguing me for the last several weeks (particularly when I have the pleasure of working all the way through the middle of the night) I have decided to eschew any product with a design structure that includes any of the following:
  • An attached panty
  • An attached bra
  • Over the shoulder straps
  • Between the leg groin/crotch support (Unfortunately for someone, this exists. I am ever so grateful that I have no idea what type of ailment might necessitate this as a solution.)
Let's pray that the simple, small band I managed to find at an extremely reasonable price is helpful. Otherwise, I might just be suffering in silence. It's like Wesley said to Princess Buttercup:

Life is pain, Highness. Anyone who tells you otherwise is selling something.

Like maybe a maternity groin supporter.

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

Tomorrow I turn twenty-eight.

Turning twenty-eight feels a lot like growing a baby.
I know, I know, it seems like a really obvious analogy given my current physical state, but the more I think about it, the more apt the comparison feels. Let me explain.

It doesn't seem as strange to turn twenty-eight as I thought it might. I think at least part of the reason is because my twenty-seventh birthday feels so long ago.

There are no tears the day before my twenty-eighth birthday. Happiness and contentment fill my heart the way this growing boy fills my belly--heavy and swollen and slow. Our circumstances on the eve of my twenty-eight are not perfect.  Maybe it's obvious, but the older I get, the more I think that no one is exactly where they'd like to be and maybe that's the point. Maybe that's the whole point.

I spent a lot of my rough twenty-six searching for the whys and how comes and hurry-up-and-let-me-learn-this-lesson-so-it-can-be-OVER-alreadys and, oh yeah, crying. Don't get me wrong, the search was good. I am stronger because of twenty-six. Twenty-six gave my personal belief system a lining of steel to protect the soft, warm feelings I'd been nurturing over the first quarter century of my faith building. Twenty-six was a good start. I'd do twenty-six over again.

Here is what the twenty-seven year old me thinks, though, at least on the eve of twenty-eight. (I reserve the right to re-evaluate this position whenever I want, of course. I hardly think I have it all figured out before I even hit three decades old.) I think that maybe the whys don't matter all that much. The point is in the process, tthe walking, the hurting, the growing, (even the crying, which makes me feel only slightly less silly for all the carrying on) and the end result. Everyone is going to have some sort of rock in their hiking boot and it doesn't much matter the size or shape of it or how different their trail is from mine, the point is that everyone makes it to the top.

This time around, this year, the challenges and frustrations feel necessary, even purposeful. There are bumps in our family's road, but the road is headed somewhere, and that feels great.

This baby is lower and heavier than I remember feeling with Floyd. By the end of the day, my pelvis and hips are sore and stiff from the effort of hefting the weight of my growing body. Twenty-eight feels like these sore hips--a bit awkward and cumbersome, but worth the effort for the end result. There is heartburn, but not the sort of agonizing fire as last year. This year, I can feel the flickerings of the child in my belly and it helps me push through a bit of burning in my chest. (Plus, let's be honest. Prilosec = fantastic.)

Baby growing is a series of contradictions. It is nausaea and it is also hunger, for one thing. It takes for-ev-er; I cannot believe how fast it has gone. It is painful and joyful. It is hard and worth it and happiness and tears and worry and faith all rolled into one giant growing belly.

And that's a little like turning twenty-eight tomorrow.
I don't have big plans for my first day of twenty-eight. I don't have to work this year, and the Schmoopsie and I have a date night planned for the next evening. I think I'll spend the morning watching a pair of two-year-olds toddle around my living room, and then maybe I'll take a nap in the afternoon.

There is one thing I know for sure: on my first day of twenty-eight, I'll be wearing my pearls.

Friday, November 4, 2011

I'd say 95% of our Time Outs are screaming infractions.

The ruling on the field was End of Bubble Time.
After the play, unnecessary screaming-- on the two-year-old.
Defense will be charged one Time Out.
Penalty will be enforced on the end of the play.
Please reset the game clock to Nap Time. (Please.)

4th Down.

Thursday, November 3, 2011

Good thing we got that one taken care of.

It all happened while I was changing Bug's diaper. The process of filling said diaper with its stinky contents had already delayed nap time significantly, and Bug was lying on the floor of her bedroom, patiently playing with a finger puppet while I took care of the business end of things.

I chatted away softly to her, telling her all about our new Sherman-baby and running name ideas by her to see if she showed any particular interest. To be honest, she was looking a little bored with the whole concept until a brilliant idea emerged from her little mind. I could almost see that cartoon lightbulb above her head flashing on as her little eyes lit up. Excitedly, she shouted out her name preference for her littleyounger brother, her tiny eyebrows lifted in anticipation of my response.

It still has to go before the board for final approval, of course, but if Bug's suggestion wins out, Sherman's official name will be SantaSanta Hoho.