Fact: It is possible to overdose on stool softeners. The results are not favorable.
Monthly Archives: June 2011
A Father.
I kept wanting to write something about my father on Father’s Day but I was too busy bitching because our a/c was out.
Here is my Daddy. He doesn’t have long hair like this anymore, although he rocked it for several decades. People say I look like my mother, but in this picture, I think I look just like him.
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I read recently (okay, fine, it was in Tina Fey’s book which I am completely obsessed with) that one of the main ingredients in raising a not-slutty, responsible, drug-free daughter is a strong father figure.
I have that. My father marches to the beat of his own drum, which taught me it’s okay to be an individual. He also commanded respect, which made me afraid to disappoint him. Because my Daddy treats my mother the way that he does, I demand the same treatment from my husband.
It’s hard to be a good parent. Mine did just fine.
31 Weeks.
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| 31 weeks and some change. ONE likes to photo bomb me. |
Warning: This Is Inappropriate.
Something about pregnancy makes me simultaneously inappropriate and obsessive-compulsive. For example, a thought will pop into my head and I’ll obsess over it and finally share it with the wrong person at the wrong time. This is where the inappropriate part comes in. Like right now. I’m about to overshare with you. Whoever you are.
Husband received the following text from me yesterday while he was with a customer:
What if having this baby stretches my vagina out so much that it’s rendered useless???
His response:
It won’t.
I was not satisfied with this response. How does he KNOW? There is no way to know. It’s anybody’s guess what may or may not happen to me and my parts. I wanted to discuss it. I needed to come up with a contingency plan, just in case. Because I am obsessively, compulsively worried about it, RIGHT NOW.
He later explained to me that he was with a customer and therefore unable to get involved in a hypothetical discussion about how large my vagina may or may not be after birthing our second child.
Today’s latest text to Husband:
Are you going to the store? DO NOT forget to get stool softeners.
Based on his failure to respond, I have to assume he was with a customer when he got that one too.
Note To Self.
Never, ever say anything about your vagina in front of an almost-three-year-old.
This morning I had a flip-out. It seems like everything at this stage (31 weeks pregnant) just sucks. It’s hot, I’m tired/uncomfortable/sleep-deprived/pissed off and everything (EVERYTHING) is an ordeal.
Today’s ordeal revolves around my vagina. Basically I put off “trimming the bushes” as long as I could stand it, but finally I had to do SOMETHING. So I did. It’s not like I didn’t think I needed help. I did. And I’ve asked Husband to help me, but he is afraid to. HE’S afraid. What about ME? I’m waving a razor around blindly down there. But I digress.
My efforts left me feeling like things were somewhat back in order, but I am pretty sure I chewed the skin off in certain places. In fact, I know I did. As I waddled into the living room this morning, I announced that my vagina hurts.
Husband looked at me, looked at ONE, and back at me with a look that let me know that I had made a grave mistake.
We waited.
ONE: “What, Mommy?”
Me: “Nothing.”
ONE: “What you say?”
Me: “Nothing. Put your shoes on.”
ONE: “YOUR GINA HURTS? YOUR GINA HURTS, MOMMY???”
At this point Husband and I started laughing uncontrollably. There was no holding it in. I laughed so hard I cried. And once ONE realized whatever he was saying was freaking hilarious, he wouldn’t stop saying it. Gina, gina, gina.
It’s my own fault. But it’s FUNNY. Yes, son. My vagina is killing me. Now run along and play.
Greener Grass, My Ass.
I have a confession to make.
Sometimes, I think that my life would drastically improve if my legs didn’t rub together so much when I walk. Or if I had a housekeeper. And a perpetual tan.
Read more here!
RHONJ.
I’ve been recording the new season of Real Housewives of New Jersey for the past month or so, but never got around to watching any of the episodes until last night.
OMG. It. Was. Awesome. I watched the season premiere and was instantly sucked in. I could have easily sat there for several more hours watching the rest of them, but I want to ration them out. Like expensive chocolate candies. Actually, expensive chocolate candy is possibly the only thing that could improve my experience of watching this show.
I shall look into that.
I contest that the best cure for any ailment you may have (depression, boredom, PMS, pregnancy, feeling like a failure, thinking you might be crazy, etc.) is this show. Or really ANY of the Real Housewives shows … although New Jersey boasts a particular form of cray-cray that makes me feel extremely normal.
You don’t have to tell anyone that you’re watching it. You can keep it on the down low. It’s much cheaper than therapy.
Swimwear.
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| My maternity suit reminds me of a tablecloth. |
Today it occurred to me that maybe the best time to wear swimwear is when one is pregnant.
You’re already fat. There is no need for a miracle suit to camouflage problem areas, because they are all a problem. It’s just straight up, I’m fat. And you can’t make fun of me because I’m pregnant.
I mean, you CAN … but that would make you a bad person.
I enjoy simplicity.
Sort of Sad.
Apparently I’m going through some sort of process where I’m emotional about the fact that we are about to become a family of four. It won’t be just me and Husband and ONE anymore.
I’m nervous … but I am sure that it’s normal to go through this and I’m sure that we will all be just as happy, hopefully even happier. People say that your heart just grows. And I remember being pregnant with ONE and grieving the fact that it wasn’t going to just be me and Husband anymore. Boy, did that freak me out. And of course now I can’t imagine my life without ONE. He is a part of me as much as I am a part of myself.
But still, this interesting dynamic (see below) will become a distant memory and that makes me sort of sad. Also, instead of just being outnumbered with penises I’m going to be REALLY RIDICULOUSLY OUTNUMBERED WITH PENISES.
Actually, that is a pretty fun thing to say.
Adult Conversations
We have a new mattress set. I told Husband, one day — a day far away from now — we will actually have sex on it.
I never thought the day would come when I would be more than happy to strike sex off my radar. But here it is. I DON’T WANT TO DO IT.
I feel like my body is turning against me.
For example, I have reason to believe that my boobs are trying to kill me in my sleep. When I lie down, they creep up around my neck. And sometimes, my chin. I feel like I can’t breathe. I think they are also causing me to snore.
I told my friend about this.
Anna: Is your snoring bothering Husband?
Me: I HOPE SO.
Anna: If it is … it would be poetic justice.
In our situation, bigger boobs do not a happier Husband make. This concludes my oversharing for today.
Modern Mommy Madness 