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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.
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.
I trust her IMPLICITLY with my child, but it still made me nervous. Why? Because I’m pregnant and that seems to bring out my most impressive obsessive-compulsive behavior. I often wake up at night with thoughts like, “what if I left my bra on the floor and ONE finds it and somehow strangles himself with it?!“
When these thoughts strike, I’ll get up, find the bra hanging up somewhere, assure myself there is no way he can reach it, and if he could, there’s no way he could harm himself with it anyway. By the time I work it out in my head, say a prayer just in case, pee, pee again, and arrange my pillows, it’s 30 minutes later.
No wonder I’m always tired.
That being said, you can probably imagine the thoughts that kept me awake at night all last week, as I thought about ONE’s visit to the pool. I worried if the floaties I bought could develop a tiny hole in them or if it was possible for them to pop or lose air suddenly. I bought a pair that said they could keep up to 112 pounds afloat.
ONE weighs 35 pounds.
But STILL.
So I did what made sense. I bought a Spiderman life jacket. Just in case.
Yep, if there was an award to be had for Least Likely To Sink, I’m sure he would have won it. That’s my boy.
TWO is still nameless.
Selecting the right name is a huge responsibility. We don’t take it lightly. There are just so many choices. It’s overwhelming.
I’m not a fan of having hundreds of options. Give me two or three and I can make a quick decision. But if you put me in a situation with endless options, I get bogged down. And Husband completely SHUTS down.
We’re getting closer. I can feel it.
Sigh.
I’m in my third trimester. Finally. And I am grumpy acting like a complete bitch.
For awhile I chalked it up to stress, lack of rest, or the exhaustion of going through this difficult phase with ONE. But actually, I think it’s just that I’m uncomfortable all the time. That can really make a person feel pissed off.
And it’s hot. And it’s hard to bend over. And my wedding ring is coming off today because it’s squeezing my fat finger.
Thankfully, Husband has been through this before and this time he’s been much more understanding than he was when I was pregnant with ONE. I’ve actually blocked out certain parts of our marriage from that period of time. It’s not his fault … he just didn’t know.
He knows now.
Here is what 28 weeks pregnant looks like. My boobs are trying to take over my neck. And not in a sexy way.
We’ve been busy at our house. Memorial Day weekend, we transformed ONE’s room into a room fit for a soon-to-be big brother and turned TWO’s room into a dumping ground for junk I don’t know what to do with.
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| Playing with Daddy! |
The room is super cute and to be honest, I kind of like it better than my own. ONE adjusted quite nicely to it.
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| View from the door. |
We also bought a new mattress set for our bedroom, which is a whole other blog post. Let it suffice to say that while Husband and I do love each other, we’re sick of sleeping in a king-size bed that dips in the middle. We have been sleeping in that situation for 6 years now.
It was time for us to make yet another majorly boring, yet expensive purchase together. A mattress.
And finally, a friend recommended a FABULOUS book to me which I’ve been unable to put down. Bossypants. Go get it immediately.
I’m not trying to bring you down. Really, I’m not. But I hit a new low last night when my child slapped me in the face.
We aren’t sure what is going on with him lately. I keep calling it a “phase,” because it eventually it WILL end. I mean, it has to. I’m not planning to raise my sons to be bossy, shouting, woman-slapping assholes. But apparently that is exactly what I’ve got on my hands at the moment, in the form of a 2-year-old.
He was angry at me because I took his cup away. He wasn’t drinking the water, he was pouring it out. On me. So I calmly took it away. He demanded for it back. I calmly said no. So, he yelled “NO!” and smacked me on the right cheek. It was a moment of out-of-control impulse that I assume is normal for his age (right?), but was obviously unacceptable on many levels.
As soon as he did it, he got this “ohshitwhathaveidone?!” look on his face.
I’m proud to say, I kept it together. One of us had to. I gave him a spanking, looked him in the eye and said “don’t you ever do that again.” And you know, I don’t think he will. He looked pretty traumatized.
The stress of parenting is wearing on me. Lucky for my family, I’m an internalizer. But I’m not sure that is good for me. I probably need to have a good old-fashioned cry, but I’m not a crier. I probably need to throw a screaming fit, but I’m not much of a yeller, either. I’m just a calm person, who happens to be 7 months pregnant with a husband who works long hours and a son who I feel like I can’t control. He runs from me and I can’t catch him. He throws himself on the floor and I can’t pick him up. My “condition” is really cramping my parenting style.
What to do.
I confess that I have an addiction to the Wendy’s Frosty. I learned today that the large frosty contains 620 calories. I have eaten one of those almost every other day for the past month. Don’t think I won’t keep getting them.
I confess that getting away from my responsibilities for a weekend was just what I needed. Is that also addictive? Getting away? Because I’d really like to do it again.
I confess that I have a mild obsession with the Cheesecake Factory and although I’m shocked that it would cost me $47 to purchase a 10-inch Kahlua Cocoa Coffee Cheesecake … I’m tempted to do it anyway.
I confess that ONE is quite successfully driving me insane and I don’t understand why he doesn’t act like a lunatic when he’s with his Daddy. He reserves his completely out of control behavior for me, and I’m much quicker to discipline so it only results in a boatload of spankings.
I confess that last night I hid from my family for almost two hours. I went upstairs to take a bath and then I took a nap. It was glorious.
I confess that I scheduled my maternity leave to begin a week before my due date so I will have time (hopefully) to do absolutely nothing, or whatever I feel like doing, before TWO’s arrival. That day I speak of, the day I leave work, is 12 weeks, 2 days away.
These are the reasons why I’m currently mad at my Husband. He really is just a typical man, and I appreciate that about him, but sometimes I just need to vent in order to move on. And as I stated in a previous post, the more pregnant I get, the more disagreeable I become. So deal with it.
Today’s grievances:
1. He wakes me up with his insane snoring several times a night … and I wear earplugs. This is particularly infuriating when I have trouble sleeping to begin with — because I have to pee, because I’m uncomfortable, and because TWO likes to kick me at night.
2. He ignores me. He ignores everything, actually. How do they do that? I waffle between jealousy and anger.
3. All he wants to do is lie around. And I am the pregnant one. He reminds me of a house cat. He likes to nap and stretch and sun himself.
4. He can be difficult to communicate with. Obviously, I’m not. I communicate perfectly.
5. The last time I tried to talk to him, it was 9 a.m. and he started snoring in the middle of my sentence. REALLY?!?!?
6. He refuses to put his dirty clothes where they belong. He insists on putting them on the floor, the recliner, under the bed … anywhere EXCEPT where they belong. Normally I accept that as a part of who he is (messy), but after #1 – 5 has taken place, it just sends me over the edge. And then, after weeks of it not bothering me, I get irate about it.
Next installment: Why Toddlers Are Infuriating.
Yesterday, a terrible thing happened.
Let me preface this by saying that I am struggling to adjust to summer break. Struggling. Like … it’s good? But also horrible? Can something be good and horrible all at once? Because I’m pretty sure that is exactly what parenthood is.
Making the transition from having all three kids in school for 6+ hours per day (and working during those hours), to having them home all the time and trying to get my work done in addition to mothering in a loving fashion, is not going great. As I have already established in multiple blog posts from previous years, summer is effing relentless.
Pepper is obsessed with two things: outlets and babies. Here she is showing her baby doll the outlet in her bedroom. #multitasking
Thankfully, this year is somewhat easier than previous years simply because my children are getting older and more independent. Pepper will be 3 next week, so I think we’re finally on the upswing after a very dark time in the Valley of Motherhood.
Yesterday afternoon, we got home from playing at the park. The boys jumped out of the van, heard some kids next door playing, and asked if they could go over to play. I granted them permission and took Pepper inside. Her clothes were filthy — covered in layers of peanut butter and dirt — so I stripped her down to a diaper.
I ran to the bathroom with her trailing behind me, always my little shadow. And then, my mom called. She’s not feeling well and I can barely hear her on the phone. I was straining to understand what she was saying — did she just say she needed to go to the hospital?! — and naturally, my toddler got really loud at exactly that moment. As her shouting drowned out my mother, my stress level started to rise.
I went to my bedroom and closed the door. My daughter cried from the hall, and when she stopped, I was thankful. When I emerged only a few minutes later, the house was quiet. A panicky feeling started to rise in my chest, and then it felt like my heart stopped.
Just.
Stopped.
Beating.
Our back door was standing wide open.
Screaming her name, I ran outside. She was gone. Or hiding. Or missing.
I heard a woman’s voice — our across the street neighbor — yelling at me that she just saw a little girl cut through the fences in the backyard.
“She went that way, sweetheart! I was standing here watching her!”
I was barefoot and it did not matter. I ran. I ran until I found her. I couldn’t feel my feet. I couldn’t feel my body. All I could hear was my own voice screaming her name, and my heartbeat deafening my ears. That is what blind panic feels like.
My 2-year-old was wandering one street over from ours, wearing nothing but her diaper. She was holding a toy pet carrier with a little stuffed dog inside. I will never forget the way her face looked when she saw the horror on mine.
“NEVER AGAIN,” I said to her.
“Not with my dog?” she said.
“NEVER, EVER. Do not ever leave this house without a grown up,” I said, as I wiped away my tears.
I’m sharing this story to demonstrate how quickly children can disappear. How many times have I heard stories of toddlers wandering the streets and thought to myself, WHERE WAS THE MOTHER?
That mother is me. I was right there. It happened anyway.
I’m a damn good mom. I am capable. I am aware. I am not negligent. But children are fast. And sometimes quiet. And things happen. So today I’m hugging my babies tight, grateful for their safety, knowing that sometimes other mamas aren’t so lucky.
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Modern Mommy Madness 