YOLO.

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Since Husband and I don’t have a lot of time for idle chat, we communicate via text. For example:

 And …

In case you can’t make out that picture very well, here’s a bigger version. He wanted to be a “zombie,” you see.

 And …
 

 
To be fair, I send Husband crazy stuff too. Mostly pictures like these.

Here is what I’m going to end up wearing by the end of my pregnancy.

This is why it’s a bad idea to pour hot popcorn kernels into a plastic bag.
Those are Husband’s straws. TWO chewed on each one before putting it back in the box.
And when I learned that Lil’ Wayne was in the hospital, probably from drinking too much “sizzurp” …

I read an article that is circulating the internet titled, In Defense of the iPhone Mom, and I. Loved. It. If I didn’t have technology to keep me company through long days of being at home with my kids, I would lose it. So I’m grateful for it and the fact that Husband is willing to take the time to explain “sizzurp” and “YOLO” to me. Because these kids certainly can’t.

No Whining Today.

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After yesterday’s rant, I feel the need to tell everyone that I now feel cleansed and can move on with my life. I’m done talking about the Angry Blue Monster. For now.

I was mad at Husband for acting like an asshole to me on Thursday and so I told him yesterday that he better not come home without flowers. 

He came home without flowers. 

He put on his LSU pajama pants and laid down on the couch to check his email. I casually asked him where my flowers were. He just as casually asked where my vase was. I said, “I know you forgot and you won’t win this argument. I want and deserve some freakin’ flowers. TODAY.” And you know, I have to give the man credit. He got up, got dressed again, and left to get them. At 9:00 p.m. And he did it cheerfully.

 
They’re beautiful.

I don’t claim to have a perfect marriage. It is flawed and wraught with problems, just like everyone else’s. But I have to say, learning how to ask for what I need has really helped us communicate better. I don’t have time to stew in silence and wait for him to ask what is wrong. He may not even notice I’m stewing. He might just think to himself, “Wow, it’s sure quiet around here. I like it.” I am not patient enough to wait for him to figure out what I’m thinking … also, he will never, ever guess correctly, so it’s pretty much a waste of our time. 

It’s unfair to expect the men in our lives to notice we’re upset if we can’t open our mouths and say I’M MAD AT YOU. Men are just different. They don’t notice certain things. Maybe by the time we’re retired, we’ll have learned how to correctly guess what the other one is thinking. But for now, we’re forced to talk it out.

After a stressful week, I decided to spend the weekend trying to relax. This means that there are 4 loads of clean laundry piled in my bedroom that I’m actively refusing to stress over. We’re playing outside and I’m going to make peach cobbler. The fact of the matter is, my vagina hurts but otherwise my life is good and I need to enjoy it. There will be no whining today.


This Is Why I’m Grumpy.

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So it’s time I get real about what is really happening over here. I’ve been trying to avoid writing this post because:

1. Some of my family members read my blog and will be uncomfortable with the content of this post. Which means if they continue to read past this sentence, it’s their own damn fault if they regret it.

2. Not everyone wants to know about what really truly can happen to someone who is gestating a baby, especially their third one.

So if you are reading this and you fall into one of the above categories, this is your chance to jump ship. 

Wheee!!

You should understand that I cope with the difficulties of life in several ways, and all of those ways except writing have been temporarily stripped from me because I’m pregnant. I feel very much like I’m locked in some sort of preggo purgatory and all I want to do is drink vodka straight from the bottle and smoke pot. Apparently when I know that I can’t do something, it becomes all I can think about. I have this fantasy of sending all the kids away so I can be completely irresponsible. I get tired of being responsible.

The older I get, the healthier my coping mechanisms have become. Like I try to exercise, and spend time outside and with people I love. But when I am pregnant (or have PMS), I don’t want to do shit and I don’t want to see shit and I especially don’t want to deal with shit. 

Part of my current coping strategy is to say shit or bullshit a lot because I can’t do what I really want to do (drink straight from the bottle in the middle of the day). So if this bothers you … you probably shouldn’t be reading my blog.

Husband kept asking me, “Why are you so grumpy?” until finally I TOLD HIM WHY. Then he acted like I was being irrational for ranting like a lunatic when all he did was ask me a question.

First of all, that is a dumb ass question to ask any woman, especially one who waddles around like a penguin. I hit 26 weeks and all of the sudden I have this gigantic stomach I can’t see past. I run into my kids and knock them down and knock them into things and shut their hands in doors (yes, that really happened) because I can’t see them down there.

I feel like a terrible mother and I don’t feel like going outside to play or reading to anyone and I especially don’t feel like chasing anyone down to change a diaper or brush their teeth or make them put pants on because I’m constantly out of breath. Writing that sentence winded me.  

I don’t feel like dealing with shit. This makes me feel guilty because ONE and TWO have nothing to do with their little sister who is baking in my tummy, I need to be sweet to them, because our time together as a family of four is shrinking quickly. I try to remind myself of this, and take deep breaths, and tell myself I’m not that uncomfortable and this is not that bad and it will only take a few minutes to help them build a blanket fort to play in.

But. This is my main problem. I have all kinds of things happening to me that no one warned me about. No one told me my vagina would look like this before I even hit my third trimester. So I am telling you, whoever you are, out there reading that if you have another baby THIS MAY HAPPEN TO YOU AND MY DOCTOR SAID IT’S COMMON AND NOT PERMANENT.


I Googled “angry blue monster” and found this little guy and keep texting it to my girlfriends when they ask me how I’m feeling. “I am fine, thank you for asking! My vagina is still angry and blue, and she says FUCK YOU.”

Apparently when you decide to go ahead and have a third child, there is a likelihood that your entire lady area will FREAK OUT on you and be like Oh hell no, biyatch, the entire time. In addition to my lump (it’s a round ligament that’s covered in varicose veins, apparently), I have a very angry vaginal area. It’s ugly and pissed off. I don’t know how else to describe it. And no one has seen it but me, because I have been on pelvic rest for … I have lost track of how many weeks. So there’s that.

I went to the doctor this week and she lifted the sex ban, and that very day, after not spotting for an entire month, guess what happened?

No, really. Guess.

I started spotting again. I also nearly fainted the next morning, and when I tried to wake up Husband to tell him I thought I might pass out, this was his response: “ZZZZZZZZZZZZ.” And then, “Did you make the kid’s lunches?”

I try to avoid talking about our sex life on my blog because Husband doesn’t like it when I go too far, but COME ON. I can’t drink, smoke, have sex, exercise, starve myself so I feel less fat … the list of “can’ts” keeps growing and growing. I am trying not to go down the rabbit hole of self-pity. But that is why I’m grumpy. That. All of it.

I started making a list of things I am grateful for, because that makes me feel better. So far, I have listed (in addition to the obvious ones like my lovely family and friends, and the DVD player in our van):

1. I still have full control over my bladder.

2.   

  

Cats.

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I think something is wrong with me because I am so obsessed with the grumpy cat meme on the internet. Like, yeah, I know they’re funny … but do other people laugh for as LONG as I do? Doubtful.

Maybe when I’m done raising my kids, I can get a job captioning pictures of cats.

 
 

Flattery.

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ONE said all sorts of charming and untrue things this morning that made me like him quite a lot.

ONE: “Mommy, are you a teenager?”

Me: “No … why?”

ONE: “You look like a teenager.”

Me: “Oh?! Well … thank you. But no. I’m a grown woman.”

ONE: “You look too skinny to be a grown woman.”

Me: “Now you’re just being ridiculous.”

(blank stare)

“I’m not skinny, ONE. And look at my tummy!”

ONE: “Oh, I know why you have a belly, silly! There’s a baby in there. But the back of you is still skinny.”

I thought about making a joke about his eyesight, but I stopped myself. Nothing is wrong with my son’s eyes. He thinks I look young and beautiful and — dare I say, SKINNY — who am I to correct him?! One day he might decide I’m a dorky mom who he is embarrassed to be seen with, and I need to relish these days while I can … the days where he tells me I’m pretty and he wants to marry me or a girl just like me one day.

Man, I love that wild, spirited, sweet boy.

Things That Make Me Happy.

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It’s been awhile since I’ve written a Things That Make Me Happy post, probably because I’ve been too busy bitching about pregnancy, but I’ll make up for it today! I have so many things to share I don’t know where to start.

Here are some things that are making me happy right now:

This cool necklace I picked up in Chicago during my trip.     
New placemats!  
That’s a real, live rabbit there. I have to give ONE’s preschool props for this one … that’s brave. On several counts.
The “grumpy cat” meme on the internet. Husband is way cooler than me because he knew about this first. OMG. So funny.

Tiny shoes.
It’s empty. But still FUNNY.

I got TWO a baby doll that looks like him to help teach him about babies. He loves it, and I can’t stop taking pictures of them.

 ***
And … I’ve saved the best for last. 

I’ve been dealing with a situation at my house for the past week. TWO figured out he was able to climb out of the Pack N’ Play he’s been sleeping in, and all hell broke loose. I tried everything, but he was really fighting his naps. I put a child–proof knob on the inside of his bedroom door, but that little Houdini figured out how to break it off and escape, and I was in Mommy Hell.

I’m actually thankful we have him in the Pack N’ Play right now instead of the crib, because that would be a farther fall for him. We knew it was only a matter of time, and totally expected this to happen because he’s such a climber, but I needed a fix. Fast. 

I was venting to some friends about my problem, and my girlfriend Lila said her friend Laura who has 4 children found a solution and would I like to hear it?

YES. NOW.

Laura, who I don’t know, but I’d hug her if I did, said she put her child in a toddler-sized “sleep sack” that prevented him from getting a leg up and over the side of the crib. He sleeps soundly and happily in his soft blanket bag. BRILLIANT! 

If you ever have a problem you can’t figure out how to solve, ask a group of moms. One of them will have an idea you haven’t thought of, or maybe someone will know someone who has 4 kids. Anyone who has 4 kids knows what she’s talking about, therefore, you should definitely try whatever she says works.

So I went to the store yesterday with my mom, and we found exactly one sleep sack that was big enough for TWO. 

It’s bubblegum pink.

I figured as long as it keeps the kid cozy and in his bed, it didn’t matter what color it was. Husband was really upset with me over the color … I think it’s because he hasn’t experienced enough of TWO when he‘s fighting his naps, tired and screaming and throwing himself out of his Pack N’ Play. Which is why I completely ignored Husband’s complaints.

IT WORKS!

He’s happy! I’m happy!

 
It reminds me very much of this poor little guy …

 

 And all of that, my friends, makes me HAPPY.

 

Crisis-y.

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So … I’m feeling a little crisis-y. 

It could be the pregnancy, or the fact that I’m overrun with snot-nosed children. I think I need more adult time. Or maybe it’s my age. But my friend was telling me how she went out last night and was completely ignored by a group of 20-something guys and it made her realize how uncool and old she was. And her telling me that made me realize how old and uncool I AM. I mean, my friend is childless and goes to vegan restaurants and has really fun, spiky hair. She is totally cool.

I, on the other hand, drive a van filled with children, I never go out, and I have horrible hair thanks to the Haircut From Hell. I haven’t been able to muster the energy to write about it, because I am still SO UPSET … but it was given to me by a woman who was either still hung over from the night before, or had been drinking prior to my 12:00 appointment.

When I arrived, I immediately smelled whiskey with my super sonic preggo sense of smell and I texted everyone I knew to prepare themselves because I was fairly certain homegirl was drunk. In hindsight, what I should have done was sneak out of there when she went to the back to mix up my color. But I didn’t, because I have manners. And now I also have effed up hair. 

I went to a different salon several days later and had my haircut fixed by a totally sober hairdresser who I will continue to go to until the end of time. It looks way better, but there was only so much she could do with that situation.

I just need to self-indulge for a moment and whine about the fact that when a girl is pregnant, ALL SHE HAS IS HER HAIR. It’s the one thing that doesn’t go south. So the fact that mine is now half the length that it was, and fuzzed-out because it was cut with a razor even after I explained that was a bad idea, really makes me mad.

I am ready to be my normal self again. I want to wear normal clothes and do normal things. I’d like my normal hair back again that I could put into a ponytail without weird little pieces falling out. I want to be able to at least pretend that I’m young and cool … it’s kind of hard to do that when you‘re wearing something that looks like this:

  
I am plagued with fears that this is it, this is the child that will send me over the edge, and I’ll never be cool or truly myself ever again. And so I’ve set a plan in place that includes a postpartum diet and exercise routine, growing my hair back out, and making time for myself. Hopefully, maybe, one day many months from now out of the blue I’ll realize that I’m BACK! And as cool as ever.

But not sane.

Let‘s not get carried away.