Friday, February 24, 2012

Are the Pooping Babies hereditary?

The other day I was in the shower and Violet came in to do her business.  I was not thrilled with the idea - just because butt-smell particles are small doesn't mean they're not still particles floating all around me while I'm trying to get clean from said particles.  But anyway.  So I just stood there for a while enjoying the water beating down on me waiting for her to pull me out of my hot watery paradise by asking me to wipe her butt.

But I was standing there a really long time before I realized she was talking, but not to me.  So I started listening and I shit you not, she was giving her doll a lesson in bathroom etiquette.  Maybe this isn't quite as bad as my Pooping Babies since at least she was talking to a physical object, but she was teaching it not to stand up until it's done going potty, and to always wipe front to back, and to make sure to hold your dress up in the back so you don't get any poopy on it.  Standing there in the shower, peeking out from behind the curtain, it felt like I was Future Me looking back at Little Girl Me.  I wondered if I should warn her of a future incident where her and a few friends are standing in a circle in a long hall somewhere and she's considering farting but she should not let loose because it's going to make a noticeable sound even though it feels like a silent one.

Now the whole thing has me wondering if maybe The Pooping Babies were real.  And The Floating Fish and The Acid Monster.  And maybe all my stuffed animals really did get sad and miss me when I finally gave them away.  And maybe John John was real.  Maybe Violet and I have this weird sensitivity to some other dimension where really fucked-up-yet-benignant things live.  Or maybe all these things were planted in my head and travelled across the placenta into Violet!  AH!!

I'm going to keep that thought in the back of my head, but the sane, non-conspiracy theorist (deep) inside me is going to assume it's the weirdo imagination she inherited.  But if I start seeing her strip her plush stuffed things and sticking the fur in her nose (the sensation is divine I tell you), I'm getting worried.

What's weird is I found this on google but I swear it might actually be the tiger I stripped.  I'm not even going to search for "naked Big Bird".

Monday, February 20, 2012

Homebirth is frowned upon in MD so I'm planning nice ways to cuss out my midwife now

When I labor, I turn into a giant cat and find myself a nice dark quiet closet to hump air in.  Literally.  Maybe not literally, but when my uterus is contracting and systematically moving my bones aside to push a baby out of a small hole, the absolute last thing I want is another living thing witnessing my vulnerability.  This is why I caved and got an epidural with Violet instead of writhing in pain for hours in the hospital waiting room, and why Leela was almost born in a van.  I wanted to be in my own world where no one could see me or hear me growling.

My ideal childbirth experience is in some magical warm fresh water stream in a two-way mirrored bubble enterable by no one but me, where my hair doesn't get wet and my skin doesn't get cold, and there's no blood or womb juice, and it's sound proof both ways so I don't have to hear anyone say "Wow, you're still pregnant?!", and when the baby and I get out we're somehow dry and clothed automatically.

My second favorite birth would be at home in my bed, completely alone.  With no one even in the house.  Or they can be in the living room if they have to be, but silent.  Or I'd kill them.  Oh and again, I'd have that magical no blood and no fluid thing going on.

The birth I will have though will be in a hospital with lots of lights and shit beeping and probably some wires and most likely some people.  Unfortunately, my insurance is too good, and I don't pay a single penny to spit out a baby.  No hospital deductible, no physician fees, not even a co-pay at my midwife appointments.  (Sidenote:  Baby-making is free, but I have to pay $80 a year for birth control, if I ever decide to start using it.  Hm.)

I also have horrible anxiety over people being in my house for some reason.  I always imagine I'm going to have a crowd of people gathered in one room and one of the neighbor's dogs is going to climb in through my bedroom window and gather up the biggest, holiest underwear he can find in my underwear drawer, a voice recorded diary on top volume where I talk about all things gossipy and bitchy and raunchy (that I don't actually have, but such a thing exists in my imagination), and a 3 foot double dong hanging from a sex swing (... that I also don't have, *eh hem*).  So I wouldn't be able to relax my whole labor and delivery knowing my midwife might find something embarrassing or incriminating.

Anyway, even if insurance and anxiety weren't an issue, I still wouldn't be able to have a home birth because Maryland hates women.  Certified Nurse Midwives are the only care providers legally allowed to attend a home birth in this state, and do you know how many of those there are willing to do that here?  A whopping two from what I have been able to find.  There's also a handful of Certified Professional Midwives who practice in the state incognito, but from what I've gathered they's 'spensive, and there's only so many of them to go around.

So that puts me back in the hospital!  I decided I don't want to labor in the back seat of my van again this time, and I'd really like the chance to get inside that birthing tub and labor like an astronaut, so I'll be meeting my midwife at this hospital much sooner than absolute-freakin-last-minute this time.  This presents a new set of challenges.  How do I nicely tell my midwife what I want when I'm in the middle of a full body implosion? Here's my list so far:

ALONE PLEASE = I can't have any distractions in the room for this contraction

HANDS ARE COLD = Please don't touch me because I'm creeped out by human touch

SMELL MAKING ME SICK = Who the hell do you think you are eating in front of me when I'm pushing a person out of my nethers?

NEED SNACK = I need you out of my life for the 10 minutes it takes you to retrieve a snack

NEED QUIET = If you don't fucking stop talking to me I'm going to birth this baby directly down your throat

MUST KEEP MOVING = This shit hurts and I can't sit still, and you do not need to check my progress bitch because I assure you I feel progress being made

EVERY SINGLE PERSON NEEDS TO LEAVE THE ROOM FOR HALF AN HOUR = I'm in transition and if you stay here I will literally scream so hard your soul will melt

Tuesday, February 7, 2012

I'll take the ugliest bra you have

As I was putting on my bra today and tucking in the pieces of stray elastic and uncurling the pitifully overworked straps, I realized two things.  1) Why the hell am I wearing a nursing bra still considering I never nurse in public anymore and Leela only nurses once at night now when my bra has been laying on the floor for the last three hours anyway.  Oh, the reason I'm wearing that bra is because 2) I don't have any other bras.  My boobs' primary use these days is to just hang there and flap in the wind, and their secondary use is to feed a baby who couldn't give two shits what they look like as long as they have a functioning nipple.  And I guess their thirdary use is for Joe to see once every other month, and he also doesn't care what they look like as long as they have nipples, functioning or non.

Anyway so I was thinking about bra shopping and I thought about how I have a $25 Victoria's Secret gift card I could use to buy one cup if I can get up the nerve to waltz my frumpy fat ass in that store.

Then I realized, I'm old.  I don't care what my bras look like anymore.  I literally will take the ugliest bra they have as long as it holds in the girls and lifts them at least a little above my belly button and doesn't leave me looking coney.  And I don't want one of those cute thin straps, I want a wide piece of material holding my shit up comfortably and keeping it there.  Even better, instead of straps, give me some damn sleeves.  Think bra, Moby style.

I've been going through a quarter-life crisis since I turned 22, and things like today make me scared to think about what I'll be like at 50.  Am I going to be that shameless old lady at the grocery store who bends over at the produce and farts and then looks you in the eye and says "Oh, scuse me" instead of denying it or walking away like it never happened?  Will I be the braless woman who walks up to you at a restaurant and bends over to your table exposing her floppy old woman cleavage in order to ask what it is your having for dinner because boy does it look good, and now that I'm standing here bent over it and in your face, boy does it smell good too, can I have a taste?

I'd promise myself now that I'll never be that, but I've already failed Teenage Me.  I always had plans to be a world traveler and bachelorette and have an interesting job and good stories to tell.  Now I spend my days looking up what cool playground to go to next and coming to terms with my "success" as a Mom and battling complacency.  And writing blogs about ratty old bras.  Not that I'm not successful in an unorthodox way, but it's just not the glorious life I expected.  It's really boring actually.  And not helping with my quarter-life crisis.

I should probably just start letting loose of the shameless public farts now and call it a life.

Saturday, February 4, 2012

Hi, I'm alive

January was a bust blog-wise.  I got me a Kindle Fire and I read a buncha books and then I just forgot how to form my own words.  There have been some things I've wanted to blog about but my brain melts just thinking about typing an entire paragraph.

PHEW!  Ok, now that I've gotten a paragraph out of the way, I think I can do this.

My January was spent being pregnant and hormonal, convinced I was going to miscarry, yet morbidly fascinated by the thought as well.
     Chances of a blog entry about that in the next few days/weeks: Highly Likely

The month was also spent dreading my birthday.  It's all been downhill for me since I turned 22.  I think I suffer from Chronic Quarter-Life Crisis.  Until I turn 38 and switch to Chronic Mid-Life Crisis.  And fuck, then I guess I'll switch back to Quarter-Life Crisis.
     Chances of a blog entry discussing the evils of goals and success: Very Highly Likely, because I've already written it, I just need to edit it to be 100% less emo.

I ignored my children every day for 5 days while reading The Hunger Games at the beginning of this month.  Goddam I love a good dystopia!  The series was a really easy read and I dug the commentary on government and power and the human animal, and the relationships were fun.  And Team Gale vs. Team Peeta better not become a thing because there was no Team Gale people, there just wasn't.  GAWD.
     Chances of a blog entry explaining my take on a lot of complaints I read online after I became obsessed and googled and read every HG forum:  Eh, probably not, unless I revisit the books in preparation for the movies which are going to be fantastic a month and a half from now!

I also have been reading the Bible to get some context on the batshit things I've been reading on Facebook, and to better understand the point of view of my Christian BFF.
     Chances of me telling you why this book infuriates me:  Likely, if I'm feeling ballsy or if I'm able to write it without being offensive to my friends.

My children will be in the Girl Scouts.  I previously had no interest in them until I found a video of a little girl trying to tell me why I should hate them, and instead she gave me every reason to love them.
     Chances of a picture blog of me in a tub of Thin Mints and Samoas:  Likely, though it's old news, it's still important news.  Picture pending on me finding money for overpriced but delicious round bites of ecstasy.

I saw a picture of Violet as a half-year old today and was enamored with her cute little fatty feet naked in the grass.  Eeee, I love them!  It reminded me of an incident earlier this year though, involving a summer road, bare feet and some dumbass overprotective helicopter mom retard asshole.  Bitch.
     Chances of a discussion on parenting and fear:  Very Likely.  Bitch.  (Now I'm just in the mood to say bitch a lot)

Lastly, adoption!  An online friend of mine adopted two little boys very recently and the pictures are killing me.  THEN, my BFF4evs told me like 2 days later that she has begun (began? started.) the adoption process.  COLOR ME EXCITED!!!
     Chances of a personal confession of why I was and probably still am a selfish butthole:  Well that's like every time I talk, but regarding this specific subject Fo Shizzle.

So yay, I blogged!  That's your February preview, if I can keep the head and the fingers good and lubed.  Yup.
    (Chances of me not touching on a single subject listed above and instead making no entries while I'm uh, off, hunting for proof that unicorns exist:  Possible.) (Bitch.)
Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...