Cheese

I know. Total over-exposure but I'll be the first to admit that I'm no master photographer. I can't help, though, but love love love this photo of Greta. I love how happy she is here, and her squinty eyes and sweet grin show it. God love her.

How to Piss Off a Pregnant Woman

How to Piss Off a Pregnant Woman:

• say to her, "Well, I can definitely tell that those pregnancy hormones are kicking in," in response to her expressing any sort of emotion;
• continuously inqure as to the location of your boxer shorts even though you've been informed that said pregnant woman is no longer on full-time laundry duty;
• whine about how your feet are sooooo cold from having to walk the house barefoot because all your socks are in the dirty laundry;
• sigh dramatically (again and again) about having to baby-proof the large television that could possibly fall on resident toddler;
• refuse to sleep on the new bedding because the duvet consists of flowery fabric;
• say, "I diagree with what you're saying," and then, seconds later ask, "What are we disagreeing about?";
• not deeming it a priority or acknowledging the significance of putting up the glass bottles of liquor out of reach from curious, cabinet-latch-breaking baby girl;
• ask pregnant wife if she's going to clean YOUR bathroom before company comes over;
• forget that pregnant wife is supposed to be resting and taking it easy even after having situation explained to you repeatedly on multiple occasions;
• open your mouth (if you are above-described person);
• breathe her air (if you are above-described person); or
• look at her wrong (if you are above-described person).

This is just today's list. I'm sure I can come up with another tomorrow.

24 Weeks: 122/80

Today's trip to the doctor's office went well!

No weight gain.
Blood pressure was 122/80.
Only trace amounts of protein in urine.
And no additional 24-hour urine collection.
For now.

I plan to continue to take it easy and rest.
I've got another appointment next week.
Here's hoping my numbers stay the same.

Not A Martyr, Just Intolerant While Pregnant

Since being hypervigilant about getting enough rest and watching my blood pressure situation, I've been limiting any non-essential errands like going to Target, playdates and so forth. I've deleted my calendar of extra-curricular activities. (For THREE MONTHS.) I had previously scheduled a Friday evening and day-long Saturday scrapbooking gathering but cancelled it because I didn't think it was best for my health right now. I was really looking forward to getting out of the house, doing what I enjoy and having some "me" time.

Generally, when I do these all-day scrapbook events, I'm grateful to my husband for taking care of Greta -- for doing what I do, day-in, day-out. I think it's good for him to have a 24-hour marathon of playing diaper-changer, short order cook, maid, milk-fetcher, mess cleaner, entertainer, play friend, boo boo kisser, story teller, stroller pusher, errand-runner, disciplinarian and parent.

Did you see me boasting to anyone that I had cancelled MY plans? No. And I didn't feel all proud of myself for being an adult and doing the RIGHT thing.

So imagine my frustration when hubby comes home this evening and proudly declares, "I got invited to poker tonight and didn't go." So I quickly pointed out that after going to the doctor earlier today and taking care of Greta all day, I was supposed to be off my feet and resting this evening. And so, thus, realistically, there was no way he could have gone and played poker. I could tell he was disappointed that I didn't express to him in that moment that I was proud of him for coming home, for opting to NOT play poker with his buddies. I think he wanted me to commend him for turning down a fun time. But I think, instead, he needs to be reminded, that while we're both in need of some fun me-time, we've got to make baby boy's health the number one priority right now. Not resting enough, not having controlled blood pressure, and consequently developing pre-eclampsia and risking delivering a premature baby? I will lay on the couch for eternity for this little boy.

I'm sure to many, spending hours on the sofa sounds delightful. Not to me. I hate TV. I hate laying around. I hate doing nothing. I don't do it well. I am that person who needs to constantly do something -- laundry, dusting, cooking, organizing, going going going.

So, dear husband -- who is so wonderful in so many other ways -- after I cancelled my fun plans to stay at home to rest for medical reasons... I'm sorry that I can't pat you on the back for being a big boy and not playing poker on my night off. I'm donating my ENTIRE SUMMER to play human incubator.

** Disclaimer: Pregnant women are, in my opinion, fully entitled to bitch about things that, in some people's opinion, may or may not be trivial. I don't think I'm a martyr for being a stay-at-home mom. I think my husband is awesome for working his ass off the way he does. But... every once in a while, I can't write all flowerly things about my daughter or motherhood or whatever. And instead, I'm inclined to bitch and moan just to remind myself -- and my friends and family -- that most of the time, I do a pretty good job at keeping the pregnant bitch at bay. Sometimes, if you look at me the wrong way, it comes out. Whoops.

No Angel

Don't let the wording on the shirt fool you.
Yes, she is sweet.
Yes, she is showing personality.
But, wowza.
She is just a week or so short of 23 months,
and all of a sudden, my goodnight prayers are much longer.
Praying I can survive the tantrums,
the want for independence,
the defiance.
My little lovely lady is a spitfire.

THE TERRIBLE TWOS ARE KICKING MY ASS.

.

Chairs, Minivans (and Maybe a Man Slave?)

Laying around so much is driving me nuts. I just glanced down and thought my bra was my cat, Emmylou. For the record, I haven't had my cat for about three years. My brief hallucination made me miss her. I'm not a cat fan, but that sweet kitty sure was good for cozying up on the couch.

Note to self -- and to husband -- let's not purchase leather furniture ever.again. This leather couch, albeit lovely in appearance, is cold and uncomfortable. It's hard to sleep on, and I get a crick in my neck regardless of my position. It was nice when Greta was at the age where she spit-up exorcist-style multiple times a day, but I'd almost rather have a nasty, stained couch that is warm, comfortable and inviting. And, those big puffy recliners that I've always sworn off because they just didn't mesh well with my other decor? Well, shit. I need one. Or two. Have you ever sat in one of those? I sat in my neighbor's this evening, and I decided that I would never leave the T.V. room again if I had one of those puppies. Sure, they're about the size of an extended station wagon -- and about as stylish -- but I'm to the point in my life where sometimes you must opt for function and comfort over pretty and perfect.

Kind of like minivans. No one chooses to drive those things because they scream I'M SO COOL. No. A person drives a minivan for the accomodations: the ease of getting in and out, the spaciousness of the interior, the ability to park your kids' seats in the VERY BACK of the car FURTHEST from you. (Just kidding. Not really.) I'm not dogging on anyone with a minivan. Because if I were up for getting a new car, that is what I'd get. I'd be sure to get T.V. screens in the thing so I could go sit in it while its parked in the garage and enjoy its multitude of luxuries, in particular for the times when my hubs is monopolizing the one household television. And I'm not dogging on reclining puffy chairs either. I'm in the market for one right now. Actually, I'm in the market for anything that would make me and my life a bit comfier these days.

Selfless Husband

I've been having more restful nights lately. Thank God. Otherwise, I was about to curl up in a ball under the kitchen table and vigorously rock myself into deeper oblivion. Instead, I began taking Ambien before bedtime, and I'm no longer a complete hateful butthole during the daytime. Thank you, too, to my husband who has donated our complete king-size bed to me and my enormous pregnancy pillow while he selflessly retires on the queen-size hard mattress in our spare bedroom.

God love him. So, earlier today, we're in the car driving, and I start complaining that I feel sick amd must eat something soon. Usually I carry almonds or a Nutrigrain bar in my console, but I'd recently depleted that stash. We ran through Taco Bell, and well, I am not a big fan of Taco Bell. Or Mexican food in general. But anyhoo. I ordered a bean burrito for me and cheese roll-ups for Greta, and Eric ordered a five-layer burrito and some other fine Mexican delicacy that I don't know the name. We got our order, and I started eating in the car because I was starving and feeling yucky -- and because it's just more of a treat to eat in the car than at home with a whining toddler-crawling up your leg. I asked Eric if he wanted a bite of my bean burrito, and he insisted I eat it and enjoy it on my own. And here's what's funny -- I, girl who doesn't like Taco Bell, kept commenting on how tasty my burrito was. Three bites remaining, I'm looking at the thing, thinking that there sure was a lot of cheese on it for a plain bean burrito. And then, I saw the beef. And I said to Eric, this thing has meat on it. And it dawned on him. He replied, "That's because you're eating MY FIVE-LAYER BURRITO."

Um, oops.

Update: Nothing

I don't have a bladder infection.
My bloodwork shows no abnormalities with my platelets, liver enzymes, etc.
I'm still waiting to hear if my 24-hour pee collection showed anything.
My at-home blood pressure monitor has shown mildly elevated blood pressure,  but I personally think the thing is a piece-of-shit and isn't the same as a nurse or doctor reading it with their tried-and-true good ol' stethoscope.

I know, not very exciting, but this little update is easier than e-mailing back a gazillion people. (Who am I kidding -- I shouldn't flatter myself and even begin to think I have a gazillion friends who read this, but to the 18.3 that do - here's the scoop.)

Thinking Positive

I went to the doctor yesterday. My blood pressure was high and results from my urine test showed protein -- two signs of pre-eclampsia. However, there is a chance this is something such as a bladder infection, which is what I'm hoping for. I'm 23 weeks pregnant, and it's too early for baby to come. I'm trying to rest a lot but I'm bummed -- nervous, anxious, crying, wishing, hoping, praying ... and trying my best to focus on things that make me happy...

Mother's Day Wishes

I wish...

to sleep more than two consecutive hours;

to wake up feeling well-rested;

to shower in a room by myself, with enough time to
shampoo, condition, wash AND shave my legs;

to go poop without having to scream at a little runchkin to

STOP UNROLLING THE TOLIET PAPER!;

to eat a meal while sitting down

and to remain seated for the entire duration of the meal.

I will...

most likely not shave my legs;

will grin & bare the tiredness of pregnancy and running after a toddler;

ignore the two peeping eyes watching me potty;

remind myself that one day she'll have no desire

to be held or to crawl on my lap or smother me with smooches

so for now, I'll set aside hopes of an uninterrupted meal.

Today, I will celebrate with this little pumpkin,

the girl who made me a mother.

Greta: 22 Months

And just like that. She was no longer a baby.

 

I shouldn't be so surprised. I should have seen it coming. I mean, she asks to brush her teeth each morning. She dances to Lady Gaga songs and sings along to Beyonce. She still lets me choose her outfits but insists that she have a bow in her hair at most times. And while she still drinks out of a sippy cup because that's what we provide her, she'd much prefer an adult cup with a straw. Sure, these are just little things, but each individually and moreso collectively indicate that she's NO LONGER A BABY.

I think I realize this more lately now that the weather has gotten warmer, and especially when our street is filled with neighborhood children riding their motorized mini-vehicles, running through lawn sprinklers and hunting down the ice cream truck. The little girls come and ring our doorbell, asking "Can Greta come out and play?" and my heart just melts because it's so purely sweet. In addition to developing a quick fascination with child-sized Escalades driven by five year-olds, Greta has learned the simple joys of running through the lawn sprinkler on a warm sunny afternoon. She's come to recognize the sound of the ding-ding of the ice cream truck. (Oh shit; I'm going to go broke. DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH ICE CREAM COSTS THESE DAYS?!) Most momentous in my mind, is that she has started to learn to make friends. And for this I am glad and sad and nervous and -- as flashbacks of grade school cattiness flood my memory -- I realize how the older she gets, the less I can protect her.

I suppose I shouldn't get ahead of myself, but that's my nature... Instead of worrying about her learning to hold her own with her little peers, my worries are more focused on other ways of protecting her -- like keeping her out of the street and that not all dogs are friendly and that when Mama says something is "hot" it's because it will hurt you very badly if you touch it. The girl has not a clue that if she runs into the street, she can get ran over by a car. In public places, she has no reluctance to run from us because she assumes we'll be right there for her, just like we always are. She doesn't know there are bad people in the world. She thinks that all people and dogs and cats are nice; in her mind, it's HER world, and we're all just living in it.

She sure keeps her mama busy. Oh me oh my. Lately, she's really been testing her boundaries, and just today I came to the realization that I need to be firmer and stricter. I feel that this is the point in parenting where it would be way easier to cave in and let her have her way. When she doesn't want to get dressed, it's much easier for me to go and do something I would like to do for myself instead. When she wants something she isn't supposed to have, it's much easier to give in than to resist. But with these conclusions, I've also decided that as easy as those paths might seem at the moment, in the long run, it will be easier to be stern and stick to my guns. And so it goes. Raising a well-behaved child is not going to be an easy venture. Eck.

Just this afternoon, Greta was playing with her little friends down the street. It had been a long day, as we spent the morning and early afternoon at the zoo, and I knew Greta was tired and growing hungry. As I attempted to bring her home to eat dinner, she kicked and screamed and flailed her little arms and legs. I kept my cool and hauled her little 25 pound-self home. She shook and turned bright red and threw her body onto our living floor like I'd just informed her there was no more milk in the whole entire world. (The girl is ADDICTED to milk.) She cried and cried, and I sat there and waited for her to calm down. I did my best to hold it together but could not. As she sat there and cried, I started crying, too. Not because I felt overwhelmed. No. I cried because at that moment, it dawned on me that on this day, she's just two months shy of turning two years old. And I cried because this whole motherhood thing has been a bit challenging at times, and each time I think I've conquered learned to manage one stage, another one begins, and I'm humbled all over again. I cried because this little girl has taught me more in two years than I've learned in a lifetime, and I cried because this little girl will always be my baby.