Propagating the Species

God has a plan for new mothers. It’s called memory loss. By overloading our systems, eventually all the pain and turbulence morphs into bliss and becomes one big blur. This is how the human race continues to thrive.

My final week of pregnancy I could have run a marathon to force thiat child out. Then while I was in labor, the pain was so bad ahat a shovel to the head would have felt better. I opted for the epidural over the shovel, but I waited long enough to guarantee the contractions were a pain I’ll always remember, not only to rub it in my son’s face one day, but so I don’t fool myself into thinking that a natural birth might actually be a good idea. (It’s not.)

The hospital stay was traumatic in its own right. Dozens of strangers shoving their way in my room at all hours to fill out forms (those were Marc’s guests), to poke and prod Erich and me, to throw off the sheets and examine how things are going “down there” and ask when my last “pee pee” and “poo poo” was (like, they do know I’m not the baby, right?). Don’t even get me started on the Nazi lactation nurses fondling me every two hours while smashing Erich’s face into my breasts. The only person that didn’t wake me up was the food lady, and she was the only one I waited up for.

It didn’t take long after settling in at home to have my first emotional/mental/physical breakdown. I lasted 24 hours before I sent Marc out in a blizzard to fill my prescriptions. I stayed home with a body that wouldn’t function, a baby that wouldn’t nurse, and breasts that wouldn’t stop growing. (Normally I wouldn’t complain about the last one, but I wasn’t thinking rationally at the time.) Another epidural would’ve been welcome, but I settled for an ocean of tears and the beloved Percoset my darling husband brought home. Ice packs, heating pads and oxycodone saved my life. I spent the next month healing, sleeping, nursing and trying not to poop. At least my kid is freakin’ adorable.

Now that my 13 week old sack of potatoes is sleeping through the night (10 hours last night!), babbling through his huge gummy grin and keeping his once 2 hour feeds at less than 40 minutes now, I’m starting to forget. My higher power is putting His Magic Eraser to work, obliterating traumatic portions of the past few months. Forever recording my experience in the blogosphere wasn’t likely part of God’s plan for new mothers, but He has a special plan for me. I’m beginning to forget what it felt like, but I hope by writing this, I don’t forget what happened. I propagate the species by accidental fertilization. It’s happened once, and it could happen again. At least next time I’ll know what to expect.

Don't Know Whatcha Got 'Til it's Gone

Toning up a post-pregnancy body is like reassembling a cake that’s fallen on the floor. Some pieces fit back where they belong but there are ultimately chunks leftover, and you really end up wishing you had swept the dog hair from the floor before baking. Right now my stomach looks like I pushed my thumb into a ball of playdough (thumb print = belly button). I’m hoping I can get at least some definition back, but I’ll have to accept the fact that some of my cake/playdough might be forever laced with last nights stuffing: Lumpy. Discolored. And maybe a little salty.

The realization came last month, about a week after giving birth to my little baby boy. Looking in the mirror, I noticed several red marks across the top of my bum. These mysterious painless “scratches” came out of nowhere. Jäger hadn’t jumped me from behind any time recently, and they definitely weren’t Marc's handiwork (for as beaten up as I was, I wasn’t letting that poor guy anywhere near my booty.)We had been dealing with a bit of a mouse problem at the time, but I think I’d remember a giant rodent clawing at my ass. That left only one dreaded explanation for these unsightly blemishes: stretch marks. I had survived my entire pregnancy without a single one... or so I thought. Truth is, while in my “enlarged” state, I purposely avoided checking out my bare backside out of sheer terror. Well, that and I didn’t have enough mirrors to look at it anyway; twisting in any direction certainly wasn’t a feat I could manage without assistance. In any case, I’m told these lines too shall pass, or at least fade into “flat silvery streaks.” Great. With any luck I’ll have a tinsel butt by next Christmas. Though be it a rock hard tinsel butt! Bounce a quarter off that, Santa.

Why I give my money to NPR

I'd like to make a shout out to my sister and brother-in-law in La Crosse. I heard this on NPR this morning and now I know why your kinky little 3rd congressional district covers the southwestern border of the state - because you cheeseheads like it HOT. Ohh yeah.

"Forget Las Vegas and New York! La Crosse, Wisconsin has to be America's next Super Sex Capital, and the 3rd district's congressman, Democrat Ron Kind, is apparently the Larry Flint of congress."

Just what is THIS about, you ask? Well, you can see the ad for yourself right here.

Don't worry though, because "for the record, Ron Kind is about as straight laced as a Mormon Missionary. (And the money he allegedly funneled to the sex industry was a bipartisan measure to fund the National Institutes of Health)."

Whew!! You can hear the whole story on All Things Considered (it's about 4 minutes long). It's about YouTube being used as a vessel for the evil campaigning of twisted politicians. Good stuff, NPR! Way to keep my afternoon commute spicy!

Waste Management

I recently saw this sign posted in a public restroom. (Lucky I had my digital camera with me!) It makes one wonder.... Just what should go into the toilet? I mean, does "any wastes" really mean any waste?? I certainly didn't check the trash can to find out.

Baby On Board

Guess what, World?!!!

I’M PREGNANT!!!

First, the facts:

1. It’s a BOY
2. I’m 21 weeks along
3. Due January 15, 2007 (Barely missed the tax write-off. Oh well!)

Secondly, What I Love So Far:

1. Showing my Belly Off – I’m a proud mama, and if you land in our home any evening, you’ll get a full dose of my beautiful, round, exposed belly. Sure, I practice more modesty at work, but I have no qualms about tight shirts. I love anything that screams “Look at my gut!”

2. The Ultrasound (or Sonogram, whatever) – Even though prodding my full bladder for an hour felt like a form of Chinese Torture, every second was too short. I couldn’t take my eyes off of that squirmy little monster.

3. Feeling the Little Guy Move – Fascinating, comforting and sometimes irritating, it’s the funkiest feeling ever. Even more satisfying was the first time Marc got to feel it. I’m afraid I’ll feel so empty when it’s gone (or relieved? I don’t know, ladies, you tell me!).

4. Cleavage – I’m not sure if the mama or the papa is happier about these developments. It’s pretty great, though.

5. Doting – Everyone wants to take care of the pregnant lady! I haven’t carried anything heavy at work for months. Apparently lifting a bag of lotions will give me a hernia. Well, just in case they’re right, who am I to take that kind of a risk?

6. Father and Son Bonding Time – Here’s where I get all mushy. The moments Marc spends whispering to and rubbing my belly are my favorite of all.

7. Eating Whatever I Want – I’m so obsessive about my cravings that my sweet hubs has learned not to say anything as long as I’m within reason. (Even when I’m not, he’s learning to be careful.)

And finally, the reasons it’s not so great (I’ll gloss over these). They include: midnight trips to the bathroom, sleeping on my left side (my poor shoulder), moving at a snails pace, and being sleepy, forgetful, cranky, moody, achy, and suffering a wide array of digestion issues. The list goes on, but I'm told I’m “lucky” because at least I didn’t puke!!

What a Day.

Words you don't want to hear at the end of a LONG day at the spa:

"... 80 minute deep tissue massage... really big guy... plays for the Redskins... 6'-5".. 300lbs...
ALL MUSCLE..."

The word you say in your head after hearing those words:

Well... you can use your imagination. I guarantee I thought of them all. Nice guy, though.

...and by the way, I never did find the spider.

Did I park too close to that other car? "Perhaps," I thought the other day as I contorted my body to inch out of the driver's side door. But just how close is too close?


Well, I'll tell you what too close is. Too close is squeezing your way back to that door in the middle of the night only to bulldoze a spider web with your face. That, my friends, is too close.

Almost Fat Free. Almost.

Ingredients: sugar, partially defatted peanuts, partially hydrogenated soybean oil, dextrose, nonfat milk, yada yada yada…

_______________

I ate half of a pound of Reese's today (well worth my current stomach ache), and the whole time I kept wondering:

"Why bother to defat the peanuts and milk if they’re just going to partially hydrogenate the soybeans?"

Hmm....

Seeking the pure, uncontaminated truth? Just Ask Amy.

I love Amy. Amy Dickinson, that is. She is the wise and witty woman who pens the Ask Amy advice column each day for millions to ponder over their coffee and Grape Nuts (in my case the latter). If you've read some of her work, then you know this woman doesn't fool around. She sure knows a thing or two about common sense, and she'll point it out (in her own beautifully forward way) if you don't. I enjoy most of Amy's responses, and I imagine she has a lot of fun with her answers (in between eye rolls) as she often has a way of jabbing those who should know better. A prime example is her recent response to this overly germophobic grandmother*:

Dear Amy:

What is wrong with people? Don't they know anything about spreading germs?

We were in a restaurant with my son, his wife and my 6-month-old granddaughter, and this old man walks by and comments on how cute the baby is and then touches her on the face!

Then yesterday we were in another restaurant and the waitress touched the baby again and again on the face, on her bare head and on her hands every time she came to the table.

And then you know how the baby sticks her hands in her mouth, right? I know the waitress did not wash her hands and am sure she handled dirty dishes.

Okay. So I am germ-phobic, but I know that touching with the hands is a major source of spreading germs.

This is a little baby and is very susceptible to picking up colds and who knows what else from human-to-human contact! Please inform the general public to keep their hands off of my grandchild!

What do I have to do, put a sign on her?

-Hands Off Please

________________________

Dear Hands Off,

I share your concern. I am very worried for your granddaughter because, instead of being kept at home in her safety bubble where she belongs, she is evidently being taken to restaurants and out in public, where there are germs smeared on every surface and anyone can touch her at will.

I'm further worried because I'm not sure if you remembered to wash your hands after you touched the doorknob on your way out of the ladies room and again after you grasped your chair as you seated yourself at the table.

It is not polite for strangers to touch babies, not because they might spread germs but because even babies have a right to their autonomy and shouldn't be stroked without permission.

But really -- you do have a problem. You are both wrong and very unpleasant about this. I hope that your son and his wife can prevail upon you to lighten up and back off. Soon enough, your granddaughter will be crawling. If you think her current world is germy, then just wait until she decides to cut her teeth on her daddy's cellphone or on the dog's chew toy.

- Amy

*I’m taking this opportunity to ward of my husbands imminent claim that I’m a hand washing nazi. It’s true, I can’t stand having dirty hands, but I take comfort in knowing I’m not THIS bad.

The Suckiest Forward Ever

So I just got a foward from a friend the other day that I'm still fuming about. Maybe you've all received it before: the one about Asians eating stillborn babies? It comes complete with very realistic looking pictures of a man preparing, cooking and eating human fetuses. (I won't curse any of you with links to the pics, because they will haunt you. I'll let you look them up yourself if you're that curious, but I beg you to abstain.)

Anyway, the whole thing is horrible, and I'm pissed at the friend who sent it to me. Why would I want to see trash like that? The whole premise is a hoax, which is obvious if you do a little research*. And a little research is EXACTLY what one should do before passing along this kind of garbage.

I just sent my friend what I found out, not that it will make much of a difference. You can't do much to stop the sickos out there any more than you can the neurotic forwarders.

*The hoax is this: some sick bastard in China named Zhu Yu decided to put together a piece of performance art, most likely using animal and doll parts to resemble babies. He took pictures of himself eating this monstrosity and posted them all over the internet, calling it "art". This man should burn.