That La Kid

wishin' an' hopin'!

love stinks.

Guess what I got for Valentine’s Day?!

So, Bruce and I were laying in bed watching e-cards from Gran when I noticed his jammies were wet.  Oh no, so is the blanket.  Dammit, so is the mattress.  So, I scoop him up and change his diaper and plop him in the car seat.  I put the comforter in the wash, take off the sheets… I guess I could have spot cleaned, but I told you guys a long time ago that I hate dirty, nasty, pee pee, poo poo stuff.  On that note…

I did what I could to blot out the pee from the mattress without rubbing it in a whole lot.  I sprayed it with Resolve and just tried to work it out without working it in.  I’m content with my efforts, but will probably have Tom give it a go later anyway.

I grab Bruce.  Because the poor baby is just in a diaper, I head towards his room for clothes– is that poop?!  Did you poop in the diaper that I JUST put on you 5 seconds ago?!  You suck.

I don’t really stand at the changing table and wipe incessantly when he poops.  They’re squishy and slimy, so I dunk him in the sink.  Usually Bruce sits under the running water of the faucet.  Tom thinks it’s weird.  But a little soap and water, BOOM, we’re done.

So, we’re in the sink, loving our mini-bath/bidet.  Thank goodness it wasn’t a whole heck of a lot of poop– AHHH!  What is that?!  Pooping.  In the sink.  Great.  Okay.  Swell.

I’ve got no problem with it until I realize that unlike it’s Bruce-butt-smashed counterpart, diaper poop, sink poop does not go down the sink.  No.  It clogs that sucker right up.

So, now the water is running, Bruce is sitting in a bath of his own yellow poop, and I’m up to my elbows in it, frantically trying to wipe the poop out of the drain with a wipe — because EW, poop! — and geez, I guess it would help if I turn the water off.

FINALLY, I get the drain cleared, and wipe the sink clean and resume soaping Bruce up under the faucet.  What a nightmare that was!  Wait until everyone hears!  Wait until I tell Tom!  Tom is going to think this is so funny!

Man… I don’t think I have ever had this much residue on me.  It’s still all over his butt despite all that rinsing– oh.  That would be because HE IS POOPING AGAIN. 

Filled the sink.  Twice.

Happy Valentine’s Day, everybody!  Enjoy your chocolates!

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a day that sucked

We walked away from that whole thing looking like the idiots… but I’m getting ahead of myself.  Maybe this should be a “you suuuck” post.

I didn’t sleep at all last night.  Thirty minutes, maybe.  Bruce literally kept me up all night.

Bruce had a follow-up appointment scheduled today about his butt.  You know, that whole thing at Levine?  They made an appointment to make sure everything healed up alright.  We didn’t schedule the appointment, they made it for us at the hospital.  We just did what we were told.  (And in hindsight, this whole Obamacare thing scares me even more.)  We already had an appointment scheduled for his 2 month check-up, happens to be tomorrow, at Providence Pediatrics, Bruce’s regular doctors.  They made this appointment in addition.  Okay, we thought, the doctor wants to follow-up.  Makes sense.  Dr. Wolanski was the same way with my c-section.  Bruce’s very first pediatrician in Virginia wanted to see him a couple of days after we left the hospital to check his weight and jaundice.  ANYWAY… we did what we were told, and what we assumed was the right thing, the best thing, for Bruce.

So, we get there and parking is ri-goll-darned-diculous.  There’s a garage, but not a lot of spaces and it’s just complicated.  Our appointment note said to arrive 20 minutes early, but we got there right on time.  As soon as we walked in I felt weird.  Why do so many people in here speak spanish?  ::Shrug::  Didn’t think much of it.  Tom went to registration, I took Bruce in his car seat and sat down with my back to the majority of the huge waiting room.  They asked for his parking pass and insurance card.

Tom came and sat down and the lady at the desk called him back after a minute or so.  Tom came back and had me lean in so he could whisper.  I forget his exact words, but he said that the lady said Bruce was kind of a special case, and most of the people there didn’t have healthcare.

GEE.  YA’ DON’T SAY.

Tom was like, “how did you know?”  I said, “well, look around.”  I’m not saying anything about anybody – just that it was just a rough crowd.  We sat in the waiting room for about an hour and a half, then in a patient room for another 30 minutes or so.  They asked if we had a recent height and weight.  Uh… you’re the nurse.  Aren’t you supposed to get that?

We saw the doctors and they were asking lots of leading questions.  Kind of coming at us with a, “so, what are you doing here?” attitude.  To which we responded with a kind of, “you asked us to come,” attitude.  It was kind of awkward.  At some point Tom said that we were just following up after the surgery, and they said that everything looks great.  Something like 10-30% of these things reoccur.  It was 30 seconds, “Hi, how are you? Let’s get a look.  Looks fine. Any questions?  You’re free to go.”  The doctor didn’t even shut the door behind him when he left.  Typically they let us know when we should come back and tell us to take our time if we need to feed or change Bruce.  There was none of that.  Just, “we’re done. Get out.”  Really awkward, really weird.

It’s stupid.  We were already scheduled to see his regular doctor the next day.  We thought we were seeing the surgeon, not just some random guy.  Bruce’s regular M.D. could have looked at his butt crack and said, “Everything looks fine.”  And we wouldn’t have had to wait 2 hours – on top of having to visit another doctor the very next day.

It’s all coming together.  We had to twist some arms to get them to send a hospital billing rep to our room when we were trying to check out of the hospital.  I guess they just assumed we had no insurance when they made the appointment because we hadn’t filed it yet.

We just looked so dumb.  And it was dumb.  We were taking valuable time away from poor people when we have a perfectly good doctor that we are scheduled to see in our fancy-schmancy Ballantyne area tomorrow anyway.  We trekked all the way to Uptown, struggled with parking, waited 2 hours, and then got WTF looks from everyone JUST for a lesson on sociology and economics.

Stupid.

They called Tom this afternoon, reiterated that CSC was a clinic, and didn’t know how to process his insurance.  LISTEN.  YOU GUYS told US to come there.  WORK IT OUT.

What was the point in asking us to get there early?  We really should have gotten there at 7:15 for our 8:45 appointment.  Who makes that big of a mistake?  How do you book someone an appointment at a free clinic without even asking them?  Why the heck wouldn’t we do a post-surgery follow-up with THE SURGEON?  I guess that’s a tough question to ask.  I guess they don’t want to call it the clinic because of the associated stigma.  Guess what, we didn’t have time to spend TWO HOURS in a free-clinic waiting room because Tom’s insurance-paying-self had A JOB to get to!  Got to get to work so he can pay those premiums, so we can sit in our South Charlotte waiting room for 15 minutes instead.

Ridiculous.

They had nothing to do with the surgery.  It’s just a regular pediatrics office.  What we did there we could have done anywhere!  We could have done that TOMORROW at our nice, cushy, local, regular pediatric office!  We are going there anyway!

http://www.snogglenews.com/shows/sunny/s01e02 Go to 05:10 and watch until about 06:30.

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levine children’s hospital

I wrote Tom a note recounting our brief stay at Levine Children’s Hospital earlier this month.  I wrote it almost as soon as we got home because I didn’t want to risk forgetting things like I did when Bruce was born.  I’ve recounted his birth story with all the details more or less in tact, it just would have been nice to have the sheer emotion that we experienced in writing.

So, here are tidbits from a letter that I wrote Tom dated Friday, November 16.

Read the rest of this entry »

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enter the dragon

I feel bad.  I should be posting daily about each cute and perfect thing my new son, Bruce, does each day.  I’ve just had this daunting task of recounting his birth story looming over me, and I know it’s a long story and a lot to sit down and write, so I’ve been procrastinating.  It’s also really, really important so I feel guilty for not typing it up right away.  I did try in the hospital, I just could never get Tom to hand me the laptop.

I don’t know where to start.  Where did I leave off?  Oh, right… a terrified, anxious, scared little girl.  How can I have a kid?  I AM a kid.  I want my husband to myself… mehhhh.

On Sunday night, our last night of freedom, Tom and I went to see Finding Nemo in 3D.  It was really good.  I mean, it was well-done in 3D and it’s just a good movie, period.  It’s almost like we were supposed to see that movie that night.  It’s almost like it was destiny.  We spent 80 minutes watching a father love his son, you know?  It might be the most important movie I’ll ever see in my life.  I walked out of the theater and told Tom, “I think I can do this.”

I didn’t sleep at all on Sunday night.  We went to bed at around 12, and I woke up at about 3:30 tossing and turning.  Our plan was to be up at 5 and at the hospital by 6.  I kept trying to slide back into sleep mode and claim those precious few minutes, but I never did.

We got to the hospital around 6:05, or 6:10 or something.  They showed us to our room, 3048.  I changed into my hospital gown.  Someone came in and took blood samples and someone else hooked me up to an IV.  Mom, Dad and Lindsay came around 8 I think.

Surgery was supposed to be at 7:45, but I got pushed back because of an emergency that someone else was having.  I don’t remember waiting very long.  The wait time flew by.  I want to say they took me back around 8:45.

You know I was a wreck during the pregnancy.  That all culminated on Monday morning, right before surgery, with me not being very nice to Grandma.  No joke, it was so awful that she was about to leave 5 minutes before they took me into the operating room.  Leave.  Like, that’s it… and she’d go and I’d just go back into surgery and she wouldn’t be there.  Okay, honestly, I ruined it.  I took this beautiful moment, you know, all the excitement of getting ready to have a baby and basically made everyone in the room upset.  I’m, like, the best at being the WORST.  Everyone was worked up.

Then they came to collect me for surgery.

It was a complete disaster.

The doctors were fantastic.  It’s the patient that was a train wreck – all worked up.  Everything went by so fast.  I just kept crying and wishing I could take it all back.  I wasn’t at all focused on the fact that I was having a baby.  I was just thinking of that f-bomb that I dropped.  I was totally and completely out of it.  Depressed.  It was almost an out-of-body experience.  I kept looking at myself, and telling myself to get my head in the game.  It was like the halls and rooms were whizzing by and I couldn’t keep up.  Everyone was talking.  Everyone was telling me to do something.

I walked down to the OR with the nurse.  Tom was close behind us trying to put on his moon suit and walk at the same time, but they made him wait outside for the spinal block anyway.

I sat on the table and was surrounded by happy, friendly people, but I just cried like a little baby.  I was losing it.  I sat on the operating table leaning forward, hunched over so the anesthesiologist could get the needle in my spine.  I didn’t realize how distracted I was until the nurse said, “calm down, just take a deep breath and relax.”  I did.  I laid down on the table.  I couldn’t feel my legs.  Am I having a baby?  Is this happening?  I was crying like I couldn’t catch my breath.  I can’t do this.  I felt so bad… like… knives in my eyes.  What had I done?

They brought Tom in.  Oh, sweet, wonderful, familiar Tom.

He was cute as hell in his cap, space suit, mask and booties.  He sat on my right side, held my hand and stroked my hair.

I just remember that it hurt.  Not like, “you’ll feel some pressure,” but like, cutting.  It hurt.  I was wincing.  Honestly, it was like i could feel them pulling the baby down from under my ribs.  I was numb to a certain height, but above that I still felt feelings… and it didn’t feel good at all.

Someone said, “Dad, you can take pictures.”  It was all happening really fast, like an oncoming train that I couldn’t escape.  Take pictures?  Pictures of what?  Baby?  Already?!  I am not ready to be a mom…  We thought we could only take pictures on the non-surgery side of the sheet.  Tom asked if he was allowed to take pictures of the surgery side, and the doctors said they didn’t mind 1 or 2.

 

I heard, “Alright, 9:06.”  Before I knew it, they were saying, “There he is!  That’s your son!”  I saw him sitting on a table past Tom.  He looked like an old Chinese man.  Great.  An ugly baby.  I told Tom to take his picture.

 

I felt sick.

Tom told Dr. Mathis, who was monitoring things by my head.  I felt like I was going to throw up.  My stomach was in knots.  I asked Dr. Mathis what to do – he said if I was going to do it, turn to the left.  I did, and I did.  He put a pink bowl by my face.  I was crying, wincing and hurting as they moved higher up my body pulling and tugging at stuff.  Dr. Mathis said, “I’m going to ask you to stop for a second,” to Dr. Wolanski.  Oh my gosh I was so sick…  Crying and nervous and just physically ill… violently ill.

He gave me something for the nausea and some morphine and we waited a minute.  I thought it was a quick second, Tom said it was about 5 minutes.  They kept asking if it was better, and when I finally said okay, they let Dr. Wolanski continue.

Someone said, “look to your left.”  I looked to my right first, at Tom, then to my left.

 

I saw the most beautiful little pink face… teeny-tiny, sweet, soft, perfect little face.  It was the most amazing thing that I’ve ever laid eyes on.

 

NOT AN UGLY BABY!

Everything else melted away.  They took him away to go take care of all the stuff they do to newborns.  They told Tom to come with them, but he asked if it would be okay if he stayed with me.  No one minded.  I was so relieved.  He continued holding my hand and rubbing his hand on my head.  Everything was going to be okay.

They lifted me onto another bed and carted me down to recovery and brought the baby in.  We tried nursing, but mostly we just held our little boy and spent the first two hours or so of his life getting to know each other a little bit.

 

 

When we made it back to our room, all that tension had melted away, too.

Everything feels so perfect.  It’s been two weeks and it still feels perfect… like this is how it was supposed to be all along.

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cloudy: another rant

I read somewhere that artists are prone to being over-sensitive and depressed.  ::shrug::  I don’t know… I guess it’s just one of those days.  I’m apprehensive about everything that motherhood entails.  I’m making mountains out of molehills.  Tom asked me today, “what’s wrong?”  And I said something about a college fund.

I just can’t seem to get my head on straight.

I feel bad for letting people down, for not being giddy all the time.  I was already a worrier, already anxious.  Now there’s all this extra hormonal stuff going on… I feel out of it.  I feel like a disappointment.  I feel like everyone’s stoked about the fact that there’s going to be a baby in the family, but they’re also kind of bummed because it’s mine.  (Someone very hateful actually told me once, years ago, that she feels sorry for my future off-spring because they’ll have me for a mom… I try not to think about it, and to consider the source, but it’s still pretty painful all these years later.)

So, then… do I say something?  Do I talk about my feelings?  Because my feelings are wrong.  Most people, I don’t know, they just don’t understand what I could possibly be complaining about.  How can I possibly be sad now?!

I don’t know.  I just am.  I don’t even feel completely comfortable writing this because I’m afraid of the fallout.  I should just write about my awesome visit with Dr. Wolanski on Friday and happy things that people actually want to read about.  Sunshine.  Lollipops.  Glitter.  Rainbows.  Why am I so weird?  Why is all the happiness tempered with this overwhelming anxiety?  I don’t know what I want.  I just want to be honest and say I don’t feel good.  This is my blog, dammit, and I’m going to tell you the truth about my feelings.

I want to be like Lindsay and Trudy.  Outgoing, life of the party, happy, hilarious… FUN TO BE AROUND.  Why am I stuck being me?!  It suuuuucks.  Cynical.  Sarcastic.  Downright mean sometimes.  I think I’m being funny and people are like, “what the h*ll is the matter with you?”  I’m not trying to be mean!  I was telling Dad and Haley at dinner at Outback the other night that I wanted a birthday re-do and was going to tell the waitress that my birthday was a bad night and they were like, “you don’t have to be a jerk about it.”  And I said, “I’m not!”  But they were both like, “actually… you are.”

I’m not calling you out, Haley (or Dad, although he has probably never read any of these entries).  It was unanimous around the table that I was harsh.  I had no idea.

I mean, I’m starting to think that I have no redeeming qualities except a functioning reproductive system.  But I can’t make people like me.

I’m not outgoing and fun to be around, I guess… I’m just not, but I’ve got other stuff going for me.  I’m smart.  Ask me anything about Disney – I can tell you anything you want to know.  I can paint.  I am crafty.  I can organize the sh*t out of an art closet.  I don’t do much of anything unless my whole heart is in it.  I’m thoughtful and compassionate… and despite how Dad, Haley and Tom felt about my little monologue at Outback, I’m very sweet.  I was nice to the waitress, and for me there was no discernible difference between the way I said it to them and the way I said it to her.

While we’re on the subject of who I am and what I stand for, I’m sincere… not judgmental.  I’d like to think if I’m telling you something, something important, if I’m going out on that limb coming into your life trying to rebuke and admonish or even just connect, that you’d understand how much I care about you and that I thought we had that kind of deep relationship.  I thought I could come to you with anything and everything.  You think it’s easy to waltz right up to someone and say, “you’re doing it wrong?”  No way man… that takes a lot of freakin’ guts!  God’s put some stuff on my heart, things that cause me worry and anxiety, things that I want to share with you and you think I’m just being critical – just looking down my nose and judging you.

Nothing happened!  I mean… I’m not talking about a recent event – so cool your jets – I’m just saying people look at me and think I’m judging them.  I get that a lot.  I’m not over here in silence staring you up and down criticizing your life choices.  I don’t talk because I’m shy.  Bottom line.  I’m wishing I could be more like you, over there having fun and doing your thing.  I’m shy and I hate it.

If it’s important, like Richard Sherman is just standing by himself on the deck of the Disney Wonder, or Jim Korkis (great guy!) is sitting alone right in front of me in the Walt Disney Theater, or I run into Virginia Davis in a hallway, then I am going to make a move.  If it’s important, like I’m worried about you, or I feel like we are growing apart, then that’s a move I have to make as well.  Not easy.

I woke up early today and didn’t have breakfast even though I know I need to check my blood sugar.  Sometimes I sleep in and miss breakfast… but today I was up early and everything and STILL skipped it.

It still hasn’t set in that there is a person inside me.  I know he’s there, he’s moving.  If he’s born today, he’ll be full-term and he will live.  It’s important for me to say that to myself.  He is alive.  He will live.  Even now, I find myself saying to myself, “well, barring any unforeseen circumstance,” but, I mean, I’ve got to stop that.  It’s a habit that I got into as we dealt with infertility.  Cautious optimism.  I want to be happy, but I can’t get too happy, because there’s always the chance I will find myself on the floor in the fetal position begging God for answers.  Again.

I guess if you care about me and are reading this, it’s important that you see that.  You know?  The weak moment.  Maybe it’ll help you understand the weirdness, and why I am not just straight-up happy.  He kicks me all day, but you’re much more likely to believe he’s really there than I am.  Part of me can’t understand that we made a baby and won’t trust it until the thing is in my arms.

In my arms.

Really… he will live.  He’ll eat.  He’ll sleep.  He’ll poop.  He’ll cry.  And he’ll start kindergarten, and he’ll do wushu with his dad, and we’ll ride Winnie the Pooh and Dumbo at Disney World, and he’ll wear hats and sunglasses, and he’ll throw a baseball through a window then lie about it, and he’ll place in the science fair, and he’ll spend summers working in the restaurant and learning Chinese, and his grandparents will take him to visit distant cousins, and his grandparents will take him on Disney Cruises, and we’ll give him charging privileges on his Key to the World card and he’ll buy way too much, and he’ll keep an eye on his little sister and fight with her and say, “that’s not fair,” and he’ll go to band camp, and he’ll graduate high school, and he’ll go to college, and he’ll meet a girl, and I’ll wonder who the h*ll she thinks she is…

But he will live.  He will.

From way back: “Impression: Single living intrauterine pregnancy.  No complications noted.”

You know what really makes me mad… I can’t find my ankle bones.  My feet are that swollen.

I wish I had a picture with Jim Korkis.  I have pictures OF him.  We met at the Disney Institute when I was 15, then became Pen Pals after I saw him on the Disney Cruise in 2003.  He even took Courtney and I around Epcot one day.  Really awesome, awesome guy.

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exactly what i’ve said all along!

I just read this hilarious article…  Oh my gosh, who was I talking about this with?  Haley?  Tom? It reminds me of the names on “Toddlers & Tiaras”: Teeghan, Zander, Aishlynn, Brittannie…  I find them completely insufferable.

This is what I have been saying for 9 months!

“Every parent now wants every child to be unique and special from the moment the doctor wipes all the amniotic fluid off of it…  There’s a bizarre assumption that if you can make your child’s name unique, the child will be unique.  And that’s NEVER the case.”

Read the article, it’s dead-on: Baby Names Getting Even Worse.

Guess what?  Your kid can be special with a plain old generic name. In fact, the most awesome person I know – probably my very favorite person – has a plain old generic name: Thomas.

IT DON’T GET MORE AWESOME THAN THAT, FOLKS!

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asian time

Tom has a tendency to run his life on something his best friend Nathan calls “Asian time.”  Basically, it means if he has to be someplace at 7 o’clock, he leaves the house at 7 o’clock.  I’m not sure if this actually has anything to do with being Asian.

I, on the other hand, cannot stand being late.  I think I was traumatized in my youth by choruses of, “well, look who finally decided to grace us with their presence” when we’d have to run from one family’s Christmas to the other.  I don’t know why – but we were always late to everything.  Fifteen minutes late to church, like clockwork – every week.  You’d think that we would have just started waking up 15 minutes earlier.  Nope.

I don’t like close calls!

I’m nervous the shower will fall into Asian time.  (Sounds so racist, we really should come up with another name for it.)

We have 2 weeks until the baby shower.  There is one weekend in between.  In those two weeks:

  • We need to buy bedroom furniture for the grandparents’ bedroom downstairs.
  • We need to have that room painted or paint it ourselves.
  • We need to unpack.
  • The Target registry is almost entirely online-only items.  So, do I wait until the shower to see what we get?  Shipping takes a while, so we’ll have to order what we don’t get and pray it gets delivered before our boy does.
  • I’ve got to buy some newborn size diapers.  (Cloth or otherwise.)
  • If I get newborn cloth diapers, I have to wash and dry them about 10 times BEFORE we put them on Jr.’s butt to increase the absorbency to full capacity.
  • My dad needs to hang my Mickey Mouse chandelier and move the light switch in the Bonus Room.  And we need to patch and paint the spot where the switch is now.
  • Tom’s Uncle Larry is coming to stay with us during the Democratic National Convention, the week leading up to the shower.
  • Pick out, figure out how to pay for, and purchase the most awesome rocking chair I can find.  (Special gift from my Baby-Daddy.)
  • Pack for a month in Charlottesville.

So, I.  AM.  PANICKED.

…to say the least.  I reckon I should go unpack instead of writing a whiny blog.

The planner in me is like, you can’t just do this on Asian time.  But… there is a little half-Asian boy inside me that is doing EVERYTHING on at least half-Asian time.

We are really doing this.  In about a month, I WILL HAVE A FREAKING BABY.

Hooooooooly cow.

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lately

It’s been a busy couple of weeks.  No progress on Little Happy’s room or anything.  At this point we’re just trying to get out of the old house.  We’ve got one week.

It’s been a rough few days.

We bought a house, closed on 7/27 and have to be moved out of our rental by 8/18.

I don’t have gestational diabetes per se… but my numbers are elevated.  So I’m diligently trying to figure that whole mess out.

Tom went to Dallas last Thursday and Friday, so in addition to be pregnant and having to work on the old house by myself, I was super-duper depressed at being alone.  There’s nothing in the new house to eat.  So, I had to go to the store.  Everyone I know who has a pet can just walk out the door and go to the store.  Not us.  We have to dog-proof the whole house.  Close all the doors to all the bedrooms…  Put boxes on the couch so she doesn’t jump up there and cover it in fur…  Move anything that’s edible higher than 5 feet off the floor…  It’s exhausting.  I just want to be able to go to the freaking store without having to turn my pantry into Fort Knox.  I just want things to be easy.  I just want my life to be simple!

So.  I put the dog in the garage.  I prayed she wouldn’t crap in the garage – because I’m still nauseous all the time and didn’t want her sh*t to make me throw up.  Still, I bought clothespins at Walmart so I could put one on my nose if she did poop and figured we could use them at the baby shower.

It started raining when I went into Walmart, when I was ready to leave it was a gosh-darned MONSOON.  I got soaked, despite the umbrella (“…big ol’ fat rain.  Rain that flew in sideways…”)  I looked like a drowned rat.  Aaaand I slipped in the parking lot.  Stubbed my toe.  I’ll live.  My super-long second toe kind of folded and saved the rest of me from going down, but it got cut pretty bad and hurts like a mug.  Added injury to the insult of being soaking wet, and lonely, and sad, and frantic about Jasmine.

At home, of course there was sh*t in the garage, which infuriated me.  Of course.  Just because I DID NOT NEED THAT IN MY LIFE AT THAT MOMENT.  So, okay… fine.  I can pick up poop.  I mean.  I’m having a baby.  Me an’ poop are about to get real friendly.

But geeeeeez… do I hate dog poop.

So, I open the clothespins and they don’t fit on my GIGANTIC, HUGE, ENORMOUS, TITANIC nose.

I stuffed a paper towel up my schnoz and picked up the crap, put it in a bag and cracked the garage door so I could throw it out on to the driveway and throw it away when it’s not raining cats and dogs.  Oh!  And speaking of rain/dogs… Jasmine decides she’s out.  She’s gon’ bounce.  She peacin’.  So, she runs out of the garage into the rain.  Nice little plus.  Like my evening wasn’t already awesome… now I get to go find a wet dog.

JASMINE!  WHY YOU SO DUMB!  WHY YOU RUN OUT INTO STORM!

I don’t get it.  I’ll be damned if I’m going out there.  I yelled and she came back.  I yelled at her to stay and went inside to get a cup of water the flush out the pee that she also made for me while I was gone.  Come back out – she’s gone again.

SUNNUVA!

I called her again and she came back.  WTF, Jasmine?!  It. Is. RAINING.  Stay in the garage… if for no other reason, because I JUST told you to.

WHY YOU SO DUMB?!

This happened every time I went in to get another cup of water.  By the time the pee was flushed out into the rain I was ready to just shut the door and leave Jasmine out there.  I didn’t.  I called her back into the garage from wherever the heck she was.  I stood by her bowl and watched her eat the food that had been there since I left.  (If you don’t know this dog, she loves to eat.  We pour the food at dinner time, she eats it.  Interesting, huh?  Leave her in the house and she will eat anything within those 5 feet of ground level.  Leave her in the garage with a full bowl of food and she doesn’t touch it.)  Poured her some water.  Stood there while she drank it.  Went in the house, told her to get the F away from me, and I finally got to eat something.  Finally.  Sat in the kitchen and cried and ate “dinner,” a Lean Cuisine.

I was beginning to think Tom had forgotten about his wife.  It was about midnight, Texas time.  So… clearly he’s having more fun than I was.  Whatever.  I’m going to bed… Jasmine was finally dry, but I didn’t want her near me and she knew it.  She got as close as she thought she could safely, which was the landing halfway up the stairs and eventually outside my bedroom door.

Tom called at about the same moment I gave up on him.

Maybe none of it is a big deal, but I FEEL depressed.  So, I FEEL like it’s a nightmare.

Tom got home and we decided that we’re never doing that again.  Ever.  That was stupid.  Lil’ Happy and I are going next year.

The screen on my laptop, my only means of communication with the outside world, went black on Tom’s first day away – JUST as I was opening photoshop to create Baby Shower invitations.  I also have someone WAITING for me on Etsy, and no way to create a listing.  Our shower leaks.  The washing machine stopped working.  The ceiling fan and light in our bedroom turn on and off at random.  And oh yeah, we have a house to move out of.  Oh yeah, and my nose is huge.

Friday night – Tom was finally home!  I met him at the door.  It was like in the movies where they guy has been over seas fighting Nazis for 9 months.  We just wanted to be together.  We drove to get food at 11:30 – not because we were hungry, but because we wanted to drive around and talk and just be together.  Took the Holy Terror with us.  Got home and Tom showed me cupcakes! And presents! We were in bed around 12:30.

At about 1:30 am, his phone starts going off and we both thought it was the alarm.  We were supposed to leave early to go to Virginia.  It wasn’t the alarm, it was the neighbor that lives by the old house.  She said some kid told her he thought our house was robbed.  We got dressed, loaded Jasmine up in the truck that was full of stuff from me moving earlier that day and went to the old house.  The cops were there.  They said the back door was open.  Great.  We went in the front door.  The cop was like, “alright – what’s missing?”  “Nothing.  It looks just as it did when I left this evening.”

Turns out, they had parked the getaway car in front of our house, broke in to a house about 5 houses down and ran behind all the houses in-between with the goods.  But it wasn’t us.  It’s like Tom’s back home and all is right with the world.  Nothing is a big deal.  Everything’s okay.

We were up late.

We went to Virginia for a glorious wedding – but traveling is always tough anyway.  I’ve got this gestational diabetes problem and it’s been tough to find good nutritious food on the road.  Anyway.  Being on the road is just an extra stressor on the existing list of crap that’s going on.  We were both tired from the night before.

It was a whoooole weekend that we weren’t moving.

It was a great weekend.  Great wedding.  Great day at Busch Gardens – although I could not ride a damn thing.

I take that back, I rode the carousel.  Everything else was either too dangerous or part of the Sesame Street Forest of Fun.

As if my list of whiny complaints wasn’t long enough, at the wedding a friend of mine pointed out that my voice is suddenly very deep.  Yes, it is.  Thank you.  I actually find it quite devastating.  Huge nose… growing a beard… voice of Gaston… wedding band doesn’t fit… yes… pregnancy is AWESOME.

Side note: this sounds like me, http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC1770619/, I’d love to know other peoples’ opinions on the subject.  People on various message boards claim the nose thing will go away after I have the baby, but the deep voice bit sounds like a legit issue (that will resolve itself eventually, but an issue nonetheless).  All the stuff about the ovaries sounds like me… just sayin’.  Look at it.

So… yeah.  That’s what’s happening down here.  I’m just kind of waiting for this pregnancy thing to get fun.  At first, I figured it was lame because I was waiting until after my cousin’s wedding to make a big deal about it.  But here it is a month later and I’m still miserable.  I don’t feel special!  I’m not glowing!  I’m just… kind of… blubbering.  I’m tired.  I’m fat.  I’m sad.  Projects are not getting done.  The house is a mess.  I was looking forward to the baby shower because that’ll be fun… show off my new house, you know?  But like, people have a problem with it because I want it to be at my house in Charlotte.  That’s really getting to me for some reason… like, making them unhappy is completely filling me with anxiety and irritability.  There really just aren’t words to express my feelings about that.  I can’t imagine any of the complainers being like, “oh – you know what, I’m going to have my baby 4 hours from home because that’ll be easier on Wendy,” but that’s what I’m doing for them.  (Not just for them, I like the doctor, too – but if you ask, “wow, why are you having the baby in Cville?”  First thing out of my mouth is, “Well, my whole family is there.”)  And they can’t come here, to my home for a shower, so I can nest for one f*cking minute before I have to move to Charlottesville for a month – away from Tom, and we’ve seen how well that worked out – and live as a guest, out of a suitcase while I have this baby?!

Buuuuut…. trying to be optimistic.  I don’t know.  Trying.  Sorry if you wanted a fluffy entry about magic baby fairy dust.  Tom makes me feel better.  We tried for so long.  This is our little miracle.  I’m hoping it’ll be a whole different story when he emerges from… my… gosh… I do not want to think about that right now.

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fffffffffffffppptttttttt

Last night I dreamed that my water broke, but I wasn’t positive if it was really happening.  It was just kind of trickling out.  Mom, Trudy, Lindsay and Sunny would not take me to the hospital until after they showed Haley the great pizza restaurant with the amazing salad dressing.  We did a lot of walking through tall grass to try and find the place.

Yeah.  That’s all I’ve got.  I’m as lost as you are.  What pizza restaurant?  No idea.

I don’t like close calls.  “To be early is to be on time.”  I feel like they were thinking labor takes a while – we’ve got time.  But for me, it wasn’t about having time… it was about amniotic fluid dripping down my leg.  Can my baby live without that?  Since when is salad dressing more important than– actually, you know what?  Haley doesn’t even LIKE dressing on her salad!

All of these things that once seemed far off are rapidly approaching.  Tomorrow, we are doing a final walk-through of the house and then on Friday we’re closing!  Tom already had the power and water changed to our names as of Friday.  So, on Friday night we’re ordering pizza and watching the Olympics on the floor in our new living room.

Time to buy the kid a dresser!  Time to do the baby’s room!  Time to pack up and get out of here!  Time to move again… and not move again for 10+ years!

One thing I am preoccupied with is hooks.  I want to get little hooks to hang on the wall near his dresser or changing table.  Do not ask me why.  But this morning, after I recovered from the WTF dream, I was like, “Today’s Wednesday!  We close on Friday!  I need to buy hooks!”

My favorite place in Charlotte is closing… so I am going to bring this to an abrupt end to go paint some pottery at Our Pottery Paintin’ Place.  They are citing the economy.  I hate to hear that.  I really wish the owner was retiring to the Bahamas or something.

Here’s my work in progress:

Image

I feel like this whole post was a brain fart.

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escape!

Haley has said that she’d like to be a fly on the wall inside my head at night while I’m dreaming.  I wouldn’t recommend this, as it tends to be a scary, scary place in there.  Last night…

It started off innocently enough.  The first thing that I remember is watching a marching band practice.  They were a small band, but they were really good.  I went to find people, like maybe my Dad, and bring ’em back to see this awesome band.

The next thing I remember, we were in a huge stadium watching a football game.  I couldn’t tell you if it was high school or college, but the facility was enormous.  I was being chased, or trying to escape.  There were some terrorists running around that were trying to gather up people and kill them, and apparently I was on their list.  I slid down the banister and ended up right beside Leslie Jones (who is now Leslie Guettler).  I said hi, I think, and kept on running.

I ended up escaping the stadium and running down a long sandy, dirt road.  I followed a few people out, but somehow ended up on the wrong road.  They were uphill from me, all together.  I was down on a lower road alone with (I want to say) Matt Baysinger and the terrorists.  They were coming up on us fast, so we fought.  I don’t remember Matt doing much.  I feel like he ran.  I tried to run, and when I got stopped I clawed my way out.  I was hitting the terrorist with my book bag, and at one point I jammed my finger deep into an eye socket.

Back at the stadium, trying to get to that upper road, I ran into Leslie again.  (I am always sliding down hand railings in this dream – trying to get UP… you’d think I’d walk UP the stairs.)  I told her she had to help us escape.  She’s got to get us out of here.

You’d think she’d help us escape by car – and maybe that’s how it started.  All I remember was getting off of a bus at The Disney Store. It looks a lot like an updated Barracks Rd.  Matt, Dad, and I got off the bus.  Leslie seemed unsure about whether to get off the bus or go back to the stadium.  I grabbed her bag and said, “just come with us.”

Finding the entrance to the store was tough.  We had to enter through the chapel, because there was a lot of construction.  The Disney Chapel was interesting to say the least.  I meandered around there while I waited for Leslie to come in.  The walls were blue, there were characters everywhere, and the pews were bright pink.  There was a really high tech clock that hung from the center of the room like a chandelier.  It was digital, and told the day of the week as well as the time.  It had the Little Mermaid on it.

Leslie is slow getting into building, but when she realizes a complete stranger (my dad) walked off with her kid, she moves through the room quickly.  She wasn’t really upset, she just doesn’t know my Dad and wanted to make sure Gabrielle is alright.  I followed her out of the chapel and into the store.

We find Dad talking to Gabrielle, who is running in and out of playhouses.  Dad says, “Get him! Get him!”  My cousin Adam is inside a  playhouse full of balls and Gabrielle is tickling him, so we all tickle him.

What are the odds of running into him here.  “What are you doing here?” He said Ashley sent him to buy this Jeopardy toy that you can’t get online anymore.  It’s sold out, rare, limited edition… really fancy… you get the drift.

I introduce Adam to Matt and Leslie.  I tell him Leslie sat beside me at my high school graduation.  Matt immediately begins hitting on Leslie.  “So, uh, when did you graduate?” he asks her.

First of all, Matt, she’s married.  Secondly, she graduated with me – and I graduated with you.  That’s the cool thing about our friendship – I thought you knew that.  Reggie graduated (I want to say) in 1989, Tom ’99, but you and me, we graduated together in ’01.  I was irritated that he forgot about that.

Trying to do the math woke me up.

So, see.  Some crazy schtuff goes on inside my head in the middle of the night.  I guess it’s entertaining, but if you’re in there as a fly on the wall just watching instead of helping me fight terrorists, we’re going to have words come morning.  I’d love to know why my brain picks who it picks to hang out with at night.  Very interesting.

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