I either have 2-3 teeth that need root canals or I have a cyst forming on my lower jaw bone. Each root canal costs $580 and needs to be paid in full - in advance. Did I mention that I don't have dental insurance? That thought keeps coming into my mind because as of two months ago, I did have it. 23 months ago (9 months + 14 months = 23 months), I didn't have dental insurance and only paid for half of a root canal. I never finished it because I left New Hampshire and moved to Texas, where I took on the, "Pregnant in Texas" moniker.
The infection in my mouth has now spread to all of the "vulnerable" areas (i.e. teeth with previous fillings). I'm back on amoxicillin and for those that may not remember (3/16/05) how I got pregnant, well, let's just say that it involved more of the same kind of medication. Just for grins and giggles, I checked that little folded up piece of paper that the pharmacist and drug manufacturers slip into the bag with your prescription. Here is what is listed under "Drug Interactions" for amoxicillin:
"This medication may decrease the effectiveness of combination-type birth control pills. This can result in pregnancy. You may need to use an additoinal form of reliable birth control while using this medication. Consult your doctor or pharmacist for details."
That's fun. Thanks for the warning.
Showing posts with label Wandering Womb. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Wandering Womb. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Monday, July 04, 2005
Thursday, June 30, 2005
6/30
Well, one of my daily reads just had his beautiful babies. Jay and Jazz had twins, one boy and one girl. Benjamin (5 pounds and change) and Olivia (4 pounds and change) were born vaginally on June 29th and both babies and Mom is reportedly doing well.
After looking at the amazing picture of the two munchkins, I couldn't help but adding the two birth weights together and thinking that my giant baby might outweigh these two babies combined. Ha! Beat that. Maybe there is a bumper sticker somewhere that says, "My baby can kick your baby's ass" I would put that on my car. Definately.
However, I don't want to make national news just for giving birth. The "Big Enchilada" baby born in Wisconsin is giving large babies a bad name. The woman was 47 cm from pubic bone to sternum when she gave birth to her 13 pound, 11 ounce baby. Just for reference, I found out today at my OB-GYN appointment that I'm 42 cms and still growing. The doc and I decided that she would induce labor sometime next week for the health of everyone involved. Unfortunately, my cervix is still closed and the baby hasn't dropped further into my pelvis. With this set of conditions, it is highly likely that after laboring for 24-48 hours, I might end up in the operating room with a C-section. At least I get a fighting chance to have Peanut vaginally.
I also found out that the numbness and tingling in my arms and hands is a form of pregnancy-induced carpal tunnel syndrome. Basically, my entire body has swollen to capacity and now the pressure of the baby is starting to cut off nerve endings in my upper torso. If that isn't a good enough reason to use two kinds of birth control before every sexual act, you might be insane.
Maybe I'll start going into low-income high schools and community colleges with a "Scared Straight" message. Instead of scaring kids off crime, I'll scare them out of having unprotected sex. I'll show them every stretch mark on my body and my swollen, purple feet. I'll tell them about how the FOB won't return my phone calls anymore and how I'm thinking about pushing to terminate his parental rights. I'll waddle into the gymnasium and sit with huge belly and tell them that I used to be able to sleep on my stomach or even my back if I felt like it. Life was carefree and included beer. BEER, I tell you!! But then I won't show them my beautiful little miracle, because he's just going to be too darn cute to scare anyone out of parenting.
After looking at the amazing picture of the two munchkins, I couldn't help but adding the two birth weights together and thinking that my giant baby might outweigh these two babies combined. Ha! Beat that. Maybe there is a bumper sticker somewhere that says, "My baby can kick your baby's ass" I would put that on my car. Definately.
However, I don't want to make national news just for giving birth. The "Big Enchilada" baby born in Wisconsin is giving large babies a bad name. The woman was 47 cm from pubic bone to sternum when she gave birth to her 13 pound, 11 ounce baby. Just for reference, I found out today at my OB-GYN appointment that I'm 42 cms and still growing. The doc and I decided that she would induce labor sometime next week for the health of everyone involved. Unfortunately, my cervix is still closed and the baby hasn't dropped further into my pelvis. With this set of conditions, it is highly likely that after laboring for 24-48 hours, I might end up in the operating room with a C-section. At least I get a fighting chance to have Peanut vaginally.
I also found out that the numbness and tingling in my arms and hands is a form of pregnancy-induced carpal tunnel syndrome. Basically, my entire body has swollen to capacity and now the pressure of the baby is starting to cut off nerve endings in my upper torso. If that isn't a good enough reason to use two kinds of birth control before every sexual act, you might be insane.
Maybe I'll start going into low-income high schools and community colleges with a "Scared Straight" message. Instead of scaring kids off crime, I'll scare them out of having unprotected sex. I'll show them every stretch mark on my body and my swollen, purple feet. I'll tell them about how the FOB won't return my phone calls anymore and how I'm thinking about pushing to terminate his parental rights. I'll waddle into the gymnasium and sit with huge belly and tell them that I used to be able to sleep on my stomach or even my back if I felt like it. Life was carefree and included beer. BEER, I tell you!! But then I won't show them my beautiful little miracle, because he's just going to be too darn cute to scare anyone out of parenting.
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
6/28
Dear Peanut,
Life here on the outside world is great! We like it so much and I really think that you would like it a lot more out here. Out here there is me, Grandpa and Grandma, Aunt Jen, and a whole host of friends that are waiting to see your beautiful face. In fact, all of those people have taken to checking in with your Mommy periodically to see if you are still inside me (you are).
Mommy has also been doing some research on circumcision. People get very, very upset when you start talking about this subject, but I have to make the best decision for you that I can. I figure that at the very least, I should read more about it for your sake. Basically, baby, in some parts of the US circumcision rates are still around 80%. That means that if you were in the locker room with 10 boys, only 2 of them would have "turtleneck". Mommy appreciates the irony in that statement because she just saw your "turtle" in the last ultrasound (hee, hee).
Now, I know that you aren't thinking about this right now, and hopefully you won't until your 18 or so, but almost every straight woman that I've talked to likes the way that a circumcised penis looks. My research on the preferences of gay men is lacking, and I'm sorry about that. If you are ostracize in the gay community because of your penis, let me know. I'll start protesting at every pride parade and in every gay magazine that I can get my hands on. Or if some European or Canadian girl decides not to be with you because you don't have a foreskin, you just remind her that American girls like you just the way you are. And then give me the bitch's phone number....
So, you aren't going to remember what having a foreskin was like or even that someone removed it, but I'm going to promise you that I will be by your side and force them to give you enough anesthesia. When you are old enough to have kids, we'll talk about this again and I'll support whatever decision you make then. Medically or socially, the practice and attitudes towards circumcision might be different when you're ready to have kids. As for now, the scientific evidence is a little shaky, but your little turtle is going to be easier to clean and have less urinary tract infections.
Please come out soon. I love you,
Mommy
Life here on the outside world is great! We like it so much and I really think that you would like it a lot more out here. Out here there is me, Grandpa and Grandma, Aunt Jen, and a whole host of friends that are waiting to see your beautiful face. In fact, all of those people have taken to checking in with your Mommy periodically to see if you are still inside me (you are).
Mommy has also been doing some research on circumcision. People get very, very upset when you start talking about this subject, but I have to make the best decision for you that I can. I figure that at the very least, I should read more about it for your sake. Basically, baby, in some parts of the US circumcision rates are still around 80%. That means that if you were in the locker room with 10 boys, only 2 of them would have "turtleneck". Mommy appreciates the irony in that statement because she just saw your "turtle" in the last ultrasound (hee, hee).
Now, I know that you aren't thinking about this right now, and hopefully you won't until your 18 or so, but almost every straight woman that I've talked to likes the way that a circumcised penis looks. My research on the preferences of gay men is lacking, and I'm sorry about that. If you are ostracize in the gay community because of your penis, let me know. I'll start protesting at every pride parade and in every gay magazine that I can get my hands on. Or if some European or Canadian girl decides not to be with you because you don't have a foreskin, you just remind her that American girls like you just the way you are. And then give me the bitch's phone number....
So, you aren't going to remember what having a foreskin was like or even that someone removed it, but I'm going to promise you that I will be by your side and force them to give you enough anesthesia. When you are old enough to have kids, we'll talk about this again and I'll support whatever decision you make then. Medically or socially, the practice and attitudes towards circumcision might be different when you're ready to have kids. As for now, the scientific evidence is a little shaky, but your little turtle is going to be easier to clean and have less urinary tract infections.
Please come out soon. I love you,
Mommy
Sunday, June 26, 2005
6/26
So, one of my favorite bloggers, SJ, is pregnant again with her second child. She thinks that it's going to be a boy and one of the funniest comments that she wrote was,
"The thought of a boy scares me. Sure, there’s the whole fact that everyone is going to try and make him a Tonka Truck carrying, Monster Truck watching, Card Carrying Hick. What I’m really worried about, however, is the weiner.
First off, I can’t imagine growing something with nuts and a wang in there. Second, these nuts and wang will emerge and someone is going to expect me to clean them. "
After I finished laughing, I realized that I haven't written very much recently about having a boy. When I found out at 20 weeks that Peanut was a boy, I wrote this entry, but then the issue of what biological sex my child would be kind of faded in my mind. HOWEVER, every time I go to get another ultrasound (I've had six during this tumultuous pregnancy because of injury and the little one deciding that he wanted to sit butt down on mommy's small intenstine for 26 weeks), the technicians go a little crazy pointing out his "boy parts". I've heard his penis referred to everything from a "turtle" to a "weiner" to a "winky". I even have one entire photograph of his scrotum with the word, "scrotum" typed on the picture, just in case you couldn't figure out how the Nerf golf balls ended up in my uterus. It seems that medical technicians are obsessed with my baby's growing genitalia.
I have to admit, that I'm not worried about a baby penis, being sprayed in the face with urine can only be SO bad....I'm worried about the toddler penis that he wants to play with and show everyone that comes into the house....about the pre-teen penis that decides it wants to start displaying its eruptive power in the middle of the night....about the teenage penis that takes over his brain until the age of thirty.....and morning wood. How am I going to be able to look at Peanut in the morning and ask if he wants Cheerios or Honey Nut Bran while he's pitching a tent in his boxer shorts? Do I make him wait to come into the kitchen until everything is back to normal? Do I pretend that (God help me) it's normal and that I'm a cool, hippie Mom that embraces sexuality and nudity in a five year-old?
OK, do you see my dilemma? I want to be supportive of his "boy parts", but I have this huge Puritan streak in me that kind of freaks out when I'm around penises. It's like God is forcing me to deal with my male gender and sexuality issues. This might be punishment for some of the things I said about men in my late teenage years. God knows....and apparently he remembers.
"The thought of a boy scares me. Sure, there’s the whole fact that everyone is going to try and make him a Tonka Truck carrying, Monster Truck watching, Card Carrying Hick. What I’m really worried about, however, is the weiner.
First off, I can’t imagine growing something with nuts and a wang in there. Second, these nuts and wang will emerge and someone is going to expect me to clean them. "
After I finished laughing, I realized that I haven't written very much recently about having a boy. When I found out at 20 weeks that Peanut was a boy, I wrote this entry, but then the issue of what biological sex my child would be kind of faded in my mind. HOWEVER, every time I go to get another ultrasound (I've had six during this tumultuous pregnancy because of injury and the little one deciding that he wanted to sit butt down on mommy's small intenstine for 26 weeks), the technicians go a little crazy pointing out his "boy parts". I've heard his penis referred to everything from a "turtle" to a "weiner" to a "winky". I even have one entire photograph of his scrotum with the word, "scrotum" typed on the picture, just in case you couldn't figure out how the Nerf golf balls ended up in my uterus. It seems that medical technicians are obsessed with my baby's growing genitalia.
I have to admit, that I'm not worried about a baby penis, being sprayed in the face with urine can only be SO bad....I'm worried about the toddler penis that he wants to play with and show everyone that comes into the house....about the pre-teen penis that decides it wants to start displaying its eruptive power in the middle of the night....about the teenage penis that takes over his brain until the age of thirty.....and morning wood. How am I going to be able to look at Peanut in the morning and ask if he wants Cheerios or Honey Nut Bran while he's pitching a tent in his boxer shorts? Do I make him wait to come into the kitchen until everything is back to normal? Do I pretend that (God help me) it's normal and that I'm a cool, hippie Mom that embraces sexuality and nudity in a five year-old?
OK, do you see my dilemma? I want to be supportive of his "boy parts", but I have this huge Puritan streak in me that kind of freaks out when I'm around penises. It's like God is forcing me to deal with my male gender and sexuality issues. This might be punishment for some of the things I said about men in my late teenage years. God knows....and apparently he remembers.
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
6/25
Brings new meaning to the term "full frontal", no? My favorite part is that my linea nigra, the line that goes from my pubic bone to my sternum, isn't perfectly straight. Half of my belly button is also poking out, which gives me this great, asymmetrical look. In my own "stretch mark" defense, I think the lines on my belly are veins, most of my stretch marks are on the side of my body.
6/22
In honor of Patrick and Melanie, who both asked me for more belly shots.....trust me, this took a lot of courage for me to post.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
6/21-2
Can you see the turtle ? Don't worry, I had never heard it called a "turtle" either, but it's very accurate from this angle. Looks like I can't call him Peanut anymore....
6/21
36-38 weeks of baby at the most recent ultrasound. Folks say that he has my nose, but that might just be wishful thinking. Give yourself kudos if you can even identify the nose in this picture.
Monday, June 20, 2005
6/20
8 pounds 3 ounces.
Let's all say that together, just so we can get the full impact of that number: 8 pounds 3 ounces, at 37 weeks. If the baby gains 1/2 pound per week, he's looking at a solid 10 pounds at delivery. I'm supposed to push out a squirming, 10-pound object out of my vagina while "breathing through" the pain.
That was the thought that was bouncing around my head as the technician kept squirting goo on my torso while muttering, "this baby is everywhere." Yep, he is. His head was right now by my bladder, although I didn't need an ultrasound to tell me that, and his legs were curled up right under my ribs. Cozy. My favorite part of the ultrasound was when the technician focused on his face, all squished up against the uterine wall. His mouth was opening and closing and I could almost hear him say, "Help me, Mom! I don't want to be in here anymore." If I could reach into my vagina, through my cervix, and single-handedly pull him out, I would do it. In fact, I think one of the reason the female body is made the way that it is is to discourage this exact behavior.
Looking back over my recent blog entries, I noticed that I've written very little about the FOB lately. I called him today with the results of the ultrasound and he told me his new and revised "plan". This plan involves me calling him during the early stages of labor so he can jump on a plane and fly from NH to TX to see his son being born. After I got through laughing at his "plan" I told him not to bother since he wasn't going to be in the birthing room anyways. The best part of the plan was when I realized that the baby isn't going to know if he sees Daddy (a.k.a. Mr. Sperm Donor) for the first time at 1 hour or 1 week old. There is beauty in that kind of ignorance.
On the upside, Mr. Sperm Donor finally found a job after two months of unemployment and is in the training stage of employment. Maybe there is hope of child support on the horizon. Maybe my Doc will choose to induce me at 8 1/2 pounds of baby instead of the full 10 and maybe my heart burn will ease up enough for me to stop contemplating a late-night tracheotomy. Maybe.
Let's all say that together, just so we can get the full impact of that number: 8 pounds 3 ounces, at 37 weeks. If the baby gains 1/2 pound per week, he's looking at a solid 10 pounds at delivery. I'm supposed to push out a squirming, 10-pound object out of my vagina while "breathing through" the pain.
That was the thought that was bouncing around my head as the technician kept squirting goo on my torso while muttering, "this baby is everywhere." Yep, he is. His head was right now by my bladder, although I didn't need an ultrasound to tell me that, and his legs were curled up right under my ribs. Cozy. My favorite part of the ultrasound was when the technician focused on his face, all squished up against the uterine wall. His mouth was opening and closing and I could almost hear him say, "Help me, Mom! I don't want to be in here anymore." If I could reach into my vagina, through my cervix, and single-handedly pull him out, I would do it. In fact, I think one of the reason the female body is made the way that it is is to discourage this exact behavior.
Looking back over my recent blog entries, I noticed that I've written very little about the FOB lately. I called him today with the results of the ultrasound and he told me his new and revised "plan". This plan involves me calling him during the early stages of labor so he can jump on a plane and fly from NH to TX to see his son being born. After I got through laughing at his "plan" I told him not to bother since he wasn't going to be in the birthing room anyways. The best part of the plan was when I realized that the baby isn't going to know if he sees Daddy (a.k.a. Mr. Sperm Donor) for the first time at 1 hour or 1 week old. There is beauty in that kind of ignorance.
On the upside, Mr. Sperm Donor finally found a job after two months of unemployment and is in the training stage of employment. Maybe there is hope of child support on the horizon. Maybe my Doc will choose to induce me at 8 1/2 pounds of baby instead of the full 10 and maybe my heart burn will ease up enough for me to stop contemplating a late-night tracheotomy. Maybe.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
6/16
I went to the OB-GYN today and had a fun shock....apparently my blood pressure has spiked. I knew all the stress and heat wasn't good for me, but I had no idea that it could such a sudden rise in the all-important blood pressure numbers (Sidebar: one theme that you might notice in this blog is the importance of numbers. Pregnancy seems to be measured by numbers: the baby's heart beat, my stomach circumference, my weight, blood pressure, number of contractions in an hour, and the amount of time between each contraction. For a "natural" process, modern medicine has quantified the experience by numbers, tape measures, and scales.)
So, what has this spike in blood pressure earned me, you might be asking? Oh, yeah, my greatest worry: bed rest. At least three days isn't three months, in which case I would be pulling out my hair and complaining bitterly on my blog every day. I can do three days of being house bound. Heck, some people might even look at this as a vacation. My doctor actually looked at my chart and said, "Well, I see that you don't have any other children and you live at home with your parents (I'm not making this up)...you should rest all weekend and take it easy."
I also have another confession: I've been using alka-seltzer almost every night to cure my upset stomach and heart burn. I personally think that the gods themselves created alka-seltzer and bestowed it on pregnant women to comfort them late at night when wimpy-ass tums and maalox fails. With my head held low, I had to confess to my OB-GYN about my nightly addiction to substance that was once marketed with the slogan, "Pop,pop, fizz, fizz...Oh what a relief it is!" The 500mg of aspirin was my downfall. As an anticoagulant, aspirin can encourage bleeding and could possibly rupture my placenta. This is what the woman that sticks her hand up inside me once a week, pronouncing my cervix closed and high, told me at least. It's not that I don't believe her: I do - I promise, it's just that I think she's exaggerating.
Ruptured placenta on the one hand.....getting to sleep before three a.m. on the other Tough call. I wish I wasn't so responsible. If it wasn't for the baby, I'd be doing more alka-seltzer than a Wall Street lawywer did coke back in the '80s.
So, what has this spike in blood pressure earned me, you might be asking? Oh, yeah, my greatest worry: bed rest. At least three days isn't three months, in which case I would be pulling out my hair and complaining bitterly on my blog every day. I can do three days of being house bound. Heck, some people might even look at this as a vacation. My doctor actually looked at my chart and said, "Well, I see that you don't have any other children and you live at home with your parents (I'm not making this up)...you should rest all weekend and take it easy."
I also have another confession: I've been using alka-seltzer almost every night to cure my upset stomach and heart burn. I personally think that the gods themselves created alka-seltzer and bestowed it on pregnant women to comfort them late at night when wimpy-ass tums and maalox fails. With my head held low, I had to confess to my OB-GYN about my nightly addiction to substance that was once marketed with the slogan, "Pop,pop, fizz, fizz...Oh what a relief it is!" The 500mg of aspirin was my downfall. As an anticoagulant, aspirin can encourage bleeding and could possibly rupture my placenta. This is what the woman that sticks her hand up inside me once a week, pronouncing my cervix closed and high, told me at least. It's not that I don't believe her: I do - I promise, it's just that I think she's exaggerating.
Ruptured placenta on the one hand.....getting to sleep before three a.m. on the other Tough call. I wish I wasn't so responsible. If it wasn't for the baby, I'd be doing more alka-seltzer than a Wall Street lawywer did coke back in the '80s.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
5/31
I'm not sure how this can go on for 3-6 more weeks. Every night I have Braxton-Hicks contractions for an hour or so and then I get massive heart burn. This morning, I started having contractions on my way to work...with the funnest part of that being that I'm having "back labor". For those of you not familiar with this fun term, it basically means that with every contraction, a bloom of pain spreads through the lower back. I can literally feel it start at a central point and then radiate outward (imagine putting a drop of food coloring into a clear glass of water. That's a little of what it feels like).
Every says that I'm probably due any day now, but I'm getting sucked into the mindset of "I don't think I can do this for much longer." The "take one day at a time" mentality is being drowned out by the "I feel like I want to curl up in a ball and die" feeling.
Yes, I'm being dramatic. Yes, I will even say that I'm being ridiculous. Bite me. You go to work every day with a huge kid, have everyone that you run into, from casual acquaintances to perfect strangers tell you how big you are, deal with back pain every twenty minutes or so, and then tell me how you are feeling. I for one, want to go home.
Every says that I'm probably due any day now, but I'm getting sucked into the mindset of "I don't think I can do this for much longer." The "take one day at a time" mentality is being drowned out by the "I feel like I want to curl up in a ball and die" feeling.
Yes, I'm being dramatic. Yes, I will even say that I'm being ridiculous. Bite me. You go to work every day with a huge kid, have everyone that you run into, from casual acquaintances to perfect strangers tell you how big you are, deal with back pain every twenty minutes or so, and then tell me how you are feeling. I for one, want to go home.
Monday, May 23, 2005
5/23
It is the number's fault. I never should have looked down at the stupid electronic scale and looked at the number. I've gone eight months without knowing my weight and then, suddenly, out of the blue, I was drawn to the blinking red light like a deer to a salt lick. I had to know. Maybe it was the fact that the nurses in the hospital were less than thrilled because I didn't know my weight. They kept asking me things like: "You really don't know? You don't even have a clue how much you weigh?" "Nope," I replied, "everyone else seems so concerned about it that I figured enough people were worried about it." I swear to you that my labor and delivery nurse rolled her eyes and then tightened the staps on the fetal heart monitor until my uterus felt like it was going to explode. That was what she thought about personal "Don't ask - don't tell" policy.
My OB-GYN just recently looked at my weight and laughed. While holding my chart and laughing she said, "You must have had a good month. You gained ten pounds." In my stupidity I asked, "Is that a lot?" How did I know if that was a lot? She looked at me, not laughing anymore, and said, "Yeah. That's a lot."
Maybe that is why I wanted to know my weight. Whatever the reasons, I now blame the number for my decrease in self-esteem. I feel huge. I never in my life thought that I would be this weight. None of my maternity clothes fit me and every night I lay in bed praying that my back will stop hurting. My feet have been turning purple from excessive swelling and this morning at work someone looked at me and said, "You sure have a big ol' baby in there." Thanks. Maybe you would just like to comment on my stretch marks and three chins while you're at it. Maybe I could show you my ass that looks like it's been hit by buckshot from a shotgun. Or maybe, just maybe, you could let me be miserable in peace.
As I said, it's all the number's fault. Ignorance is bliss.
My OB-GYN just recently looked at my weight and laughed. While holding my chart and laughing she said, "You must have had a good month. You gained ten pounds." In my stupidity I asked, "Is that a lot?" How did I know if that was a lot? She looked at me, not laughing anymore, and said, "Yeah. That's a lot."
Maybe that is why I wanted to know my weight. Whatever the reasons, I now blame the number for my decrease in self-esteem. I feel huge. I never in my life thought that I would be this weight. None of my maternity clothes fit me and every night I lay in bed praying that my back will stop hurting. My feet have been turning purple from excessive swelling and this morning at work someone looked at me and said, "You sure have a big ol' baby in there." Thanks. Maybe you would just like to comment on my stretch marks and three chins while you're at it. Maybe I could show you my ass that looks like it's been hit by buckshot from a shotgun. Or maybe, just maybe, you could let me be miserable in peace.
As I said, it's all the number's fault. Ignorance is bliss.
Friday, May 20, 2005
5/20
Wow, it has been almost a month since my baby shower, and I haven't posted any pictures or blogged about it. My sincere apologies for those of you that were holding your breath waiting for me to post about the event. On the positive side, you can't die by refusing to breathe...you pass out and start breathing again. Interesting fact, no?
So, the group picture that I've posted on the bottom of this post is all of the Smith women at the shower. I'll keep their names annonymous (sorry if I spelled that wrong Pam!), but I must say that they are some of the most amazing women that I've ever been privileged enough to know. These women have been my friends, confidants, and supports for over four years. That may not seem like an extremely long time, but for me, it is everything. My friend V., one of the hosts of the party and looking lovely in this picture, was my only visitor when Peace Corps hospitalized me in D.C. It was easily one of the most challenging times in my life and she just came. She didn't question or judge. She brought me interesting books and a journal to record my thoughts. I just e-mailed M., the other hostess of the party and beautiful New Yorker extraordinaire, and said that clearly I should run all of my relationship choices by her from now on because she has always given me brutally honest advice about love and sex. Even when I still believed that the FOB could be a man that I could respect and love, she knew that while the fantasy was important to my heart, it would never be a reality.
Ahh...and that leads us to the FOB. I invited him to his son's baby shower, but he didn't attend. Actually, he got the dates confused and then didn't attend. Either way, he missed out on having twelve intelligent women and one pissed off Mother-of the-Grandbaby jump on him. One week after the baby shower, he was fired from his restaurant job for insubordination and I don't think that I've ever been angrier at him. How could he yell at his boss about something as stupid as serving five people instead of ten people at a table (it was a ten-person reservation) when he has a son on the way? Doesn't he realize that he has a family? The most surprising thing about him losing his job is how little it has affected me. He never gave me money before and he doesn't now. Thankfully, because I no longer live with him, I don't have to pay his share of the rent or buy his groceries because he's jobless. I'm free. It reminds me of the Destiny's Child's song: "I'm a survivor. I never give up. I'm a survivor. Keep on surviving."
All of you in the blog-o-sphere will also be proud to hear that when the FOB asked me for $20 for cigarettes and soda, I thought about it. I'm not going to lie. It's a small amount and I thought about giving it to him. I even wrote out the check and wrote a mean letter accompanying the money, stamped the envelope and then let the letter sit in my car for five days. I never sent it. I couldn't. And, you know what? It feels good.
So, the group picture that I've posted on the bottom of this post is all of the Smith women at the shower. I'll keep their names annonymous (sorry if I spelled that wrong Pam!), but I must say that they are some of the most amazing women that I've ever been privileged enough to know. These women have been my friends, confidants, and supports for over four years. That may not seem like an extremely long time, but for me, it is everything. My friend V., one of the hosts of the party and looking lovely in this picture, was my only visitor when Peace Corps hospitalized me in D.C. It was easily one of the most challenging times in my life and she just came. She didn't question or judge. She brought me interesting books and a journal to record my thoughts. I just e-mailed M., the other hostess of the party and beautiful New Yorker extraordinaire, and said that clearly I should run all of my relationship choices by her from now on because she has always given me brutally honest advice about love and sex. Even when I still believed that the FOB could be a man that I could respect and love, she knew that while the fantasy was important to my heart, it would never be a reality.
Ahh...and that leads us to the FOB. I invited him to his son's baby shower, but he didn't attend. Actually, he got the dates confused and then didn't attend. Either way, he missed out on having twelve intelligent women and one pissed off Mother-of the-Grandbaby jump on him. One week after the baby shower, he was fired from his restaurant job for insubordination and I don't think that I've ever been angrier at him. How could he yell at his boss about something as stupid as serving five people instead of ten people at a table (it was a ten-person reservation) when he has a son on the way? Doesn't he realize that he has a family? The most surprising thing about him losing his job is how little it has affected me. He never gave me money before and he doesn't now. Thankfully, because I no longer live with him, I don't have to pay his share of the rent or buy his groceries because he's jobless. I'm free. It reminds me of the Destiny's Child's song: "I'm a survivor. I never give up. I'm a survivor. Keep on surviving."
All of you in the blog-o-sphere will also be proud to hear that when the FOB asked me for $20 for cigarettes and soda, I thought about it. I'm not going to lie. It's a small amount and I thought about giving it to him. I even wrote out the check and wrote a mean letter accompanying the money, stamped the envelope and then let the letter sit in my car for five days. I never sent it. I couldn't. And, you know what? It feels good.
Thursday, May 19, 2005
Monday, May 16, 2005
5/16
Miss me? I've had to seriously cut back on my blogging time, mostly because it takes so much energy for me take care of myself. Honestly, I come home from work, make dinner if I have enough energy, lay on the couch for a while bemoaning my swollen feet, then go to bed. Trying to take care of my Mom has been a little bit of a challenge, too. There just doesn't seem to be enough energy in our house (did I mention that my Dad hurt his back?) to take care of the basic needs of all of us.
I started to feel sorry for myself on Sunday when I was sent to Lowe's for more planting soil. It's not that I don't like going to Lowe's: home improvement stores are one of my favorite places, it's that I'm starting to think about buildings in terms of size. Never before in my life have I calculated how far it was from the entrance, to the bathrooms, to the checkout, and the exit. These massive concrete stores wear me out to even think about going into them. On Sunday, I was in the lumber section of the store and made the mistake of asking for wood glue. The nice man that cut my wood for me told me that it was in aisle 9. I looked up at the sign above my aisle. It read "Aisle 54". I was 45 aisles away from the wood glue.
At that moment, as I stood in my maternity tank top, shorts and flip flops, I started contemplating finding a partner....immediately. There were a bunch of single guys roaming around the lumber section. Certainly one of them would be willing to exchange vows with me (maybe around aisle 39 or so?) and then walk the extra distance for me to retrieve the wood glue. This is what my life has become.
My Mom lucked out this weekend in the Super Target with a motorized cart. If they had had two of them we could of drag raced around the vegetable section. As it was, I was left lumbering behind her, reminding her not to run over small children or knock over giant displays with sharp 180 degree turns.
I started to feel sorry for myself on Sunday when I was sent to Lowe's for more planting soil. It's not that I don't like going to Lowe's: home improvement stores are one of my favorite places, it's that I'm starting to think about buildings in terms of size. Never before in my life have I calculated how far it was from the entrance, to the bathrooms, to the checkout, and the exit. These massive concrete stores wear me out to even think about going into them. On Sunday, I was in the lumber section of the store and made the mistake of asking for wood glue. The nice man that cut my wood for me told me that it was in aisle 9. I looked up at the sign above my aisle. It read "Aisle 54". I was 45 aisles away from the wood glue.
At that moment, as I stood in my maternity tank top, shorts and flip flops, I started contemplating finding a partner....immediately. There were a bunch of single guys roaming around the lumber section. Certainly one of them would be willing to exchange vows with me (maybe around aisle 39 or so?) and then walk the extra distance for me to retrieve the wood glue. This is what my life has become.
My Mom lucked out this weekend in the Super Target with a motorized cart. If they had had two of them we could of drag raced around the vegetable section. As it was, I was left lumbering behind her, reminding her not to run over small children or knock over giant displays with sharp 180 degree turns.
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
5/10
So….just in case you were wondering why I haven’t updated lately…..let me tell you. I just started my new job this week, which has been challenging and rewarding. Unfortunately, they asked me to work six days the past week so Peanut and I have been dragging our tails. The real reason I didn’t update on Mother’s Day has a slightly more sinister twist.
My Mom woke me up on Sunday with the announcement that my cat was gone. It was 8:30am. Not a time that I wanted to me up on my one day off work. I got dressed and went out to the backyard, called Honey, and he came running to me. Why I was needed for this task, I’m not sure, but nevertheless, I performed admirably. I found a comfy place on the couch, ate a breakfast of frozen waffles, maple syrup and orange juice, and started watching a DVD. About half-way through the movie, Honey wanted to be let out, this time with a leash and a proper harness. I tied him out and then went back to the movie. A little while later, my Mom went to go untie him. Honey likes to wrap himself around the bushes and shrubs and then stand there looking confused as to why he can’t chase after the birds anymore.
My Mom slips her feet into her tennis shoes, with the toes in, but her heels hanging out, and goes outside. A minute later, I here her screaming on the grass, holding her ankle. I’ve never heard any sound like that before in my life. It is one of those heart-wrenching sounds that will wake you up at night if you think about it too hard. I ran outside, kneeled down beside her, and realized that we needed to call 911. In my rush to stand up, I didn’t quite back it fully vertical and I began sprinting for the door, more hunched over than a notorious French hunchback. Apparently, I haven’t sprinted for a while, especially in the “just out the blocks” position. I went face down. On concrete. There were no knees involved. My top heavy body just went down. My left hand reached out to stop my fall and my right hand went around belly to protect Peanut. At least I think that is what happened. I started screaming for my Dad and he came out, in classic Dad fashion and yelled, “What the hell is going on out here?” His very pregnant daughter is laid-out on her stomach and his wife was still screaming on the grass. I told him to go to Mom and I picked myself up.
I think the shock stopped me from really being concerned for myself. Of course the thought, “I just fell on my stomach,” kept running through my head. I went out to the front yard to wait for the ambulance and started crying when I looked down and saw blood on my hands and felt a scratch on my breast. I lifted up my shirt and I could already see the bruises forming on my stomach. I went out to the backyard, where my Dad kept screaming at me: “Are you alright? Sit down!” Our family tends to yell at each other during times of stress. I showed him what happened and my Mom overheard us, now convinced that somehow she was responsible for hurting her first grandchild. The word “hysteria” comes to mind.
The nice folks at Emergency Response took my Mom and me, in the same ambulance, to the hospital. She gets out on a stretcher and I get rolled up to Labor and Delivery on a wheelchair. I get strapped into a continuous fetal monitor, which monitors Peanut’s heart rate and my contractions. A funny thing happens when a pregnant woman has trauma to her abdomen: the uterus starts contracting to protect itself. They tested for fetal blood in my system and I had no less than three ultrasounds in two days. I had to stay in the hospital overnight for monitoring and my Dad kept running up and down the floors of the hospital between my Mom in ER and me in L&D. He said that we were really annoying because as soon as he got into one of our rooms, we started grilling him for information about the other one. He got this look on his face like, “I need to buy the two of you walkie-talkies and you can leave me out of this.”
My Mom, with a fractured fibia bone in her ankle, got to leave two hours later with an air boot on her foot. I was in for the long haul. In a beautifully ironic twist of fate, a huge thunderstorm struck the Houston area last night, causing power outages to entire chunks of the city. The hospital power went out just around the time that I was digging into my disgusting steak and potato. I sat in the dark hoping that the babies on my floor were ok and almost cried a little out of pity. Don’t fear, however, the power came back on in time for me to watch “Desperate Housewives” and “Grey’s Anatomy”.
The low-level contractions that were consistently working their way through my body caused me to get violently sick around 1am. The last time that I have thrown-up and pooped at the same time was when my friend Brian convinced all of us in his training group that we should have an “authentic” first Mongolian meal at the black market. Note to all: never eat food at a place called the black market. It’s unsanctioned for a reason. The nurses gave me an anti-nausea shot in my butt that caused me to fall instantly asleep until I was woken up at 4am by the same nurse telling me to empty my bladder. Apparently a full bladder can strengthen contractions.
I do have good news out of all of this. My contractions stopped sometime this morning and from the ultrasounds, we know Peanut is down head down, with the crown of his head getting ready to go through the birth canal of life. He has hair, is around 5.5 pounds (give or take a pound), and based on his current measurements they estimate that he might come to see us, (baring any further trauma) around June 26th or so. My Mom should start walking without the aid of crutches right around the time of Peanut’s birth and my Dad might calm down hopefully a little before that. Right now, he is still running between doctors and trying to keep the two women in his life either completely vertical or completely horizontal. God help us all if we have two wheelchairs (again!!!) pushing us to the curb of the hospital after the Peanut’s delivery.
My Mom woke me up on Sunday with the announcement that my cat was gone. It was 8:30am. Not a time that I wanted to me up on my one day off work. I got dressed and went out to the backyard, called Honey, and he came running to me. Why I was needed for this task, I’m not sure, but nevertheless, I performed admirably. I found a comfy place on the couch, ate a breakfast of frozen waffles, maple syrup and orange juice, and started watching a DVD. About half-way through the movie, Honey wanted to be let out, this time with a leash and a proper harness. I tied him out and then went back to the movie. A little while later, my Mom went to go untie him. Honey likes to wrap himself around the bushes and shrubs and then stand there looking confused as to why he can’t chase after the birds anymore.
My Mom slips her feet into her tennis shoes, with the toes in, but her heels hanging out, and goes outside. A minute later, I here her screaming on the grass, holding her ankle. I’ve never heard any sound like that before in my life. It is one of those heart-wrenching sounds that will wake you up at night if you think about it too hard. I ran outside, kneeled down beside her, and realized that we needed to call 911. In my rush to stand up, I didn’t quite back it fully vertical and I began sprinting for the door, more hunched over than a notorious French hunchback. Apparently, I haven’t sprinted for a while, especially in the “just out the blocks” position. I went face down. On concrete. There were no knees involved. My top heavy body just went down. My left hand reached out to stop my fall and my right hand went around belly to protect Peanut. At least I think that is what happened. I started screaming for my Dad and he came out, in classic Dad fashion and yelled, “What the hell is going on out here?” His very pregnant daughter is laid-out on her stomach and his wife was still screaming on the grass. I told him to go to Mom and I picked myself up.
I think the shock stopped me from really being concerned for myself. Of course the thought, “I just fell on my stomach,” kept running through my head. I went out to the front yard to wait for the ambulance and started crying when I looked down and saw blood on my hands and felt a scratch on my breast. I lifted up my shirt and I could already see the bruises forming on my stomach. I went out to the backyard, where my Dad kept screaming at me: “Are you alright? Sit down!” Our family tends to yell at each other during times of stress. I showed him what happened and my Mom overheard us, now convinced that somehow she was responsible for hurting her first grandchild. The word “hysteria” comes to mind.
The nice folks at Emergency Response took my Mom and me, in the same ambulance, to the hospital. She gets out on a stretcher and I get rolled up to Labor and Delivery on a wheelchair. I get strapped into a continuous fetal monitor, which monitors Peanut’s heart rate and my contractions. A funny thing happens when a pregnant woman has trauma to her abdomen: the uterus starts contracting to protect itself. They tested for fetal blood in my system and I had no less than three ultrasounds in two days. I had to stay in the hospital overnight for monitoring and my Dad kept running up and down the floors of the hospital between my Mom in ER and me in L&D. He said that we were really annoying because as soon as he got into one of our rooms, we started grilling him for information about the other one. He got this look on his face like, “I need to buy the two of you walkie-talkies and you can leave me out of this.”
My Mom, with a fractured fibia bone in her ankle, got to leave two hours later with an air boot on her foot. I was in for the long haul. In a beautifully ironic twist of fate, a huge thunderstorm struck the Houston area last night, causing power outages to entire chunks of the city. The hospital power went out just around the time that I was digging into my disgusting steak and potato. I sat in the dark hoping that the babies on my floor were ok and almost cried a little out of pity. Don’t fear, however, the power came back on in time for me to watch “Desperate Housewives” and “Grey’s Anatomy”.
The low-level contractions that were consistently working their way through my body caused me to get violently sick around 1am. The last time that I have thrown-up and pooped at the same time was when my friend Brian convinced all of us in his training group that we should have an “authentic” first Mongolian meal at the black market. Note to all: never eat food at a place called the black market. It’s unsanctioned for a reason. The nurses gave me an anti-nausea shot in my butt that caused me to fall instantly asleep until I was woken up at 4am by the same nurse telling me to empty my bladder. Apparently a full bladder can strengthen contractions.
I do have good news out of all of this. My contractions stopped sometime this morning and from the ultrasounds, we know Peanut is down head down, with the crown of his head getting ready to go through the birth canal of life. He has hair, is around 5.5 pounds (give or take a pound), and based on his current measurements they estimate that he might come to see us, (baring any further trauma) around June 26th or so. My Mom should start walking without the aid of crutches right around the time of Peanut’s birth and my Dad might calm down hopefully a little before that. Right now, he is still running between doctors and trying to keep the two women in his life either completely vertical or completely horizontal. God help us all if we have two wheelchairs (again!!!) pushing us to the curb of the hospital after the Peanut’s delivery.
Saturday, April 23, 2005
4/23
I was going to write about what I miss more: beer or sex, when I realized that I had other more pressing matters to discuss. Besides, the beer vs. sex issue is really a draw. If you drink enough beer, you can pass out before ever really missing sex. If you’re having enough sex, beer is like the cherry on top of your ice cream cone; it’s nice, but not really needed. If you don’t have either in your life, you are obviously a member of the clergy or a single pregnant woman.
I talked to my friend, Beth, last night. She had just returned to Boston from a two-week backpacking trip in Europe. She was eating at a restaurant when she called me, surrounded by friends, on her way to a margarita bar. Hmmmm….. When her friends finally got frustrated by her continued talking on her cell phone, she asked if she could call me back on Sunday. She said something like, “What are you doing on Sunday? Are you going to be busy? I’ll call you.” I laughed. What am I doing on Sunday? What do I do on any given day? I watch home decorating shows, cook, clean and try to stay awake to stave off nighttime insomnia. Yeah, I’m free on Sunday.
After I hung up the phone I went into the bathroom, pulled up my shirt, and rubbed by bulging belly. I have a baby in there. A human baby. A little life that will one day feel frustrated and isolated by partying friends and lovers that abandon him. A life that is not my own is inside my body. He has needs, desires, and dreams that are completely separate from my own. He woke me up this morning because he was hungry. All it took was some swift kicks to my lower intestine and gnawing feeling that I could eat a small horse. Little tyrant.
I talked to my friend, Beth, last night. She had just returned to Boston from a two-week backpacking trip in Europe. She was eating at a restaurant when she called me, surrounded by friends, on her way to a margarita bar. Hmmmm….. When her friends finally got frustrated by her continued talking on her cell phone, she asked if she could call me back on Sunday. She said something like, “What are you doing on Sunday? Are you going to be busy? I’ll call you.” I laughed. What am I doing on Sunday? What do I do on any given day? I watch home decorating shows, cook, clean and try to stay awake to stave off nighttime insomnia. Yeah, I’m free on Sunday.
After I hung up the phone I went into the bathroom, pulled up my shirt, and rubbed by bulging belly. I have a baby in there. A human baby. A little life that will one day feel frustrated and isolated by partying friends and lovers that abandon him. A life that is not my own is inside my body. He has needs, desires, and dreams that are completely separate from my own. He woke me up this morning because he was hungry. All it took was some swift kicks to my lower intestine and gnawing feeling that I could eat a small horse. Little tyrant.
Friday, April 22, 2005
4/21
I’ve realized that I’m a need-to-know kind of person. It’s not that I don’t love gossip, rants, and secretive whispers about the way the woman in the back of the restaurant is chewing. I love all that stuff. I’m secretive when it comes to myself and how much information I disclose to strangers.
Before you jump on the, “But you have a blog and you tell random strangers all about your life and your reproductive system,” bandwagon, let me tell you that blog writing is different from actually talking. Writing on my blog is like retelling myself a funny story. You know, the kind of stories that when you think about them again they make you smile and even chuckle to yourself. That is what my blog is like.
In person, I’m not extremely forthcoming about personal information. Vacationing with my Grandma was a lot like vacationing with a three year-old, only she has better credit. I kept expecting her to say, “….and I have a toy truck named Cleveland and dog and cat and my cat likes to go potty indoors and it makes my Mom really mad…..” She would start talking to everyone about everything from her bowel movements to the death of her husband and the pain in her hip. Waiters, people on the elevator, hotel clerks: no one was immune to the onslaught of information. God help the person that would answer her back. That person was in for a thirty minute conversation while I tried to slip away and look at the $50 Hawaiian shirts.
We flew on separate flights from Seattle to Hawaii because she couldn’t find her driver’s license and credit card at the airport. Granted, it was 4am and we were both tired from harassing the airport shuttle driver who picked us up at 2:45am. She went back home from the airport to find the identification and I traveled on without her. I arrived in Honolulu around 10:30am (Hawaiian time) and she came around 11pm. When the bellboy came to the hotel room with her luggage he looked at me and said, “She’s hard a hard flight and she’s really tired, but I’m sure that you will hear all about it.” He left the room quickly with a panicked look on his face as she ambled in with her purse and cane. I did hear all about it.
She likes to introduce me by saying, “This is my Granddaughter. She’s pregnant. She’s going to make me a Great-Grandmother. My great grandson is in here.” Then she would pat my stomach. The whole thing was highly embarrassing. Anyone with any kind of sense would know that I’m pregnant. My belly sticks out over my feet for God’s sake!! I finally had to ask her to stop telling people that I was pregnant. I would tell them myself if they asked.
Apparently, this need to divulge information is genetic. My Mom strikes up conversations in the same way. At our birthing class yesterday, I kept repeating that I went on vacation and missed the first class. She would turn conspiratorially to the person sitting beside us and announce, “She just got back from Hawaii.” Then I would be forced to answer what islands I went to and whether or not I had a good time. I'm not shy, just a little closed off.
If my son is anything like me, someone kill me if I announce personal information to strangers about him. If this truly is a strange, hormonal phenomenon that happens to women when they become mothers, somone that loves me, kill me. Please.
Before you jump on the, “But you have a blog and you tell random strangers all about your life and your reproductive system,” bandwagon, let me tell you that blog writing is different from actually talking. Writing on my blog is like retelling myself a funny story. You know, the kind of stories that when you think about them again they make you smile and even chuckle to yourself. That is what my blog is like.
In person, I’m not extremely forthcoming about personal information. Vacationing with my Grandma was a lot like vacationing with a three year-old, only she has better credit. I kept expecting her to say, “….and I have a toy truck named Cleveland and dog and cat and my cat likes to go potty indoors and it makes my Mom really mad…..” She would start talking to everyone about everything from her bowel movements to the death of her husband and the pain in her hip. Waiters, people on the elevator, hotel clerks: no one was immune to the onslaught of information. God help the person that would answer her back. That person was in for a thirty minute conversation while I tried to slip away and look at the $50 Hawaiian shirts.
We flew on separate flights from Seattle to Hawaii because she couldn’t find her driver’s license and credit card at the airport. Granted, it was 4am and we were both tired from harassing the airport shuttle driver who picked us up at 2:45am. She went back home from the airport to find the identification and I traveled on without her. I arrived in Honolulu around 10:30am (Hawaiian time) and she came around 11pm. When the bellboy came to the hotel room with her luggage he looked at me and said, “She’s hard a hard flight and she’s really tired, but I’m sure that you will hear all about it.” He left the room quickly with a panicked look on his face as she ambled in with her purse and cane. I did hear all about it.
She likes to introduce me by saying, “This is my Granddaughter. She’s pregnant. She’s going to make me a Great-Grandmother. My great grandson is in here.” Then she would pat my stomach. The whole thing was highly embarrassing. Anyone with any kind of sense would know that I’m pregnant. My belly sticks out over my feet for God’s sake!! I finally had to ask her to stop telling people that I was pregnant. I would tell them myself if they asked.
Apparently, this need to divulge information is genetic. My Mom strikes up conversations in the same way. At our birthing class yesterday, I kept repeating that I went on vacation and missed the first class. She would turn conspiratorially to the person sitting beside us and announce, “She just got back from Hawaii.” Then I would be forced to answer what islands I went to and whether or not I had a good time. I'm not shy, just a little closed off.
If my son is anything like me, someone kill me if I announce personal information to strangers about him. If this truly is a strange, hormonal phenomenon that happens to women when they become mothers, somone that loves me, kill me. Please.
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