Now that I've taken one or two or twenty deep, comforting, in-with-the-blue-out-with-the-red restorative breaths, I can talk more about the antibaby.
Maybe at some point in the future there will be a probaby, but that's not what we're going to discuss here. We're going to discuss my friends' and family's reaction to the potential tadpole.
Wade: I'm supportive, really. No. Really. I really am. I think it'd be great. (For the love of christ, do you know how much a child costs? Not just in money but in time? Do you know that with my two children, I cannot be your sole source of support while you endlessly digest every tiny damn thing that you're thinking and feeling? Also, husband. Mine needs attention too. Oh! Also! Health insurance. Better look into that, sister.)
Cita: Awww...baby! I love having mine, although I considered briefly leaving him on the side of the road for a bit as payback for all the awful things pregnancy did to my body. And mind. But he's adorable and mostly sleeps and thank goodness for family and friend support because otherwise I'd go coockoo!!
Sister: Think you are? I always wanted one. But if you get one, Momma won't move out here by me because she'll want to be around the baby and yeah, yeah, that's cool, except could you maybe consider not being so damn greedy with the Momma time? I need her too!
Momma: I'll kill you.
Me: Kill me? Why?
Momma: 'Cos you're not married yet.
Me: I think we'd take care of that problem with a quickness.
Momma: Yeah. THE NEXT DAY.
This chat with Momma was had after I told her about how late I was and how much I wondered if I were with tadpole. After that, we wandered around Target and cooed at the monkey baby clothes and toys.
So, we'll see what happens.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Not A Good Day
No Tadpole. Probably for the best. Feeling the loss.
Jesus Fucking Christ, how many pictures do I need to have of GPOM's kid? I could put out a fucking FBI missing persons flyer (or seventy-five).
Like I said, not a good day. Back to my book.
Jesus Fucking Christ, how many pictures do I need to have of GPOM's kid? I could put out a fucking FBI missing persons flyer (or seventy-five).
Like I said, not a good day. Back to my book.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Tadpole
Remember that a few weeks ago I discussed symptoms? Well, if not, scroll down a bit. I can't be arsed to link to a post right now.
I still have no confirmation, but I can tell you that I reread It Sucked And I Cried by Heather Armstrong (Dooce) and now I cannot pee with anything that feels like satisfaction. And I haven't started.
If this is too much for you, apologies. Move along to something more interesting.
Nightly, I lie in the bed, pat my lower belly, and tell myself that I'm not pregnant. This internal conversation goes something like this:
I know you're not there, Tadpole, because there's no way you could be. But if you are, Hi! I think you might want to consider a different womb. Mine's messy and weird and full of gunk and goo and hopefully things that you can softly bump in to. Of course you're not there, but maybe you will be in the future when I've got my head and finances more ready to have you.
Tadpole, my belly is warm and weird and I want to pee like a normal person and why am I feeling this mix of heartburn and nausea? 'Cos that's no fun at all.
(I've got to talk about this somewhere and where else than here?)
I still have no confirmation, but I can tell you that I reread It Sucked And I Cried by Heather Armstrong (Dooce) and now I cannot pee with anything that feels like satisfaction. And I haven't started.
If this is too much for you, apologies. Move along to something more interesting.
Nightly, I lie in the bed, pat my lower belly, and tell myself that I'm not pregnant. This internal conversation goes something like this:
I know you're not there, Tadpole, because there's no way you could be. But if you are, Hi! I think you might want to consider a different womb. Mine's messy and weird and full of gunk and goo and hopefully things that you can softly bump in to. Of course you're not there, but maybe you will be in the future when I've got my head and finances more ready to have you.
Tadpole, my belly is warm and weird and I want to pee like a normal person and why am I feeling this mix of heartburn and nausea? 'Cos that's no fun at all.
(I've got to talk about this somewhere and where else than here?)
Thursday, September 15, 2011
A Day Away
Yesterday, after a fascinating CLE lecture in which I believe we might have found Bernie Madoff's hidden money and a good client meeting, I returned home to a frenetic GPOM. He had spent the afternoon "fixing" our place, and to me it looked like nothing that was mine.
I had a wooden planter in my front room where I stored my frequently-worn shoes, my purse, my basket with all my keys, and my phone books. (Yes, I still use a phone book. Ain't no-one else letting their fingers doin' the walkin'.) I looked about, looked at him, muttered, "No," and went to change clothes and take off my face. I was not pleased.
Plus he put my mission side table in the same place where whenever he puts anything, I complain that I will break a toe there. Because I do. Inevitably. Break a toe. It hurts, people. It hurts a lot. I have an S-shaped left pinkie toe.
A bit later, after a breath, I was sitting in my office waiting for the internet to offer solace, when I noticed that my special secret tiny hiding space was now sitting on the floor. It was out in the open. It had been violated by eyes that weren't mine. What do I keep in said place? Well, I'll tell you, since the secret's out: The key to my safety deposit box. Spare keys with computer chips in them. My good jewelry. My savings bonds and much-loved two-dollar bills.
People, I was beyond pissed. I told GPOM he might as well read my journals now, since that's all I have left. "Your blog?" he asked. NO. I still have hand-written journals, full of piss and vinegar, from my childhood through college years.
Today I am calmer. And my special secret tiny hiding space has found a new home. And I think GPOM will never open anything of mine again.
I had a wooden planter in my front room where I stored my frequently-worn shoes, my purse, my basket with all my keys, and my phone books. (Yes, I still use a phone book. Ain't no-one else letting their fingers doin' the walkin'.) I looked about, looked at him, muttered, "No," and went to change clothes and take off my face. I was not pleased.
Plus he put my mission side table in the same place where whenever he puts anything, I complain that I will break a toe there. Because I do. Inevitably. Break a toe. It hurts, people. It hurts a lot. I have an S-shaped left pinkie toe.
A bit later, after a breath, I was sitting in my office waiting for the internet to offer solace, when I noticed that my special secret tiny hiding space was now sitting on the floor. It was out in the open. It had been violated by eyes that weren't mine. What do I keep in said place? Well, I'll tell you, since the secret's out: The key to my safety deposit box. Spare keys with computer chips in them. My good jewelry. My savings bonds and much-loved two-dollar bills.
People, I was beyond pissed. I told GPOM he might as well read my journals now, since that's all I have left. "Your blog?" he asked. NO. I still have hand-written journals, full of piss and vinegar, from my childhood through college years.
Today I am calmer. And my special secret tiny hiding space has found a new home. And I think GPOM will never open anything of mine again.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
My 9/11 Memory
Why not? Everyone else, and every television station show, thought, commercial...they're all talking about it. I don't much talk about this because 1) everyone has their own story and 2) GPOM is a conspiracy theorist and I'm guessing hides his emotions more than he'll let me know.
It was a sunny Tuesday morning and for the first time in weeks, I was in no mood to listen to NPR, which I normally did. I wanted music. So I tossed a CD in Circe (m car - still is!) and car-danced all the way to Geeks-R-Us, which employed a large number of foreign nationals.
When I got to work, the receptionist said something about having heard weird news, and did I hear? No. Something about planes hitting a building in New York City? No. I went to my office and tried to pull up any news on the internet. The data stream was completely clogged and I couldn't get anything but a strange picture on the Yahoo front page.
A bit later, others came to work and starting telling me about what was happening, and then an email circulated stating that we could go home if we were concerned. I went to my boss and explained that one of my closest friends lived in the city and that my brother was (is) a pilot for United. I was excused.
At home, I turned on the TV and started to see the real destruction. I probably got home around 8:30am, and my desire to call everyone kicked in. I don't remember a lot other than pure terror. How? Why? WTF is wrong with Paula Zahn? Even in the chaos, I knew that asking someone how it felt to know a family member just died was about the worst fucking thing to be asked in the midst of all of this.
I remember talking with Lucy's mother, and we were worried about a mutual friend and her husband. They lived in Astoria, Queens, and I didn't know where that was in relation to Manhattan. Finally we got our friend's mother on the phone and they were both fine, shaken, newsless, but fine.
My brother turned out to be just fine as well - he was across the country at the time. But when I finally spoke to him, he told me that he was the pilot for United Flight 93 on September 10, 2001.
Guilt mixed with unbelievable gratitude that exists to this day. I still don't know how to put that into words.
It was a sunny Tuesday morning and for the first time in weeks, I was in no mood to listen to NPR, which I normally did. I wanted music. So I tossed a CD in Circe (m car - still is!) and car-danced all the way to Geeks-R-Us, which employed a large number of foreign nationals.
When I got to work, the receptionist said something about having heard weird news, and did I hear? No. Something about planes hitting a building in New York City? No. I went to my office and tried to pull up any news on the internet. The data stream was completely clogged and I couldn't get anything but a strange picture on the Yahoo front page.
A bit later, others came to work and starting telling me about what was happening, and then an email circulated stating that we could go home if we were concerned. I went to my boss and explained that one of my closest friends lived in the city and that my brother was (is) a pilot for United. I was excused.
At home, I turned on the TV and started to see the real destruction. I probably got home around 8:30am, and my desire to call everyone kicked in. I don't remember a lot other than pure terror. How? Why? WTF is wrong with Paula Zahn? Even in the chaos, I knew that asking someone how it felt to know a family member just died was about the worst fucking thing to be asked in the midst of all of this.
I remember talking with Lucy's mother, and we were worried about a mutual friend and her husband. They lived in Astoria, Queens, and I didn't know where that was in relation to Manhattan. Finally we got our friend's mother on the phone and they were both fine, shaken, newsless, but fine.
My brother turned out to be just fine as well - he was across the country at the time. But when I finally spoke to him, he told me that he was the pilot for United Flight 93 on September 10, 2001.
Guilt mixed with unbelievable gratitude that exists to this day. I still don't know how to put that into words.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Symptoms
I am fully aware that I am thinking ahead and most likely exaggerating how I'm feeling. The fact that GPOM and I spent a good chunk of the weekend debating middle names for a potential daughter in no way influences my feelings.
Never going to name her Hurricane, GPOM. Never. It's dumb and I don't like it. I get ten months of no fun = I get total veto power.
To-wit (see how I went all contract there?):
1. My lower belly feels swollen.
2. All I want to do is hold it softly because it feels warmer and because I feel like protecting it.
3. We had pizza last night and it made me nauseous. (I ate pizza every night for about six months and never felt badly. Now, two slices of Papa Johns and I had to put the whole pizza away. Thank goodness GPOM ate the leftovers out of my sight.)
4. I'm craving light, healthy things like salads.
5. I really, really want this to be true.
6. We've been trying for a while and according to an episode of Rachel Zoe I watched last week, it takes between twelve and twenty-four months for a woman my age to get pregnant. I stopped taking birth control over a year ago.
So when again, when I start my cycle again, you'll understand when I feel a bit sad and wonder why I can't join the ranks of the sleep-deprived strangely proud women.
Never going to name her Hurricane, GPOM. Never. It's dumb and I don't like it. I get ten months of no fun = I get total veto power.
To-wit (see how I went all contract there?):
1. My lower belly feels swollen.
2. All I want to do is hold it softly because it feels warmer and because I feel like protecting it.
3. We had pizza last night and it made me nauseous. (I ate pizza every night for about six months and never felt badly. Now, two slices of Papa Johns and I had to put the whole pizza away. Thank goodness GPOM ate the leftovers out of my sight.)
4. I'm craving light, healthy things like salads.
5. I really, really want this to be true.
6. We've been trying for a while and according to an episode of Rachel Zoe I watched last week, it takes between twelve and twenty-four months for a woman my age to get pregnant. I stopped taking birth control over a year ago.
So when again, when I start my cycle again, you'll understand when I feel a bit sad and wonder why I can't join the ranks of the sleep-deprived strangely proud women.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Random Monday Thoughts
I'm really starting to suck at solitaire. And I'm really starting to resent it.
GPOM is addicted to streaming Netflix movies, which is great for him and terrible for my internet surfing.
I have a stray hair on my arm and I can't find it and it feels weird.
Maybe I'll go watch Teen Mom.
It's cold. I'm cold-natured, and this cool front is getting to me. I spend a lot of time on the deck with my feet wrapped around GPOM's legs because he's a lot warmer than I am.
I can't decide what to make for dinner but I'm getting very hungry.
I love Labor Day. It's got to be the most ironic holiday - called Labor yet we pride ourselves on doing nothing. Or maybe it's just me priding myself. And I've done nothing of value today except showering.
Yay showers!
GPOM is addicted to streaming Netflix movies, which is great for him and terrible for my internet surfing.
I have a stray hair on my arm and I can't find it and it feels weird.
Maybe I'll go watch Teen Mom.
It's cold. I'm cold-natured, and this cool front is getting to me. I spend a lot of time on the deck with my feet wrapped around GPOM's legs because he's a lot warmer than I am.
I can't decide what to make for dinner but I'm getting very hungry.
I love Labor Day. It's got to be the most ironic holiday - called Labor yet we pride ourselves on doing nothing. Or maybe it's just me priding myself. And I've done nothing of value today except showering.
Yay showers!
Thursday, September 1, 2011
50
Tomorrow is Momma's and Dad's fiftieth wedding anniversary.
Wow. I mean, wow.
How do you manage to do that? My running joke is fifty years without a single murder.
Still, they know each other, can tolerate each other's peccadilloes, and there is love in that house.
I don't know if I'll get fifty, but I'm damn sure going to try.
Wow. I mean, wow.
How do you manage to do that? My running joke is fifty years without a single murder.
Still, they know each other, can tolerate each other's peccadilloes, and there is love in that house.
I don't know if I'll get fifty, but I'm damn sure going to try.
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