Wednesday, February 23, 2005
But WHAT is it?
I urinate constantly.
Isn't that fascinating? But on the upside, my body is defeating this bizarre burping glitch. And Casimir is sick again, or rather still, I suppose. He was on the upswing, and then declined again in some bizarre cyclical fashion. We were all so healthy for so long, and I was sure it was all Thanks to Me. And then February came, and we got on board this sickly merry go round and wonder who will pass what to whom next.
He's never had an ear infection before (surely, Thanks to Me), and I never realized that ear infections mean getting up all night long after spending your housebound days wiping mucous off a little red nose. We tried to just bring him to bed with us to make comforting him easier, but this doesn't really work anymore. Apparently the whole "pillow is to head, and foot of the bed is to feet" concept is a learned one, lost on the crib set. Because co-sleeping with Casimir nowadays means lying awake while he spreads all four limbs out and fidgets and sporadically rotates like a pinwheel around the bed, clocking who he can and scaring the shit out of the cat. No one sleeps.
And I thought I had myself together through this illness installment until he vomited and had bubbles coming out of his nose while I was waiting to turn left in a busy intersection today. Totally my fault, for trying to LEAVE THE HOUSE FINALLY. I admit it. I was totally frustrated and half insanely convinced he was coughing extra hard on purpose as part of a sinister plan to destroy my spirit until we got back to the house and I cleaned his helpless, adorable-even-in-vomit self up. Then I returned to my regularly scheduled program of feeling bad that mommy couldn't make it all better.
Anyway. We have an ultrasound this Friday, and I am actually kicking around the idea of finding out. It's like the all-important question everybody falls back on as a response to announcing you're pregnant. What is it? Are you going to find out? Human? Cling-on? Ape? Are you going to find out what it is? I'm still vehemently against this finding out thing on principle, just so we can color-code and start imagining gender-appropriate personality traits to assign to the baby's kicks, but I admit I'm still curious. And now that I've proven I can wait through one whole pregnancy to find out, I can be a hypocrite and find out this time, right? At least this has to be more fun than the 12-week ultrasound screening I had. There was the little fetus/ball on the screen, Paul was holding up Casimir to see the screen, Casimir was saying "baby!" and it was terribly Kodak momentish. But all I could think of was Omigod I have to pee. Because do you know how full your bladder has to be to make the early ultrasounds work? Kind of ruins the excitement when you're in pain with your urgent, human need to go. Okay so I think I've blogged about urinating too much now.
Do pregnant Japanese women eat sushi? Because I always wondered.
This looks cool, courtesy of Ms. Musings.
Isn't that fascinating? But on the upside, my body is defeating this bizarre burping glitch. And Casimir is sick again, or rather still, I suppose. He was on the upswing, and then declined again in some bizarre cyclical fashion. We were all so healthy for so long, and I was sure it was all Thanks to Me. And then February came, and we got on board this sickly merry go round and wonder who will pass what to whom next.
He's never had an ear infection before (surely, Thanks to Me), and I never realized that ear infections mean getting up all night long after spending your housebound days wiping mucous off a little red nose. We tried to just bring him to bed with us to make comforting him easier, but this doesn't really work anymore. Apparently the whole "pillow is to head, and foot of the bed is to feet" concept is a learned one, lost on the crib set. Because co-sleeping with Casimir nowadays means lying awake while he spreads all four limbs out and fidgets and sporadically rotates like a pinwheel around the bed, clocking who he can and scaring the shit out of the cat. No one sleeps.
And I thought I had myself together through this illness installment until he vomited and had bubbles coming out of his nose while I was waiting to turn left in a busy intersection today. Totally my fault, for trying to LEAVE THE HOUSE FINALLY. I admit it. I was totally frustrated and half insanely convinced he was coughing extra hard on purpose as part of a sinister plan to destroy my spirit until we got back to the house and I cleaned his helpless, adorable-even-in-vomit self up. Then I returned to my regularly scheduled program of feeling bad that mommy couldn't make it all better.
Anyway. We have an ultrasound this Friday, and I am actually kicking around the idea of finding out. It's like the all-important question everybody falls back on as a response to announcing you're pregnant. What is it? Are you going to find out? Human? Cling-on? Ape? Are you going to find out what it is? I'm still vehemently against this finding out thing on principle, just so we can color-code and start imagining gender-appropriate personality traits to assign to the baby's kicks, but I admit I'm still curious. And now that I've proven I can wait through one whole pregnancy to find out, I can be a hypocrite and find out this time, right? At least this has to be more fun than the 12-week ultrasound screening I had. There was the little fetus/ball on the screen, Paul was holding up Casimir to see the screen, Casimir was saying "baby!" and it was terribly Kodak momentish. But all I could think of was Omigod I have to pee. Because do you know how full your bladder has to be to make the early ultrasounds work? Kind of ruins the excitement when you're in pain with your urgent, human need to go. Okay so I think I've blogged about urinating too much now.
Do pregnant Japanese women eat sushi? Because I always wondered.
This looks cool, courtesy of Ms. Musings.
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
Too many giant dills will indeed make you very ill.
I've been complaining lately that Casimir rarely plays by himself the way some other kids his age do. He hollers at me to Play! if I even dare try and wash a dish or make a grocery list. But today, though, holy moses, I practically cleaned the whole kitchen while he played happily with his cars and joyously stacked and restacked all my books on rhetoric. I realize there are better things to do than cleaning a kitchen, but I'm not sure he would have let me off the hook if I weren't busy and was reclining with my new issue of Bust, and I mean...I got things done. That in itself was enough for a natural high and rejuvenating boost. I enjoy playing with him, and I'm not nearly as sidelined as I was in the first months of his life. But he still requires demanding company, and since he's nearly two, I just thought it would be nice if he would start to play on his own for short periods of time before he turned fifteen. Especially since a demanding infant is going to crash the party pretty soon.
Then I showered, and he sat happily on his practice potty and talked to me. Meet the new Jan Brady. New and improved. After a little playdate, we adjourned to the basement for awhile. I started doing laundry and even ironed for the first time in about two years, and would look up to see him sitting on his little wooden bench, swinging his legs to the Old McDonald tune emanating from his Little People barn. Who's child was this, anyway? And bring on the infant, I can take it I thought as he waved from his mini pedal car and shouted, "store! milk! bye!" New developmental stages can be fun! And he even napped for over two hours. Maybe it was a belated Valentine's gift to me from him or something. Like, here's an easy day, Mama. Take it easy!
Pickle me silly.
I seem to have some sort of suggestion cravings. I saw a movie where the woman ate pickles exactly twice, and I was craving them for days. When I finally got a hold of a jar I ate like 6 or 7 and then got really sick and delightfully gassy. I read somewhere about tuna tartar and I was dying, panting for tuna tartar, whatever it tastes like. I've never had it, and I'm pretty sure there are people who would try and arrest me for trying it while pregnant, but can words sound good? Because some of them really do. Just be sure to say things like "swiss chard" and "legumes" around me, if you can.
Then I showered, and he sat happily on his practice potty and talked to me. Meet the new Jan Brady. New and improved. After a little playdate, we adjourned to the basement for awhile. I started doing laundry and even ironed for the first time in about two years, and would look up to see him sitting on his little wooden bench, swinging his legs to the Old McDonald tune emanating from his Little People barn. Who's child was this, anyway? And bring on the infant, I can take it I thought as he waved from his mini pedal car and shouted, "store! milk! bye!" New developmental stages can be fun! And he even napped for over two hours. Maybe it was a belated Valentine's gift to me from him or something. Like, here's an easy day, Mama. Take it easy!
Pickle me silly.
I seem to have some sort of suggestion cravings. I saw a movie where the woman ate pickles exactly twice, and I was craving them for days. When I finally got a hold of a jar I ate like 6 or 7 and then got really sick and delightfully gassy. I read somewhere about tuna tartar and I was dying, panting for tuna tartar, whatever it tastes like. I've never had it, and I'm pretty sure there are people who would try and arrest me for trying it while pregnant, but can words sound good? Because some of them really do. Just be sure to say things like "swiss chard" and "legumes" around me, if you can.
Friday, February 11, 2005
Glow-rama.
I wish I could stop burping. It was the same way when I was pregnant with Casimir. In general I feel good, and my first pregnancy was really pretty easy flying. But you have no idea that burping can really be (I imagine) as bad as hemorrhoids or vomiting. Sometimes it's like I don't breathe, I just burp, to the point where Paul asks if I'm going to be all right and I tell him No, I'm tempted to hang myself to be done with the burping already. Burping and elastic pants. It's all part of the "glowing" package.
Even better, at the last midwife appointment, the midwife who I love except for when she talks about weight, came in after the nurse had taken all my vitals. She greeted me with, "So you gained some weight?" I was like, Uh, are you not supposed to um, sort of gain a little weight when pregnant? Three pounds in four weeks? Because I read like 45 books the first time around, and I had it memorized: two to three pounds in the first trimester, and one pound a week after that until about the last month, and by weighing myself twice a day and catching the fluctuations, I made sure I did just that, and Thank You world, for helping me become this neurotic. (This pregnancy I decided to care less, and boy was I sorry after all of that Christmas fudge manifested itself at the first "weigh in.") But this month I was good. Really really good. Leave it to those mainstream, conservative midwives to remind me of the cumulative weight gain thus far (Christmas weight doesn't count, duh) and make it seem like a Weight Watchers weigh-in even when I'm patting myself on the back because...three pounds!... I think I'm doing great. Jeez.
I was complaining about this to my nurse practitioner friend and saying how I think pregnant women face as much pressure not to "over indulge" as nonpregnant women, and jesus, just leave us alone already. But she was like, No, you pregnant women do tend, on the whole, to gain way too much weight, and it's bad for the baby you greedy pigs (paraphrasing here), so you see, she's just looking out for your health so it doesn't spiral or something. Okay, thanks. So anyway.
Back at the midwife, she followed up with: "You're wearing your pregnancy pants already??" Yes because I'm gaining all this weight, you see. These three pounds. I didn't tell her I couldn't fit in my jeans since about, oh, week ten. Everyone says you can't show that early, even the second time around. "That's just you!" my skinny, post-partum friend chirped. But it was not me! "Me" fit into my jeans. This was not me. Already at about ten weeks, I was not me. Maybe it wasn't the baby yet, or the growing uterus, but it was most definitely not me, whoever or whatever it was. I couldn't quite bring myself to stomp my foot and shout, "I am too showing, shut up, I am." But I got pretty close.
------
Over 294, and through the suburbs, to grandmother's house we go again tomorrow. Thank goodness for grandmother's house for some variety on non-playgroup days. Casimir loves to visit his Ya-Ya (that is starting to strangely sound more and more like a baby-talk euphemism for naughty bits), and Mommy is going to love seeing Bridget Jones in the cheap theater, burping all the while.
Even better, at the last midwife appointment, the midwife who I love except for when she talks about weight, came in after the nurse had taken all my vitals. She greeted me with, "So you gained some weight?" I was like, Uh, are you not supposed to um, sort of gain a little weight when pregnant? Three pounds in four weeks? Because I read like 45 books the first time around, and I had it memorized: two to three pounds in the first trimester, and one pound a week after that until about the last month, and by weighing myself twice a day and catching the fluctuations, I made sure I did just that, and Thank You world, for helping me become this neurotic. (This pregnancy I decided to care less, and boy was I sorry after all of that Christmas fudge manifested itself at the first "weigh in.") But this month I was good. Really really good. Leave it to those mainstream, conservative midwives to remind me of the cumulative weight gain thus far (Christmas weight doesn't count, duh) and make it seem like a Weight Watchers weigh-in even when I'm patting myself on the back because...three pounds!... I think I'm doing great. Jeez.
I was complaining about this to my nurse practitioner friend and saying how I think pregnant women face as much pressure not to "over indulge" as nonpregnant women, and jesus, just leave us alone already. But she was like, No, you pregnant women do tend, on the whole, to gain way too much weight, and it's bad for the baby you greedy pigs (paraphrasing here), so you see, she's just looking out for your health so it doesn't spiral or something. Okay, thanks. So anyway.
Back at the midwife, she followed up with: "You're wearing your pregnancy pants already??" Yes because I'm gaining all this weight, you see. These three pounds. I didn't tell her I couldn't fit in my jeans since about, oh, week ten. Everyone says you can't show that early, even the second time around. "That's just you!" my skinny, post-partum friend chirped. But it was not me! "Me" fit into my jeans. This was not me. Already at about ten weeks, I was not me. Maybe it wasn't the baby yet, or the growing uterus, but it was most definitely not me, whoever or whatever it was. I couldn't quite bring myself to stomp my foot and shout, "I am too showing, shut up, I am." But I got pretty close.
------
Over 294, and through the suburbs, to grandmother's house we go again tomorrow. Thank goodness for grandmother's house for some variety on non-playgroup days. Casimir loves to visit his Ya-Ya (that is starting to strangely sound more and more like a baby-talk euphemism for naughty bits), and Mommy is going to love seeing Bridget Jones in the cheap theater, burping all the while.
Friday, February 04, 2005
Sicky.
We were so sick last weekend, poor Casimir probably wondered why he had drug addicts for parents who kept popping Sudafed* while supine on the couch. I know it sounds incredibly whiney to complain about a head cold, but when you feel like you have two corks stuffed up your nostrils, your head is throbbing, and your eyes are burning and watering (allergies that follow a cold like a chaser are especially good), it's tough not to pity yourself as if you're seriously ill and facing a questionable future. And whenever this happens, I wonder how on earth single parents, my heroes, take care of their children when they're sick. Paul and I would take turns watching him so the other (mostly me) could hide in bed until Casimir came to get you. We even blew off swimming, his favorite activity, and spent a lot of time indoors. Between that and Casimir's sickness and some bad weather before that, we've had some slow days in the house, which always makes me feel neglectful; like we may as well just stay in our pajamas all day and never leave, and wouldn't that be so sad for him? Casimir had some kind of virus too, the pediatrician concluded once we described to her in great detail the frequency and consistency of his poops. But thankfully, beyond pooping like a machine, he was fine and, being Casimir, he was still in remarkably good spirits. It's usually the adults around here who whine the most.
And the lines. They were both very, very red.
So apparently, it really does only take one time of unprotected sex to make a baby. Not that I didn't know that, intellectually speaking;it's just that it usually takes several times or months of "trying" in most instances, so you start to think that maybe it really is a process that takes place in various stages, involving various episodes. But no. Duh. Being pregnant a second time is weird, because I feel like more of a breeder, and because half of the time I don't remember I am, since I'm usually too preoccupied with the first one to give it a whole lot of thought, beyond wondering how the hell I'll ever get out of the house with two. I remember well enough not to pour myself a glass of wine and I'm very much reminded when I pull on elastic-waist pants, but other than that, I keep forgetting. There is no time this time around for elaborate meals centered around kale and kidney beans, no time for prenatal yoga, and thank god very little time for another virtual homeschooling course in pregnancy and birth. I ordered some different books on the topic that I didn't get to last time, but reading Citizen Girl and The Birth of Venus has been more entertaining, believe it or not.
At first I was slightly impressed with the ease with which it happened, which I'm pretty sure is a pretty stupid thing to feel (like yay, we're fertile?). And then I worried about money and stuff and fitting two kids in one bedroom, but mostly I'm looking forward to it and thinking about the good stuff about having kids two years apart, just like all those people harassing me to have more said. I'm less ambivalent about that now, although I do occasionally wonder how millions of caregivers manage to get a toddler and a baby dressed and ready and themselves showered and out of the house before 2pm. And how I'll watch Casimir while I nurse all day long in exhaustion I have no idea, but I hear I won't be the first to have tackled this, amazingly enough.
The hardest part was telling my parents, as if I were 16 or something. I was all worried that they'd worry about me, since I fear I'm always some kind of wreck on the brink in their eyes, needing help. I kept putting off telling them, since I'm not one to make grandiose announcements anyway. Clanking a wine glass and announcing that I have An Announcement to make at the Christmas dinner table isn't really my style, so I just put it off until I ran out of bulky sweaters. The first time, when I was pregnant with Casimir (when I was like, now they'll really know I have sex if I tell them!) I got away with telling them via email, since my dad guessed it in an email. This time I kept waiting for them to guess to let me off the hook, because I see them a lot with Casimir, but it never happened. I was saying ridiculous things like, "No thanks, no wine!" and eating enormous rueben sandwhiches, but apparently they just thought I was putting on weight. Finally I fessed up, and they seemed really happy. Which is good. Because I'm going to make them babysit a whole lot more in about five months.
*You can take Sudafed while pregnant. No, your doctor or pharmacist is wrong and protecting his butt, because Yes, you can.
And the lines. They were both very, very red.
So apparently, it really does only take one time of unprotected sex to make a baby. Not that I didn't know that, intellectually speaking;it's just that it usually takes several times or months of "trying" in most instances, so you start to think that maybe it really is a process that takes place in various stages, involving various episodes. But no. Duh. Being pregnant a second time is weird, because I feel like more of a breeder, and because half of the time I don't remember I am, since I'm usually too preoccupied with the first one to give it a whole lot of thought, beyond wondering how the hell I'll ever get out of the house with two. I remember well enough not to pour myself a glass of wine and I'm very much reminded when I pull on elastic-waist pants, but other than that, I keep forgetting. There is no time this time around for elaborate meals centered around kale and kidney beans, no time for prenatal yoga, and thank god very little time for another virtual homeschooling course in pregnancy and birth. I ordered some different books on the topic that I didn't get to last time, but reading Citizen Girl and The Birth of Venus has been more entertaining, believe it or not.
At first I was slightly impressed with the ease with which it happened, which I'm pretty sure is a pretty stupid thing to feel (like yay, we're fertile?). And then I worried about money and stuff and fitting two kids in one bedroom, but mostly I'm looking forward to it and thinking about the good stuff about having kids two years apart, just like all those people harassing me to have more said. I'm less ambivalent about that now, although I do occasionally wonder how millions of caregivers manage to get a toddler and a baby dressed and ready and themselves showered and out of the house before 2pm. And how I'll watch Casimir while I nurse all day long in exhaustion I have no idea, but I hear I won't be the first to have tackled this, amazingly enough.
The hardest part was telling my parents, as if I were 16 or something. I was all worried that they'd worry about me, since I fear I'm always some kind of wreck on the brink in their eyes, needing help. I kept putting off telling them, since I'm not one to make grandiose announcements anyway. Clanking a wine glass and announcing that I have An Announcement to make at the Christmas dinner table isn't really my style, so I just put it off until I ran out of bulky sweaters. The first time, when I was pregnant with Casimir (when I was like, now they'll really know I have sex if I tell them!) I got away with telling them via email, since my dad guessed it in an email. This time I kept waiting for them to guess to let me off the hook, because I see them a lot with Casimir, but it never happened. I was saying ridiculous things like, "No thanks, no wine!" and eating enormous rueben sandwhiches, but apparently they just thought I was putting on weight. Finally I fessed up, and they seemed really happy. Which is good. Because I'm going to make them babysit a whole lot more in about five months.
*You can take Sudafed while pregnant. No, your doctor or pharmacist is wrong and protecting his butt, because Yes, you can.
