Miss Me Yet?

I know, I know, I haven’t been writing much lately. Got one or two other things going around here. Love to tell you about it, but it’d be WAY too much information, and I’m going to spare you.

I’m having all these euphoric lovely thoughts these days about my friends and family. I want to send love letters to everybody. Is this a pre-labour thing? Or maybe you guys are just all really great.

I really don’t have that much to report. We’re at that stalled out last-week-of-pregnancy, don’t-answer-the-phone stage. Don’t answer the phone if you don’t want to answer the question, “Sooooo, anything yet?” And I don’t. Because no, nothing yet, and I’m really not that anxious about it, so let’s all just sit back and let this thing happen when it’ll happen, okay? Trust me, this baby will come out happily when it’s ready. I’ve been listening to this Ani DiFranco song (“Landing Gear”) about an unborn babe and just love the chorus, “For someone who ain’t even here yet, look how much the world loves you.” You guys are so cute, all excited about a new baby coming. I could just pinch your cheeks. Okay, okay, I’m a little excited too. Babies are great.

Oh, the latest in ultrasound news! So my most recent ultrasound added to the scepticism and did not reduce the cynicism at ALL. At 38 weeks, the baby is suddenly completely proportional with all measurements (head and abdomen) measuring 37 weeks. Is this a medical miracle?! Or is it possibly related to my earlier concern that ultrasound is highly subjective and not a reliable science? I’m going to have to say, I’m not planning on having any more babies, but I can really see how people get to the point where they’d want to do the whole unassisted home birth thing. Let me be clear here: I think that is a ridiculous idea, but I’m just saying. Medical science has me so jaded. The ultrasounds that mean nothing, the constant pressure and anxiety, it’s all IMO a product of our self-serving medical system. And it makes it impossible to discern if there is an actual problem, because everyone I know has had some sort of “problem” that has required some sort of intervention (i.e., an extra ultrasound, non-stress test, etc.). And remarkably, everyone is fine. I know, I know, sometimes this stuff is useful. Sometimes it catches problems early enough to intervene. It just seems there needs to be a better way to keep mommies calm throughout the process. Listen to me, all over-privileged and taking our healthcare system for granted. Boohoo SuperMommy, everybody is trying really hard to keep your baby safe. You poor, poor thing. Maybe you could find something more important to complain about, like the temperature Starbucks serves its mochas at. Darn things are always cold to me. And what's with gas prices these days? Douglas Coupland would shake his head sadly in my direction.

Well, I love you all. I don’t think I’ll be blogging again until after the babe comes, but you never know. This thing could carry on forever. Somebody get this baby out of me!!! Just kidding. Really.

When Housework Makes You Cry, It’s Time to Hire a Housekeeper

I shouldn’t be telling you this. We have a routine around here. My friend M calls it “pink jobs” and “blue jobs”. We have our respective colour-coded jobs and it works really well for us. Pink jobs around our home include grocery shopping, laundry, cleaning bathrooms, meal preparations, and just generally taking care of the housekeeping. Blue jobs include lawn-mowing, home renovations, car-washing, taking out the garbage, and all of those manly chores. AND loading up the dishwasher and turning it on after dinner. Really, I feel ridiculous even bringing this up. I know that there are women out there that would throw a parade if their husbands did a quarter of the things my guy does around here. I should just stop... but yet... I can’t.

So anyways, Tuesday nights are ball nights for David, so after dinner he plays with the kids for a bit, then heads for the ball field. He tends to not do dishes on Tuesdays. Now that I see it in print, I can clearly see that in itself is not a big deal. He’s had a long day at work, he gets a short time to play with the kids, and then he is off. And, at the time, it doesn’t bother me. Now, you may ask yourself why I don’t go ahead and load up the dishwasher myself on these evenings. I’ll tell you why. It’s a blue job. Blue. The problem doesn’t start until I wake up Wednesday morning. To that big stack of congealed dishes in the sink. The stack of dishes that have overnight hardened and crusted over and now will take a sandblaster to scrub clean. And I haven’t even made coffee yet—and I’ve TOLD you how difficult I find that task in the morning! So now, Wednesday morning, I start my day slamming dishes around, trying to make room in the sink so I can rinse out the coffee pot and in my mind I am grumbling, “BLUE job, BLUE job, BLUE job...” You get the picture. Not the most positive way to start the day.

At this point you would probably expect that I would do the dishes. Oh no, dear reader, please don’t give me so much credit. That would be the rational, un-pregnant thing to do. Has the dish job miraculously taken on a new colour? No, that job is still blue. So instead of just doing the dishes, I start stressing out on the extra work I have to do. Not only do I have to do my regular chores--now I have to do BLUE jobs because somebody around here is clearly NOT PULLING HIS WEIGHT!!! Because today is the day that I clean the bathrooms, but I am paralyzed by the stack of dishes in the kitchen. I cannot move forward to do the other jobs, but I am resolute to not touch the dishes. I cannot clean the bathrooms because the kitchen is a mess. Are you beginning to see where my daughter has inherited her insanity from? So by the time David comes home I’ve worked myself into such a state that I can no longer make dinner (how could I make dinner with that mess in the kitchen?!). And I am crying. And the children are wondering why Mommy is crying. I've got to stop telling them it's because I'm pregnant or I'll never be a grandmother. They will think pregnancy is this horrible affliction that is visited upon you and DESTROYS YOUR LIFE.

The thing I really like about David is that when I have a nervous breakdown, he does the dishes. And then he laughs when I read my blog to him out loud. And says, “I hope you feel better now that you wrote that down.” And I do. I really do.

My Two-Year-Old is Insane

You would think that if you were chronically afflicted with the nastiest heartburn ever recorded in human history, particularly when lying down and trying to sleep, you would have more sense than to make and consume a lemon meringue pie at nine o’clock at night. Clearly not my most brilliant moment. I’m not sure how many Tums I fed myself throughout my sleep, but I do remember fumbling for the bottle a few times. And moaning. I must be an absolute pleasure to sleep with these days.

I woke up in the morning with the most sour, inhospitable stomach. Clearly it was not going to be a Coffee Day. It would not be a day which starts with the pleasant jolt of caffeine soothing my sleep-deprived mama brain. A day which starts with the bitter relief of the magic wake-ups. Alas, no, my sour stomach would only permit me a glass of milk. As I turned, bleary-eyed, to survey the rainstorm raging outside, I knew today was going to be difficult.

The morning actually went quite well. We had a great play at Strong Start, and it was one of those days when I was able to find a balance in playing with both kids. There were a few times when Skyler wandered off to do her own thing, but she let me come and play with her here and there. I should just appreciate that my daughter is able to entertain herself since my son so clearly is not, but I feel so rebuffed! Am I not fun? Do I not make good voices for the dollies? Am I really just getting in the way?

It was around lunchtime, back at home, that Skyler’s head started spinning 360 degrees. Because she is insane. She went from pleasant and happy and cooperative to raging, freaking insanity in 3.6 seconds. The thing is, she’s a very little girl. When she screams at the top of her lungs, it’s ineffectual. It’s just not that loud. I have to admit, I find it extremely difficult to not laugh at her when she is running from one end of the house to the other yelling, “NO NO NO NO NONONONONONOOOOO!!!!” Because she is just so little, and so ANGRY. A tiny little angry wingnut. It infuriates her more when I laugh at her, or when I try to hug it out with her, or talk to her, or interact with her in any way. I just have to let her scream it out. So I put her in her room, let her know to come out when she’s all done, and I find something to play with Marcus. And the two of us sometimes laugh about his crazy sister, because he can’t actually remember being two, and being insane. Then, after some time passes, Skyler comes out of her room and starts playing with us, as if nothing happened. Crazy. Person.

So after nap today, I had some more pie. It’s important to be a good role model for the crazy people too.