I feel like a bit of a time bomb, in part because since last night’s post lots of friends have been reaching out to ask if I’m in labor. The answer, so far, is no. In fact, I had a record lazy day. I’d planned to join Herr Husband and Das Big Boy for their trip to Target (and was SUPER excited to do so). But after yesterday’s appointment, I decided to lay low (literally), especially since Herr Husband and I have our big date night tomorrow night, courtesy of my wonderful cousin (who needs a fun name).
So while I was very sad to miss out on Target and an outing with my dudes, I compensated with a two hour nap. Yay, rest!
While at Lowes, they saw this enormous bulldozer, which Das Big Boy obviouly LOVED. When I asked him about it, he told me the window was wide open and he climbed in. This is what Curious George does in Das Big Boy’s favorite CG story. Has anyone else ever noticed what a crap caretaker the Man in the Yellow Hat is? He knows George functions like a wild toddler, yet consistently leaves him alone in places like train stations, and then acts surprised when trouble ensues. Really, dude?
Last night ‘Burban Bestie and her husband (‘Burban Buddy?–he’s a pal from high school and needs a name, too) came over for yuppie pizza. There was lots of laughing, and perhaps more discussion of my cervix than most dudes would want, but Herr Husband and ‘Burban Buddy are champs.
Tonight, we had an epic, as always, video chat with the Huxtables, who are expecting a baby in April. Again, laughter and cervical discussion dominated, although there was also time for us to bump compare and for me to boss Dr. Huxtable around about his future medical specialty. Good times had by all!
Well, based on the hour, I think we can safely say I’ll at least make it to 36.3! Huzzah!
Sweet dreams, sweet ballerinas. And thanks for all the love yesterday!
Merry Christmas Eve! Tonight, the Husband Hausfraus enjoyed a traditional Jewish Christmas Eve by eating Chinese take-out with our dear friends The Double Docs S. Delightful!
Das Big Boy doesn’t really do Chinese, so he had guacamole and hot dog for dinner. The results speak for themselves.
Then Herr Husband and I will continue the brainbending task of trying to assemble his train set using all of the cool bridges and tunnels, while still having it fit on his train table.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!
Today began with a long overdue playdate with a mom friend and her adorable, spunky daughter. I was excited because Das Big Boy had been asking about this particular lil’ one recently, and I was eager to catch up with her mom. As usual, Das Big Boy was rude when our guests arrived (and not just because he was in the middle of a poop change!)–telling them, “Bye-bye.” But he eventually settled down and played nicely with and alongside his pal (who is totally unfazed by his behavior, one of many reasons I so enjoy her). Then the poor little muffin bumped her head on the table and, appropriately, cried. This led to Das Big Boy inconsolably crying for quite a while. Anyone have any suggestions for the sympathy crier? He just gets whipped up and hard to calm down, even when the other kid is totally over it. Nevertheless, it was a delightful playdate and I was so glad we did it, especially as playdates are something we haven’t really been doing since I went on bedrest.
Das Big Boy has discovered several new uses for kitchen implements. My Kitchen-Aid mixer, that most primo of wedding gifts, has been re-purposed as a bicycle. “I’m riding a bike like Daddy!” Das Big Boy announced.
Then he stood in the wok. “My balloon,” he said, then added, “flying machine,” to be sure I understood that the wok was now the basket of a hot air balloon, as in the story, “The Flying Machine,” from James Marshall’s oft mentioned George and Martha. I love that one of my goals with my tenth graders was to have them make connections between books and their lives, and Das Big Boy is already doing so! Maybe he’ll be a low-wage earning but gleefully happy English major just like his mama! Makin’ me proud!
Yes, I did shower on Friday evening. And then on Saturday, I was showered with love by some of the most important women in my life. First, a bit of excusing/explaining. If you are a reader/friend who was not invited to my shower, please don’t be mad at me. I consider the shower invite a wee bit awkward; it makes me feel like I’m being gift-grubby, especially with a second baby. And while the people who were in my life when Das Big Boy was born know I didn’t have a shower–my water broke so damn early that invites hadn’t even gone out yet!–I worried that including those who’ve come into my life more recently might be a bit much. It doesn’t mean I love you any less, just that I didn’t want to seem selfish. So I hope we’ve offended no one!
But La Gigi, awesome mom that she is, knew how sad I’d been not to have a shower with Das Big Boy, because instead of the typical coming together of a community that happens when people have a baby, Herr Husband and I felt really isolated in our own personal hell that rather defied explaining. So this time around, La Gigi was determined to give me that wonderful community bonding experience that a shower is meant to be.
Friends and family came from near and far. The people who’ve cheered me on through the hard times with Das Big Boy, and celebrated his miraculous progress, and supported me through this pregnancy were here to offer love and support and congratulations for making it so far. They even treated my beached whale status as if it were glamorous. You can take the girl out of the sweatsuit (and even put a dress and make up on her), but if she’s flopped on the couch, you can’t take the sweatsuit out of the girl.
Most importantly, they helped me remember that a baby is actually coming. There’s something about a high risk pregnancy (or maybe it’s all pregnancies, I wouldn’t know), where you get so hung up on worrying about the pregnancy itself, and so temper your hopes for your wee one, that it can be sort of easy to forget that the result of a pregnancy is (hopefully) going to be a person. A very small person, but still. Living “one day at a time,” as a high risk pregnancy forces you to do, makes you crappy at thinking about the future. But the optimism and joy of my beloved ladies, plus all the tiny and adorable outfits and toys helped me remember that a person is indeed coming our way (hopefully–see high riskyness makes me all kinds of afraid of jinxes). And in not that long, even if I were to miraculously make it all the way to full term!
Obviously, I felt very loved. It meant so much to me to celebrate this baby (and Das Big Boy, really) with this group of women. Thanks so much to them and to my mom for a special day. And to and to Mrs. Huxtable, HH, and El Papa for their help, and to my cousins, sister-in-law, and aunty who brought food/cake! And thank you for all of the toys and gear, and the outfits which will help make Wee Mädchen every bit the hotshot her brother is.
After a wonderful day, feeling very grateful to be surrounded by so much love and support. Thank you all!
Well, as manic as things can get on the couch, anyway.
Herr Husband had to leave at dawn for a DC daytrip, which meant dumping Das Big Boy in bed with me. My fear was that if Das Big Boy were to awake in the thirty minutes between HH’s departure and Nanny Sunshine’s arrival, I wouldn’t be able to go up to his crib to rescue him. Das Big Boy is fidgety when he gets into a big bed, and by fidgety I mostly mean face-kicky. So that was fun. But he is also very cute and woke up smiling and asking for Beejer, his chimpanzee sidekick.
He had a double puke morning, unfortunately. That cold is lingering in its barky cough phase, which also means an even more sensitive gag reflex and a tummy full of mucus–ew. Nanny Sunshine had been warned when she joined our team that vomit was on the menu–ew again. (Actually, I’ve been surprised by how puke-free things have been during her time in office). But still.
Then the plumbers showed up to fix the pipe that ruptured during the efforts to unclog our kitchen sink. They made a lot of noise, which intrigued Das Big Boy, but not so much the rest of us.
At two, Mo arrived, taking over an extended La Gigi shift (fortuitously, for by the end of the day, La Gigi would be struck down by the same illness plaguing El Papa). Mo arrived bearing delicious Whole Foods dinner (pumpkin risotto!) and entertainments–an enormo box of crayons for Das Big Boy and accoutrement for him to make ornaments for the tree. This was very exciting because DBB has wanted to discuss ornaments and decorations a great deal since the tree went up. He’s also into denuding the tree, but not so much the replacing of the ornaments he’s taken down. It’s a work in progress.
Mo really took one for the team (if by the team you mean my family). She fed Das Big Boy two meals (a nearly impossible feat), played the role of Beejer in the kitchen beautifully, and even changed a poopy diaper. If that’s not the work of a best friend, I don’t know what is. Not to mention she entertained me for hours on end, as she always does.
My biggest accomplishment today was diagnosing myself with an umbilical hernia. This does not mean that I have a crazy outie, but just that I have a pain above my belly button. Herr Husband says I’m not allowed to have any more medical conditions. I’m inclined to agree with him. Fortunately, even if I’m right, this one doesn’t seem to be a big deal.
Baby Girl is still hanging in there. I have an appointment tomorrow with the NP at my OB’s practice. Back to regular old appointments for me! Hopefully all will be well–we’re no longer compulsively measuring my cervix, so I won’t be able to analyze every millimeter of change. I think this means fewer opportunities for anxiety. We shall see!
Sweet dreams, sweet ballerinas.
I’ll admit it. I’m fairly easily amused. I amuse myself quite a bit, which is essential to my being a fundamentally happy (if vaguely smug and annoying) person. (And a person who apparently uses a lot of adverbs–my creative writing professors and colleagues would be so ashamed).
I’m also very amused by my kid.
Now I imagine that those of you who aren’t couch-blobs are suffering from a bit of that malaise that comes with returning to work after an extra-long weekend, or having your co-parent return to work after an extra-long weekend. So I will share with you some of the amusing things that have happened in my tiny sphere (the eight-foot semicircular radius around my couch) in the previous forty-eight hours. May my anecdotes lift your spirits as they have lifted mine.
1. Das Big Boy and I were reading Horton Hears a Who (by Dr. Seuss, notes my toddler). In it, Horton mentions that children may live on the speck of dust he’s protecting. I smelled a teachable moment (that sounds dangerous with a toddler, but really, it just means I wanted to engage him in an educational convo.)
“Children,” I said. “Who’s a child?”
“Das Big Boy,” said Das Big Boy, pronouncing his name correctly as is now the norm for him.
“That’s right,” I said. “Das Big Boy is a child. And what is mommy?”
“Fat,” answered Das Big Boy.
A glutton for punishment (among other things, if Das Big Boy is to be believed) I persisted. “What’s Mommy?” I asked.
Das Big Boy responded with something that sounded like either Allison or elephant. “Elephant?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he replied, “Mommy is Horton.”
2. Yesterday, Herr Husband was struggling a bit to set up our Christmas tree. The stand was malfunctioning and he was getting a bit annoyed. I, as usual, was on the couch. Das Big Boy wandered off and was not under direct adult supervision. He’s fairly trustworthy, so we let this happen from time to time.
After several quiet minutes, he emerged from the bathroom.
Apparently the grand master of a potty parade, he held the toilet brush aloft like a baton and had twenty feet of toilet paper trailing from his foot. The rest of the roll, it turned out, was balled up on the floor in the bathroom. We were TPd by our own child. And we handled this moment by laughing hysterically rather than parenting. Although Herr Husband did take the toilet brush away, because that’s a little gross. At least Das Big Boy was holding it by the right end.
3. This has nothing to do with Das Big Boy but with something fascinating and fabulous to which ESA introduced me. Are you all familiar with the art of Eric Joyner? He paints robots and donuts.
ESA went on a date with someone who felt it was very urgent that she see his book of Eric Joyner paintings. And no, that’s not a euphemism.
I told her I was glad she went on such dates because otherwise I would never know that these robot and donut paintings (and their attendant obsessive fanboys) exist. And I am happy they do.
Now you can share in my bliss. The world is a funny and mysterious place.
Also, my second child remains a fetus, so that’s good news, too.
Happy Sunday night, loyal readers!
The nice thing about the status quo is that sometimes it can be awesome. Like today. Yes, I spent the entirety of my day on the couch, as usual. But I spent it not having a baby while Herr Husband and Das Big Boy went out for our Christmas tree.
Then this evening, Mo and the Extra Special Agent (ESA) came over to trim the tree and entertain me and my toddler. We ate delicious (guest provided) food and gabbed all night, which is why I am late in posting.
It was a good night, and now I’ll wish you a good night.
Sweet dreams, sweet ballerinas, as Das Big Boy would say. (He loves the book Olivia Helps with Christmas, which ends with her dreaming about being a ballerina. So that’s set the standard for sweet dreaming, it would appear.)
Today’s appointment went well. My cervix has been deemed stable from when we first went into alarming mode. According to beloved Dr. Ralston, stability is a good thing. It’s a success in part because thirty weeks is that much further along than twenty-six, but also because the fear is that once a cervix behaves incompetently, you worry that it’s just going to get worse and worse until a total shitstorm ensues. My cervix, while incompetent, has maintained the same baseline level of incompetence. I think of it as the difference between hiring someone who seems kind of ineffectual at first and then descends into disaster such that you have to fire him, and someone who skates by at a substandard level, but is never so egregiously awful as to merit dismissal. My cervix, for now, is behaving more like the latter. It could change its mind and start huffing paint or running off to Uzbekistan with the next hottie it meets, but for now it’s bumbling along. Huzzah!
So I asked Dr. Ralston if he wanted to see me again, and if he wanted to see my cervix again. He said that he did not want to see my cervix (the first time a man has turned down that offer, let me tell you!), but he did want to see me, hopefully when I come in to deliver a healthy baby! And, because I’ve made it to thirty weeks, I no longer have to submit to the ultrasound dildo! Now I can just have awkward manual exams (hopefully not involving the excruciating speculum) like any normal pregnant woman. Essentially, the high risk folks don’t feel the need to see me again unless something changes: contractions, cramping, discharge (sorry!), etc. Although of course they’re there if I have any questions or concerns–something at which I tend to excel. Don’t worry. The ultrasound tech asked today if Herr Husband and I were doctors because of our excessive questioning, use of jargon, and adamance that we speak to the attending, not just the fellow. She did not mean it as a compliment.
Now, let’s be clear. It’s not like I’ve been downgraded to the normal pregnancy pool. I’m still on bedrest until I hit full-term (with some possible slight easing around 34 weeks; i.e., sitting in a chair for occasional meals). I still get my progesterone shots. Everyone is glad I got ‘roids and is ready to do a rescue dose should the need arise. I still need to be very aware of what my body is doing. But stable is good. Getting a woman who delivered her last baby at twenty-seven weeks five days to thirty weeks is good.
In other goods, bestie Mo returned from the Left Coast to pay us a visit! (Well, us and her family for, you know, Thanksgiving). We enjoyed a lovely evening of swapping stories, a call from bestie Mrs. Huxtable, discussing my cervix (I don’t have that many other stories these days), and gabbing about her life and work in LA. And of course, Das Big Boy hijinks. Das Big Boy, who has not seen Mo since June, did not respond with the “Bye-bye!” with which he usually greets guests, but was thrilled to see her. He introduced her to chimpanzee cook-offs, “Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum, I smell an English muffin,” and hiding.
It was delightful.
Happy Thanksgiving, one and all. I’ll check in tomorrow for the big thirty weeks, but you might have better things to do. May we all have so much for which we are thankful, and may we all remember to feel truly grateful for it.