I’m officially 34 weeks pregnant and now have 35 days to go until my scheduled c-section. At the LONGEST. Like I’ve said before, I could always go into labor early. I mean, some guy at the pumpkin patch actually accused me of trying to steal a pumpkin under my shirt, so if my size is any indicator, I think I may pop sooner than later. (BTW: Count that comment among things NOT to say to pregnant women.)
ANYWAY. The fact that I have a month to go made me realize I had better get my act together and prepare for this baby. I mean, where will it sleep? What will it crap in? How will I clean it? These are questions for which I needed to find answers. Not to mention my own recovery: Will I be fat? And how will I deal with boobs the size of watermelons? So today I ordered some crib sheets, a bunch of cloth diapers, a baby bathtub, a few tummy control tank tops, and my personal favorite: a shiny new breast pump.
For those of you that haven’t nursed a baby before, I must say, to be honest, it’s totally crazy. Yes, it’s nature and evolution and blah blah blah — but when you get down to it, it’s still a little being eating dinner from your boob. That’s some craaaazzzzy stuff, to me at least.
Of course, this time around I’ll be a seasoned breast-feeder. I know what to expect so there won’t be any unfortunate mishaps — like the time I spent the day away from the baby without a breast pump and woke up in the middle of the night with boobs so engorged that I was THIS close to asking Grey to milk me. Hey, desperate times call for desperate measures…Yes, I hope (and pray) that never happens again. Plus, by ordering my new portable Medela breast pump that I can shove in the glove compartment or my purse — I have some insurance!
Another new blog idea: All the things you can do while pumping! Ride a roller coaster! Go sailing! Pump while climbing Mount Everest! The pics would be priceless!
Today Grey and I took Ollie to Fifer Orchards out in Wyoming, Delaware for hayrides and pumpkin picking. Talk about the quintessential fall day: the were leaves beginning to turn, the sun was shining, and the apple cider was a-flowing. Plus there were donuts. I don’t know why, but a good cinnamon apple-confection really screams: IT’S AUTUMN!! to my brain and stomach. Yeah, we encountered some really obese and militant parking lot attendants (something about an orange flag and florescent bib can apparently make some farm women assume a Hitler complex), but all in all it was a good time.
Of course, any time I go to a farm, I must admit I’m a tad bit on edge. Nevermind the strong smell of horse manure or abundance of poor fitting denim coveralls — what creeps me out is the corn. Ever since I was in 7th grade and I read Stephen King’s short story, “Children of the Corn,” all the stalks kind of freak me out. Of course, reading about it was bad enough, but then I saw the movie and I’m sure I’ll probably fear that damn red haired Malachi chopping off my head with scythe until I’m ninety.
A small price to pay for learning to love to read, but a valid fear all the same! HAPPY FALL!
The corn maze: good for a photo opp but I couldn't handle much more!
Could you get much creepier than this kid? I'll never view a corn field in the same way again!
The Internet has become a dangerous, dangerous place for me these days. Now that the closest Whole Foods or Nordstrom is an hour and a half away from my house, I find that I’m ordering way more stuff from the web. Backsplash tile, lip gloss, a weed wacker, Ollie’s Halloween costume, bars for our windows (another post entirely) — we seem to be buying a lot more online just because there’s not a local Target or Trader Joe’s nearby.
Though they seem to materialize by magic on my doorstep, I know there’s actually a man behind the appearance of these daily presents: my friendly neighborhood UPS guy. At the rate we’re going, I’m sure by Thanksgiving I’ll be setting a place for him at my table. Or could he be a potential godparent? I see him so frequently, he already seems like a part of the family. No joke, I heard Ollie call him, “Papa” the other day.
The last time Grey or I had such a close relationship with our package delivery man was when he lived in Newport, RI and I lived in Philadelphia. We we just started dating and due to the fact that it was long distance and because I stole an insane amount of free postage from my advertising sales job, I sent Grey packages on a daily basis. Sometimes he’d just receive a big box with a scrap of paper inside saying, “Hi.” Other times, I’d send him 100 pounds of homemade cookies priority overnight. The price of shipping never deterred me because I billed it to my company, so $75 bucks to have a greeting card arrive by 9am the next morning didn’t seem extravagant. They paid me peanuts (literally, sometimes they’d try to offer me jars of nuts instead of a paycheck), so I figured what they didn’t include in my salary, I’d take in the form of free Fed Ex.
The only problem was that I couldn’t let anyone know it was me sending the mail, so I sent my daily packages in code. I’d address then to “Captain Sexy,” “Lieutenant Luscious,” or “Big Fella” from aliases like “Screw You ClearChannel” or “Pay Me More, Bitch.” It was perfect: I remained anonymous and fully employed while Grey’s Rhode Island Fed Ex man got a kick out of delivering multiple boxes per day to the local “Love God.” It was a beautiful relationship!
The UPS guy and his noble chariot. He's my lifeline to the outside world!
Ducks may be cute feathered creatures, but they’re really evil little beings. In addition to their gross poop that they leave behind on docks and decks, did you know duck rape is a real phenomenon? I’m not lying. It isn’t just human society that seems to be getting more violent, but oddly enough the same thing is happening in the world of poultry. According to scientists, ducks are behaving more and more sexually aggressive each year. Really — Google it. You’ll be shocked. And fascinated. And then come to the conclusion you know waaaaaaay more about duck sex than you ever wanted.
I noticed this strange duck behavior when I taught middle school. Why you ask? Why would I notice aggressive quackers when I was a teacher? Well, my friends, because the strange set-up of my former school placed my classroom on the border of a strange little courtyard inhabited by 10,000 of these webbed-footed demons. And I SAW their violence first-hand — and so did all my students due to the fact that the huge bay windows looked directly onto them.
Every spring was apparently mating season for my little courtyard pets and we’d hear them squawking and quacking constantly while they mated. The kids would stare in fascination and get an in-your-face-lesson on the birds and the bees gone wrong. In fact, while I administered the 7th grade Virginia Standards of Learning test to the students, I even had to report a standardized testing irregularity of “kids couldn’t concentrate due to duck rape.” Literally — the ducks’ perverted behavior became so much of a distraction that some students couldn’t even finish their exams. But seriously, who’d want to do analogies while there’s animal gang rape going on outside your window?!
I like Duck Hunt because it's as non-violent as video games come AND teaches that ducks are sick sick creatures that should be eaten with a side of plum sauce.
Finally, our blinds have arrived at our new house and are waiting for installation. This comes after two months of basically living with the motto of “HELLO WORLD!” due to the fact that none of our windows have had any sort of shades or blinds on them. I’m sure the neighbors were starting to wonder if a couple of exhibitionists moved in next door every time they watched us change into pajamas or towel off after the shower.
Luckily, any semblance of modesty that I may have had, went out the window when I delivered Ollie two years ago. I remember thinking it’d be so awkward to have a team of doctors, nurses, and my husband peering into my crotch while I pushed out a baby, but in reality, it was quite humdrum. There must be sort of nudist hormone that kicks in during labor, and I’m not sure my levels every quite went back to normal.
Otherwise, what other explanation can there be for me being kind-of OK with spending the last two months showing my new neighbors my birthday suit on a daily basis? A PREGNANT SUIT, no less. If it isn’t some sort of residual “hormone” – then I fear I may just be some sort of secret pervert. A kind of reverse-Peeping Tom of sorts? Not sure. I’m just happy I don’t have to think about it any more. Thanks, Levelor Blinds!!!
And the worst part, it's not like our bedroom window is small. It's huge. I'm surprised we haven't been asked to move. (Sidenote: please ignore the massive pile of clothes on the chair. Apparently we are also pigs in addition to being exhibitionists!)
My little Ollie, not quite even two years old yet, has developed a funny habit: ass slapping. I realized this the other day on the ferry when he was giggling and going up to every woman he saw and swatting her on the butt. The little flirt thought it was hilarious; he’d stealthily sidle up to a girl and then spin around and slap. And let me tell you, no amount of distraction on my part could take the fun out of this new game.
Oddly, Ollie is not the only guy in my family that has a strange predilection for booty attacks. My brother will probably kill me for writing this, but as a young tot, he too, had a thing for touching strangers’ backsides. However, whereas Ollie likes to slap asses, my little bro liked to pinch them. We’d go to the grocery store and there he’d stand in the canned good aisle — goosing female store patrons. One time, my mom toted us out with her for a bra-shopping expedition (oh the fun of childhood) and he hid in the racks of lingerie and randomly popped out and squeezed unsuspecting woman’s butt cheek’s in his pudgy little toddler hands. Strangely enough, every single one of his victims thought it was adorable. He was the sweet baby bum pincher. Aawwwww, precious.
Ian takes Ollie out for a tricycle ride when we were in Erie last week. I suspect this quiet walk was when Ian explained the joys of booty attacks to his nephew.
Delaware is chock full of two things: chickens and old people. Not that this is a bad thing, but every once in a while, I’ll encounter a really persnickety old fart at the post office or supermarket and I’ll catch myself fantasizing about nursing home abuse.
Like today, I was in Giant picking up a few things and I accidentally hit an old guy in the heel with the massive shopping cart (the kind with the kid car in the front). I didn’t even realize I did it until he turned around and said, “Exccccuuuuuse me! I guess I didn’t need that heel anyway! Watch where you’re going, girly!” HA! The funny thing is, he reminded me SO much of this old man I met at the Erie Soldiers and Sailors home a few years back when I volunteered there. Grey was in the Navy on deployment in the Persian Gulf, so I thought it was appropriate to give back by keeping these elderly vets company. Ummmm….it was not what I thought.
First of all, these were not sweet little old men. For instance, when I was leading them in a game of Bingo — they all cheated — AND, swore at me for not calling the “right” numbers. Plus, they were pervy. At one point I was helping one geezer read the paper and we got to an article about how a local prostitution ring was busted. I realized he was trying to say something to me, so I leaned over close to him so he could whisper in my ear. Then I realized he was saying, “Looks like you’re out of a job!” I wanted to smother him with a pillow.
But the icing on the cake was was this elderly woman (apparently widows of vets can go there too) that was convinced I was Satan. I don’t know what sort of demented memory I triggered in this old gal, but I’ll never forget her seeing me from across the game room shouting, “It’s you! You dumb slut! Your hair looks like shit! I hate you….BITCH!!!!!!!!!” She literally had to be wrestled under control by two orderlies. I left shaken and petrified of senior citizens.
Luckily, seniors no longer scare me, and good thing too — I’m surrounded!
I really thought my volunteer time would be like spending the day with the guys from Grumpy Old Men. Not so!
Now that we’re small town folk, I’m happily noticing all the charm that comes along with living outside the big city. In fact, in our own back yard, we have a family of cute little bunnies that have made their home somewhere. This comes as a pleasant surprise, because in Arlington, all we had were big black squirrels that would eat our trash and chew through our pumpkins at Halloween. One time I even saw one on the back porch eating a discarded corn cob with his little paws just like a human!
I only have one little problem with the rabbits in my yard — and it’s probably just as illogical as my fear of the Amish. My issue is this: One time, I saw Satan take the form of a bunny. I’m not kidding, I seriously think I looked in the face of the Devil himself — and what form was he in? A bunny rabbit. Odd, yes, I would have pictured seeing him as raging Rottweiler (The Omen, anyone?) or maybe a cat (I HATE cats), but against my preconcieved notions, old Lucifer made his debut as Thumper.
It was back in California when I was teaching junior high at a Catholic school. Though my primary focus was English, I was also charged with the monumental task of teaching theology. Of all the jobs I’ve been poorly qualified for in my life, I think this, religion teacher to 7th graders, takes the cake for most ill-suited. But of course, I tried to make the best of it and organized as many field trips as possible to make the class fun for the kids. On one such trip, I accompanied 60 12-year-olds to an old monastery where we prayed with monks and sang Kumbaya in the courtyard.
The one odd thing about the monastery grounds was just how many bunnies were hopping around. The kids and I found it cute until one of my students pointed out a pack of red-eyed rabbits gathered around another bunny…EATING IT ALIVE! Of course, since we were on holy ground, the only explanation I could come up with for carnivorous rabbits was that the rabbits were actually possessed by demons. And, looking back, I sincerely hope me saying, “Kids, that’s what Satan looks like” didn’t scare anyone away from the Catholic church or organized religion in general…
Of course, the bunnies could also have been rabid, but would that be as exciting an explanation for my students? Hardly.
Here I am with my little rug rats (top row, near right). I hope I didn't leave anyone too mentally scarred after being under my influence for an entire school year.
It’s a wellknown fact that pregnant ladies do not have hot asses. Somewhere in the nine month journey, their butts transform and seem to elongate, giving the appearance of a short airplane runway or even a butternut squash, depending on how you look at them. Of course, this is a necessary evil; probably nature’s way of accommodating a living being in the apartment upstairs from said odd-looking asses, but still, when it happens to you, it’s somewhat disturbing. And of course, since I’m pregnant, it has happened to me — twice now.
Of course, I’m not worried, having a baby is well worth the price of sporting a mutated booty for a few months and it just makes my post-partum plan of “full body transformation” more firm. However, almost overnight, I began feeling like wearing my pre-pregnancy thong and bikini undies was akin to slithering into panties made of barbed wire and burlap. Or razorblades and sandpaper. Or rubber bands and fly paper. You get the idea…
So as much as I don’t mind the rump of pregnancy, I don’t want to spend the next 4.5 months totally uncomfortable. (The other day, the elastic waistband of my thong was acting as a sort of tourniquet around my torso. I’m lucky I still have both my legs!). But thanks to online shopping at Gapbody, I am now living large in loose fitting low-rise undies. Granted, these underwear are so roomy that they could also double as a loincloth for Grey, but at least a stylish one!
On Saturday during the drive to West Virginia, Craig and I got into a very deep meaningful conversation about men’s underwear. That’s how we roll on the weekends – we discuss the meaning of life, nuclear disarmament and the intricacies of undies.
I can be rather picky when it comes to what’s going on in the underwear department, both for myself and for Craig. For him I like ‘em tight. Solid colored boxer briefs so snug I can barely take them off. Yes, he may have to sacrifice breathing or walking like a normal human being, but isn’t it worth it?
As we glided towards the Maryland/West Virginia border, Craig started laughing like a crazed country boy, remembering a story from his Leigh, Nebraska days. Â ”Are you sure you want to hear this,” he kept asking while cackling down the highway? “Are you really sure?” At this point I was frothing at the mouth, ready to drown myself in the Shenandoah River if he didn’t start talking.
“Well, when I was 15, 16 I used to wear leopard print briefs. You know, to impress the ladies. All the guys did!” All the guys did? Impress the ladies? My oh my what is going on under those overalls in small town America? “You mean Michelle?” I asked referring to his high school girlfriend. “And by all the guys, you mean the whole Leigh High School football team was roaming around in leopard print?” Craig laughed still zooming down the highway. “Well, Chad had a pair! So did Mark, but we called him Boog. And he was a bigger guy too.” By this point I’m laughing so hard I think I might asphyxiate myself from the hysterics. But Craig just keeps going. “This one night when I was 15, I got so drunk that I ended up on my front lawn in nothing but those leopards. And I could barely walk. I think I was crawling.”
As I reflect back on all the underwear I have owned in my life, I just don’t think I have anything to match the ridiculousness of Craig’s leopard briefs. But there is always next weekend.
This is kind of what I imagine Craig looked like in that underwear. Man oh man I wish he had pictures.
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