Grievance

Some women have really rough pregnancies. Some women have terrible morning sickness, are bed-ridden, gain an unbelievable amount of weight, struggle through every waddle and just absolutely hate being pregnant. 

This is not me. I have been very blessed to have had easy pregnancies with both of my children (to date). Being pregnant does not bother me. Aside from what I would imagine is a normal amount of baby-cookin'-related exhaustion, a reasonable round of first trimester nausea, and the other typical things one would expect from a body having to grow a-whole-dang-nother person... this has been cake. 

But I would like to air a pregnancy grievance that absolutely drives me crazy. 

It's YOU.

Look - I know you mean well and you just don't know what else to say or do. I know you're excited for me and you have no idea how annoying you're being. I know you love babies and lo and behold I am about to bring one into the world for you to enjoy. 

But please stop. 

It's not that I mind telling you when I'm due. We are all very much looking forward to that approximate date range, too. Feel free to also ask if I know the sex of the baby and if it is my first or second or seventh child. But please refrain from any facial expressions, large gestures, or further comments in reaction to whatever answer I give. 

It's not even when you ask to touch my belly that bothers me. That - oddly enough - isn't so bad. I mean, at that point you probably know me well enough to have moved past my being annoyed with you. 

It's not when you, fellow childbearing comrade, ask me questions about what's normal and what it's like for me. I know you are just looking to reassure yourself that never being able to breathe through your nose is totally fine and learn what you might expect because yes, pregnant sex can be just weird. That's totally cool and I'm so happy to oblige. Let's talk. 

But here's the thing...

Do not ask me how I'm feeling. Especially do not ask me in that sing-song tone of voice like I'm a new little puppy who is too confused about how to work my own body to walk or eat or crap without assistance. You know the voice I'm talking about... "How are you feeeeeeeellling"? 

Yeah, stop that. 

I'm not sick. 

I'm not disabled or incapacitated. 

I'm pregnant. 

And I'm fine. 

What you're asking me implies that - solely because of my 'delicate condition' - I must be experiencing some health ailments that you need to know about. 

First, I'm not. Second, you don't.

Because, in my frail state, I am so publicly available to answer your probes for personal details about how my body is handling gestation, I would like to generously offer you some alternative ways to talk to someone like me. 

Instead of: "How are you feeling?" 
Try this: "How is work?" or "What time is it?"
Why this is better: Because it's what you would ask anyone else. 

Instead of: "Are you ready?"
Try this: "Can I buy you a cheeseburger?" or "Would you like a piece of cake?"
Why this is better: Because who wouldn't?  

Instead of: "Are you dilated yet?"
Try this: Sitting in a corner by yourself. 
Why this is better: Because no discussion about how cavernous and wide my cervix is should ever take place between someone other than me, my spouse, and my doctor. And you know how she knows, right? Yeah. Unless you also have the wonderful privilege of putting the baby there or are being paid to pull it out. Don't ask. 


Here's the thing...
The only pregnancy affliction that we blessed mothers are all subjected to, is how public it is. At some point, you cannot hide your pregnancy. I would say that for the most part, we don't want to. My bump is super cute (when I can find clothes that don't make me look like a circus tent). I'm bringing sweet life into the world. This kid I'm growing is super awesome already. But why is any of that an invitation for you to overlook that I'm still a person and not an oven that needs to be checked on every five minutes. 

Oh and another thing... 

You do not need to comment on how you are waiting to meet my baby or really even ask when the baby is coming. When you start with these questions and are 'checking' up on me every chance you get, it suggests that I'm on a timer or a schedule - specifically, YOUR schedule. I guarantee you that my own anticipation outweighs yours and I really don't want to be made a spectacle in the process. In fact, this may actually be a really frustrating, scary, exciting, nerve-wracking time for me and I have no desire to be the zoo's latest Panda Watch in the process.  It may surprise you to know that I have really no control over when my child decides to make his or her debut. In the meantime, your waiting is also my waiting. And frankly, your waiting is irrelevant. If you are important to me and my husband and my child(ren) - you will be well informed when such arrival takes place. Just trust that you will be notified in a timely fashion according to where you fall in the Need-To-Know hierarchy. And please do not be offended if that hierarchy goes: me - husband - hospital - Facebook.

In conclusion, please, friends, take what I am saying with a sweet smile. Know that I love you... probably. Know that I appreciate how much you love me... naturally. And know that I recognize how much you already love my baby... definitely. Try not to forget to talk to me like an adult, preferably as one who isn't wearing this watermelon sign around her neck that says 'HEY LOOK WHAT I HAVE IN MY BELLY'!

I am either fully enjoying or barely surviving my pregnancy and trying to retain my sanity in the process. Please keep your verbal anticipation of it to yourself. 

That is all. 

Time

As a working mom, my time is one of the most precious things I can give away.

- - -

My day starts at 7:00 am... Okay, who am I kidding? My day starts at 7:10 after my fourth alarm goes off. I have never been a morning person. Neh. Ver. After I'm showered, dressed ...which is much more challenging these days because nothing seems to fit right... and ready to go - I head on into G's room to wake his adorably sleepy-butt up.

He isn't really a morning person either. Thanks, mom. If he didn't wake up before us - and isn't sitting up in his bed turning his nightlight on and off - he's going to cry and fuss at me for rousing him from his beauty sleep. Le sigh. No smiley, joyous morning greeting from my eldest.

After he's changed and dressed and has decided that it's okay to be awake, we dart into the kitchen. I grab some peanut butter crackers to eat for breakfast in the swagger-wagon and head out the door. These are days when I'm lucky enough to be the one to get G ready... most days, Aaron beats me to it. We are only running 10 minutes late. That's good, right?? Kisses from dad and a fight into the car seat and we are off.

The drive to Lolly's House is usually quick but it's in the opposite direction of work. I should have left the house earlier. Hopefully, there aren't any accidents. Do I have time to stop for coffee? When we get to Lolly's, I get G out of the van and take him inside. Maybe today he will give me a hug and a kiss before I leave him... He lunges for his Pop Pop with the sweetest toothy grin. I rush in to use the bathroom because little duo has decided to cuddle up with my bladder and I. have. got. to. go!
Less than five minutes before I'm back in the car. Hey, I'm doing pretty good.  No such luck on the hug and kiss. Some days he could care less that I'm leaving. That's probably better in the long run anyway. 

Traffic on the way to the office is normal, though never great. I shouldn't have taken so long to drop G off.  I don't have time to stop for coffee. I'm only 10 minutes 15 minutes late to work.

[Insert 8-Hour Workday Here]

I head out to fire up the swagger-wagon. It's 5:15 pm and I need to get a head start on the rush-hour traffic, else suffer the wrath that is the DFW Metroplex and the mass-exodus to the suburbs. I used to use this time to call my mom and catch up on the events of the day. Since they've moved here and I'm going to see her in 45 minutes, a call doesn't really make a whole lot of sense. I call Aaron instead.  He hates phone calls - especially ones that exist solely to kill time and keep me and the other three-hundred commuters company.  Since he's already filled me in on any significant events during the day via Skype, we have nothing new to talk about. He hasn't started dinner. I decide he's boring to talk to on the phone. Why is everyone driving to the same place? Don't these people want to live somewhere else?

I finally get to Lolly and Pop's and rush in to find a two-foot tall little bundle of giggles and excitement, overjoyed that his momma is here to get him. Just kidding. He's grumpy cause he's hungry and I'm not as interesting as the dogs. I am fortunate enough to change a poopy diaper. Yay me! I ask G for a hug and a kiss. Whatever, kid, you're getting one anyway. Lolly fills me in on the events of the day. They went on a walk, learned the color yellow, and apparently he can say "fish," now. My brilliant child. Nah nah nah nah boo boo. I ask him if he learned how to say "fish." He looks at me with the same stare his father gives me when I ask if the he'll do the dishes.

It's 6:15 and we all three are hungry. Another fight into the car seat and we're heading home. Why is there so much traffic. Go to Walmart another time, folks. I pull in the driveway about 6:30. G and I go grab the mail and head inside. Daddy gets a smile and an "up!" I change into lazy-mom/aren't-you-glad-you-married-this clothes. And we play for a few minutes before serving dinner.

This is where my kid (usually) excels. Food is is happy place. Still, most of dinner is spent coercing G to eat his veggies and not just the carbs and applesauce. Dumb move serving the bread and pasta first, mom. Whatever. He's growing. No one likes veggies anyway. After we clean up we have about an hour before bedtime.

I'm a better parent on Tuesdays and Thursdays because we actually take him outside after we eat. We walk up the street pulling him in the wagon his father painstakingly re-painted for me. G doesn't want to sit in the wagon. He wants to stand. Ugh. Then at 7:15 he gets to run through the sprinklers in the front yard that are set to the automatic timer. Boom! Parenting win. After the sprinklers turn off and G has decided now is a good time to try to make a break for it into the road. He's not suited for life on the streets... try telling him that.  I leave him to Aaron while I go draw a bath.

Bath time is great. It's reminiscent of the wagon because this child wont sit down. I feel like I'm treating my kid like a dog for all the 'sit' and 'leave it'-s that come out of my mouth on a daily basis. G is eating the bubbles and playing on his bath drums. Thank you to whomever gifted those to us for his birthday. All is fun and games until it's time to actually attempt some form of cleanliness. That's okay - it's quick. 

We do a precarious dance to get both of us out of the tub without falling and cracking a skull. Success! I ask G if he wants to brush his teeth. This time he answers me. "eet" I'll take it. He's less enthusiastic about drying off and getting into pajamas. My child is not one to be restrained to laying down against his will - but he needs to be lathered in coconut oil to ward off the eczema ju-ju. Ha! He's clothed. I win. 

In his room, we sort of cuddle on the rocking chair. He's not having it until Dad brings him a sippy full of milk. I read a book and point out the ducks and socks and other things he seems to recognize. He just wants to turn the page and throw it onto the floor. The sippy helps.

It's 8:10. After we finish the book, Aaron lowers him into bed. My belly wont let me. We say prayers and I lean over and pick up his foot to kiss his piggies goodnight. It's the only thing I can reach.  The hubby and I leave the room and plop down on the couch to binge-watch whatever vices Netflix has us entrapped in at the moment. Currently, it's Grey's Anatomy. We are fifteen minutes in and G has finished his milk. I know this because he's wailing.

Secretly, I'm very happy about this. Now is my time to shine - the only really consistent time of the day when he wants me. I swoop in for mom duty. No crying-it-out happens in this house. I take full advantage of an extra ten minutes of time where G really does want to cuddle. We rock. I hum a lullaby. He falls asleep. There is a puddle of drool on my chest. Attractive. Baby brother or sister is kicking G. I wonder if he notices.  I am in mommy heaven for ten minutes.

Crap, the youngest just kicked the bladder and I have to pee. I hold it as long as I can. I call for Aaron to put the big one back into his crib. We slowly back out of the room after helping him find and snuggle with his Roarbert. I'm so glad he didn't pick a girly lovey. 

The rest of the evening is spent on two or three TV episodes and talking about our fantasy teams. Why are all my players hurt??

We head to bed.

My kid has spidey senses. I know this because as soon as he senses - from across the house - that both Aaron and I are in bed, he stirs awake. This happens every night... without fail. Ugh. Now I really don't want to get out of bed. Once I'm in bed, I'm there for the night so we become a cry-it-out-approved family. If G truly doesn't settle back down, Aaron is on deck for this one. Usually, he does go back to sleep. Thank you. 

I can't sleep. My husband doesn't share my affliction. I play on my phone for 20 minutes before deciding there is nothing good to read and no one is interesting enough to stalk. I check the baby monitor. Kiddo is sound asleep. I eventually follow suit.

- - -

I write all of this to point out that in the fifteen hours that I spend awake, less than three of those are with my kid. My kid who only sometimes, sort-of makes me feel like he wants to spend time with me. In total, I have about twelve hours a workweek of precious time that doesn't belong to me. It belongs to my child.

So when I don't want to hang out with you or go to happy hour or make plans, it's because I'm very selfish of my time. I don't want to give it to you. I want to give it to my son - my son who will only be my only little boy for a few more months.

I know you don't understand why I can't go out to dinner at 7:30 pm. And you don't always see how taxing it is to keep my kid out past bed time. Your house isn't child-proof and certainly not my-kid-is-allergic-to-your-pet-proof. I get it.  I don't blame you for this. I don't expect you without kids to get it. I also imagine it's easy to forget what it was like.

But I live it every day.

I don't want to feel guilty about not spending time with you. So please extend extra grace when I decline your offer to hang out. It's not you. It's me. And try to appreciate the weight of the times that we do share together. It is VALUABLE time. I love you. I want to give it to you. Sometimes the tug-of-war just sucks and unfortunately, you will probably lose. 

Spit Up and No. 2

My sweet little boy is five months old! 

He continues to surprise us every day with new faces and sounds. Graham's most recent accomplishment is rolling from back to front. This new talent has been the cause of many humorous moments in our household - including the one below - where I found that Graham had not only rolled over but had spit up and then managed to face plant in his excitement.

And apparently I'm one of those moms who says "Quick! Grab the camera!" before running to rescue my kid from his own disasters.

Must mean I'm cool.

In other news, I never would have imaged how frequently poop is a topic in our home. Graham, for whatever reason, has recently had trouble going number two. On one hand, its kind of funny hearing him grunt it out, but after a while of trying, the poor kid's frustrations just hurt mommy's heart. The silver lining is that he wears himself out and just wants to cuddle - gives new meaning to the term "pooped."

The bug is learning more and more every day. He's discovered that he can jump in his exersaucer, loves being tossed in the air, and the melt-your-heart giggling is something only his Daddy can bring out. Momma doesn't mind this so much. :)