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Archive for the ‘pregnancy’ Category

He’s here, and it seems like he’s been here forever already. (In a good way.)

In two weeks, we moved out of one house, into another, and then had the baby. And it all worked out pretty well. Now we’ll see when I get around to writing about any of it….

(Like writing about why I was hissing threats at certain maternity ward nurses as soon as they shut the door. Mean threats, too, about slapping them.)

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I was quite sick this morning. So as I am literally getting sick, this is what I hear:

“Mom, can I have some grapes now?”

“Mom? Grapes? Me, too!” I feel a tug on my shirt. A more insistent tug.

Then the computer keys start getting pounded.

Then I hear papers ripping.

I’m helpless–but only for seconds. They seem to know I am helpless. More papers rip. More fervent computer keyboard pounding.

Then they’re both behind me, doing something to the back of my pants. What the hell are they doing? I hear: “Tail! Tail!” They scamper away.

They’ve accomplished so much in these seconds, and when I finally straighten up and turn around, I see two little boys holding hands, spinning in a circle, singing Ring Around the Rosy. The picture of suspicious innocence. And I have a mylar balloon floating out of the back of my pants.

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Don’t Let the Fetus Win

Alright, little two inch long sort-of-baby fetus creature–I’m not going to take this lying down anymore (under a blanket on the couch, begging my kids not to breathe their chicken salad breath near me or drool peanut butter spit on my cheek before I run into the bathroom). You can’t defeat me any longer. So what if my husband said “sour cream” today and I stumbled to the sink to be sick? I can take whatever you can dish out, and you’ll give up sometime this spring, just like your brothers did. Speaking of them, gone are the days when they’d rush to my side to console me. Now, if they even notice I’m off being sick, they might deign to mention, to anyone or to no one, “Mommy’s throwing up,” and then get back to playing. They’re no longer impressed with this, and neither am I. So, little tiny fetus, as well as you’re doing at creating a cranky, nauseated, and lethargic woman in my image at present, and a fairly poor mother at that, enough already.  You need to at least be born before you get to be in charge.

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I’ve actually written quite a bit on here lately, despite what that nagging calendar on the sidebar says. But, happily for anyone who chances upon this page, I have kept most of it marked draft because there seems to be very little happening in my head or my life unrelated to throwing up and pregnancy nausea. I’m following, so far, the precise script of the first two times, so should be eating happily again in April. As much as I wish I was one of these glowy, energetic, and blissful pregnant types, I’m more the type who shrieks, “Oh, god, did someone just mention wheat bread?! I’m gonna be sick!as I run to the bathroom.

And while the lovely people with whom I am lucky enough to communicate through blogging would surely say kind, compassionate things and have good advice in the midst of day after day of listen-to-how-I-got-sick-today posts, I can’t, in good conscience, take up their very few extra minutes with woe-is-me, I’m-so-sick stories. Not that I complain, though. . . (Wow!–did you hear that derisive and mirthless laugh from close friends and family from coast to coast? Fine–I complain to them, but they are stuck with it because they’re stuck with me, and I’ve given up self-censorship and excessive politeness with them many years ago–the beauty and price of very long friendships . . .)

The good part: When a four year old races into the bathroom behind you to pat your back and murmur: “You’ll be OK,” with a little brother behind him screaming: “God bless you, Mommy! God bless you, Mommy!” even throwing up can be fun.

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ultrababy.jpg

That blob is, so they tell me, not a seahorse attempting to grow limbs, but a little tiny baby-to-be. 8 weeks down, 32 million weeks to go.

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