|
Jackie Rose tried to be a good 21st-century wondermom. Really, she did. But somewhere at the corner of Career and Motherhood, she realized that balance is an illusion and retreated back into the comfort of chaos. Now, Jackie’s pregnant with her third kid – what was she THINKING? – and taking a moment to wonder whether she’ll actually be able to sleep in the bed she made for herself without having bad dreams...
August 2008 - Posts
-
My morning latte run is the best part of my day. I’ve got way more energy than I do in the afternoon, Asher is happy (read: compliant), and friendly neighbors smile and wave as I walk by. Well, at least the one with Alzheimer’s does.
Since my grossly displaced internal organs feel like they’re trying to make a break for it through every orifice in my body, the six-block walk to Starbucks and back is about as far as I can get without dropping this pup on the sidewalk. But I need to feel normal, get moving, clear my head, so I trek out as often as I can. As I headed toward my destination one morning, it suddenly occurred to me that Hobbes was wrong: People are good!
Pregnancy Perk #2: Knights in Shining Armani
Why? Because as I wobble along my merry way, the crowd of pedestrians parts for us like the Red Sea. Pre-bump, the door was often slammed in my face, but now, people literally jump out of their seats to open it for me. In line at the coffee shop, men in suits offer to let me go first; when the place is busy, some people even suggest I take their table! It really is quite something, considering that Montrealers – in complete defiance of the Canadian stereotype – are about as polite as a colony of rabid bats. And yet, when I jaywalk these days, instead of seeing me as a speedbump, drivers slow down and patiently wait for me lumber across to safety, never honking, never cursing.
At home, it’s just as nice. Dan brings me pillows, makes late-night Dairy Queen runs, and lets me sleep in whenever possible. Okay... so he does all that even when I’m not carrying his 17-pound baby – bless him! – but when I’m pregnant he steps up his game. He opens the car door, defers to me on all matters air-conditioning, and tolerates my rude outbursts, sarcastic remarks and self-indulgent complaining with the patience of Job. It’s like my long-suffering sweetie wakes up every day and asks himself, "Do I want to be right, or do I want to be happy?"
I, in turn, try to do my part. I teeter a little harder, grunt and groan while sitting down or standing up, pat my belly with a knowing smile and generally make like Mother Earth herself.
Sure, women who’ve had kids know full well it’s possible to get along quite nicely on our own steam while pregnant, but few would disagree that it may also be the one time in our lives when it’s okay to be a bit less strong, a bit more in need of a knight in shining armor. And I think that guys are also glad to be able to feel extra useful and helpful, and show in some way their reverence for the, um, feminine mystique.
I like the idea. It’s kinda nice... even though Betty Friedan would probably burn me at the stake over a pile of flaming nursing bras for admitting it.
|
-
Part of my nightly ritual involves watching Entertainment Tonight, Access Hollywood, Extra! and every other inane, equally salacious excuse for half-an-hour well spent ever to hit a major network.
It’s true – in my capacity as a contributor to US Weekly Magazine’s "Fashion Police" column, it’s my job... nay, my duty... to report and comment upon the abhorrent apostasy that is the fallen state of art in America.
Or rather, that’s the lie I tell myself when I’m facing down the 3212th picture this year of an Olsen Twin dressed like an ass.
But in order to come up with snarky one-liners on-point enough to prove that I actually follow what’s happening in Hollywood, I do need to know which Nicole lost her baby weight the fastest (Kidman), which Jonas Brother is the cutest (Joe), and how much crank Amy Winehouse can mainline without killing herself (infinite, as of 10:49 PM Eastern Standard Time on August 26, 2008).
At this point, these shows are practically parodies of themselves. The funhouse graphics, the oblivious redundancy, the endless assault of three-second blurbs and clips under the guise of "breaking news"... why, it’s enough to make a girl want to start reading The Economist. And the smarmy slop they pass off as newsworthy... I swear, the amount of airtime they’ve devoted to Marie Osmond and Barry Manilow this year alone has me thinking someone’s great-grandma is in charge of programming. So unless you’re sincerely interested in re-watching last night’s Dancing With the Stars in real time or guessing which actor turning 87 today once appeared alongside Conway Twitty on The Lawrence Welk Show in the Crest Whitestrips Birthday Challenge, do yourself a favor and spend the night drinking borax instead.
The ET-ification of TV in general has left me so soured of "news" that I have slowly forsaken it all – the bloodlusting local feeds, the bombast and sanctimony of the networks, the ticker-mad cable news shows, even that pretentious but generally reliable old standby PBS – in favor of quieter online purveyors instead. While I would like to say that I seek out a balanced and fair reportage of all current and cultural goings-on via an assortment of reputable outlets, I don’t. All I can stomach is pure satire at this point.
And so, I glean most of my knowledge of world events from What Would Tyler Durden Do? I have sunk so low that I knew about the demise of Sienna Miller’s latest extramarital fling before I knew who Obama picked as his running mate.
Yes, I should be ashamed of myself, but for some reason, I’m not. I’m too busy munching on the hand that feeds me. (Good thing Mary Hart keeps her nails short.)
|
-
Is it just me or is the whole weigh-in thing for pregnant women a little bit archaic? It feels to me vaguely like being bled by leeches or having one’s feet bound... a bad idea in both theory and practice. I mean, come on – is it really necessary to know exactly how many pounds a mom-to-be is putting on in order to know whether she’s healthy or not?
So I had my 33-week check-up yesterday and it was loads of fun. Not only did I have no choice but to bring Asher with me – nary a sitter was to be found – but we waited there for almost three hours before I got to see the doctor. (Hey, it’s par for the course up here in Canada, but at least we get free universal health coverage and a full paid year of maternity leave, so quit your snickering!)
Fortunately, Asher was a very good boy; I bribed him with chips, chocolate and a suitcase full of fun stuff. I, on the other hand, didn’t have a very good time at all.
After my big ol’ blowout Bellagio buffet binge last week, I knew getting on the scale was going to be brutal, and it was. I won’t reveal a number – I’m far too ladylike to post my weight online, no matter how indiscreet I may be about holding my water – but suffice it to say that I have my own gravitational pull at this point.
In the end, I can only conclude one thing:
That
plus:
equals:
|
-
For the next two weeks, I have the rare chance to spend some real quality time with Asher. Since his summer camp is over and Abby’s goes straight until school begins, my boy’s all mine all alone until he starts preschool after Labor Day. Yesterday, I decided to take him to the local zoo, and then for lunch in the park.
Yes, it was shaping up to be a fine day. Until, that is, I decided to push it.
Bad Thing # 2: Peeing in My Pants
It was hot and we were both tired, but since we needed a baby gate for the bottom of the stairs, I shlepped Mr. No-Nap to Babies R Us on the way home. I should have known better. With brazen disregard for my delicate condition, I lifted a crabby 32-pound Asher in and out of the shopping cart thee times, pulled a giant gate down off the shelf, pushed it to the cash, lifted Asher into the car and finally hoisted the gate into the trunk.
And that’s when I gushed. Like, actually wet my pants.
I called Dan when I got home and he gave me lots of crap for being so stupid and then scared the sh*t out of me, insisting we call the hospital. Since I technically couldn’t be sure if it was pee or amniotic fluid, I agreed. (And as Dan so eloquently put it, "The baby is still only about medium-rare, so we’re not taking any chances.") The nurse told me to come in immediately.
In the end, it was just pee – yay! I’m officially incontinent at 32 weeks! – but I’ve been told to smarten up or else. That means no more lifting Asher, no more ditch-digging, no more free-climbing above the treeline without oxygen.
On a more positive note, there’s nothing like the sound of two hungry, wild kids running around the delivery ward and a nervous husband chasing them down, uttering empty threats, to make you appreciate the simple pleasures in life, like being given a glass of orange juice and hooked up to a fetal-monitoring machine for a hour of sheer relaxation.
|
-
If I had three wishes this very moment, this is what they’d be:
1. Eternal life
2. World peace
3. That the Potty Fairy would whisk Asher away as he sleeps and toilet train him by tomorrow morning
While I hold no illusions about the situation in the Middle East, nor do I expect the portrait of me in the attic to suddenly begin aging in my stead, I really was hoping to be done with all this evacuation nonsense by the time Baby’s born. Alas, Asher has been reluctant to say the least, shrieking in protest at the mere suggestion of peeing on the toilet. Of course, I don’t want to traumatize or torture him in any way, but I seriously fear having two in diapers.
(Bonus point: If he’s done by the time he starts preschool in three weeks, it would mean he gets to stay the extra hour and a half each day for "Lunch Bunch" – an ultra-elite group of coprological cognoscenti united by their ability to maintain perfect bladder and bowel control so as to not inconvenience the team of educators who deem tushie-wiping past noon beneath them.)
Fortunately, we have made some major progress this week.
The secret, which I’d forgotten till Abby reminded me, was making him a Chart. A simple piece of paper taped half-ass to the bathroom wall and a packet of Cars stickers was all it took to get him to park his little butt down on the toilet seat and wait for the inevitable to happen. When he peed, we threw a party and he got a sticker. Hallelujah. (Hmmm... I wonder... if I made Dan a sticker chart, would he finally remember that garbage days are Tuesday and Friday?)
So far, Asher has five stickers; impressive, to be sure, but the process is nowhere near complete. When I think about how much I’m dreading the long, dark months of poopy underwear that lie ahead, I want to just send him off to the same guy who took our incontinent, disobedient puppy for three weeks of in-house spirit-breaking.
By the way, why didn’t anybody ever tell me to save those detachable urine-deflectors that came with the potty seats we bought when we were training Abby? It’s so hard to muster enthusiasm for Asher’s success when more pee hits me than the bottom of the bowl.
Is he too little to stand? How exactly does that work? Anybody? Help! Boys baffle me...
|
-
Things I hate about the Olympics:
* They pre-empt my normal August programming of America’s Next Top Model reruns
* Canada’s current medal count comes in at a whopping... wait for it, now ... zero. That’s zero with a zed, y’all!
* Women’s beach boringball... though I sort of like counting how many times the announcers can squeeze the name "Misty-May" into each sentence. (It’s like vocal masturbation for them)
* Lip-synching 6-year-olds
* The lack of international coverage. I could be wrong, but judging from the opening ceremonies, there may be more than just three or four countries competing
* The extremely serious but often-overlooked issue of barrette addiction in women’s gymnastics. I swear, they’re worse than cyclists and their steroids
* That China banned ethnic Tibetans from working in Beijing during the Games
* Those stupid mascots and their blown-out pupils. They look like Pokemons on acid
Things I love about the Olympics:
* Asking Dan questions like, "Why is the I.O.C. considering making bridge an Olympic sport?" and enjoying his futile, fumbling albeit sincere attempts to answer
* The male swimmers’ mesmerizing lack of body hair (If anybody has Michael Phelps’ waxer’s name, please pass it along)
* The brazen ease with which the announcers can prattle off names like Otylia Jęedrzejczak, Otryadyn Gündegmaa, Prapawadee Jaroenrattanatarakoon and Nurbakyt Tengizbayev as if they went to high school with them
* All the pretty horsies
* Watching the wonders of acromegaly and various other pituitary disorders in action everywhere from the pool to the basketball court
* Seeing the athletes’ pores in High Definition. Next time, they should consider giving out medals for the biggest blackheads
* Hot divers lounging out in the on-deck hot tub
|
-
Ugh. We’re home.
The kids were so happy to see us, they almost lost their minds. (The feeling was mutual!) But after about 10 minutes of loving them up, I suddenly remembered why we’d left them in the first place: My shrieking, overtired little blessings were bouncing off the walls, bickering over the toys we brought back, whining about brushing their teeth, and pooping in their pants. (Okay, so maybe just Asher did that, but it was a really really gross one.) It wasn’t their fault. It was waaaay past their bedtime. But I also couldn’t help but notice the vague sense of foreboding setting in.
It’s amazing how after an entire week away, after all the myriad powers of sleep and spa and that other great "S" (shopping) have worked their restorative wonders, everything returns to normal in an instant. Not that normal isn’t good... it’s just that normal is so hard sometimes.
And now that vacation time is over, I guess I feel like I can no longer ignore the obvious:
I am about to have another kid. Delivery Day is in eight weeks, if I make it that long.
Jeez, am I really cut out for this? My patience level is pathetic. Always has been. Dan assures me that I’m just particularly exhausted and exasperated lately because of the kick-boxing little bun in my oven, and that once Baby’s on the outside, I’ll feel soooo much better physically that I’ll have more than enough energy to handle all three.
Yeah, sure. Because I’ll be getting so much sleep by then and definitely won’t have bleeding nipples or feel like a deflated beach ball in any way. Seriously. What were we thinking???
If there are any parents of three out there with wise words of comfort or wisdom – something along the lines of "There, there, dear. Three is so much easier that two!" – now would be the time to share them...
|
-
I have eaten so much this week it’s disgusting.
Before we left, I swore to myself I would just have a light breakfast every day and continue my regular 1/2-hour morning-walk routine. A small lunch, a healthy snack or two, and then maybe a nice dinner out – a big salad or some fish.
Our first morning here, we went straight to the breakfast buffet and every meal since has been a blur of cheese and chocolate and onion strings. And you know, I’m kind of pissed off at America right now. At home, when I order a salad, I get a plate with some greenery, a few veg and perhaps some grilled chicken on top. Here, when I order a "salad," it’s covered in Buffalo wings and Fruit Loops, and served in something akin to an upside-down garbage-can lid. And of course it’s so delicious that I simply must eat every bite.
I think my fundus is now roughly the size of the Luxor Hotel:
Yeah, yeah, we can all laugh about it now. Because what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, right?
Ummm... wrong.
I’m so constipated that I fear the beloved slogan of Sin City will be unable to deliver on its promise of guilt-free indulgence this time. Yes, apart from the large deposit Dan left at the blackjack table at the Bellagio, what happened in Vegas will definitely be coming home with us.
|
-
Lounging poolside in Nevada in the middle of the summer is a bit of a mixed blessing. On the one hand, there’s no shortage of cute waiters happy to bring me my fill of virgin Pina Coladas. On the other, it’s so oppressively hot that I fear the baby may be wilting.
Swimming is the only thing that helps, though stripping down to my bathing suit isn’t easy these days. I’m a bit bashful to begin with, so being grotesquely gravid to boot requires me to summon some serious courage. Happily, my tummy isn’t supposed to be flat for a change, so what the hell!
In this spirit of full disclosure, look at the little lovely I discovered on my side this morning while scrutinizing my form from all angles in the unforgiving fluorescence of our bathroom:
I don’t think it’s dirt.
Foolishly, I immediately googled "stretch marks" and "varicose veins" upon finding it, and now I fear I won’t be able to sleep tonight. With apologies and condolences to anyone who might be similarly afflicted, click here to see the most serious set of stretchies I found. There’s nothing you can do about these streaky demons, either – they simply just happen to some pregnant people.
All the horrible things pregnancy can do to one’s body has got me thinking a lot about Abby and Asher. I really do miss them, cute little buggers that they are. I hope Bubby’s been cleaning behind their ears.
|
-
I’m pleased to be bringing you this Pregnant Pause post live on location in beautiful, downtown Lake Las Vegas.
Dan and I are delighted to be celebrating our 8th anniversary and third Babymoon here, and a little bit shell-shocked at the prospect of being footloose and child-free for the next five days. (Sometimes I think that all the chaos of having kids and staying home with them is worth it just for the joy of leaving them behind for a week in the care of a loved one once every three years.)
Mostly, though, I’m just happy the plane didn’t crash.
I’m severely flight phobic. Have been for years. I’ve tried it all – behavioral therapy, immersion therapy, regular therapy... none of it worked. Normally, the only way you can get me on a plane is with copious doses of alcohol and anxiolytics, but since my blossoming belly precludes the ingestion of any teratogenic mind-altering help, I went straight-edge this time. Okay, I’m lying. I did take one teeny tiny Gravol, but my doctor said it was okay.
It’s not my fault.
Dan doesn’t believe this, but I was supposed to be on a doomed airliner when I was a mere six months old – the ill-fated Eastern Flight 401 that crashed into the Everglades on December 29, 1972, on its way from New York to Miami. It was to be the second leg of our journey south from Montreal, but my parents changed our tickets at the last minute so we could stay in New York to celebrate New Year’s with family friends before continuing on to Florida.
Above 30,000 feet, I fear I’ll forever be doomed to panic attacks, abject terror and intrusive images of jets doing fiery cartwheels off the ends of runways every time I hear a noise or see a flight attendant pout. But I guess if it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be. As for right now, I’m just happy it wasn’t meant to be on my way to Vegas. Crashing on the way home sounds far more appealing...
|
|
|
|