MuddledMom

Ok, it’s been what, six months…or something like that. I’m coming back. After the new year (have to get these little people back to school and some semblance of routine as in ‘wake up and get dressed before 4pm’…) Hope someone cares besides my mom. Till then *curtsies*….

So I just got back from a pleasant one week vacation with my husband and children (no really, it was nice…) The summer is dwindling to an end and this will probably be my last repost for a while. Really.

7/31/2006
Poundage and Sandwiches…

Remember when you first read those results on the little stick. The little dance of joy you did, especially if it was the first time around. And how ecstatic you were. You pictured in your mind how cute you would look with the little belly. Maybe even stuffing a small pillow under your shirt, thinking, oh how cute I will look. Then you read everything you could get your hands on. Talked to other mother’s and listened to all of their horror fat stories and you pushed it aside. You raised your eyebrows (in your mind of course…) when you heard mothers discussing, so matter of factly, the things that they ate and, what at the time you regarded as a ridiculous amount of weight gained. Because of course this wasn’t going to happen to you. You were not going to gain a half of person. You would eat healthy, you would exercise. You bought the DVD’s. You were going to be the exemplary pregnant mom that everyone was going to admire and aspire to. Life wasn’t going to change, and you didn’t even put your pre pregnancy clothes away. Because you would be back into them about 6 to 8 weeks after the birth of the child anyway…

Now there are a select few of you who actually met this standard. To those few, my hat’s off to your freak accomplishment. However I should note that the Stepford Preggo’s (and I use this term affectionately with the utmost respect and love, sort of…) should probably stop reading here. I am the antithesis of all that is sweet lullabies, flowers and rattles as far as pregnancy goes. As a matter of fact, you probably shouldn’t read anything I’ve written, in the past, in the future, or ever.

The sooner you let go of this pre-pregnancy size in six weeks fantasy, the less likely you are to entertain stabbing your husband in the eye with a nasal aspirator every time he so much as looks at you, let alone touches you after you given birth. The sooner you forego this illusion, the more at peace you will be with yourself and you will also have an excuse to spend some ridiculous amount of money to update your wardrobe. When I say update, I mean buy something that you can actually tug passed your thighs without using such fitting tactics as butter, lying down and/or a hanger.

There are many reasons why we may gain this excessive weight. In my case it was all started by the The Old School thought camp of ‘eating for two’. The Old Schoolers like to shove massive quantities of lipid based foods down your throat. If you are anything like me, you feel guilty turning it down (this is an Italian coping mechanism that is instilled at an early age – “the teacher yelled at you when it was Marcy that was talking?, here have a canoli”..). I was surrounded by them at work. They went out of their way to get something for you to eat without you even asking. It was purely out of concern for you and your unborn child, who according to the old timers has the appetite of two grown men. That is the only thing I can assume since I am only five feet tall on a good day and before I got pregnant the first time I weighed about 105 pounds, if that. Otherwise, what would make you deduce that I would be inclined to or even physically capable of eating a 12 inch meatball parmigana hero…by myself? I mean what am I incubating here? A rhino? Then after that I would be subjected to tubs of ice cream with absurd flavor names such as Chocolate Caramel Ribbon Cheesecake. “Oh c’mooon, the baaaaabyyyy…” Sigh, Fine, I’ll eat the ice cream (well it’s not like they had to twist my arm that hard, but the guilt factor trumped any nutritional logic that may have tried to prevail and with flavors like that, c’mon…), They would buy all this stuff for me, without me asking, so I ate it. Who am I to waste food? Or even worse how could I backslap someone for their thoughtfulness.

And you know what?, I personally like to eat a good sandwich every now and then.
And some cookies.
And some ice cream.
Throw an apple in there for fiber and vitamins.
And maybe a chocolate bar.

Of course every time I went to the Dr’s Office it went something like this:

“You know, you gained six pounds in three weeks, that’s unacceptable and waaay too much…you keep this up and your jeopardizing the health of yourself and your child…You’re gaining entirely too much weight!”

*in my mind*
‘You know what?…You’re a MAN, so shut the f*** up and talk to me when you have ovaries and a uterus with a 16 pound bowling ball in it that makes you pee every six minutes you thoughtless insensitive clod with a penis’

*what was really said in a wavering voice*
“O.K.”
*Leaves in tears and calls up husband hysterical crying, and the only thing he can decipher through my blubbering is ‘jerk’ and ‘cow’*

Long story short I gained entirely much to weight for my little frame that first time.
This time, I was a bit more careful. And it was easier to be careful because I just don’t have time to sit down and eat. Nor am I surrounded by a bunch of Old Schoolers shoving mozzarella and tomato sandwiches down my throat. Plus it doesn’t hurt to have a ‘energetic’ toddler to chase around the living room frantically for fifteen minutes screaming things like ‘omigod please give that to mommy” because he’s just ripped off his morning poop diaper.

I’ve got nine weeks to go more or less. I’m only twelve pounds shy of the maximum density I achieved the last time. I am not eating a lot and making somewhat healthy choices, but my activity is diminishing due to the oven like hellish conditions of the New York summer (another heat wave is beginning). Sprinting across the park after my son so he does not attempt to piggy back the Doberman in the dog park is not exactly my ideal scenario for a hot summer afternoon. Especially lugging the extra 20 something pounds I’ve gained so far. There’s a good chance that I may hit the same ultimate high mark of 155 (*gasp* I hate seeing that in type). At least this time I know what to expect afterwards and may be a bit more successful physically and mentally at losing some of the baggage. However, I am under no pretense whatsoever that I will bounce back to my pre-pregnancy self in such a short time. And I will be a much happier person because of that acceptance. The timeline should go something like this:

Six to eight weeks of newborn hell, no time to even think about what fits since you don’t really wear much else then stained t shirts and pj pants anyway.
And then maybe another few weeks of “crap, nothing fits” and “I’m so ****** fat”
Followed by large shopping spree to hide added poundage I gave up on losing.
Then I should be good to go.

I have accepted the fact that I may never be the same.
That I may never don another skimpy crop top or bikini again.
And that’s OK.
Really.
As long as you don’t tell me I look better with some meat on my bones.

Yeah, yeah, I know, I won’t even repeat myself. This is a repeat anyway…

7/26/2006
1:28 pm
I need a title…?

I find that losing things becomes an everyday, few times a day occurrence as you progress in your pregnancy. But the thing I seem to miss the most is my mind. I knew about this “temporary” loss of judgment, logic and memory. I’ve read the books. All my mommy friends warned me. But I was dumbstruck by how much I would lose to the point of borderline spastic. And since I had done this all before, I was thoroughly prepared for the stupidity that would become me, but combined with the mothering of a toddler; the pregnancy dumb fairy didn’t just wave her wand. She had whacked me over the head with the Stupid Stick and gave me a concussion.

Once upon a time I was an intelligent individual. Able to form sentences from complete and fully formed thoughts. Articulate and well spoken. Now,…well, not so much.

In my mind it will go something like this:

The measurable effects of relativity are based on gamma. Gamma depends only on the speed of a particle and is always larger than 1. By definition:

c is the speed of light
v is the speed of the object in question

And then this is how it comes out of my mouth:
DUH DUH DUH POOP DUH NIGHT-NIGHT DUH
*walks into door*

It seems that when you incorporate wee ones into your household, your ability to handle simple tasks such as keeping track of what you are doing while you are actually doing it completely vanishes. Like I am in a room and suddenly I am standing there blankly wondering what the hell I am doing there or was I even doing anything in the first place? Or I completely forget I’m doing one particular thing and just start completely doing something else, abandoning entirely what I was doing in the first place. Like the time I found myself plugging in the vacuum cleaner with a half prepared bottle in my hand and a dog leash (with dog attached) wrapped around my wrist. Or the time I found myself starting to put a diaper in the dishwasher (thank God I caught myself doing that one, can’t imagine what the consequences of that might have been had it been in there long, or worse had I ran it)

Just last night I went to make scrambled eggs for Hunter (one of the few things he will actually eat…) when I had to relieve my relentless bladder. This led to me picking up some scattered toe damaging blocks, and then somehow I wound up in my own room cursing my husband’s inability to put away loose change, picking up nickels. Then I smelled something. I ran to the kitchen. The pan was smoking. I had managed to burn PAM.

Who burns PAM.?

And even then I wasn’t sure why I had the pan on the stove in the first place. There wasn’t even an egg in it.

Fortunately I haven’t forgotten my son anywhere.

I am so terrified of this happening, that since his birth, I have checked to make sure he was in the car countless times before I put the car in drive. You check once and you should be ready to go. Not me. It is necessary that I check at least five times. I could forget that I’m checking in the middle of checking. So even visual confirmation isn’t good enough for me. Then I will drive off, and I will still glance in the rear view mirror another five or six times. That’s how bad it gets for me. I have the intellectual capacity of a tree trunk and cannot trust my own eyes.

I’m not sure why this happens to us women. My theory is your mind just wants you to overlook the whole uncomfortable experience (should you find it uncomfortable and hideous, there are those reprehensible creatures out there who “enjoy” being pregnant. To that I respond BITE ME, but that is a whole other post…) in order to coax us into doing all over again. You know, like how you are supposed to forget the pain of childbirth (trust me I did NOT forget that either, again, another post…) a pro-creational survival continuance of the species mechanism. Like we don’t have enough physical hurdles to jump during the whole thing. The mental hurdles are the cruel sour icing on the expectant cake.

But after you’ve tasted (and decided you could do without) the cake comes the present
So you didn’t like the baking process and the cake left a sour taste in your mouth, you still get a present.

And we all know that the present is always the best part of the pregnancy party.

That is one thing you never forget.

Since the weather is gloomy and most of us may be relegated to an indoor test of mental stamina and survival (I know I will, since Hunter has been sidelined with the croup since Saturday…) I figure why not post something new to read. Although not newly written, (How can I write anything with the dumptruck wars going on behind me) it’s something different. Here you go…

7/20/2006
2:10 pm
The Dreaded 3 Hour torture session…

So I went for that stupid 1 hour test last week. You know the one where they check for the gestational diabetes. Your drink that hideous glucose drink and then they draw some blood an hour later and send you on your way. Most likely it’s a waste of your time and they tell you at the next appointment that your fine. Well of course in my case it didn’t go that route. This was to be expected of course. I was unfortunate enough to suffer from the curse of the GD the last time. So it was no surprise to me when I got the phone call two days later from the Dr’s. office asking me to schedule an appointment for the dreaded three hour test.

Aside from truly serious complications, this is probably the worst fate a woman, who has given up every vice she had (and enjoyed…) for the sake of the life she was growing within, can suffer. You’ve given up drinking along with the casual cigarette that you had with the drink (no preaching please, thanks..), your social life has dwindled due to swelling, exhaustion and the fact that your arches are starting to collapse under the extra weight you have accumulated over the last several months. You can’t take any drugs when you are sick or have a splitting headache that was induced by a 35 minute tantrum, nothing, you are simply au natural. But you still have the food. The glorious food. The ice cream. The macaroni and cheese. The cheeseburgers, the lasagna. Yes you throw in a salad and some vegetables in there for balance but you eat like you never have eaten before. You consume everything with gusto because, well, there isn’t really much else for you to do.

Ex: The last time I was pregnant I had a wedding to attend. Everyone was out on a deck in the sun, with their frozen margarita’s and ice cold beers, smoking cigars. It was a great time for all, but I was not part of it. So where was I? I was inside sitting at the table eating a tray of cookies. The entire tray. If the tray was edible I would have ate it.

Anyway, so I had to go for the three hour torture session today. 9am appointment. You need to fast for like 12 hours before which means you can’t even have a cup of coffee in the morning before you go. You may as well give me a lobotomy. The fast I can deal with (well by the end of the three hours your ready to eat your flip flop) but the coffee thing, not so much. Let’s put it this way, my husband implemented the rule in my home that states; “Wife is not allowed to speak before ingestion of required amount of coffee returning her to natural cordial and somewhat likeable state”. So no coffee is bad. Very bad. Fine, whatever, I gotta do it. I get up, take a shower. Grumble about no coffee, grumble about boy getting breakfast, grumble at boy, grumble at husband. Snap at dogs. Throw a flip flop because it’s mate is missing. Get my keys. Grumble instructions for keeping Hunter alive and slam the door behind me. Oh it’s going to be a pleasant day.

I drive around looking for a spot. The meters are all open. I park, I get out and then I see why. Stupid meters. Broken. Says FAIL in weird digital letters. Get back in car. Move to other spot. Get out. Dammit. Stupid FAIL. Move to next spot. Get out. For the love of God I don’t care! It is melting sweaty hot I am gargantuan pregnant, and I am a block away I am leaving my car here and I don’t give a rat’s patootie (not actual word used) about any stinking broken meter. I have not had coffee yet, I am starving and it is not my fault that the stupid city can not have the decency to provide my neighborhood with parking meters that actually work. I kicked it at least twice, in my mind of course. Pregnant woman kicking parking meters induces too much staring which may cause them to cry or throw down, depending on the woman.

I get to the Dr’s. office. Pleasantries exchanged, I walk to the back and immediately get poked for blood. For the base reading. And then she hands me the giant bottle of green goo. I have to drink this whole bottle. I look at her and look at the bottle. “This is a lot bigger then the one from last week, I have to drink this whole thing? ” She responded without blinking, “why yes it is and yes you do”. Nice.

I go in the waiting room with the Styrofoam cup and bottle of neon green unleaded goo. I pour a cup. Take a gulp. Good Lord Jerimiah. This stuff is like concentrated lemon lime syrup. You could add a half teaspoon of this stuff to a giant glass of seltzer to make Sprite. Yeah Sprite, except you also added a half a cup of sugar to the Sprite because you want your fillings to melt. I bet if you left this stuff out side you would be surrounded by every picninc buzzing flying insect and three different colonies of ants in a matter or seconds. OK, so I think you got the picture. I am half way through the cup. I am about to throw up. Remember you have to do this on an empty stomach, because it’s not trying enough. Pregnancy related testing is all about torment. I can just picture a bunch of sadistic men (it’s gotta be the creation of men, women wouldn’t do this to each other) in white lab coats who are pissed off at their wives sitting around a table conspiring how they can make these tests borderline unbearable. “you really wanna make her sick, let’s add enough glucose to take out a bull, that’ll teach her to yell at me for leaving towels on the floor…HMMMMWWAHHAHAHAHAHHA!” Because labor isn’t enough. They consort and plot to make us pay. But I digress (don’t I always?) After much gagging, belching and eye rolling I finished it. I let the front know the time and the long dragged out three hour wait began.

Since I had gone through this before with my son, I knew what to expect. I had packed a few magazines (because how many parenting and so you are expecting magazines are you going to read in one sitting…?) and a book. The problem was since I was so fatigued do to lack of caffeine and nourishment I could not keep my eyes open. Falling asleep wasn’t an option because I had nowhere to lean my head. Besides every time I got somewhat comfortable my unborn child, who was at the moment doing a very fast fetal jig due to the injection of sugar fuel, was knocking the wind out of me every few minutes or so.

I was left to fidget in the chair thumbing through fashion magazines I had brought but was not really looking at. I don’t know what I was thinking with the choice of magazines. Who wants to look at a bunch of borderline anorexic sun-kissed bikini wearing midriff bearing babes when your shifting your fat uncomfortable onion white rear in an oversized chair trying to find a cheek that doesn’t aggravate a hemmroid? Who’s being sadistic now? So now I am thumbing through magazines for menopause, which at this point does not look so bad. Each hour they call me in to draw blood. To add insult to injury my veins apparently suck. When I say suck, I mean drawing blood from a stone is easier then drawing it from my veins. By the time the three hours is up, I am bruised all over the insides of my arms. I resemble a heroin addict except there is no way you can mistake me for one because I am too rotund. I cannot wait to get out of there.

Finally it’s over. I’m sure I will be hearing from them in a few days to tell me to come in because I have been diagnosed with GD. I’m expecting it so I’m not overly stressed. I leave, schlep to the car and lo and behold. Giant parking ticket. #$%*! Fine. The meter was broken when I parked, now it’s not. I’m going home. I am STARVING and need coffee so I do not care about the parking ticket. I am questioning my sanity when I made the decision to get pregnant again. I am totally fed up with everything, the physical limitations, the fatigue, the heat, the largeness, the hunger, the soon to be diagnosed inability to eat most foods. Why the hell am I doing this? Again?

Then I open the door. Standing there, wearing only a diaper and the most giant grin on his face, is the reason. With an even larger “HI!” he greets me. Runs around in a circle in glee for a few minutes because mommy’s home. I’m dying from the cuteness. God I love him.

Yeah, so I’ve been running the children ragged outdoors. Enjoying a cool beverage in the yard at night kind of outweighs sitting in the kitchen at the laptop. So once again, we shall go back…

7/18/2006
12:38 am

Omigod, what on God’s green hell hole of an earth is going on with this heat?

Can you say “edema”? Ok, so I’ve established that I am in the full throes of the last trimester of this pregnancy and will be due at the end of September. And I have also mentioned that due to poor planning on my part (read:stupidity) this is the second time I have gotten myself knocked up in this time frame. Leaving me super full blown up pregnant for the summer. Now this would be fine if say I lived somewhere like, I don’t know, Greenland? But here in smelly-sweaty-hot-gross-omigod-I-hope-they-pick-up-the garbage-today-New York, not the best of choice for a due date (if you have a choice…)

We were invited to a birthday party today. It was held in the backyard of a dear friend out on the Island (Long Island - we are so cool here in New York that we usually add the word “the” to some place we’ve shortened a couple of syllables…) I was excited for my son, simply because he would be out in a yard. (I should just refer to this as the Yardless Mommy Guilt Factor or YMGF for short, as I’m sure you will be hearing a lot about that during the next coupla months.) He would be with children his age and he would be somewhat out of my hair. Perhaps I could have a fractured conversation or two with the other Mom’s (my friends) that didn’t entirely revolve around allergies and poop or even a whole conversation about anything period. However as I watched the weather report sipping on my one measly cup of coffee I felt all chances of adult interaction slipping away from me. Cruelly and Slowly I watched my plans of fat pregnant mom on a chair in the shade watching the boy in a baby pool slip away with each rise of the degrees that they show in the stupid right hand corner of all the morning news shows.

Then I saw the stupid scrolly thing that goes across the bottom…“HEAT ADVISORY! STAY INDOORS! DON’T GO OUTSIDE UNLESS EMERGENCY! YOU AND YOUR CAR WILL DIE A HIDEOUS MELTING DEATH!… I just couldn’t fathom running around after him in a backyard in that heat with all this extra um..padding. The feet sausage syndrome is also exacerbated by high heat and humidity (at least in my case…) Fine, we were staying put in the comfort of our air conditioned box. I know there were other mom’s there, but I just have trouble with leaving the responsibility with anyone. Not because I don’t trust them, these are my friends, but they have their own children to keep from maiming themselves and my son is well,….nuts. I felt terrible, I called my friend. She let me go easy. She said she was letting me off the hook ‘cause she knew that it would suck for me and was calling me to let me know it was really ok and that she knew I would feel really bad and probably cry. My friends are good to me. So I was happy. I put him down for his nap and tried to plan some indoor activities for us to do that did not involve the TV. It went pretty much like this:

*sound of crickets*

My God, what kind of mother am I?

Omigod I am going to be trapped in here with bounce off the wall boy, the target for giant flying legos and restless feet.

Then Hunter woke up from his morning nap, I went to change him and realized I had one diaper left. He had not pooped yet and I had no back up diaper. This is the equivalent of being on the highway in the middle of the stark empty desert in the Arizona sun and totally running out of gas and your miles away from anything remotely resembling a gas station AND you got road kill stuck in your tire tread so the smell won’t go away.

There was no way out of it. We were going to have to venture outside. I needed to prepare. I turned on the tv to see how hot it was. 95 friggin’ degrees. Global warming has kicked in full force and I was about to push a squirmy toddler, who only wanted to run into the horizon, in a stroller two blocks to get diapers. Wet my hair. Dressed as light and as appropriate as a pregnant woman could. Schmata’ tank top and skirt. Flip Flops, had my keys, had my wallet. Forced Hunter in the stroller and off we went. We got to the front door and out we went.

I felt like I was standing next to the engine of a city bus at a stoplight. If anyone ever stood next to one of those on a hot summer day, they know, this is holy hell hot. Except I couldn’t get away from it. Ugh. Oxygen felt almost non existent. Whatever, I would have to deal, the diapers were a necessity. Shortly after I started walking I noticed a um, discomfort. Let’s just say the um…friction factor…was wreaking great havoc on my overblown thighs. Powder! Jeez I forgot the powder. *shakes fist in the air* damn you talc! I forgot to powder my legs. If you are pregnant in the summer, powder is your best friend. Live for the powder, love the powder, become one with the powder. It is your savior. And I had carelessly left without so much as acknowledging it. All in the name of literally saving my son’s precious butt from the painful effects of diaper rash (of course all due to my total disregard for diaper inventory) and I now have a painful heat rash myself. But it was the price I had to pay to avoid pushing an acrid smelling child in the searing New York heat avoiding all the obvious stares because my son smelled like a decaying pile of compost on the hottest day of the year.

You do what you have to folks, you do what you have to.

Tomorrow it’s supposed to go up to 102.

This time I am prepared. I have diapers AND coloring books.

I have a close friend who recently announced she was pregnant with her third. Only one other girl in my circle has ran the reproductive trifecta but she lives in another state so I have not witnessed the dynamic (or the pandemonium…). The rest of us are in the safe zone with one or two.

I see my pregnant friend a lot and we speak regularly and during the short time she’s been with child I’ve gotten a pang here and there. My other girlfriend announced shortly after that she was pregnant with her second. Oh and my next door neighbor gave birth to a beautiful tiny little girl. Plus I’ve been reposting my pregnancy blog. I began to reminisce about being pregnant and entertaining the idea of having another child.

I can just hear the sound of coffee and soft drinks being spit out all over keyboards everywhere.

Don’t worry, today was God’s way of nudging me back into reality and reminding me I’m barely hanging by my fingernails as it is. Well, actually it was more like a nasty shove.

It began and progressed like most days. A little mess, a little anarchy. Some fighting, some yelling, some ketchup fingerprints. Whatever. Routine. It certainly wasn’t shaping up to be my worst day.

Then it was time for Hunter’s of gymnastics class, this was the second week. So I changed the cherubs (because they are sticky and stained by midday and must be refreshed if we are to leave the yard without any stares…) and off we went.

I signed him up for a Monday late afternoon class. 4:00pm

I know, I know, the dawn of the witching hour. But it could work. I was thinking, heck, if he has all this nervous energy to burn off he might as well burn it flipping and jumping in a place that was made to flip and jump in even if I had to pay for it. There are only so many semi-somersaults my living room and my already compromised constitution can take, due to the repeated yelling of such phrases as: “For the love of God, you CANNOT and WILL NOT do a handstand on the dining room chairs!!!” I figured if he loved it so much, why not actually learn to do it properly? Then at least he can properly dismount off the couch.

We arrived on time. (*bows for applause*)

Visions of medals and Olympic torches danced in my head. With his enthusiasm and natural flexibility how could he not be be the star pupil? And I would be the proud mother dabbing her eyes in the background. Beaming with pride as the medal is draped around his neck while the national anthem plays.

I took off his sandals and off into the gym area he sprinted leaving Shea and me in the waiting area behind the glass to watch the class. This is like being trapped in a habitrail with a gerbil on crystal meth. Climbing into shoe cubbies, ripping up random paper, scratching against the glass and looking for any nook or cranny to shimmy into or through and make her break for it.

I really want to watch my son in action. I want to see his big eyes twinkle with anticipation as they teach him to jump on the trampoline. I manage to steal a glance while corralling the rambling rodent and picking up various crushed snacks off the floor. He is bouncing high with glee. Except he’s not on the trampoline. He’s on the side, waiting his turn. Well not really waiting because he keeps getting up to get on it. I see the teacher attempt to talk him down. I never said patience was his strong suit.

Shea is trying on someone’s shoes and I’ve no clue where they came from. She has no socks on. I chase her with antibacterial lotion.

I look through the glass again. There are various classes going on. Hunter is now sitting with the girls team.

There are sliding doors leading into the gym area. Children have been coming in and out. Shea is convinced that she belongs in the gym with her brother. I am performing the ever graceful mommy knee block each time a child exits. There are ten plus parents neatly sitting before the glass happily watching their children. I overzealously knee Shea. She falls on her face as they look on.

I stood there staring blankly into the cluster of children and did not notice his teacher walking towards me holding Hunter’s hand as he cried as only a three year old can when they are hurt and upset.

“Omigod, what happened?”

The guilt enveloping me since I didn’t even know something had happened even though I appeared to be staring right at it a wndas witnessed by countless other parents.

The teacher whose origin can only be described as European with a gymnastic coach accent responded somewhat defensively with various explanations. I attribute it to the fact that she is one person with 12 three and four year olds (she must not have children because I don’t think she would have dared this class and at 4pm no less…) and they have overbooked the class however I remain silent. She keeps going. Everyone’s staring. I’m used to that. Whatever. I cut her short and hug Hunter to console him.

Teacher goes back to class, I casually ask if anyone saw what happened.

*sound of crickets*

Maybe they didn’t hear me. (which according to my husband is virtually impossible) I go up a notch.

Again I ask.

Shifting eyes. No response.

Someone mumbles something about falling off the side under the trampoline, but it’s not really clear.

I’ve no clue what to make of this. How do you not answer a question like that? Maybe they are afraid to tell me if it was Hunter’s fault, maybe they are afraid to tell me it was the teacher’s. But I don’t have time to ponder and wallow since Shea is about to take a cell phone out of a pocketbook that’s not mine.

The class is over. Hunter bounds out happily. I notice a very visible bruise over his eye. I am not happy but don’t show him. I cannot burst his bubble.

In my mind I am all over the map. I am in the north blaming his inattentiveness and squirminess. I about face and go south indignantly. They should at least have a teacher’s assistant. I abruptly turn east. Well, really what the hell was I thinking booking him for a 4pm class then suddenly change direction west. Did I take out the chicken?

We get home. They are screaming and starving. Eddie (our dog) has peed on an empty plastic bag under the table. The phone is ringing. Hunter thinks I can instantaneously pull ronies and ricotta out of thin air and has a total meltdown when I have not met this expectation. Shea copies everything her brother does.

The thought of another child crosses my mind.

At that very moment, my ovary self destructed.

Alright, I know I said I wasn’t going to totally cop out this summer and post archival rants, but well, I am, again. Hunter’s first day of camp is tomorrow, so I had to prepare everything today and get him ready (this is my first foray into the field of summer camp so the prep did not come naturally…) He also had a gymnastics class today for the first time, from 4pm to 5pm. Of course I took Shea with me (yeah it was as eventful as you are imagining…) I am wiped out. I swear on my socks that I will put up something current within the next week. Oh yeah, I wear flip-flops all summer.

7/16/2006

When does it finally dawn on the significant other that pregnancy might slow us down and put a crimp (to put it mildly) in our routines or anything that we do for that matter?

We had a party this afternoon. It was in walking distance of our home. Now I don’t know how everyone else does it (like I said I’m learning) but right now, when we have a mid-day function to attend as a family the procedure is as follows:

1. Get boy out of bed early so that he will nap before lunch
2. Caffeinate Mommy (yes I still have a cup of coffee in the morning…)
3. Feed boy breakfast and let him watch lotsa Noggin to keep him quiet so mommy can figure out what on God’s earth she can still get over her freak show belly and still look party pretty – this process takes a good hour sometimes two. Make sure all outfit accessories are with outfit to make dressing a smooth process.
4. Shut off Noggin and let him run,throw and scream himself ragged to induce exhaustion. Meanwhile obsess over what a bad mom you are because you just further ruined your son’s development and life by designating the tv a babysitter.
5. Give bottle and put in crib for nap
6. While boy is sleeping take shower, iron all cloths, child’s ensemble first.
7. Yell at husband because he is not helping.
8. Pack diaper bag.
9. Yell at husband again because he forgot to buy card/gift for function
And remind him how this was a choice you made and shouldn’t be a life sentence.
10.When boy arises, take him out of crib, strip down to diaper, put in highchair to be fed lunch (lunch preparation takes place during yelling at husband) you may question the feeding of child prior to function, but since toddler’s diet consists mainly of “ronies”, bananans and cheese, you shrink from chancing hunger meltdown tantrum in middle of function
11. After feeding, wipe down sticky toddler and dress. Do not put on shoes and socks.
Shoes will only come off and bottom of socks will discolor or be lost altogether.
12. Get yourself ready.
13. Leave as a happy family

Except, it never goes like this.

Especially now that I’m pregnant.

I move so unbelievably slow and my ankles feel as if they are about to snap.

I have to sit down to iron. Actually, I have to sit down to do anything these days. So the ironing never got done and the shower stretched over (the whole depilatory process is virtually impossible these days but nevertheless must be done…) into the number 7 phase. I completely forgot about number 8 till the boy was in his stroller. You pretty much get the idea. Now I know you’re wondering, what does this hafta do with significant others and crimps? I’m getting to it. See, the whole routine to get us out into the daylight appearing as well put together individuals takes much effort on the Mama’s part. You know it, I know it, the husbands even know it. I have to start literally the evening before figuring out what I need to take for Hunter and if I even have anything clean to work with for myself.

The husband is pretty much on his own. So by the time I got to the part where I had to get myself ready, the party had already started and was in full swing. So as I stood there with soaking wet hair in a sports bra and one of the few pairs of PJ pants that still fit me, ankles and feet in full blown sausage mode, crossing my legs because giant fetus felt as if it was going to fall out, I said to the husband “OK, why don’t you take Hunter and go on ahead of me,…?” He looks taken aback and says and I quote:

“Well why don’t I go ahead and you get ready and meet me there with him…?”

I swear the world stopped right there.

*Dead silence*

Death rays emanating from my eyes like a 1970’s superhero cartoon.
In my mind I got a pot and promptly hit him with it like one of those other 1970’s cartoons
You’re friggin’ kidding me right?
Where’s your head man?
Except I don’t think I said it that nicely.
I don’t remember what I said because I was blinded by gestational anger.
All I know is that the look on his face pretty much conveyed that he now fully understood and would get out of the apartment as fast as possible with child in tow, in order to avoid any further hormonal wrath and conflict.
How hard is it to notice that doing anything with a twenty pound cement ball tied around your waist and a 24 pound giddy rearing-to-go toddler wrapped around your ankles is not a exactly a cakewalk?

To his credit (and I give him lots ‘cause despite what I may vent here, he is a great and helpful husband) he just kind of forgets that I’m pregnant. I don’t know how considering I resemble an angry puffer fish, but he sometimes overlooks it because his world is just as fast paced and nutty as mine. So he doesn’t always realize that life is a bit more frenetic but the pace is not matching and what used to take me fifteen minutes, now takes fifty.

But don’t you worry. I will lovingly remind him each time he has lapse in judgement. And I will be visualizing the whole ‘hitting him over the head with the pot cartoon thing’ each and every time.

You should give that visualization a shot the next time someone pisses you off, it’s quite cathartic actually.

Don’t worry, I’m not gonna cop out totally with archival posts for the rest of the summer, but this should hold for the next couple of days.

Today was going to be a good day. A day filled with out-of-the-house activity and fun in the sun. I’m always wracked with guilt since we live in an apartment in Brooklyn and there is no backyard for Hunter to run around in (Hunter NEEDS to run). The Mommy Guilt beats me to a bloody pulp and I jump at most opportunities to get him out. We had an invitation to a friend’s house for the afternoon. Nice big backyard, pool and plenty of children his age to play with. We also have our Music Together class that morning. I figured great! Outside the entire day. No guilt beating and a tired Hunter which makes for a good nap at the end of the day. He still takes two naps. One in the morning and one in the afternoon. The afternoon nap dictated by the amount of activity encountered during the course of the day. Perhaps some free time for mommy (ok, so there was some ulterior motive there, but still). It was going to be a nice beginning for the weekend.

My son had other ideas.

Hunter made the decision today that we was not, under any circumstances going to nap. At all.
No napping makes for much whining and throwing, topped with a tantrum or two for good measure.
Fine, I can handle it. I’m a mom.
A very seven months pregnant mom.
Who currently cries when the elevator takes too long to come.
Well I will spare you all of the gory details (got hit in the head with the remote, a dish was broken, little hands were pried off of dogs twice, one hour traffic jam with whiny hungry child who was hungry because he threw most of his lunch at the dogs, this was all before 1pm…), however I would like to share the closer:

Since there was no napping today I decided to give him a bath and put him to bed about an hour earlier then usual. He loves bath time. Runs to the door and knocks on it as soon as I mention the word. Filled up the tub. Laced with lavender bubbles (I own most “sleepytime” or “relaxing” scented baby products) I placed him in and washed him down. I shampooed his hair and sat and watched him play for a bit. I needed to rinse his hair and realized the little cup that I use was in the dishwasher. So I went to the kitchen to get it. Now realize I live in a Brooklyn apartment. It is not the TajMahal. The dishwasher is literally five steps from the tub. I get the cup and return, and I hear him yammering away in his little language that I find so unbearably cute and heart-melting. I walk back in our tiny bathroom and start sniffing. Peculiar odor. Hunter is standing and offering me something. I reprimand him for standing but I put out my hand and he clasps his little palm around mine. Seeming quite proud of his offering. The consistency alarms me, does not feel like a bath toy. And then I look down.

He has just handed me his own poop.

Holy Crap! Literally. He has just deposited one of the largest loads I have seen this toddler take. Floating and bobbing aimlessly next to the bubbles and rubber ducks. Immediately I need to get him out of the tub. I go to grab him under the arms to yank him out (Husband is not home yet to yell and scream at for help…) He has a fistful in the other hand. I am trying very hard to get his hands open but he is fighting me tooth and nail. It’s his treasure and he’s keeping it at all costs. I am having trouble with the lift and execution because of the enormous protrusion that is my belly, all the while trying to avoid any smears of aforementioned poop. It is not pretty but I manage to get the, ahem..pellets out of his other hand and him to his changing table. Wipe him down with antibacterial. And give him a bath to cleanse him of his previous bath.

Boy, I am wiped. He is down for the evening and tomorrow is another day.

Ten bucks says he’s up at 6am because he went to bed early.

The summer tends to keeps us outdoors and my children are looking to scurry out shortly after the last Cheerio has been chewed (or flicked…) Outdoors is really in the yard, keeping one child from throwing rocks into the olympic sized wading pool (you know the husbands testosterone started doing the samba when he bought that monstrosity…) and the other from licking the garden posts. Point being, I’m not able to sit at the laptop as much as I’d like (ironically I have more material then ever). The warm weather got me to thinking when I was pregnant in the dead of summer (twice, can you say edema?…) and I decided that it would be cool if I archived my old short-lived pregnancy blog. I will probably repost each entry every day and then tuck them away in the archives here on Muddledmom.

Relive the gestational farce for a few laughs (or if your bored, whatever…)

Here’s the opening post:

Laugh with me or at me…

Hi, my name Anissa Malloy. I’m the 35 year old mother of one very active about-to-turn two year old boy named Hunter and am currently incubating the second. The second one is slated to arrive only a few days after Hunter’s second birthday at the end of September. Yes, I will be mondo pregnant for the entire hot, sweltering, please-kill-me-now New York summer. Yes, I did the same exact thing with the first child and apparently did not learn from the first underwire bra melting experience. I did not think the second attempt at motherhood would take so quickly (read:once!). However over the course of my son’s short existence on this planet I have discovered that rarely do you stay on the road that you planned to take .You always seem to get to the destination but God knows that you just about never go exactly according to the map. You hit four detours, get thrown up on, are given bad directions, lose a binky and a bit of sanity (if not all of it, I’m currently at 15% sanity capacity) on the way. These days I’m lucky if I remember to put on underwear, I’m supposed to follow a plan? Anyway, I’m looking forward to sharing my moments in the trenches with everyone. The good, the bad and the ugly. I hope you’ll smile, nod in recognition and laugh with me (or at me, whatever makes you feel good).

You can find of the rest of the archive here:
*there will be a link here when I figure out how to actually archive it*

One of the teachers that sticks in mind throughout my life is Miss Millazzo, my very first teacher ever. How much I looked forward to going to school. And yes I was only three but I remember. I loved her and I loved everything that went with her. The paint, the letters, the books, the learning.

I hope Hunter remembers his very first teachers as fondly as I do mine.

The brave creative individuals in charge of nursery school class takes on your child, freshly out of diapers and from under mommy’s wing. Tears, accidents and all. Takes him for a day, or two, maybe five, each week. She treats him like her own. She (could be a he, I’ve never run into one, but thou shall not pigeonhole…) will bring out the best in him. His best behavior, his best smiles, and most importantly his desire to learn.

I looked forward to our mother son bonding time over some ice cream talking about his day. I couldn’t wait for him to come home and tell me all he’s learned. (us mom’s would get an itinerary covering the end of the week so it’s not like I didn’t know, but I wanted to hear it through his sweet little voice…) But when I would pick him up and ask him about his day, he really would never say much. Actually he wouldn’t say anything. At all.

The conversation would go like this:

“How was school today?”

Silence.

“What did you do today?”

More silence.

“Um…did you learn?…in…school?”

More silence.

*turns around to check and make sure Hunter is actually in car and not in the parking lot with Shea’s stroller*

“Mommy, can we listen to Hunter’s music?”

“Did you play at least?”

*Looks into mirror revealing Hunter thrashing his head furiously with his hands over his ears

Seven million things went through my mind each time (which was every time) we had this futile conversation. Does he like it? Is this a complete waste of time? Am I traumatizing him? Maybe he’s too young for school? Is he getting bullied? Maybe I should have raised him a little rougher. Is he getting a nursery school beat down, the butt of the taunting cootie shot joke? By the time we pulled in the driveway, I would have him as one of those slackers in living in my basement, in therapy and on psych meds after years of wedgies and subpar grades slinging fries in some greasy spoon for a living.

Then we would get out of the car and he would say something like (this actually took place):

“Mommy, mommy look” as he pointed to the sky

I look up and he exclaimed, “Mommy, that’s a cloud and clouds make rain! Rain makes the flowers and trees grow and that helps the air”

He might as well have recited the Pythagorean theorem down to the very last decimal, stunning me into proud smiling silence.

And things like this would go on every week.

Like yesterday, Shea was whining when she skinned her knee and out of nowhere he said, “Don’t worry Shea, cuts are open and bleeding makes it closed.”

Which I did not teach him because clear simple logic frequently eludes me. I would had a medical book out as well as a copy of the “How to Answer a Preschooler ‘s Simple Question for Dummies”.

I always appreciated his teachers. I knew they were selfless (you have to be a very special person to be a nursery school teacher, that goes without saying, if you have children you know it takes a strong patient soul (read: saint) to take on twelve 3 year olds who are not related to you by blood. Voluntarily. Every freakin’ day.

Sure, they get paid, but even after mopping up what little Sally hurled all over the lunch corner on Monday they still got up the next day and showed up. I can’t even begin to describe the projects the children brought home during the year. My mother’s day basil plant is flourishing nicely in the backyard as I type this.

I did not, for one second, take for granted what Miss Mary and Miss Catherine did every week. I always thanked God for them. I knew they always went above and beyond. But the very last thing they did reduced me to tears. (ok, that’s not hard, but I was deeply touched by their thoughtfulness…)

June came and Hunter would be taking part in a small graduation ceremony. A bee bop 50’s ice cream sundae party. We parents we’re invited along with the children to dress the part. Which I did (ok, I rolled up my jeans and bought some cat eye glasses) I bought Hunter a bowling shirt with his little name embroidered over the pocket.

They sang a few 50’s style songs complete with revamped nursery lyrics. Got their little diplomas (which my son gleefully poked his seatmate in the eye with all through the finale song). After all of that we were treated to a 50’s style ice cream soda party. So very cool. And if all that wasn’t enough, each child received this small bundle of ‘parting gifts’. We hugged the teachers, thanked them profusely, rounded up the troops and went on our merry way (well the husband was merry I was all blubbery and ‘my baby is all grown up’)

I know soooo much planning went into this wonderful celebration down to the smallest detail, but what reduced me to a puddle was yet to come.

My son opened up his gifts in the car. We got home I noticed there was something we missed. Carefully tied closed with a blue ribbon, was this scrapbook with Hunter’s name on the front. Each colorful letter carefully glued on. I thought perhaps there was some of his drawings or maybe some penmanship practice. No. Neither. It was a full fledged, authentic scrapbook carefully documenting my son’s year in school with his friends. They had the camera I always forgot. His first day of school. Halloween costume party, Christmas ‘sleep over’. Playing outside. As I flipped each page, my jaw fell lower and lower. My eyes got fuller and fuller till I could no longer hold back the floodgates.

These principalities of play-mats, angels of abc’s, they did this for each child in the class. With care and attention to every sticker, every note, every picture. I’m still touched by the thought .

I don’t know how many Miss Mary’s and Miss Catherine’s my son will run across in his life. But I do know his precursor experience to the scholastic real world set the tone for a future bright and wonderful. They did that.

Even if they did, fade from my son’s memory over time, (which I’m sure won’t be the case,) they are virtually tattooed in mine.

Thank you Miss Mary and Miss Catherine. You meant more then you may ever know.