February 2012

It’s Lent.  That’s the word on the street anyway, as I didn’t stem from a particularly religious garden.  But I feel I should join in with my peers and give something up.

So this year I’m giving up sex, drugs and rock n’ roll, baby.

It won’t be easy.  I am quite the rock star nowadays, watching my DVR’ed episodes of American Idol, going to sleep at 9 p.m. sharp and getting incredibly detailed about what exactly it was at breakfast that might be causing so much bloat.  But life is a sacrifice, no?  So it’s time to pack up my meth lab and “just say no” to the mosh pits from now on.  Tony won’t be thrilled about the sex part, though.


I promised no baby post this time and I’m making good.  Even though I cannot believe you all don’t want to talk about babies and haven’t been thinking about babies and baby clothing and baby items, and like, coming up with baby names.

(And annoying the piss out of your  husband with baby name talk.  And feelings.  Lots of talk about feelings over here, too.  Tony is all kinds of thrilled, up in this house.)

You have grinch hearts is what you have, you and your non-baby-loving need for non-baby blog posts.  You can join Tony in the man cave, where he’s camped out for the past few days in a remarkable effort to avoid feelings.  I think I may have enough for the both of us.

Did I just alienate my audience?  How did this go so wrong?

Stay, stay, stay…I promised and I’ll deliver.  Can’t promise it’ll be good, but if you’ve read this blog long enough, you should know that by now.

So, in an effort to avoid any baby talk for this blog post, I started thinking of things to write about the other day.  And while I have no grand theory on how to counteract zero gravity in space to offer you (maybe the next post, guys, sorry), I did chuckle a little when I thought of Tony and his one major obsessive quirk.  So guess what I’m writing about today?

Let me start off by saying that Tony is probably the most laid back person on this planet.  I care what side of the bed I sleep on.  He didn’t even realize he had an option.  If the ketchup is on the wrong shelf in the fridge, I will have an OCD flare-up.  He probably doesn’t even realize we have ketchup.  I’ve said it plenty of times on this blog, but I can’t reiterate enough how go-with-the-flow he is.

Not only that, but he will still think I’m the biggest beauty queen in the world, even when I’m 2 days post-showering, have Christmas trees growing on my legs and smell like the ape exhibit at the zoo.  It’s true.  He’ll comment on how cute I look.

But there is ONE thing that really offends my husband.  Like, I’m talking, seriously offends.

He cannot stand when I wear socks with holes.

Now, in all fairness, I’m not talking about socks with holes that show the little pigs that went to the market.  We’re mainly just talking some wearing or holes in the heels after a few years of use.  Nothing big deal, but socks that you put on when the others are in the laundry hamper to keep your feet warm while you pal around the house.  He’ll take one look at these, though, and I can tell in his face that he’s, like, 99% repulsed.  The other 1% is still male after all.

It would always make me laugh at first because I thought he was kidding around, but I’m coming to realize he’s terribly weird about it.  Remember.  Same kid who wears the same outfit 4 days in a row.  He’s weird about a sock with a hole in the heel.  I don’t get it.  But I’m getting kind of self-conscious about it now.

The other day, however, I was folding his laundry like an excellent wife and came across his huge pile of socks.  And are you ready for this?  Lots of holes.

And it’s now become the great-holey-sock-double-standard-of-2012.

(Oh my gawwd, you guys.  You wanted a non-baby post and look what happens…I write the dumbest post ever…back to babies, people. Back to babies.)


Again with the obscure fruit references.  We’re not in biblical times.  Raise your hand if you bought a fig recently.

If you raised your hand, I assume you’ll have a successful career working for babycenter.com, confusing pregnant women with little known fruit comparisons for ages to come.

I reminded myself this week that the vast majority of you are not pregnant and are probably ready for a post without mention of a particular fetus in a particular uterus.  And I promise that blog entry will come.  But not today, folks.  Because being a newly pregnant woman, I want to talk about gas and bloat and baby names with you.  And your family.  And the teenage boy who is checking me out at the grocery store.

Nobody is safe from bloat talk.

Here’s the complimentary helping of fish-belly photos, complete with another appearance from the guest of honor him or herself.

Listen.  I look tired, ok?  I have dark circles under my peepers and I need my roots re-done.  I also look like I don’t have feet.  I’m not sure which to be more alarmed about, but I have a hair appointment on Thursday so I suppose that takes the cake.  The feet issue will have to wait, apparently.

Someone else wants to say ‘hi’:

 We are out of the tail period.  Which means our baby will, fingers crossed, look much less like  one of those dinosaurs from Jurassic Park and more like a real-life human baby.  Besides the really pointy feet.  I just got lazy in Microsoft Paint, is all.

Cravings have moved on from popsicles and lemonade and have now entered chocolate milk and baked goods territory.  No joke, I woke up this morning and baked 48 chocolate chip cookies.  I have also pre-packaged Ziplock containers of aforementioned cookies for Tony to give to his guy friends.  What. Is. Wrong. With. Me?

All this before breakfast.

Productive, yes.  Health conscious, maybe-not-so-much.

Moving on to how I’ve been feeling.

Well, let’s see.  If I remember correctly, the first trimester is supposed to be the worst, but as I’m fast approaching the 2nd trimester, I’m starting to get terrible acid reflex.  Which could be the reason behind my newfound love of dairy products, as it helps keep it at bay.  I also get up approximately 567 times throughout the night to pee.

Oh, and the couch has become my new bed.  And if Tony tries to get me to go to our real bed at 2 in the morning, after I’ve fallen asleep for the 8th time during the same damn Law and Order rerun on Netflix, I will open one eye, curse him with words that should never come out of a lady’s mouth and then take a swing.  He has compared waking me to waking a sleeping bear.  Which is why I’m often still asleep on the couch at 4 in the morning with all the lights on and Tony in bed, having finally wised up on just letting me be.  “That woman be cray!”

Next up – a real live blog post about real life stuff that is probably just as boring as talking about babies.  I am so good to you guys.  Seriously.

First things first.  Belly Pictures.

That little bit of pooch you see is not baby.  Just a lot of bloat and uterus.  And I’m not shy about telling people that, which could be the reason many acquaintances back away slowly when I start blabbing on about how big my uterus is.  “Seriously, grapefruit-size, Mary!  And this bloat!  OMG!”  Social skills.  Some people just have ’em, you know?

I don’t think it’s fair to only bombard you with a barrage of photos that include my pale fish belly, so I figure, it might be time to introduce you to the star of the show.  So, here’s the Bean of the Hour:

While I personally think it is quite possibly the most attractive child in the world, I recognize that I may be less thrilled if it came out with teeth.  My boobs might not be so thrilled either.

Also?  Probably doesn’t have 6 wavy pieces of hair yet either. 

But does have Tony’s eyes, I think. 

So this studmuffin or studmuffin-ette is about the size of a kumquat, according to the various baby websites that have now taken over my Google searches.  And while I appreciate that my baby has been compared to fruit sizes for the last couple weeks, it might be more exciting if I could picture how big a kumquat is.  Because, really.  When’s the last time you ate a kumquat?  Maybe babycenter.com should just stick to kiwis and apples – stuff normal people buy from normal grocery stores.  I’m sure Whole Foods knows how big my baby is right now, though. 

Ok, pictures are out of the way.  On to cravings.

Here is my list:

1.) Lemonade

2.) Popsicles

3.) Hot dogs

Apparently my uterus thinks it’s the Fourth of July.

No joke, I have been a freakin’ hungry, hungry hippo thus far.  I have been one of the lucky ones who has gotten away with no morning/afternoon/evening sickness, so instead of horfing it over the porcelain, I’ve been bellying up to the fridge and eating whatever happens to tickle my fancy.  Which just so happens to be anything edible.  I’ve already made it quite clear to Tony that he is to buy me cake for Valentine’s Day.  I’ve already picked out the flavor and have tried to come up with some type of plan that may enable him to get the cake early.  Because we just can’t stop thinking about the cake over here. 

Yellow cake with strawberry cream inside and buttercream frosting.  In case he doesn’t pull through.  Did you write that down?

Which leads me to my last category: the mood.

I happen to think I’ve been a perfectly calm, cool and collected pregnant woman.  I laugh in the face of mood swings – ha! 

Tony is still rocking himself in the corner, though, so maybe I might not be telling the whole truth. 

When he tried to leave to go to the gas station today, our conversation went like this:

Tony: “I’ll be right back.  I’m going over to pick up some cigs at the gas station.”

Me: “Ok.” (Noticing dirt on the wall.) “Look at this, though.  I can see fingerprints on our wall.  You need to be more careful when you come in.”

Tony: …starting to say something…

Me: “And how many times are you going to tell me you’ll clean the kitchen floor.  This shit is getting sticky.  This house is a mess.  I can’t handle this.”

Brief intermission for meltdown mode

And that’s how Tony ended up driving himself to the looney bin instead of the gas station.  Annnnnd fin.


So I take it you all heard the news, right?

You know.  The news about  how the Blockbuster nearby is going out of business and so we’ve stocked up on all kinds of DVD’s we wouldn’t normally care to buy, but holy shit, how can you pass up “Baby Mama” when it’s only $5.99?  You’d be a fool, you would!

Wait, not that news?

Oh.  That news.  About that thing.  That thing that still kinda looks like a manatee, but – hooray, a manatee that has fingernails this week – that is growing in my uterus.  Ohhh.  THAT thing.  I wasn’t sure if maybe you caught that in my last post.

So, there you are folks.  We’re having a baby.  Some big wig in the sky decided Tony and I wouldn’t make too dysfunctional of parents and decided to grace us with this exciting news.  Right before the holidays.  And New Years Eve.  When I normally would be in a self-induced coma of alcohol and holiday happiness.  But no bitterness.  Really.  On a sidenote we’ve decided to name the baby Buzzkill.  You know.  For his impeccable timing.

Ok, so that was mean and probably something our future baby bean will hash out in a therapy session when he relays how his mother ruined his life by already blogging all his personal tidbits before he was barely in human form.  In case you’re reading, future baby, I do apologize for calling you a manatee.  I do not apologize for being bummed about no alcohol for 9 months, though. 

In all seriousness, it was very exciting news and I couldn’t have been happier to find out around Christmas, instant-designated-driver status and all.  Remember this post?  Where I bombarded you with womanly ramblings about how I worry I’ll never get pregnant and why isn’t it happening for us?  Of course I blog about it and then POOF!  The uterus fairy makes a house call that very next month.

I’m 10 weeks along as of yesterday, which is a tad early to be letting you all in on my “condition” (Remember when pregnancy was called that?  Let’s bring that back into the vocab.)  But.  It’s exciting.  And we’re excited.  And nervous.  And freaked out.  And eating.  Lots and lots of eating.  (Don’t make me list what I’ve eaten today as I’ve grown accustomed to do for Tony.  It’s this weird thing I feel the need to do now that I’m pregnant.  He usually starts losing interest when I get to the second round of ice cream part.)

I want to thank all you for the kind, kind comments on the last post and the kind, kind comments on that other post where I was such a worrywart.  You slapped some sense into me and so did the Timing Gods. 

I’m excited to start this new journey, going from a Cheeky Bride to a Cheeky Mom.  Glad you’ll be here with me.