Non-Maternal Instincts

Originally posted in January, 2009



Irony.

I had an epiphany this week.

Motherhood and pregnancy don't mix.

Ironic, dontcha think?

Ironic but oh-so-true.

Here are only a few reasons why motherhood and pregnancy don't mix:

1. At the exact moment when my son is having a complete meltdown, I am also having a complete meltdown. Together we are crying and screaming, "da-da." Usually "da-da" isn't home, so we end up getting funny looks from the dog.
2. Poopy diapers make for a LOT of gagging. At least once a day, I am a reflex away from puking all over my son.
3. Constant hunger means that I am constantly nibbling on devouring my son's food. On the average day I consume a 1/2 box of goldfish, a cup of Cheerios, several packages of fruit snacks, a box of macaroni and cheese, a value-size Hershey's bar (not my son's, but if I pretend that it's my son's, I don't feel so guilty eating it), a couple of Nutri-Grain bars, loads of watermelon-flavored yogurt, animal crackers galore, a value-size Hershey's bar (What? My dad was raised in PA; it's in our blood), and enough cut-up fruit to feed my ever-expanding gut. And that's only what I eat off of my son's plate. That doesn't include the five "real" meals that I eat everyday. As I quickly resemble Violet Beauregarde after she eats the three-course meal chewing gum, my son is beginning to resemble the flytrap plant in Little Shop of Horrors ("feed me").
4. It is not exactly safe to "watch" a child while falling asleep. Let's just say that I spend most of the day attempting to NOT fall asleep. I might have woken up to my son pulling down the blinds yesterday. I'm pretty sure that wasn't a dream (as evidenced by the blinds on my floor).
5. My son has begun this thing where he hits me. Not in a mean way, just in a hey-I-know-how-to-make-noises-when-I-smack-my-hands-against-your-body kind of way. Pregnancy makes my chest tender. Combined with my son's new game, my chest is VERY tender.

Dear Lord of Creation,

I know how much you love irony (Abraham and Sarah, David and Goliath, The Book of Job), but motherhood and pregnancy? Really, God?

Okay, fine, joke's on me. But wouldn't it be cool if pregnancy turned moms into these super-human creatures, like unicorns, who could defeat the monsters under the bed while creating another little monster deep inside their bellies. Wait a minute? That's basically what I am doing. I am a super-hero to one baby (two if you count my husband, and yes, he does count) while miraculously creating another baby (yes, Lord, I know, that's your miracle, not mine. Shout-out to the Big Man).

Okay, fine, I get it.

I am super-human, and there ain't anything ironic about that! {wink}

Non-Maternal Instincts

Inner-monologue at nine-months pregnant.

{Huffin' and puffin'} Now why did I come up here? I know I came up for something. Hmm, can't remember. Phew, I better sit down.

{Plops down on unmade bed} WHOA! Those are my feet? What happened to my feet? Why didn't anyone tell me?! I mean, where are my ankles? They're, they're, they're gone! I don't have ankles and my feet are huge. Like puffy huge. No. Those can't be my feet.

Gee, this bed is soft. Cozy. Pillows. Fluffy pillows. But it's only 10am. Ugh. Stupid insomnia. Stupid insomnia equals Ali and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

Can't sleep now anyway. I need to pee. Didn't I just do that? Yeah, I went before I came upstairs. I wonder if I can talk my doctor into giving me a catheter for the next month. I need to talk to him about that. Better write that down.

Wait a sec, who's that? Me?! No. That can't be me. Darn it. Why'd I look in the mirror? I might be carrying this baby in the front, but apparently I'm also carrying one in the back. Dang, girl. No wonder my clothes don't fit anymore. Not even my maternity clothes. Bah.

Oh, baby powder, my best friend. Is that why I came up here? No, that wasn't it.

Now what was it? Ouch. Cranky. Stop. Ouch. Better sit down for this one. Stupid Braxton Hicks, you're such a tease.

Wait. Yuck. Gag. Why is my throat burning? Burning swords attacking my throat. Oh! That's it! I came up here for Pepcid. Love me some Pepcid. Yes, please, I need Pepcid!

{With Pepcid in hand, waddles back downstairs for glass of water}

NOOOOOO! What did I do? I dropped it. No! Dagnabbit. Now how am I going to pick that up? I can't bend down there and pick up that little pill.

Ah, forget it. I need ice cream.

Non-Maternal Instincts

Originally posted in Janurary, 2009

My Husband, the Potato Chip Runner

Once again, this week's post doesn't quite fall under non-maternal. Or maybe it does. What do I know? I'm just some crazy pregnant lady. But I warn you, don't mess with the pregnant lady.

If you have ever been pregnant, or hormonal, or menstrual, or, well, just a girl, then you know what it's like to crave potato chips. I don't know any girl who doesn't like potato chips. And if you are a girl and you don't like them, then you are probably really a man.

So yesterday, around dinner time, I WANTED potato chips. And I wanted them NOW (imagine Fat Bastard as he looks at his fried chicken, "Get in my belly!" Except that I didn't have any potato chips to threaten). So I unbuttoned a few of the buttons on my polo turned on my most pathetic and whiny voice and said, "I really want potato chips."

Hubs responded to my declaration, "I can go on a potato chip run." {ain't he the greatest?}

"Are you sure? You don't have to if you don't want to." {lying}

"Honey, I'm sure. What kind - Ruffles, Conn's, or Lay's?" {WOW, this guy is good!}

"Ruffles or Lay's," I responded excitedly.

"Okay, I'll be right back." {we live only a few blocks from a convenience store - it makes for a very convenient nine months}

5 minutes later

Hubs walks in the door, "I hope you like my selection."

He shows me a bag of Wavy Conn's potato chips.

I look at him, I look at the bag, and then I look at him, "I said Ruffles or Lay's."

He looks confused. "I thought you said Conn's."

"No, I hate Conn's." {I really don't care for them - they taste like old socks, whatever that tastes like}

"But, these are from Zanesville. I really thought you said Conn's." {okay, you just heard Conn's because you wanted Conn's. I don't care if you grew up near Zanesville. I'm pregnant, and I WANT RUFFLES OR LAY'S!}

And that's when my hormones exploded. I really tried to suppress them. But they weren't listening to me. It seems that the fig-sized being growing deep within my womb spits out hormones at cosmic force.

And then I throw a fit. You know, the usual girly game of, "No, don't go back out just for chips," "Okay, I really want chips," "No, I'll be fine," "Okay, I want Ruffles, please."

My potato chip runner then leaves for the second time that evening. But this time he's not back right away. It's at least fifteen minutes before he returns. {and don't think for a minute that this hungry preggo wasn't starting to really jones}

As it turns out, the convenient store down the street was out of Ruffles. So my I-better-get-it-right-this-time hubby drove all the way to the next nearest convenient store just to find the perfect potato chip.

He scored. {thank you, Jesus!}

And since he is all about staying out of trouble making me happy, he picked up a bag of Skittles and Sour Patch Kids while he was there.

Except that I was now craving Gummi Bears.

Non-Maternal Instincts

Originally posted in December, 2008

It only gets worse.

I didn't think that it was possible to toss my maternal instincts aside any farther, but apparently, I was wrong.

No, my son isn't becoming an absolute terror. Yes, he's nearly nine months old which means he's mobile and getting into everything, but surprisingly, I think it's cute (as long as he's not pulling my I-just-spent-an-hour-organizing-these-piles-of-bills-and-mail off of the coffee table. And why would I pile important papers in my son's reach on the coffee table? Because I'm the mom, and I can do whatever I want).

No, my son actually has nothing to do with the complete downward spiral of my sweet and cheery disposition (if only my husband posted comments to this blog; he would most definitely assure you that my disposition is most always sweet and cherry {cough-cough-ahem}).

So why am I going from, "ah, that's my sweet little boy," to, "#@%#*&# just leave me alone!" in 3-2-1? You haven't guessed yet? I'm pregnant.

Yes, it's the little dime-sized creature living deep inside my lady parts that is driving me to locking myself in the bathroom - for months.

As my most adorable growing baby boy hits milestone after milestone (Did he just sit himself up? Wowsers! Is that another tooth? Yowzers! Could that be "da-da?" Woot!), the mere bean of a being that is only going to make me fat (don't even get me started) wrecks havoc in my lower abdomen causing me to react quite unusually (Oh, great, he's sitting up? Better build a cage. Oh, dang-it, another tooth? I've had enough of this drool bucket! Oh, cute, "da-da"? Who birthed this child? And all I'm hearing is the name of the person who doesn't have the first clue what it's like to be nauseous and fat and bloated and BLAH!)

So just when I thought I'd turned a corner (Christmas is only days away! I should be full of good cheer and well wishes), I learn that my body is yet again being taken over for the sake of another so-called blessing. Bah-humbug.

Dear Lord who only asked one thing of Eve (DON'T EAT THE APPLE!),

I would really like to speak to her, if I may, "Girlfriend, what were you thinking? Because of your stupid fall-into-temptation, us uterus-bearing wo-men are stuck feeling like absolute crap! One stinkin' apple? Was it worth it? Was it the best-dang-tastin' apple you've ever bitten into? Because I'd kill to enjoy a bite of anything right now without having to make a run for the bathroom. Instead of enjoying the vibrant life cruisin' around my living room, I'm spending my days teaching him to hold back my hair as I hug onto oval-shaped porcelain. Thanks a lot."

But Lord, honestly, I am thankful to have another baby growing inside of me. I'm trying my darndest to remember to be grateful in all things. But would you forgive me if just this time I gave thanks only after I flush my lunch down the toilet, because it is in those few moments that I actually feel human again, at least until the next wave of I-think-I'm-gonna-blow hits.