Next to Godliness

Ahh, housewifery. If I ever get rich via the activities I most excel at (reading novels, drinking wine, browsing the internet and pinning all the good stuff), the first order of business will be hiring someone to clean and organize my house. Because, seriously. Why is it so hard? I have a college degree. I've had extremely challenging jobs. So far my kid isn't turning out horribly. So why can't I remember the last time I went to bed feeling like things were in their proper (or close enough) place and there definitely/probably wasn't any hazardous mold growing indoors?

Well, if I had to venture a hypothesis, it would probably involve a) the whirling dervish/miniature human/21 month old destructive force who is now excesssively mobile and has no shortage of grandmas and other various suckers showering her with books and toys, b) the husband who I guess finds the idea of organization and "putting stuff away" to be too authoritarian or something (also, who desperately needs a man-purse for all his bobbles but just can't admit it), and c) well....me. I've always valued the feeling of clean over the reality. Blocks scattered across the living room stress me out, but shoes stuffed into a closet in a manner that defies physics is as reassuring to me as having Martha Stewart organize them by season/brand/color/weight. If it looks clean, it is clean. I know, not remotely true, but that's how I feel.

I think I've mentioned before my penchant for stress-cleaning, an adreline fueled binge that either charms or annoys my husband (can't tell, he's mysterious) whenever the cloud of domestic fury overtakes me. In the days before Ninja, an overwhelming need to get my sh*# together would find me scrubbing floors, vacuuming all the things, alphabetizing the dvds. I go on one of those benders now and I turn around only to see this:

Lately, I've really been feeling like I can't stay on top of things, so it was time for (not at all) drastic measures! Off to Pinterest, where I found this blog on How to Organize Your Life, You Lazy Poor Person (that's how it made me feel). It's actually a very nice blog with good ideas. At first I was like..."YEAH. Here we go! Suck it 2013, you are getting cleaned, sorted and labeled!" Who doesn't love a label maker? So, here we go. Day 1, Kitchen. Step 1: Load the dishwasher.

But...but...I DON'T HAVE A DISHWASHER! I WASH ALL MY STUPID DISHES WITH MY STUPID HANDS. So, instead, I stopped looking at perfect people's perfect kitchens on the Internet and just cleaned my house to not the best of my ability. I would have taken pictures but there was no time. It looks terrible again. I did, however, with the help of my sweet aunt, clean out the back entryway that was loaded with recycling and random mail and thingamabobs and created THIS:

My new secret lair--erm, I mean, a coffee nook to share with everyone! See, Pinterest isn't totally useless.

post script: Here is a pic I found of a very small section of my house looking clean:

Here's Ninja making dinner. Kitchen looking the usual level of tidy:

Aaand bonus cuteness (the dvds are in fact alphabetized in the background. They remain so because the only movie we watch is Finding Nemo):

2013: A Preview

World's most flighty and inconsistent blogger, at your service! How much of a cliche am I, returning at the dawn of a new year, almost like I have resolved within myself to stay committed to a certain discipline simply because the calendar bears a new digit?
But here I am. 2012, particulary the second half, was indescribably awful. I have definitely not been functioning at a level that would include funny anecdotes on my blog. It would be untrue to say I'm back in full force or anything like that, but honestly, I use the blogging format not because I'm so drawn to it, but because it was the most accessible and concise way for me to store these memories of my daughter. So I feel an obligation to her to keep it going (also on the 2013 to do list: move a gazillion photos on to a photo sharing website so I don't lose those too!).
Quick updates on the ninja: She is less fat, more tall. She has all her teeth and we suspect possible vampire heritage, as her incisors came in in ONE DAY. Despite my best efforts and her admitted affinity for crashing toy trucks and swordfighting, she is the most princess-y, pink, ridiculously girly girl ever. Current obsessions include: Nemo (more on my Nemo-induced existential crisis later, maybe), princess dresses, purses, shoes, dolls, meow-meows and woof-woofs, and going "buh-bye" in her "ride."
I'm going to start off my renewed foray into this blog with a little housecleaning. Literal cleaning of my house. Due to the circumstances that made 2012 awful and several recent trips, our house is reaching the tipping point into chaos. Who better to guide me back into domestic order than my beloved Pinterest? (You can follow me on pinterest here.)
I have chosen at near random, the blog of a clearly superior mommy blogger with a clearly bigger and better house than me and clearly far, far superior domestic instincts than the ones I have. Perfect! Fodder for humor and enough humiliation to shame me into a better person (that's how that works, right?)
Stay tuned for results.

My Life in a Standstill

This is my whole life right now. My baby is being loved and cared for by extended family while I look for someone else's baby who is lost. Please share this if you are a mom, a dad, a sister, a brother, a friend.
Thanks.
http://www.sacbee.com/2012/07/12/4627691/open-letter-to-missing-placerville.html

Puppy Party

Joined Pinterest (against my better judgement) and added a Pinterest button to my blog (look down there!). Here's some Pinterest bait from Ninja's first birthday:

Pupcakes: York peppermint patties and chocolate chips on cupcakes

So many....

True story, I stabbed this dog cake in it's face because I was so frustrated. Turned out OK, though.

Party favors: "doggy bags" in personalized doggy dishes. Inside are stuffed animal dogs and baggies of "puppy chow" aka "muddy buddies."

I know it looks gross, but it's great--chex mix, peanut butter,  melted chocolate and powdered sugar

One Year Already? Oh Sh*t!

Well, you did it, Ninja. You survived one whole year in this crazy world.
Let's look back on all you have accomplished...
You have lived in a tent.
You have possessed a glorious head of hair, gone almost completely bald and grown a new glorious head of hair in a new shade.
You have mastered computer programming/hacking. You know your way around an iphone like Steve Wozniack.
You have pooped and peed on the potty like a boss.
You have mastered several levels of physical milestones-sitting, rolling, crawling, even walking. Also slapping. Not sure where or why you learned that last one.

You have sprouted teeth (7!) and brush said teeth with unbridled enthusiasm.
You have an impressive vocabulary including, "Mama," "Dad," "dog," "peekaboo," "shoe," "Ty-Ty," "hi," "boob," "uh-oh," and your new favorite phrase that you definitely didn't learn from anyone in this house, "Oh, shit!" (honestly, I tried to convince myself you were saying "What's this?" but you really aren't, are you?).
You've made friends, you've touched the mythical creature known as "dog," you've gone swimming in the river, you've eaten dirt and played the piano.

You've turned your mother into a big pile of mush who wants nothing more than to be with you and watch you dance and crash and fly through life. You've made your daddy into a portable baby bed who refuses to put you down during nap time because he just wants to hold you while you still fit in his arms.

A lot of people love you, little kicker. You're pretty impressive for someone who I could swear was just the other day a hyperactive fetus. Happy first year and on to bigger and better things in Year Two (I'm thinking maybe mastering tap dancing and international espionage?).

Happy Birthday, You Dirty Hippie.

If you are not a frequenter of mommy blogs and baby websites or are not otherwise wrapped up in the culture that is women who reproduce and then talk about it, you may not be familiar with some of the key phrases. There are kegels, co-sleeping, meconium, Braxton-Hicks, birth boards, food stages, milestones, cruising, tripoding, and more. Then, we have the abbreviations. AP, CIO, STTN, BFP, POS, EBF, CD, BW...if you know what all that means, you are probably a parent with a baby website addiction (welcome to the club).

Here's my favorite term that makes no sense to anyone living in the real world: "crunchy," AKA "granola," AKA "you are a big ole hippie." This is the label affixed to those who practice Attachment Parenting, exclusive breastfeeding, cloth diapering, unmedicated births and other such hippie nonsense. As my ninja's 1st birthday peeks around the corner, I feel like saying happy birthday to Crunchy Mandy, the hippie earth mother version of myself that was born sometime last year.

Now, it may not be a huge leap for me to go this direction with my parenting style. After all, I do live outdoors for a large part of every year, I did wear a pair of thrift store Birkenstocks for the majority of high school, I am an expert "dumpster diver," and I do lean so far to the the left that I can't stand up straight, but for me, becoming "crunchy mama" was a gradual and slightly unexpected turn. Now, as in all things mommy-wars, there are certainly the crunchies who would banish me from their tribe so fast that my metaphorical dreadlocks would unravel. I vaccinate my child against diseases, willingly and on the recommended schedule. I still clean with nasty chemical-based products (although I did start using vinegar to clean, but then my dear husband pointed out to me that it was apple vinegar. No wonder it smelled awesome!), I don't make my own soap, or my own anything, really. But here's my full crunchy roster:

Natural Birth: This, I'm sure, was part grit and determination on my part and mostly luck and awesome genetics that allowed me to eject an 8lb 11oz Butterball Turkey intact from my body with no medical intervention whatsoever. However, this is surprisingly the one thing I got the most grief for while planning it. Maybe more on that another day.

Cloth Diapers: My favorite element of crunchy street cred. Here's why: when people realize you cloth diaper, they might think you're crazy, but they also think "Wow, what an amazing and hard-working parent you are! Caring about the earth and your child's well-being, getting poop on your hands just to save the planet?! You. are. a. saint." At least I assume that's what runs through people's brains. It's a guess based on facial expressions. But here's the thing...I don't get poop on my hands, at least not significantly more poop than the average infant-haver. Cloth diapering is theoretically a bit more work, but since it's all I've ever done, I have no comprehension of world where I toss poop filled disposables
in my trash can and how easy-breezy it all is. Plus, there are so many advantages to cloth and it's become so user friendly that even this idiot can do it. It's one of those things that just looks way more high-maintenance than it is. Don't tell anyone! I want to feel superior.

Exclusive/On Demand Breast Feeding: I'm starting to realize maybe I do all this crunchy business just because I love weirding people out. Because that's what happens when your 11 month old signs "milk" in Starbucks and gets a boobie snack. I used to feel a little bit bad that she refused to eat under a cover, now I just embrace it like the good hippy-dippy earth mother I am. Oh, before anyone writes me an angry letter, she does eat table food now. Like a champ. But it looks like I'm on the nursing train for awhile. I'll be honest, I had no plan when it came to this. I just did what felt natural and fed my baby the best way I could whenever she was hungry. Now I'm more educated about the topic and willing to keep going as long as I can, but I do have mixed feelings.

I am slowly morphing into Maggie Gyllenhal's character in this movie.

Co-Sleeping: This is not one I planned on at all. I did not think sharing my sleeping space and marriage bed with a tiny human who views me as a food source would even be on the table. I imagined Jon punching the baby in the face during one of his "zombie nightmares," or me smothering her under one of the 75 blankets I need to stay warm. And things were working out in our favor. We never had a nursery for ninja until we moved to our current house, so she slept in her crib or bassinet, in our room (or in our tent) from birth til 4+ months. Most nights, she slept through the night like a rockstar legend. Then, once she got her own room? Too bad, suckers. She went into newbie mode, waking up every few hours. We thought it might be a phase, but no. This is just how she is now. You are welcome to come over and try your babywise or whatever genius plan you have to get her to STTN (get it?), but as for me? I have to work in the morning. I choose whatever method gets us both back in bed and passed out faster. Co-sleeping it is.

Baby-wearing: I only get half credit for this one, since we do have a BOB stroller that is, to use a modern colloquialism, "da bomb." However, I do take every opportunity to strap my spawn to my chest or back and free up my arms for a change. Let's see...what else? I recycle? Happy Birthday, Crunchy Mandy. This flax seed cake with a homemade candle (I actually do know how to make candles thanks to my weird job) is for you!

A Different Kind of 9 months

Oh, dear. I have become a blog-fail statistic. I have abandoned my little mommy blog and given all my love and attention to that squirmy little human. Well, move over, Ninja baby. The bah-lawg is BACK.

I guess I was compelled to return to this space by the event of Ninja's (turns out, not so much a ginger) 9 month birthday. 9 months!? That's the amount of time you think you will be pregnant, even though it's actually like 4 years! I can't believe my little human has been human almost as long as she was a gestating alien squid person in my belly! Just imagine...if I were a completely insane person with super healing and super fertility powers, I could have gotten pregnant the day after she was born and be sitting here blogging about my even cuter NEW baby! Who was born right on time with 3 minutes of pushing.

When I think about how abysmally slow pregnancy was, it's mind-bending to realize this little person has been existing right next to us for the same amount of time. It seems like only a matter of weeks or days since she showed up. Let me try to sum up with some good old fashioned compare and contrast*:

Pregnancy:
Month 1: Well, the fun, R/X rated part, followed by, "hahaha, I might be PREGGO! JK, I'm totally not. Oh, holy crap, I totally am!" Followed by some weird and painful symptoms, followed by a LOT of time with Mr. Googles, followed by,
Month 2: go to the doctor at some point where they make you take a pregnancy test. I guess that makes sense, but when the nurse was like, "Congrats! You ARE pregnant," I was like, *side-eye* "They sell those tests in stores, ya know." Oh, I think barfing starts in here sometime, maybe. I forget.
Month 3: Feels like mono. Or some Victorian disease where you lie about all day, fretting. Or you want to. But you suck it up and go to work and swear you are going to be all hardcore and not be a baby about this whole baby thing.
Month 4: Get fat really fast.
Month 5: Feel better for like 2 weeks. Then all your bones hurt forever.
Month 6: Fatter. Stop taking prenatal vitamins and switch to Flinstones. Barf slightly less often thanks to this discovery.
Month 7: Start a blog about how come this baby can't come RIGHT NOW? Who needs 9 months? My hips and all other parts hurt. Probably some unfortunate/hilarious body fluid anomalies around this time.
Month 8: Start "nesting." Or as my husband calls it, manic cleaning. Actually he doesn't call it that. He just goes, "Ohhhhkay, psycho," grabs a beer and hides in the room I'm not cleaning until I come for him. Then he does dishes or something to appease my motherly rage. If you are lucky, the kind of people who say "Any day now!" to random preggos will only just now start saying this to you.
Month 9: You are the fattest person of all time. Congrats.
Month 9,10-infinity???: You eat spicy things, everyone tells you to have sex to induce labor and thinks they are hilarious/original,  you go on stupid long walks, eat like 45 "labor cupcakes" (blech.), stand on your head, punch people in the face when they ask "When's that baby gonna get here??"
Followed by!

A BABEH!

Month 1: Starts with a surprisingly smooth natural hospital birth. Freak out the residents by pushing the baby out on your hands and knees while naked. In like 20 minutes. They were not fast enough to catch her. Hahaha. Baby is not a ginger.
Followed by, be held prisoner in the hospital for 2 days, escape and go to your quiet little home. Feel that baby does not have enough adventure in her life, take her out on the town for margaritas.
Baby is actually quite chill, doesn't seem as hard as everyone said it would be. Get pooped at sometimes.
Month 2: Baby starts sleeping through the night (It's a MIRACLE, call the pope!). Baby hates swings, likes eating, sleeping. Favorite band: Passion Pit. Oh yeah, now is a great time to live in a tent at your job. Newborn babies love that.
Month 3: Other people besides you start to find your baby cute/notice her AWESOME personality. Baby discovers "raspberry" noise. Starts "tripod-ing," which is a thing.
Month 4: Baby starts busting through milestones. Sitting up, pulling up, cruising, quadratic equations. Decides sleeping through the night is for losers, never does it again.
Month 5: Baby officially declares herself "Team Mom." Suck it, Dad. Goes almost completely bald for some reason. People keep asking if she sleeps through the night yet. Hahahahahaha. NO.
Month 6: Baby thinks about crawling, decides it is lame. Pursues other interests. Develops fascination and undying love for any and all dogs. Meanwhile, you refuse to give up your maternity pants. Too comfortable not to wear forever.
Month 7: Eats everything. Refuses to crawl. Falls on her head a lot. Gets a tooth. Surprisingly not a biter. Poop starts smelling pretty bad. Starts to be wary of not-Mom type people.
Month 8: Level 5 Clinger. Weighs approximately as much as a panda. Must be held at all times. Gets another tooth. Can do some sign language but just signs "dog" for everything. You are functioning on world's worst sleep pattern. It's like payback from when she was an awesome newborn sleeper, but now she's more work in the daytime and everything is backwards. Not fair.
Month 9: Dog obsession reaches all time high. No longer bald. Begrudgingly starts crawling when no one has the decency to pick her up and there is no furniture to climb. Finally embraces that "rolling over" thing and makes every diaper change like an episode of "Swamp People." Baby is the alligator in that analogy but no guns are allowed.
9 month old baby actually poops on her baby toilet. You now have all the evidence you need, for life, that she is a prodigy and smarter than Stephen Hawking. Resist posting pooping photo on facebook. Blog about it and text a bunch of people the picture instead.

I don't know which set of 9 months sounds more fun to you, but I know which one I liked better. So, now we're caught up and I'll try to be a good lil' mama and tell more stories on this personal web blog.


*Based on completely unscientific and anecdotal evidence from my own memory/life

 TIMEWARP!

Newborn ninja

Current ninja

Sleeping Beauty

The pooping was a false alarm, people. Ninja has her held safely tucked in the top of my pelvis and continues to beat the crap out of my insides like she's getting paid to do it. Must be because the government didn't shut down. Thanks a lot, Obama.

41 weeks today. Went in for a non-stress test and it was like she knew she had to put on a good show to impress everyone. I woke up at 7:30 to give myself plenty of time for breakfast and a shower. I can only hope that Ninja's fetus sleeping habits follow her out of the womb, because she is hilariously like her mama right now. If I wake up before 9, she's just a sleepy lump off to one side of my belly. Doesn't move, doesn't kick, except to try halfheartedly to get away from you when you poke her. Shower doesn't wake her, food doesn't wake her, even the car ride to the doctor...nothing. She likes to stay up late and sleep in like a pro. Well, they got the fetal monitor on just in time for her to start her very busy day of kicking me relentlessly, so that was good. She passed, she's allowed to stay in for one more week if she wants.

Yaaaaaaaaay.

I'll take two million, thanks so much.

via My Baking Addiction

A Sign

Uncontrollable, smelly farts.

That means my baby's almost here, right? RIGHT?

But seriously, it's pretty stinky. I feel that should carry some significance.


Signs that my labor is imminent (I'm basically a doctor):

1) So much pooping!
2) Angry fetus bellybutton maulings.
3) False labor every night. YAY!
4) I have not packed a hospital bag.
5) I have not installed any carseats.
6) The dishes are dirty.
7) The government is shutting down.

 This is totally me right now:

A Story in Pictures

This is how fat I got for you, baby.

This is a picture of you making my belly into a butt-shape.

 

This is the miracle I performed to make room for your stuff (the miracle of cleaning out the hall closet).

Here's the corner where you go...good thing you are small!

These are the sweet owl cupcakes Aunt Becky made for your shower. Owls are kind of your thing. You hipster baby, you.

And this is you!

Dear Ninja

Dearest Ninja Babe,
You are nearly cooked. In one week, you are "full-term," the magical time when mommies on birth boards go completely nuts and start drinking castor oil and arguing over non-medical inductions and eating spicy food and having sex whether they feel like it or not (don't forget to ask me what sex is in a few years, I know we are both excited for that conversation), all in a vain attempt to get those babies OUT. Because honestly, even the most ethereal earth goddess of fertility and maternal instincts hits a wall at some point, and that point is right about now.

On the one hand, you have shown yourself to be advanced in all areas, including hair growth, kicking strength and speed, umbilical cord grabbing and chewing, and cervical punching. If you feel like coming out in about a week from now, I'm certain you will continue to excel in life and I will be happy to assist you on your exit strategy. I may be projecting, but I don't think you like being in there any more than I like walking around with what feels like a broken pelvis. We practiced swaddling in our infant class and I could almost hear you laughing at the very idea that you would tolerate being restricted and repressed against your will in such a way. Something tells me you are going to need your wide open spaces, even as a tiny, angry Ninja infant.

Here's the thing, though. You can come in one week and I will just high five you for being so on top of it. On the other hand, I could probably use a few extra weeks. I'm doing this thing called "nesting," but in my typical insane fashion, I've completely torn the apartment (yeah, we don't have a house. Sorry.) apart and am reorganizing everything we own to make more room for you. Oh, and we bought a giant bed to save our marriage from death-by-horrible-mattress, so now there's even less room for you. Don't worry, we have a carseat, diapers, a bassinet and enough outfits to get you through a week, probably. I really hope you think the furry giraffe sleeper I got you is as hilarious and awesome as I do. You're a human baby, dressed up as a giraffe! Great, right? I wish all of your outfits were animal or food costumes.

So there you go. Come when you want, but I'm warning you. Anything past 41 weeks and your life will just be the muffled sounds of me, in bed, eating chocolate and pad thai and watching Netflix. I'm NOT drinking castor oil.


Aw, look at how cute you are!! Kicking yourself in the face. Keep doing your thing, sweet baby.

Stuff You Probably Knew Already About Being Pregnant

There's probably a reason you have to be pregnant FOREVER. I've decided the most obvious reason is that babies are this earth-shattering, life changing developments for which you need time to be prepared. So since becoming pregnant approximately seven years ago, I've used much of my free time to read all about pregnancy, childbirth, diapers, vaccines, sleep methods...there are infinite time consuming possibilities and you might as well study up before you never read or sleep again, right? One thing I've noticed appearing over and over again in every baby magazine, website, forum, you name it, is the "Things No One Ever Told You" list. I always get super excited to read these, because, you know...I want to KNOW. What are the great secrets? What are the unspoken truths that no one has dared reveal until now? Well, in this age of internets and information, these lists are often disappointing. Turns out I have heard about sleeping when the baby sleeps, meconium, nipple pads and nursing bras. But maybe you haven't.

So here's my List of Things Someone Has Probably Told You But I'm Telling You Again About Being Pregnant:

Things You Should Not Say To A Preggo
1) Don't call her preggo. I don't mind it, but apparently many women are infuriated by it.
2) Don't tell her how huuuuuuge she is. I mean, really. We're pregnant. It's not suddenly OK to inform us that we are fat. Even if we are.
2a) This includes comparing us to cows, whales and other large animals.
2b) This includes speculating on how we are probably going to have twins or triplets or give birth to a cow. Yes, she's sure she's not having twins. If she's having twins, she'll tell you.
2c) This conversely applies to telling her she's soooo small, are you sure there's a baby in there? You should eat something! Honestly, how many people really know what the average belly size is during any given month or week of pregnancy? Just say, "Your belly looks awesome!" or something equally inoffensive.
3) "Just wait until the baby gets here. You'll never sleep again!!!!" or equivalent fear mongering. Look, we know babies are nightmares from a demon dimension that deprive you of sleep and meaningful human contact. We've been informed. I do appreciate honest stories and advice from people who have been through it, but right now I'm just a swollen, seasick, injured version of myself who can't sleep, concentrate or go for a run. And I don't even have a cute little human around whom my world revolves to make it all worthwhile. "Sleep now, while you can!" That's great advice...except I can't. I'm an insomniac with heartburn and chronic back pain. Oh yeah, and a crazy 4-5 lb ninja endlessly kick-punching me from the inside. The first time I fall asleep on my stomach (my normal sleeping position) will be heaven. Even if I have to wake up twenty minutes later to change a diaper and feed her...at least she'll be on the outside!
A lady who had just had a baby 5 weeks ago saw me reaching for something on the bottom shelf at the grocery store. I was failing miserably while fighting the urge to pass out. You know what she said to me? "It gets better." You hear that? BETTER. She knows...she was JUST pregnant. Even though she hadn't slept in 5 weeks and that was probably her first time out of the house, she did not look like she wanted to switch places with me. She was like, oh yeah, I remember that one time I was so humongous that I could barely move and my body turned against me and basic functions like breathing were impossibly hard! I traded that in for a screaming infant and my life is so much better now! Oh, and she had a 2 year old.
Come to think of it, that's probably why you're pregnant for so long. So when you you are elbow deep in baby poop and you've lost your hearing and you are operating on a Charlie Sheen level of sense-making because of sleep deprivation, you'll think back to being pregnant and be like "I love this! Babies are awesome!" I'll let you know if that works out for me.

Things That Are Awesome About Being Pregnant
1) It makes people smile. I catch so many people just involuntarily smiling at me after seeing my big belly. I'll admit, it is usually a mixture of "happiness and pity" as Jon has described it, but I still like it.
2) Everything you do becomes sitcom material. I realized this today as I was ranting to Jon in the grocery store about the lack of Girl Scouts in our area. I need my Samoas! Midtown Scouts are slacking! Then I spotted Cadbury Eggs and got so excited I jumped up and down. Now, this is just normal seasonal behavior for me, but now that I'm fat and pregnant...hilarious for everyone! See also: buttoning my jacket, fitting through narrow spaces, etc.
3) It's a great excuse. What? It is.
4) It makes my husband even nicer! I hate to even mention this, because honestly, Jon already does all the cooking and pretty much lovingly does whatever I ask. But I am 100% guilty of taking full advantage of his selfless devotion during this gestational period. I had this theory that because I let my husband do so much for me in normal life, I would do a 180 in pregnancy and have some need to prove I could do it all myself. My theory was WRONG.

Things That, Seriously, No One Told Me

1) I have heard a lot about constipation during pregnancy. Let me just tell you that you can have the opposite problem. 'Nuff said.
2) Half the stuff that conventional wisdom says you can't eat, do or think is just not true. Every doctor should have a myth-debunking pamphlet that they hand you at the first appointment.
3) Delivering the placenta: Ok, why are there five million TV shows about people giving birth and not one of them ever shows this? I know it's gross, but babies are kind of gross too, at least on the way out and they still show that!

Eh, there's probably more, but thankfully I planned ahead and was born in the 80's so that I could give birth during the Age of the Internet. You can pretty much Google yourself through any tricky situation. And if you want to see a placental delivery...there's a YouTube for that.

What We Are Signing Up For

I've been slowed down in the posting department. On the one hand, I find my situation (read: being comically large, comparing my pregnancy symptoms to Bella's in Breaking Dawn, etc.) quite hilarious and I mostly just want to write about the ridiculous hilarity of my symbiotic relationship with the Ginger Ninja. On the other hand, life has just not been that funny lately and the somber nature of reality makes the silly things a little harder to focus on.
This little spaz inside of me is right now, a squirmy lump about whom I know very little. I know she has hair (I saw it on the 3D ultrasound and the insane heartburn tipped me off as well). I know she's crazy active, kicks like a horse and is exceptionally advanced in all areas. Just trust me on that last one, I saw her grabbing her umbilical cord in the ultrasound. Her motor skills are phenomenal. But I don't know her. We don't know her. She's about to emerge into the world, a whole person, a whole little stranger. She'll be so much more than a non-verbal pile of poop and cuteness. And this parent thing is...big.

 

Obviously, every new parent gets that on some level. But I had two heavy reminders of just how big it can be this week. A young friend of mine ended up in the hospital with some very scary prognoses. His parents, some of the most loving, generous and just generally awesome people I know, have spent the week praying, keeping watch and being faced with some very scary possibilities. In a situation that no one could be truly prepared for as a parent, they have displayed strength and faith amidst the desperation and fear they must be struggling with. I never feel ready to display this kind of courage in the face of tragedy or crisis, but I hope that if I ever have to live through something like this with my own family, I will have a fraction of their grace under pressure.
I also attended a funeral this weekend. The funeral of an amazing woman and mom who I was lucky to know even a little bit. You can read more about her here. Her kids are important people in our life and I felt privileged to hear their stories and share in their joy as they celebrated her life. As we laughed and cried over a life well lived, a heart well-used, the endless flips and kicks of my little ninja took on a new and nearly overwhelming meaning to me. Lorraine succeeded as a parent. She succeeded because she saw her three babies as individuals meant to be encouraged and loved into their unique identities. The result: three incredible adults, flawed but equipped to live well in this world. It's too easy already to imagine this kid that lives inside of me will be an extension of myself and of Jon. To assign her traits I believe she will have or hope she will learn. It's almost impossible not to have preconceived ideas and expectations. The most beautiful thing would be to let her trample all over them on her way to becoming an unexpectedly delightful person--a person I could never predict or control. Here's to hoping we can let that happen.

Pray for Grant

Not Chocolate Chip Cookies

 Actually, they are chocolate chip cookies. Don't let their little turd-like appearances fool you.


I like to bake and I'm generally not terrible at it. I used to cook before my husband turned into one of those dudes who fantasizes about getting their own show on the Food Network and is also a beer snob. Ok, I think that "those dudes" are just mostly him. Anyway--I don't cook now unless there is a stuffing shortage at Christmas or Thanksgiving. He's just way better at it and more territorial in the kitchen. I find it's better if I just wait for my food and occasionally do the dishes/make fun of the way he non-organizes the drawers and cupboards.

So this Saturday I was on the brink of death. Or, at least that's how it felt when my weak, immune deficient pregnant body started to feel a cold coming on. So I chugged Emergen-C and Tylenol and stayed in bed all day. Saturday evening I could tell I had avoided the full weight of Death Cold, so to celebrate, I decided to make some cookies. I usually make my famous Oatmeal Chocolate Chip cookies. They are the only thing I know how to make purely from memory, and I am a legend in my immediate family for their greatness. My mom lost the recipe card for them years ago, so my sister calls me and asks how to make them sometimes. Last time, she wrote the recipe down and assured me she would make them for everyone after I die. THANKS. You are only eight years younger than I, but surely, you will live forever.

I had no oatmeal, so I decided to try a Martha Stewart cookie recipe. It turned out great except for this one part: I was watching Party Down on Netflix Instant while I made the cookies. That show is hilarious and awesome and way better than stupid Monk, which my husband has decided is his new favorite show. Maybe after he watches the infinity episodes of Monk on Netflix, he can discover new brilliant fares like Murder, She Wrote or Columbo. Seriously, Monk is so dumb. And it has the worst theme song in the history of television. It's stuck in my head forever now and I'm mad.
So, I was drowning out Monk with some hilarious Party Down and I was laughing so much that I forgot to add the flour mixture I had set aside into the cookie dough. Martha, that's why I list the dry ingredients last instead of first. Setting things aside is just asking for problems. You could learn something from me. I noticed the dough wasn't thick enough, so I did add some flour, but not enough and no baking powder. Things were sticking together fine until I put the cookies in the oven. I spotted my bowl of dry ingredients and ran to pull the cookies out. Cookie soup on trays. I salvaged it by stirring the goop into the dry ingredients. The chocolate chips were all melted, so that's why it all turned out such a pleasant shade of brown. They taste pretty good, not great (thanks a lot, Martha Stewart!) and many lessons have been learned. I think, primarily, that Monk is a terrible show. Can anyone think of a television theme song more infuriating than this?

Not a Mommy Blog?

Hopefully. But I guess we'll just see about that. There are two driving forces behind my resurrecting my bloginess ("blog" is still your worst invented word, Internet):

1) I'm a writer. I am! I swear! I may have epically failed at NaNoWriMo this year and I may have left my Lit/Writing degree a distant 4+ years in the past, but it is my passion. So I am ambitiously claiming this as the end of my writing dry spell. No turning back. Unless I feel like it.

2) I'm knocked up. Nothing like having a kumquat in your pudding to motivate you to better yourself. My little fetus monster (we call her The Ginger Ninja because she has mad skills and I'm hoping for a redhead) punches and roundhouse kicks me all day every day as if to say, "I can already tell you suck at remembering to take pictures and upload them. I'm not even holding out hope for an awesome baby book, so how about you clear out some internet space for me before I get here?" Well, Ninja, it's taken me almost 30 gestational weeks to get the ball rolling on this, so I would say, expect the birth announcements to go out with your wedding invitations. To save on postage.

So, like I said. Hopefully not an insufferable mommyblog. But my goings on may be so Ninja focused that it turns into a bit of that. Ooops! I'm one of those people now.