Discombobulation Station

The Other Late

I'm late. 

How late?

...Late.

Oy. That one little word: LATE. Do not you have visions of gobsmacked boyfriends, sticks peed upon in bar bathrooms, panicked/overjoyed calls to girlfriends?

So very many plotlines start with those very words, those very actions. Grown women lose their shit and/or get married to variously suitable or unsuitable suitors, snarky teens grow big bellies in their high school hallways, etc. etc. 

Then you get to the other end of those exciting, screen-worthy 9 months and what do you have? In the movies, you have the drama of water-breaking in the grocery store, or at the office. A rush to the hospital, where the mom glowingly pushes four or five times and out pops an unwrinkled, unconeheaded wee babe. Or you have the comic OMG BIRTH IS SOOO GROSS CAN YOU BELIEVE VAGINAS etc thing.

Anyone who knows anyone who has had a baby or who has had one themselves knows that ending is make-believe. But little did I know until now how BORING the whole thing could be.

I'm late.

How late?

...Late.

Or rather, she's late. My precious lil womb-dweller has decided that her cozy spot is, well, super cozy.  We had a pretty good snowstorm last week, just before Thanksgiving (just before my due date). All that day I was crampy and contraction-y and grumpy and overall I felt like a ticking time bomb with a baby about to POP. Thanksgiving was basically the same drill but with turkey. And then...nothing. Everything stopped. No cramps, no contractions. Nothing. Just a happy, wiggly baby girl camped out in my belly.

My fabulous plan to stop working one week before my due date - just so I might have some spare time to do those-last minute projects? BACKFIRE.  Now I am almost two weeks into my "maternity leave" with nothing to show for it but an organized pantry. And freezer. And linen closet. Does anyone have a linen closet I can organize? I will organize the shit out of your linen closet.

Also I made a pretty good chocolate cream pie. And biscuits. And beef stew. And gingerbread bars.  And turkey chili. And pasta with sausage and broccoli.

...And she wonders why she is growing out of her maternity shirts.

Seriously, the only outfits that "work" are cracked-out dress-over-pants deals. Unless I care to treat the world to a glimpse of the bottom few inches of my belly. Blessedly, it's not scary ugly with stretch marks, but it is RIDICULOUS BIG.

So. Yeah. The other Late? Can go suck it.

At first the waiting was sortof thrilling; everytime we left the house over the holiday break we would pack all of our bags into the car and alert the media. 6 days into BabyWatch 2011 and I can barely remember to bring my phone as I venture out, solo (Little A. is at daycare, the FYD's at work), for my little stupid time-wasting errands.  I am so BORED.

So, who wants to come to Target with me? Anyone? I promise my water will not break in the store. And, later, I am going to rake a bunch of leaves. Maybe I will give birth on my front lawn.

Wouldn't THAT be exciting??

xoxo, A

p.s. OK, officially, thank you for indulging the complaints. Overall I am a lucky pregnant lady, and totally get that at this stage of the game, boredom is a luxury. But this pregnancy has been juuuuust annoying enough to convince me that I will never house another fetus again.  Never. Mark my words. NEVER.

(And then, she got pregnant with TWINS! Har har.)

The Prodigal Chicken Returneth

Some moments crystalize how much life has changed for your bloggess-in-Maine over the past few years. Whereas once I would call in late to work due to "alarm failure" which was more than likely MY failure to not drink 8 whiskey and sodas and stumble home singing Liz Phair at the top of my lungs at 4 am, now--well, now, I call in late due to rogue chickens.

So. At first, yesterday morning was typical and, Little A. and I were on time. But then as we took the first turn towards her daycare - I spotted a chicken. A chicken just pecking away casually at bugs or whatever on the side of the road. Like, whassup dudes, nice weather we are having, what's so weird about a loose chicken wandering the roadside?

After a moment of processing, all hell broke loose (in my brain): OMG IS OUR CHICKEN ALL THE CHICKENS ARE LOOSE COOP IS COMPROMISED WAS A FOX MASSACRE MAYHEM HALP!!!11!!!

So I pulled over, put the hazards on, gave Little A. a magazine to while away the time (as if watching hugely pregnant Mama attempting to corral a chicken wasn't enough entertainment) and waddled after the reddish little chicken beside the road. After a few minutes, I realized I could never waddle fast enough to catch the girlchik, so I called the FYD, basically gave him the all-caps message above, said I AM GOING HOME TO CHECK ON THE OTHERS GET HERE FAST 911 EMERGENCY STYLE.

But at home? All chickens were present and accounted for. I counted heads over and over, but each time I got six. Six was right.

SO WHO IS THIS MYSTERY CHICKEN?? I know you are just dying to know.

A theory started percolating in my brain as I drove back to the chicken-spotting site with a box of feed to sprinkle around. If I couldn't catch her, at least I could keep her from going deeper into the woods until the FYD got there.

Which he did, just a few minutes later (we take our chicken emergencies seriously around here). We worked together to bumrush the poor lil chickin into an impassable patch of weeds. She crossed the road once, much to the merriment of some trucker dude (or maybe it was my pregnant ass hustling across the road that was so funny), but once she was in those weeds, the FYD made a heroic tackle and came up with an arm full of protesting bird.

She quickly calmed down after she realized she was caught for good. We looked her over to see if she had any injuries - nothing. She seemed healthy and bright-eyed and, you know, dumb. But that is just the chicken way.  I told the FYD that the rest of our flock was safe at home.

We looked at each other - could it be? Could this be one of the chickens we thought was killed by a fox in the great massacre of Summer 2011? We lost 3 in one night, which seemed like a bit of over-achievement on the fox's part. Had she been living in the woods all this time, scavenging bugs and avoiding dangers? We thought, maybe. Maybe. We couldn't QUITE remember if one of the lost chickens had been that color, with those markings.

So the FYD took her back to our coop and let her loose just outside the main containment area, so the birds could sniff each other out. Little A. and I continued on our day, having an interesting story to tell.

(Little A's version went something like this: We caught a chicken and took it home! Well, Daddy did. Mama had to call Daddy. There was a loose chicken in the woods! Mama couldn't catch it. It was a friendly chicken, but it didn't want Mama to catch it. Mama was too slow.)

That night, after the post-dinner and bedtime rush, I went out to check on the chicken-ladies. The FYD had cautiously integrated the rogue into the flock. And there she was, roosted up next to her sisterfriends. Like they remembered each other. We'll never really know what she went through during those months she was in the woods, but we're glad to have her home. 

Or, you know, we stole someone else's lost chicken. In which case, don't share this story TOO liberally, ok?

xoxo, A

A Wedding Toast

From a beautiful wedding I attended last night in my old apartment. It was just perfect, so romantic, comfortable and full of love. Like a wedding should be.

E.

_______________

I first met B right in this room. I was sitting here in the window and she came in the door to meet Rachel wearing an adorable black dress, as per usual, I know, with the black and the being adorable. The second occasion we spent time together we sat up, in this windowsill, until about 4am. On a weeknight. Obviously we were smitten with each other. I was also sitting right here when she told me she had a crush on a boy. And his name was MK. MK was a bit shy to come right out and ask her out on a date, so it took a few weeks. It was in this apartment where we discussed their upcoming first date, and I made the suggestion of the venue. I think it was their third date that he came over here and brought flowers, and carried a briefcase, and then later asked if it counted as a date. Beth found this all so very endearing.

We both fell in love about the same time with these wonderful boys who also loved us to bits. We felt so lucky. We seemed to take the same trajectory, sharing our delights and our very minor complaints about the boys together. In this room. Over many many glasses of red wine. She knew pretty soon that she wanted to marry him, and he popped the question before I left the apartment to take up a new life with my boy.

It was hard for me to leave this apartment, and all its memories, but knowing that it was going to be a starter home for this wonderful couple made so much sense. And seeing them get married today in this room really makes me believe in fate. There's a reason why we met those years ago, right here, B. There's a reason why you are both here today. Wishing you the happiest of days to come, for many glorious years.

And for you both, an Irish blessing:

Happy is the bride that rain falls on
May your mornings bring joy and your evenings bring peace.
May your troubles grow few as your blessings increase.
May the saddest day of your future
Be no worse than the happiest day of your past.
May your hands be forever clasped in friendship
And your hearts joined forever in love.

May you always have enough happiness to keep you sweet, trials to keep you strong, success to make you eager, friends to give you comfort, wealth to meet your needs, enthusiasm to look for tomorrow, and a growing love to make each day better than the day before.

From the backseat

Little A., loudly singing: Ma-yee had a yittle yam, yittle yam, yittle yam! Ma-yee had a yittle yam, fees as white as snoooooow!!!

 *pause* Me, interior monologue: Should I help her out with the next verse? Nah, she knows it. Then she'll sing something else.

Little A., singing LOUDER: Ma-yee had a yittle yam, yittle yam, yittle yam! Ma-yee had a yittle yam, fees as white as snooooow!!

*pause* Me thinks: Hm. Maybe she DOESN'T know the next verse. We sang it just a minute ago though! Surely she'll remember, finish the song, and move on to another.

Little A. again, LOUDEST: Ma-yee had a yittle yam, yittle yam, yittle yam! Ma-yee had a yittle yam, fees as white as snoooow!!!

*pause* Repeat sequence for 10 minutes with absolutely no variation, while I sink lower and lower in my seat under the weight of so many yittle yams, until....

Little A., wistfully: Mama, that's my favorite song!

***************************

Little A.: Mama! You have boobies!

Me: Um, yes I sure do.

Little A.: I have boobies too! I have NIPPLES!!

Me: Yes you do!

Little A.: Daddy has nipples too! He no have boobies.

Me: No, sweetie, most men and boys don't have boobies. Most ladies do have boobies. And boobies and nipples come in all shapes and sizes, just like people.

Little A: (Thoughtful pause....then)

You have BIG BOOBIES!!!

Me: Yeah, I do right now. So, um, what do you want for dinner?

Little A: BOOBIES BOOBIES BOO BOO BOOBIES!!!! BO BOS! BEE BEE! BOOOOOOOOBS!!!!  

Yeah. Toddlers are basically cuter, miniature, insane frat boys.

xoxo, A

Fourth

So how were your long weekends? Ours was quite nice, with all the requisite beachiness and relaxation and family and friends and fun and food that you'd expect. I took not a single photo worth sharing, because we were so busy enjoying. And then busy resting up for the next fun thing.

To get to all the fun, we had to drive for four hours. Little A. was a super trooper, with only about ten minutes total fussiness (right before naps and once because dumb Mama forgot to pack a snack).  Aren't two-year-olds supposed to be royal pains in the asses? For sooth, Little A. is no pain in in the ass. She has her moments, as we all do, and will only eat about four different things, but mostly - she's awesome. She entertains herself, sings all of the time (wonder where she gets that from?), wants to help,  shares (really! most of the time), and if she hears another friend cry she asks if she can go give him a hug to "make him feel nice and better!"

Once, when we were having a dust-up over some naughtiness and I had dragged her kicking and screaming into time-out (and put myself into a time-out in another room), she heard me cough from her prison and called out --mid-holler about how she hated time out and her crib and baby Lula and especially mean Mommy I WANT TO WATCH DO-YAH!!! -- with true concern in her voice, "You OK, Mommy?" It makes you melt, I tell you what.

So. Amidst all the excitement over the new baby sister I am feeling... lots of things. Preemptively guilty that this awesome kiddo, my first-born, will have to fend for herself even more after the new one comes along. Fearful that my selfish desire to be pregnant one more time is going to throw our new-found family balance completely out of whack.  Sad that I will not be able to spend as much time with BabyGirl2 as I did with Little A., due to job obligations/financial duress. Worried that I might never be able to really master using a breast pump.  On top of all the usual pregnancy anxieties over the baby's health and our readiness and etc etc etc. I am, in short, kind of a mess. On the inside.

On the outside, I am determined to enjoy the last months as a threesome. I want to start couples therapy so the FYD and I have some tools to deal with the inevitable chaos and additional stress. I want to organize the house top to bottom so at least I will be able to find a goddamn clean onesie for the new bitty one.  I want to savor every single full night's sleep.  I want to remember how amazing and fabulous and wonderful my two-year old Silly Bean is and hold it with me when I am covered in baby poop and losing my shit, and she is asking me, over and over and over, for mo' milk peeease. MO. MILK. NOW! MAMA!!! AND I WANNA WATCH ANNUDER DOOOOO-YAH!!!!

Family of four, here we come. Except we're probably never going to actually go anywhere ever again, cause how the hell do you do THAT?

xoxo, A

Guuuurl

The wee one had legs closed, feet pointed like a tiny ballerina (except, pointed at my cervix, which is so not Baryshnikov-approved), for a good 30 minutes of the ultrasound today. Little A. had declared that morning that the baby in my tummy was "ah bruvver." And the FYD and other family were convinced of Boy. I hedged my bets, having realized my guts, as Rob Gordon so eloquently said, "have crap for brains." Except he didn't say "crap."

I just don't think a cuss is appropriate right now! Not as we discuss the glories of my uterus. Geez.

ANYWAY. All organs, fingers and toes accounted for, the ultrasound tech (who I remembered gave us our first look at Little A's little bits) went after the prize. The wee one wiggled around until I saw...what is that? A BUTT? IT was a butt. The wee one gave us the full moon shot, a moonbutt with no telltale BOY things in sight.

Lo, I shall spawn another girlchild. I am really excited for Little A. to have a sister. My brother and I enjoyed a relatively drama-free, but not particularly close growing-up, and well, perhaps I romanticize, but SISTERS? That seems like a lovely built-in womanhood support system. I am so eager to watch them together.

And so very very NOT eager to wage war with two Tweens getting their periods whilst I endure the throes of menopause. Oh, girls. We will just burn those bridges when we get to them. And terrify the poor even more outnumbered FYD to bits.

C'est la vie du femmes, xoxo - A

My Mind is on the Blink

At first the fatigue is almost luxurious, like you just had a fun, late night the night before and you get to go to bed early to make up for it.  Sinking into bed is the best sensation on earth, and you feel pleasantly foggy around the edges.

And after a few weeks, you start to wonder if you will ever be able to hold a conversation after 7 pm. Or remember where your glasses are before 7 am. Or where are your keys. Or your phone. Or your shoes.  Or oh please Little A., just don't poop for a couple of hours, because Mama forgot to bring the diaper bag. 

We won't even discuss the futile absurdity that is me attempting to work a new job at this moment.  I have cried hot tears of frustration more times than...well, just about anything will make me cry. Please don't make me drive past that road-killed fox again, send me any cute videos, or make me watched Tangled again, Little A., because the end? <SPOILER ALERT> Where Rapunzel is reunited with her family? It will make me cry. And I will have to tell you Mama is crying because they are all so happy! again. Happy tears are a very difficult concept.  Walking around with squishy, stupid emotions, like an overripe peach in the bottom of a backpack is difficult.

And hungry? SO. FUCKING. HUNGRY. I don't remember ever being so hungry so often ever in my life! Ever! On Saturday, I ate Chipolte twice: a big-ass salad sitting there in the store, and a big-ass burrito at home a few hours later. And still needed a snack at 10 pm. On the plus side, I am becoming expert at no-crumbs-in-bed sandwich consumption.

Yeah, so. These are my major malfunctions -- so, so minor compared to some ladies' (so thankful every day that I am not a puker), but boy this pregnancy thing sure can make life just a wee bit more difficult.  Second trimester starts today! Wanna come over and eat a whole pizza with me to celebrate? Promise I won't cry (in front of you).

ALSO if you wouldn't mind, please drink a margarita for me, and write me to tell me all about it. For the love of all that is holy DRINK A MARGARITA.

Please.

xoxo, A

The Elephant in the Room

1. As the proud (ahem) owner of a new and long (35 miles round-trip) daily commute, I am reacquainting myself with the joys of JAMMING OUT to radio for an hour every day, four days a week.  The state o' Maine radio is rather grim, with an abundance of country and god-music, but there are 4 or so reliable stations for JAMMING OUT.

Yesterday, as every day, I picked up Little A. from her beloved daycare, and proceeded to JAM OUT (albeit at a decreased volume, for the sake of the child's eardrums) to a favorite Foo Fighters song (yes, sometimes I have the taste of a 19 year old frat boy). Serious air-drumming and head-banging was afoot in the front seat, when from the back I heard a little voice say "ooh Mama. Mama? No yike-y dis song, Mama. Tun it down a yittle peas." I turned around at the next light, and she said it again, with a shake of the head for emphasis. No yike-y dis song, Mama.

FINE. I will defer to the taste of someone whose current favorite song is the frickin' Alphabet Song.

The sacrifice that motherhood requires is astounding.

2. The sacrifice that motherhood requires is astounding. Just ask Sarah, one of the guests on the show Pregnant in Heels. I got to watch this on the flight home from our annual Nana-in-Florida visit - HURRAH for JetBlue, btw, and I know you already know this. But seriously, the bliss of 90 minutes with a sleeping toddler sprawled on the seat next to me (and on my lap), earphones in, junk TV? Is. Awesome. Anyway. Have you guys seen this show? Is nuts. The ladies are all nuts.  That Sarah lady, she said ALOUD that the baby residing in her womb was a "life-force sucking parasite."  She and her hubby refuse to buy baby gear because it is ugly (to them) and won't fit in to their sleek loft lifestyle. WOW, I thought. WOW.  And then the plane landed and Little A. woke up so I never got to find out whether or not that crazy lady stopped being so crazy and finally got a goddamn teddy bear for her baby.

3. For about seven weeks now, I haven't been able to: eat sushi. Drink wine. Have eggs benedict. Stay up past 10.  Not smell every smell in the whole world. Go more than an hour without being hungry or having to pee. Write blog posts because OMG I AM PREGNANT AND I WAS TOO SUPERSTITIOUS TO WRITE ABOUT BEING PREGNANT AND I COULDN'T THINK OF ANYTHING ELSE TO WRITE ABOUT. 

But yeah, I am pregnant. 12 weeks today. Today, we packed up the whole family at an unreasonably early (but of course running late) hour for my first ultrasound, and saw the tiny beaner in my belly.  Little A. was interested for a few minutes, happily took her own little copy of a clip of the sonogram.  In the car on the way to daycare, she declared I have a baby in my belly! Yike Mama! And pulled up her shirt to pat her abundant tum. 

The sacrifices are so very, very worth it.

xoxo, A

She's like the shine on your shoes

Over the last few weeks, instead of writing posts or being productive somehow otherwise after the kid goes to sleep, I'll just sort of hang out, mentally flatlined, with my ass parked in front of the TV, half-watching, half-reading Crap on the Internet. You know how it goes. For weeks. Unproductive. Which breeds unproductivity.

There are a handful of blogs I read all the time. One of them is this: Soulemama.  This woman is a wonder. She has four kids, homeschools, expects her fifth baby in the summer, makes gorgeous things, and in case that isn't enough she is taking care of the family farm while her husband recovers from a hip replacement.

Hate her yet? I'll admit sometimes I do. She is charming and graceful and funny, and I have a feeling I would like her very much in person, but GODDAMN WOMAN CAN YOU PLEASE STOP MAKING ME FEEL SO INADEQUATE.  But I don't stop reading. And feel worse and worse about me.

And then, of course, comes the epiphany. I could be doing stuff too. No one is tying me to the couch or has glued my fingers together or sawed my feet off at the ankles.  As much as I want to resent my circumstances for MAKING me tired or whatever, they are not. Remember when we first started this blog? I was busy then, albeit in a very different way. I was not making a ton of money in a city where it is easy to feel like you need a ton. I was working full-time, rehearsing for dance shows, taking yoga teacher training, dating up a storm. I was BUSY. Every night I was going and doing and writing tons and just. LIVING. And it felt great.

It's true what they say about bodies in motion, after all. So inspired by Soulemama and not a little by Mighty Maggie (who can also make a girl feel woefully inadequate, if one is inclined thus), I am gonna break out of my own assprints and DO stuff.  Write. Dance. Stop Moping. (This is easier to do in the spring, obvs.)

The kicker? I am getting a little windfall from Uncle Sam this year and have designated a chunk of that change for something frivilous.  Denizens of D-Station, If you had a few hundred dollars to spend anyway you wanted, what would YOU do? Should I take a class? Travel?

And I am going to try to come up with a bit of good news to share in this space almost every day. Like this: hooray for my state's vote for safety and sanity!  If you have anything to share, please do.

Thanks for reading! All five of you!

xoxo, A

If you don't have anything nice to say...

It's fair to say that these last couple of months have been a slog.  A long, cold, boring, minorly stressful and majorly argumentative, slog. My brain goes like this: ugh, jesus, we don't have enough goddamn money! How are we supposed to live without enough money!! Well, we both have jobs at least. And gosh, at least we don't live in JAPAN. I should be goddamn grateful to be worrying about having enough money to pay our mortgage, I mean, at least we have a HOUSE. A drafty house WITH NO TRIM that is HALF PAINTED. Ok, but, at least have our health, so we can paint the house when it gets warmer. IF IT EVER GETS WARMER ARGGHH BLAHH ZZZZZZT OMG JAPAN EVERYONE SPELLS GADDAFI DIFFERENTLY$@(!(!@((@!!!

And trust me, I want to write about those things as much as you want to read about them.  But trying to write about things not foremost in my skull-space feels forced, hence, no posts. BUT I am pleased to report that as per usual (though we always forget), with the first tiniest hint of spring, things feel a bit...lighter. Better. Hopeful-er. So here's to the first few days of a new goddamn season.  To a bit of warmth and sunlight, and little bits of green life, for everyone all over.

I hope your springs have sprung, too. 

xoxo, A