Category Archives: Getting to Know Me

Lowered Expectations

When I was pregnant with my first, I obsessively read every book on pregnancy and childbirth I could get from the library.  I mostly focused on the more “medical” books, but I also read a far amount of the schlock, as well — probably because as an expectant single mom, I felt a desire to belong that was normally absent from my psyche.

I thought that the ‘What To Expect’ books were horribly condescending and really kind of crappy to anyone who wasn’t a white, hetero, married, non-poor, etc. etc. etc.  I honestly found the book that was written by Jimmy Iovine’s wife to be more helpful and less judgmental.  Because seriously — if ANYONE ever “gave me a look” when I ordered dessert at a restaurant while pregnant, I would be across that table so fast they wouldn’t remember anything but a blur of pregnant fury.

Bloody show, indeed.

My opinion hasn’t changed much and I really haven’t read any pregnancy books since then. And aside from Hip Mama and Mothering, I’ve found most pregnancy/parenting magazines to be utterly void of anything helpful or interesting.  Nor am I the type to hang out at pregnancy websites unless I am looking for a very specific answer to a very specific question.  I’d much rather troll around GFY or io9.  I mean, I get that most of the appeal is the excitement of being pregnant and wanting to share, but I sort of feel like I’ve already done enough research and am ready to just focus on practice.

So, I exist in a pregnancy bubble.  I’ve got everything I need baby-wise.  I have bins of diapers and clothes and I’m part of a circle of ladies that have been shuttling around an ever-growing heap of maternity clothes for about 6 years now.  A quick peek down my shirt assures me I can feed the baby.  As for the rest, I generally just hope that the mechanics of pregnancy and childbirth haven’t changed too much since the last one.

Anyhow, I had an unusually long wait to be seen at Dr. YoureHavingAGiantBaby’s office yesterday.  The tv was running some weird ad/show on repeat, I’d failed to find anything interesting to read via my blackberry, and my husband had quit responding to my text messages (probably because I was mainly just updating him on how many times I’d peed).  So, I picked up a copy of some parenting magazine.

Holy shitballs, y’all.

It was about 11% “interviews” with CelebrityMoms like the wife of that dude from Creed and 89% advertisements-that-looked-like-articles for crazyass crap like this:

Yes, those are holes over the boobs.  It’s like the opposite of pasties.  But WHY?  It’s advertised as a garment to ‘hide your unsightly belly while nursing.’  They should have spun it as a garment that will ham-fistedly advise your partner that sexy times are GO.

And really, most of the ad-ticles were for utterly unnecessary and perplexing things.  Or they were for books and products that would show you how to be a skinny pregnant bitch who is a tiger in the sack and wears 4 inch heels at all times and is confused for a model.  While all the “interviews” were with women whose jobs consist of being sexy, having gobs of money, and being utterly out of touch with the way that 99% of people live.

I mean, I GET IT.  We, the pregnant polloi, are not doing it right.

When you are pregnant — especially for the first time — it’s almost like puberty all over again.  You have to get to know your new body, your new gender/sexual identity, and your news feelings — both emotional and physical.  It’s a weird and disconcerting time.  Not to mention that around the bend is an entirely new source of fear and anxiety — parenthood.

And really, the LAST thing any woman needs on top of that is to be told that she “has to be” skinny/sexy/confident/energetic/happy/taut or else she will be embarrassed/ashamed/deficient/guilty/weak.  But yet that is the capitalism of American pregnancy, isn’t it?  There is only a handful of “right” ways to be pregnant, but don’t worry, we have an infinite supply of things you can buy to get there.

Seriously, fuck off already.

Expectant mothers, please feel free to be exactly and whatever the hell kind of pregnant person and new parent you want to be.

And if that involves wearing a the tank equivalent of crotchless panties, more power to you.

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Filed under Babies: Making and Raising, Cultural Oddities, Getting to Know Me, Signs of the Apocalypse

Ba(b)y Watch…

Greetings From Inside My Uterus!

Okay, so for anyone keeping track, I am now 32 weeks pregnant.  Or possibly 33.  Or 35.  Whatever.  As far as I’m concerned, I’ve just got a few more things to wrap up and then it’s ON.

Ozzy, as we have been unable to stop calling him, is measuring about 4 1/2 lbs now.  My AFI is still pretty high but was actually lower rather than higher for the first time, so yay.  Also, I don’t feel quite so on the verge of splurting, so that’s nice.  I am still bouncing between peaced out mode and disgruntled badger mode several times a day.  It’s mostly just frustration that I can’t physically get everything done.  Well, that and the worrisome roof leak.

Anyhow, while I’m not normally prone to sharing pictures of my internal lady bits, the above photo was pretty funny.  I think he’s ready.  Or possibly just mocking me.  Especially since I’ve been having BH contractions so strong they take my breath away.  It’s like he KNOWS his room isn’t ready and I haven’t pulled all the diapers out of storage and I haven’t fixed the crib yet (Luli broke the hell out of it).

You would think that after going through this twice before, I would *GET* that no amount of preparation actually prepares you.  You fix the crib and the baby wants to sleep in her car seat.  You drop cash on a Snugli and the baby prefers the sling.  I get it.  It really doesn’t matter.

But nonestly, though, I am a little nutso about “the baby’s room” because frankly this is the first time we have had one.  With my first, I lived in an efficiency.  With the second, we lived in a small two-bedroom and didn’t have space for a crib.  So really, this is the first time we have actually have a “nursery” in any sense of the word.  The room needed a TON of work, as it has been a man-cave, a spare room, and a nasty drop zone for all the odd bits and ends for the last two years.  And really, it hasn’t been cleaned in that time, either.  The walls (plaster) are in pretty crappy shape and there are chunks of plaster missing from the ceiling from when the drop-down was put in.

But we’ve gotten a lot of work done and really, it just needs to be painted.  And I know where all the diapers are.  And we don’t need the crib right away anyhow.  So I just need to relax, eat a protein bar, and get back to work.

I just need a few more weeks…

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Filed under Babies: Making and Raising, Getting to Know Me

Super K!

For all my frustration over his inborn inability to do housework, I proudly admit that K is, without a doubt, the best human being to ever be created.  We have so many epic K-Stories — all true — that prove this hypothesis.  The most famous story is the Tale of Wal-Mart Sorrow.  You may have already heard it.

As careful as I try to be about not raising kids who simply parrot my opinions, it is inevitable that they will be exposed to my ranting at some point.  K picked up on and came to share my loathing of all things Wal-Mart at an early age.  Among other things, he knew that I did not shop there because I did not think that they were good employers (to put it mildly).

When he was about 5 or so, my mother dragged him to Wal-Mart.  K protested, but his pleas did not move my mother.  So, K goes into the store and walks up to the first employee he sees.  He gently tugged on her shirt to get her attention.  When she turned to see what he needed, K said “Hi.  Are they treating you okay here?”

I’m pretty sure my mom never took K to Wal-Mart again.  It wasn’t long after that incident that K tried to unionize the workers at Panera.

So anyhow, THAT is the essence of K. And is why, no matter what grossness I find under his bed, no matter how many times he has to get a new school i.d. (5 this year, for those keeping count), no matter what gets broken, lost, or covered in honey, I am STILL amazed that I mother to such an incredible, unique, brilliant, and sweet kid.

And if I ever needed any more proof, yesterday he sent the following list to me.  He has decided that he needs to “own” his obligations, and so is on a campaign to be more organized.  Without any further fluff, I give you:

A Day in the Life of K.

1. wake up (6:10 am)

2. pack lunch

3. wait for dad

4.make sure everything is signed

5. go to school

6. socailize until 7:35

7. go to locker

8. READING TIME!!!!!!!!!!!

9. sience-social studies

10. Write down hw

11. switch

12. 2nd period

13.LUNCH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

14. end 2nd period

15. write down hw

16. switch

17.3rd period

18. lockers or detention-study hall

19.TEAM TIME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

20. go back in

21. orcastra- global perspective

22. pack up

23. BUSES, OH THE SWEARING{FACE PALM}

24. Drop off

25. walk home

26. hug mom!

27. do h.w

28. walk dog

29. make up bed

30. Interaction+violin

31. SIMSONS (DOH!)

32. dad comes home

33. hug him

34. go upstairs

35. pwning deh noobs

36.Pysch

37.Shower

38. bed time(also study on 27)

39. go 2 sleep

40. repeat

PS. I LIKE PIE 3.151592653

Old School K Earning His Keep

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Filed under Babies: Making and Raising, Geeks and Nerds Will Rule the World, Getting to Know Me, Parenting is FUN!, Things That Rule

Little Mary Sunshine

I’ve recently become aware of the fact that I am not entirely pleasant to be around these days.   I am normally one of those incredibly irritating optimistic, silly, okay-with-just-about-everything people.  Yeah, I kinda make myself sick, too.  But these days?  Holy shitballs I am insane.  I’ve officially reached the ungainly, awkward, cramped up, back-splitting, waddle-stomping, sleepless, no appetite, make it your own damn self, I hate you why don’t you love me anymore phase of pregnancy.  In addition, I’ve been running a fever for about 26 days now and it’s surprising just how much that will piss a person off.

Because of all of the above, I have zero energy and can only stand for a few minutes before something splits, squirts, or bursts into flames.  But at the same time, I am intensely preoccupied with obsessing about all the shit I need to get done – cooking, cleaning, home repairs, gardening, detoxing, haircuts, exercise, painting, etc. etc. etc.  Normally, it is delightful when the mildly OCD hit the euphemistically-named “nesting” stage.  That is when I shine with the righteous glow of the mythological cleaning Vikings.

But this time?  No such luck.  I just sit and glower and fume because I can’t fucking finish caulking shit.  It’s almost a relief when I get the fever delirium and start weeping about how much I love Walter from Fringe.

In the interim, I keep myself entertained by arguing with anyone, anytime, anywhere, about pretty much anything, even and especially things about which I know nothing and care even less.

For example, last night when I crankily informed my husband that he’d better have a freaking unique guitar solo on a song he’s been working on or it will sound like a drunken pub sing-along.  As if (a) I know what the fuck I am talking about, (b) my husband doesn’t know his way around a song or a recording studio, and (c) I have any opinion about his songs other than AWESOME and ‘hey man is that freedom rock? well turn it up!’  I mean sure, there are some songs I like more than others, but geez.  And yeah, I have opinions about the stuff we do and what sounds better, etc. but I’m really just skank wrangler and sammich support when it comes to his real band stuff.

To his immense credit, he waited at least an hour before he started teasing me about getting all Phil Spector on his ass.  I’m a lucky woman.

So it’s probably a good thing that I’ve pretty much been keeping close to home and to myself.  People of my real life, consider yourselves lucky.  And if you happen to see me out and about, run.  Or, better yet, toss the last disc of Season Two Fringe and a box of hot pad thai at me and slowly back away.

I Don’t Like You Right Now.

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Filed under Babies: Making and Raising, Getting to Know Me, The Rock and Roll, Wife Stuff

On Being Knocked Up…

I often joke that I am a “Fun-Size” human.  If I try really hard and don’t slouch, I measure up at about 5’1.5″  Yes, that extra 1/2 inch matters.  To complicate matters, I am also incredibly short-waisted, with long, flailing, gangly arms and legs — which is great when buying jeans, but less than great when wanting to buy a dress, have a torso, or grow a human.

So, you can imagine how freaking crazy I look while pregnant.  I try to be as accommodating as possible for my new body roommate, but frankly there’s just not a lot of shelf space.  It’s kind of like when you and your special friend first moved in together, except instead of being in your 20s with only a box of cds and a cat to incorporate, you’re in your 30s and suddenly have a Target’s worth of crap to cram in an already crowded little ranch house.

As this is my third baby, I am used to it. I’m used to people laughing when I tell them my due date, or worse, crying and running in fear.  And the jokes.  Ahh, the jokes of the well-meaning people.  You know what’s *not* funny? Asking me “how many are in there?”. Because I’ve heard it a million times and will inevitably be a tad cranky and tell you something like “8, but we’re only going to keep the cutest one.”

This time, in addition to the usual physical reorganization, it appears that I am also rocking a little too much amniotic fluid. Which would explain why I’m even bigger than usual and can’t walk up stairs without damn near passing out. Most likely, it’s due to gestational diabetes. I had it with Luli. My doctor told me that people with immune system issues (I have AOSD) seem to be more prone to gestational diabetes. Or, as I always call it in my best Wilford Brimley voice, The Diuuhbeeeedus.

My problem is that I tend to already eat an appropriate diet, so it’s difficult for me to control things without taking insulin. I managed to avoid insulin last time, but I was living on beans, south beach bars, bell peppers, and eggs. I actually lost weight in my last trimester. So,…yeah.

I forgot where I was going with this.  Suffice it to say, I would like an oxygen tank.

Also, trying to keep zen about shit is a priority right now.  It’s funny, but when I’m really short of breath, I start to freak out because I can’t breathe, which isn’t cool at all. And then I get the Panic because I can’t get shit done.  I’m getting better at not freaking out because I can’t get down from the counter, or finish a phone call with a crazy ass client, or climb into the attic to get the twin bed down.  And, of course, there are the ever-present gaggle of worries about money, sanity, raising my kids to be good humans, and why won’t X do/stop doing Y.  But in the universal scope, things are good. I like my kids. I like my husband. We’ve got food to eat and a home and one of us has a job.

I think I just need to relax. Oh yeah, and eat my oatmeal.

Eat It!

 

 

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Filed under Babies: Making and Raising, Getting to Know Me

In Which Our Heroine Leaves the Legal Profession and Acquires a Minivan…

Howdy y’all!

Some of you may already know me as Southern Female Lawyer. While I am still technically southern, female, and lawyering, as the title to this post tells you, there have been some pretty big changes afoot. For various reasons, which I will describe in excruciating, nauseating detail if you are lucky, I have had to/decided to take a temporary break from working full-time and a permanent break from being a hourly-billing private attorney.

Why would I possibly leave such an exciting, financially rewarding, and emotionally fulfilling career, you ask? Well, primarily because of the shrieking fits of anxiety, the jackhole clients who refused to pay and the contingency cases that never paid, and the soul-sucking vortex of evil that was my professional life. But also because of myriad personal issues, including without limitation the fact that I am knocked up yet again and really, really hate lawyers. Yes, including myself.

So yeah, we bought a used minivan on account of we are about to pass the mandatory minivan threshold of spawn (2). And while I wrap up my practice, which, let’s face it, will take years, I am now entering into the new and terrifying world of stay-at-home parenting. As I mentioned previously, I am currently knocked up with #3. According to the ultrasound, presence of scrotum has been confirmed, so we call him Cletus the Fetus. We also have K, who is 11 and fancies himself quite the pwner of n00bs. And then there is Lulu, who is 2 1/2 and kind of bitchy. But I respect that.

Anyhow, as anyone who read the old blog or anyone who knows me in the real world knows, I am pretty freaking domestic. I garden, can, compost, cook, bake, clean, knit, sew, etc. etc. I’m not bragging or anything. I just believe in halfassing a ton of shit. Seriously, though, all of the these areas need work and you, Lucky Reader, get to laugh at me as I work through this whole thing.

And while I love my kids to bits and know that they are ooozing awesomeness, I am probably not going to spend my blog-time waxing annoying about how CUTE my kids are. Likewise, while I totally respect all house-spouses and anyone who does anything domestic for any reason, you should probably know that I am a whackadoo liberal socialist feminist and I do what I do out of love, respect, necessity, and craziness and not because I feel it is my “duty” as a woman. But I have nothing but love and respect for anyone who does this work for any reason. If God compels you, I think that is freaking awesome; we may not be able to enjoy a sit down about religion, but we can sure as hell enjoy a sit-down about canning. So let’s not let that stop us from being friends.

A couple more things before we start… As I mentioned above, I have opinions on the politics and whatnots. However, since I am entering a new phase of my life in which I am striving for peace in all corners, I don’t intend to enter into any political discussions. Not here at least. Also, I *do* swear. A lot. I’d apologize but this is my stream of consciousness you are reading, so you get it swears and all. Don’t get your knickers in a twist when I cuss. I’m a nice person, really, and yes I *do* kiss lots of people with this mouth.

As for reader rules, all readers and commenters are welcome. I ask that you all play nice with each other. Place of peace and all that. All comments (save spam) will be eventually be posted, though all comments are subject to review. Don’t panic if your comment doesn’t go up immediately or in what you may consider a reasonable amount of time. I WILL get around to it. That said, if at ANY time, anyone submits a comment that I consider rude, bigoted, cruel, or otherwise inappropriate, it may not be approved.  Yep, my standards, though low, are certainly subjective.

Sit back and enjoy the shenanigoats.

 

It's a Welcome Pie!

 

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Filed under Food Pr0n, Getting to Know Me