Silly Mom Thoughts

Today was one of those days when I realized Turk and I are good parents raising sweet children. I bask in these days because, especially around the toddler/preschool years, they seem to be few and far between.

Today, Bug didn’t nap. No biggie, he played pretty well by himself and let me finish cleaning and have some quiet time. When Bean woke up, he came running in to the room where I was.

“Mom! Whas dat noise in my ears?”

Bean made a noise from the other room. I waited a little longer, because I wanted to hear the cuteness that was coming from his mouth. Sure enough, there was more.

“Hear dat? It’s in my ears! Yee yee’s awake! Hurry!”

I lifted Bean from her Pack ‘n Play nap spot and Bug leaned in to hug her.

“I missed you, Yee yee!” he exclaimed, his arm around her. He then kissed her on the head.

She leaned into him and gave him a kiss back, and that was when my heart melted into a gooey puddle on the floor.

Later, after a good play outside, they were standing in the kitchen with me and Bean wrapped her arms around her brother’s waist. He reciprocated and kissed her on the head again. “I wuv you, Yee yee!”

I couldn’t stand it. I knelt down and wrapped them both in a gigantic hug. There was a whole lot of kissin’ and huggin’ going on in that little love circle.

Then, as if this all weren’t sweet and ooey gooey enough, Bean did another cute thing. It was her turn to get out of the bath and I asked her to stand up so I could wrap her in the towel.

“Bye bye!” she said to the bathtub and I smiled.

Then, she leaned down and kissed the water and left with a final, “Bye bye!”

Cute, right?

Dang, I love these days. It is an amazing break from the usual hitting, biting, screaming, tantruming, and lack of sharing that goes on around these parts most days of the week.

I don’t know how I had the willpower to not find out Bean’s gender when I was pregnant with her. It must have been an act of God, some kind of supernatural power that possessed my body and allowed me to tell the ultrasound technician (not once, but twice), “Please don’t tell me what I’m having.”

This time, all of the willpower I once possessed has left me completely and utterly impatient.

At my last appointment, my doctor said we’d wait to schedule and ultrasound depending upon the results of my Quad Screen. I waited. And waited. Aaaand waited. Finally, I called the office and the nurse casually responded, “Oh, no worries, it was all negative!”

Well, of course, that was good news, but, as I explained to her, I was also supposed to be getting a date for my ultrasound. My doctor had mentioned that he wanted me to have one between 18 and 22 weeks. She said she would call me back with a date, and I hoped it would be within the next week.

To my disappointment, she told me it wouldn’t be until May 1st.  That was almost three weeks! Bah.

But now, finally, May 1st is in reach. (You’d think I was a three-year-old with how long the past few weeks have felt!) Yet, each day goes by crawling like a sleepy slug. And, with each second that ticks by, I find myself worrying about the appointment.

Why am I such a worrier? Seriously, I need to get over this.

I have had silly worries, like the technician refusing to tell me the sex of the babies or the babies not cooperating.

Then, I have had more serious worries, like something being physically wrong with them, or worse, one of them not living anymore. I have worried that one of the babies is significantly larger than its twin, and the other one is struggling to survive.

So many worries wrapped up around these two tiny little buggers.

Fortunately, I’m feeling them move more than ever before. The interesting thing is that Lefty, who was my crazy wiggler before, is suddenly not as kick-happy, where as Righty is a little wiggle worm. I don’t know if they’re taking turns on who is the more active one, but it has me a little concerned that Lefty is okay. I’m trying to tell myself that maybe he/she has just moved to a different position that I can’t feel as easily, or maybe he/she is going through a growth spurt or something that has her sleeping more.

I dunno.

But, I do know I’ll feel much better on Friday when I can see them wiggling around and healthy. Would you consider sending good thoughts and prayers our way?

I had the most devastating, yet hilarious pregnancy dream last night. My dreams are normally pretty vivid, but wow, this one takes the cake. In this dream, I learned the true identity of the twins. Interested to know what they were? Let me tell you: it wasn’t human.

In my dream, I was in a room with several pregnant women all crouching over paper plates and grunting. I was excited because I was going to be able to deliver my babies vaginally, something I have never experienced. They were coming a little early, so I knew they’d be small, but I was shocked at how small they were. The woman next to me groaned and pushed. I stole a glance at her paper plate and there was her beautiful, tiny…

Chicken egg.

Yes, that’s right, we were all birthing chicken eggs. I suddenly felt the urge to push, and push I did. (I’m actually surprised I didn’t crap my pants in the middle of the night because I’m fairly certain I was pushing in real life too.). Out popped my first “baby.” I didn’t have time to get a good look before the second one popped out. Then, to my surprise, a third.

Finally, my body was done birthing and I got a chance to examine my little ones. It was apparent right away that the third had died much earlier in the pregnancy, it wasn’t developed at all. I was sad, but I was really only expecting two, so it wasn’t as devastating as what I found out next.

All around me, women were caring for their newly birthed eggs, some of the eggs had hatched into cute little fuzzy chicks. I thought, “Wow, I was really hoping for babies, but I suppose a healthy chick is better than nothing.” But then I got a good look at my little ones. My babies were not eggs or fuzzy birds like the others. They were miniature cooked chickens, skinned, probably boiled since they were so pale, and headless. They were, by my pregnancy dream standards, dead.

I carried their lifeless little cooked bodies in my hands and with enormous emotional effort, threw them in the garbage.

This was where my dream went from amusing to downright devastating.

I left the hospital with nothing but a saggy belly pooch. I kept thinking, “But I saw those babies on ultrasound and they were babies, not birds!” and then, “I was just feeling them kick last night!” No matter how much I tried to convince myself that this must be a mistake, the belly pooch and lack of movement said it all.

I fell to the ground screaming and crying in agony and grief.

“I can’t do this again! I can’t go through all of the morning sickness, vomiting, everything again! I should have my babies here now!”

Eventually, I picked myself up. A couple days later, I put on makeup and nice clothes and faced the world. A friend of mine said, “Oh, I knew you’d get over it quickly.” I burst into tears.

What kind of a pregnancy dream was that?! So silly, yet so heartbreaking at the same time. It was truly reassuring to feel both babies kicking this morning. Let’s just hope they’re babies and not chickens.

On my birth board many women are discovering if their uterus residents are sporting cheeseburgers or hot dogs. It’s such an exciting time, seeing posts that joyfully announce, “It’s a boy!” or “It’s a girl!” and the following congratulatory messages from fellow board members.

Then, there are the occasional few who, instead of excitedly announcing the sex of their baby, mention that they’re upset they didn’t get the flavor they wanted.

That pisses me off.

Okay, back up, before you get mad at me. I’m not saying that it isn’t okay to be a little disappointed if you were really hoping for one or the other. A little disappointment is one thing. Many people want a boy and a girl, and are a little bummed when they end up with all boys or vice-versa. A little bummed is not what I’m talking about. A few moments of, “Dang, I was hoping for a girl” is not a big deal.

What is a big deal, is when people go into full-blown fits of grief over the fact that their family isn’t going to be exactly the way they always pictured it.

Do you know how many people on this earth would kill to be in your shoes right now? How many people would be more than happy to have a family of all girls, just so they could have their very own family?

It is so immature and so selfish, in my opinion, to be disappointed by the gender of your child. When you got pregnant, you weren’t guaranteed a certain sex (no, not even if you did the deed at a certain point in your cycle, stood on your head afterward, and then danced a jig). You went into pregnancy knowing full well that was is a 50/50 chance that you would get the sex you “wanted.”

From what I have seen on the birth boards, many of these moms “suffering” from gender disappointment are first timers. This makes me giggle in an evil little way. In my mind I’m thinking, “Well, get used to things not going the way you planned them, honey. You’re a mom now, that’s how it works.” If you can’t even deal with the fact that your child isn’t the “right” sex, you are going to have some serious problems adjusting to motherhood.

Lesson number one in parenting: You don’t have control over everything anymore.

Yep, sure you’re the parent and what you say goes… but that doesn’t work for things like determining your baby’s gender, deciding on when you’re going to go into labor, or even how your labor will go (no matter how much you hash out your birth plan). And those are all things that happen before the baby gets here. When they’re here, there’s even less you have control over. Like how much spit up your little cherub decides to decorate your shirt with merely moments before you were supposed to walk out the door. See what I’m talking about?

So, some advice for those of you severely disappointed in the gender of your baby: Get used to not being in control of everything now. It’ll save you a whole lot of grief later.

I had a huge awakening yesterday and I’m starting to freak out. Below, is a picture I took  of my twin-filled belly at 18 weeks 5 days:

That’s big. No, I’m not saying I look fat or anything silly like that. It’s just, I don’t usually look that big until around seven months. Around seven or eight months is when I start getting uncomfortable and useless because bending over, standing, lifting, all becomes a massive chore. Usually, that’s fine and normal, because I have had time to prepare for the arrival of my baby and am, for the most part, set and ready to bring them home.

Right now, I’m nowhere near ready to bring these babies home. According to my doctor, there is a good chance that I deliver around 36 weeks, full term for twins. That is only 17 weeks from tomorrow. That would mean I’m more than halfway through this pregnancy.

Now, I know my babies, and I know they really love to cook as long as possible, so I’m fairly convinced they won’t be making an appearance until 38 or 39 weeks. However, no matter when they come home, I have a feeling my enormous belly will keep me from getting things ready much sooner than it did with my singleton pregnancies.

So, my belly picture started getting me all freaked out. Suddenly, I feel this major urgency to get our teeny house organized and ready to double our kid load. I look around everywhere and see things that need to be organized, given away, or thrown away. I see our huge, bulky dressers that are going to have to be replaced with pricey closet organizers simply because we need every inch of this house free as possible.

It’s overwhelming, to say the least.

Today, I am making it my task to clean out the hall closets and organize things there. I figure that’s an okay start. This weekend, Turk and I are planning on tackling what will be the twins’ room but is now our office/catch-all room. We have so much stuff we need to get rid of, and even more that we need to buy. A smaller desk, closet organizers, shelves…

I want, more than anything, to have this place as organized as possible before I’m anywhere near delivering the twins. I want to come home to a place where I know exactly where the diapers are, and which drawers hold which child’s clothes. I want to be able to walk through rooms without bumping into furniture.

So, yep, I’m freaking out a bit and my mind is, once again, zooming in a million directions as I try and figure out how we are going to successfully fit a family of six in our less than 1100 sqft house.

A miraculous thing happened this week: April 15th came and went. Not normally a big deal, but for this Tax Season Widow, it’s huge. After three months of single parenting for the majority of 6 days a week, in the midst of horrendous morning sickness and fighting cold and flu bugs, I finally have my sweet, wonderful hubby back.

To show my appreciation for all the amazing things he does, I bought Turk and his friend tickets to the Mariner’s game Thursday night. They had fun, drank it up, ate garlic fries, and watched someone fall onto the field, get escorted off, but not before he pulled his pants down. The Ms lost, but it sounds like they still had a great time.

Then, it was my turn to celebrate the end of tax season. My MOPS group puts together an awesome fundraiser every year, where we pay $25 and have 27 hours to craft, write, organize photo albums, and chat with friends. We are fed breakfast, lunch, and dinner and it’s an amazing time to refill my mommy/wife tank. Best of all, we are all kid-and-hubby-free!

So last night, I labeled, dated, and organized into albums 350 pictures- an entire year’s worth of photos. When would I have the chance to do that otherwise? I’ll tell ya: never. In fact, the first picture I had was from last year’s fundraiser. Yeah.

After this blog, I’m going to continue work on my book.

I might take a nap, I might take a coffee break (or three). I may even take a short walk.

But, it’s wonderful to know, that for the next 11 hours I’m free!

It’s funny, when you want something so badly, you feel like it will never happen. I’m feeling a bit that way this week. Any day now, I should be getting a call from my doctor’s office to set up an ultrasound. This isn’t like the ultrasounds I have already had, this is The Big One: The one where they look closely to see if there are any deformities or reasons to be concerned for the babies’ health. The ultrasound where, assuming the babies are cooperating, we get to find out if we’re having a Zander and Madeline, Madeline and Payton, or Zander and Wyatt.

And, if it’s anything like my dreams as of late, where I’ll find out there’s a third baby hiding in there. (I know, there isn’t, but dang those pregnancy dreams are vivid!)

Originally, I had intended to opt out of the Quad Screen, a blood test that determines if I’m a potential carrier of a variety of genetic disorders, like I did with Bug and Bean. My thought being, I’m not going to terminate a baby who has a genetic disorder, such as Down Syndrome. However, my doctor mentioned that if the test comes back with some abnormalities, that he wants to send me to a more high-tech ultrasound office out of our town. He said that the likelihood of getting abnormal results is higher since I’m having twins, though it probably won’t mean anything. I figured, I’d rather be safe than sorry and get the higher-tech ultrasound, if need be.

So, I wait for the call. Any day now.

Another thing I’m anxiously awaiting is the results to the recent short story contest. I know it isn’t going to be this week, but I have a feeling we’ll find out any time when to expect the results by. I’m on pins and needles! I put a lot into the stories I wrote, and I really want to know how the judges are going to receive them.

Waiting, waiting, waiting.

Grrr, I hate having to be patient!

Not to get all Oprah-y on you, but I firmly believe in the idea that there are subtle knocks on the door of our lives, and when we ignore them they turn into louder knocks, only to become the door crashing down in front of us if we fail to answer.

I think I have reached one of those moments in my life.

This past August, I took part in my first-ever fiction short story contest. I was certain I was going to place. Too certain, in fact. Cocky beyond cocky. When the results day arrived and I hadn’t even placed, I was crushed, my ego blown to smithereens. I cried. Really, seriously cried both for shame over my blind self-centeredness and for sadness over putting so much of myself into a story, only to have it rejected.

Owie, was my ego ever bruised.

But, even to my own surprise, this rejection made me even more motivated to kick ass in the next contest. This time, I tweaked areas that I was told weren’t good. I focused on my story line and grammar. I reached out for help with critiques from my fellow forum members. This time, I truly appreciated the talent of the writers submitting to the contest and stifled my ego, choosing instead to remain cautiously optimistic. This time, I took first, then repeated the feat in the next contest.

Now, please know, this is not me bragging. The competition is fierce and I will never again underestimate my fellow writers. I’m simply saying that I am super duper motivated to continue trying, tweaking my stories, attempting new genres and themes that I had never thought to try before. I read the stories of fellow writers and am awed at the creativity that goes into their stories. I often find myself thinking, “Wow, I don’t think I would have ever, in a million years, thought of that.”

I digress (of course, because that’s what I do)…

Back to the knocking.

So, occasionally, often after these contests are over, individuals mention that they think I should write a novel. I smile, nod, and assume they’re just trying to be nice. I mean, me? The author of a novel? Pshyeah, okay.

But, I think each one of those suggestions was a subtle knock.

In January, I started working on my most recent entries, for The Past, The Present, and The Future. I wanted so desperately to continue writing those stories. I didn’t want to let my characters go, wasn’t quite ready for “The End” when I ran out of the alloted number of words. I wanted more. Truly, I wanted to write novels. Another, louder, knock.

Today, the knocking turned into fists pummeling my door. Today, three people, two from my writer’s forum and one former classmate friend, told me, “You should really write a novel” along with other wonderful, uplifting comments about my writing. Three people. Just today.

I think that’s a sign that maybe I should listen and open that door.

I have a novel in the works for pre-teens that I most definitely want and need to finish first. But then, I think I want to do something more adult, more like the short stories I have been writing. I know an idea will come to me, they always do, so I’m not worried about that in the least. I’m simply excited to get started and see where it takes me.

It’s funny, I always thought the idea of a short story with 7,500 maximum words sounded daunting and unattainable. Now, I reach 7,500 words and I think, “Dang, I have to stop?” It’s almost like these short story contests were half-marathons, training me, leading me up to the big marathon that I apparently need to be involved in.

I am so, so excited.

Have you ever tried calling a bank/credit card company/anywhere that has an automated voice system? Have you tried doing this with a kid in the room? It’s hilariously frustrating. For example…

Today, I called up our credit card company because we didn’t realize we received our rebate check and accidentally shredded it. (Woops!) Here’s how the conversation went:

Automated chick voice: Please say or enter your account number

Me: Five, eight-

Bug (looking @ a Target ad): Mom! I want to ask Santa for that car!

Automated voice: I’m sorry, I didn’t get that, could you please re-

Me: Bug, shhhh!

Automated voice: I’m sorry, I didn’t get that, please say or enter your account number.

Bug leaves, I finally get a chance to enter my number.

Automated voice: Thank you. Now, please say or enter the number of the extension you want to dial. For bill payment press or say one-

Me (exasperated): Representative!

Automated voice: Okay, representative. Now, for security purposes, please enter the first four letters of your elementary school using your number pad.

I’m on my cell phone and look down at my number pad. It looks  like this:

I stare blankly for a minute, trying to remember which letters are associated with which numbers on a normal phone pad. I punch a number.

Automated voice: I’m sorry, I didn’t understand that, try again.

Me (in vain): I can’t! Get with the times! I’m on a cell phone!

Automated voice: I’m sorry, I still didn’t understand. Lets try something else. Please enter the last four digits of your social security number.

Me (punching in numbers): Finally!

I am connected, at last, to a real person. I explain my plight of accidentally shredding our rebate check.

Representative: I’m sorry ma’am, the main cardholder on the account is the only person who we can talk to about this problem.

Ugh.

Everyone has heard about how crazy emotional and hormonal pregnant women are… We fume at anything that attempts to drain our patience: Red lights, other children, people who don’t know how to get their damn shopping cart out of the middle of the grocery food aisle. We cry through sappy commercials or, God forbid, if hubby neglects to get the exact kind of candy bar we’re craving (no, honey, Snickers is nothing like a Milky Way *sniffle*).  Don’t even get me started on how testy we can be if we’re ravenously hungry…

So tell me, in the midst of our hormonal upheaval, why in the world would anyone want to make us even more emotional or pissed off? Honestly, people, you need to think twice before  you open your mouth to speak to a pregnant woman. We’re pregnant and punch-y and if you catch us at just the wrong moment, you could be the recipient of a well directed punch to the nose. At the very least, you’ll get a pretty mean stare down. After all, we’re trying to perfect our Mom Glare for when we need to use it on our own offspring.

Don’t mess with us.

To help you out, here are some things you should never ever say to a pregnant woman. Please. I’m only going to ask nicely once. After that, I may have to smack you.

“Haven’t you heard of birth control?” or “Don’t you guys know where babies come from by now?”

Uuuuugh. Are you trying to demean us? Make us feel like the most ignorant people on Earth? This comment, though usually meant as a joke, is not funny. Have you considered the fact that maybe our baby was a bit of a Woopsie? Maybe we’re still coming to terms with the fact that we’re going to be having another child a little sooner than we planned. This comment is soooo awful!

“I never dealt with morning sickness.”

Okay, so if this is said right, it isn’t a big deal. For instance, “I never had morning sickness, and I feel so awful for you that you’re going through this,” is acceptable. But simply mentioning it is not something we want to hear when we’re green faced and near puking with even the slightest scent.

“Holy crap, you’re huge!” or “Dang, are you sure you’re not having twins?”

Folks, this is not a compliment, even if we are, in fact, having twins. While you may mean “Your belly is getting bigger,” to us, it sounds like our entire body, that we’re already insanely self-conscious of, is getting big. Please, also refrain from any comment about “Wow, you’re bigger than the last time I saw you,” because duh, that’s the general idea of pregnancy, and this comment also makes us feel like a beached whale.

Note: Even after she has her baby, do not tell her “Wow, you were so huge.” Just don’t do it. I don’t care if it has been five years, don’t.

“Your face looks… fuller.” or “You definitely have that ‘pregnant look’ to your face.”

Don’t. Just don’t. No face comments. Some of us, no matter how little weight we gain, will have faces that get heavier throughout the pregnancy. We already notice it. Don’t point it out.

 ”You can’t eat/drink that, you’re pregnant.”

Do not tell us what we can or cannot eat. Unless we’re about to down an entire bottle of Valium and wash it down with some Jack Daniels, you are not allowed to comment on our food choices. Despite everyone thinking otherwise, pregnant women can have caffeine. We can have steak that is not cooked to super well done. We can even *gasp* have a little red wine on occasion, especially in the third trimester. So lay off, buster. Believe us, we have our babies’ best interests at heart, but sometimes getting through the day is damn near impossible without a cup of coffee or two.

“You’re simply glowing.”

What does that even mean? The only other time I have heard the term “glowing” was to refer to the fact that boys sweat and girls “glow.” So, does this mean that you’re telling me I look sticky and hot? I mean, I did just climb up three flights of stairs while lugging 25 lbs of babyweight on my abdomen, so that’s pretty likely, but I don’t need you to tell me I’m glowing.

“Oh, you’ll have a boy and a girl, now you’ll have the perfect family!” or “I’m so sorry you’re going to have two of the same sex.”

So maybe there’s a tiny inkling of disappointment that we didn’t get the gender we were hoping for, but making it sound like something to be sad about is quite insulting. So, if we didn’t have a boy and a girl, does that mean our family is imperfect? Because we think our family is quite nice the way it is, thankyouverymuch.

“Dang, you still haven’t had that baby?”

Trust me, no one is more ready to meet their baby than the pregnant woman herself. Whining to us because you want to see that precious little child and get a chance to hold them is like preaching to the choir. It’s not like we’re not already insanely uncomfortable trying to sleep with the enormous mass bulging from our abdomen, begging God to put us into labor already so we can just get it over with. Don’t ask us, we’ll let you know when the time comes. (And if you keep pestering us, we may decide to wait a little extra time before telling you, simply to get back at you for asking so much. So there.)

Fear not, my friend, there are some wonderful things you can say to a pregnant woman instead!

“You are all belly, girl!”

Ahhh, see this is nice to hear. “All belly” means “All baby” which means our own body doesn’t look puffy and leaden with fat. You may tell us we’re all belly as much as you’d like.

“You gained 20 lbs this month? Wow, it must be all baby because you sure don’t look like it.”

Again, this comment makes us feel good.

“You should have another serving. Hey, you only get to be pregnant a few times!” 

Why thank you, I think I will have another slice of pie since you put it that way.

I hope this lesson in things to never say to a pregnant woman will come in handy for you or someone you love. Goodness knows, you do not want to cross a pregnant woman. We are a unique breed of hormones and emotions, ready to attack or cry at any moment.