My landlord wants to move in with us, which is totally unacceptable. There’s just not enough space here. It doesn’t seem right that I suggest she find someplace else as the house belongs to her and all, so I’m taking 30 days to move my family out of the home we’ve occupied for five years. After checking out the rental $cene, my plan is to beg her to hold off on the contractor, renovations, and moving in for another nine months. She seemed fairly determined that the contractor come this week and so until I convince her that my bright ideas are always the best, I’m going to act as though she is serious about her move. At this point what that means is that my recycle bin is full to capacity.
In going through the ginormous piles of spelling worksheets, old correspondence, and outdated “to do” lists I discovered a box of letters I sent to my father-in-law. Rather than working on one of the eleventy seven brain blog posts floating in my head and in my drafts folder, I’m just going to reprint an update on my first pregnancy. I’m just lazy like that.
Subject: Asexual Alien Baby?
So, I gained a little extra weight. That’s is good. The baby is growing. But the growth came rapidly and my girlfriend and I decided to see if there was a miracle cream that prevented stretch marks — not that I have any. Palmer’s had been recommended, so off to Target we went. Looking at the ingredient list, we came across the substance urea. Sounds frightful, huh? We left the bottle on the shelf and went to consult our old pal, Webster. He told us that urea is mammalian urine. I’m as vain as the next woman, but I don’t know if I am that desperate yet. People keep telling me what is good and bad for me (my underwire bra will give me cancer; if I don’t have two eggs a day I will birth a hermaphrodite), and I wonder how good can rubbing a belly with urine be for a baby? Granted my sister-in-law tells me that it usually comes on powder form. I must agree that if you have to have hairy animal urine slathered on you, powder is probably the way to go. I have also heard of a convent in Italy where nuns donate their urine for such a product. Perhaps pristine powdered offerings of divine virgins warrants consideration. Nah, of all the things recommended to me, this is by far the scariest.
But this isn’t about lotions or potions, this is about my neuroses. I have plenty, you know. I went my entire life without a cavity and now I have one. This is definitely the baby’s fault. Doesn’t a mother suffer enough?
But this isn’t about my dentist visit, it’s about my OB Visit. Dr. Anderson says my uterus is looking good. Of course, she only looked at my stomach (thank God she isn’t into vaginal look-sees). She said that I could have a walking epidural during labor but wondered why I would want to walk around a hospital hall with my fanny hanging out. She has a point. She said that she doesn’t give episiotiomosectomies as a rule, unless they are necessary and not more than a centimeter of slicing. Mmmm, more fun. She promised that I will have to have an IV and that there are things more frightening than needles, but I don’t believe her. She supports the Bradly method of labor and delivery because they teach you about what is happening to your body, but at the same time she is a doctor and has her own way. Best of all, she blamed my weight gain on heavier clothes. You see why I think she is wonderful?
The kid is still kicking constantly. The other night the baby’s wiggle made me giggle. Mostly, the movement feels like involuntary muscle spasms but this movement was deliberate. I had Handsome Hubster do the laying on of hands thing and every time the baby kicked he said, “DAMN!” Being the generation that we are, we can’t help but think of the birth scene in Alien. This baby is strong I tell you. I imagine that soon he/she will pop out of my stomach via my belly button. Now that I think of it, I broke no ribbons at any of my bridal showers. I did snip one with scissors and my sister-in-law’s mother-in-law, you know how these extended families are, said that meant I would have a cesarean. Ah, one more thing to think about.
You may be able to tell that I am loving pregnancy. The weight gain, the back pain, the abdominal strain. For all this work, I expect some goods in return.
Oh and I did get some goods as evidenced here pictorially. I can only blame the pose on inexperience with mommy hormones. On closer inspection of my face it appears as though I just finished crying.
If you are good, I’ll post some other self-obsessed pregnancy rants. Maybe I’ll tell you about the time I was accused of smuggling a basket ball out of Wal Mart, which also happened to my cousin, so I guess it’s a family tradition and not so much a unique experience.