The boy who never grew up

I am reading Peter Pan to the girls at bedtime. I think they are enjoying it – even Princess Crybaby gets mostly still and quiet. Sometimes she will lay her head on my lap and I’ll rub her back while I’m reading. It’s terrific. Munchkin and I read The Secret Garden last year and it was really fun.

peter-pan-15Last night, we were reading the chapter where Wendy decides it’s time to go home. She’s telling the story about the Darlings and how the mother always kept the window open for them to return – never forgetting them. Peter goes on to tell his version of that story, when his own mother “forgot” about him, locked the nursery door and replaced him with another little boy.

Call it runaway pregnancy hormones, but I started to choke up. The girls were absolutely silent too. It was quite the literary moment.

I reassured the girls at the end of the chapter that I would never forget about them if they flew away to Neverland and I would always keep the windows unlocked so they could come home. And then the bedtime rodeo recommenced and the moment passed.

For them.

Peter PanBut, a little while later, I found myself thinking about Peter and his story and I could not help but think of Riley. The temptation to fantasize about our eldest boy being one of the Lost Boys, running wild around Neverland; having adventures with Indians and pirates is an intoxicating thought. And then we get to coming back to the window. Would our little “Peter” (aka Riley) think we’d forgotten him? Would he see the crib and bassinet and a closet full of clothes waiting for The Boy’s imminent arrival, and decide that we must have replaced him?

Yes, I know it’s irrational. Riley is in heaven and has been since that morning in October, four years ago. I have not forgotten or replaced him. In fact, I don’t think a day goes by that my heart does not, in some way, whisper his name.

It’s just a story. And I’m VERY pregnant.

One day, I will read Peter Pan to The Boy and kiss the top of his head for the trillionth time and, yes, think of my own Peter Pan. And, while I am perfectly aware of the fact that this is from the movie Hook and not Peter Pan or any of the original versions, I still love this quote from Tinkerbell:

“You know that place between sleep and awake, that place where you still remember dreaming? That’s where I’ll always love you, Peter Pan. That’s where I’ll be waiting.”

Advertisements

Torture

So, the Doc said a couple of weeks ago that I was far too cheerful to be “ready” to have a baby and that there would come a point where I would just be OVER. IT.

Friends, I believe that train has left the station.

Like Chinese Water torture (see, sis, I got it this time), I can’t tell if these B-H are hurting more because they are getting stronger OR if my pain tolerance is compromised because they’ve been continuous for a week.

download

 

Either way, they suck and I hate them. Well, hate is a strong word. If they are going to continue and ramp up (TODAY), then they are great and by all means, they should continue. BUT. If they are just messing with me, then I hate them.

classic straight jacket

According to wikipedia (the source of all knowledge; reliable and otherwise) – the purpose of chinese water torture is to drive the victim insane by the incessant drops of water. Sounds just like B-H. I wonder if they make straight jackets in maternity sizes?

Had this been an actual emergency…

10237007-large

Dangit. I said I wasn’t going to do this. This is baby #3 and I KNOW what real labor is like. I told this child he wouldn’t get one over on me. I blogged, oh-so-smugly about being onto the mental games played by Braxton-Hicks. I felt invincible.

But, my darling son simply can’t let that stand (who is he to not join his sisters in running me in circles) and so he got creative. He gave an Oscar-worthy performance. All the signs pointed to the real deal. Even the OB nurse got excited. I was pretty convinced we were headed to The Show. I finally agreed to go into the clinic so the doc could “just check things out.”

Well, as it turns out nothing is, in fact, happening. I am right where I was YESTERDAY (at my regular appointment). The contractions feel different and they are stronger and lower, but not strong enough to progress. So, I bought myself a chili dog for lunch and came back to work. I have mollified myself by saying it wasn’t L&D so it doesn’t really count as a practice run.

I hate being wrong. I have a real problem with it. Did you know?

I yelled at my kids today

wve-white-flag-260
It was NOT a good mommy morning.
I yelled at Princess Crybaby for dropping her cookies in the car.
I didn’t tell Munchkin “goodbye, I love you” when I dropped her off. I told her to be good and mind her own business.
I mumbled something huffy under my breath when I had to find the compact cards for Coach.
I feel like I failed as a human being today by being a complete bitch. I’m going to make something yummy for dinner tonight, to make up for my awful-ness this morning. And read bedtime stories.
And, yes, I’m trying not to cry about it, but I’m not doing a very good job.
I’m tired of being pregnant. I feel fat, my uterus feels like it’s starting to fall out and I DO NOT want to hear another person tell me how quickly September is going to go by because I might punch them in the throat.
I’m terrified about having three little people need me – at the same time- to help them get ready for the world when I, myself, feel like such a tangled mess.
I’d like to go back to bed, please. I’m being unkind and that’s the same crap I yelled at Munchkin for.

Adventure

Have I mentioned how much I detest the unknown? Walking down paths unexplored gives me hives. I hate not having a plan. HATE. Like I hate mayonnaise kind of hate. Oh, I’ll eat mayo, but it was almost assuredly a mistake or an accident that lands it on my plate.

And that’s where the adventure part comes in. When my mother uses the word Adventure, I know the wheels have come off and all hell has broken loose. That’s generally how I feel about the unknown. It’s not good. It feels me with no positive feelings. No slight euphoria at the thrill of discovery. Just a dull, sick feeling. As if my body is preparing to be punched in the gut.

Ok, enough with the metaphors.

I am 32 weeks pregnant. A month ago, our doc informs us she’s leaving her current practice and going to work for the big hospital (where we always intended to deliver). We had insurance ($$) all worked out and everything was going according to plan. And then. Well, her move means that insurance estimate is now something we have to mess with. Dealing with insurance people and medical billing people makes me want to puke on the best of days. But having to deal with the unknown of how this change will affect our very carefully balanced finances, as I’m staring at six weeks of maternity leave in a little less than 2 months makes me want to faint every time I think about it. Or cry. And you KNOW how I feel about crying.

Now, let’s add the fun part. When I left the school business, I went to work for a smaller business. While there are many, many ups that have come with the change (uh, the pregnancy being right there at the top of that list), there were some benefit changes that came along with losing the buying power of a large company that I didn’t think about (not that it would have really made that much of a difference), but that are having a very big impact on the bottom line. Thanks to the ridiculous increase in healthcare costs, it makes far more financial sense to drop my coverage on myself and go back on Coach’s insurance with the district as soon as possible. That’ll be effective in a week. That solves several problems; once all the wrinkles are worked out.

So. The fun part comes in this morning. Since my doc is now with the big hospital, all the insurance estimates have to be redone. That part, itself, really isn’t that bad. It’s just numbers. Add on top that I am switching insurance and all the mess they scratched on those papers today will be null and void come Monday. Back to unknown.

Ugh. So, we’re looking at a hospital balance due before the end of September, but we really don’t know how much will be due because the new insurance isn’t effective. It’ll be somewhere in the neighborhood of what we’ve already been estimated, but I HATE not knowing. Bam. Done. Ugh (again).

I know. This too shall pass. (I hope you heard that in the most sarcastic, obnoxious voice you can imagine, because that’s how it sounds in my head.) Platitudes make me almost as sick at the unknown.

photo

“B-H can Eat It”

Today, I was talking to my mother and I told her I’m having a lot of Braxton-Hicks, but that I’m onto their “let’s make her think she’s in labor” game and they could just “eat it.” Because that’s what they do. It’s like taking your car to the mechanic. It never does it once you get there to check it out. And then they look at you like you are a little stupid and maybe you should have paid closer attention to those childbirth classes and a little less attention to Pinterest.

This is not my first rodeo. So you would think I would know what I was doing 100% by now.

My pregnancy with Munchkin was pretty easy, if you don’t count that pre-term labor thing at 22 weeks (don’t worry, I carried her to a lovely medium-well done 37 weeks). Delivery was a PIECE. OF. CAKE. So much so, that I almost hesitate to tell my birth story because I figure other mothers might want to slash my tires.

Princess Crybaby was another easy pregnancy. Sure, I threw up a little every morning from about 10 minutes after the pregnancy test until the morning they induced her at 38 weeks (so we could make it into the hospital we wanted before they closed it to rebuild it as a children’s hospital). Quick and (as these things go) unremarkable (other than they, “hey look, it’s a redheaded miracle baby!” part of delivery – DUH). Another easy delivery. Well, for me it was harder, but I fully believe that’s the 8 years older business. *ahem*

The Boy has been super sweet. No nausea (well, not enough to really talk about), no stupid sweet tooth that made me blow up (weight-wise) and lord, the weather has been an absolute gift. Y’all, it was 70-something degrees this morning. In Texas. In late August. UNBELIEVABLE. (not that he had anything to do with that, of course)

But I’m nervous. What if this last one is “the hard one?” What if I finally earn my mother stripes by living through the delivery from hell? You know what I’m talking about; the one where I finally earn the right to stare down my son and say, “I labored 22 hours with you, BOY, so you’ll eat your green beans standing on your head if I say to..” I can’t really use that card with the girls. “Munchkin, I pushed six times and you were out,” or “Princess Josephine Crybaby, I pushed 15 minutes with you, young lady, so I think I’ve earned the right to tell you you aren’t going to dye your hair,” just doesn’t have the same affect. Not. Even. Close.

But it’s not time to find out what kind of labor it’ll be. Hrmph.

So, in the meantime, these B-H can just keep on doing whatever it is they are trying to do because I ain’t falling for it this time. Nope. Not me.

Dangerous Road

Once again, the geniuses at Pregnant Chicken slayed me with their cleverness in the weekly email and I had to comment. Here.

Because otherwise, I’m going to whine about having to get down on my hands and knees and look for Princess Crybaby’s shoes AGAIN this morning and, just as I was about to really let the profanity go on the phone with The Coach, I found it. Under the table. “Exactly where she left it.” (and yes, I’m making that face, Coach – so don’t start)

Yes, it did occur to me to pick them up when I saw those shoes in two different places (is she throwing them around now or something?) last night before bed, but then I remembered I had corn to harvest on Hayday and I forgot. Sue me, dudes, I’m 31 weeks pregnant.

beluga

Things Never to Say

I’m pretty sure being pregnant is the most obnoxious way to pass most of a year. Not because of the process itself so much, but because you can’t be pregnant without people saying REALLY dumb things. And, while I’m sure there are some who feel perfectly entitled to shoot back a stinging retort to all the inappropriate touching, comments and shenanigans (Coach, I’m using that word just for you), I am *trying* to be a little more laid back.

But the first one on this list really struck me as funny and TRUE. Friends, gather around and let Auntie fridaynightgirl share a little safety message: just don’t. There is no good or safe way to remark on a woman’s silhouette when she’s pregnant. Especially not by 31 weeks. And yes, I’m going to explain. By this point, we feel like we’ve been hauling around a pumpkin in our belly for a couple of months now. We are hot. We are sore. We are uncomfortable. And, for the love of mike, we haven’t seen our feet when they are directly under us in weeks. So, saying “well, you just don’t even look pregnant!” is a no-go for a couple of reasons. FIRST, by saying that, what we HEARD with our psycho-preggo ears was, “Geez, you always look like a beluga whale to me!” Whether our weight gain is on track or headed off with the second gallon of dutch chocolate Blue Bell ice cream, we don’t want to be reminded of the all the clothes that don’t fit because of this little project we’ve got going here. We know we’ve gained weight, so don’t try and lie to us. SECOND. When you say it, YOU are trying to compliment us for not blowing up into the Stay-Puffed Marshmallow mommy. We get it. Somewhere. But our sore back, stretched skin and four articles of clothing that still fit mock that sentiment. Growing a human is HARD work, y’all. There are things that happen in pregnancy that are awful. Messy. Painful.. And that’s before labor and delivery. So, as whacked out as this logic is, telling a woman after 31 weeks that she doesn’t even look pregnant somehow discounts all this back-breaking work we’re doing here. At least, between my ears (which, for the record, is the ONLY part of my body that seems to not be a little puffy today) – don’t get me started on the chin. UGH.

I think we can all agree on the general stupidity of remarking “how big” a pregnant woman looks – at any point of her pregnancy. This doesn’t require much discussion. That’s just asking to have a chair thrown at you. Don’t do it. Ever. She’s perfectly aware of the fact that she’s not cutting much of a figure other than the previously mentioned relative of the WHALE.

My advice? When she comes to you and makes some remark about feeling as big as a house or whatever, pat her on the arm and tell her she looks fantastic and ask her if she wants a cookie. Or a Dr. Pepper. Or, in my case, a brand new bag of chips and french onion dip.