The lovely people at Saje let me do another blog entry for them. (Yes, it may involve the two month birthday of a certain monkeyface currently sleeping in her Gramma H's arms after her first round of shots. Such a brave monkey.)
Anyways, you can read it here. You can also exclaim out loud how good their new website is.
As a reminder to myself and for any new Mamas who are able to take advice better than I can, I have composed my first list of Do’s and Don’ts. It’s not exhaustive, because I am (that’s it – that’s as funny as I can be right now).
I made a lemon cake for Nuv on September 26th, in the evening, and my water broke a few hours later. And broke and broke and broke. I splashed and leaked and soaked amniotic fluid into the backseats of three cabs, a couple of hospital wheelchairs, through all my tights, pants and pajamas and towels and sheets, into bathwater and across hospital toilets and floors. And they almost sent me home from the hospital a third time because they were unsure if my water had broke. If my fluid had been red, the West End would have looked like a fucking battlefield massacre for the ages.
Tuesday September 28th at 6:45 am our lives got a little bigger.
Stella Belle Takhar - you are killing my heart every damn day.
My sweet bubs,
As of today, we’ve been together 271 days. I figure, by now, you know me pretty well. Lately you think I love, LOVE, being rib-kicked and cervically headbutted as soon as I crawl into bed. I can actually watch your foot as it rears back to give a good boot. Don’t think I haven’t been tempted to carve a small hole with a paring knife into my guts to grab your foot and say “EEEENOUGH.” But I love you. And I don’t fancy any home surgery, so I just watch and wince and hope to Christ you don’t get any stronger over the next 12 days.
As of today, the kid is set to debut in 16 days. If you need me I’ll be crouched down behind the couch silently screaming while simultaneously passed out. And at work for another 12 days. You say crazy, I say…….yeah, pretty much crazed.
July whimpers to a close. 33 weeks.
The litmus test of procreating: go hang out in a 'Babies R Us' for 45 minutes. It hammers home like nothing else what is in store for you after the kid slips out of its in utero bachelor apartment and into your arms. Watch parenting at its worst – children being allowed to wander free from their strollers and mothers, never to be seen again. Watch toddlers hula hoop the toilet seat of a portable potty as Mom and Dad pull everything off the shelf and stand hands on hips, blocking an aisle deciding which model to get. Watch the 14-year-old white trash couple play with the stuffed animals like they’re intended for them, and not their impending child (!) and try to not weep for their lost youth. Listen to the assorted menagerie noises of squealing, crying, things falling, things breaking, musical toys bleating out their last whimper as the batteries die. Stand in front of a wall of breastfeeding paraphernalia and resist the urge to say out loud, “Ok, boobs, it’s your call. Whaddya want?”
All the high falutin’ plans I had months ago: swimming, yoga, bonding with other pregnant women in my neighborhood, walking every night, doing kegels at my desk, drying fruit, sitting calmly and reading…ALL BULLSHIT. None accomplished. Zero. I did four kegels once and spent the next two hours dribble peeing.