Tags: HELLP, pregnancy, TTC
This here is my gestation proclamation. Project Get Amber Knocked Up Again is in full swing. And lemme tell you, it’s a project. I don’t get a What Ever Happens Happens pregnancy. No Oppsie for me. To get me pregnant, I must slowly wean off of 4 medications plus birth control and the hardest part of all: get my husband on board.
Project Get Amber Knocked Up Again began in September. I wanted to give Evan a sibling badly. He doesn’t have a ton of family and I wanted to make him some. Wayne was vehemently against it. I got pretty sick when Evan was gestating and he was having no more of that.* Then in September, my beloved Grandmother passed away. After the funeral, Wayne agreed that Evan needed a sibling.
So we got right on that.
My husband, AKA Procrastinator Extraordinaire, said yeah let’s get on that sometime soon yup OK sure we’ll talk about it at some point maybe. We get all the way to May and on Mother’s Day (which I thought was appropriate); I told him I was making an executive decision: I was getting off my meds and we were makin’ a baby! Now it’s a month later and I’m just about off all the meds. Getting off all those pills is a little weird. I continuously feel like there’s something wrong. Like I’m coming down with something or I forgot to turn off the oven or someone is hitting me over the head with a large tree branch. Sometimes I feel like my stoic is breaking but I do my IT’S FOR THE BABY chant and I can usually get past it.
Next up is menstruating (you guys with penises are so fidgety). I’ve done that once in the past 4 years and I’m not looking forward to it. One of the treatments for Endometriosis is continuous birth control so no periods for me. I will get getting one of my patented Super Periods so that’s fun.
Then, THEN it will be baby making time.
* I had HELLP Syndrome. Don’t you worry, I already saw a high risk doctor (MFM) and he gave me the go ahead. I only have about a 20-25% chance of it reoccurring.
It’s been ages since I have updated this here blog of mine and it has been missed… by me anyway. I often read back to jog my memories of Evan when he was even more wee than he is now. My memory is less than stellar. I’ll record it on here! You can judge me on my grammar! Come on, it’ll be fun!
He loves Dora the Explorer. He calls the show ‘Doda and Boots’ or if he’s asking for it over and over it’s more like, ‘Doda Boooooos, Doda Boooooooos, DODA BOOOOS, MOMMY/DADA!’ He’ll watch the same episodes over and over. He will use this show as a bargaining tool: ‘Mommy will be in the kitchen, can you be a good boy while Mommy is in the kitchen?’ Him: ‘Doda and Boots.’ (or ‘Fine lady, if you put my stories on’) At the end of the show, Dora looks at you with her gigantic eyeballs and asks all the slack-jawed children, ‘What was your favorite part?’ Then there is complete silence. Evan knows he is to fill it. Every time he says, ‘Ummmmmmmm… bibbit.’ And then Dora says, ‘I liked that too.’
Bibbit is his word for frog. He’ll often point at you and say, ‘Bibbit!’ Sometimes it’s an accusation, sometimes a compliment. When you call HIM a Bibbit, sometimes he takes it as a compliment and sometimes he spits at you: ‘No, MOMMY bibbit!’ Sometimes it’s like you turned off Dora during the Map’s third repeating of the directions OMG SHUT UP: he’ll scream and have a tantrum. Sometimes he will call himself or someone else a ‘Bobot’ (robot), and yes, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have a speech impediment.
He was never a baby with a blanky or a binky or a stuffed animal that he HAD to have. I would often throw something fluffy in his face and insist that he extra love it and then get offended when he could take a nap without it. Now when he lays down he wants his pillow pet, blanket (blay-blet), elephant (eefant), and Elmo (a puppet he got for Christmas). He doesn’t extra love it necessarily, he just likes the routine of it and watching mommy and dada search for all the items on demand.
Sleep. Sigh. So. Evan sleeps most of the time in our bed. There was period of time when dada was working weird shifts and only saw Evan around bedtime. So he would come home and snuggle on the couch with Evan until he fell asleep. It was so sweet. Until, of course, it became Evan’s preferred (only) way of going down for the night. Most nights, once he falls asleep, I lay him down in his crib and I’m lucky to fall asleep before he wakes an hour or so later. Then I stumble into his room, pick him up and lay him in the bed next to me. Some nights, I just bring him right to our bed. Gone are his newborn days of non-picky-sleeping.
Weekday mornings consist of me turning on the bedroom light, changing his diaper and clothes, brushing his hair and teeth and stuffing him into his coat and into the car all in a 10 minute span. Most weekend mornings start with Evan sitting up in bed, taking a couple seconds to get his bearings, and then reverse army crawling off the bed while suggesting that I get up, turn on the lights he points to and then giving him a Dora fix. I’m normally still trying to wake up and half-assed forcing him to say please to make it seem a little like I’m sorta in control. Kinda.
He’s getting a little pickier with his foods. I could get him to eat just about anything back in the day, but now he’s grown a palette for all of the toddler staples. He is a fruit eating champ though so he does get his vitamins. He also gets a gummy vitamin every day. Right off the bat I handed him a candy-looking sugar-coated vitamin and said, “This is a vitamin, not candy. You get ONE A DAY. ONE A DAY, hear me? No more. One.” It sunk in. I hand him his vitamin and very day he holds it out and says, “One-day, Mommy! One-day!”
He is still in diapers. He views potty time as book reading time. The same two books. Once Upon a Potty & Are You My Mommy (Tiger Edition). We must both take turns reading them. He knows the ‘sensation’. He’ll tell me POOPYPOPPYMOMMY and run upstairs and do nothing. Then I will put a fresh diaper on him which he’ll immediately soil. Once he insisted that he did indeed go potty and I told him he did not and lying is bad and then I took him off the potty and we both leaned in for a look and there was a tiny pebble down there. We looked up at each other in surprise and I sang praises and handed out M&Ms and put a new diaper on him. Which he immediately soiled.
He is now in 3T shirts. I was in denial about this. He is 2. He should be in 2T while he’s 2. Ya know? 2 = 2T. Right? At daycare he walks up to Miss Di and she comments about him getting too big for his shirt. It instantly and completely confused me. ‘Noooo, 2T’, my brain told me. My eyes saw too much of his forearms and a little belly. My brain was all: 2T! I said, ‘He’s two! I have until September!’ Di may have looked at me funny. I may have mumbled it. However, I stick to my logic: he should not be wearing 3T anything until September 8th, 2011. I have 2T summer stuff for frigg sake. He has to wear the 2T jeans with the tabby-dos all cinched up tight. The jeans will become too short on him before they can be let out at all. He’s a long skinny guy and his back bone’s connected to his leg bones, ‘cause he doesn’t appear to have a hip bone.
He is still a mommy’s boy. I can soothe him like nobody’s business. If he has a bad dream I can pat him on the back and whisper, ‘Mommy’s here’ and he’ll slip back into sleep. I am fiercely cherishing this before it goes away and I become his lame mom.
He is also very protective of his mommy. Heaven-for-freaking-bid I hold another baby in his presence. Holy cow! ‘No! MY MOMMY!’ Like he becomes completely negated the moment another child touches me. We went to visit friends with a cute little girl and I didn’t pick her up for hours so Evan would get used to her first. His attention was focused on something else when I picked her up. He saw me and wailed and tried to climb up my legs. This could be an issue if we add another offspring to the fold.
He talks like crazy. He’ll hold entire conversations with me. He won’t let me off with the fake answers I used to give him or the ‘because I said so’ routine. He has a good hold on concepts in general and knows most of his letters on sight. (He does, however, refer to letters as E-E-Ohs.) He used to be really on with his colors and numbers but he has been insisting lately that everything is blue. We’ll go around the house often and I’ll ask him ‘What color is this?’ and he’ll try to figure it out. One good lesson is watching Biggest Loser. There are always bright colors on that show. He spends it saying ‘Waa Color, Mommy? Waa Color?’ Instead of saying, ‘Shhhhh! Mommy’s watching her show’, like I should be doing, I say, ‘You tell me.’ Then he’ll say, ‘Ummmmmm, bibbit.’ and laugh.
Tags: death, grandmother, love
She stands up immediately when she sees me. HEY BABY she says. She wraps her arms around me, tight. She grips my arms and pulls me away from her so more of me is within her frame of sight. I can see more of her in that moment too. She’s smiling. She breathes effortlessly.
She regards me in the way I’ve always been used to… pride, concern, loving, hopeful. She takes in my light and flicks my dark away in a look. Everything wrong with me is an opportunity to do something brilliant. This is how she looks at me. I roll my eyes.
She turns away and I follow her through the airport terminal. I am forced to jog a moment to catch up to her. She turns her head towards me and a meaningful smirk is lighting up her face. I’m panting. She’s carrying all of her luggage. She’s graceful and agile. Her heavy bags are not hampering her. She offers to carry my purse. She needs me to hurry. She’s late.
She hands over her luggage to an uninterested guy behind a counter. She takes my hand and spins me away and suddenly we are at her gate. No one else is there. I offer to help her to her seat. She scoffs at this as usual. I’m strangely not distressed. She’s not tired or sitting or bracing herself for air. In fact she breathes as if the air around her is inconsequential.
She tells me that I can’t go any further. I can’t get on the plane with her. She says she’s leaving and I’ll see her later. I know it will be a while; our visits are few and far between. We have a great distance between us. She forces a twenty-dollar bill into my hand. FOR GAS MONEY she says. I slip it back into her purse as we hug. She starts to walk away but continually turns around to wave as she goes. Each time I try to burn the image into my brain. This is what I do every time we say goodbye at the airport. Is this the last time? I stain to record another glimpse. She turns and waves once more. I stiffen and breathe in and try to capture every detail at once. She’s gone.
– – – – – – – – – – – – –
Then I was awake suddenly like cold water was thrown in my face. I smiled with relief. Then I cried.
– – – – – – – – – – – – –
Tags: 2years, mommy
M O M M Y
Oohhh, that double-edged sword of a name. Cherished and condemned. A word that lights up your heart and gets of your nerves.
It starts when you’re pregnant. Someone calls you Mommy. It made my cheeks burn red and I always felt like an imposter. I wasn’t doing any… you know, mothering. I popped a couple of prenatal vitamins here and there. I made some prenatal appointments. I wasn’t like wiping poopy butts or losing sleep or checking temperatures analy or what not.
Then more awkwardness. My husband and I, chatting away at a baby that can’t speak and has no idea what we’re saying. He tries to indicate to the child that he needs to look over at me ’cause I’m acting funny or whatever, trying to get him to laugh. So he says something along the lines of, “Evan! Look at… umm… her. Evan, look at Amber!” I stop and whisper, “Maybe we should call ourselves Mommy and Daddy or something?” So: “Evan! Look at… Mommy.” It was just so WEIRD. Calling ourselves Mommy and Daddy. It might be just me… but that was just bizarre.
Then the coveted First Word. Wayne and I spent months hovering over Evan.
SAY MAMA! Sugar, SAY MAMA!! MAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMA
No! DADA. SAY DADA Evan! DADA!
Can you say MAMA?
DADA? DADA? Da…
dada’s a stupid word Evan, SAY MAMA. MMMMMmmmmmmm. Aaaaaahhhhh.
DADA. Say DADA, Evan! DADADADADADADADADADADADADADADADA!
Like this. Only with more volume and enthusiasm. Alas. Dada was to win. Although I say it was easier to pronounce and he didn’t realize what he was saying. Because I’m an asshole.
In April/Mayish of this year I was out-of-town and away from Dada and Evan for a few weeks. I was aching to see my son. Dada was doing his best at sending me photos and videos and trying to get him to “talk” to me on the phone. Then there was this one video of Evan running back and forth in the kitchen. Then he runs to the steps and Wayne walks up to him and says, “Say MOMMY” and then there is this sweet little sound, barely more than a whisper, “mammee”. Holy crap y’all, if I had a car I would have driven cross-country to get back home. Like right then. Like, ‘fuck packing’ right then. As it was, I cried myself to sleep while watching the video again and again. The next day I called to “talk” to Evan while he was at daycare. He said Mommy again.
I’ve been Mommy from then on.
He’ll look at me and smile when I try to get him to laugh and say MOMMY with a little smirk at the end like, OH MOMMY YOU ARE SO SILLY BUT THAT’S WHY I LOVE YOU.
When he wants my attention: MOMMY
When I arrive at daycare to pick him up: MOMMY!! as he runs at me at full force.
When he wants me to stop: MOMMY! NooooooooOO!
When he want me to come get him from another room: MOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMEEEEEEEEEEEE
When I’m driving and he wants me to dangerously look back at him: Mommy. MOMMY. MOOOOOOOMMEEEEEEE! So I look back: MOMMY with a smirk like I TOTALLY KNEW I COULD GET YOU TO LOOK BACK HERE.
When Dada puts him in time out: MOMMY. *sniff pout whimper* MOMMY! MOOOOMMMMEEE! Mommy. Mommy. MOMMY. MOMMY! MOMMY! Mommy and etc…
When he does something he’s proud of: MOMMY!
When he wants me to play with him: MOMMY? with a car or a ball or a book in his out stretched hand.
When he’s playing evil child and ROWRS and is all: MOMMY with a raspy, scary, bass voice and a children of the corn stare. Then I’m supposed to hide and pretend I’m scared of the creepy voice, and Evan giggles and MOMMYs again… but really I am creeped out. *shivers*
When he falls: MOMMY!
When he wants something, anything: MOMMMMMEEE! Mommy?
When I have to hold him down to do something unpleasant like taking off a band-aid: MOooooooooMmmmmmmMY!!?
When he decides he no longer wants to be held by this other person or I’m trying to put him in another persons arms: MOMMY!
When he wants up: whine MOMMY whine UP.
When he’s proud of something I’ve done: MOMMY! YAY! YAY MOMMY!
When we are all sitting down to eat: MOMMY. UP. whine MOMMY! UP! UUUUUUUP! MOMMY! AWW DUN! MOMMY!
When I’m watching my stories: MOMMY! DODA N BOOTS!
When he’s telling on Dada: MOMMY!? Dada.
When he’s looking for something: MOMMY?
When I’m reading: Mommy? MOMMY? Mommmmmmmeeeeeee?
It’s music to my ears sometimes and cridgeworthy sometimes, but it’s my name.
Evan, don’t wear it out.
Tags: birthday, toddler, two
It’s his birthday. Today my son turned two. Two. That’s all. It’s such a cozy little number. There’s nothing big about it. But, of course, it feels huge.
It’s been longer than two years since I’ve loved him. I’d spend evenings talking to him while he was inside, still growing. Sometimes, no doubt, before he even developed ear drums. I’m sure I looked like a crazy person, chatting to nothing. Thank goodness no one could see that I was picturing him nodding along with my dialogue in my head. I do the same now and he does nod along and he does answer me. It’s normally in his style of gibberish or his fall back answers: Yeah-ess, No, or Whyyy.
My goodness how he’s grown! His father and I look at him, astounded. At the same time we high-five each other for another year of giving him enough nourishment and care that he’s still around. His life being a round track for us… the finish line marking a milestone in his journey which we celebrate but run right though to continue around the loop. Dizzy and tired without a longing to rest. Eager to see his next step.
Also mourning what has now come to pass. It’s one of those things I hadn’t anticipated as a mother (you know, along with the eleventy thousand other things)… a sadness that we’ve reached another landmark in his life. You know it from all the mothers crying after leaving their children at the bus stop or the school’s entrance for the first time. So very freaking proud; so very freaking sad. It’s my son’s birthday… Imma throw me a pity party now.
This is my favorite time yet. Although, I said the same thing last year:
This year I told Evan that it’s my favorite time yet and he asked me “Whyyyyyy?”. I laughed so hard I produced tears. He looked confused.
We threw a party for Evan Sunday. He had a good time all day long. He was a little too eager to blow out his candle on his cake. He also was very meticulous about gift opening at first.
Soon his friends showed him the real way to tear open presents. Evan got into the swing of things real quick.
So there it is. A two year old. Flying further away from needing me and growing a little too heavy to carry.
Even still? This is going to be the BEST YEAR YET!
Tags: life list, photographer, to do list
(She’s lovely and candid and I have a half-dozen listings that she has because don’t we all?)
1… get a passport.
2… settle on a business name and run with it.
3… teach Evan to read.
4… sell my work. Print it, frame it, exchange it.
5… plant a vegetable garden (and ya know, not kill it). Actually cook/eat veggies as opposed to letting them rot on the dining room table.
6… renovate something (successfully!) in my home.
7… go on a huge anniversary trip with my husband. Preferably, somewhere where you have to fly over an ocean to get to it.
8… go somewhere spectacular just to shoot with photographer friends (and I mean another country spectacular).
9… take Evan to Disneyworld.
10… make NICU bags for parents of new preemies. (Kinda like these)
11… write a children’s book.
12… get a present from Tiffany’s in a Tiffany’s box.
13… pay off all my debts. (And not acquire them again)
14… make a couple more attempts at talking my husband into another child without driving him into the mad house.
15… create Evan’s family tree. (An comprehensive one and a beautiful, handmade one)
16… start a new family tradition.
17… photograph the Aegean Sea and Islands and surrounding countries. (Maybe combining with #7 or #8?)
18… read a series of books of historical accounts and the origins of the major and minor religions.
19… create a legal will.
20… loose 30ish pounds.
21… change someone’s mind to the better.
22… stop drinking pop altogether (or Coke if you’re from Georgia) / (or soda or soft drinks if you’re from other places).
23… host Thanksgiving dinner and cook everything from scratch.
24… have a surprise party (but someone else would have to throw it because I would know and…nevermind).
25… take Evan camping.
26… adorn my walls with photographs everywhere.
27… raise $5,000 for the March of Dimes ($945 down, $4,055 to go!)
28… host a kick-ass party. One where you watch the sun rise before you head to bed.
29… stay at a super swanky hotel. Eat at one of their super swanky restaurants. Order lots of room service.
30… photograph the stars with an open shutter.
31… participate with Evan in a charity event every year. Each year something different.
32… have my portrait done. Like it.
What’s on your list? Not only what you HAVE to do but what you WANT to do as well.
Tags: doctor, illness, rudeness, toddler
It all starts in utero. It’s not a conscious decision, but one you ponder endlessly anyway. That glob of cells… is there a heartbeat? I’m 16 weeks… why haven’t I felt the baby move? Is that a Braxton-Hicks contraction or a baby-is-on-its way contraction? I haven’t felt the baby move. I can’t hold down water. For me it was: I have a bad backache and something that feels like heartburn. It all ends in the same question:
SHOULD I CALL A DOCTOR?
For me, pregnancy was easier. There wasn’t a helpless child in front of me. I wasn’t feeling well but I can feel the baby move. The baby is good. I didn’t want to be that woman who calls the doctor for every little thing. I was sustaining life with MY MIND and damnit, that makes me hardcore and if that means dealing with a bit of pain then so fucking be it. Well, we all know how that turned out. I didn’t want to be a pest so I suffered in silence without making a phone call. I figured I’d mention it at the next regularly scheduled OBGYN appointment, if it was still bothering me. My pride/meekness/laissez-faireness could have killed myself and my baby. Thank goodness concern rose above my obstinance and I called the doctor about the pain. Evan was born 6 hours later.
All bets were completely off when you have a sick baby in front of you.
That newborn with a fever? Did that: December 1st (Our 1 year wedding anniversary), 2am, ER. The book from the pediatrician said any baby under 3 months with a fever over 101 needs to be seen immediately. I called after hours. I was told to go to the ER. The ER doctor tried to scare us with a spinal tap “if we really want to find out what’s wrong, but I’m sure it’s just a virus and you don’t want to put your baby through that dooooooooo? yooooooouuuuu??” I was annoyed; he was making me feel awful for coming in and wanting to know what was wrong and I hadn’t even pressed the question. It was drowned out by the relief I felt because Evan was OK. But lemme tell you, if the euphoria high of relief were not coursing through my veins, I would have slapped the bastard. I’m not a fucking doctor. He would have been much more annoyed if I acted like I was. Not only was I worried, but I was directed to go there. I paid for the service with my cash and some good insurance. I am Evan’s advocate. Get irritated the with the parents who refuse to be an advocate for their children. Treat me with some respect, please.
I am now in toddler illness hell. For a child that is obsessed with washing his hands and a mother obsessed with Clorox, you’d think we’d have a fairly healthy kid. But no. Kids get sick. And with every. little. cough. you get to feel like a bit more of a failure of a parent. Woo! A sniffle! Go me.
I don’t, I swear I don’t, send my child with the doctor with every little cough he gets. I don’t call the nurse’s line with each sniffle. I don’t go to the ER for every fever. When I feel it’s necessary, I do. If I’m extra worried and I need reassurances, I do. (They don’t call it a Mother’s Instinct for nothin’.) But you know what? Who cares if someone does go in for every little thing? I mean, really? They go to someone, pay for a service… who really cares if it’s not necessary? Like getting your oil changed every 100 miles. (Which reminds me…) Change my oil and take my money… YOU’RE WELCOME.
This is not to say you should go to the ER for a splinter because they have to treat you even if you can’t pay. This isn’t saying you should insist to be seen first by a busy doctor with sicker patients. But I should feel free to schedule an appointment. For no reason other that I want a doctor to take a look-see at my child. I have insurance. I’m going to pay. Please provide me service.
Parents don’t want to be that person. The one always calling the doctor. Worried about every hangnail. I know I don’t. And I know that sometimes I pause before I call the doctor because of it. I look at my child with a 105 fever and worry that if I call they doctor they might scoff at me because their book SAYS that a 105 fever is nothing to be worried about. I’ll lose sleep… not because of another $20 co-pay or the fact that I’m out of vacation hours… I’ll lose sleep because I don’t want the doctor to not take me seriously because I bring my child in too much. I feel stupid typing that. I am Evan’s advocate. He can’t roll his eyes at me because I’m being silly and call the doctor himself. He can’t even tell me what hurts. I have to be the one that describes the slight change in Evan’s behaviour or sleeping habits. I have to detail his appetite. That’s my job. Being that I’m not a medical expert, I tell the doctor the symptoms. That’s their job.
My tirade comes from an odd batch of symptoms Evan has been producing lately… fevers, rash, peeling fingertips and toes. Weird. I called the nurses line and she tells me it’s no big deal and I’m OK with that answer and I go about my merry way. The next day there’s more weirdness so I get uncomfortable and call again. This time I want to see a doctor. Hi, if you don’t think something is wrong I’d like to just come in… a doctor can take a look and put my mind at ease. I got sighed at. I heard the rolling of eyes over the phone. As in, “I’d like to bring him in for an appointment” then, “*sigh* holdon.” It infuriates me. Rudeness. To a customer. To a worried mother. Fuck that.
I’m on the look out for a new doctor. STAT.
Tags: 22months, potty training, toddler
… OMG: two more months and he’s 2. As in “ALIVE FOR TWO YEARS”. Whoa. I’m trying to teach him to say and show “2” when I ask him how old he is. I figure it will take him a couple months to perfect it.
… is about 27lbs now. And tall. Really, really tall. So tall I can’t remember how tall the pediatrician said measure him. He’s all arms and legs. And he knows how to kick and hit. Hard.
… is talking up a storm… in evanspeak. Somethings I can pick up: mommy, dada, help, ball, hat, eat, baba, caca (color / cracker / Lilah – not that he’s calling his girlfriend a cracker), apple, car, dog, truck, choo-choo, book, baby, Dora, Gaga (Yo Gabba Gabba), bye, coat, shoe, etc… and other stuff I can’t pick up. He will look at me very serious-like and point at nothing in particular and say, “Ahbe meh saa”. I’m all: “Wha?” Evan: “AHBE MEH SAA!” and stab the air with his finger that’s pointing at nothing in particular. “Speak English, Evan. Show me.” He’ll run into another room with me not far behind and point at another nothing in particular, “AAHHH. BEE. MEEEEEEH. SAAAA!” Still at a loss, I distract him with this question, “Want an apple?” “Yes! App-ah! App-ah! Yes!” Crisis averted.
… understands almost everything you say. This creeped me out a little. If I was talking to him, I’d try to stick with words he knew. I’d use simple phrases and show him a lot of things at the same time. One day after he spent that last 2 hours whining about BYEBYE I said, “Fine. Go get mommy’s shoes, purse and keys and we’ll leave. I don’t know where, but we’ll go.” Minutes later I look down at my son still screaming BYEBYE only this time he has my purse hanging off his shoulder, there is a pile of 3 pairs of my shoes and my car keys at his feet. He managed to get his Crocs on too, albeit on the wrong feet.
… will answer any question you ask him and try to do what you tell him to do. Most answers to questions and requests to do things are “NO”. Sigh.
… is just now getting into the picky eater phase. When he started eating solids he would eat whatever you put in front of him. Now he won’t even try most things. You can let him sit in his highchair, you can wave a time-out possibility at him, you can do the flying airplane of food that flys into the mouth thing and nothing works. HOWEVER. I while ago I was eating a wonderful raspberry sorbet I wasn’t looking forward to sharing but couldn’t wait until bedtime. Evan looked at it so I offered him a bite and he said, “NO!” and I said, “GOOD!”
… is kinda potty training. I gets sat in there sometimes before bathtime and whenever he asks. He has two books for the potty and I usually have to read them to him twice and then he will “read” them to me. Then he wants to do Itsy Bitsy Spider and Wheels on the Bus over and over, (the horn part… no others. Don’t even freaking THINK about talking about the damn wheels. Beep! Beep! Beep! Only!) I bought some “big boy” undies with the intention of letting him run around the house in them and doing frequent potty breaks and using any accidents as a learning opportunity. So I haven’t done that yet, but the intention is there. That counts.
… still gets a morning bottle and a bedtime bottle at home. The morning bottle is going to be a tough one to break. He’ll say BABA before his eyes are open. Nothing like being woke up via amplified baby monitor to: “Ehhhhhbaaaabaaaa. Ehhh… mah ba baaaaaaaaa.”
… has way too many toys. He has a toy overflow room! Not to mention his “Playroom” is my living room and my feet haven’t grown used to the legos yet. Evan will help you pick up his toys… but then he will dump everything out again and put the container on his head and say, “HAT!”
… went raspberry pickin’. Just me and him, Daddy was working. It’s hard to pick berries whilst holding on to a toddler you guys. And then when I told him that he had to pick the RIPE BERRIES? Pfft! It went downhill from there. Luckily, they were serving cider slushies and that got me back into his good graces.
… is still in size 4 diapers and 24 month clothes… he’s getting DANGEROUSLY close to wearing 2T clothes. He does wear some 2T jammies. His 24 month pants adorabley fall down his legs all the time. He’s a skinny guy.
… has a hand washing obsession. If it’s quiet for too long I know to search the little downstairs half bath that houses his potty seat and booster steps. He’s normally trying to get the soap to squirt on his hands or running the hot water at full blast with his hands in the flow. (!!!) I believe it’s time to turn down the temperature on the hot water tank.
… is taking showers lately. With Mommy or Dada of course. He does pretty good. If you tell him to wash himself he washes his hands *eyeroll* or rubs his soapy hands on his belly and then attempts to stick his pushed out belly in the water stream. Why isn’t he using a washcloth, you ask? Well, I’ll answer. He doesn’t like them maybe? I don’t know. He has no problem with us using it on him, but don’t you dare let it float around in the tub or hand it to him in the shower. EGADS! The whines go up about 10 decibel if you do that nonsense.
… has a problem with my singing. I’m no Beyonce or anything but DAMN! The minute I bob my head in the car and start mumbling, “Mah telephone… mah, mah, mah telephone”, Evan shouts: “MOMMY!” I’ll stop and say WHAT and he’ll give me a look like don’t ever do that again. So I do what I’m told not to do (probably not a good example for Evan) and turn up the radio and sing louder: “MAH TELEPHONE… MAH, MAH, MAH TELEPHONE… When I’m out in the club and I’m sippin’ that bub then I’m not gonna reach MAH TELEPHONE!” Evan screams: “MOOOOMMMMEEEEE!!!! NOOO!!!! No, Mommy!!!” The look… the horror. I’m gonna be a great mom to a teenager. *rubs hands together in an evil manner*
… had his first carnival ride. He rode a horse that went up and down on a ferris wheel. I think he enjoyed it. I hung onto him for dear life and made all of the “OOOOOoooooOOH! WHOA! Cool! This is fun!” sounds to make sure he didn’t freak the hell out.
… is growing up just too darn fast. I say this all the time but it’s true. I want to make another Evan. Once this one can change diapers and cook a proper meal of course.
Tags: Endometriosis, FU, Pain
So. This post has been sitting in my draft file for-evah. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to post it for 3 reasons.
- There is a lot of cursing involved.
- There is a lot of talking about lady bits and their malfunctions.
- No one likes a complainer.
Here are the reasons I posted it anyway.
- The cursing is APPROPRIATE for me in this post. Besides, I have a feeling no one really fucking cares about it anyway. Damnit.
- My lady readers are not weirded out by lady bits. If they are they need to make friends with their lady bits. My male readers are way too hardcore to be weirded out by a little bit of lady bit talk. (If I’m wrong? YOU’VE BEEN WARNED)
- My knee-jerk? I’m not complaining. But, alas, there is some bitching going on here. However, awareness is good as in “Hi! I’m Endometriosis! I want to get stabby! Let’s be friends!” and “Yes, I say I’m fine but I am in a lot of pain but you really don’t want to hear about it because you’ve heard it before or you’re more comfortable with talk of flesh wounds.” Also? I just HAD to get this off of my chest and out of my draft file. Close or read on:
Endometriosis (from endo, “inside”, and metra, “womb”)
You know what’s supposed to be inside my WOMB, Endometriosis? A baby. My womb is supposed to be a warm hospitable enviroment in which to grow a child.
And the misnomer, by the way, is a dick move. YOU aren’t even INSIDE my WOMB. You’re all outside of it… on my intestines and ovaries… hidden in corners like a little bitch.
You disguised yourself for years. Deceiving doctors and making me loopy with pain then making me question it. If no one can find anything, am I really in pain? Am I THAT much of a pain wuss?
You didn’t show yourself until they opened me up and looked you in the eye. Burnt you. You hid and grew some more.
Then, just to trick fuck you, we conceived our baby boy. You hadn’t invaded my tubes yet and you didn’t make me infertile like you do 40% of us. (You are such an asshole)
Suddenly: Bliss. No pain.
He arrived and I was feeling fine until now. Now you’re stabbing me and whispering in my ear:
“I’m rotting your insides”
“The pain’s not going to stop”
“Are you sure you should take another pill?”
“You’re going to have to get all your insides ripped out.”
(That last was said all sing-song like, the prick!)
But you know what I’m really tired of? The way you’re making me feel. The way I’m letting you make me feel. The sadness about a choice: hysterectomy or not – it could help (COULD being the operative word here) (Operative being the intentional pun there). I don’t always get a choice when it comes to depression but right now I’m putting myself there. I’m opening the dark closet and pointing the way.
You know, Endo, you’re just pain right now. Good, old-fashioned pain. WHOOP-TEE-DO! You couldn’t even kill me if you wanted to. I’ve known LAUGHTER with a higher mortality rate.
So you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to do what I always do with irritating bitches such as yourself. I’m going to ignore you. I’m going to roll my eyes at you when you’re at your loudest and quietly be proud of that accomplishment. I’m going to label the bottle of pills my “STFU ENDO” pills.
That’s right Endo, SHUT. THE FUCK. UP.
I’m getting down on the floor and playing with my son. I’m going to get out of bed and spend time with my family. I’m going to run. I’m going to gracefully live with your pain. And the next time I see you in the operating room? I’m totally going to kick your ass.
Tags: 21 months, Fathers Day, lawnmower, mow
Hi-ee! Evan here. This is me and my ball. Loooove my ball. I can do anything with it! I can shoot hoops, knock glasses over and scare the beejesus out of dogs!
Then Dada rolled by with his toy. Waddup, Dada? *fist bump*
I wanted to try out his toy so I did what I always do: I took it. IT. WAS. AWESOME!
Mommy was a little paranoid at first. “No, MOMMY! I’m not going to HIT YOUR CAR! See? I’m CAREFUL!”
This is very serious work right here.
This concrete ain’t gonna mow itself, lady! Outtadaway!
Fine. One picture. OKAY? Can I get on with it now? SERIOUS WORK GOING ON MOM.
I’m prepared to run you over.
Uh oh. I’m stuck. It won’t move anymore. Make it move, Mommy!
HELP! MAKE IT MOVE! For reals! I wasn’t really going to run you over! GEESH! Nooo! MAKE IT MOVE!!
Stop with the camera already. This is not a tantrum! I WASN’T GOING TO RUN YOU OVER REALLY! HEEEELP! Waaaaaaaa!
Gosh. Why do you always distract me with new toys during tantrums calls for help? This is kinda awesome though. Can I drive it next? I could probably use the peddles if I use my tippy toes.
OK. Enough about me. Happy Father’s Day, Dada. I’ll humor you for now and sneak out the keys after you go to bed.