So, Baby Daddy and I had a pretty crappy day and treated ourselves to Chinese to cheer us up. Afterwards, I don't know if I got jazzed from the sesames or what, but I had a burst of energy like you would not believe. So, I sat down and wrote out and addresses every single thank-you card that I had to write. Oh! What a good feeling to get that done. It hasn't even been two weeks, and I was already terrified that I was bordering on the obscenely rude.
After that, I still had some in me, so I attacked Baby Stuff Mountain. I won. I pulled out every single onesie, blanket, cap, pair of socks, swimsuit, sleeper, hat, and plushie and removed the tag and get them into her laundry basket so that everything will be freshly washed when she gets here. Everything...and I do mean everything...had a gigantic tag on it! Naturally, they must all be removed and garments thoroughly searched for the remaining little bits of plastic. We can put a man on the moon, but we can't figure out a better way to package socks? I'm not going to even start on the number of things that were taped together. I'll bet the petroleum wasted could have paid for my kid's college fund one day.
I got the bathroom stuff into the bathroom. I got the feeding stuff into the kitchen. I got the toys into her toybox. I'm on fire!
Except, I still don't have any room to put half this stuff, but at least now the rest of it is in a very organized pile.
You know, the first sign that you're becoming your mother is cleaning like her. Now, my mother keeps a house so clean, you could operate on her floors. She lives in fear that she'll die, and when the paramedics come, they'll find.....A DIRTY DISH IN THE SINK!!! Oh Lordy, no! So, she developed the completely rational habit of picking up every dish she sees and washing it. Even if you have food on it. Just made a drink? The fullness of the glass and the freshness of the ice can only mean that it's near to rotting and she must get it into the sink immediately.
So, as much as I generally hate to do the dishes, I've been thinking about attacking them next. Note, I said thinking. I may be nesting, but I'm not stupid. As long as I can keep Matt convinced that the sight and smell of them will make me throw up, I think I'll just leave them stacked neatly in his corner. After all, "I'm carrying your child, you have to do the dishes!!"
1.30.2008
1.28.2008
Shopping Fun
So, a well-meaning friend said to me in parting..."Next time we see you, you'll probably have a baby with you..."
An innocent enough remark, coming from a woman who merely stated it as a 'welcome to the club' type thing. Yet, it was enough to send me into a panic. I've got roughly 45 days left, and at that moment I was crushed under the avalanche of things left to do. My hands started spasming. So, I did what any rational, self-sufficient gal in my position would do. I cried for a few hours, then I went shopping.
Now, I've already had my shower, and was overwhelmed at the amount of giving my friends did. My heart was as full as my car was, and yes, I cried over that as well. It really meant a lot. But, I still didn't have everything I needed, and as my friend Charles is always so quick to point out, "Kate...you could have this child any minute now. I mean, you could have it by the end of this week." So yeah...I ventured out.
In one day, we acquired a kick-ass glider. I found that one on Craigslist, and even though the woman should be shot for charging that much for a used glider, it's worth it. It's got a custom hand-made cushion, in colors that won't make me throw up. It has this delightful creak, that reminds you you're doing important business in the glider. It matches the rug we bought. It's perfect.
After that, it was over to Target, aka, the mega-store I can shop at and be reasonably assured that their products aren't made by 6-year old children, and that their cashiers can afford to go to the doctor if they have, oh say, cancer. We bought the place out. We're now set for the first three months of this kid's life.
Except we still need to go pick up the crib. Oh, and the breast pump. It never ends.
But, I will say, the best piece of advice that I've neglected so far, is the parenting websites and magazines lists of essential items for baby. A wipe warmer? Crib bedding that costs $800? Shoes that the kid will wear one time that are $45? No. Thank you for the suggestion, but no.
I'm quite happy with the basics. Well...the rose-covered ballet slippers and the robot onesies might be a bit much but hey, shopping for kids is so much fun!!!
An innocent enough remark, coming from a woman who merely stated it as a 'welcome to the club' type thing. Yet, it was enough to send me into a panic. I've got roughly 45 days left, and at that moment I was crushed under the avalanche of things left to do. My hands started spasming. So, I did what any rational, self-sufficient gal in my position would do. I cried for a few hours, then I went shopping.
Now, I've already had my shower, and was overwhelmed at the amount of giving my friends did. My heart was as full as my car was, and yes, I cried over that as well. It really meant a lot. But, I still didn't have everything I needed, and as my friend Charles is always so quick to point out, "Kate...you could have this child any minute now. I mean, you could have it by the end of this week." So yeah...I ventured out.
In one day, we acquired a kick-ass glider. I found that one on Craigslist, and even though the woman should be shot for charging that much for a used glider, it's worth it. It's got a custom hand-made cushion, in colors that won't make me throw up. It has this delightful creak, that reminds you you're doing important business in the glider. It matches the rug we bought. It's perfect.
After that, it was over to Target, aka, the mega-store I can shop at and be reasonably assured that their products aren't made by 6-year old children, and that their cashiers can afford to go to the doctor if they have, oh say, cancer. We bought the place out. We're now set for the first three months of this kid's life.
Except we still need to go pick up the crib. Oh, and the breast pump. It never ends.
But, I will say, the best piece of advice that I've neglected so far, is the parenting websites and magazines lists of essential items for baby. A wipe warmer? Crib bedding that costs $800? Shoes that the kid will wear one time that are $45? No. Thank you for the suggestion, but no.
I'm quite happy with the basics. Well...the rose-covered ballet slippers and the robot onesies might be a bit much but hey, shopping for kids is so much fun!!!
1.26.2008
TMI Warning
An interesting side effect of pregnancy? I've lost the ability to wipe my own ass. Not the knowledge necessary, of course, but I've simply become to large for the task.
I've been experiencing the problem for a while. I can't turn my head to check the other lanes while driving. I can't bend over, because this belly doesn't fold the way I need it to. I grunt and struggle to get my shoes on. I take back every nasty thing I ever said about the way Crocs look and wear a pair that I stole from my mom.
I have gotten used to a nine-point turn over every time I need to switch sides while lying in bed.
But nothing has prepared me for the events that just unfolded in my bathroom. It started out like every other BM. I went fine. I was even a little relieved that some of my constipation seemed to be gone. Then, I went to wipe. It's at this time that I realize that I can't bring myself into position. Front-to-back, Back-to-front, I just can't reach. Either way, I can kind of half get in there.
It's starting to get disgusting. I'll spare you the goriest of details. Suffice to stand, it took some clever acrobatics and an amazing amount of willpower to get it done.
By this point in time, I've figured out that all women who have already had a child are lying bitches. They talk about how happy an experience it is, and they leave you to find this kind of stuff out on your own. There's no solidarity among us. It's a dog eat dog world, and I think I've finally identified that little gleam in an other woman's eye when she finds out I'm pregnant. It's pure trickery.
I've been experiencing the problem for a while. I can't turn my head to check the other lanes while driving. I can't bend over, because this belly doesn't fold the way I need it to. I grunt and struggle to get my shoes on. I take back every nasty thing I ever said about the way Crocs look and wear a pair that I stole from my mom.
I have gotten used to a nine-point turn over every time I need to switch sides while lying in bed.
But nothing has prepared me for the events that just unfolded in my bathroom. It started out like every other BM. I went fine. I was even a little relieved that some of my constipation seemed to be gone. Then, I went to wipe. It's at this time that I realize that I can't bring myself into position. Front-to-back, Back-to-front, I just can't reach. Either way, I can kind of half get in there.
It's starting to get disgusting. I'll spare you the goriest of details. Suffice to stand, it took some clever acrobatics and an amazing amount of willpower to get it done.
By this point in time, I've figured out that all women who have already had a child are lying bitches. They talk about how happy an experience it is, and they leave you to find this kind of stuff out on your own. There's no solidarity among us. It's a dog eat dog world, and I think I've finally identified that little gleam in an other woman's eye when she finds out I'm pregnant. It's pure trickery.
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