An Obsession With Fur

World, meet Sid. Sid is my Valentine's Day present from Baby Daddy. Now, some of you out there actually know Baby Daddy. He's not exactly the "get my girl a stuffed animal for V-Day" kind of guy. So what prompted this sweetness? Pregnancy, of course.

It's a proven fact that pregnant women are slightly nuts. We can get away with it, our hormones are raging and we're uncomfortable for nine months. My insanity has manifested itself in a need to cuddle. Not with a baby, or with Baby Daddy, or with strangers at the fabric store. I yearn to cuddle an orangutan. Now, it didn't start out as an orangutan. It started out as just a need to hold a furry animal. I really wanted a big furry hug. It was so bad, I was on the couch sobbing because there was nothing available. Yes, I actually priced out tickets to a monkey retreat in China. We went to the store and found this furry, blue blanket and I would sit on the couch and wrap up in it, and be somewhat sated.

Then, I found my savior. 'Orangutan Island.' This show is the greatest thing in the history of television. Greater than 'Twin Peaks.' Greater than 'Top Chef.' Greater than the 1984 Apple ad. It follows the lives of dozens of orangutans living on a rescue island in Borneo.

Now, I sit on the couch on Friday nights, wrapped up in my furry, blue blanket, watching 'Orangutan Island' crying my eyes out with joy.

And now, I can do it 24/7. I've already started rocking him!

Her Crib!

 
We got the crib all set up this weekend. It's too freaking cute. Oh, and yes, that is under the sea creatures, monkey and bananas and robots. I told you this would be a diverse child.

Oddly Appropriate Intrusive Action, Australia...

First, the news story:

http://www.news.com.au/adelaidenow/story/0,22606,23196087-911,00.html

Parents who children are on the path as sociopaths in Australia are soon to find themselves with a bit more free time to take care of the problem. For their children's multiple indiscretions, they will be required to sign parenting agreements to spend more face-to-face time with their kids, send them to treatment programs and attend parenting classes. Failure to comply could result in TV's and stereos being taken away.

So, at first, I wanted to cry outrage that the government would step in and take such drastic steps. Then, the more I thought about it, the more I applaud these actions. Parents who refuse to take the steps necessary to reign in their unruly children are being held accountable, thus effectively putting an end to that parenting cry "I just can't do anything with that kid."

No longer will parents be allowed to sit and watch Dr. Phil takes care of other people's problems for them, while they ignore the problems at home.

Television is interesting. It shows the drama of other people, thus allowing the viewer to lose themselves in these worlds, at the expense of losing touch with their own world. Some might argue that television created this problem in the first place, broadcasting violent images, or distracting parents that should be paying attention to their own kids. But, I do know that this big of a punishment will probably spur a lot more parents into action.

But to avoid this in the first place, limit TV time to begin with. Sure, a few shows a day won't hurt a kid. I watched plenty of television as a child, as still harbored a love for reading and being outside. But, families who come home from school and work, plop down in front of the tube and keep it on until bedtime will never fully realize the problems they are creating in their own homes.

So, let me know what you think of this new Australian law. I'm interested to hear what others have to say about it.

Tag!

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!!"

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!!!

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.

First Rule of Fight Club...

...don't have fight club in Mommy's belly. Please.

So, I've been getting these great little flutters from the baby. Sort of like gas, but it's adorable, because, you know...it's your unborn child and everything. All were greeted with the appropriate response, I grab Matt's hand and we gaze into each other's eyes, swooning with delight at the active little person we've managed to create.

Which brings us to this morning. I wake up at 4:30am, getting the crap beaten out of me from the inside. I'm not seriously begging for this to be a boy, because I'm not sure I can handle a girl child that is holding in that much aggression.

That was nearly 8 hours ago. It hasn't stopped. You know how when your neighbor is doing construction, and it's loud and you want it to stop, and finally it does and right around the time you get comfy again, after ten minutes of perfect silence, they start the saw back up? That's how this feels.

I get it. You're cute. You're alive and happy to be swimming around in my belly. But, if Mommy doesn't get some sleep soon, it won't be pretty for any of us.

Besides that, everything is going super! Pregnancy really is a joy, and all jokes aside, I'm not sure if I would take back this ass kicking for anything. In two more weeks, we get to find out if it is indeed a masculine child, like all the kind strangers at HEB keep insisting, or if it's a girl. I'll keep you guys posted!

(First published: December 20, 2007)