Naked and Hairless

After today, I have the green light on pushing the kid through the chute. Don't hold your breath though, I've still got two weeks (plus or minus a couple of days) and about fourteen projects in my knitting queu to go before we're really ready to be a family of four. Four! Holy Shmoly we've doubled! Four means we can be the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles for Halloween!

Four calls for four appointments.

There is no way around it. Whether natural, or through adoption, or dropped straight from the moon, in order for me to parent someone is going to make me clean my house. The Midwives are coming today for my "home inspection". Not really much of an inspection, just making sure we've got all the goods. (That statement implies so much more than you know.)

If they weren't so creepy looking I'd have a hairless dog. Creepy or not, hairless is good. If you've known me for any length of time, you know I'd like to be hairless. I hate hair. Anywhere. I have an appt. this afternoon for a bikini and brow. I'm trying a new girl and while almost as exciting as dressing up as TMNT, I'm still a little nervous. Please add her to your morning prayers. It would be most inconvenient for me should she have an off day today.

Add Rhonda to the list while you're add it. I'm sure you don't have anything in your life that needs tending to. Spend the day praying that my hair stylist is in her groove, too. I'm hacking it. Short. Short. short. 

And just because I'm in the mood to brag a wee little bit, I'm seeing Carrie the Masseuse tomorrow. Is that the Hallelujah choir I hear? 

I will not be adding pictures when I find my camera cord. I know exactly where my camera cord is. While naked and hairless might be my dream come true, I realize it might not be for everyone. Thank your lucky stars for that.

I Like Big Butts and I Cannot Lie!

A four year-old walked up to my belly and asked how come it got so fat. I told her that there was a baby living inside. She then walked around behind me, put one hand on each cheek and asked, "Well, how come you got lumpy back here?"

Bless the quick witted response from a friend standing close by, "Counter balance!!!"

Just to be safe I registered myself for the Disneyland 5k and Long Beach Half Marathon later this fall. It seems a little ambitious after getting winded vaccuming my closet, but a four year old has given me a complex.

Who has the video of E and Tio singing this? It's a family heirloom and I want a copy. It would've enhanced this post had I had a copy available. Granted, neither would talk to me, but it would've been worth it.

One for the album.

I will never in a million years forgive myself if I forget this. So I am documenting it on The Blog.

Tonight while saying our prayers I was listing things we were thankful for- Papa's job, our house, our family- you know the drill. I then heard Scrunch whisper, "And Crayons."

Say it with me now, "Awwwwwwwww!"

And a virtual Snickers bar to anyone who guessed the movie reference in the post title.

Alibi

You can get away with anything when you're pregnant. You just blame being pregnant and Whalah! It is amazing.

"How are you feeling?" And in my head I'm thinking, "I'm fine. I'm just lazy." But people don't usually say, "I'm a lazy arse who didn't feel like doing anything today, so I didn't." No one blinks an eye. "Oh, you must be tired because you're pregnant." Um, okay. Yeah. Why didn't I think of that?

I am a big eater. Huge even. I regularly finish my Husband's meals whether we're at home or go out to eat. It might be a little overwhelming to some people the mass quantities of food I can consume and not change in shape. But now? No one bats an eye. "Oh, how cute! Preggo just consumed a bathtub's worth of Panda Express! She's eating for two, you know." Um, okay. Yeah. Why didn't I think of that? When in reality I've always been a pig.

"You must be tired." So, a friend with four kids offers, "Why don't you let me take Scrunch so you can take a nap this week?" It took everything in me not to shout "Hell Yeah!!!" But come on? Tired? Raise your hand if you're not tired. That's what I thought. 

My point is...I totally forgot my point.

I forget everything these days. That is not an excuse, it's a scientific fact. Hormones make women's brains mushy. My sister told me about a study she read.

Oh, yes. My point. My point is you can get away with anything. I'm just sorry I didn't figure it out sooner. It will not however prevent the crochety Volunteer PD officer from giving you a ridiculous ticket. I so wish I had jumped out of the car and burst into hysterics rather than eat the $250 bucks. A story for another day.

How many stories do I owe you now? I forget.

Trying to follow the thoughts of a hormonal woman?

Take my advice. Give it up. Do not try to follow the thoughts of a hormonal woman. Just go along for the ride, if you've got the time.

Considering the hormonal roller coaster of the last five years, I would say that the hormones of pregnancy have actually been a stabilizing force. I haven't been this sane in years (or ever). Yes. Hormonal pregnant chick makes this chick better than ever. Chew on that thought.

The hormonal outbursts of tears I like to call "Coming Uncorked" have been for the most part limited to watching 'My Sister's Keeper', a Kid's cancer society commercial, and the night before my husband came home from a way too long for me trip. I think that's pretty good, all things considered.

But I am quickly catching up.  I lay in bed thinking about what I want to say and I haven't been able to. The tears come and I don't write. My baby growing up. Another growing inside. What to get for Birthmother's Day? Mother's Day. Scrunch's little brother. My son. It's all too much.

I am a recovering hormonal infertile chick who is now a hormonal pregnant chick. This makes for some impressive occasional waterworks. There are a couple of times I've come uncorked that I haven't been able to say much about- till today at three a.m. Figures.
 ...

My first consult with The Midwives was not the first place I thought I was going to completely emotionally breakdown. Things rarely happen where and how you think they will.

At our first visit they are going through what you would expect Homebirthing midwives to say...

"Birthing is the most normal process a woman's body undergoes."

"Your body was designed to do this."

And that's when I started sobbing.

"But it's not!" I wailed.

"It hasn't been for me. Hasn't been for most of my friends!"

"Getting." gasp.

"Staying." gasp.

"Pregnant!?!?!"

"It's. not. normal. for. some. of. us."  And blubbering on and on.

This is where I need to interrupt to say that one of my midwives is also an adoptive Mom. She gets it. Gets it all!! and has been an invaluable resource and strength to me since before Scrunch was even born. It has always been understood that if I were to be pregnant, they would deliver me. It means the world to me that my Midwives not only understand, but get what's this has been like for me.  

And so I'm sobbing about how this is not normal for me, and I'm scared it's not going to be, and who knows what else. They let me cry and shared some wisdom and comfort I think you only acquire from being that close to the gates of heaven all the time. I left thinking, "Well, that was pretty. Not. Could've been worse." But most importantly, "Maybe I can do this."

No one has been more surprised than me that this has been a completely normal and even text book pregnancy. From the perfect timing of symptoms to his current presentation. Normal. normal. normal. Like I knew what I was doing or even had anything to do with it. Ha. I don't even know how I got here. Normal- A fact that I have struggled with understanding. How and why? Why now? It's easier if you don't ask these questions and just accept what is.

Erick and Kensley's stories are so intermingled and sacred to me it is just hard to explain. Without her we wouldn't have him. And without him waiting to come, we wouldn't have her. This is truth. Truth that I can't even begin to comprehend, but can only accept as a witness of God's love for his kids.

I do not believe every baby is a blessing. I just don't. Sometimes it is a biological consequence of a sperm meeting an egg and cells dividing. The blessing might come from the choices that are made once the cells divide, or the lessons that are learned from that baby coming to the Earth, or the lessons that baby will learn once it's here.

For me, today, my babies are exactly where they are supposed to be and came exactly how and when they were supposed to get here. One asleep in her big girl bed, and the other not even close to asleep in my belly. 

I think that's where I'll end for the day. Tomorrow you can hear about the second breakdown in front of The Midwives and a room full of strangers. It was not pretty. As far as coming uncorked goes, it could only have been worse had I lost bladder control. It was completely out of nowhere, but I didn't break anything or curse at anyone. Oh, goody!

Outnumbered

Five Dads

Nine kids

Two minivans

Two SUVS

An hour drive

Mucho Cheezits

Lots of sippy cups.

Lost bows

and

Not a single Mommy!

And they ALL survived!!!!!!!!

Non-compliant

Yesterday, my husband called me "Non-compliant" which is nurse speak for "you don't listen to a damn thing anyone tells you." I complain the most about my non-compliant patients, he was quick to point out.  

I'm supposed to be slowing down, keeping my feet up, and resting an hour in the morning and an hour in the afternoon. I am not allowed to have a baby before Friday. He feels like he's going to fall out. I've been told they don't do that. Just watch- just because I can't, he wants to. And after Friday I'll be waiting, and he won't go anywhere and I'll call him non-compliant.

Tonight, we're having hot dogs, grapes, and hopefully Doritos for dinner. I laughed when I realized that the AAP would like to ban our entire meal. Completely non-compliant.

Non-compliant is my new middle name.

At 2:56 a.m.

The lease is about up on the nine month rental of my uterus as a living space.

I am glad.

This is where I could insert a bunch of complaints about being awake, sciatica, heartburn, and all kinds of swollen parts, but that would mean that maybe I didn't learn a damn thing the last five years about gratitude or blessings. There's always the "open mouth, insert foot" lesson that grates on every nerve of a woman who wants and can't (for whatever reason) have (yet).

And though it might seem contrary, this pregnancy has re-confirmed to me over, and over, and over again the AWEsomeness of adoption. I love our birthmom more now than ever.

As a pregnant woman making the choice to place, what do you say to every freaken stranger who asks you about names, your due date, and whether its a boy or a girl? Good hell! It would take a lot of strength not to break down every trip to the grocery store.

If I had a nickel for every time I've been asked how much longer I have this week, I'd cash them in and take his first vacation in the Bahamas. But for as done as I'm getting with the soccer punches on my cervix, there is no physical hurdle that compares to the act of placing a child.

A birthmom gets the worst of both worlds. You've got to love bigger than the whole earth for something like that.

That's what I needed to get off my chest at 2:56am.

Merry Christmas!

Besides having hair like Catherine Zeta-Jones (lets hate her for that), getting her Master's Degree at 23, teaching Special Ed in the ghetto, and being a wiz in the kitchen, my sister also gives the best Christmas presents ever!

She gifted me maternity yoga clothes at Christmas time and informed me that she would come and cook during her Spring Break. She also doesn't lie.

32 assorted meals prepped and ready in the freezer.

We cleaned up the mess with the second best present ever, my Hoover FloorMate from my mom. Christmas gifting must be a genetic trait.

Loves to you both. Had I had to do it without you, you'd have had to listen to me whine and moan. Now you both can rest easy that your favorite two year old will not starve while her mother figures out where she's going to get another set of hands. Maybe next Christmas?

Vacuum

Yesterday I sent Scrunch outside to play with her Papa and I finally sat down with a sponge, a bucket of soapy water, the duster, and my dust pan to clean my vacuum. For almost forty-five minutes I lovingly removed every part. I washed, rinsed, and laid them out to dry. I removed all the loose strands of string, yarn, and embroidery floss from the roller brush, and cleansed all the cleaning tool bristles.  You should worry about how truly happy I was for those forty-five minutes.

The women in my family have a slight problem when it comes to the vacuum. By problem I mean obsession. My mother wears them out. Regularly. She has more vacuums than t.v.s. I know incriminating vacuum stories about my aunt that I do not have permission as of yet to share.

As a child, I was schooled in the art of vacuum tracks and as an adult nothing reduces stress and anxiety more than seeing those tracks across my living room floor. It's weird, I know. Weirder yet is that we might all end up with matching urns.

The family that vacuums together, stays together. Or something like that.

Some Scrunch Stuff

My car floor was never going to be covered in Cheerios, or craisins and filled with kid crap. Now I have designed and am in the process of writing a pattern for a backseat organizer.

I was never going to let the t.v. babysit my kid. Now Sesame Street is when I vacuum, shower, or pee all by myself.

I used to mourn the inability to breastfeed Scrunch, until this week. I saw her bite the nipple off the bottle. Off! For the love! I think I'll be weaning at the first sign of teeth.

I used to wonder where all the missing socks went. Now I know that two year olds know. After twenty minutes in my closet, they are wherever all the shoelaces ended up.

She informed both husband and I this evening that the baby's name will be "Coco". Poor baby brother. There's no doubt he will be dressed up in tu-tus and made a practice dummy for the perfection of cosmetics application.

She also informed me last week that she "just need to borrow this" as she walked out of the bathroom with my lipgloss.

Oy.

What's the "norm" anyway?

"But you're so normal?"

I have to laugh when I hear that. Like when people find out just how strong some of my political leanings are. How can I stand to live in Northern California? How strong most of my opinions on anything are. Or that (gasp) I am a Mormon. That one kills me everytime. As if membership in the church or more importantly spirituality or having a personal relationship with God and the Savior is reserved for those that don't eat chocolate or jump on the trampoline on Sunday.

Most recently it came up at a Board Meeting when discussing the planning of activities. I mentioned using vinegar and lemon to clean and cloth diapering. The woman sitting accrossed from me's jaw dropped open, "You do that?"

"Yeah."

"But you're so normal."

***
One of the most awkward situations in my entire life besides why I always, always, ALWAYS knock when entering any closed door, was when I attended a class on cloth diapering at a local woman's group.

I had been doing cloth diapering since day one. I just wanted to see if there was something more I could learn. I walked into a group that fit every stereotypical connotation of an "organic cloth diapering mama." I stuck out like a sore thumb what with my sparkly sandals, big sun glasses, and (gasp) foundation- let alone mascara. The women were rude and talked to me like I was an idiot. I left totally bummed and disappointed. I realized then and there a very important lesson. One which I spewed in response to a comment I recently read on Facebook.

Original Comment-

"If the image of the dread lock wearing peace mongering alternative lifestyle, kind, loving person with a bumper sticker that says “my karma ran over your dogma” in a Subaru gets your nose in the air and inspires images of hell fire and damnation wrapped in Old Glory, maybe you should think about who is more “Christian” in this scenario. Who WOULD Jesus Bomb?"

"I am proud to consider myself among what many apparently angry and guilt ridden individuals call a hippie, liberal, alternative whatever or counter-culturalist. I want to thank them for including me in the kindest gentlest and most loving group of people on the planet - that actually live principles of peace rather than just preach them - and thank them for not lumping me in with their war, organized religion , hatred of lifestyles etc. Its a badge of honor to me and I wear it proudly. Thanks again to whoever the nasty shoe fits :)"

My response-

Hold up a sec...

Isn't that kind of assuming that the hippie, peace loving, Subaru driving, complete with bumper stickers didn't call me an f-ing bitch when I accidentally cut him off in my too huge for my face sunglasses, leather jacket, and SUV? Not because I intended to run the guy/gal who may or may not be a nut job off the road, but because my two year old dropped her BPA free sippy cup.
 
He might have noticed my wedding ring and my husband's alma mater baseball cap in the dash and made some assumptions about me. Not knowing that while I am associated with organized religion, support war, and don't hate people but can not agree with certain choices, I also cloth diaper, buy organic, and that same husband is preparing to hike the John Muir Trail- a feat you don't accomplish without recognizing the importance of conservation and respecting our Earth's resources.

Just this morning at the hotel breakfast there was a story about the Feds busting a sushi place in CA for serving whale meat. My outloud and instant reaction was, "Ewww gross. There's so much to eat, why whale?" The obviously hippie, so called peaceloving dude in the same room's comment was, "We're so hyprocritical when it comes to whales. We keep them in the giant fish tanks. I'm glad that one girl got eaten. Sea World should be shut down" Ouch!

Just sayin'. It goes both ways. Being judgmental is not exclusive to a certain "type" of person.
***
Just sayin'. Who gets to define "normal" anyway?

TDBD

I have this- "TDBD" written at the top of four, maybe eight running lists right now. And they just keep getting longer, and longer, and longer as I get lazier, and lazier, and lazier.

It stands for 'To Do Before Dude'.

List

• Once A Month Cooking
• Six more days of work
• Clean my closet
• Find the carseat
• Gather up all the stuff for birth
• Go see Carrie the Masseuse

Knitting List

• Duck Booties
• Dinosaur Bib
• Monkey Hats
• ZigZag Pram Blanket
• Cotton Cocoon
• Kiddie Cadet
• Tractor Booties
• Skateboarder Felted Doll
• Tiger Stamped
• LegWarmies

Sewing List

• Hooter Hider
• Finish E Pillow
• Put binding on flannel blankets
• Crib Skirt
• Fabric shades
• Big Sister present for Scrunch
• Add panel to existing curtains
• Scrunch's bedskirt

Painting List

• Finish painting kitchen
• Family room
• Little Dude's room
• Scrunch's headboard
• Two nightstands

Um. Yeah.

So when he's eight we might have mostly painted walls and eat a decent meal around here. He can put the Duck Booties on his G.I. Joe, and Scrunch can wear the hooter hider over her swimming suit at the beach. Awesome.

Duh! I meant, 'To Do Before Dude Hits Puberty'. You didn't actually think I'd accomplish most of this in the next six weeks, did you? Only one of us was that dumb. I'm much smarter now.

Linking to something should almost count as having actually accomplished it. The knits are actually the top priority. You don't have to get out of the recliner to knit.

How to Torture This Very Pregnant, Very Hormonal Momma

1. Fly around the world without leaving a detailed handbook/tutorial on how to properly conduct the bedtime routine so Scrunch will stay in bed.

2. Take pictures of every delectable dish you consumed and that I likely never will.

3. Get me hooked on chocolate almond bars that don't make me puke but are not available on this continent.

4. Come home, be the hero and Scrunch's favorite person in the universe, and then think that this is going to get you off the hook.

Rather than Write

I gave my blog a make-over.

Yay or Nay?