I don't know why I included a baseball reference in the title. Other than it is the only reference I can think of right now related to the #7. Seven being the number of months pregnant I will be on Easter Sunday.
As this blog is my journal and my blog, thought I would take a minute to jot down some recent stats (more baseball - and I'm not even a fan):
I've gained 24 lbs so far.
I'm still doing yoga, but mostly at home. When I was recovering from a miscarriage and trying to get pregnant, the yoga studio was my safe space. I'm sensitive about interjecting my obvious belly into someone else's safe space, so just in case, I explained to my instructor that I'd be practicing at home for the most part. I do a very slow, modified Ashtanga practice or a kick-ass prenatal yoga DVD. Bending over in yoga is getting tough, so I may be trying out a prenatal class soon.
I passed my gestational diabetes test.
Since I am Rh-negative, the antibodies test came back as predicted. Yet another shot of Rho-Gam.
I failed my anemia test and now must take 325mg (!) of iron a day. At first I thought this was no biggie, but then quickly realized that most iron supplements come in 25mg doses, which equals a heck of a lot of iron pills each day.
We signed up for a 529 college plan.
We have started working on "the room." Will post pictures when there is more to show than paint on the walls and pieces of a crib stacked in the corner waiting for assembly. Right now I am re-finishing a vintage secretary-style desk to use as a changing table. It is slow going because I cannot use any chemicals (hand sanding is so fun!) and wear a mask and gloves for safety. I will be pestering this blogger soon for curtain sewing tips.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Monday, March 17, 2008
Frienemies
Do guys have frienemies?
I’m beginning to think that one of Cowboy’s close friends might qualify.
To preface, since pre-Ms. Planner, Cowboy has maintained a close group of friends from college. Many of them live nearby. I’ll come home to find one of them in the garage or drinking a beer in our kitchen after a round of golf. I like this about Cowboy and his posse.
All have wives and children. As such, we congregate every so often for birthdays; summer holidays at someone’s cabin or lake house. We are the youngest and last couple to add children to the mix. Some of their children are old enough to babysit ours.
I would not have chosen to be friends with most of these folks were it not for Cowboy. We get along. They make me laugh (mostly). But we don’t have much in common save for our love for Cowboy. That being said, I respect his bond with his friends and don’t want to do anything to jeopardize it.
HOWEVER…
He has one particular friend – a stay-at-home dad – who is starting to drive me insane with his negative comments about child rearing. Here I am, trying - after a long time of sadness – to be genuinely happy. And he seems intent on imparting on a steady stream of "let’s get a rise out of Cowboy and bring down the pregnant lady" with his sage stories about raising his only child, a girl, now 7.
Let’s see. There are endless stories of baby excrement. Especially related to changing the diapers of little girls. The story – told on several occasions - of when his daughter puked and it got in his mouth. Don’t ask. Stories about leaky swim diapers. Scoffing when Cowboy and I bring up the concept of maybe using cloth diapers. Badgering me as to when are we getting a playpen for the boat. Although he knows Cowboy absolutely doesn’t want a playpen in the boat (I know you had a playpen in your boat but I prefer to hold my baby in our boat – thankyouverymuch). Generally how our lives will suck after having a kid.
Our theories and desires (and, admittedly at this point, they are just theories) are met with the proverbial: ha-ha-ha-oh-you-new-clueless-parents-just-you-wait attitude. Yesterday, his unrelenting spew took me to a point I hate in myself: I let loose a snotty and indignant comment, something to the effect of, "yes, I believe I’ve heard that story from you ten times," which brought the conversation in a large group of people to a complete halt. Nice one.
I don’t want to surround myself with people like him. I prefer positive-thinking these days. I need positive thinking. There is so much stacked against a new mom what with the hormones, the questioning of one’s self confidence, the inevitable sleep deprivation, the changing body, etc., that I need those who will build us up not bring us down.
Stay away from this guy is the easy answer. Except that he and Cowboy go water skiing once a week. Water skiing season is just around the corner. I watch his daughter while the guys go out on the river after work for a ski session. No one can figure out why his wife can’t leave work at 5 pm just one night a week so the guys can have guy time. So I watch the child for Cowboy’s sake because he is annoyed to no end by her behavior on the boat. Sigh.
Any ideas on how I can stem the tide of negativity without impacting my husband’s long standing friendship?
You know, writing about this seems very self-indulgent when there many out there close to me who are suffering in ways that are so much more poignant and real than this. I guess with all the sadness afloat, I am just feeling a tad more sensitive these days.
I’m beginning to think that one of Cowboy’s close friends might qualify.
To preface, since pre-Ms. Planner, Cowboy has maintained a close group of friends from college. Many of them live nearby. I’ll come home to find one of them in the garage or drinking a beer in our kitchen after a round of golf. I like this about Cowboy and his posse.
All have wives and children. As such, we congregate every so often for birthdays; summer holidays at someone’s cabin or lake house. We are the youngest and last couple to add children to the mix. Some of their children are old enough to babysit ours.
I would not have chosen to be friends with most of these folks were it not for Cowboy. We get along. They make me laugh (mostly). But we don’t have much in common save for our love for Cowboy. That being said, I respect his bond with his friends and don’t want to do anything to jeopardize it.
HOWEVER…
He has one particular friend – a stay-at-home dad – who is starting to drive me insane with his negative comments about child rearing. Here I am, trying - after a long time of sadness – to be genuinely happy. And he seems intent on imparting on a steady stream of "let’s get a rise out of Cowboy and bring down the pregnant lady" with his sage stories about raising his only child, a girl, now 7.
Let’s see. There are endless stories of baby excrement. Especially related to changing the diapers of little girls. The story – told on several occasions - of when his daughter puked and it got in his mouth. Don’t ask. Stories about leaky swim diapers. Scoffing when Cowboy and I bring up the concept of maybe using cloth diapers. Badgering me as to when are we getting a playpen for the boat. Although he knows Cowboy absolutely doesn’t want a playpen in the boat (I know you had a playpen in your boat but I prefer to hold my baby in our boat – thankyouverymuch). Generally how our lives will suck after having a kid.
Our theories and desires (and, admittedly at this point, they are just theories) are met with the proverbial: ha-ha-ha-oh-you-new-clueless-parents-just-you-wait attitude. Yesterday, his unrelenting spew took me to a point I hate in myself: I let loose a snotty and indignant comment, something to the effect of, "yes, I believe I’ve heard that story from you ten times," which brought the conversation in a large group of people to a complete halt. Nice one.
I don’t want to surround myself with people like him. I prefer positive-thinking these days. I need positive thinking. There is so much stacked against a new mom what with the hormones, the questioning of one’s self confidence, the inevitable sleep deprivation, the changing body, etc., that I need those who will build us up not bring us down.
Stay away from this guy is the easy answer. Except that he and Cowboy go water skiing once a week. Water skiing season is just around the corner. I watch his daughter while the guys go out on the river after work for a ski session. No one can figure out why his wife can’t leave work at 5 pm just one night a week so the guys can have guy time. So I watch the child for Cowboy’s sake because he is annoyed to no end by her behavior on the boat. Sigh.
Any ideas on how I can stem the tide of negativity without impacting my husband’s long standing friendship?
You know, writing about this seems very self-indulgent when there many out there close to me who are suffering in ways that are so much more poignant and real than this. I guess with all the sadness afloat, I am just feeling a tad more sensitive these days.
Monday, March 10, 2008
There once was a cowboy from Nantucket...
There once was a Cowboy from Portland.
Blood, needles and gore, he could not stand.
So imagine his chagrin,
When his knocked up wife said to him:
As I see it, you will be in L&D holding my hand.
# # #
I am bit late posting my limerick. Oops. This limerick was inspired by our recent hiring of a doula to assist with Missy's birth.
It may sound like I am picking on my husband at bit. And I am. For as rough and tumble as he is, Cowboy does not do messy, medical stuff well. The guy doesn't watch Grey's or ER, and House - forget it. He doesn't even like to take Gus to the vet.
Although we both know deep down that he would regret not being in the delivery room, he is downright terrified of it.
In fact, part of him would be secretly happy to play out the 1950's father-to-be in the waiting room, handing out bottles of local microbrews that read, "It's a Girl!" instead of cigars (smoking anything but mary jane is so not PC in Portland).
I confided this to my OB during my first pregnancy. Oh how naive of me to be thinking of such things in the first trimester, as I learned the hard way. Anyway, she said you'd be surprised at the number of dads who excuse themselves from the room during the sketchy parts of birth. She suggested hiring a doula, as much for Cowboy if not for myself.
I had never heard of a doula. My informal canvassing for those who have had a doula assist at their births turned up a slew of local friends and acquaintances who have used them with success.
While I was doing my canvassing, turns out Cowboy was doing his. He began offering some of his male friends who are firefighters (and therefore must have been trained to deliver a baby, right?) cases of beer to be our doula.
Nice.
No way, I told him. Besides you'd probably have to at least buy them a fifth of whiskey to make the offer even remotely attractive. But, I reasoned with him, if we had a real doula helping out, it would free him up to take ocassional jaunts down to the restaurants on NW 23rd if it all became too much and he found himself needing a break. (Conventiently, our hospital is adjacent to one of the hottest restaurant and bar streets in the city).
He spent an afternoon mulling this over and then announced he wanted a doula - and not the firefighter kind. Whew.
So we found one that I think will be a good match for our style. She comes to our house twice before the birth for personal birth classes. If I want, she will come to our house when I am in early labor. She will advise us when to head for the hospital. And will stay there for the entire birth. She then does two more visits to our house to help with breastfeeding and any other post-partum issues immediately following the birth.
Sounds like a party for her.
The point of us hiring a doula is not to abdicate our responsibility in the process, but to create the best odds of having a positive experience. Again, this might be our only chance to have it. I don't want to snap at Cowboy and make an already tense situation worse. I don't expect him to get all mushy and cut the cord and look in the mirror (good Lord, no mirrors, please). I just want him to never regret that he was in the room when his daughter arrives. As much as I don't want him to regret that he wasn't in there because it got too intense.
And if that means he stays "uptown" only and gets the random PBR break, I'm all for it.
Blood, needles and gore, he could not stand.
So imagine his chagrin,
When his knocked up wife said to him:
As I see it, you will be in L&D holding my hand.
# # #
I am bit late posting my limerick. Oops. This limerick was inspired by our recent hiring of a doula to assist with Missy's birth.
It may sound like I am picking on my husband at bit. And I am. For as rough and tumble as he is, Cowboy does not do messy, medical stuff well. The guy doesn't watch Grey's or ER, and House - forget it. He doesn't even like to take Gus to the vet.
Although we both know deep down that he would regret not being in the delivery room, he is downright terrified of it.
In fact, part of him would be secretly happy to play out the 1950's father-to-be in the waiting room, handing out bottles of local microbrews that read, "It's a Girl!" instead of cigars (smoking anything but mary jane is so not PC in Portland).
I confided this to my OB during my first pregnancy. Oh how naive of me to be thinking of such things in the first trimester, as I learned the hard way. Anyway, she said you'd be surprised at the number of dads who excuse themselves from the room during the sketchy parts of birth. She suggested hiring a doula, as much for Cowboy if not for myself.
I had never heard of a doula. My informal canvassing for those who have had a doula assist at their births turned up a slew of local friends and acquaintances who have used them with success.
While I was doing my canvassing, turns out Cowboy was doing his. He began offering some of his male friends who are firefighters (and therefore must have been trained to deliver a baby, right?) cases of beer to be our doula.
Nice.
No way, I told him. Besides you'd probably have to at least buy them a fifth of whiskey to make the offer even remotely attractive. But, I reasoned with him, if we had a real doula helping out, it would free him up to take ocassional jaunts down to the restaurants on NW 23rd if it all became too much and he found himself needing a break. (Conventiently, our hospital is adjacent to one of the hottest restaurant and bar streets in the city).
He spent an afternoon mulling this over and then announced he wanted a doula - and not the firefighter kind. Whew.
So we found one that I think will be a good match for our style. She comes to our house twice before the birth for personal birth classes. If I want, she will come to our house when I am in early labor. She will advise us when to head for the hospital. And will stay there for the entire birth. She then does two more visits to our house to help with breastfeeding and any other post-partum issues immediately following the birth.
Sounds like a party for her.
The point of us hiring a doula is not to abdicate our responsibility in the process, but to create the best odds of having a positive experience. Again, this might be our only chance to have it. I don't want to snap at Cowboy and make an already tense situation worse. I don't expect him to get all mushy and cut the cord and look in the mirror (good Lord, no mirrors, please). I just want him to never regret that he was in the room when his daughter arrives. As much as I don't want him to regret that he wasn't in there because it got too intense.
And if that means he stays "uptown" only and gets the random PBR break, I'm all for it.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Tagged: 6 Non-Important Quirks
My new friend from Still Passing Open Windows tagged me to share "Six Non-Important Quirks" about myself. After last week's imperfect-day post, it is high time for a light-hearted antidote.
Below are the rules for the meme:
1) Link to the person who tagged you.
2) Post the rules.
3) Share six non-important things / habits / quirks about yourself.
4) Tag at least three people.
5) Be sure the people you tagged KNOW you tagged them by commenting what you did.
Six Non-Important Quirks About Me
#1. The undergarments I wear on a given day must match in color. No beige bra / black panties combo. All black or all beige.
#2. I pre-wash the dishes and silverware in soapy water before putting them in the dishwasher.
#3. More dishwasher anal-ness: I load it a certain way and have been known to re-arrange dishes if they don't pass organizational muster. Insane, I know.
#4. I cannot stand litter and pick up pieces of trash in my neighborhood as I walk Gus.
#5. I own more pairs of trail running shoes than street shoes.
#6. I always buy a package of Swedish Fish when I shop at IKEA. I know they sell them at Target and other stores, but - for some reason - they don't taste the same to me.
I realized after reading the first four quirks that I sound a lot like Bree from "Desperate Housewives." Oh well. It is what it is.
Now I tag:
Precious Little (hopefully this will provide momentary respite during your 2WW)
Waiting Amy (to see how well she is going to fit in with life in L.A. - ha!)
Weebles Wobblog (because I am sure they will be entertaining to read)
Now I am off to work on my St. Patrick's Day limerick. Pity I can't use "Nantucket" in it.
Below are the rules for the meme:
1) Link to the person who tagged you.
2) Post the rules.
3) Share six non-important things / habits / quirks about yourself.
4) Tag at least three people.
5) Be sure the people you tagged KNOW you tagged them by commenting what you did.
Six Non-Important Quirks About Me
#1. The undergarments I wear on a given day must match in color. No beige bra / black panties combo. All black or all beige.
#2. I pre-wash the dishes and silverware in soapy water before putting them in the dishwasher.
#3. More dishwasher anal-ness: I load it a certain way and have been known to re-arrange dishes if they don't pass organizational muster. Insane, I know.
#4. I cannot stand litter and pick up pieces of trash in my neighborhood as I walk Gus.
#5. I own more pairs of trail running shoes than street shoes.
#6. I always buy a package of Swedish Fish when I shop at IKEA. I know they sell them at Target and other stores, but - for some reason - they don't taste the same to me.
I realized after reading the first four quirks that I sound a lot like Bree from "Desperate Housewives." Oh well. It is what it is.
Now I tag:
Precious Little (hopefully this will provide momentary respite during your 2WW)
Waiting Amy (to see how well she is going to fit in with life in L.A. - ha!)
Weebles Wobblog (because I am sure they will be entertaining to read)
Now I am off to work on my St. Patrick's Day limerick. Pity I can't use "Nantucket" in it.
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