Forgive me if I'm not a believer

I just read this piece about how during pregnancy all these people volunteer to babysit and when the little booger finally comes into the world, people head for the hills, or the casino. This makes me feel better for believing that my mom is full of crap. She talks a good game. "I need to get a crib for the house." "I'm going to put up some baby decor on the walls." "I need to buy out Babies 'R' Us so that the baby has everything he needs here." She has somehow managed to convince herself that she will sacrifice her super cool life to take care of "our baby" as she calls him. I say, emphatically, "YEAH RIGHT."

My mom has way more of a life than I do. Her job can be likened to the commander-in-chief of a small nation. So even if her thriving social life went on hiatus, she still has her professional obligations that make it impossible to get a hold of her before 7pm (and that's if I'm lucky). Therefore, I am skeptical that my dear mother will actually step up to the plate when John and I want to go to chicken wing night or check out the new Denzel movie.

A few other friends have also volunteered their super nanny services, but I don't believe them. Not that I'm bothered by this. Just as I never offer to help people move - in fact I make it clear that I DON'T help people move - I never offer to help take care of children. After all, children are rude and dirty and cry babies. If I have to put up with any of those qualities, I better be permitted to scold, bathe, and pacify with controlled substances (joking, people). The only way you can do that stuff while avoiding any kind of awkwardness is if that kid belongs to you. So let's just say I'm saving myself for my own little monster. It's karmic.

Oh, it's also that I won't trust anyone with my first-born. The second kid will be a different story...

If I'm glowing, it's because I'm on FIRE

Who the hell LIKES being pregnant? Your body turns to shit. You can't have a martini. Assholes judge you for drinking Diet Coke. I'm so sick of answering the old, "Are you planning to breastfeed?" Why do people care? They won't be personally responsible if my boy doesn't get the IQ points to get him into Harvard. They're not going to be the ones getting up in the middle of the night to deal with ear infections. And they're certainly not going to be paying out of their own pockets for the OH SO EXPENSIVE FORMULA. (Jesus fucking Christ, if one more person bitches about the cost of formula... What the hell? Is bringing an actual human being into the world supposed to be free? It costs money to feed me. Should it not cost money to feed my kid?)

I walked six miles yesterday and it was like I wasn't even pregnant. Like the baby didn't even care. Like he's all, "Six miles? So what? I don't care. I'm going to hang out longer. I'm going to stay in until they force me out in October."

I'm trying to keep a cool head about this because thinking about it only makes it worse. It probably wouldn't bother me so much if it weren't so fucking hot. This ridiculous heat is making me extremely unproductive. All the stuff that I need to take care of is in the hottest places in my house. I need to do work in my office. Too fucking hot. I need to clean my office. Too fucking hot. I especially need to clean out the garage. Too fucking hot. We are slaves to our bedroom. All we can do is hang out in the bedroom with the air con at full blast.

I am in a crabby mood because, in addition to this heat, I had a gross lunch today.

Since John is still taking his nap and I'm bored, I'm going to keep ranting. You want to open yourself up to a world of judgement? Go ahead and have a kid. EVERYONE will judge you. I do. I judge parents all the time. I think mothers who don't have their children on schedules are stupid. I think mothers who quit having a life because of motherhood are even stupider. And don't even get me started on those fuckers who "love being pregnant." But don't worry. You can be sure that I'll get mine. I will be judged in kind for being selfish, uncaring, crass, etc. But once my kid starts developing into this human being who is smart, independent, thoughtful, helpful, and awesome like his pops, I will have the last laugh.

I could go on about post-partum flabby bellies, the destruction of a sex life, and how I am totally going to use my kid as an excuse to blow off lame social obligations but John just woke up.

Time to get a decent meal.

4, 3, 2, 1...

Four weeks to go. It's weird because now I know a few more people who are knocked up (my college roommate for Pete's sake!) and asking me for advice. What do I know about anything? I'm only partially psychic.

So where are we at? Well, stretch marks have invaded but the general public doesn't get to see those. Could be worse I guess. My belly may be gross but after watching hundreds of A Baby Story episodes, I've definitely seen way worse. My skin, however, is fantastic. (I hope I'm not speaking too soon.) I heard that you get this funky skin and dark spots and all kinds of horrors. I'm pretty sure I have the same skin I had ten months ago. And for that, I rejoice.

The most curious development is that I have conceded to John's wishes for A/C. I don't know if it's this heat wave or the baby's really cooking or what. But I've spent the last two nights sleeping in John's office - the only room with air con. I can no longer bear to sleep in my own bed.

Yesterday we did our Labor and Delivery tour where I learned of access to a DVD/VCR player in the delivery room. This is fantastic news because I plan to watch The Karate Kid around the clock until this boy comes out. Woohoo.

WAY Before Me

Let's be honest. My chances of failing at this parenting thing are pretty good. It requires a selflessness that I just can't seem to reconcile with. I'll need to be more responsible and considerate. It'll require a discipline that has escaped me since about the time I was six. And, of course, the words I constantly hear over and over and over are Jackie Kennedy's: "If you bungle raising your children, I don't think whatever else you do well matters very much." Fucking great. I've never cared for the late Mrs. Kennedy and now she haunts me with what seems to be an undeniable truth.

Here is how I am already failing as a mother:

1. Sometimes, I forget to take my prenatal vitamin. When I do remember, I am sometimes too lazy to get up and take it.

2. I still drink Diet Coke regularly.

3. I just got highlights. Unsatisfied with the results, I will probably go back to the salon to get more highlights.

4. I decided to re-decorate my bedroom first before starting to work on the nursery.

5. I think I am developing a deep love affair with cheesecake.

6. I never gave up deli meats and I think I eat a corndog every other day.

7. My arguments for not breastfeeding are purely self-serving.

8. There's so much to do to get ready for our new dude but I'd rather watch TV instead.

9. On the top of my post-partum to-do list is "Enjoy a fabulous martini."

10. I still hate sleeping on my left side.

Oh I could go on and on. I don't drink enough water, I should exercise more, I need to put more money away for the kid's college instead of buying myself a new pair of shoes, etc.

Will I ever learn to put the little guy way before me? Does one give birth to that instinct along with the placenta? Quien sabe.

This Week's Crisis

Have I ever been so neurotic in all my life? Dubious.

This week's crisis stems from my super fabulous bachelorette getaway weekend in Phoenix. (No, I'm not the bachelorette. I'm still a traditional girl and I think it's nice to be married and THEN have the kids.) But my homie Chrissy is getting hitched so in a backwards-ass bachelorette party, she treated her three friends (I know, right?) to this spectacular getaway at this spa resort in Phoenix. One of our party, Joyce, is a doctor. She made some remark that I shouldn't be sleeping on my back because it'll be pressing down on important arteries. Meanwhile, I was thinking I was super great because I had weened myself off of sleeping on my stomach. Furthermore, of course I take this piece of advice to DOOM and GLOOM proportions, thinking I am killing myself and my child.

So now I've spent this week trying to train myself to sleep on my side. My LEFT side, because that's the best way for the baby to get blood and nutrients and all the life he sucks out of me. (Does this mean that I have been eating spinach in vain???) Holy shit, sleeping on your side is the most goddamn uncomfortable thing I have had to contend with throughout this whole pregnancy so far. It has made sleep this week a nightmare. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. If I can't sleep on my back, or my stomach, can I sleep sitting up? I think that would be way more comfortable than my side.

I know, I'm such a baby. I'll keep trying...

Sail Away, Sail Away, Sail Away

So after much dragging of the feet and indecision, I finally booked our 5th Anniversary getaway. Earlier this year, we had big plans to maybe hit up Rome but then I took on all this summer work and by the time my schedule clears, I won't be able to travel anymore, lest I give birth on a transatlantic flight or something.

The magical destination: A 4 Night Cruise to Baja. I know, I know, doesn't sound all that exotic given the last three major vacations I've taken have included Europe and Asia (twice). Truth of the matter is I've never been south of Ensenada. This thing will at least take us down to Cabo. The point of this trip is to squeeze in some last moments of peace and love before the little dude comes and turns our world upside down. Life has been pretty crazy for us this year, and this upcoming summer is no exception. I literally have one free weekend until late August.

With two weddings, a quinceanera, and a baptism (all events in which John and I are major players) and a bunch of showers, this will be a welcome break. I kind of miss not having anything to do. Guess I won't be feeling like that for another twenty or so years.

Status Report

So now that I've started to develop a relationship with Little Two, here's what's happening. I've started reading to him. His first bedtime story book is The Outsiders, which happens to be his father's favorite. I've seen the movie but had never read the book so it's new to me too. Pretty good read.

He's kicking a whole lot. He used to only kick in the early morning and late at night. Now he's kicking in the afternoon too. He was kicking hard today and got in a couple of punches as well. I think I will get him into karate classes as soon as he's eligible.

I've also started daydreaming about what the kid might be when he grows up. Today, I thought about him being a motorcross racer - which is out of left field because motorcross is something I don't know much about or even care about. Maybe he'll be an illustrator. If he decides to become an actor, I'm cutting him out of the will.

Today I was also hoping my kid isn't that one kid that all the other parents want to keep their kids away from. Like he's a real jerk or something. I will only have myself to blame. I also hope he's not a dork. I already have too many expectations for him which will undoubtedly give him some kind of complex. My poor little boy.

Houston, we have a problem

So I was all stuck up about this pregnancy, thinking, "Man, I look great. I feel great. I'm not eating THAT much more. This is going to be a breeze."

Like most things associated with this whole breeding thing, I suspect I am underestimating a lot here. Especially the eating part. Because I just went to Wal-Mart (by myself, at night) and stocked up on corn dogs, ice cream, canned peaches, and apple sauce. And that;s just for today and maybe tomorrow. I will probably finish the pint, if not 3/4 of the pint, tonight. In my non-breeding days, I could maybe eat five or so spoonfuls before I was tapped out - not because of guilt but because it just made me full. Now, oy vey, I'm thinking I shouldn't have picked up the pint. I should have gone for the whole gallon.

This is what I ate today (so far) in chronological order:
Bowl of Frosted Mini Wheats
Torpedo
Chocolate Cherry Cheesecake
Pasta Salad
Tostitos Scoops (13 of them or one serving) with that Tostitos cheese dip
Strawberry ice cream

I sort of disgust myself.

Note to Self

Yo Mabelle, one of the reasons that it is important to keep this record of your life pre-baby is because it seems that once a human becomes a parent - she foregoes what all is important in life pre-baby. This ranges from common sense to personal style to home decor.

I KNOW. I GET IT. Baby comes first.

But since you talk a lot of smack right now, I want you to be able to look back at this and remind yourself of what you think is completely unacceptable. So Mabelle, here are a few things you should remember.

1. Being a parent does not give you license to have toys scattered all over the place (or at least when company comes over).

2. Being a parent does not give you license to look like a slob (at least when you go out in public). And this goes for pregnant chicks too. I'm of the opinion that when you're pregnant, you look your worst. Can we all just take a moment to appreciate the gross assymmetry of the pregnant body? That said, an expectant mom really should put earrings on, or good shoes, or something to make it look like she hasn't prematurely surrendered to the hell that is in her imminent future.

3. Being a parent does not give you license to just sit around, eat donuts, and watch from the window as life passes you by. Keep moving! Now's not the time to get SOFT! I've heard it time and time again. "You have no idea how exhausting your life will be." You know what else is exhausting? Worrying about where the Size 4 You is and if she'll ever return again. So you're signed up for your first half marathon, post baby. It's about four weeks after the birth so the doc says you are pushing it but if all goes well (cross your fingers they don't cut you up), she's given you the greenlight. You'll only be walking, but it's 13 miles and it's the perfect kickoff for your running season. You should expect to run a half marathon in early spring. Now that it's in writing, there's no backing out...

Name That Two

One of the dumbest things I've ever done in my life is to utter these words: "No, but we're open to suggestions." And the magic question that prompted such a response?

"Oh have you guys got a name?"

No, we didn't think of a name. According to our master plan, I shouldn't even be pregnant right now. We should still be trying.

So we've been calling the growth in my midsection Little Two. John calls me Little One so it would make sense that Little Two would be called Little Two. Duh.

In the meantime, we have opened the flood gates for the dumbest, most inapropriate, and just plain lame suggestions for names. Right away, one person was banned from offering ideas - my mother. Jesus Christ, you'd think the lady would know a thing or two about her kid and that her kid would never name her grandkid names plucked from the grounds of Versaille.

Then there's that one relative who's insisting we name our kid a certain name that we'd suggested awhile ago. Before, I'm pretty sure she thought the name was dumb. After watching some movie that happened to show this character with said name in a positive light, she's had a change of heart. She is now actually calling my kid that. Are you kidding me?

And, of course, all the ideas that John and I have, and have shared with others, get shot down or ridiculed.

My friend Aine's signature response to "How about XXXXXX?" is "How about not?"

Nice, people.

Now I may be an asshole when it comes to a lot of things, but I know I have never told someone who was expecting that their future child's name was retarded. (Which is not to say that I hadn't thought it).

My friend Doug gave me the most valuable piece of advice - once you pick a name, don't tell anyone until the kid's born. He said when he and his wife first started telling people what they were going to name their daughter, they got the most jacked up responses from some people in the vain of, "You're going to name her that!?!?!?" (Which, p.s. is insane because they gave their daughter one of the coolest names I have ever heard.)

But at this point, the contest is over. (Aine's boss - a man I have never met - said whoever picks the name for the kid - gets breakfast). John and I settled on a name last night for our little boy. And, for the record, we'll be buying each other breakfast because we came up with the name together, on our own. It's a special name to us and when my kid asks where his name came from, there will be more of a story to it than, "We just liked it."

And while I'm sure that behind our backs, people will wince at the name, call it weird, or roll their eyes, I can't hold it against them. Lord knows I've heard my share of stupid baby names. That's Karma for you.

But for now you can keep calling the kid Little Two. Actually, for another five months.

I Really Did

There is a not-so-subtle suggestion among my school mentors that one should take Human Reproduction as part of one's general education. The idea behind it is that it's a really easy class and it'll satisfy your math/science requirement. After all, when you're busy making important films, who's got time to worry about calculus or molecular biology?

So, during my final year at school, I signed up for the class, along with my dear friend/suitemate Karen. It was all fun and games (and old movies about sex experiments by Masters and Johnson) until we had to take the tests. There were three tests for the class. I know, for sure, that I failed two of them. Badly. Like in the 20th percentile. I'm pretty sure I failed the last test. I was as clueless about that material as I was with previous tests. Now I am certainly not the most attentive student so I may have missed a few details here and there but I will go to my grave swearing the stuff on the tests was not at all what was covered in the lectures. And if you don't believe me, find Karen (who now goes by Haiyen) in Chicago and she will vouche for this. What was on the tests then? Well, tt was more like, uh, molecular biology.

When my semester grades were posted, my proudest achievement was a whopping C- in Human Reproduction. By any other definition, this mark would be the infection in my otherwise spotless transcript. But I could care less. I passed, although I'm pretty sure I only passed because of a data entry error. Still, I managed to graduate college with honors. Now that's America for you.

Perhaps if I would have paid better attention in class, I would have not missed a few key details, the main one being this: Assuming you will have fertility problems and difficulty conceiving for at least two years is not the most intelligent planning strategy when you are 28 and otherwise quite healthy. And Mexican.

In retrospect, it wasn't my skewed memory of Human Reproduction that failed me. It was my inability to recollect Lifetime classics like "Fifteen and Pregnant" and "Too Young to be a Dad". It only takes one time, Mabelle. Duh. Stupid. So on our first shot at "trying", John done got me knocked up.

So here we are now. I've got my prenatal vitamins, my maternity jeans (more on that later), and a few pictures of my blob-like kid. I'm doing this blog because I'm trying to keep a scrapbook for my kid but I'm faster at typing than at writing with a pen (how pathetic is that/what kind of a world are we living in/oh whoa is me). The reality is this, like everything else that I seem to write, will be chock full of profanity and inappropriate content so my kid will have to turn 18 before I let him/her read such filth.

Jesus, they'll let anyone be a parent...