Pregnancy Breeds Forgetfulness

Not that this is news to anyone who has ever been pregnant.

I just realized that I don't really remember much about having babies and it's kind of sending me in a panic mode, along with the fact that Juan Pancho still does not have a proper name and that Dally will be moving to a big boy bed this week (more on that later).

So I have to whip out all the books I read before Dally was born ("all the books" - like it was that many. I believe I read two and a half). Gotta read Babywise to remember how to train Juan Pancho to sleep through the night in a reasonable amount of time. Gotta read Hypnobirthing to remember how to relax and push and "enjoy the experience." The .5 book is What to Expect When You're Expecting. This is more of a reference manual that I look to when I have gastrointestinal issues. It's got a very nice section on home remedies.

This may be a bit premature but one thing I do know is that my birthing plan this time around will once again include back-to-back screenings of The Karate Kid - best movie ever.

Weekend Nanny Anxiety

It's the eve before the 6-hour trial of our potential weekend nanny.

Since I'm really good at delegating responsibility, I've decided to delegate the responsibility of being the boss of the house to Weekday Nanny. Whatever she says goes. Ultimately, she's the pillar of this household anyway.

The problem with having a really really good nanny is that alternate nannies are at a disadvantage before they even begin. I already am looking for reasons to not hire her, even though I don't really know her. But I'm having difficulty imagining Dally having as much fun with her. What if she doesn't blow bubbles or play monster arm eater or take him to the park?

Do I REALLY need a weekend nanny? Here's why it seems like a good idea on paper. Weekend Nanny would come on Friday afternoon and stay over until Sunday. That means John and I could go to a movie. At night.

Here's why it's a sucky idea in reality. She doesn't drive, which means I'd have to get my lazy butt off the couch on a Friday afternoon to go get her. Plus what if she's not fun or doesn't get my sense of humor or the quirky way in which we run our household. Weekday Nanny gets all of that. And she has a car.

Then there are the usual safety issues. CPR, 911, what to do in the event that a giant tarantula breaches the security of our GO AWAY doormat. Does she know not to EVER open the door for anyone? Does she cook and if so, is it gross? Dally's been hitting lately. Will she hit back? There's SO MUCH to stress about.

I'm picking her up at the Jack in the Box in 8 hours. Stay tuned for the post mortem...

Sailing to Nowhere

While I had planned to go to NY in August to eat falafel and talk smack with my old gang, I shifted plans to go on a little vacation with my beloved - a calm before the storm if you will.

We decided to go on this cheesy little cruise from San Diego to Catalina to Ensenada. No big deal - a nice getaway, just me and him, and 24 hour all-you-can-eat soft serve ice cream.

As I was about to book our little escapade, I noticed the disclaimer that that women must be under 24 weeks preggers to ride the big white boat.

WTF?

I mean, I guess it makes sense, but WTF?

And should you suggest that I could get away with hiding how far along I am, I'm so HUGE right now that while I was at the ATM yesterday, this lady asked me, "So you're due any minute now, huh?" If by any minute, she's counting in dog years, then perhaps. But in human years, not for another fifteen weeks, sister.

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The baby, that is.

Sort of. We call him Juan Pancho, just as we called Dally "Little Two" in utero. (Why Little Two? I AM LITTLE ONE. That's what John used to call me when he would ask my sister how much. As in, "How much for the little one?" And she would reply a pack of cigarettes and a couple of goats. Fine family, I know.)

Juan Pancho won't make it on the birth certificate lest my mom decide to never see, call or write to me. Ever.

So now we're getting desperate. I've got less than four months to come up with something. This is the shit that keeps me up at night.

I busted out the baby name book yesterday. I used to turn my nose up at such nonsense. Baby Name Book? Please. NOT MY CHILD. My child's name will have a MEANING. Something IMPORTANT TO US.

I also used to swear my home would never look like Romper Room.

People SUCK

I'll be five months pregnant next week and maybe it's the hormones or that people are just morons but I'm quickly tiring of the "WOW! You're SO BIG! Are you SURE it's not twins?" remarks. Are people being funny or just jackasses? It doesn't help that this question is mostly coming from people that I normally find irritating.

So read on Assholes.

I can assure you there is only one baby, and the baby is growing at a normal rate, and so am I. How do I know this? Because I just had an ultrasound on Tuesday. There is one baby. And if you keep talking shit to his mama, he's going to punch your lights. Second-borns, as my dear auntie Marybel once told me, come out of the womb fighting. (Yes, it's a boy.)

My Bloody Baby

OH MY GOD. Dally's been having bloody noses lately but they've been happening while he was sleeping so he would wake up with bloody crusty nostrils and stained bedding. But today as I was putting him down for his nap, I saw it in action and it was THE FREAKIEST THING I HAVE EVER SEEN. He kept wiping his nose, smearing his face with blood.

I sort of panicked.

I wiped the blood from his face but it kept coming out. Then I yanked him out of his crib and threw him in the bath. He was having a blast in the tub for bath #2 today. Meanwhile his nose kept on bleeding. I would wipe, it would come back. Wipe, more blood. I then thought, "OK, he's not going to die. This isn't a reason to call 911. It's just a bloody nose."

Then I thought, "It would be really disturbing if I took a picture of him."

A minute later I thought, "I've GOT to stop the bleeding. He COULD bleed to death!" So I tried to distract him by looking up (which now I know you're NOT supposed to do). Then I had the brilliant idea to turn on the shower and that scared the living shit out of him. So I pulled him out of the tub and just laid him out on his changing table.

The bleeding stopped somewhere in the ten feet it took me to go from the bathroom to his room. I laid him out in PJs and now he's sleeping. And I have just finished researching toddlers and bloody noses. Turns out they're not all that uncommon and supposedly not serious. Still, I think a trip to the doctor is in order.

Christ, may you never have to see your baby look like Carrie (post pig blood).

In My World...

Diaper Bags Are Stupid.

Now that we're in the family way again, I've started to look at all the unnecessary gadgets I won't be able to live without. One of the things I will not be getting is a new diaper bag. While I like the look of Dally's diaper bag, it is the most impractical piece of fabric ever. Maybe I'm lucky because my kid doesn't have monster shit explosions (knock on wood). But most of the time, all his junk can fit in my bag - and usually does anyway.
I should just buy myself a killer new purse.