Birthday Girl

 

33 Years old, 34 weeks pregnant.  (Feet swollen to 35 times their normal size.)  (Not really, but it feels like it.)  Boom!

Feeling Worthy

As I mentioned in my post yesterday, my sister-in-law organized a birthday party for me, a totally unexpected one.  Last night, at boot camp, I got an award for our MOLO competition even though I missed the MOLO awards night (and was secretly hoping/not hoping that I would be forgotten – no one really wants to be forgotten, but I don’t enjoy public praise so much).  Tomorrow is my birthday.  On Saturday, a good friend is throwing me a “baby sprinkle” and in two weeks, I’ll be one of eight moms being honored at a gigantic boot camp baby shower.

 

I LOVE blessing others with parties and awards and gifts and affection and praise.  I have a real hard time receiving those same blessings.  Maybe it’s a self-esteem issue, maybe it’s something else.  All I know is that I’m much more comfortable giving than receiving.

 

So today, I want to say a very public, very heartfelt THANK YOU to Sarah and her extended family, and my mother-in-law, and Sylvie, and everyone else who made me feel so celebrated last Saturday.  Your thoughtfulness was so touching.  And THANK YOU to the women in my MOLO challenge group who said so many kind words.  Yes, I did work hard to reach my fitness goals and no, it wasn’t easy, but it is so nice to be recognized for my effort.  And THANK YOU, in advance, for everyone who will be celebrating me this weekend and in two weeks.  I love you all and I sincerely hope that I will return the blessing someday.  Because that would make me really happy.

 

Self-improvement is an ongoing thing, and a worthy endeavor for everyone, I think.  If you don’t want to get better, what’s the point, right?  One of my more recent goals has been to accept, to really internalize, compliments.  It’s a huge compliment to have others do nice things for you.  Today, tomorrow, and hopefully forever more, I’m allowing myself, even encouraging myself, to feel worthy of your love.

West-East-West

We left Friday at about 5 pm and took our sweet time getting to I-90.  First, we dropped the dog at the kennel, where he acted as if he couldn’t get away from us fast enough.  It’s a good thing he’s just as happy to go home as he is to get there, otherwise I would worry.  It starts with the whining and squealing when we get off the freeway, then evolves to prancing in the backseat and trying to move back and forth between the back window and the windshield to get a better view of the kennel.  Aren’t we going to the kennel?  We’re going to the kennel, right?  THERE IT IS, THE KENNEL.  I SAW IT.  I SAW IT.  WE’RE GOING THERE.

 

We leisurely drove the back roads and avoided I-405 and the mess that is Greater Seattle Traffic (it’s totally a proper noun), arriving in North Bend right around dinner time.  We went on our merry way, hitting some traffic over the pass and finally arriving in Richland shortly after 11 PM.  We put the kids to bed (Jamie sang and danced in bed for at least ten minutes, happy to have arrived at last), watched the meteor shower (we saw one meteor), and took ourselves to bed.  All in all, a fine trip.

 

Our way back, however, tested the limits of car and bladder endurance.  We left Richland around 11 am on Monday, Memorial Day.  I knew that the pass would be busy, I was totally prepared for a slow drive over, but I failed to take into account the many thousands of people leaving the Sasquatch Music Festival at the Gorge that same day.  Not your regular holiday traffic.  As we passed Ellensburg, I thought, hmm, there’s an easy rest stop near Cle Elum, we’ll stop there for a bathroom break. 

 

Juuuuust beyond the last Ellensburg exit, we slowed to a stop.  A dead standstill.  Not even a crawl.

 

 

It took us two hours to drive the 21 miles from Ellensburg to the Cle Elum rest stop.  At one point, a young guy got out of the car next to us (clearly a Sasquatch attendee) and walked on his hands around the car he had just vacated.  “Girls,” Tony said.  “He’s riding with girls.  He has to show off.”  Whatever, if I could walk on my hands, I’d do it all the time.

 

Do you have (or have you had) small, potty-trained boys?  Ever noticed how they can’t just pull their pants down a little ways, or unzip their flies (if they even have them) to pee?  No, they have to drop their pants all the way to the ground, putting their cute, little boy-butts on display as they do their business.  Lucky me, I got to teach Jamie and Charles about why they shouldn’t pee into the wind.

 

You know who didn’t pee by the side of the road, a road bordered by fields and low scrub bushes, with nary a copse of trees in sight?  Me.  I’m not sure I could have balanced to squat anyhow, but there was literally no place to go.  I held it until the rest stop, at which point I didn’t even get an offer to let me, the visibly pregnant lady, cut to the front of the line.  Where has common courtesy gone?

 

We split off a couple of miles (and many, many minutes) later to head north on Highway 97.  We hooked up with Highway 2 and started over the pass.  It was a beautiful drive and passed at a reasonable pace.

 

A rest stop near the Wenatchee River

 

Until we got to 20 miles east of Sultan (which is on the west side of the pass, about 30 miles from Everett).  Then, another standstill.  Stopped cars, no explanation.  Except, weirdly, every once in awhile we would move about 50 car lengths.  It took us two-and-a-half hours to drive the 20 miles into Sultan.  The reason?  Sultan has three stoplights, all of them timed for about 50 car lengths, despite the nonexistence of cross-traffic. 

 

Of course, the entire time we were stuck outside of Sultan, the kids asked, every five minutes, “When are we gonna beeee theeeerrre?”

 

We arrived home around 8 pm, hungry, tired, and sore (if you’re keeping score at home, that’s a NINE HOUR CAR TRIP).  At least I was sore.  My back, my butt, my pelvis, my hips.  I was dehydrated because the last thing I wanted to do was have to pee every half an hour, especially when we might not have moved more than five miles in that half an hour and there was no bathroom anyway.

 

It’s the mark of a good weekend, however, when a drive like that cannot eclipse the fun we had.

 

Boy cousins had the BEST time together

 

We played with cousins and I got to catch up with a great friend (who also happens to be my sister-in-law).  Tony’s brother-in-law set up an elaborate splash park in their backyard and we had a barbeque that was also (surprise!) a birthday party for me.

 

Cousin Juliet was BEGGING to have her chubby cheeks chomped all weekend.  Lucky for her, I was too hot and swollen to attack her in all her cuteness.

 

My friend Maggi visited from Walla Walla, so we got to sit around and be lumps of pregnant inertia together.  We’re due within three days of each other, so I’m hoping our babies can be birthday buddies.

 

 

Ultimately, the weekend trip was all about family.  We won’t get a chance to drive east again for awhile, and despite the God-awful trip home, I’m really, really, really glad we went.

 

     

But I’ll say this: Never again will we travel on Memorial Day.  Never.  Again.

Let’s Obsess

Hey, friends!  Here I am at 32 weeks and change:

 

Still exercising, religiously.  Still not making any difference in how big I get.

 

 

Do you know how many pairs of pants I have that still fit?  TWO.  And one of them is white, which makes everything I eat a potential mess.  Oh, look!  I brought beet salad for lunch!

 

I have a doctor’s appointment today, at which I will report that I have TOTALLY SLOWED DOWN in the last two weeks.  Two weeks ago, I stopped running.  My abdominal muscles have given up on trying to hold this belly up during bouncing activities like running and my uterus thinks that any amount of cardio is license to contract.  Contractions are uncomfortable, you know?  I’ve also started sneaking in a nap whenever I can because, come 2 o’clock, I can barely keep my eyes open.

 

I’m so thankful I have a job that is flexible and children who love preschool so that I can sleep in the middle of the day like a goddamn lazy asshole.

 

Also this week?  Or maybe next?  I will crest 200 pounds.  I keep hoping that the weight gain will slow down along with the rest of me, but no such luck.

 

The bottom line is that pregnancy just isn’t as much fun this time around.  My boys take up all my available energy, and as I’ve said before, I’m an anticipator.  I love planning and imagining and preparing for what’s to come.  In short, I love obsessing.  And it would appear that the only thing I have to obsess about this time around is my size.

 

The baby’s name was decided long ago.  Turns out that Tony and I often agree with each other (good for a marriage), and Charles and Jamie even approved their new brother’s name (not that it would matter if they didn’t – these are two boys who think fart jokes are funny, reading-level-2 Superman comics are great literature, and ‘fruit snacks’ is a major food group.  Their taste is questionable, is what I’m saying).There are lots of things that I CAN’T do before baby arrives: adjusting the crib, finishing the bathroom remodel, fixing the fence – and a whole lot of things that I haven’t done yet because by the time I put the boys to bed, I just don’t have the energy and my swollen feet demand to be put up: washing and adjusting all the cloth diapers, washing all the newborn clothes, getting out the pump and the sterilizer and the baby toys.

 

All of these things were fun and exciting the first time around, and heartwarming the second time (“Oh!  Do you remember this onesie?  I can hardly believe Charles was ever so small!”).  Now, these are merely more tasks to stuff into my days, in addition to finding time to schedule photo sessions (I did maternity photos with the other boys, I don’t want our new mister to feel slighted), planning Jamie’s birthday party, and preparing for leave at work.  I can’t even justify a baby-item shopping spree; we have almost everything we need.

 

It would appear that all I have to anticipate has taken on a negative cast in my mind.  While my parents and brother go to Seattle to see Book of Mormom, I’ll be nursing a newborn.  While Tony and the boys go on several treasure hunt hikes, I’ll be up all night nursing a newborn.  While my family and friends go camping, I’ll be a crying mess of surging hormones, up all night nursing a newborn. 

 

And maybe that’s the big problem here: I’ve been through this all before.  I know how hard it is.  I know how tired I’m going to be and how terrible I’m going to look and feel.  I remember loving my newborn boys, but somehow, I can’t seem to get to the point of anticipating this new little one’s soft hair and skin, scrunched face, and sweet, milky breath yet.  Where did my optimism go? 

 

Help me, internet.  Help me find a way to anticipate the good things about my new son, instead of focusing on the difficulties that will come no matter what.

I want to be formal, but I’m here to party

You might think that only girl children are slaves to fashion, but you would be wrong.  Nothing is more important to my kids’ day than what they are wearing.

 

Okay, that’s an exaggeration.  Nothing is more important during the ten minutes of getting dressed time than what my kids are wearing.  And then they promptly forget about it, unless the shirt they are wearing happens to be a new, important gift or something that was previously too large but that I dug out of the too-large bin last night because of a recent growth spurt.

 

The same growth spurt caused a massive car seat rearrange and removal of the 5-point harness.

 

You know, if the correct shirt or shorts or pants or underwear or socks aren’t available, either one of my kids might break down and throw a tantrum for minutes on end.

 

My boys sometimes change clothes twice, even three times a day.  Like, if it gets sunny and they were wearing pants and want shorts, or I fill up the pool and they put on their swimsuits.  When they get really crazy, they don socks made specifically for soccer to better kick the ball.

 

Costumes?  We have plenty, but they go on over clothes and are either worn all day long or are rejected within minutes because it’s too hot outside.

 

Accessories?  Boys have those, too, though they take the form of creature pods, Batman utility belts, and hats, rather than jewelry.

 

My kids each have a pair of shoes, a pair of sandals, and a pair of boots.

 

I’m so glad I have boys.  Their lack of sartorial fussiness makes up for the stench and the gun noises.  Almost.

Unexpected Sunshine

The weekend was slated to be rainy, but the newspaper was wrong.  It frequently is, and I blame the fact that they use a weird “forecast your own weather” system.  A few months ago, there was an article in the paper, written by the editor, that stated the forecasting service the newspaper was using had been wildly inaccurate, so they were calling on all Skagit residents to call in to the paper and report their own weather.  I’m honestly surprised that there aren’t more tornado warnings issued in various parts of the county.  I daydream about what sorts of obscure weather I could call in about.

 

On a sunny day: “Hailstorms on Henson Road.  Softball sized ice balls pummeling cars, coming from a cloud about 6 feet in diameter.”

 

On a rainy day: “Lightning!  And, oh God!  A wall of water!  A tsunami washing down from the Mount Vernon hill!  We’re all doomed!”

 

I figure that the people who actually call and report in are at least totally amateur in predicting the weather.

 

Not raining!

 

Instead of huddling indoors while it poured outside, we spent most of our days outside.  Well, the boys and I did.  Tony painted a bathroom.  You know, because I am pregnant and it’s like a RULE that some major renovation project must be done on the house during pregnancy.

 

I’m blue, da-boo-di-da-boo-da…

 

I ate a quarter of a giant watermelon.  Also, two hot fudge sundaes (not in the same day) because my friend Meghan told me that the hot fudge sauce she had at her daughter’s birthday party on Saturday was merely chocolate chips melted with almond milk.  Now, there is homemade fudge sauce in my refrigerator, just waiting for me to heat it up, which can’t be good.      

 

Leland played in a longtime friend’s band in a bar in Everett on Saturday afternoon, so that’s where I spent an hour or so of my time.  In a bar.  On Saturday afternoon.  Largely pregnant.  I felt incongruous until I noticed that there were at least three other obviously pregnant women there.  Turns out that Saturday-afternoon gigs in dive bars attract the family crowd.

 

The band: Edmund Wayne

 

Jamie and Tony fell asleep in the sun while Charles and the neighbor kids played Pokeman in a pop-tent all afternoon Sunday.  It was pretty cute.

 

 

And Tony’s grandmother, who is almost 90, stopped by for a visit with his Aunt Caroline.  Grandma Edith was in fine form, and because she’s deaf, she wasn’t bothered by the screaming antics of my hyper children (they tend to “show off” for visitors).

 

The Cook nose, through the generations

 

The weekend could not have been better.  I even made a killer Bolognese sauce with plenty of leftovers to freeze.  Let the pre-baby freezer stocking begin!

You Might Be Pregnant If

You might be pregnant if you can smell your co-worker’s honey-flavored Greek yogurt from across the room and it makes you want to vomit, but you don’t say anything negative to him because this particular co-worker is your brother and making comments about vomit while he’s enjoying his snack is a blatant invitation for him to try to make you vomit every hour for the rest of the day.  (Don’t believe me?  Leland tries to make me watch things like the “Raw Chorizo Challenge” on a weekly basis anyway.)  (Google that at your own risk.)

 

You might be pregnant if you wonder, every single day, how early is too early to eat lunch?  And if you eat what you brought to work for lunch at 10:30 am, does that justify eating another meal at 2 pm?

 

You might be pregnant if you constantly misjudge your girth and bump into things and people all day long.

 

That’s a lot of belly to navigate.

 

You might be pregnant if you have at least one remodeling project that you are insisting be done in a given time period but you don’t plan to help at all, other than giving direction, which, as well all know, is the most important part.  For instance, perhaps you have a bathroom remodel project that you wisely and graciously (much to the relief of your darling husband who puts up with your nonsense) scaled down to include merely repainting the walls, new linoleum, and new baseboard.  That’s not hard, right?  Like, he can totally do that in a weekend.  Maybe even a day.

 

You might be pregnant if, in addition to that one not-so-big remodel project you have planned, something rather disastrous happens in your house, causing you to make plans for a truly enormous remodel project.  Like, for instance, when something happens at a hose bib in the backyard during the week of super sunny, hot weather while you are running the slip-n-slide for an entire afternoon and water backs up into your crawlspace and your laundry room, soaking your basement carpet, so you think, “Hey!  Since we have to get new carpet anyway, why don’t we just redo the walls with new insulation and drywall and definitely new paint, we really need new paint in here, THIS BABY SHOULD NOT HAVE TO COME INTO A HOME WITHOUT NEW PAINT!”  You think about projects like this even though you are 99% sure you would rather not be divorced before the baby comes.  (1% sure that the walls need to be painted regardless.)

 

It turned out it was a VERY EXPENSIVE slip-n-slide session.

 

You might be pregnant if the aforementioned disastrous event results in a $1000 plumbing bill, causing you to cry giant alligator tears and scrap plans for a new carpet and new paint and instead settle for a heavy-duty professional carpet cleaning because you want to be able to fund some college savings accounts for your children someday.  PRIORITIES, mama.  This doesn’t mean that you won’t hate that carpet until the day you die or move to a new house, whichever comes first.

 

You might be pregnant if you are shopping for anything at IKEA and you’re not heading to college or your first apartment in your early 20s.

 

You might be pregnant if the biggest and best gift anyone could give you this year for Mother’s Day or your birthday is a nap, but you didn’t get one for Mother’s Day and you know you won’t get one for your birthday, and you probably won’t have a chance to have one at any other time on any other day of the week because you are the glue that holds the family together and without you cooking and cleaning and grocery shopping and taking kids places and the dog to the vet and every other goddamn thing that must be done on a daily/weekly/monthly basis, no one would have any clean clothes to wear of food to eat and they would look at you with sad, big eyes and say, “Mommy?  Help me!” just when you are about to drift off into a blissful 45-minute snooze on the couch.  Trust me, it’s not worth the pain of rousting yourself from an aborted nap to even bother trying.