Binkytown

Waterworks

1. My husband is starting a new job (probably) May 19th. At the same company where I have worked for 13 years. Completely different area, but still, it's strange.

2. We have an old home. It needs new windows. We are trying to move little man from baby's room to the spare room we don't use and haven't touched since we bought the place. Somehow we've gone from a simple "let's repaint in here" to the entire upstairs needs new windows and must be repainted. By people other than us. For which we will shell out many dollars. Because of possible lead paint, etc. I may have to sleep in my living room for awhile. I am not sure how this happened. 

3. There is a baby coming in nine weeks

4. I have a new OB that I'm not entirely comfortable with

5. I have to decide VBAC or C Section and the choice feels monumental. No matter what good (or bad) advice anyone gives me, it's up to me and I am equally as torn

6. I have gained 40 pounds

7. I want to kick that hairdresser who cut my hair last time. I went (somewhere new) for a touch up and realized it's going to take me nine months to grow these god damned layers out

8. I have a cold

I started crying on Sunday and haven't stopped since.

The end.

   

Fast forward

Here at big city corporation it is Bring Your Child to Work Day. I'm pretty sure the Bring Your Child to Work Day people came up with this, but here at big city corporation we like rules and the rules are your child has to be nine or older to come to work with you. No screaming and pooping babes. Which I can appreciate, even though I think it would be a hoot to ogle some little teeny babies or wait patiently in the ladies room for some toddlers to finish waving their hands in front of the automatic paper towel dispensers. It would be a lovely distraction.

Some women in my department brought their daughters and while I thought they were indeed cute in their fancy dresses and shiny shoes it was the boys who made me stop in my tracks. Super adorable nine and ten year old little men, dressed in khakis and polo shirts. Long and lanky, some with glasses, walking closely down the hallways with their moms.

My boy at ten years old flashed before my eyes. 

These boys were still close enough to be comfortable walking side by side with their moms, not yet with the attitude of a teenager who wants their own space, but older than a young child who might still cling to a parent. These boys straddled that space effortlessly, walking with confidence, but not too much.

I saw my boy, a young man. Tall and skinny, a spring in his step.   

As I watched these pairs circulate around the building I thought those moms must be so proud. I was proud for them. I've said before, every milestone, every six month increment, every first day in a new classroom brings me so much joy. It means I'm doing something right, to see him growing, changing and learning as much as he does. But it also makes me sad, because sometimes I feel like I'm wishing the sometimes really challenging days away and don't appreciate this time as much as I should.   

I'm starting to really struggle at 30 weeks. Feeling a deep seeded sense of panic; This feeling of I can't do this. I haven't even worked my way up actually bringing this child home, I'm still so consumed with the physical reality of trying to maneuver in this big body and work and clean and cook and not sleep and how am I going to do this for ten more weeks? How will my body continue to grow in this space that I already feel is reaching maximum capacity?  How will my lungs collect any air at all?

Of course they will and I will, I have no choice and I know this. Every time that little voice springs up in my brain that says "I can't do this" I beat it down and ask of it, don't you know how fast the time goes? One day this will be a distant memory, just as the days before my first little man arrived are now. I wish someone, some brilliant physicist could explain to me how time seems to go so slowly yet really races past you at the speed of light and you don't notice until you look behind you.

Today I saw the future, walking in a pair of neatly ironed Dockers with me, open and bright eyed and growing up.   

    

Those were the days

A year or two after we were married, but before we had a child, my mate and I were living the high life. We purchased a duplex and rented the upstairs flat ($$), we deducted everything under the sun (totally related to the house of course) ($$), we had good jobs ($$) and disposable income ($$).

It must be noted that I was before, and am again, only buying things on sale and only when I can totally justify it. I grew up without money, have always been very frugal and had very little that was material or just plain fancy. I am hard on things, and as such, have never spent money on anything that is not easily replaced.

Around this time my husband decided to purchase a big ticket toy item, a bright yellow kayak with a hefty price tag. It cost as much as three months of day care does right now, so that's like chicken scratch in comparison today's expenses but back in those days, wow, that was a LOT. I was also working with a woman who appeared almost weekly with a new shiny bauble of some kind and had enough gold necklaces to choke an elephant. Gold necklaces=not my thing, but I kept thinking, do people really do this? Buy jewelry just because they can?

I started dropping hints that I'd like some earrings. As a gift. I knew we would move out of that duplex one day and double our mortgage payment, I knew a kid would probably arrive and diapers aren't cheap, so I thought this was my chance. It was now or never. I didn't want the ones basketball players wear that are as big as chocolate chip cookies, I was talking tasteful, little, diamond studs. I also figured if I didn't tell him he wouldn't figure it out, gifts were never big in his house growing up and he does fine, but he's not an over the top, I'm going to SO surprise you kind of guy who picks you up from work with a suitcase in the car and whisks you away to a spa. Not his style.

He mostly ignored me.  One night while watching TV a commercial came on for one of those chain jewelry stores advertising a sweetest day sale or some crap like that and I said, innocently enough, if you don't want to buy them for me I think I might buy those myself. He rolled his eyes and questioned why I would want to spend money on that. Well you bought a kayak, I observed, not because I was trying to guilt him into anything, for real, I just wanted to point out that I didn't stop him from doing that (Go ahead- ask me how many times he's used it in the past 5 years. Please.) so what was the big deal if I wanted something fun for myself?

Fast forward a couple of months. The mini obsession with the diamond earrings had faded and had been replaced by a little dog. We had a big dog and while what I really wanted was a baby, I was perfectly happy to satisfy that desire with a dog small enough to fit into my purse. I talked about it constantly. It wasn't realistic, and we decided not to do it, but I wanted it none the less.

Christmas arrived and we have a tradition. One big gift and a bunch of little miscellaneous goods wrapped up for fun. I unwrapped a stylish black leather clutch, a lovely Christmas gift and proceeded to unwrap my packages of gum, bendy straws and nail files. The last package was soft, you could squeeze it. Tearing off the paper I uncovered a teeny stuffed animal dog. Just like you wanted he said. My smile went from ear to ear. He got it, he got me, what I wanted. In his own way.

I started to pick up the paper scraps and clean up, tossing the dog lightly aside. He snatched it away quickly. What? I asked, puzzled by his attention to the pretend dog he had just thoughtfully given me.

Look again.

In the dogs ears were two pretty, delicate, stud earrings. Diamond earings.

Wow.

He totally blew me away.

I was surprised, I was touched and I was happy- in that way you get to be when someone gets you a gift that you really, really wanted but didn't expect. So clever, my man.

I have still have those earrings and wear them all the time. Except for the 5 week period in 2007 between Thanksgiving and Christmas when I left them on a shelf at my in laws house and had no idea I did that and searched frantically, all the time, for them (in drawers I never use, in the vacuum cleaner, in every pocket of everything I own) completely terrified of having to tell him that I lost them. Thank God I didn't have to. Not only because they were more costly than your average pair of earrings, but because that Christmas morning, and his creativity and thoughtfulness has yet to be outdone and I will never forget it.

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Stick people are nice, but..

Wanna make me a new banner? If you have time and want a client let me know and let me know your rates.

I already have one in mind, but alas, artistic- I am not.

Drop me a comment or if you prefer you can email me at amywojo at yahoo dot com.

And I only know this much

Is anyone following the story of the Polygamist ranch in Texas? Of the women who are starting to gain some publicity and attention?

Granted, it takes very little to make me cry on a normal day, when I'm not gestating. While pregnant it's a constant free for all, bursting into tears without warning over very minor offenses. But this, this is almost too much to handle, yet I feel like I can't look away. And I'm not just talking about the dresses and the wild, wavy, wacky hairstyles, although, that does involve some study.

It's those children. Hundreds of children. 

How does it feel if your seven year old child is in a shelter with the chicken pox and you can't be there to hold their hand. To whisper a sweet good night, to arrange the blanket just so?

To say I don't understand this lifestyle is an understatement. I am not religous, rural or young and I think two people in a marriage is quite enough thank you very much. I also think if you want to get married you should have to wait until you are 30. My husband and I don't even have a joint checking account, much less joint spouses or rules about how one conducts themselves. 

I don't know what went on there besides the obvious and that some of these mothers allowed very young daughters to be married off to very confused men, and for that, I question their judgment. From the outside, it's obvious. That's clearly the wrong choice. But for them, they must have believed they were doing the right thing for those girls. Isn't that what we all do as mothers, as parents, every day? Try and make the best decisions we can with the knowledge we have? I feel sorry for them, their grief is as plain as their face.

I agree the thirteen year old girls should be removed from the fifty year old husbands. Maybe it's worse than that, I don't know. Maybe there is compelling evidence that says these mothers need to be immediately separated from those kids. I just don't know how anyone could know that today, given the circumstances. There clearly is not a handbook to follow to deal with a situation like this. Until authorities know more, gather more, learn more about what happened, I wish those mothers could be with their children. I read that only women without children and those with babes under five were able to go back to their homes. What of the eight year olds? Experiencing the most amazing mind altering culture shock they could have ever dreamed of. Without the lifeline that they have always known.

I understand there are laws and processes to follow when a child has been abused. Law enforcement is doing their job. But the media will grow weary of this, the spotlights will fade and then what will become of them? Where will they go? Let's say half of these kids wind up in foster care or placed elsewhere. Hopefully if they are young enough they will adapt.  But their mothers. Do you think they will ever get over it? Losing a family? The conflict of being told every minute of every day that the life you lived was wrong. What you believed in, twisted. Reconciling a life, before and after.   

So much heartbreak. Past, present and future.

I'm not religious, but this is so troubling that I am tempted to say I'd like to offer up a prayer of some kind to someone about this. To ease this burden.

But it sounds like maybe that's what got them into trouble in the first place.

Vroom vroom

The Parent Bloggers Network is asking what you can do just as well as any man out there.

Hmmm.

I have no sense of direction. I can't read a map. I can't shoot a basket and have no idea what to do if my car won't start (although I'm going to register my vehicle on MyCarPage at Ask Patty, it's a start.)

I have a younger brother, five years younger who I never paid attention to. I played with Barbies, dress up clothes and make up. I never touched a toy with wheels. I knew nothing about vehicles.

Until I had a son.

I would challenge any man on the street. I know the difference between an excavator and a front loader. I can spot a gantry crane five miles away. Could they?

I can pick out a Chevy from a Ford. I know about cylinders. Good lord, I even know who Jeff Gordon is and about NASCAR. I never saw that coming. 

My house is littered with cars. Literally. They are in my shower. On my bed. In my briefcase and jacket pockets. While I'm writing this? My son is racing them across the couch and occasionally over my foot.

That's my cue. Time to go play race cars.

Check out this weekend's Blog Blast .This week, they have teamed up with Ask Patty, the premier automotive web site for women, to promote their new feature - MyCarPage.  You can read more posts and maybe win a nifty gadget for both men and women!

I will enjoy his full disclosure while it lasts

Even when I'm so tired. When the little one pulls me close, closer in the middle of the night, his little mind spinning and says for the one hundreth time this week- Can I tell you about picture frames? Sure.

Week of the Young Child is approaching and clearly he has made us a picture frame for parent appreciation day. How do I know this?

Picture frames are fragile. You have to be very careful or they will break. I painted it silver and purple. Picture frames are for moms and dads and you have to be very careful.

But I can't tell you about it. It's a secret.

 

The old switcheroo

I wrote once about the heartbreak that I felt upon hearing the news that my OB, the person who holds the most knowledge, skill, information about creating and birthing new life suffered a terrible loss.

I saw her yesterday for my 28 week check up and we chatted about potty training, preschools, my BV (ewww). I have already decided to go for the VBAC. What the hell. It can't be any worse than my last C section (God awful) and if she was comfortable with my choice then I felt 100% fine with it. She has a way of practicing, of investigating and navigating the body. She often does it with her eyes closed, seeing into her minds eye.

She took Thursdays as her day off with no scheduled appointments. I know this because we discussed it when scheduling my induction. I was booked for a Wednesday, a full moon Wednesday when every bed on the floor was full and instead of going in at 6AM we were finally given the all clear to show up at 6PM. My doc was hopeful I'd deliver sometime in the early hours of Thursday. It turned out to be a last minute emergency C section at 2PM. She was with me for the whole thing. Every hour that dragged on, every contraction, every heartbeat fluctuation (the babies and mine).

I'm hyper conscious of what happened whenever I see her, thinking clearly about my choice of words. I haven't told her how happy I am that my son will have a brother. I'm afraid it might sting. I can't imagine complaining to her about my run of the mill preggo aches and pains. She sees women, pregnant women every single day and even if she had great support and was able to leave the past behind her each day when she woke up, oh my god that must suck.

I inquired yesterday about if I wound up having another unplanned C-section, could she just tie my tubes when she was in there? The answer: Because I'm delivering at a catholic hospital, no. (PS: Thanks catholics, for getting all up in my soon to be 38 year old and done it's job already reproductive system.) She suggested, more than once, that if I wanted to think about it and to choose a planned C-section, she could refer me to one of her colleagues that practiced at other local hospitals where it could  be done. Kind of strongly. I asked if I should reconsider my choice for a VBAC. No no, she insisted. She just wanted to give me more options.

Sneaky.

She's pregnant. HOORAY!

She's going on complete bed rest next week and won't be able to see me through this pregnancy. FUCK!

I'm rattled by this. Yes, I know it will be fine. Yes, there are millions of competent OB's in the world, many in the same practice I see today. And yes, I realize the nurses do about 95% of the actual baby delivering and if all goes smoothly (please go smoothly) I will see the doctor for a few minutes at the very end.   

But starting over at 29 weeks? Not in the plan. If she told me that the best way to get this baby out would be to stand on my head and wiggle my hips I would do it.

New items to add to my list of things to freak out about and remember to do: If anyone else tries that they will need to be warned that I might throw a bedpan at them. 

   

Who knew baby powder was so freaking complicated

Sorry this is not about the J&J baby camp and hair braiding. Just happens to coincide. I'm having some issues. In multiple places. That are brought on, if not exacerbated by the wonder that is pregnancy.

My feet? Swollen to twice their normal size and as a cute little Canadian boy working in an Aldo shoe store in Montreal once said to me when trying to get me to buy some over priced insoles to go with my overpriced shoes: "Moisty". That's what you would have called it a couple of months ago. Now that the weather is warmer we are more like Moisty-Mach 10.

Other areas? Chafing. I will spare you the details. I don't know if it is a pH problem or the fact that my thighs are closer together no, OK Ill be honest, they are rubbing together all the time. It's not pretty. Or comfortable. Or cool in any way.

I ran out for supplies over my lunch hour and thought AHA baby powder! Yes! That's the answer! Good for multiple problems. I searched everywhere, but of course, because every baby book I ever read said you would destroy your baby by using baby powder, I found it in the baby isle.

So there is lavender baby powder, cornstarch baby powder, generic and name brand baby powder, all priced ridiculously high because of it's location. I chose the generic, cornstarch, non lavender-soothing-calming-ready-for-bed version. I thought I'd save that one for the new moms because that will TOTALLY help your baby fall asleep. Yeah. In an alternate universe. If you can find a baby book who will let you use it without scaring the crap out of you.

Driving back to work I twisted the cap and gave it a little puff. A lightly scented happy cloud poofed into the air. I thought I'd carry it in to work and freshen up a little. Better yet, I'd do it in the car before I went in so as not to have to be seen in crowded halls with a big bottle of $1.99 baby powder. Except that would be impossible.

How does one put baby powder on without it getting all over EVERYTHING? Seriously I need to know.

Realizing the car wouldn't work and that I'd either have to carry it naked or dump out everything that sat in the store bag I decided to tuck the bottle under my arm inside my coat. Of course I forgot my work ID and had to stop at security to sign in, the whole time trying not to the let this slippery bottle slide out. I'm sure I looked like I was carrying contraband, imagining getting stopped: Excuse me miss, what's that your smuggling into the building? Explosives? Alcohol? No, sorry, I've just got sweaty feet.

I stopped at the restroom and realized I would have to strip naked if I had any chance of getting some of this stuff on me without covering my clothes in the process. Out of the question. How about my shoes? The same. I tried to dump a little in my hand and then into my shoe. A total mess.

What the hell am I supposed to do?

Also it is important to note that I sat down at my desk, defeated (ha) and opened my desk drawer to grab my post it notes. Snuggled in the back of my drawer was a mini sized bottle of baby powder I apparently brought in the last time I went through this in 05, never used, and pushed to the back.

I have TWO bottles of baby powder and ZERO clues as to how to get it on my body. Really, do you have to stand naked in your bathroom and cover everything within a five mile radius and then get dressed really slowly and carefully like a villan trying not to set off some high powered lazor detection system so you don't walk around looking like a moron with white hand prints on your ass?

Help!