#31 from the list….CHECK!
February 6th, 2012 § Leave a Comment
I have been remiss in checking off items on my “List”. I do have a lot going on, but what can be more important that making sure that I am making progress in life? I am happy to say that I recently learned how to make my mom’s wonderful, delicious, amazing and delightful cheesecakes. Growing up, watching my mom bake cheesecakes was a normal occurrence in the household. Holidays were led by my mom asking my brother and I what flavor of cheesecake we would like to have, which was then proceeded by my brother fighting over which flavor to have (I know, middle class white kid problems). My mom could turn out handfuls of cheesecakes with ease and assured me that they weren’t easy to make. They were seemingly a laborious 2 day process of equal parts care and finesse to avoid the pitfalls of dryness, cracking, sinking or flat out just failing.
Over Thanksgiving my mom ran through the recipe, walked me through each step and then sent me home with the recipe to try on my very own. I will say that I was quite impressed with how the first ones turned out. Seems as if Cheesecake making is a passable gene.
Before you go asking, “What is the recipe.” Let me tell you that part of the teaching process of cheesecake making included my mom telling me in no uncertain terms that the recipe is a secret. And while I can’t share the recipe with you, I will tell you that there is one other who knows the recipe as he watched the entire process….but I don’t think he is telling either.
Dogs+Babies=Love
February 6th, 2012 § Leave a Comment
I truly hope that once we have our new addition, my idea of having animals in the house never changes. I love animals and think they bring a love to a home that nothing else can bring. I know that Gus and Charlie will be good fuzzy brothers to Logan. Though I do have my doubts about Gus’ inability to see himself as the 52 pound mass he is, I know Charlie will approach the new baby with tender cautiousness.
When I see photos like this one from Hanna Mac, my idea of a dog and baby household is that much stronger. I would love a picture like this of Logan, Gus and Charlie though I think some sedation or photoshopping may be required to make it happen.
Things I’ve Learned Are Okay To Do While You’re Pregnant
February 6th, 2012 § 2 Comments
It’s okay to lie to strangers about your due date: More than once, when asked by a stranger when my due date is, I told them one to two weeks earlier than the official date. This wasn’t just wishful thinking on my part, it was more because I thought telling them I am father along, would increase the chances of them thinking, “Wow, she looks so skinny and fit for being 38 weeks pregnant!” Truth be told that the farther along you get, the more pointless it is to lie. I liken it to a 300 lb person telling someone they are 250lbs because really, after 200lbs. who’s counting? As ridiculous as it may seem, I find some senseless dignity in feeling like I’m not a huge beast of my former self. Pictures no longer are my friend, and seem to add 10 more pounds to the pregnant frame. Reflections in store windows make me cringe and the normal clothing that I used to fit into, now packed away in plastic bins, taunt me from the floor of my closet. If upping my pregnancy weekly count by a week or two helps me to have a better sense of self, I find no shame in it.
It’s okay to compare yourself to every other pregnant woman: Yes, all pregnant women carry differently. I am not looking for competition, especially from those pregnant hussies who carry babies like they are smuggling a small half inflated basketball under their tight t-shirt. I can’t compete with the Pea in the Pod wrap dress mom’s with long legs and torso that spread their “baby weight” out kindly. But, when the large waddling and swollen pregnant mom crosses my path, I like to compare myself to her. I don’t waddle, I am not swollen, sure my rear seems to be sprouting another rear and sure, my once large hips are now larger than before, but hey, at least I am not waddling and swollen like her!
It’s okay to return all the gifted onesies and buy the necessities: I agree, things are precious beyond belief when they’re little. Those small ketchup bottles, adorable! Those tiny little shoes, undeniable! Trust me, I get it, baby clothes are the cutest things on the planet. I too walked into Baby Gap and spent an unnecessary amount of money on one outfit (which, for the record, I promptly returned once I came to my senses). Baby clothes are the epitome of impulse buys. Which I guess is the reason most people tend to forego the “Baby Registry” that you spend countless hours obsessing over, and instead buy you boatloads of onesies. “I Love Mommy”, “I Love Daddy”, “Grandma’s Little Helper”, yes I too would love for my child to be splattered with daily quippy quotes and mantras on his cute little belly and tush but one can only have so many clothes before the responsible parental mind starts thinking, “You know what would be better than a fashionable baby? A baby that can ride in my car safely, boobs that are milked with the proper machinery and a monitor that can assure me he is still breathing even when I am not staring incessantly at him!” Their contributions aren’t a requirement, they didn’t make the baby or choose to have the baby so their not purchasing off the registry is not their problem, it’s yours. If they want to purchase the adorable doggy onesies complete with puppy paws and a doggy eared hat, that is their will. What is okay is to graciously thank everyone for spending their hard-earned money on your baby and return the items to their proper stores later. With any luck, with that returned money you can purchase the necessities.
It’s okay to have big labor worries about pooping, reflective surfaces and free butt shots: At first pass, my birth plan consisted of 3 major points. Point the first: At no point would I be allowed to poop during labor, should I poop then plan B would be immediately instituted, which consisted of either shooting me in the head to avoid embarrassment or Plan C: finding those little sticks that the Men in Black carry to wipe the memory of every person present in the room. I’m not a public pooper, pooping to me is a very private affair only to be done in complete isolation. Public restrooms, friends homes, neighbors houses, all inappropriate pooping places. Pooping is to be reserved for the privacy of your own home in your own bathroom. So, the thought of pooping during labor while someone was a mere inches away from the pooping zone is enough to make me want to die (refer back to earlier comment of shooting me in the head).
Birth plan point the second, I, nor anyone else in the room with the exception of the doctor and nurses are allowed to see what is happening south of the lady part equator. This means there will be no asking from the nurse, “Do you want a mirror so you can see the head coming out?” Because my answer is a definitive “NO”. I find no joy, gorgeousness or amazement in seeing my lady bit bleeding, gushing or tearing before my very eyes. I’m sure my son is going to be amazingly gorgeous, so much so that I will not want to take my eyes from him, however I’m willing to wait the extra 20 seconds for you to pull him out of the danger zone before I set my eyes upon him.
Birth plan point the third: Should I be forced to wear a hospital gown, at no point will my ass be allowed to flail in the wind for God and everyone to see. There is good reason I have avoided 3 way mirrors this last part of pregnancy. I have the sneaking suspicion that my ass is not how I left it 9 months ago. I arrived at this conclusion merely because of the back fat haunches that have accumulated around what once I called my waistline. If things are happening in my frontal region where I can actual see, the last thing I want to do is to begin exploring the areas God purposely hid from my immediate sight line. Therefore, if I am to maintain some sort of dignity in the birthing process, I beg of anyone in the room responsible for my well-being, to please, for the love of God, keep my large ass a mystery to the world. I request the same dignity of that in my early twenties during my, “I’m wearing a sweater around my waist in case I get cold phase”. You remember that phase, the one where you wanted everyone to play along that the sweater was actually “in case of inclement weather” and actually camouflaged the reality of your large butt.
It’s okay to be less than perfect: I am nearing the end of my pregnancy, with 20 days to go I’m tired, grouchy and irritable at moments. Other moments I’m excited, elated, happy and talkative. The inability to sustain an emotion is annoying even to me, so I understand how I must be to those around me. But you know what, I forgive myself for this. I’m growing a person for God’s sake! Do you have any idea how hard that is? Up until now, I haven’t been able to grow anything, ask the dead cactuses and brown bamboo in my house how they feel about my ability to grow something. The farther along I get in pregnancy the more flawed I become. I can no longer pee in the pee cups at every OB appointment without peeing all over my hand because of the ginormous belly blocking my way. My desire to look “put together” is replaced by my desire to be comfortable. I no longer care that my nails are bitten down from nervousness as long as my toes look okay (given that my toes will be in the doctors face more than my fingers will be). I’m okay with leaving work a little early when my back is aching and my head is pounding even if I once use to work until late at night, I am sure that day will come again. I’m okay with not being polite to the guy in the mall who asked if I wanted a sample just because he was standing in my path and the energy to walk two steps around him was much more than I could muster. I’m okay with not liking being asked anymore, “How are you feeling?” or “How did you sleep last night” and I am certainly okay with thinking about punching the stranger in the elevator who told me, “You look like you are going to pop any second!”
It is okay to be less than perfect, after all isn’t that the first lesson of being a parent?
