We moved Riley into his own bedroom a little while ago, a transition that did not go completely hitch-free but with the exception of one Very Dramatic Evening has been fairly painless overall. In order to sort of detach him from his old room altogether I moved all of his diaper supplies to the new room and we’ve been changing him in there instead of his changing table—something we probably should have done a while back, since he’s long outgrown it. The problem is, his bed (a futon) is very low, and I am very very large. It has been extremely difficult to bend that far over in order to wipe my squirming kid’s butt and wrestle him into/out of his clothes; every time I do it I have to take a break afterwards and spend some quality time panting and gasping and blinking at all the pretty little sparkling stars floating around my head.

Anyway, it randomly occurred to me this morning that my own bed is about four times higher than Riley’s, and if I changed him there it would be just as ergonomically helpful as the changing table was. It’s taken me, let’s see, about two weeks to come to this realization, so I guess we can officially cross “Able to Problem-Solve In a Timely Manner” off my list of Things I Still Feel Capable Of This Late in Pregnancy.

That list does include Eat Ice Cream Every Single Night, which is something I remember doing in the last weeks of being pregnant with Riley. And I do I mean every night. There’s just something so soothing and happy about ice cream, I feel internally comforted with every slurpy bite. Well, except for about halfway through the bowl, when the sugar high or the coldness of my stomach contents turns Smalltopus into a Rolfing expert hell-bent on pulverizing the various muscle fascia within his reach.

I can’t get over how much this kid moves, and how truly uncomfortable it is when he does so. None of the pregnancy books warn you that those heartwarming little bubbles early on will turn into the sort of sensations that make you wonder just how secure of a containment system your body can possibly be, because we’re just talking about tissue and skin and stuff, right? It’s not like the baby is held securely behind bones or anything, surely he could just claw his way through if he tried hard enough? Which worries me, because it really seems like he is TRYING VERY HARD.

My belly doesn’t look or feel like a round balloon any more, now it’s a roiling mass of babyparts. I wish like hell I could peek in there and see what position he’s in, because a lot of time it doesn’t make any kind of anatomical sense to me (“What IS that, a leg? A butt? A battery-powered Whack-A-Mole game?”).

All in all, I have the increasing feeling that there’s not nearly enough room for the both of us, and yet we’re expected to share quarters for a few more weeks still. Craziness! I know pregnancy is supposed to be the most natural thing in the world, but from my perspective it’s entirely UNnatural to house a whole entire human being inside your own body. A Chihuahua puppy, sure; a case of Eclipse “Polar Ice” gum, why not?—but a full-term BABY? Come on. Tell me another one, Fibby McBullshit.


55 Responses to “Tales from Blimp City”

  1. Meagan on January 8th, 2008 10:42 pm

    Hi Linda, don’t know if you’ll make it this far down the comment list, but I wanted to let you know that I found this site from the link posted by Kara on parent dish, who was trying to tell everyone what a jerk you were by complaining about parent dish. I think you’re hilarious and I’ve enjoyed all your posts, just wanted to tell you that if nothing else, you’ve got another loyal reader out of all the mess. Oh but by the way, I read the Black Chardonnay post and never mind, you stick toothpicks in Dog’s eyes? You’re a horrible person. Actually I’m just resentful because I’m one of the English majors you mentioned. Damnit.

  2. H on January 9th, 2008 10:26 am

    I’m sorry for getting off topic here for a minute, but I want to tell you that I think it is funny that you became part of my sleep experience last night. I was awakened by the slup,slup,slup,slupping sound of our beagle licking one of his body parts and my first thought was of you — and then I had a good chuckle.

  3. planetjanet on January 9th, 2008 10:39 am

    My babies should have been named Haagen & Daz. Vanilla milkshakes replaced the solace of a glass of wine. In the bathtub while my son wrapped his toes around my ribcage so he could more accurately put pressure on my bladder!

    Now I’m hooked on your blog. Thanks!

    Potty training happens when you have worked forever and they finally agree to give it a try. Not a minute before. I thought my boy would be wearing size 5 with a snap crotch! I did switch to pull-ups (from 2 years of cloth) when daughter was nearly here and the huffing and puffing of diaper change was too much.

  4. heather on January 9th, 2008 11:53 am

    I had my little guy two months ago and completely relate to your last comments about the “thing” inside your belly. Even after seeing many ultrasounds and then him actually coming out, I still couldn’t come to grips with the fact that it was that baby over there that was in my belly. For sure a small dog or alien or something…but not a baby. Try to enjoy your ice cream eating and crappy last weeks of pregnancy…the mayhem is about to commence! Good Luck!

  5. wn on January 10th, 2008 6:26 am

    GOD this made me laugh….and smile out of “getting-it-ness”…I am about 2 weeks behind you and have reached the all-encompassing NEVER-COMFORTABLE-PHASE…and it’s hard…damn hard…and I don’t even have a toddler to wrangle…although I do have a beagle to control (probably almost as bad, true story!).

    I had quit ice cream for fear for becoming a full-fledged rhino versus a baby-rhino…but my willpower is waning….

    I’m not sure I can make it until February 29th without ice cream….jesus…now I don’t even feel like I can make it until the end of the day..:*)

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