Jan
7
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.
Jan
5
I used to think I knew what ironic meant until Alanis did that song and everyone with an English degree started snarking about how the lyrics totally mutilated the meaning of the word, and I was all, wait, I thought a death row pardon two minutes too late was ironic? Well, fuck me.
So it’s either irony or some more appropriate, smart-sounding word that the day after a bunch of (colorful description deleted for the sake of trying to follow the If You Can’t Say Something Nice Rule) readers over at ParentDish lambasted me for being an abusive dog owner, Dog all of a sudden has this big cut on one of her toes—probably from the razor-sharp shards of glass we force her to lie in—and we’ve been doting on her to the point of waiting on her paw and foot (although I drew the line at letting her on the bed, my sleep is spotty enough these days without a big hairy beast hogging the covers, and to add Dog to the mix would really just be too much) (har har HAR!).
After I (foolishly) went and wrote an article about how I sometimes tell her to stop licking herself for the love of god then sat back dumbfounded while people reacted as though I had confessed to spending my spare time ramming toothpicks into her eye sockets and forcing her to drink bleach, my penance is to listen to Dog, wait for it, LICKING her hurt paw constantly, and of course I can’t say a damn thing about it, because then I really would be an asshole. Slup . . . slup . . . slup . . . ah, the repetitive, saliva-coated sound of IRONY! I think! Depending on what that word means!
By the way, let me just take a moment to thank you guys for being such a consistently supportive, awesome presence out there on the other side of this blog. I am more grateful than ever for the privilege of your company, now that I’m writing elsewhere in an environment that seems to attract a lot of uhhhhh negative attention. Thanks for not bringing the crazy, and thanks also for encouraging me to get my goddamned hair done already:
I got it hacked and colored today, and I feel like a new woman! I mean, sure: still ridiculously pregnant and all, but hey, at least my hair is less craptacular. GOOD IDEA YOU GUYS HIGH FIVE.
More pictures!
Hee. Cabinet Cat is watching you masturbate.
The hilariousness of a small child post-buzzcut, wearing a too-big shirt, and sporting his NEW SHOES which he is very, very proud of. (Don’t tell him they’re from Old Navy and probably made in China from various toxic substances.)
In addition to learning to do somersaults recently the boy has mastered the art of jumping with both feet, like a KANGAWOO MOMMY, NOOK!
Oh and also he can do ninja karate moves. JB will warn you: men, cover your nuts.
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