Feb
1
Oh hi there, it’s ME AGAIN, just doing the blog equivalent of blathering nervously out loud while I drum my fingers, chew my bottom lip, and that annoying sound from 24 plays in my head: tink . . . tink . . .
I thought there was a good chance I’d get ushered over to Labor & Delivery today, since they had me scheduled for another blood pressure test at 10 AM and hey, you know one thing that I bet sends people’s blood pressure skyrocketing, it’s knowing that the results of the test could send you straight to the operating room, but no, everything was totally fine. Whew, I guess. Except truthfully I was sort of hoping we might just get the ball rolling instead of waiting all weekend and getting progressively more FREAKED THE HELL OUT.
I have now packed my hospital bag twice, so by Monday I should have this whole routine down cold and will have have strategized the right amount of stuff to bring. Camera battery: yes; two different kinds of perfume: no.
A nurse presented me with some sort of hardcore antibacterial soap and instructed me to wash from the neck down on both Sunday night and Monday morning, then she paused, perhaps assessing my intellect and finding it lacking, and told me not to use it in my hair (duh) or inside my lady parts (no KIDDING, really? Because I was planning to really have a go at myself with a turkey baster and maybe a Magic Eraser). She also reminded me not to shave my own belly, an activity which I had not considered but once she mentioned it I instantly started wondering who would need to do so and just how thick and luxurious their belly-pelt might be.
Aside from any last-minute labor shenanigans, we’re now supposed to show up at the hospital at 6 AM on Monday, at which point we’ll probably sit around in some bleak-ass waiting room for about a thousand hours while I get progressively more despondent about that whole no eating past midnight pre-op thing. I’ll post something on Sunday about where/when you might find some baby news on Monday, stay tuned.
So tell me (DISTRACT ME), what are your plans for the weekend? Are you doing anything in particular for the Superbowl? Me, I don’t much care about the teams playing, but it seems like a fine excuse for eating a bowl of nachos the size of my head.
Jan
31
Lately I have been ordering my groceries online from Amazon’s food delivery service, and it rules. It’s a good way for me to stop and think about what I’m going to cook for the week ahead, instead of rushing through the aisles all willy-nilly and throwing whatever catches my eye in the cart (and inevitably getting home, unloading $200 worth of bags, and finding myself immediately thinking goddammit there’s nothing to EAT). It’s also a fantastic way to buy groceries without the nerve-wracking presence of a child in the shopping cart, which is basically akin to pushing a ticking time bomb around the store that could blow at any moment, and here you are without any knowledge of whether it’s the red wire or blue one that will diffuse the situation (in other words, sometimes Sir Demando-Lot really does want that balloon, and sometimes he’s just FUCKING WITH YOU).
Amazon’s got some introductory period going on where they don’t charge sales tax, although I find that I’m shopping less frequently but buying more at one time so it’s hard to tell whether I’m saving money or not. At any rate, it sure is convenient, even though I still haven’t figured out some of the container sizes and occasionally end up mistakenly ordering a wee little one-serving cup of Fage yogurt when I wanted the Mega Fat-Ass Tub, etc.
It’s nice to offload tasks like walking around the grocery store, not so much because it’s tiring to do so but because I feel really self-conscious at the moment. Every single person I come in contact with asks when I’m due, because it’s so burstingly apparent that the answer is “ANY MINUTE NOW”, and while these are perfectly friendly queries that a normal person could probably respond to without getting all embarrassed and sweaty, I was born with a tragic medical condition known as Social Dorkitude and drawing this much attention just by waddling lumbering lurching, Quasimodo-style, while holding my back and trying not to pee my pants walking around in public is hard for me to deal with; also, I’m convinced whatever response I give to peoples’ kind overtures is phenomenally weird and stupid. As in,
“So, when’s the baby due?”
“Well, Monday. I mean, that’s not technically the actual due date but that’s when the C-section is scheduled for so I’m just saying Monday at this point because it’s easier than explaining the whole C-section thing except I guess I just did ha ha ha HAAA!”
“. . .”
Lots of people go on to ask if it’s a boy or a girl, and then if they’re particularly chatty, they ask if we have a name picked out yet. I’ll tell you, I have a hard time answering this one because yes, we DO have a name picked out, but no, I don’t want to say what it is yet, and how do you say that gracefully? I just end up fibbing, by saying that we’ve got it narrowed down but we’ll make the final decision at birth. Since that’s such an unsatisfying answer to hear, I’m thinking of embellishing it a little further: “We prefer nontraditional names, so it’s either going to be Xerxes or the pound sign; you know: #. What do you like better?”
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