Aug
28
August 28, 2007
Can I just say how much I loved your cucumber stories, especially the thrilling confession left by K, who likes to use her cucumbers for the purpose of cruelly dry-humping her husband, an image so vivid and wonderful I can hardly stand it? Ladies, remember how we’ve all bonded on multiple occasions over the ongoing ridiculous offers of “man sausage” and “protein shakes” and “medicinal beef injections” and so on? Let us all take a page from K’s book, and tonight, surprise your SO with a little vegetative poke to the rear! If he complains, tell him not to worry, you’ve got what ails him. Try waggling it invitingly.
This has little if anything to do with cucumbers, but my son has been a holy terror over the last few days and I don’t know if we’ve got a cold, molars, or just your average garden-variety demonic possession going on. I actually referred to him as a “douchebag” yesterday, but before you automatically throw me out of the running for mother of the year, let me assure you I’m pretty sure he didn’t hear me, as he was awfully busy unhinging his jaw in order to boost his screaming volume to Eleventy Billion Decibels.
If children had mute buttons, this whole parenting thing would be so much easier. I’m just saying.
I will say that in his favor the boy is starting to say some of the, pardon me, darndest things. The other day he was carrying on about how he didn’t like a cartoon lion on Blue’s Clues (by the way, this particular neurosis, unlike the planes, is definitely not our fault, because while we may have stupidly exposed him to terrifyingly loud Blue Angels we have never ONCE allowed him to view lions devouring great bloody hunks of helpless antelope or perhaps gnawing the tender skulls of very small children) and when we asked why, he said, “No yike it. Too feaky.” (No like it; too freaky.)
I mean, “too freaky”, could you just DIE. Although the “too” this, “too” that is getting a bit old. Everything he eats is “too hot!”, even if it’s cold cereal. The sun is too bright, his shoes are too tight, that bite is too big, this bite is too small. He’s like Goldilocks, only there’s no just right in sight, and I don’t remember the part about Goldilocks screaming and crying and throwing a massive fit because her shirt was “too green”.
This is a weird question, but do you think babies raised in grass-thatched huts in Africa go through similar diva-like toddler stages? I’m guessing maybe no. Also, wondering how much a ticket to Africa costs. Guess what, Riley, Africa has LIONS.
Anyway, I was heartened to know I’m not the only person who has experienced Dead Arm Syndrome during pregnancy. I feel like even though I’m much more distracted this time around and less likely to spend hours monitoring my entire body for emerging weirdness, I’m having more oddball symptoms than before. For instance, Dead Arm. Also, weird unpleasant sort-of-metallic taste in my mouth, hiccups whenever I get out of bed, and mutant fast-growing fingernails. Plus, hazy midnight fantasies about being trapped in a broken elevator with Clive Owen, who must manfully comfort me as the lights go out, and as the temperature begins to drop, he wraps my shivering body in his surprisingly warm arms, and whispers that it will all be okay, he has an escape plan that involves taking off his shirt, but first perhaps just a little cucumber action, and—
Well, and that’s when I wake up with numb arms and have to pee. Pregnancy blows.
Aug
27
August 27, 2007
My sleeping position of choice is flat on my stomach with my arms tucked underneath me, but lately I’ve started feeling more uncomfortable when I try to do so. Like I’m lying on something, or more specifically, someone.
The pregnancy books tell you to sleep on your side to make things easier on your heart, which has to pump massively increased blood flow into parts of your body that have enlarged during pregnancy, such as your ass. I start out nearly every night perched on one side or another, but lately I’ve been waking up on my back—which is weird, because I don’t even like sleeping on my back. I have this suspicion that I’m doing something weird with my arms, too, while I’m lying there snoring like an elephant seal, because sometimes they’re all half-dead-feeling at first, like the blood has been drained from them. Am I holding them up in my sleep like a zombie prairie dog? MAYBE.
Not that I’m sleeping in any one position for any great length of time, mind you. Oh no, my bladder has things to do, places to go! Like the bathroom, for the eight millionth time. I get up to pee so many times at night you’d think I spend each evening preparing for bedtime by power-glugging a few kegs of Gatorade. It is only slightly more ridiculous than the fact that my face seems to suddenly have received the memo that holy shit, we’re pregnant up in here, and now I’m breaking out like a crackle-voiced teenager.
Also, every single pregnancy newsletter I get from BabyCenter compares the fetus’s size to some type of food, leading me to some inescapable and disturbing eating-related associations. Apparently this week Smalltopus is the size of an avocado. Mmmm, guacamole.
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Random: I saw a couple of you comment on having noticed my rainbow-hued bookshelf; the scintillating story behind that organizational theme is here. Also, if you’d like to see a big ole fancy sticker I slapped on my wall yesterday (it’s cooler than it sounds), you can do so here.
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I think I’ve publicly mocked him for this before, but just in case I haven’t: JB refuses to buy cucumbers at the store because they are “embarrassing”.
He will, however, buy zucchini. I can’t figure this one out.
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