Jun
4
June 4, 2007
I can’t help but notice that despite my Dramatic Declaration of Intent back in January and the, er, Dutiful Monthly Effort since then, I don’t seem to be pregnant.
My feeling on this topic is largely one of ambivalence, although as the months go by I’ve developed an ever so slightly raised mental eyebrow: hmmmmm. I got pregnant with Riley so quickly, I naively assumed that this time around would be exactly the same scenario, whereupon we would decide, in a flurry of panic and second-guessing, to Go For It, and approximately thirty seconds later I’d be watching the second line show up on the stick while hyperventilating in a paper bag.
Instead, I’ve had weeks and weeks to panic and second-guess and re-embrace the whole idea and be disappointed when my period shows up, and lather, rinse, repeat. I’ve spent a little time worrying that something has gone wrong and a second baby just isn’t in the cards, and I’ve spent a night feverishly hoping the month’s Dutiful Effort did not take, because Riley had been so phenomenally horrific that evening and I literally could not imagine doing it all. Over. Again.
All in all, I guess I’m tentatively glad I didn’t get pregnant right away, because it’s given me time to really think about it, and feel more confident that I really do want another baby. It’s been helpful that Riley doesn’t feel so much like a baby himself these days, because I’m starting to actually miss those stages that are exclusive to the first year. I’m also happy that I lost weight and got my body in shape during the last few months (can I just interrupt my own blog entry to tell you how I felt when I tried on a couple clothing items at Lucy in a size small . . . and they FIT? Oh my god, I nearly tongue-kissed the sales clerk), and that I ignored the lazy voice in my head that told me not to bother, I was just going to be pregnant soon anyway.
I do wonder how long it’s going to take, though. I mean, we’ve been actively trying, with the oft-recommended Taking Charge of Your Fertility book and the ovulation kits and the sex when neither of us even feels remotely like having sex. (“Talk dirty to me.” “Uh, let us to be having the hot sex, for the purpose of procreation.” “Oh, yeah.”)
JB says it will happen when it’s supposed to happen, which is an oddly fatalistic comment for him. It’s a nice thought, though, and until it’s time to think otherwise, I guess that’s what I’ll believe too.
Jun
3
June 3, 2007
What a crackerjack of a weekend it’s been. JB’s parents came to visit Riley (who acted disgustingly angelic all weekend and prompted many comments from JB’s mom along the lines of, “He just falls asleep without a peep! And he’s such a good eater!” “He really knows how to keep himself occupied, doesn’t he? So independent!” and “Oh, he’s just such a sweet boy”; she’s probably been reading all my kvetching entries on ClubMom and wondering just what kind of intolerant jackass I am, for there is no way this giggling, halo-clad cherub could be the same petite monstre who supposedly pitches nuclear-level tantrums on a regular basis and once bit his mother hard enough to leave a massive bruise for two weeks [so basically my child is like a buggy computer that magically fixes itself when a sysadmin is nearby, if computer = mercurial befanged toddler and sysadmin = doting grandparents]) and their company was like taking a mini vacation in our own home. They got the boy up in the morning, played with him all day long, and were tireless participants in All Things Riley, including walking him down the street several times a day so he could exclaim over the letter E on the sewer grate for the millionth time (“EE! EEEEEE!”).
Best of all, they were more than happy to take evening watch and allow JB and I to have a couple of date nights. (You know: date nights, where you leave the house and kids in order to talk about the house and kids in a different environment. Ho ho, and they say parents are boring!)
I managed to convince JB that we should see that movie involving fast-moving artery-chomping zombielike humans on Friday, and I’m pleased to report that it was mostly successful on all fronts. There were scenes that required careful deliberate eye-blurring (I cross my eyes slightly in the scary parts of movies, so as to achieve the peeking-through-the-fingers effect without looking like a pussy) and there was a commendable amount of character kill-off and I loved the depressing post-outbreak military presence. My coworker said 28 Weeks Later is to 28 Days Later as Aliens is to Alien, and while I gave him shit at the time (because dude: fuckin Aliens. You know, “Game over, man! Game over!”? Movies just don’t GET any better than Aliens) the comparison is actually not completely insane.
I’d discuss the one extremely silly aspect of 28 Weeks Later, but blah blah spoilers. Let me just say a certain suspension of belief—beyond the whole ‘there’s a crazy virus that makes people act like zombies on speedballs’ storyline—is necessary.
So we did that on Friday night, and on Saturday JB and I went back to the Dahlia Lounge for a long, expensive, exceedingly fattening dinner. I had the doughnuts, the just-cooked mini donuts with thick whipped cream and fresh jam, for dessert, and all I can say about that is mmmmmmmmmmmm, ohhhhhh, oh, oh, OH! OHHhhhh. Mmm. Mn.
The weather has been outstanding, sunny and summery, and we’ve spent a lot of time sitting in the backyard while Riley graffiti-tags everything with chalk and splashes around in his plastic pool (“AH WET!”). I even managed to get in a pre-donut run on Saturday and added to my growing mishmash of weird tan lines.
The solitary fly in our ointment-rich weekend was this afternoon when I insisted upon visiting the dog park. We hadn’t been in a long, long time and I figured Riley would love seeing all the dogs and having the chance to run around while Dog went swimming; well, I was partially right. He liked the dogs, but he went beserko-batshit over the balls people were throwing for their dogs. “BALL! A BALL A BALL A BALL!” He’d see a wet tennis ball go flying by and he’d start flipping out because he couldn’t have it. Also, he wasn’t content to stand on the sidelines of the water, he wanted to plunge right in, never mind that it was a roiling muddy mess of dogs and way the hell over his head.
So we’d drag him away from a water access area and he’d be shrieking and flailing and generally experiencing a total toddler system malfunction (note that the grandparents had departed by this time and so missed the chance to observe this behavior, OF COURSE) to the point where half of the park was giving us those half-sympathetic, half-relieved-it-isn’t-them glances. We tried our best—even finding him a semi chewed ball of his own, which he promptly flung into the gaping maw of a passing border collie—but finally left in sweaty surrender, leaving a trail of tears and snot.
It’ll be a cold day in hell before I get JB to return to the dog park (I’m pretty sure he now thinks of it as his personal Waterloo) and god knows I’m not going to try and herd both toddler and Lab by myself, so I guess Marymoor won’t be highly featured on our summer agenda this year. Sorry, Dog. Is there any way we can help you exact your revenge on the boy for this unjust situation?
Oh, okay. Yeah, that works.
PS: here’s our best attempt at a family portrait, taken this weekend:
Child: belly showing? Clutching a toy as if buzzards were circling? Wearing pants that haven’t fit in weeks? Deeply suspicious? Check, check, check, and CHECK.
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