Feb
13
February 13, 2007
I woke up yesterday feeling like something that had been filed under S for Shit: Hammered. It was like some particularly vicious hangover from 2003 had lurched out of my past in order to gift me with all the old familiar symptoms: headache, squirrely stomach, and a mouth that felt as though a family of wharf rats had slept underneath my tongue during the night.
JB waggled his eyebrows at me. “So, it’s morning and you’re feeling sick, eh?”
“But I started feeling crappy last night,” I said.
“Evening sickness,” he said, practically elbowing me in the ribs.
I figured if I were actually pregnant, and this was how I felt while being all of three minutes into the process, then the only explanation would be that I was carrying some kind of Poison Baby, a zygote capable of destroying my entire system, possibly by shooting death-lasers from its microscopic eyes.
However, right about the time I had imagined my way through the entire horrific, death-lasered pregnancy (where I must Take To My Bed on a daily basis and lie there, greenish and miserable and yet somehow growing more bulbous by the minute), I got my period. So, no Poison Baby this month.
I marked a firm X on our calendar to officially denote the First Day of Menstruation, because apparently in order to be strategic about the whole conception business (uh, sorry if this maybe too much personal information for a lunchtime blog read) you’re supposed to know a thing or two about your cycle. When I saw my doctor a few weeks ago, she asked how long my cycle was. “Um,” I said, and pursed my lips while peering intently off into space. I felt so . . . unwomanly, admitting that I had no earthly idea, that as far as I was concerned it was either Tampon Time or Not Tampon Time, and I didn’t have a good handle on how much of the month was devoted to each category.
Also, to be totally honest, I didn’t really exactly completely know how the whole thing worked. You know, the precise process of what happens when. What can I say, the majority of my adult life I’ve been focused on preventing a Blessed Event, not courting it—it’s been a while since I’ve studied up on follicles and ovum and whatnot.
Anyway, I feel practically bursting with knowledge now (would you like to talk about cervical mucus? Wait, come back!) and while an X on a calendar does not a Poison Baby make, I’m oddly pleased to be at the very least more aware of my inner tickings and tockings. At nearly 33 years of age, I finally have a shot of passing middle school health class! As long as no one makes me draw a fallopian tube, which I always picture as looking something like this:
I never figured out what my Mystery Ailment was, although I can probably blame the child. A few days ago he had a runny nose, and so of course that means one of his parents was bound to get the Avian-Swine Death Flu. I thought as adults we had built up immunities to these childhood germs, but noooo. Most of the time we just absorb them and transform them into something much more repulsive, like some crazy infectious-disease poker game. “I’ll see your occasional cough and raise you a chest-rattling lung-horker!”
In other news, Workplace is probably moving offices soon. To Magnolia. And I live in Bellevue. For those of you not familiar with the Seattle area, this will be my commute:
(Hey, am I the only person who has to look away from the screen while Google Maps does its zoom-in thing? It makes me carsick, I swear to god.)
As the crow flies it’s not too much further than my current commute, but when you factor in the traffic issues and various neighborhood/freeway crossings . . . well, I’m pretty sure it’s going to be bad. I’m guessing an hour at minimum each way. Unless I find some awesome shortcut, or purchase my own helicopter, or grow a leathery set of wings. Sigh.
Lastly, here’s an image I’ve been enjoying lately: two pictures of JB and Riley, one taken just a couple days ago, one when Riley was a newborn.
I cannot believe how fast Riley’s grown—how fast he continues to grow. We measured him against a wall in November, and did it again this morning, and he’s TWO INCHES taller. Now he can reach up with his go-go-gadget-toddler arms and grab things off of tables and countertops, and I can tell you this: it is both surprising and horrifying and a lesson to be learned when you’re putting some dishes away and you look over to see your young son, babbling earnestly at you about the fucking steak knife he just nabbed off the counter. Ah, parenthood, it’s just one sphincter-loosening heart attack after another.
Feb
11
February 11, 2007
JB has returned to our happy household and once again Riley’s starry-eyed gaze is fixated in his direction, a fact that I’ve officially learned to appreciate because, let’s be honest, I guess all things considered I would prefer to be the Chosen One, but as long as I’m not, the truth is when a child is clamoring to be on one parent’s lap, the other parent is free to kick back and flip through Us magazine. I’m just saying. Make lemonade, that’s MY motto.
I was particularly looking forward to the first morning when it was JB’s turn to get up with Riley so that I could burrow beneath the covers and wait for the Pavlovian beep of the coffee machine—after a week of waking up going, dammit, is it my turn AGAIN?—but the first thing JB did was bring Riley into our bed. I should be clear that Riley has never been the sort of child to snuggle into his parents’ sides and sleep between them, a gloriously warm snoring puppy; rather, he goes beserko the instant he’s on the mattress. To Riley, our bed is a big expanse of bouncing Disneyland fun, and the entire concept of Let’s Bring the Boy In Bed So We Can All Sleep In A Bit More has never panned out, ever.
Not only that, but as I peered up from my previously comfortable pillow, which was now being partially stepped on by a clumsy toddler foot, I saw that Riley had a big plastic lid clutched in his hands—the cover from his giant bin of Lego blocks. “Why,” I managed to say, before I had to throw an arm over my face to block the incoming lid, which Riley was swinging around in a great giggling arc.
“Let me get this straight,” I said, muffled by the pillow and covers I had taken refuge beneath. “You not only brought the boy to bed on your morning, but he’s got a massive LID that he’s whacking me with.” I heard the sounds of a kerfuffle, then a deluge of screaming—JB had wrestled away the lid, and Riley was protesting at top volume, careening around the bed and trampling my hair.
“What should I do?” JB asked innocently, as though the flight back from Taipei had sucked every last brain cell from his head.
“You should get out of bed and take the boy with you because it’s YOUR MORNING,” I whimpered. Meanwhile, the dog scritched around on the floor excitedly, begging to go out, the cat started yowling from down the hall, and there was nary a coffee-beep to be heard.
So that could have been more relaxing. In general, though, it’s so much nicer to have another adult in the house, for companionship as well as toddler-wrangling. I did enjoy spending some alone time with Riley, but most of our conversations were fairly limited, you know?
Riley: (pointing to his ball) “BA!”
Me: “Yes, that’s your ball!”
Riley: (walking over and picking up his ball) “BA!”
Me: “Good job, can you throw me your ball?”
Riley: (hurling the ball in my direction) “BA! BA!”
Me: “Awesome throw!”
Riley: (pointing to his ball) “BA?”
Me: “Yes . . . that’s your ball. Again.”
*repeat 398657015 times*
Of course, lots of my conversations with JB go like this:
Me: “What do you want to do for dinner?”
JB: “I don’t know.”
Me: (sighing) “Chicken? Stir-fry?”
JB: ” . . . eh.”
Me: “Spaghetti?”
JB: “Meh.”
Me: “Well??”
JB: “Honestly most of the time nothing sounds good until you make it and then it’s always good.”
Me: “That’s . . . really helpful.”
JB: “Pizza?”
Me: “Meh.”
*repeat 9375713 times*
:::
Riley has started doing this thing where he pulls his hand down inside his sleeve, glances up at us with a crinkly-eyed, sly expression, and waits for one of us to ask in a boisterously loud voice where his hand is, then bursts his hand through and says “Ehhhh!”.
“There it is,” we crow, and he holds his hand out, a little pink grubby star, and marvels at his own amazing self.
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