girlfiend

First, I’d like to thank you for indulging me on my recent comment whore post. It’s nice to know my lack of posting/lack of anything funny or interesting to write about hasn’t scared everyone off.

Second, my friend/cousin’s wife just bought her daughter a big girl bed and asked us to take the crib off out of their house right now thank you very much. Since I have no interest in moving a kid who sleeps well in a crib out of one, and we will in the next 6 months need another crib, we were happy to oblige. We went over yesterday and the kids played while B dismantled their crib and loaded it in our car and I went through her maternity clothes, finding some things I’d been missing. I also scored a bunch of soft, cuddly PBK crib sheets, a snuggle nest and some girlish bedding they forced upon us in the hopes that we’ll have a girl, keep it for while and they can unload all of the rest of their girly baby stuff on us.

We got home and started to rearrange the upstairs. By we I mean Boyfiend. I hung out with my friend and her super cute, squishy baby who has not yet learned about free will, disobedience, and hair pulling. B dismantled the double bed in the guest room and F’s twin bed and switched them. We then (and by we I mean we) somehow maneuvered the twin sleeper sofa from F’s room into the guest room. Today we set up the crib in F’s room and rearranged the furniture to accommodate the double bed, crib, train table, bureau and bookshelf.

F has been saying that he only likes to sleep in big beds, so hopefully the larger bed will be incentive for him to sleep in his own goddamn room. He’s also suggested that he’d like to share a room with his brother, so again, we’re hoping. The other room now has a twin bed and the twin sleeper in it so we can always move the boys in there if we do ever actually have a guest that requires a double bed.

I am fearful, but tonight I’m going to put both of the boys to bed up there together. The odds are that F will end up in our bed 5 minutes later. Either that or he’ll keep the poor, tired baby awake. The timing is pretty much shit since T is getting his two year molars and I am cranky and pregnant, but there’s no time like the present. The worst that can happen is that we give it a couple of weeks and it doesn’t work. T will be comfortably sleeping upstairs alone and we’ll still be sleeping with a pain in the ass preschooler for the rest of our lives, ensuring that this baby-to-be is our last without the need for surgical interventions.

The baby is getting bigger. I started feeling movement around 13 weeks, but now B can feel the baby move too. If I wasn’t so unenthusiastic about taking care of another child it would be exciting.

I hate that I feel so blah about this. I wish that I was able to feel happy. I’m more than 20 weeks into this pregnancy and I’ve gotten used to the idea of it, but it’s still not something I’m thrilled about. It would be easier if I could just skip the pregnancy part and go straight to the baby. I’m sure I could muster enthusiasm about a baby, but there’s nothing pretty about being pregnant.

I hate being pregnant. I hate the congestion and the asthma and the not being able to get a little bit drunk now and then. I hate the indigestion and the lack of appetite and my lack of interest in anything remotely healthy to eat. I hate the neverending exhaustion.  I hate that all maternity clothes are either too big or two small and seriously, maternity designers, what the fuck is up with all of the 3/4 length sleeves? I don’t particularly care for the length when I’m not pregnant, why do you think I want them now? And the belly. It just keeps getting bigger. It gets in my way when I wash dishes, put the baby in his crib, read stories to my kids, squeeze through small spaces. And my belly button is just gaping open. It’s disgusting. I hate being so clumsy and the way my ass is always hanging out of my pants. I hate that I have to pee two minutes after I finish peeing.

Maybe I should try to find some good things.

This pregnancy isn’t as bad as my pregnancy with T. The baby, unlike his older brother, actually sleeps so I’m not feeling the sleep deprived desperate depression I felt during my last pregnancy. I don’t have terrible heartburn at the moment. I haven’t gained a billion pounds. I think I’m only up about 15.  The doctor at our 20 week ultrasound told us that I’m farther along than I think I am- I’m probably closer to 23 weeks than I am to 21.

I like babies. I like newborns. I don’t mind the lumpy, sleepy, nursing all of the time stage of the first three or four months. I’m lucky the baby is going to be a spring baby, not a dead of winter or a heat of summer baby. I’m lucky I’m not having twins.  Or triplets.

I’m so tired. I’m not even halfway through this pregnancy and I’m done. My standards keep getting lower and lower. My house is a mess, we’re pulling wrinkled clothes out of the clean laundry baskets, and we’re eating fewer vegetables in a week than I used to eat in a day. My temper is short, my kids aren’t getting enough of my good attentions, and I just want to get into bed. My refrigerator is nearly empty, we’ve run out of all of the breakfast cereals my kids will eat and I think they both had bread and butter followed by cheese crackers for lunch today. After we stopped for cookies at the bakery.

The Fiendling is still sleeping in our room. He manages to stay in his “bed” on the floor one night out of five. The rest of the nights he ends up in our bed and keeps me awake most of the night. He’s still being a bit of an asshole, but I think, and I hope I’m not getting ahead of myself or jinxing myself here, but I think he’s snapping out of it. When I give him specific instructions with definite consequences in advance he tends to be cooperative and not throw a complete shitfit when it’s time to leave someplace that he’d like to stay. That’s not always the case. Yesterday he ran away from me twice when it was time to leave the (cold, deserted) playground and I nearly fucking killed him after I had to drag him kicking and screaming to the car, but that was the first time it happened this week, not the fourth.

When he’s not yelling at me, refusing to eat, making unreasonable demands, fucking with his brother, or otherwise being 3, the Fiendling has been awesome. He’s taken to snuggling with me sometimes in the afternoons while T naps.  He likes to sit on my lap while I watch Friday Night Lights on Netflix. He also likes to play with flour when I can bring myself to bake. He drives his engines through it, narrating stories about crashes at the flour mill, snow storms and other disasters. I think he’s pretty close to reading too. He’s been sounding out words and has been even more interested in letters and their sounds than he was before. He likes to take the scrabble letters and spell the words he knows and the names of his engines.  And 9 times out of 10 he wipes his own ass without asking for assistance.

The baby, who is in the middle of the 18 month sleep regression, is mostly sleeping through the night again, but refuses to go to sleep and screams for an hour most nights before bed. He’s taken to throwing tantrums too, biting, hair-pulling, pushing and screaming when he doesn’t get his way, and I can’t tell if it’s because of his age or because he’s not talking at all and his inability to communicate is frustrating him. I’m sure his brother isn’t helping matters much, snatching toys away from him and yelling at him for playing. When T pulls F’s hair, pushes him or scratches his face I have to remove him from the situation, but secretly I like that my baby is fighting back a little. I hate to say it, but F deserves it a good portion of the time.

Tantrums or not, T is the sweetest kid.  He has finally (and I say finally because I feel like F started much earlier) started to bring me books and sit on my lap so I can read them to him.  He’s been so snuggly and sweet and generous with kisses that it almost makes up for the scratches on my face. And he can blow his own nose. I appreciate that in a child.

Just to get it out of the way, I’m pregnant. I figure 80% of the people who read this are either facebook or real life friends and already know, so even though I’ve been trying to come up with some interesting way to reveal it on the blog what’s the point?  To answer any questions, no it wasn’t planned, no we aren’t finding out the sex even though I want to, I’m due in early May which makes me 14 or 15 weeks pregnant, and I’m back on the stupid message boards and my head hurts just thinking about it. My friend E suggested I refer to this baby as Fi3nd, or F3, or maybe just 3. I think he’s on to something.

For those of you not keeping count, I have already been pregnant and/or nursing for 52 straight months. It’s a fucking miracle I haven’t lost my mind completely. Another miracle is that for some reason I haven’t been gaining weight like I did the first two pregnancies. My OB, the woman who scheduled an extra ultrasound just because I’d gained so much weight and asked if I was *sure* I knew my pre-pregnancy weight, told me to start eating protein bars for weight gain. I guess that’s what running around after two small children will do.

I am exhausted.

I can’t quite manage to get to water aerobics on time. It’s a 7 pm class which usually means I’m making and eating dinner beforehand and then I get stuck in weird neighborhood traffic on the mile and half drive to the Y. I’m never very late. Usually just a few minutes, but I’m late enough that when I open the door to the pool from the locker room everyone turns, looks at me waddling in, and laughs. Last night the laughter was uproarious. I must look pretty damn funny in a bathing suit. Ha ha ha. Go ahead. Mock the pregnant woman.

The house is pretty well organized. I’ve been doing my best to keep things picked up and in their proper places so it won’t be too much of a mess when I actually go into labor. Things have been dusted in the past week and I’ve been vacuuming fairly regularly. The kitchen is cleaned daily so that’s not an issue and I’ve been on top of the laundry. The bathroom, while certainly not as clean as I’d like, is clean enough to not be too much of an embarrassment. My bedroom is a wreck, but I blame that on Boyfiend since all of his clean, folded laundry is sitting on top of an old trunk we moved out of the storage room upstairs. If he’d put his shit away (just a subtle hint) it wouldn’t look quite so bad in there.

I really need a cleaning service. It would really improve the quality of my life. Instead of hiring a service I ordered another dyson.

I’ve been cooking like crazy so I won’t have to worry about eating well later.  I’ve made a bunch of dinners and some one-handed breakfasts. In the freezer I have:

• 1 9”x 13” pan of eggplant parmesan
• 3/4 of a large baked ziti in three portions
• 2 8-cup containers vegetable soup
• 1 3-quart and 1 4-cup container of beef stew
• 1 9″x13″ pan of rotini with goat cheese, spinach and red pepper sauce divided into individual servings
• 6 bean and sausage enchiladas (1 dinner and leftovers if Boyfiend doesn’t gorge himself)
• 1 tray (3 meals) chicken enchiladas
• 2 8-cup containers of chicken soup
• half a batch of chocolate chip cookie dough
• 6 cranberry muffins
• 6 strawberry mango muffins
• 18 blueberry pancakes

I’ve also got a bunch of chocolate ricotta muffins I baked tonight that still need to be wrapped and frozen. Tomorrow or Friday I’ll probably end up baking a few loaves of zucchini bread with the last of my freezer stash from last year’s CSA.

The next meat delivery from the farm is scheduled for my due date and I ordered plenty of beef so Boyfiend could cook dinner (burgers and steaks, of course) with confidence. Shortly after my due date is the start of my CSA for the summer,  so I won’t have to worry too much about grocery shopping for a while.

Now I just want this baby out.

After my ranting about Boyfiend spending too much time on his boat and not enough time on the Fiendling’s new bedroom Boyfiend actually made things worse. Last Saturday he put his boat in the water. He got up in the morning and his brother came over to help him get things set up. Passover dinner at my aunt’s house was scheduled for five. I told Boyfiend I needed him home by four. He agreed.

My morning was fine, but walking takes a toll these days. I was looking forward to nap time. Of course the Fiendling didn’t nap for more than fifteen minutes and woke up miserable, clingy and angry to be awake. I thought I was going to lose my mind. In tears I called Boyfiend to remind him that I really NEEDED him to be home on time. He said he wouldn’t be home by four, but he’d be home by four-thirty. That did not please me. When he wasn’t home by five I got the Fiendling and myself dressed and in the car and left without him. I was furious.

Then he made things up to me. The Fiendling spent last night in his new bedroom- a full 24 hours earlier than originally promised. I doubted him, but Boyfiend came through working until ten o’clock most nights to get the painting finished. The room looks fantastic and with the addition of a train table and a few trains Mix found on the side of the road the Fiendling loves it. After the big unveiling, after yet another day without a nap, the Fiendling spent two hours happily playing in his room by himself while I vacuumed and rearranged things. Then he slept through the night.

The nursery is clean. I washed the gender-neutral newborn clothes, the newborn diaper, and the covers and seat pads for the baby bouncy chair, car seat and swing. The glider is in the upstairs parlor where we spend most of our time and the pack n play where the baby will sleep the first few months is in our room. Nothing is set up in the nursery, but I thought it might be best to leave it empty for a bit, just in case the Fiendling gets it in his head to move back in. I don’t have a bag packed for the hospital, but I did put aside a few nursing tops and pajamas to bring along. Last time I just wore the gown the whole time I was there, but this time since the Fiendling will be there to visit I want to look as normal as possible

I am sick of being pregnant. I don’t remember it being quite so bad last time. I know I was swollen for a lot longer and uncomfortable, but I didn’t have any Braxton Hicks contractions, I could nap daily, and I didn’t have a two-year-old to chase around. My feet hurt, I’m tired all of the time, and all the work I’m doing around the house is exhausting.

Now that I’m ready for the baby I’m sure it will be at least two weeks overdue.

Boyfiend is at the Phillies game. I am having contractions of the Braxton Hicks variety. The Fiendling is screaming for me at his gate. Minutes ago, after the fourth time I went in there, we had a brief conversation that I found very unsatisfying.

Me: You have your trains, your teddy bear and your water. I’ve given you kisses and hugs and cuddles. I’ve rubbed your back and rubbed your forehead. I’ve held your hand and snuggled with you. It is 10.30 at night. It is time to go to sleep.

Fiendling: Don’t want to.

Now he’s yelling, “I’m sad.”

We finished painting one of the rooms upstairs- the former storage room- and set it up. It’s the room without a radiator so it will be the new guest room since we have overnight guests so rarely they don’t need a heated room in the winter. Promptly after setting it up we filled it with crap from the other room. It looked really nice for about five minutes. Now it’s crammed with baby gear, lamps, and assorted boxes of shit we’re half-assedly trying to sell on craigslist. (Speaking of craigslist, anyone want to buy anything?)

We started painting the second room up there- the former guest room that will be the Fiendling’s new bedroom. It’s bigger than the room we painted first and I haven’t had uninterrupted time to work on it. I was able to get all of the primer edging that I needed a ladder for done yesterday, but I still have to prime the fronts and backs of three doors and the moulding before I can start rolling. My dad is coming over tomorrow for a couple of hours which should help, but I don’t think I’ll have enough done so I can prime the walls.

Once I do prime the walls there are at least two coats of paint (the Fiendling alternately requests “geen” and “ahnge.” I think I’m going to have to make the executive decision.) followed by two or three coats of trim paint on the doors or moulding. The trim and moulding was painted a hideous shade of colonial blue so it requires a great deal of effort. I’m exhausted just thinking about it.

We haven’t made quite enough progress for me to feel confident that we’ll be able to move him up there with plenty of time (at least a few weeks) to adjust before the baby is born. (Mrs. T., you are making things worse with your reminders that I could go early. No, I cannot. This baby will be born in mid to late May, no sooner, thank you very much.) Doodlebug took the Fiendling off of my hands a few times last week so I could get some painting done during the day which was awesome, but that was the guest room. Now Boyfiend’s attention has turned to his boat, which he hopes to get into the water this weekend. A weekend that will not be spent painting. He’s still working on the room a little bit, but I hate that we’re losing another entire fucking weekend.

It sucks that I can only really paint during nap time which means between setup and cleanup I’m only getting an hour of painting in a day. By the time the Fiendling’s in bed I’m just too tired and don’t want to risk waking him by moving around too much up there. And I’m starting to swell for real now. My hands and feet hurt from the swelling and even my size larger pregnancy sneakers hurt after a while. Right now I should be up there painting. I’ve rested long enough. Okay. I’m off.

I’ve hit the stage in my pregnancy where I’m painfully aware of my cervix.

There are baby feet in places where I don’t want them most of the day.

My own feet are now growing out of my shoes. They don’t look monstrous yet but, with more than five weeks to go, they will.

People now think I’m “ready to pop.” They seem surprised that I have as long to go as I do. This is interesting because I’m significantly smaller than I was when I was pregnant with the Fiendling.

The Fiendling moved around much more than this kid does. This one likes to find a spot and put a lot of uncomfortable pressure on it.  My bladder is a favorite hangout.

This one doesn’t get the hiccups as much as the Fiendling did. I appreciate that.