girlfiend

For the fourth day in a row, T told us he had a poo in his diaper by sticking his hand in it and waving it around. Luckily, today I caught it before he had the opportunity to wipe his hand off on his clothes and toys. The other day I was not so lucky and needed to wash and disinfect half of the playroom.

Aside from putting him onesies, which I hate in general and don’t actually have in the appropriate size, is there a way to stop this disgusting monkey behavior? The Fiendling never did this. I am at a loss here. I am way too pregnant to deal with this (his) shit.

B’s mother and aunt called, and his sister who is currently vacationing in Florida texted to wish me a happy birthday. As I mentioned, my dad came by earlier in the day with a check and a card. Real friends called, emailed or texted and the facebook greetings from people with whom I haven’t had a verbal conversation with in 10-15 years in some cases are still rolling in. But my mother? I checked my email this morning to see a 10:45pm, too late to call so I have to email, happy birthday email written in a giant purple font in all caps. Think the font makes up for the fact that she forgot to wish me a happy birthday until I was already in bed?

I took the children to story hour and left them to wander while I picked out a few new books for me. I dragged the two kids to Target for groceries and cat litter in the rain and surprisingly the rain slacked when I loaded the stuff in the car and drove the kids home. T fell asleep in the car on the drive home before eating lunch, but since it is my birthday he did not wake up when I transferred him to his crib and slept for close to three hours. While he napped I did not cook anything, fold any laundry, clean anything, or engage in any other domestic activity other than basic care and feeding of the child who no longer naps. Instead I watched two episodes of Weeds Season 3 on Netflix. My dad stopped by with a card and a check and T woke up in a good mood. Right now the boys are sharing water from a not especially clean sippy cup and watching Caillou on the laptop and Thomas on the TV. Because it is my birthday I am ignoring the fact that there are two irritating children’s shows on at the same time. When B gets home we are going to order Thai takeout. If I am lucky he will surprise me with cake, but if he does not I have some chocolate beet muffins that just need a bit of frosting to be perfectly good cupcakes.

After a spectacular weekend where we celebrated 5 years of marriage and got the garden ready for planting it is a gray rainy day. I am pregnant for the third time in five years and even though I don’t like being pregnant I am starting to be a little bit excited about the baby who could, theoretically, be born in a month. We painted our bedroom, the dresser I bought at a yard sale close to a year ago is finally painted and I bought some cute polka dotted shelf paper to line the drawers. It’s not the best birthday ever, but it’s not too bad either.

I need this baby to be a boy, because I am already sick to death of my mother referring to it as her little “girlsenberry” and if I have to fucking hear her refer to a real, live baby as a girlsenberry I may kill her. And the purchasing of girl’s clothes must stop. That is my inheritance she’s pissing away. She has already purchased at least $150 worth of girl’s clothing and I keep getting phone calls about when the baby will fit into specific sizes. Because I can guess how big it will be.

Is it wrong that I want a boy just to spite my mother?

I want to write a shmoopy post about my sweet little Fiendling turning four and how the book was right, practically overnight he went from total fucking maniac to reasonable, thoughtful child. But I’ve hit this stage in my pregnancy where everything sucks. Everything.

I don’t know if the Braxton Hicks contractions make me have to pee or if a full bladder makes me contract, but it’s a vicious cycle. I wake up several times a night, doubled over in pain. And even if I’ve had nothing to drink in hours I have to pee over and over again. Cleaning gives me contractions, cooking gives me contractions, lifting gives me contractions, walking up stairs gives me contractions. And the assholes who write all the pregnancy books and tell you BH contractions are painless were obviously never pregnant with a third child. I am miserable.

I’m even more exhausted than usual because of the uninterrupted sleep and the worst part is that I still wake up even if the kids (who almost never do on the same nights) sleep through. I’m not positive, but it feels like this baby is no longer breech. Instead, the baby is sideways. It is not comfortable to have 3-4 pounds of baby sideways in your abdomen. And the foot cramps, dear god, the foot cramps. I hate them in the morning, I hate them in the afternoon, I hate them in the evening, but most of all I hate them when they strike in the middle of the night. Then I have to get up to pee, only I can’t walk because on top of the painful contraction I’ve got a crippling foot cramp going on at the same time.

The beauty of this blog is that I can read back to see if everything sucked this much the first two times. I haven’t looked yet because I’m curious to see just how much I’ve blocked out. There is a hormone that makes you forget how painful labor is. Maybe it works for pregnancy too? I remember with F I was constantly getting punched in the cervix. And I know I had BH contractions with T, but I don’t remember them being so regular. And by regular I mean regular enough to make me miserable but not regular enough to mean I’m anywhere near labor. It is going to be a long couple of months.

So you know, it has happened. All week long, F has been a relative angel. He’s been sweet and mostly agreeable and there hasn’t been a giant tantrum in days. He’s getting dressed, eating breakfast and going to school without argument and sleeping in his own bed. He’s been giving me hugs and kisses regularly and telling me how much he loves me several times a day. He hasn’t run away from me in public in weeks. Yes, he’s still been working my nerves. He still jumps on (and off of) the furniture and runs in the house and helps himself to handfuls of the chocolate chips I use for baking without permission. He still steals toys from his brother and has to be reminded about acceptable behavior several times a day. He still tests me and is still a pain in the ass. But his behavior has been so much better that the small transgressions, while irritating, aren’t even memorable at the end of the day.

The baby on the other hand? My sweet, darling boy? He has been possessed by the demon that has left F. For the last 3 days, from morning until night, T has been torturing me and his brother. He refuses to eat, he hits and pulls hair with little provocation, he has been throwing everything. The puzzle F is working on? T rips it apart, screaming like a banshee, and throws the pieces down the steps. The cereal he asked for? Dumped on the floor. Anything within reach on a surface? Thrown to the floor or down the steps or both. The eggs that need to come to room temperature before adding to the cake? Smashed on the kitchen floor. My coffee this morning? Spilled everywhere. The entire kitchen floor has been spot cleaned in the past 2 days. His pants? Keep disappearing. He has taken to removing his pants and diaper several times a day. And he’s fast, too. I’ll turn my back for less than a minute and when I turn around he is pantsless.

I just don’t get a break.

F’s birthday is on Monday. Four years ago today, March 5th, was his due date. He is going to be four. Four. How is it even possible? I have to make a Triceratops cake today. The Thomas Era seems to have come to an end thanks to the marketing geniuses behind Dinosaur Train.