Thursday, January 31, 2013

Random Mom Thoughts - While Pregnant: 3rd Trimester

- Why is that guy staring at me like that? I'm pregnant, not an alien, JACKHOLE. Haven't you ever seen a pregnant woman before? GO BACK TO YOUR MAMA'S BASEMENT, ASSBAG. Oh, he was looking at the drunk bum pissing in the street behind me. Whoops.

- When will I go into labor?

- I just dropped that on the floor. I have two options here: 1. It's staying there 2. Ethaaaan! Can you please come pick this up for Mommy?

- Okay, I have 251 newborn diapers (yes I counted them), 12 onesies, 7 sleepers, 5 pairs of pants, 10 pairs of socks, 16 washcloths, 4 bibs, 382 wipes, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Who knew that organizing baby clothes and counting diapers could be so much fun?!

- What nobody tells you: shaving your legs while enormously pregnant is a MASSIVE TASK.

- Yes, I am still shaving my legs. I already feel gross, I'm not adding hairy, prickly legs to that feeling.

- I should just make a shirt: "I'm due July 12th, it's a boy, his name's Ethan, he's our first, I feel like a fucking beast GREAT, thank you!" Or should I print up flyers to hand out?

- I hate everyone. Just kidding. You, lady who just let me cut in front of you in the public restroom because you "have been there before", YOU are a Goddess.

- Thanks for parking so close to my door, dickwad. Don't you know that I'm pregnant? I have to open my car door really wide so I can get my giant belly into the car, and you just parked a foot away. Fuck you.

- Actually, Crazy Stranger in Trader Joe's, I don't give a crap what your opinion is on pregnant people drinking Hansen's sodas, nor do I care to stand here and listen to your dietary input. Thank you for wasting five minutes of my last two kid-free months. 

- I miss alcohol.

- When will I go into labor?

- Why do all the sick people insist on being in my face? Like, RIGHT UP in my FACE. Are you trying to floss my teeth with your HAIR? Get the hell away from me!

- Wow. It's actually kind of awkward being the center of attention and opening gifts at my baby shower. Who knew?

- Stop kicking my bladder, asshole.

-How is it possible for my entire body to just... hurt? I sit for longer than 10 minutes, I hurt. I stand up, I hurt. I lay down, I hurt. Hurt hurt hurt.

- We named this thing! Now, in what ways are all his classmates going to mock his name? Shit, think! How badly did we just screw your life up, kid? Okay, what rhymes with Ethan? Ethan Pee-than. Ha! I'LL call him that. That shouldn't put him in therapy. Unless he pisses his pants all the time in school or something.

- "Wow, I'm super comfortable" said no 9-months-pregnant woman, ever.

- "Wow, I slept really well, all night long" said no 9-months-pregnant woman, ever.

- WHY AM I SNORING ALL THE TIME NOW? Screw you, "extra fluid and swelling in the membranes" bullshit.

- I'm having a glass of wine. They do it in Europe all the time. YOU'LL BE FINE, BABY.

- My water better not break in public. Should I start wearing Depends, just in case?

- HOW DID THIS DOOR GET SO DIRTY? DAMN IT! I'm cleaning it right now.

- Am I in labor?

- (With the second and especially the third pregnancy) Yes, Everyone In Public, my two kids are flipping out and I can barely get them under control and YES I AM HAVING YET ANOTHER KID. I KNOW, GREAT IDEA, HUH!

- Having to piss every half-hour at night now? Really? Should I just start wearing Depends?

- I have to ride in a car for over an hour? That's like, two bathroom stops minimum. Should I just wear some Depends?

- Aaaand, I have officially lost my dignity for even considering wearing Depends... Considering it more than once.

- Was that a contraction?

- Stop kicking my ribcage, asshole.

- Tits this giant are actually not sexy.


- Am I in labor? Was that a contraction?

- I can't believe Nate is going to be a dad.

- How badly does labor hurt, really? I mean, reallyreallyreally?

- Go to the grocery store? Go to your birthday party? SCREW YOU, MY WATER MIGHT BREAK ANY SECOND. I am NOT leaving this house. Because I am NOT going to leak fluid down my legs in public and be that chick, who everyone remembers for the rest of their life as "the pregnant woman whose water I saw break all over the floor at the grocery store" or "the woman whose water broke at that birthday party and that two-year-old ran right through the puddle before anyone could stop him."

- Am I in labor? Was that a contraction?

- I'm about to be a mom. ME. Holy shit. I'm sorry, kid. I'm sorry.

- Well, would you look at that. That is a giant belly. Oh hi, feet. Hi.

Me, two days before having Brandon (kid #3). Hole. E. Shit.

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Monday, January 14, 2013

The Puke Story

Warning: There is no point to this story. 

One time, when Brandon was small enough to fit into a BabyBjorn (Remember those expensive pieces of shit?) and I was stupid motivated enough to wear my 15-pound kid in one of those things, along with my 10 pounds of breast-milk-filled breasts, I took all three boys out for a stroll in our 'hood. During this exciting stroll, Connor kind of complained that he wasn't feeling too great but hey, kids complain ALL THE TIME about "thiiis" and "thaaat" and frankly, I was pretty much over the miscellaneous complaining, three kids later.

So I didn't pay much attention to his complaints. Much to my detriment.

We strolled. We got home. For whatever reason (probably to rest my back from the twenty-five pounds of kid and tits hanging off my chest), I decided to sit down in one of the chairs in our house. I don't know what kind of chair it is, a club chair, a wing chair, a striped chair, a what-the-hell-ever-chair, but anyway, it was some expensive (I'm sure) chair that my in-laws graciously handed down to us, even though they knew that our kids were going to absolutely TRASH the chair within minutes of placing it in our home.

But what kind of chair it is isn't relevant. What's relevant is that within one minute of sitting down in this mysteriously-named, expensive chair, with Brandon sound asleep in the BabyBjorn that was still strapped to my chest, Connor walked over to me. He might have said something, he probably did, but all I remember is that I turned my head to the right, looked at him, saw his mouth open, and instinctively closed my eyes and quickly turned my face to the left.

It wasn't in enough time. Connor, as he opened his mouth, projectile spewed vomit all over Brandon's head, my face, the chair, the floor, and himself.

It landed on my fucking lip. A chunk of vomit, on my lip. It was all over the lower half of my face. Someone else's vomit, on my face. I had a vomit goatee.

I seriously hope you're laughing your ass off right now.

I jumped up, and crazily enough, I was concerned about our cream-colored carpet that is already stained beyond any hope of repair. Yet, my concern focused me enough to direct the still-puking Connor to the bathroom five feet away, somehow while ignoring the chunk of vomit on my lip and the vomit all over the lower half of my face.

In the bathroom, while telling Connor to aim his mouth toward the toilet (f.y.i., a two-year-old doesn't understand that directive), still ignoring the vomit on my lip and face, I started wiping the vomit off of Brandon's still-asleep head. I was simultaneously baffled at his ability to sleep through someone puking on his head, and marveling at my ability to ignore the puke on my face to tend to the puke on my kid's head AND tend to the kid that was still puking all over himself two feet away from me and two feet away from the toilet.

What a cleanup job. But hey, I love to look on the bright side (Does that surprise you? I get that.) and this meant that the BabyBjorn actually got washed for once. I mean, really, it was all worth it just so the BabyBjorn could get washed. And no, Amy and Melinda, I am NOT going to tell you which Bjorn of yours - that you so graciously let me borrow - it was he puked on. Mainly because I have no idea.

It was a grand time, a fond memory of my kids and motherhood that is seared in my mind forever.

Apparently, I wasn't partying right in college.

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Friday, January 11, 2013

PSA #3: Poison Control and Managing Panic

Do you have the phone number for Poison Control in an easy-to-access place? 

This number? 1-800-222-1222

In the past few years, I've had to call poison control three times, the most recent being last Saturday, and I am thankful that I had the number easily accessible, in the form of a magnet on the refrigerator.

*Reader Tip: Also add it to your contacts in your cell phone. (Thanks, H.T.!)

The first time I called because Connor thought it would be a good idea to guzzle blue raspberry-scented bubble solution like he was doing keg stands at some kid frat party. Since bubbles are basically just soap, I figured it was fine but was concerned about what was used to make the bubbles smell good. Poison Control said that this wasn't a big deal. So aside from a blue mouth, there were no effects from that asshattery.

The second time, either Connor or Brandon thought that eating hydrocortisone cream was a brilliant thing to do. (Who does that? My kid...) Poison Control also said this was no big deal, especially since he didn't consume an entire tube, maybe 1/4 of an ounce or so. And that some diarrhea might follow.

This third time, I found Brandon sitting next to an open baggie of adult ibuprofen tablets that he lifted out of his dad's work bag that was sitting on our kitchen counter. Did you just cringe or gasp? Yeah... 

I did my best to get out of a two-year-old, who thinks it's all fun and games, what he did with the pills, but the exact same question asked twice received different answers. "Did you put these in your mouth?" "Yesh." [big smile] "Did you put these in your mouth?" "No." [giggle giggle] "Did you swallow the pills?" "Yesh." [giggle giggle] "Did you swallow the pills? "No." 

Damn it. Damn two-year-olds.

While trying to tamper down my panic (I kept reminding myself that I needed to think, not flip out) eventually it dawned on me to go wake up Nate (he's not lazy like me; he works late shifts) and ask him if he knew how many were originally in the bag. He didn't know exactly, but determined that there had been, at most, just a few more. We decided that Brandon probably had eaten no more than 3 pills, if he had actually eaten any at all. 

I looked at how many mgs are in Brandon's dose of children's ibuprofen (100), and compared to the potentially 600 that he may have eaten, decided to call Poison Control.

Thankfully, after asking his age and weight, they said that I shouldn't be concerned unless he had taken 15 or more pills, which there's no way he got that many. They said he might experience some stomach upset and to make sure that he eats or drinks to "pad" his stomach.

There's not much that makes me feel like a shittier parent than having to call Poison Control. Even though I was literally right there with each kid each time they pulled their nonsense, they are so freaking fast, and I always feel like the person on the other end of the line is thinking, "Jesus, is this "mom" drunk? WHO LETS THEIR KID AROUND EFFIING IBUPROFEN TABLETS/EAT HYDROCORTISONE CREAM/DRINK BUBBLES?"

Even though each time, the person on the other end of the line has always been extremely nice and sounds completely without judgment.

So put that number in a handy place, you really never know when you might need it. 


Also, when in moments of extreme stress, constantly remind yourself to think. Remind yourself that your kid needs you to think and needs you to take action. By constantly telling yourself that, it forces you to focus on thinking about what to do, instead of losing your mind to panic. The second you start to feel your focus slipping and the helplessness set in, remind yourself to think.

Trust me, it works. When Brandon was a baby, about 8 or 9 months old, I had been holding him for about five minutes when he suddenly started doing these convulsive gags and stopped breathing. My first impression was that he was choking, but I had been holding him for the previous five minutes and he had put nothing in his mouth. While I was trying to figure out what was wrong with him and what to do, he was turning grayish blue. It was clear that my baby's life was in extreme danger, and I was on the verge of flipping out but kept reminding myself to think about my options, to think about what to do. After each option as to what could be wrong with him was rapidly considered and discarded in my mind (Virus? Seizure?), as the hopelessness built, I just kept reminding myself to keep thinking or he was going to die. 

I wanted to call 9-1-1 but my instincts told me that to take the time to do that would be fatal because help wouldn't get there in time. He needed me to do something right now, but I still needed to get help on the way. Even though I hadn't seen Brandon put anything in his mouth, I flipped him over on his belly so that my hand was pushing into his diaphragm, angled his body head-down, and started whacking him on his back, all while yelling at Ethan to go wake up Daddy. As Ethan ran down the hall, Brandon started throwing up, and the vomit was mixed with blood. Nate came out of the bedroom and I was starting to tell him to call 9-1-1 when a jagged chunk of plastic that had broken off of a cheap toy came out with some vomit and Brandon started breathing again.

Hole. E. Shit.

Brandon had kept that piece of crap in his mouth for over five minutes, then suddenly decided to swallow it and nearly choke to death. And cut up his throat, too.

So, the bottom line: Remind yourself to focus and to take action. Over and over until the situation is resolved. It may seem like reminding yourself over and over would be distracting but it's not; it's focusing. Just keep swimming thinking. 

And then when all is well again, drink some wine or take a shot to calm the massive post-adrenaline-rush shaking.

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