Archive for December, 2007

I Saw Mommy Kissing Hasselhoff

December 24, 2007


Have a very merry holiday, whatever you celebrate. I’ll be back in a few days with renewed spirit – brought about by some good rest and the arrival of new appliances – to share joyous stories of new house happiness, and sickeningly cheery positivity in general.

xoxo

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Survivor: New House Island

December 20, 2007

Have finally – four days behind schedule – received the contents of our household, which are now sitting nicely in our new driveway in a big storage pod that we must painstakingly empty ourselves, having blown our moving budget and stock of personal favors on getting people to drag our shit out of the snow over the past week (including, but not limited to, making private arrangements to have our street – our old street – plowed so that the storage pod could finally be removed from its snowbank and transported, four days late, to our new house). Have also, finally, after three missed service calls – missed because of move hellishness and winter storm fuckage – got wireless internet service and cable connected and can now sit on one of our brand new (purchased in desperation) mattresses on our pretty new hardwood floor and catch up on everything that we have missed lo these interminable four days of camping out sans furniture and appliances and toothbrushes and everything else that we had packed in expectation of unpacking almost immediately.

(No, we couldn’t go stay at a hotel, because we had to be at the new house at all variety of odd hours to accommodate move-related service calls, most of which we missed because we had to spend so much time at the old house – an hour away – dealing with the endless loose ends that became badly unravelled when our original moving plans got messed up.)

It’s been hell, I’m exhausted, I’m crabby, and I need to sleep for, like, two weeks. Could somebody please tell Santa to bring me peace and quiet and somebody who could put my house in order? Thanks.

(I sound much pissier than I actually am. I am, as it goes, very happy to be in my new house, even though it’s mostly empty; my exhaustion and crabbiness don’t preclude moments of bliss as I look out our pretty picture windows at an expanse of snowy trees and pretty old Georgian houses covered in fairy lights and listen to the sweet, sweet sound of quiet. But now would not be the time to send me bad news. I’m just sayin’. Listening, gods?)

(PS: even though we finally have wireless service, our provider is messing with us and our old e-mail accounts aren’t working. I can only, for the time being, be reached at herbadmother at gmail dot com right now – so if you’ve sent me messages at my other account, I haven’t received them.)

(SIGH.)

Come On A’ My House: NOT

December 16, 2007

Here’s a tip, if you’re ever contemplating a household move, especially if you’re contemplating making that move in the dead of winter, when horrendous winter storms tend to hit and shut down roads and services: do not plan to make that move on a Saturday.

When something goes wrong on a Saturday, it usually cannot be fixed until Monday, which means that you may face having the entire contents of your household packed and padlocked and inaccessible for 48 cold and snowy hours, which means, further, that while your old house might be satisfyingly empty, your new house will also be empty, and you will have nothing to sit on or sleep on and nothing to wear and nowhere to put your food. Also, because such things never happen in isolation, the cable and wireless hook-up guy will not show up to the empty new house to perform the vitally important task of setting up your cable and wireless network, so you won’t even be able to curl up in a corner of your empty-but-nonetheless-pretty new house to bitch properly to the Interwebs about how badly things are going, and instead be forced to wander around your empty, cold old house looking for weak neighborhood signals to steal when you should be cleaning instead. And you will be very, very crabby.

Just thought I’d share that.

Oh, Those Gods And Their Quirky Sense Of Humor!

December 13, 2007

How much do the gods hate me right now? Let me count the ways:

1) We’re only one week into what is probably going to be a three-plus week (factoring in the holidays) wait to find out anything about that damnable test, and I’m already feeling punchy about it;

2) I have the MOTHER OF ALL HEAD COLDS and cannot take anything to relieve the congestion and IT SUCKS;

3) Her Bad Father has the father of all head colds – his first head cold all year long – and even though he can take all those delicious anti-decongestant meds, he’s still miserable and fully willing to bitch about it;

4) We’re moving in two days. No, we haven’t finished packing; thanks for asking!

5) Wonderbaby has an eye infection, probably pink eye, and can’t go to daycare and keeps emptying the few boxes that I manage to pack in my sick, miserable state;

6) Did I mention that we’re moving? And that we’re sick? And that Wonderbaby can’t go to daycare and that she keeps unpacking my boxes and repacking them in her own, uniquely inefficient and exceedingly messy toddler fashion? (My bring boots to new house! My bring Toadstool! My bring juice! My bring diapers! My bring kitty! PUT IN BOX! My helping Mommy!)

(Those diapers that she packs? Not always, um, new diapers. Sometimes, they come right off her ass and straight into the box, right alongside the sippy cup, the boots and the cat.)

On the plus side, we do get a pretty new house. Also, we’ve been having rousing family discussions about penises and boobies and what goes into diapers, and that’s always fun. Oh, and Wonderbaby’s school pictures came in:

Please HORDE proofs and upload to Photoshop even if you plan on ordering EVERY available print in multiple.

Maybe it all balances out in the end.

Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Freudians

December 11, 2007

Overheard while Wonderbaby and Her Bad Father shared a bath the other evening:

WB: Whassat?

HBF: What’s what?

WB: What THAT is?

HBF: That’s Daddy’s penis.

WB: Oh.

(pause)

I have one?

HBF: No, girls don’t have penises.

WB: I HAVE ONE.

(looks down)

Oh.

(pause)

OH NO!

(looks up)

ALL GONE.

So. How, exactly, does one explain that Freud was wrong to a two-year old?

Wonderbaby Dynamite

December 9, 2007

Wonderbaby knows just what to do when Mommy’s low. Do a little dance, show a little love, get down tonight:


And always, always close the performance with jazz hands.

*********

Thanks again, beyond muchness, for all the love and well-wishes. I won’t know the results of the test for two to three weeks, maybe longer, depending upon how far they get with everything before the holidays. But as I’ve said, I can live with that wait, so long as the pregnancy gets through this safely (and so far – knock all things wood – things are looking okay.) Now, I’m going to try to not think about any of this – save for general warm and happy baby thoughts – for a while. Until we need to.

Put To The Test

December 6, 2007

It’s done. The test is done. I didn’t like it, but HBF said that I was very, very brave (just close your eyes – close your eyes, hard – and clutch someone’s hand and think of a happy place, or any place without long scary needles) and that I didn’t hurt his hand at all when I squeezed it really, really hard. I only cried a little bit – just out of fear, really, which was unavoidable for me – and the attending OB was very kind, and by the time we were out of the amnio room my eyes were dry and I was able to focus on the pressing issue of whether HBF should fetch me cookies or a latte.

I’d like to say that the hard part is over, but it’s not. Now, I’m going to lay very, very still for a day or two and pray that I don’t fall into that percentage of women for whom the amnio does not end well. After that, the hardest part will be over, I think. Then all there is to do is wait for more answers. But whatever those answers are, so long as they involve a Sprout ending up in our arms, we’ll be fine with them, and will proceed in the only way that we know how, with love.

No matter what.

A Million Thanks, And Then Some, And A Cupcake, Too

December 5, 2007

What a wonderful, wonderful – wonderful and amazing and powerful and amazing and wonderful – community the momosphere is. I don’t know how to begin to thank you all for sending so much love and providing so much support to me during this difficult time – and I am tempted to say that I don’t deserve it, having been such a terrible blog citizen during the early months of this difficult pregnancy – but I’ll overcome both of those difficulties and just say it, as loudly and clearly as I can:

THANK YOU.

You – all of you – have made all of the difference in the world in helping me through this difficult time and this difficult set of issues. Your advice, your personal stories, your love – all of it has made it possible for me to move through each day without succumbing to sadness or anxiety. During every moment of gloom, every moment of worry, I’ve been aware of your warm, virtual hands holding onto mine. And it has, as I’ve said, made all the difference.

I’ve decided, for certain now, that I’m going to go in for the test on Thursday. I’ll be terrified, but I’ll also feel surrounded by good wishes. And I know that all that love will be right here on my computer to comfort me when I get home, too. No matter what.

Love to you all, really.

And a cupcake, from Wonderbaby, if you don’t mind a little bit of pre-licked frosting.

(I’m closing comments, because this is a thanks that I don’t want anyone to feel they need to respond to. It’s just THANKS, no reciprocal love necessary. Also, I’ll probably be looking for comfort come Thursday, and I don’t want to tap out anyone’s goodwill.

In the meantime, if you have excess emotional energies, you could go get worked up over THIS. Yep, more booby-banning. Seriously. It SUCKS. Think about helping us out on this battle – it’s a doozy.)

Baby Steps

December 2, 2007

Wonderbaby still refers to herself as ‘Baby,’ sometimes. She’s no longer a baby, of course, except in that corner of my heart in which she will always be my baby; she’s the very model of a running, jumping, leaping, talking, demand-issuing, arguing little girl (toddler version, turbo model). But she still likes to call herself ‘Baby.’ Not as a proper name, as such – she knows her own proper name and her nickname and refers to herself by these names frequently – her reference to herself as a baby runs more along the lines of descriptive noun: Mommy and Daddy have a baby, Wonderbaby is Mommy’s baby, etc, etc. She knows, too, that ‘Mommy’ and ‘Daddy’ are not our proper names (we do not, after all, refer to each other this way. Too kinky.) Hence statements, from Wonderbaby, like: Mommy’s name is Caffrin (her unique pronunciation of my given name), Daddy’s name is Kayo (ditto), Baby’s name is… and so on and so forth.

In recent weeks, things had begun to get a little confusing, because we had begun discussing The Other Baby. The baby, as Wonderbaby tells it, that lives in Mommy’s button (navel). The baby that she refers to as babybruddasista (she cannot, it seems, decide whether or not she would like a brother or sister, so Baby has been declared both. As it happens, there are no prenatal tests available for hermaphrodism, so who knows.) Her baby. Her much-anticipated babybruddasista, with whom, she tells us, she is going to share her toys, including Toadstool (formerly The Phallic Lovey), which is huge. Her baby – the baby that is not her – is the baby, and so we had begun distinguishing between Our Big Girl and The New Baby. (Do you know something about a baby? HBF asked her the other week. My babybruddasista in Mommy’s button! she shouted in reply. She shouts, a lot.)

But then we stopped talking about Baby, our other Baby, babybruddasista, aka Sprout. We stopped talking – or rather, I stopped talking – because it all of a sudden seemed imprudent, an ill-advised invitation to the gods to mess with us further, to speak of the pregnancy in anything other than hushed, serious tones. We – I – no longer said ‘baby’ and ‘birth’ or ‘Sprout,’ choosing instead words like The Pregnancy, in full caps, as if that were the end and the beginning of it all, as if Sprout existed only within the context of this pregnancy, with its attendant anxieties.

I hadn’t really been aware of this, this new refusal to openly discuss and name, until Wonderbaby and I met an infant at a bookstore the other day. My have baby, Wonderbaby announced, upon seeing the tiny new person. My have baby in Mommy button. And then, a few moments later, she turned to me: Mommy baby button? My babybruddasista? As if there were some new doubt. As if the sudden halt to any and all happy discussion of The New Baby/babybruddasista signaled some hidden doubt. Which, of course, it did. I just hadn’t figured that she would notice.

I knew, in the moment that she framed her statement about baby as a question, that it was a question that I didn’t want to answer. That I hadn’t wanted to answer, with her. Hence the silence. I just didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to put on a cheery voice and talk about all the fun that she would have and the toys that would be shared and all the joy that would be life with her new babybruddasista. I didn’t want to fake my enthusiasm for something that I was worried about. I didn’t want to tempt the gods by ignoring signs and portents (if prenatal screening results can be thought if those terms) and acting like nothing could possibly be wrong. I thought about all this, in that split second, and then I thought: this sucks.

I can’t go through this pregnancy with a dark cloud of what if hanging over my head, if only because I can’t let that dark cloud bring even the slightest bit of darkness to Wonderbaby’s sunny days. It sucks that I still view the set of possibilities that have been placed before us as a dark cloud, despite my insistence that this will all be fine, nomatterwhat, but there it is. Those possibilities, in their form as possibilities, are a source of worry, of anxiety. I would hope that if those possibilities become certainties, the force of anxiety that attends them will diminish and all of the energy of our hearts will direct themselves to simply addressing and embracing what is, but for the moment all of that energy – for me, anyway – is directed toward the fuzzy spectre of what might be, and the fuzzy, spectral character of what might be has me in a constant state of anxiety.

So I think that I need to take the test that will turn uncertainties into certainties and – hopefully – chase the spectres away. I think. In any case, I’ve booked the appointment for the test, which, if I don’t chicken out, will take place this Thursday. I’m still terrified – terrified to the very marrow of my bones – of miscarriage, and that fear may well overpower my need to battle uncertainty in the next few days. We’ll see. At the least, I need to take steps toward diminishing that uncertainty, and I need to see if my courage holds. It might not hold, and if it does not, fine. I will other ways to battle the uncertainty. But for the moment, I need to get a step or two closer to some sort of knowing, so that I can get out from under the fear of uncertainty, a fear that is hovering over me, a dark cloud that casts its shadow upon everyone around me. Including Wonderbaby.

I want her experience of this pregnancy, and of the new, beloved, person that this pregnancy will produce, to be filled with joy. And in order for it to be filled with joy, I think that all of the curtains need to be thrown open and the shadows filled with light, so that we can get to know our surroundings. The better to celebrate them, no matter what.

And if I chicken out -which remains a very real possibility – it will only be after having walked into a least one dark corner and felt around. If that’s too much, so be it. But at least I’ll have gone there, and will understand better the character of my fear. I’ll know that much, at least, by Thursday morning (more hand-holding – even though you’ve all already been too generous with your virtual hands – may be demanded before then. Be on alert.)

God, I’m depressing. Sorry. Accept this happy moment, courtesy of me, and Wonderbaby:

Wonderbaby licks winter (it melts nicely on the tongue).