I gained 6 pounds!! Wahoo!! According to all the baby books, which I should have just stopped reading months ago, I should have gained about half of my total expected weight gain by now. I was so sick for so long that it threw me off, even though the baby is perfectly healthy. And it sounds like gloating to say I worked hard for those six pounds because in March it is going to look like someone hooked me to an air compressor and hit “inflate,” but I did work hard.
Today my staff gets a preview of life while I’m on maternity leave. There are two main roads that go from our house in Central Oahu to my job on the North Shore, and today there’s a ludicrous amount of rain. A mudslide took care of one road, and flooding took care of the other. So I sent emails and made calls from home, but mine is not a position that lends itself to telecommuting and I feel rather hamstrung and useless. This would not be so awful if our first printer deadline were not tomorrow morning and the main printer deadline first thing on Tuesday, so this is an “all hands on deck” sort of week.
In other news, the Honda is in the shop getting the front end fixed and our insurance set us up with a rental for the week–a 2009 Jeep Wrangler XL. Not the light, regular sort of Wrangler that we used to drive back in Maryland, but a larger armored tank of a vehicle that requires my whole body weight to steer and to depress the gas pedal. A Honda Fit is a small car, cheerful and cute. The 2009 models are redesigned to look rather fierce, but the 2007 Fit has a happy expression. It’s perky. It’s responsive and light on its feet. It wants to help, dammit, and it won’t be happy unless you’re happy too. (I may have spent too much time anthropomorphizing my car.) The Wrangler XL wants to leave you on the roadside and go tearing off into the woods to run over some logs and ditches. Even though at five and some months pregnant it should have been scary, it was a bit thrilling to make it as far as I could on the way to work before I was turned back (damned radio report delays) in that beast. Reminded me of driving in snowstorms in our old Wrangler. I still really miss the Fit, though.
Ridiculous things on my mind:
First of all, on my sister’s behalf, I’m really annoyed with companies that do layoffs three weeks before Christmas. It seriously couldn’t have waited until Dec. 27?! But props to her for settling in with Christmas movies and making gingerbread houses with the baby; when I was unemployed I BeDazzled a cell phone with rhinestones and Krazy Glue and drank a lot. She’s being festive AND productive and I’m sure things will turn around soon.
Second, my wonderful husband is making a Traveling Monkeys mascot!! He is using this DIY sock monkey kit. It was supposed to be for my birthday but he originally ordered the “sewing machine required” kit instead of the “lazy ass pre-sewn” kit, so there’s been a delay. However, I am feeling the need to whip up a pair of shorts for the little monkey. See in that website’s banner how the heel of the sock is the monkey’s bottom? And how that heel is bright red?! I’m not quite prepared to have a monkey with bleeding hemmorhoids be our mascot, so we’ll have to cover that. We’re still deciding on a name. I like Roscoe, Tom likes Gobias. I think that means he likes “Arrested Development” a wee bit too much.
Third, I hate cleaning the bathroom. I hate it less than other domestic tasks, so in our marriage this is the one job that’s more or less fallen to me. That’s because I will ignore piles of clutter in the living room or dishes in the sink, convinced that I can simply ignore them into nonexistence. Since I like to take baths and up until recently was spending a lot of time with my head hanging over a toilet bowl, a cleanish bathroom is higher on my priority list. Anyway, I hate that our bathroom doesn’t have a window or an exhaust fan or a vent of any kind, and so I am stuck using fume-free cleansers. I’m as ecologically minded as the next yuppie, but there’s nothing like Clorox spray cleaner for the tub-potty one-two and I can’t use it because there’s nowhere for the fumes to go except into my lungs, poisoning me and my child. (If it were just me, I might not care, but I’d at least like to pretend I’m a conscientous parent.) So it goes that I end up on my hands and knees with a non-toxic mix of vinegar, baking soda, and peppermint/tea-tree oil soap and cursing my little family’s propensity toward shedding body hair in such quantities. ESPECIALLY all those little hair stubs left from Tom’s weekly scalping and the morning fistful I remove before showering so the drain won’t clog. (It clogs anyway.)
The upside to this was that today, trying to reach behind the toilet with a hand-held Swiffer cloth and scrubbing the tracks to the shower doors (my deep loathing for shower doors on tracks deserves its own post), I realized that I don’t have to do this much longer. I’m two, maybe three cleanings away from the day where hitting my knees and bending to scrub the tub or get behind the toilet is going to be halted by the belly I’m now sporting. We’ve moved from “possibly pregnant or maybe just a big lunch” to “yep, definitely pregnant.” And the baby even allowed Tom to feel a kick.
So, three ridiculous things and two upsides. The weekend wasn’t all bad.
Kiddo, we have to talk. You kick a RIDICULOUS amount. Doesn’t hurt, feels sort of neat, but definitely above average if the average is 10 movements a day. No, the problem is with your father. You can’t just decide to withhold kicking because Daddy puts his hand on my lower abdomen. It makes him feel unloved. It is also really uncool to kick up a storm, stop when Daddy puts his hand on my stomach, and start up again immediately when he removes his hand. Daddy is kind of feeling like you’re messing with his head, which is funny for me but then he makes a very sad face. If you could see Daddy’s sad face, you’d stop doing that. Or maybe you wouldn’t. You did have kind of an evil smile in that one ultrasound photo.
Anyway, I think you should cut your father a break. It’s gratifying that you’re saving all the kicking for me, especially given the upchuck factor of the first trimester, but it’s time to play nice. Or else Daddy will pout.
Share the wealth,