The waiting game I referred to in my last blog is over. Has been over. For almost 5 weeks now. 5 weeks ago from this very moment, actually, I was in the most intense part of the whole waiting process. I was in labor, had my epidural, and was just waiting around to dilate enough to push this thing they claimed was a baby out of me. He wasn’t a baby. He was a teenager already. Let me start by saying, I was induced, and I was 9 days past due. Also known as huge. And impatient. But mostly just huge. So was my son. It explains my hugeness. He was huge, so I was huge…
9 pounds. I have the video of him being weighed immediately after he was born to prove it. And although I almost gave in toward the end of the labor to quit pushing this half-grown football player and have a c-section, I’m proud to say, I didn’t. Mainly because my OB blackmailed me to get me to keep pushing, but that’s a story for another blog.
So, I’ve officially been a mom for nearly 5 weeks. I’ve loved every moment of it. I especially love the moments when, in the middle of the night, I’ve just fed my little man, changed him, am attempting to get him to sleep, and all of a sudden, I realize he needs another diaper change. I love it even more when my husband is kind enough to take the little monst- uh, sweet little angel, and change him for me. This from the man who has to get up in mere hours to go to work. All because I have stitches, I’m tired, and I’m the one who takes care of our little one during the nights. Have I mentioned I love my husband?
Speaking of love… I love pacifiers. I know, I know, they’re a very controversial topic. Trust me, I know. Nearly everyone that has come to visit has had a very strong opinion on my child having a pacifier. Let me explain something; it relaxes him when he’s fussy. I don’t shove it at him the moment he opens his mouth. Only when he’s tired, when he’s fussy, when he needs to relax so he can sleep, when nothing else satisfies him. And boom. This wonderful, rubber invention pleases him. What’s so bad about that? As long as I don’t let him run around with it until he’s, well, running around, isn’t it okay? He’s just a baby for the love of all that’s Holy.
Wow, my 1st blog as a mommy is turning into a blog about my rights to give my child a pacifier, and how awesome my husband is. Which he is. Especially when our boy has wet his onesie through his diaper, and my awesome husband changes him, then gets spit up on, changes little one again, then gets puked on. All in 3 minutes. Oh, he got pooped on a few minutes later, too. We switched diaper brands, by the way. And diaper sizes. All is well with these issues.
Meanwhile, back to the official blog of the newness of the mommyhood. Little man is sleeping in our room, in a pack-n-play, and he seems to enjoy it… as long as he’s completely conked out when we put him in there. Not to brag, but I’ve become quite the expert at laying my child down without waking him up. WOW. It’s so easy to lie on the internet! Actually, I rather suck at laying him down while keeping him asleep. I have a theory he has a hidden radar that sets an alarm off behind his eyelids the moment I carry him into my room and head for the pack-n-play. Every now and then, I manage get him down and keep him there, then slip out of the room and head across the house to attempt laundry, schedule a dr’s appointment for him, or, God willing, sit down and watch TV.
Up until, um, I guess yesterday, I was checking on him when he slept at least every, oh, I don’t know, four seconds. Then, I decided I was being paranoid, and could lengthen it to every few minutes or so. Won’t make that mistake again. There’s never been anything to break my heart as a mother more than my little one’s lip trembling as he cries. Explanation as follows: I hadn’t checked on baby boy in a few minutes. When I had, he was completely out. I’d been checking on him roughly every 5 minutes or so. I let it go for a few extra minutes this time before I entered my kitchen on my way to check on him and oh my God he’s screaming! My poor baby had woken, and his cry hadn’t been answered. No one had come, and he’d been on his own, in a dark room, with nothing but a monkey nightlight and a dog who could only stare at him helplessly. (I accused her of keeping quiet, she should’ve barked or banged on the door to get out! THAT I would’ve heard! So hard to find good babysitters these days…)
There were no tears, let me just say that. But that lip was just quivering!!! My heart was shattered, and naturally, I felt like a terrible mother. I wasn’t sure how long he’d been screaming for me. Yes, I just discovered I can’t hear him from the den in my home. And no, we don’t have those ridiculously-expensive baby monitors. And we’re not going to get them, because guess who’s back to checking on her son every 4 seconds?! Meeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!!
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go check on my son, because yes, I’m in the den.
My Blog List
Friday, August 12, 2011
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
The Waiting Game
The waiting game. Ever heard of it? It’s what happens when you’re not only expecting a baby, but you’ve finished everything in preparation for him/her. And now there’s nothing to do but WAIT. At this point, I’m due tomorrow, and I’ve managed to keep myself busy the last few months working on the nursery. Well, not only did we finish his nursery last week, I’m too big to do much of anything except sit around and WAIT. Funny, the Dr’s had told me I probably would deliver my baby boy much earlier than expected, due to a medical condition I have, and the fact I went into early labor the day before I hit 30 weeks pregnant. Luckily, it stopped, but it was enough for the hospital OB to inform me she didn’t think I’d make it to June. Tomorrow is June 30th, by the way. Yep, still pregnant. Oh, and the waiting game? It sucks.
At the Dr’s office yesterday, a woman looked at my belly and said “oh my gosh, when are you due?! Because you don’t get much bigger than that.” Thanks, lady. I already feel like a beached whale, let’s make sure I feel even worse. Oh, and on the way to the Dr’s, my neighbor asked if I was having twins. No sir, just one in there (at least there’d better be!) I love nurses, now. My nurse, once I was called back, told me I look great for 9 months, and asked if this is my first pregnancy, since a lot of women don’t get too big with their first (supposedly.) Can we say mixed signals? I’m going with the professional’s opinion, for the record.
So, the waiting game. Due tomorrow. He probably won’t come tomorrow. After all, only like, 4% of babies actually arrive on their due date. Sigh. I’m officially bored, by the way. That’s why I’m blogging. And for the record, Microsoft Word doesn’t recognize blogging as a word. Just a bit of trivia for you. Told you I’m bored. I’m not in the mood to scrapbook, hubby is at work (hey, Word recognizes Hubby as a word! Weird…) and frankly, I’d rather not take a nap… boy will I be eating those words a week from now. Hopefully. So yes, the waiting game is actually not a game, but an increased sense of boredom while waiting on a life-altering change that you know is coming, but can’t rush. It’s like Christmas, only you know what you’re getting. Oh, except for the fact that Christmas Eve isn’t so full of pain (unless your family is like mine, then maybe labor WILL be just like Christmas Eve!)
I promise, most of my blogs I’ve written (and put on Facebook before I discovered this site) are funny. This one not so much, because I’m BORED. Get the message yet? Bored. Bored. Bored. Oh, and Facebook is also a recognized word in Word. That’s sad. And pathetic. And totally true. And this child needs to get his butt into the real world and out of my ribs! I keep trying to explain to him that he’s too big to remain where he is, and he needs to vacate the premises. I gave him an eviction notice 3 weeks ago, the moment he was “full term.” For the record, pleading, begging, bribing, bullying, threatening, and downright demanding for your child to come doesn’t work. At least it didn’t for me. I still nicely tell him everyday that he needs to come out, but he’s apparently comfy. Or he’s heard my family and doesn’t WANT to come out. Can’t say I blame him.
My hospital stay should be interesting. I have estranged family members who, despite my husband and I not having anything to do with them, have decided they’re going to see the baby “whether we like it or not.” Word has it they’ve been calling the hospital and asking if I’ve checked in yet. Glad I found this out, because I myself called the hospital to talk about security measures, and guess what? I get to be the invisible woman for my stay. They can make me a “confidential patient”, which means when someone calls the hospital and asks for me, they’ll be told “no patient here by that name.” Same for visitors. The only people that will be allowed to see me or call me will have a special pass code to get in. And, if for some Godforsaken reason (hey, Godforsaken is in Word, too!) the crazies manage to slip into the maternity ward by some freak timing of getting off the elevator just as someone else is being let into the maternity ward, I have been informed there’s an awesome button on my bed and it’ll connect me immediately with someone from the hospital, and all I have to do is scream for security. Oh, I’ll do it if these people show up. My family is so dysfunctional, we make the people who go on Jerry Springer look normal. Except we dress better.
So… let the waiting continue.
Ok, that sounded like a good ending to my first official blog. But if you think about it, I actually want the waiting to end. But that doesn’t have the same ring to it. So…
Yeah, I’ve got nothing catchy to end this with. “And they lived happily ever after” sounds good to me, except I intend to continue blogging. Just not now. Now I want to finish this blog. Oh, I’ve got it.
Mischief managed.
(FYI: if you’re not a Harry Potter fan, let me clue you in: that was a brilliant ending.)
At the Dr’s office yesterday, a woman looked at my belly and said “oh my gosh, when are you due?! Because you don’t get much bigger than that.” Thanks, lady. I already feel like a beached whale, let’s make sure I feel even worse. Oh, and on the way to the Dr’s, my neighbor asked if I was having twins. No sir, just one in there (at least there’d better be!) I love nurses, now. My nurse, once I was called back, told me I look great for 9 months, and asked if this is my first pregnancy, since a lot of women don’t get too big with their first (supposedly.) Can we say mixed signals? I’m going with the professional’s opinion, for the record.
So, the waiting game. Due tomorrow. He probably won’t come tomorrow. After all, only like, 4% of babies actually arrive on their due date. Sigh. I’m officially bored, by the way. That’s why I’m blogging. And for the record, Microsoft Word doesn’t recognize blogging as a word. Just a bit of trivia for you. Told you I’m bored. I’m not in the mood to scrapbook, hubby is at work (hey, Word recognizes Hubby as a word! Weird…) and frankly, I’d rather not take a nap… boy will I be eating those words a week from now. Hopefully. So yes, the waiting game is actually not a game, but an increased sense of boredom while waiting on a life-altering change that you know is coming, but can’t rush. It’s like Christmas, only you know what you’re getting. Oh, except for the fact that Christmas Eve isn’t so full of pain (unless your family is like mine, then maybe labor WILL be just like Christmas Eve!)
I promise, most of my blogs I’ve written (and put on Facebook before I discovered this site) are funny. This one not so much, because I’m BORED. Get the message yet? Bored. Bored. Bored. Oh, and Facebook is also a recognized word in Word. That’s sad. And pathetic. And totally true. And this child needs to get his butt into the real world and out of my ribs! I keep trying to explain to him that he’s too big to remain where he is, and he needs to vacate the premises. I gave him an eviction notice 3 weeks ago, the moment he was “full term.” For the record, pleading, begging, bribing, bullying, threatening, and downright demanding for your child to come doesn’t work. At least it didn’t for me. I still nicely tell him everyday that he needs to come out, but he’s apparently comfy. Or he’s heard my family and doesn’t WANT to come out. Can’t say I blame him.
My hospital stay should be interesting. I have estranged family members who, despite my husband and I not having anything to do with them, have decided they’re going to see the baby “whether we like it or not.” Word has it they’ve been calling the hospital and asking if I’ve checked in yet. Glad I found this out, because I myself called the hospital to talk about security measures, and guess what? I get to be the invisible woman for my stay. They can make me a “confidential patient”, which means when someone calls the hospital and asks for me, they’ll be told “no patient here by that name.” Same for visitors. The only people that will be allowed to see me or call me will have a special pass code to get in. And, if for some Godforsaken reason (hey, Godforsaken is in Word, too!) the crazies manage to slip into the maternity ward by some freak timing of getting off the elevator just as someone else is being let into the maternity ward, I have been informed there’s an awesome button on my bed and it’ll connect me immediately with someone from the hospital, and all I have to do is scream for security. Oh, I’ll do it if these people show up. My family is so dysfunctional, we make the people who go on Jerry Springer look normal. Except we dress better.
So… let the waiting continue.
Ok, that sounded like a good ending to my first official blog. But if you think about it, I actually want the waiting to end. But that doesn’t have the same ring to it. So…
Yeah, I’ve got nothing catchy to end this with. “And they lived happily ever after” sounds good to me, except I intend to continue blogging. Just not now. Now I want to finish this blog. Oh, I’ve got it.
Mischief managed.
(FYI: if you’re not a Harry Potter fan, let me clue you in: that was a brilliant ending.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)