A Small, Hormonal Elephant.

Weeee'll, another week coming to a close.
Time is going so fast, it's remarkable to me every time I pass a mirror and see my round, protruding belly poking out. I forget just how darn pregnant I am sometimes.
The baby shower, or the baby 'party', is next weekend. I'm excited to be able to get everything all organized and buy everything else we need for lil' Austen after I see what awesome stuff my family/friends buy. I definitely need some diapers, so I hear. We thought about lining the floor with newspaper and seeing what happens, but then I remembered that my gag reflex isn't so good.

The nursery is basically done, and it's adorable if I don't say so myself. The theme started with monkeys and flowed into monkeys-bears-owls-trees.
I don't know. I didn't say it made sense, I said it was adorable. When I finish, I'll post pictures.
Just a couple more paintings to hang and it'll be ready to brag over, though the paintings are currently "blocking" spots throughout the room that turns out, are fabulous kitty-nap spots. I hesitate to move them.
I've tried and tried explaining that it isn't their room, but they just don't listen. Soft, plush nooks and crannies are just too much for the furballs to resist. And you know what they say. You own a dog, but a cat owns you.
I learned this too late.

On a personal level, it's also getting very, very tricky getting dressed every day. Not that covering my skin would be hard, but covering it in a fashion that is appropriate for the office, that takes a whole new kind of talent. If I could wear sweats and tank tops 24/7 I'd be golden. Unfortunately, not so lucky. While I think I'm forgiven for forgoing the heels for a while, Larry -the-cable-guy pj pants might be a little over the top.

This weeks big accomplishment? The zippers of my pre-pregnancy pants will 'officially' not stay up beneath that fabulous invention called the BeBand.(stretchy, elastic-like fabric band that fits around your waist and keeps -loose maternity pants/unbuttoned pre-pregnancy pants- up.) Nope, they slide right down under all my baby-boy-belly weight. I'm turning into a small, hormonal elephant.

Looks like in addition to buying diapers and hanging pictures, I should invest in some wider pants, for my new, wider body-for-two......
This being-a-parent thing...they really weren't kidding when they said it was complicated.

Don't Yell at the Manager

I have worked in customer service for many years, yes, I admit I may be young, but in the past eight years I've seen a great many things.

Even one better than just working in the atypical 'customer service' role, I have had the pleasure of spending the last six glorious years working in financial customer service, in opposition to 'normal' customer service at, say, a grocery store.

You don't understand the difference? Well, allow me to give a few examples to clear it up for you.........

1. A person unsatisfied with the treatment of their "millions" (or rather, hundreds) is considerably less likely to be cordial than a person unsatisfied with you ignoring their plea for paper rather than plastic.

2. When you walk up to a grocery line to purchase something, even a pack of gum, you are now a customer. If you simply walk up to a teller in a bank, it is yet to be determined if you are a customer or not, because simply wanting change for a twenty does not mean that I now am required to service your every need including refilling the cookie plate and making you a fresh pot of coffee. You are merely a consumer. Big difference, sir.

3. Some grocery stores feature a 'match-that-price" policy. Our bank, however, is unable to give you a special interest rate of 6.0% simply because you 'swear you saw that posted on another bank somewhere'. Nice try, though.

4. I do realize that when you are unsatisfied with your grocery shopping experience, that requesting the manager may be a smart way to go. However, simply because I will not reverse all 8 of your overdraft fees because your 'cat was sick and you forgot to make a deposit', yelling and screaming that you want to talk to the manager is not wise. For one, yelling gets you nowhere, and furthermore: I am the manager.

Pondering Daily Postcards

You know, if I had time, I'd totally start one of those cool Day-by-Day blogs. You know, where you feature something new every day?
I already have it all picked out too.

The DAILY POSTcard

Every day I draw a picture or write something on a blank postcard and mail it to someone. Then blog about what I drew, etc.

Yep. Do it for a year, see how it goes. It's pretty flexible. Somedays I might be grumpy. So I'd just scribble something black on the card, grimace, and drop it in the mail.

or, I might have an awesome fantastic too-good-to-be-true kind of day. And then I'd draw rainbows and fireworks and money and drop THAT in the mail.

Plus, I personally always think interactive blogs are kind of cool. That you can drop an email to the blogmaster, and perchance get your name drawn to receive something, even if it's just mention.


Now, if only I could commit to a whole year of postcards......I mean, I did do a whole year of self portraits.

How hard could it be to scribble a postcard a day???

Confession: I'm a Crappy Blogger.

I'm terrible at this.

I've come to understand that the true 'appeal' to blogging, is to see a complete stranger's daily life occur.
My random spatterings of a day here and a day there....complete shortcoming in that regard. I'm hardly ever here, and can't imagine why anyone would care to see just a few of my life's occurrences.

I mean, that is the purpose of this, right?

To come to *know* a person through their daily writings, quips, jokes; to learn their pains and sorrows and humors. To find a comraderie with them, an invisible friendship. I understand that, I can see it in others.

I mean, if I hop on and pour out my current obtrusive event of having Placenta Previa, can anyone say they really care? They don't know me. I'm just a pregnant stranger who has a haphazard placenta in their uterus!

But, if you saw me daily and knew that my favorite fruit is watermelon, and I drive a 97 Rav4, and that I secretly aspire to find a career in the arts and even more so now that I'm going to be birthing my first child in under three months....

THAT may make you feel a twinge of sympathy and curiosity, curl up your feet at your laptop, and query my complication with compassion. Wouldn't it?

I really should visit more often. The door is getting squeaky to this pathetic housing I call a blog. :)

If Whales Could Talk....

I have decided that being pregnant is the most fun thing I've ever done.

Seriously.
It's so cool...I can push on my tummy, and my little son pushes back. Last night the hubby ran a flashlight along my belly, and he kept kicking at it whenever it stopped.

I'm never alone anymore, and that's kind of comforting. And most of all, I'm loving the curves.
I don't have to worry about "does this top make me look fat" or "do these jeans make my butt look big" cos, frankly, yeah, I am fat and my butt is big....what of it?! How cool is THIS??!!!

Ah, but really, I can't disguise that the real reason I'm so happy is cos I'm just uber excited to have a kid. I've always wanted kids. They poop and throw up on you, they throw tantrums and are a real pain in the butt sometimes. But I've always wanted one of my very own.

Come this summer I may wanna give him back just for a good night's sleep....but meh, truthfully I'm looking forward to it. They grow so fast, and get all....grown up and cranky. I'm looking forward to the teeny tiny, drooly whiney newborn.

Which, may or may not be worth being fat in the dead of summer. I haven't decided yet. ;-)

So far, delightfully unproductive.

Well, the better half and I are on vacation this week. Spring break in our neck of the woods, which means he doesn't have school and it was a perfect time to spend an entire week getting so much of each other we'll be sick of each other and ready to go back to work.

Eh. Or maybe we'll find out we actually like each other way more than we originally thought. Who's to say.

I woke up dreadfully early this morning, dreadfully early considering it's now quarter-past 3 in the afternoon and I still have heaps to do and I'm still in my pajamas.

I have, however, successfully: Driven to Starbucks and had a half-decaf americano, made, ate, and cleaned up breakfast, cleaned up the kitchen, straightened up the living room, started bread dough for a late lunch, and now re-formatted my blog. Oh, oh, and I answered the door when the Fed-X lady showed up. She was kind of rude. But I wouldn't want her job, so I guess I don't blame her.

I think I'm gonna go shower and try to do something productive....like clean my fridge....or clean out a cupboard or two (under my sink in particular is quite a tornado zone). I won't push it though....seeing as now I can successfully add to my 'done list' the fact I have now, wether worthwhile or not, updated my not-so-daily blog.

ahem. And there you go. Toodaloo, my friends.

A Grain of Salt, or a Truckload.

I often have to wonder how the miracle of pushing a baby through your hoo-hoo can suddenly transform any normal woman into a registered expert on the subject of childhood.

Now, don't get me wrong, when I say this I'm not trying to imply that some women who have parented children and had remarkably fulfilling experiences don't deserve the right to spread a thinly applied layer of useful advice to other somewhat eager-to-learn mothers. No, in fact many of these women who have somehow miraculously flitter through mommyhood without a hitch, we're downright tempted to get down on our hands and knees and beg her for a mere tidbit of a clue to what she may have done so 'right'.

I am instead referring to the Hey-Let-Me-Interject-My-Personal-Views-and-Parenting-Ideas-on-You-Poor-Defenseless-Parent- kind of crazyass mother.

Yes, we've all met one. The people who, frankly, usually did a semi-unimpressive job of keeping their filthy brats in one piece and , and yet feel that they are worthy of instructing you on the proper way to get your bouncing baby to suckle more efficiently at the breast. It's ridiculous.
Infuriating. And sometimes downright tiring, forcing yourself to pleasantly accept the way they speak to you.

To speak in general terms, since the day I got two lines on my pregnancy test, I have been hearing oppressive (and admittedly sometimes helpful interjections) on how to get my kids to vegetables, to sleep through the night, and to keep their clothes on during the 'naked-stage'.

To speak specifically, I had the pleasure of meeting one such a gem of a veteran mother while at work the other day. She informed me, not only of what a few 'good names' were for my unborn child, (yes, she really gave me her daughter's name and what she wish she had named her son....???!)but also berated me on the importance of raising a child in religion and frequent habitual reading.

Well, why didn't she remind me to change their diapers intermittently and to feed them when they cry?

ugh. Some people. My favorite of all, was the intensity with which she finished her ramble....she (and I quote!) "No matter what, don't let anyone at this job ever tell you that you need to come back to work. There is no greater job than a mother can do in her life than raise her children. No matter what they pay you, no job can pay you enough to give up that life at home with your child. It isn't worth it. "

Heh. Now, this is right about the time I wanted to chuck my stapler at the witch's head.
You'll be pleased to know (or perhaps disappointed) that instead, I smiled, tilted my head and waited until she left the office before rolling my eyes and thanking God that my very own dear mother raised me to respect my elders and to live in patience.

And that, might I add, is a little well received advice.