The X/Y Factor

As you know, it is mean and wrong for parents to actually wish for one sex or another. It is especially bad mojo to say it out loud. Like telling your birthday wish. Bad. Being disappointed with what you get, even temporarily, well, that just means that you have a black, evil soul.

I don't want my kids to have a soulless Mommy, so I can only really think about the boy/girl situation from Wendy's perspective. (To remind-she is the ultimate ruler of creation, and all that is must be pleasurable in her sight. Love her and despair.)

I have a sister, so I know what kind of good and evil that can be. I am also the oldest, and I always thought that an older brother would be much more useful than a younger brother-you know, for kicking peoples asses for you, and being intimidating to boyfriends and stuff. I didn't grow up with a brother of either variety, so I actually know zilch about brothers.

Anyway, it turns out that you can't plan these things, and it doesn't matter what you think.

One of each will be cool.

I'm not exactly sure what to do with a boy, except to put him in geeky sweater vests and tiny bow ties. And possibly name him something that will get him beat up a lot. Poor child.

Dear Cuppey-Cake,

We had an eviction hearing to go to on a Thursday, and on that following Sunday, you brought home a piano. A. Piano. Before we found out if we were to be evicted this month. (We were not. Maybe next month.)



You are stubborn like-

irrational like-

utterly confident in your righteousness like-

Some kind of daughter of yours. They like the piano. They like playing it together. It is very sweet.


I suppose that I should say that they are, in these ways, like you-but you are still responsible. Hey, don't look at me, buddy. I'm not the one brazenly shoving a piano into our already over-cluttered home when we might have to move it out again in three weeks because it was free. I shall remind you-we already have three extra (ugly and free) couches in this house. THREE! THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!

Upon considerable contemplation, I have decided that you are more charming than exasperating in this matter. I will not punish you, as I originally planned, by learning to play the entire book of Joyful Christian Children's Hymns that we found in the bench. I think a smashed finger, smushed elbow, and strained back are punishment enough. Not to mention Marc's horrendously ripped shorts, which I won't, because of the PTSD I am experiencing after practically inserting my head into said shorts whilst reaching for the rolling thingie beneath the piano, every bone in both hands perilously close to being crushed...my face moments away from the a high probability of sharing a sharting incident, as he valiantly sweat and strained and quivered, trying to not drop the whole piano on me.


Ahem. Like I said. Charming. I have decided to rule this one "charming." I have actually decided that I like the piano, and you may just be insane.

However. I do require your assistance in putting back all of the stuff that you moved out of the way to make room for the piano. I am pregnant, so I shouldn't really be moving stuff. I'll learn how to play the score of Oliver and some choice Disney tunes while you do that, k?

Love you!
Mean it!

~Mo

Suck My Fat Pants.

I'm making all of my children go to their first day of high school wearing maternity pants. The kind where the fabric creates a freakish bubble in front, just under the elastic panel that goes right up to the pits.

It might not be so bad for them. Maybe I will have a boy, and fifteen years from now, front-butt and pancake ass pants will be teh coolness. (Like the front-pleated dockers from the 80's that I recently made Carl get rid of. They were sexy, once? Right?)

I find this possibility just as likely as the tight girl-jeans with bunched up briefs hanging out the top combo sported by the emo set. By the way, I think I have figured this whole trend out:

Dad of Teenage Girl: This little wiener with the girl bangs and the nose piercing cannot possibly be sticking it to my daughter. He can barely walk in those jeans, and his junk has probably suffocated in there and died. That's probably why he's so depressed. I will let him live another day.

Emo Boy: HaHA! I have appeared nonthreatening before you for yet another day! Now to go cry in front of your daughter so she will let me touch her boobies.


Flawless plan, Emo Boys. Unless you stumble upon a dad who has foggy memories of men wearing spandex and lots of product who managed to score really big with the ladies, oh, say, twenty five years ago.

Myself, I am from the generation of girls who were expected to swoon to this:

My point is this. I am fat with baby and pants don't fit me. Someone has to pay. I don't care if it seems totally irrational and unreasonable; my kids have ridiculous pants in their future. They can blame it on a glitch in the meds that I will undoubtedly be taking by then.

I hear that Carl was forced into leiderhosen when he was a kid....I feel closer to his mom right now then I ever have.

How to be Charmed by Your Overbearing Overlord

Me: You need to try to sleep now.
Wendy: Make my animals a nest.
Me: *piles up the stuffies around her in a comfy nest of teddy bear love* Okay, I made your nest. Now will you try to sleep?
Wendy: I have a secret.
Me: What is it?
Wendy: Come closer.
Me: Okay...
Wendy: (whispering) I don't make deals with whiny peasants.

(Must discontinue daily viewings of Emperor's New Groove.)

Inundated.

My nephew Eddie has been in town for a few weeks (with my sister in tow), and my mom and I are doing the time-share thing that we usually do when they are around, shuttling them back and forth between our houses and whatnot.

My sister and I are both pregnant, both irritable, and both of us have a lot of stuff on our minds right now. This adds up to an atmosphere that requires many theraputic episodes of True Blood and root beer floats.

Plus, Wendy and Eddie are treating Jaimie and I to front-row seats on a preview of the rest of our lives with more than one kid. Holy. Crap. We are so screwed.

It's not all bad, really. In between the screeching of little voices arguing and the pitter-pounding of little feet hammering down the hallways and the daily exploding of our brains, there is sweetness.

Eddie, padding by as I made dinner:
"Wendy, darlin, where are you? Where aaare you sweetie? Where are you, my little sweet-potato?"

Wendy, on family:
"Eddie is my favorite cousin who is a boy. He is in my heart, so he is in my family. I love having a family to play with, don't you?"

Also, there are things like this:

Eddie: Um. Aunt Momo? Wendy startled me and made me pee on the door.

and this:

Wendy: Can you back up a bit, here? You are kind of all up in my grill.

So we are all up in each other's grill. I'm cool with it. Wendy and Eddie take hits off of each other's Danimals yogurt smoothies while Jaimie and I pass the pickle juice and are generally gross about our feelings and random desire for odd food.

Even with the added chaos, it beats sitting around doing all of that by yourself, I'll tellyouwhat.

No Reason to go Peeing in a Cup...

Carl wryly observed a few weeks ago as he helped my princess self up from the floor that "this is a different pregnancy, huh?"

Last time around, I pretty much kept up my normal pace of everything. I worked, I cooked a lot, I moved furniture. This time, he is more likely to come home and find me flopped out on the couch than hauling mattresses around the second floor. This time around, I can't just take a nap whenever I want, because, HI! I'm Wendy! I'm thirsty! Hungry! Emotional! Demand games of Candyland! So yeah, I'm a little more exhausted by the time he rolls in from work.

On the flip side, I'm a lot less focused on every tiny twinge and stretch that my body makes. I have actually had more of the crappier prego symptoms this time, but I'm far less likely to run to that shitty "What to Expect" book that reads pretty much like this:

Chapter 1: Stuff You Should Only Do if You Hate Your Baby
Chapter 2: Ways You Can Both Die
Chapter 3: Eat According to This Chart Unless You Are Just a Terrible Person and Suck at Life

Chapter 4: Giving Birth
Chapter 5: You Probably Will Not Be a Good Mother, Because There is SO Much You Can Fuck Up

No reading this book obsessively before bed and giving myself nightmares this time. No sirree. There are a few things that I can't get out of enduring a second time around, though.

Because I am unemployed and our resources are limited, I have again turned to state medical assistance. I'm fine with this, and the medical care that I am receiving. Some information for those of you who are not unmarried hos on government welfare insurance: pregnant women are routinely subject to manditory drug screenings and forced sit-downs with nutritionists. They ask you in somewhat hushed tones (with what I am sure they believe to be sensitivity) whether the father is "in the picture?"

I deal with in in good humor. Especially when something like this flyer lands in my lap:


If you find it in poor taste to post this on my blog, you will probably not want to know how I burst out in hysterical laughter when the woman handed this one to me. This probably caused her to wonder if I was in fact on the crack, and to be glad that my pee was on its way to a lab somewhere...

The Sweat Far Thing

This is not a post about boob sweat.

It was going to be. Oh yeah. It was. Because, I don't know if you've heard, but it's hot this summer. I do have this miserable story about driving down to my Aunt's house last week with Wendy in my car that has no air conditioning in the middle of the afternoon in 97 degree heat. With no air conditioning. And then the 45 minute trip turned into a two hour trip because of highway construction that was apparently NOT EVEN GOING ON because it was SO EFFING HOT.

The construction workers? They were probably sitting somewhere else, in the air conditioning. Me? I was getting pregnant heat stroke and spraying my three year-old down with a spray bottle full of water (aka, Ghetto AC) so she didn't get the heat stroke.

Miserable. You will be glad to know that there was an in-ground backyard pool at the end of that hell-rainbow. After soaking our over-cooked brains for a while, Wendy paddled her kiddie tube over to me and asked why I have been calling our plastic baby puddle in our back yard a "pool;" and did I think that she was never going to find out about this blissful Eden in which the rest of the world apparently basked? Also, when could she move into Aunt Stacey's house?

Anyway, I have a story with far less boob sweat, featuring Wendy and our favorite hippie crasher, who was here for a few days.

Let me fill in the dialog here.

Marc: What's this one?

Wendy: Hippopotamus. Are hippopotamuses deliiicious?

Marc: Probably pretty good, if you could get a big enough fire going. How about this?

Wendy: Crocodile. Are crocodiles deliiicious?

Marc: Most certainly. What about this one?

Wendy: Armadildos. Are armadildos delicious?

Marc: ...... armadildos?

Wendy: Yeah. Are they deliiicious?

(I'm not sure he actually ever answered that one; there was too much laughing.)

Three Kinds of Awkward

1. Having to explain to several medical professionals that not only do I not know when I last had a period, I have no idea when I last had sex. If ever. What is this...suhh-ex you speak of? You see, there is this three year-old that lives in my house who's shrill demands pretty much eradicate the human brain's ability to form thoughts, let alone measure space, time, and...huh-? what was I-? babies?

2. Running into one of my students in the Planned Parenthood waiting room. She clutches her wallet and box of birth control; I make no attempt to explain why I'm there. I return her hug, highly amused as she pelts for the door with a high-pitched stage whisper to the slouchy guy waiting for her: "hohmygodthatwasmyteacherjeeeezus."

3. My sister (also pregnant) and I, breaking into dance in the crackers and juice aisle of the grocery store upon hearing "Hit Me Baby One More Time" over the loudspeaker. We were flinging our hair and girating our be-sweatpantsed rumps, enacting early-, family- and crazy- era Brittany at the same time. This is not awkward in itself. It is only made awkward when we disolve into giggles but keep throwing our butts around when we realize that the guy at the end of the aisle definitely made a U-turn with his cart just to watch with a big stupid grin on his face.

Good times.

Dearest

-Carl,
Though my prenatal vitamins do look much like your Glucosamine Chondroitin, they are not, in fact, the same. Maybe all of the folic acid and B vitamins will make you lactate or something. That would be cool. And teach you not to take random pills laying around on counters.

-Wendy,
Please stop using my hairbrush to brush the dog. Uncool.
Also, yes! The new toilet paper is "soft and wonderful just like velvet." Thank your daddy. Apparently, your bums more than just resemble each other, they are also share some sort of hereditary desire for being powdered by baby angels with hands full of marshmallow clouds and fairy laughter.

-Baby in My Belly:
Stop giving me midnight migraines. Stunts like this lead to names like Ingleborg. Fair warning.

-Carl (again),
Thank you for rubbing my neck while I cried last night and holding me til I went back to sleep. Breastfeeding together is going to be awesome!

Love,
Mo

No Reservations: Party of Five

Hello, my name is Morgen. I am pregnant, and I have been avoiding my blog.

At first, it was because I hadn't told anyone that I am spawning again, and didn't want to have the very important people in my life find out via blog-*ahem*-like last time. To be fair, the first time around, I had an excuse for informing my friends and family by way of an internet announcement: UTTER TERROR AND DENIAL.

I don't have that excuse now. About a month ago, I took two tests, and they both said the same thing. (Carl: why? did you cheat on the first one?) No denying it. Can't possibly. My tummy's already poking out and I can't get enough peanut butter down my throat to save my life. Also Wickles. But not at the same time. That's just sick.

Fear? I suppose. However, I have both been here and done this. Nothing to fear but deep vein thrombosis, baby names that suck, and fear itself.

And now, after my cousin's graduation party on Saturday, my family and friends are all officially informed. No reason not to blog away.

*******************

It's a matter of an emotional freeze. For the past month, I've been waiting for the wave of emotion to break over me....whatever it was going to be. Utter despair? Career-related hand-wringing? Stupid mushy baby-centric giggling? I don't know what I've been expecting, but I've spent the past month holding my breath til it happened. I thought that when my sister got here for her summer visit, and I was able to tell her in person, it might hit me. Or that when I saw Wendy and my nephew Eddie playing together, I would see how it will be for me someday...with two.

Four years ago, when I finally stopped clinging to the flimsy scraps of denial, the wave that crashed over me was dread. Also, hysterical laughter at the preposterous image of me as a mother. I then spent months treading in that drowning pool of dread/crazy, until she arrived and proved that all of my angst had been entirely off-track and totally insufficient at the same time.

I've been waiting for something like that.

**********************

Yesterday, I had lunch with Steph. Suddenly, a hundred people we know have just had babies or are about to. So naturally, we talked babies and looked at baby sewing patterns and clucked in disapproval over the ridiculous $300 yarn cost for a cashmere baby blanket in this knitting book...(I mean, really?? a $300 cashmere spit-up catcher??) Somewhere in that, the following came out of my mouth: "trying to figure out that this isn't my life getting sidetracked, but is my actual life." This bit of musing was had over a peanut butter sundae at Friendly's, and has echoed around in my brain for two days.

Logically, I should be terrified. We are in litigation over our house with no resolution in sight, no one will hire me, and we already have one teenager and one holy terror of a preschooler running around here leaving destruction and despair in their respective wakes. Adding a fifth person to our family will undeniably complicate everything.

I thought that right now, I'd be writing sardonically about having to put everything on hold again for the impending doom that is pregnancy and a new baby, but I'm not. I have been waiting for the wrong thing to hit me. The hurricane of dread? Not coming. The water is clear and calm. The sun is breaking through the fog, and I get it now.

I have finally unfrozen my will to write about this: my actual life.

In my actual life, I am having another baby, and I am happy.