Tuesday, May 31, 2011
"Houston... we have a problem." I can no longer indulge in my daily 3 pounds of Cadbury mini eggs. HOW? WHY? WHAT HAPPENED? What kind of cruel and twisted fate is this, that has been so un-deservingly bestowed upon me at 9 months pregnant in my most crucial time of need?
It appears that the mini eggs give me fierce reflux. Not just any kind of reflux, but, (sorry Beyonce) Sascha FIERCE, reflux. I've never had gastric or reflux issues, but during pregnancy, there's a first time for EVERYTHING. On the SLIGHT upside, I can still consume my regular 4 milky ways or 2 bars of regular Cadbury chocolate a day, but my deep and personal connection with Cadbury mini eggs has been severed or at least put on hold at this moment in time.
I discovered my recent intolerance for mini eggs while consuming 3-4 fistfuls for dinner and then not being able to sleep for 2 days, this was 2 weeks ago, I notice since then, how my quality of life has slowly declined. Sitting up didn't help, a generous 11pm run to the grocery from Mr. Price for EXTREME RUSH TUMS at Extra Uber Super Duper strength didn't help, only time, and no more mini eggs. It was like getting drunk and suffering a hang over. I sure had fun getting there, but the copious amount of alcohol, competitive tequila shot drinking or slamming fistfuls of mini eggs in my mouth for a substitute for dinner certainly paid off in a way I never want to do that again.
Of course I do, but I still feel like I should know better.
Any traffic school video will tell you, there's no cure for getting rid of drunk, only time. Just like mini eggs reflux, there's no cure, only time and rest will help. Breath freshners, tylenol slammed with a morning after beer, gum or telling the officer that your eyes are red because you're just "tired" doesn't work. Time and no more mini eggs. Brutal. For the record, I've gone to my fair share of traffic school for minorly moronic offenses, like speeding or "pausing" at a stop sign, I've done that three times and gotten caught. Sheesh.
We still don't know what we are having. Boy or girl, who knows? At this point, whatever it is, it's not exactly giving me a great first impression. I mean, it's not like I don't think this kid is right for the job, long term, but inhibiting me from consuming my beloved Cadbury mini eggs, well, let's just say this kid is getting a talking to once it decides it wants to meet me face to face. It's definitely a (Family Guy) Stewie "Victory shall be mine" and "Vile Woman" vibe I'm getting in these last few weeks. The baby has developed a competitive sense for our relationship pending our actual first weigh in and it's bringing out the guns. No more mini eggs? I'm already pretty miserable. As it turns out, when I was not sleeping and peeing 11 times in a night (and still am), IT CAN ALWAYS GET WORSE. That's what I tell my employees at work.....I'm a great boss, obviously.
Tantrums, there's lots of them lately. I honestly don't know how Mr. Price puts up with this, I can't stand myself, I hope I'm not permanently scarring my first born, he's NEVER going to want a sibling again, if Mummy's gonna be like this. Not being able to find my car keys is suddenly Mr. Price's fault, the dogs are in on it and it's now going to be bad day for EVERYONE. It's a four alarm fire if I can't find something completely random and and not urgent, but at the same time I realize I've lost my check book for the last 3 weeks with my drivers license in it and I've completely given up on all hope that I should do any kind of looking for it, after all, it doesn't seem like anyone's writing and bouncing checks to an account that has at most, $3.57 in it at any one time and frankly, I'm expecting it to fall in my lap out of the sky because I'm so emotionally drained I just can't handle another nuclear, post nuclear meltdown, from going psycho over my lost keys that I found laying on my desk 3 hours, of a red eyed puffed face, later.
So, I sit here, slamming Tums, like the bitter old dude that sits alone at the corner of the dive bar pondering what can only be extremely bad life choices or three too many ex wives who have taken all but his will to live, to consume the barely drinkable/paint thinner equivalent standard quality of whiskey shots, as he says with slurred speech "gimme another" to the bartender, one after the other, verging on the edge (always) of another tantrum/complete nuclear meltdown, unable to indulge in mini eggs AT ALL and walk around dubbing myself not unlike Charlie Sheen's "Tornado of Truth" but my own "Walking Emotional Catastrophe" ready to burst into tears for any issue at any moment because, not sleeping, not cleaning, dogs, work, stupid people, nothing to wear, is just too much for me and my delicate emotional/mental state to handle at this point in time and since I cannot console myself with mini eggs, crying until I have no idea what started it in the first place, has been my go-to sanctuary. 4am or 4pm, I'm a walking emotional catastrophe and there's still at least 4 more weeks and 4 days to go.
I just re-read this and it sure makes me look like I'm a total mess.
And I am.
I bet your day instantly looks better. Enjoy.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
|Courtesy my talented Sister-in-law, the second coolest Rebecca Price.|
Yeah it's in there. And it's working on making its way out. The baby is about 4lbs and I have a little over 7 weeks to go, I'm in the home stretch, but the final 200 yards is still ahead of me. Sleeps with seven pillows is enjoying less gastric reflux but more personal invasion of my middle area space. I'm eating so much and it's obviously taking more than its fair share, I get hungry 5 times a day, and if I don't eat, the baby let's me know that I should... and fast.
It's poking me, and if you look at it, you can see it. Gross, I know. The "magic" and "beautiful" blah blah of pregnancy can kiss my ass, at 33 weeks, my kid is working on its escape plan but hasn't yet figured out that it is NOT through my belly button. Is this a precursor to producing a dimmer bulb in the box? I'll keep you posted, but as long as it doesn't stop for directions on the way out, I'm sure everything will be alright on the night.
This kid has sucker punched me more times that I can count. And it clearly has the advantage of causing more pain from the INSIDE OUT.
I've not met one person that thinks this baby is anything other than a girl. I'll give you a quick list of reasons as to why it very well could be a girl. I'll just set you up for a major let down with it comes out with a twig and berries.
1) I'm being a bitch. More so than my regular self and more so than my last pregnancy. You got a problem with that?
2) I'm overreacting. My new doctors office neglected to refill the paper towels in the rest room and it sent me into major flip out mode as I struggled with how to open the shiny silvery germ infested bathroom door handle that I would usually open strategically with my soaked paper towel using it as a barrier between the handle and my newly clean hands and exit the bathroom in a well choreographed slide through whilst simultaneously throwing the used towel in the bin. Instead, I stood there and started adding it to my list of things I already didn't like about this doctors office including things like, only parenting magazines nothing trashy, stupid waiting room chairs and ugly people in the waiting room, not to mention, everyone was pregnant.
3) If you just want to look at what's opposite about this time around and compare it to Joseph and say that this equals a girl, then you have a lot of ammunition. No puking, only nausea, gastric reflux this time, and not last, carrying higher than last time, faster heart beat, not to mention all the bloody cooking and home economics crafts and medals I've been sewing myself and pinning to my chest.
4) I'm ready to fight. This might indicate higher levels of testosterone, so a boy, but this could also be applied to a more red neck version of #1. You wanna take a tumble? Bring it. Only problem is, this fight instinct is usually completely misdirected and caused by fact #2 above and Mr. Price is usually the only one accidentally finding himself in the ring.
5) I've started cooking. Not every night, not regularly, but I started, and it's kinda fun and I get in over my head and it usually tastes pretty damn good. Cooking = home ec = estrogen right? You people are so sexist.
6) Did I mention I'm being a bitch? I've lost that filter I often talk about, "blunt and honest" has turned into "rude idiot" but I find that most people are surprisingly kind and offer me an olive branch or just ignore me when they are able to take in my current state of discomfort. God, quit looking at me, piss off, you wanna fight?
7) I've started sewing. Sterotypical bunch of narrow minded right wings aren't you? Let me do the math for you again. Sewing = home ec = girl. Well, you know what buddy? I could just be into sewing some glitter spandex and it could mean not a girl, but a boy. And all the sewing could mean I'm having a drag queen. So there you go. How you like them apples?
8) Ive put on weight everywhere. Not just around my delicate little tummy, but everywhere. Saddle bags are currently in season - what? You didn't know? Oh yeah, Saddle bags, not by Prada or Chanel, but by your THIGHS. ugh.
9) I already have a boy so surely that means I get a girl next, according to you.
10) EVERYONE is having a boy. Everyone who KNOWS what they are having, around me, is having a boy. It's crazy. So according to these odds, surely I MUST be having a girl. And statistically speaking if 98% of people are having a boy that would mean that the other 2% should be a girl to keep the boy/girl ratio intact until the girl portion can keep up. Also 88% of statistics are made up, at any given moment.
There you have it. Reasons I could be having a girl. All the reasons why the party is limited to inside my tummy, and noone else is invited. I'm sorry, I'm full up, the invitation list has been sent out and you weren't on it. One person was, and "she's" coming on July 2nd. Thanks.
-Sleeps with seven pillows.