The Odd Broad

Morning Song...

It's just after 4:00 am and I can hear my bambino gently stirring next to me in his co-sleeper bassinet.  For a groggy moment I can't remember if I've just fed him or not, but then I realize the last time he ate was 1:30...or sometime in the one's...

We've been asleep!  Hubby too.  I reach carefully into William's bassinet and arrange him onto my newest feeding pillow (I've grown tired of the Boppy; this one is delightfully named "My Brest Friend") and he begins to eat. I notice his right hand is cold from having broken out of his swaddle. This boy has been busting out of swaddling blankets since we were together in the hospital. He's strong like an ox.  I cover his hand with mine to warm his tiny fingers and pull my comforter up around us.  His other hand is resting on my right arm, as if he's hugging me.  His feety pajamas say "I love mommy."  I could melt.

Later, I hold him awhile against my chest and we just snuggle.  I listen to the sounds of his breathing, his satisfied little coos.  I can feel his breath coming in light puffs on the side of my face, and I hold him even closer. Leaning back, I take a peek at the top of his little baby head.  Even in the dark, he's the most magnificent thing I've ever seen.  I can't believe I helped make him.

I lay him back down, reluctantly; I know I've got to get some sleep, too.  I re-swaddle him even though it's only a matter of time before that long, skinny arm of his escapes into the night air. 

We both fall back to sleep for two hours or so, until it's time to do this all over again.  Eventually it will be time to get up- there is "tummy time" to be had and mama has to eat, too; but I could easily pass the whole day this way, feeding my baby, changing his diaper, snuggling and singing us back to sleep.  Every song I've ever known seems to have taken on a new meaning now, custom tailored especially for William. 

Let the phone ring, let's go back to sleep...

Let the world spin outside our door, you're the only one that I wanna see...

...Stop worryin' about it, yes the cat's already been fed...

Come on Darlin', let's go back to bed...

He allows for a wide range in my set list: Jewel, Joni Mitchell, The Beach Boys, he'll even entertain a little Shania Twain...but I suspect he prefers John Lennon. 

My beautiful boy will be one month old tomorrow.  The end of my maternity leave is still many weeks away, but the mere mention of it is enough to reduce me to tears.  For now, I'm enjoying every precious second.  And with that, it's time to go.  My tiny little boss man is calling for me...

xoxo

The Odd Labor...

This post is long and a little choppy...forgive me, it was partially written while trying to feed my sweet little prince!  It also may fall under the category of "Too Much Information."  (Surprise, surprise!)

It's hard for me to believe it was only two weeks ago today that I walked into my doctor's office having contractions.  Has it really already been two weeks?  And at the same time, why is it that I can hardly remember what life was like before William arrived?

When my water broke that morning at 6:25, I had no idea it would be nearly 24 hours before I'd get to meet my little prince.  I'd had such an easy, pleasant pregnancy that I just assumed the delivery would go smoothly as well.  And it did, for the most part.  I passed the time that morning lying in bed, clocking my contractions on my Blackberry, watching back to back taped episodes of "Friends."  When it got to the point that I simply couldn't bear it any more, I placed the phone call to my doctor, as I'd been instructed. 

Here's the thing, though.  Sometimes, I'm just too darn polite.  And I definitely have a bad habit of smiling too much.  I can also be a little macho sometimes.  Despite the fact that I'd been having contractions for the past five hours and they had indeed started to become unbearable, my doctor's office asked me to come in rather than head straight to the hospital.  Somehow my voice didn't convey the pain I was feeling.  I was too cheerful, I suspect.

Boston has a lot of potholes.  That car ride was a bit like Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, but we got there. 

A word about one's water breaking.  Mine not only broke, but sort of kept on a'flowin'.  I began referring to myself as the Leaky Cauldron.  If I could've gotten my hands on an adult diaper (or ten) at that moment, believe me I would've pulled one on. 

It was confirmed.  I was in labor (no shit, Sherlock!), enough to head over to the hospital.  My midwife hugged me and wished me luck, and I was on my leaky way.  Another bumpy car ride later, we arrived at Beth Israel, where I encountered a bit of miscommunication (after being asked to fill out a lot of paperwork, they also hadn't gotten the message that I was in active labor and much to my horror wanted me to capture some of that leaky cauldron smutz onto an impossibly tiny glass plate to confirm that my water had broken.  All the while I was having nasty contractions every four minutes.)  Thankfully, miraculously, soon the confusion had been cleared up and I was in a hospital bed, dry, wearing not quite an adult diaper, but a huge, glorious maxi pad. 

After that, things went extremely smoothly.  I held out as long as I could before asking for the epidural, and once I got it, all was right with the world.  "It's complicated" was on television, the pain was gone, my mother came in to kiss me, and I told her I was going to have my baby on her birthday after all.  Oh, how wondrous that epidural was, after enduring so much pain!  I'd been trying all those hours to be a lady (ordinarily I have a terrible mouth but that day I was using phrases like "son of a B," and "Jeez Louise").  One resident even told me, during a contraction, that I looked "Zen."  Guess all those years of acting classes finally paid off. 

The doctor told me I'd have to wait until I was ten centimeters dilated before I could start to push.  She predicted I'd maybe be at four centimeters the next time she returned, but I had already progressed to eight!  The end was near.  Things were going so quickly and smoothly!  It was right at this point that I uttered the words that would come back to bite me in the ass several hours later:

"Well, I guess the hard part is over!"

Tee hee.  Well?  My pain was gone, and how hard could pushing be, if I couldn't feel any pain?  I even had Hubby take a picture of me giving the thumbs up sign to post on Facebook. 

Eight centimeters became ten, and I was finally ready to push.  It was 11:30 pm...I still had a half hour before my mom's birthday was over.  How long could this take, anyways?  (Of course, how was I to know I'd be pushing for over two hours?)

I pushed until I was certain I was going to burst a blood vessel in my head, but for whatever reason my baby wasn't budging.  I began to doubt I'd be meeting my baby on my mother's birthday, which she assured me was perfectly okay with her. 

Push!  Incidentally, have you heard about women pooping on the hospital stretcher while pushing during labor?  I'd heard about it, and had casually wondered if I'd be one of them.  The thing was, all of my contractions seemed to be coming straight from my ass.  The nurse and doctor told me to get over it, they see this sort of thing every day, yadda yadda yadda. 

Truly, I would be lying if I said I pooped once, because it kind of seemed like I was pooping with each contraction!  For a neat freak like myself, this was the stuff nightmares were made of.  But what could I do?

A long time later, they decided to give me something to speed along the process, pertosin.  What I hadn't realized was this was going to make me start to feel every contraction as if the epidural had never even been administered.  Ouchie!

Push!  Every two minutes I pushed three times, to a count of ten.  Every two minutes that poor nurse had to clean up my crap.  And still no baby.  When I eventually told them I could feel every contraction, and that I was in pain, they told me to use it to push against.  When the anestesiologist came in and recommended they give me a stronger dose in my epidural drip, they told her to wait. 

Ouchie!  The sweet doctor told me she wouldn't let me push longer than three hours, and planted the seed in my head that I may have to have a Caesarian.  Yikes. 

More time passed.  I'd been pushing and in serious pain for over two hours, and the baby's head just wasn't coming down any lower.  He was trying to make his way out of there, I could tell, and Lord knows I was trying as well.  The doctor told me I was a great pusher, and said the proof was the baby's head was getting cone shaped from all of my efforts, but he just might not be born as we'd planned.  She told me to push for another hour and we'd take it from there.  To which I answered, not long later...wtf?

To make a long story longer...in the end, all that pushing was getting us nowhere.  I needed to have a C section.  I allowed a few fat tears to escape my eyes, the first tears I'd allowed myself since this whole thing began.  It was almost five am on Wednesday morning.  This was not at all how I'd expected things to unfold!

Everyone was getting down to business, and I suddenly felt forgotten.  "Um, I'm still having contractions.  Is someone going to do something about that, now that I'm not pushing anymore?"  The nurse looked at me and said I could either push against them (ie: crap myself) or breathe.  I chose the pooping.  Haha!

They wheeled me down the hall into the bright operating room, and all the while I was still experiencing those bastard contractions.

Hubby wasn't immediately allowed into the room, and as I lay there on the table my eyes continued to leak.  "What's the matter?," one of anaesthesiologists asked.  "You're excited to meet your baby?"  "Yes," I answered, "but I think I'm a little afraid."  After that, she held my hand.  Where was Hubby?

I closed my eyes and gave myself a little pep talk.  Just suck it up and do this, Sarah.  (As if I had any choice by this point.)  Forget expectations and how I thought things were supposed to unfold, because this is how it's turning out.  I tried to breath.  I tried to visualize a bright white light.  I tried...not to poo again.

Then, all of a sudden, Hubby was there, holding my hand.  In one of the many classes we'd taken, when they'd asked the partners to say what they were anticipating regarding the birthing process, Hubby had answered, "I just don't want her to have to have a C section, because I may lose my lunch."  If he still felt this way, he didn't let me know it.  I stared into his blue eyes, not worrying about the tears and looking like a wimp by this point, especially since I noticed his eyes were leaking too.  I think we were both just a teensy bit scared. 

And then there were three.  Quickly, so quickly I could scarcely believe it, the room was filled with the sound of a baby wailing defiantly.  William had arrived!  All nine pounds, eight ounces of him!  He was twenty-one inches long.  No wonder he wasn't coming out of me! The doctor had predicted earlier that he'd maybe be seven, seven and a half pounds.  As ginormous as I'd felt these past months, I'm still a small person; nobody could believe such a huge baby had been dwelling inside of me. 

I listened anxiously as people shouted things like, "He's gorgeous!"  "He's HUGE!"  Oh, Reader, I just wanted to see that face!

Hubby went to cut the cord.  What was taking so long?  Where was my boy?  What did he look like?  Was he okay?  Was he healthy?  Soon Hubby was at my side holding our son.  "Is he cute?" I whispered, through my tears.  "Yeah, he's beautiful," Hubby answered.  I tried to get a peek at his little face, but the angle made it difficult.  Oh, how I'd been waiting to see that face!  And to hold him! 

"That wasn't so bad!"  I said to the anesthesiologist as they sewed me back up.  I could feel pressure on my stomach, like someone was rearranging my insides (which they probably were), but honestly having a C section wasn't terrible like I'd expected.  Sort of like the contractions, once it was over with, I forgot all about it.  It was no big whoop.  I guess this is why people continue to have babies.

They wheeled me into another room, and everything felt like it was spinning.  I was all drugged up, but didn't realize it at the time.  And then, after what seemed like an eternity...William Daniel was finally in my arms, and my world stood still. 

William Daniel was in my arms, and suddenly I knew I would relive the past 24 hours over again tomorrow, in a heartbeat, because he was so so very worth every second of it. 

If the labor was rocky, recovery and everything afterwards has been...well, I've been in Heaven.   

Will, that sweet little baby boy, is truly more miraculous and gorgeous than anything I could ever have dreamed up.  I can't believe he came from me.  I can't get enough of him.  And as for those rare moments when he isn't in my arms, if I close my eyes for a minute to get some rest, for example, all I can see are his two blue, alert eyes, bordered by impossibly long eyelashes, a pouty little mouth, that perfect nose, his sweet little chin, and the chins underneath that go on for days...

My heart belongs to William.  This new mother is utterly and hopelessly in love.  Time to go cuddle my little prince.  xoxo

It's go time!

For some reason I can't get that Cat Stevens' song out of my head: Morning has broken, like the first morning...blackbird has spoken, like the first bird...

Have you ever heard it?  But of course, in my head I'm singing: Water has broken, on this here morning...

That is because my water has broken, Dear Reader!  My little Bambino is on his way!  I'm just at home still, waiting out the early stages of labor.  I've done my hair, given myself Bare Essentials smokey eyes, and now the only thing left to do is wait for the excruciating pain to commence!  Haha! 

Hubby is being...well, Hubby.  As I took a shower, I could hear him emptying the dishwasher.  At one point he called out to me, "Should I freeze this chicken?  It goes bad on February 3rd..." 

He's excited.  And very prepared.  And, I suspect, just a bit nervous?  As for me, I'm pretty much ready to go.  I was hoping today would be the day all along, since it's my mother's 60th birthday.  Of course my little gentleman would want to arrive right on time!  Oh Reader, I'm a little scared, but just so thrilled to finally meet him.  Wish me luck. 

Love,

The Odd (leaky) Broad xoxo

Waiting, waiting, waiting...

Fyi, I just read this post to Hubby and he thinks it should come with a warning...

At the risk of sounding crass...I've had the "bloody show." 

Are you ready to barf yet? 

Truth be told, I've never been so excited to have cramps and vaginal discharge in all my life!  (Too much information?  Perhaps.  If you notice, I did carefully file this post under the "TMI" Category, however.)  I was at the doctor's office, trying my best to pee into the tiny cup...incidentally, this is never an easy thing to do, especially if you're a germaphobe like myself, but being 39 weeks pregnant and trying to:

a.) maneuver a small container around the situation that has become my belly

and

b.) pee into it? 

Damn near impossible!

And...I digress.  I was attempting to pee into the cup without touching the toilet seat when I discovered there was something "going on" down there.  I returned to the exam room and cheerfully informed the technician, "Hey, there's a little schmutz down there!" 

She was very happy for me.

My midwife agreed that this is a positive thing, proof that the ball is finally in motion.  I'm so close!  Of course, who knows when I'll actually go into labor.  In the meantime, I'm going to work, coming home, stuffing my face with Oreos, watching the Golden Girls, trying in vain to get some sleep, and waiting.  Waiting, and dreaming about that little baby boy. 

My loved ones have recently forbidden me to take the T, so now Hubby will have to drive me into work.  Sissy was terrified my water was going to break on the Red or Green lines, but I suppose I hadn't really been giving it too much thought.  The other morning, however, when I told her I felt "crampy" because of indigestion, she set me straight: "It's not a belly ache from the steak dinner you ate last night!  YOU ARE 39 WEEKS PREGNANT, YOU FOOL!!!"

Geesh.  She's right, though.  I'm about to have a baby! 

When I was about 5 years old, I had the unfortunate experience of watching a baby being born on "3-2-1 Contact."  (Damn PBS!)  It was the night of my first grade school play, and I was sitting in the living room eating chicken nuggets.  Only, after watching that baby come out I sort of wasn't hungry anymore.  I couldn't bring myself to dip my chicken in that ketchup, not after what I'd just seen. 

My older sister came into the room, took in the situation and immediately went to find my mother.  "MA!  Sarah's watching a baby being born on 3-2-1 Contact..."

What the??!!

Later, I informed my auntie Kimmy, who at the time was very pregnant with her first child: "Auntie, don't be afraid if your baby comes out all bloody.  That's okay, they're supposed to be like that, you know."

This is not the thing she wanted to hear, naturally, but there you have it.  I think I probably assumed I was being helpful. 

5 days left to go.  At the risk of sounding batty (who, me?), I'm relieved to know the baby will not share a birthday with a one Mr. Edgar Allan Poe.  Terrific writer that he was, he does seem like he may have been a bit of a "downer."  (Quoth the raven: Nevermore!  And all that jazz.)

We'll see when this sweet baby decides to emerge.  I have to say, my heart is oozing with love for him already, and we haven't even officially met yet.  I could melt. 

But before the melting, comes the pushing.  Pray for me, Dear Reader!  I'll keep you posted.  xoxo

Jack Daniel William Webster

Over the years, I always told myself if I had a son I would name him after my late grandfather, Daniel Webster, who passed away when I was six years old.  Even today when we talk about his passing, there's really only one way to describe it - a heart breaker.  I spent the rest of my childhood missing that great man.  I still do, in fact.

And now I'm having a son!  I absolutely love the name Daniel.  There's really only one snag- my last name begins with a D and unbeknownst to me, my husband is wildly against alliteration.  He also thinks having a kid in Boston named Danny is somehow too towny, too...alliterate.  (Is that even a word?)  Furthermore, as you may have heard me already mention, he thinks Danny, combined with our last name, is the name of somebody who steals cars.  (Although this is Boston, so I suppose little Danny would steal "cahs.")

Sigh.  I tried in vain to get Hubby to read Dennis Lehane's The Given Day, with the hunky protagonist from South Boston named Danny, but he hasn't had time.  (That book, incidentally?  A masterpiece.)

We also both love and agree on the name Jack.  I could live with Jack, I really could.  But then how would I fit in the Daniel?  Could I really name my sweet little baby Jack Daniel?  Is it advisable to give a baby the same name as Tennessee whiskey?  I'm not sure. 

Last week my amazing friends from work threw me a baby shower.  My pal Gregg was in charge of the favors and I have to say, they were the cutest baby shower favors ever...

Jack Daniels and chocolate.  For Baby Jack Daniel!  Haha!

I have an uncle and cousin also named after my grandfather, and my uncle Dan suggested I name the baby Jack Webster.  My cousin Dan, having endured nearly two decades with this particular middle name, strongly advised me not to.

And then there's William.  I've always loved the name William.  Anglophile that I am, it just seems so lovely and British.  Will.  Wills.  Shakespeare!  William was also Hubby's late grandfather's name, too, so it seems like a really nice fit. 

Now, Jack William would certainly be a great name, but listen- I've been carrying this little angel around in my stomach since May, and my heart is quite set on the name Daniel.

I think my baby is probably a William Daniel.  He certainly feels like a William, whenever I talk to him.  Even Lukey the Wonder Nephew has taken to calling him William.  The other day he lifted up his shirt, stuck out his little tummy and announced to my sister, "William is in my belly, Mama."

Over the weekend, Hubby and I did some arts 'n crafts for the baby's nursery.  I figure if our son comes out looking like a Danny, we can always do some rearranging.  (And likewise, if he comes out looking like a Jack Daniel...we bought lots of extra paper.)

Sixteen days to go, Dear Reader.  xoxo

 

Entering the home stretch

My Oreo cookie habit is getting much worse.  I'm up to about a pack every two days.  And tonight, on our way home from a tour of Beth Israel's maternity unit, I asked Hubby to stop into Rite Aid so I could pick up more.  I fear my relationship with "milk's favorite cookie" has progressed to the next level: I've moved on to the Double Stuf.

Oh yes, I've gone there.

Even as I type these words, I'm fully aware I have cookie crumbs staining the corners of my mouth, but I don't really give a good crap.  I'm a total barbarian.  I'm also 37 weeks pregnant today!  I'd be lying if I said I could think of much else these days except my sweet little son.  Today my midwife told me, "Call us if your water breaks!"

It's on.  It's on, Dear Reader! 

We were listening to Me First and the Gimme Gimmes in the car tonight, and I had to turn it up when their cover of Kenny Loggins' Danny's Song came on.  I haven't heard that song in ages, and suddenly the lyrics took on a whole new meaning.

People smile and tell me I'm the lucky one, and we've just begun, think I'm gonna have a son.

Holy crap!  Hubby and I are actually going to be someone's parents. 

Pisces, Virgo rising is a very good sign...strong and kind, and the little boy is mine. 

Will my Bambino be born under Aquarius, as predicted?  Will he be tall, blue eyed and handsome, like Hubby?  Will he laugh at the same things I laugh at?

Now I see a family where there once was none.  Now we've just begun, yeah we're gonna fly to the sun...

Thankfully, we're all settled into our new apartment.  The move wasn't even too bad, all things considering.  (Okay, so it was a bit of a shit show, but I'm wearing my rose colored contact lenses tonight.) I smiled and nodded as people kept telling me to relax, to go to a spa, to have Hubby drop me off at a museum- but let's face it, none of those things were going to happen.  Pregnant or not, I still couldn't stop myself from trying to carry boxes or getting down on my knees to scrub a cabinet or refrigerator.  Spa my ass!  I guess I'm just not that kind of girl. Incidentally, Hubby did the math and realized we've resided in three different apartments in 2010. We've been living like transient gypsies! It's no wonder poor Kittie is losing her marbles.

I do wonder a lot lately about what life will be like after the baby arrives, and what our "new normal" will be.  For so long it's been Hubby and me, just the two of us, living in our own custom little world.  Now there's a new member joining our act and soon we'll be a trio.  I find this miraculous.  Miraculous, terrifying and beautiful.  And I can't wait.  xoxo

 

PS: During the writing of this post, The Odd Broad consumed an entire row of Oroes. 

 

Life is what happens to you, while you're busy making other plans...

When I moved into my current apartment back in March, there was enough drama involved that it prompted me to pull out my tarot cards and do a few readings.  In each reading, one theme stood out boldly: the Ace cards.  For whatever reason, I kept drawing Aces.  The Ace of Cups, Ace of Wands, Ace of Pentacles...

Aces generally indicate a birth.  Fertility.  Pregnancy.  Huh? 

Well, they must be symbolic of a creative birth, perhaps?  For myself, or Hubby?  There was no way it could mean a literal birth, of that I was certain.  Perhaps this new apartment would inspire us to grow creatively.  Yes, yes, that must be exactly what it symbolized.  What on earth could it possibly mean otherwise?

My favorite Beatle once said, Life is What Happens to you while you're busy making other plans.  You weren't kidding, John.  Two months later, I was pregnant.  Not with some creative new idea, either- with a baby.  A real, live baby.  One afternoon I was sitting on a bench in Copley Square when I spontaneously decided that I was ready to have a baby.  Thankfully, it turned out Hubby was, too.  A week later, I was pregnant.  Go figure! 

Another thing that stands out clearly in my mind are the two cards I pulled as the "outcome" of us moving into the apartment.  I drew the Strength card, which depicts a woman gently taming a lion; a card I always associate with my mother because she inevitably ends up drawing it whenever I do a reading for her.  The other card I drew?  The Tower. 

The Tower?!  Ugh, not The Tower again.  (No offense, Tower.)  The Tower, well, it basically depicts a burning, flaming tower.  On some decks, there's a man falling from the burning tower.  Its meaning is pretty much self explanatory: it symbolizes upheaval, starting over, forced change and renewal, the rug being ripped from under one's feet, the overthrow of existing conditions, new opportunity.  It's a fresh start, whether you like it or not, although usually it stems from some inner desire to break free.  You get the general gist.  But hadn't that been what we'd just gone through when we moved into this place?  Hadn't we paid men to hoist our furniture up over the balcony on pulleys?  Hadn't all my cousins cursed me out whilst going up and down three flights of stairs with boxes and boxes (and boxes) of my belongings? 

Weren't Hubby and I through with upheaval, just for a little while?

Now, I know as well as anyone that we humans are blessed with free will, and fall as they might, the cards we draw in life are never fully set in stone.  The Strength card gave me confidence that things would turn out beautifully, and yet...I couldn't get that pesky burning tower out of my head.  Nine months later, I understand its meaning entirely.  Because we're moving.  In less than two weeks.  And even though we haven't even moved yet, this hasn't been an easy, simple thing; no- it's pretty much felt like tumbling from a burning tower. 

Our landlord, ever the lunatic, generously offered us a release from our lease, probably because she was fed up with us asking her for basic things every renter should have.  (Lights in the hallway, perhaps?  Fixing a hole in the wall?  Fumigating for flea infestation?)  She told us we could leave early, without penalty, because she knew we were about to have a baby.  When we told her two weeks later that we'd found a new place, she decided 27 days notice wasn't good enough.  She needed 30.  Of course, she'd made no mention at all about needing 30 days prior to this.  She'd only told us we could break our lease without penalty.

For being 3 days short of giving her 30 days, she wanted us to pay her a full month's rent.  She was even legally entitled to this.  (She hadn't returned my emails asking what she'd like us to do about December's rent, seeing as we'd already paid her a deposit of the last month's rent when we initially moved in.)  I never dreamed she'd cash December's rent check, and since she wasn't responding to me, I put a stop payment on it.

Now I understand why she wasn't responding.  It turns out she was planning on cashing that check all along, as well as planning on keeping our last month's rent deposit as penalty for giving only 27 days notice!  She wanted us to pay a month's rent for an apartment we wouldn't be living in.

Did I mention we wouldn't even be moving if she hadn't told us it was okay?

Did I also mention I'm 34 weeks pregnant?

I rattled off a careful email, asking her why she told us, out of the blue, that we could move in the first place with no penalty.  Why mislead us?  The way I saw it, we had a few options: pro-rate her the three days rent and return the five bucks for the stopped check.  Stay until our lease runs out in April.  Sublet the apartment.  Or, lastly, let it play out in court.  (I thought that last suggestion had a nice little dramatic ring to it.) 

I also wrote that I'm about to have a baby and that this stress is something I really didn't need right now.  I told her my entire pregnancy had been marked by a lot of stress, all of it a direct result of being her tenant.  There was more I wrote, but I ended up deleting it.  Like how I spent over $600 on vet bills because her building was filthy and infested with fleas.  Like how her realtor screamed at me and made me cry at work, after I told her I felt I was "getting the run around"  because the apartment was dirty and full of someone else's belongings when we tried to move in.  Or how that wack job down stairs refused to turn on the hallway lights, or lock the entryway door.  Or how...

I deleted all that though.  My mother always told me I could catch more flies with honey.  To state that I'd been stressed out would simply have to suffice.

It still really chapped her ass, though:  "You mention being stressed," she wrote.  "I have never had tenants that have been so difficult and caused me such stress as you and your husband have!!!"

I have no words, Reader.  I honestly have no words.  All I can say is in the end, the crazy bitch is letting us go.  And thank God for that.  (And the Blessed Mother, and Saint Jude, the saint of hopeless cases, whom I was desperately pleading to in my wretched, sad, hormonal state.)

We are leaving!  And here's hoping I never have to think about that woman, her stupid cousin downstairs, or her stupid cousin's feral cats ever again!  (That was something I deleted from my email as well.  I really wanted to leave it in, but perhaps it was going a little overboard.) 

After reading her response, in which way she plainly made herself out to be the victim, my shaking fingers desperately wanted to rattle off a nasty email of my own, listing all of the weird, sometimes disgusting things we've had to deal with while living in her building.  I wanted to tell her how many times she'd literally made me feel sick, hopeless and stressed out of my mind.  But the truth of the matter is we've gotten what we wanted, and my ego can take a little hit  for that.  So she thinks we're assholes.  Whatever.

The Strength card is the 8th card of the Major Arcana.  It's also the corresponding card that goes along with my due date, January 26th (2 + 6 = 8), also the day after my mother's birthday.  It implies deep belief and implicit trust in oneself and one's strength.  Not the masculine, raw courage type of strength, mind you; but instead the feminine, internal type of fortitude that can only come from trusting one's intuition and wisdom.  A strong person doesn't need to exercise control over others.  Instead of fighting the beast, one tames the beast inside oneself, seizing control of his or her destiny and overcoming all obstacles.

Okay, so I'm not going to write her a nasty response.  I'm not going to write anything at all, in fact.  (I suppose that is what this blog is for.  Haha!)  We're moving, which is what we've been hoping for all aong.

Today is my 32nd birthday.  I can't think of a nicer birthday present than being allowed to move into a clean, very large apartment and setting up a lovely nursery for my little boy.  Incidentally, when Hubby asked me, for the umpteenth time, what I wanted for birthday, something miraculous and beautiful occurred to me.  I didn't want anything.  In fact, I wanted nothing at all.  I patted my stomach and told him I already had what exactly I wanted.  And I really, really meant it. 

Fiddle dee dee!

Time seems to be zooming along at warp speed these days, Dear Reader.  This broad, however, is waddling around slower than ever.  (And to think, I used to be such a fast walker!)

There have been many recent developments taking shape here in Odd Broad Land.  For starters, come January first, we are moving!  This exciting decision was made less than a week ago.  Hubby and I, ever the practical types, did not let this deter us from buying and decorating a large Christmas tree. 

Well?  It's still Christmastime, after all! 

Mostly, I'm just so insanely relieved that we'll have a proper room to set up for our sweet baby's arrival.  Incidentally, why is that everyone's first question lately?  "Do you have the baby's room all set up and ready to go?"  My response to this obnoxious query is usually thus: "I'm emotionally ready, but that's about it."

Now suck it.  (Just kidding on the suck it part, I don't think I've ever actually uttered that phrase aloud, although I'm sure it would feel pretty rewarding.)

My family threw me a beautiful baby shower last weekend and the generosity and love I was feeling quite overwhelmed me.  After I was finished opening all that baby loot, I walked over to my godmother and just stood there facing her, so nobody else could see the tears leaking from my eyes.  Pull it together, Broad!  What was the matter with me?

I suppose I just couldn't believe how much stuff we'd received, visible proof of how much love our baby was in store for, and on top of all that I was pretty exhausted.  But mostly I think I was crying for a certain person missing from the group: my grandmother.  Her older sister was there and had made me a really lovely baby album for the Bambino, and it was all just sort of too much.  Plus, when I looked at her, it was like looking into Nanny's eyes. 

Two days later, I became so violently ill in the middle of the night that for a second I thought I was maybe going into labor.  Yikes!  I can't remember the last time I threw up so much.  (2007's Affair of the Appletini, perhaps?)  The pains in my stomach made it impossible to lie down, and later the nurse told me I was probably having contractions.  Either way, they had to administer me fluids via an iv because I'd become so dehydrated from all that vomiting.

Now, I've only thrown up on two occasions during this entire pregnancy: once from a migraine and now this time, which was either a GI bug or food poisoning.  This baby has been such a little gentleman!  He really has. 

As for Hubby, he is just days away from being finished with school (and in the meantime, I suspect, trying not to go stark raving mad).  Truth be told, the morning I had the vomiting fiasco he'd been at school trying to get his final project to work and hadn't come home until nearly 2:30 am, only to have to be up the next day for 6:00.  This project of his is admirably ambitious and makes my heart so full of love for him, but things are really starting to come down to the wire here.  (As in, Hubby soddering outside on our front balcony in 20 degree weather.  Frozen fingers make it hard to maneuver teeny tiny wires.)  If he gets this thing to work, though, it will be an amazing accomplishment.  I'm beyond proud of him.  He's brilliant, he really is, and I want more than anything for all of his hard work and vision to be realized. 

It will all work out.  This is my mantra of choice as of late.  That and, "I'll think about it tomorrow..."

I'm becoming a yankee Scarlett O'Hara.  Complete with Boston accent.

So in the end, a turn of grace has blissfully released us from the hell that has been our current living situation.  Sure, to the outside eye we might be cutting it a little close, with Hubby finishing up classes next week, us moving two weeks after that, and the holidays upon us.  (Not to mention next month's Big Event, which is what I've taken to calling the birth of my son.)  And maybe I did get just a little scared the other morning, in between retching, as I thought about all of the many loose ends still left to be tied...

Also, if I thought this tummy ache was painful, what in hell was I in store for next month?  (Don't answer.  That question is strictly rhetorical.)

But honestly, one thing overshadows all of this other stuff, and that is the mere fact that in less than seven weeks time I'm going to meet my son.  Our little boy.  The miracle I've thought about all day every day since May.  And that, Dear Reader, in a nutshell, means the whole world to me.  xoxo

Stop seasoning my soup, people!

Of all the many side effects pregnancy brings, there is one that I find most especially disturbing: being on the receiving end of unsolicited advice.

It's as if my protruding stomach gives every Tom, Dick and Harriet the go ahead to make adamant, finite statements about me, my child, my spouse, our lives and my private parts!

Moreover, this advice is almost always specific to themselves and their pregnancy (or their ex-wife's pregnancy, their sister's pregnancy, their aunt Millie's pregnancy sixty-five years ago), so why in hell do I need to hear about it?

I've had it, Dear Reader.

I've never been a fan of unsolicited advice.  I liken it to approaching a simmering pot of soup or chili, that someone else has been cooking, mind you- and rashly seasoning it, without even tasting it first!  (I use this metaphor a lot, just ask Hubby.)  I didn't ask for my stew to be tampered with; I've already seasoned it myself, to my own liking!  I didn't ask for you to add fistfuls of cumin, or cilantro, or too much salt!  

I have been spiced against my will.  Is this making sense?  Or have I gone off the deep end?

Know-it-alls (aka: soup spoilers) may very well think I'm listening to their advice, and that I'm maybe even taking note of what they are saying; but in truth, I'd like to lift them up over my head and fling them far, far away.  But that's just me.  It's a pity I can't do any heavy lifting these days.

The kicker is, when I do need help or advice, I most certainly will ask for it!  I actually consider this to be one of my strengths.  Not everyone is able to do this, to really reach out for help when they need it.  And in turn, I like to think I generally bite my tongue when it comes to doling out unwanted advice to other people.  Who knows how impressionable someone is, deep down inside?  It just sort of seems to me like an irresponsible thing to do.

Aside from your run of the mill parenting tips and horror stories, there are other tidbits that people just seem to take a sick pleasure in telling preggos.  Has anyone else noticed this? 

"You're going to get stretch marks.  Are you using cocoa butter every day?"  (I am not.)

"You'll never sleep again."  (My husband suffers from something called severe obstructed sleep apnea.  Look it up.  I haven't slept a normal night's sleep in over six years.)

"Parenting isn't easy.  It's hard work."  (No shit, Sherlock.  What do you suppose I'm thinking of when I'm awake all night, after Hubby's snoring has woken me up for the thirty-eighth time?)

"Those boobs will go away the minute you stop breast feeding."  (Well this I find just plain mean.)

"Parenting classes are a waste of time and money."  (Knowledge is power, people.  Get over it.)

"You're going to have to ship your three month old off to daycare?  Geesh.  That's pretty young.  I'd say try to stay home for at least the first year, if you can."  (This from a stay at home mom and her husband, both of whom I immediately slapped, in my head.)

"Childbirth is painful."  (It is?  Really?  Why?)

"Breastfeeding is really difficult.  You might not be able to do it."  (This from a woman who has never been pregnant, which means, from what I gather, that she has never attempted breastfeeding.)

If I didn't know any better, I'd think these folks were trying to burst my bubble.  One could argue they're just trying to prepare me for the horrors of child birth.  But guess what: I'm about to push a child out of my vagina.  It doesn't take a rocket scientist to know it's going to hurt.  A lot.  Leave me the eff alone!

I understand they're simply trying to tell me "The Things That Nobody Ever Told Them."  Oh man, do people love using that phrase.  I hate it.  In my experience, it means they are about to tell me something truly awful about being a parent, or giving birth.  Something along the lines of: I felt my life was over for the first two weeks after giving birth.  I cried every day.  Nobody ever told me this was going to happen.  Or: No one ever told me parenting would make my spouse and I hate each other so much.

Yippee!  Thanks, guys!

First everyone felt comfortable asking me when I was going to procreate, and now everyone feels the need to tell me how my life is going to unfold, based on their own personal experience!  Ugh.  Here's the thing- not everyone's experience is the same!

Everyone loves to add in their two cents.  These days, I feel like people are walking around carrying sacks of pennies.  And I'm the piggy bank.

The other day I went to get my hair cut and the hairdresser marvelled at how healthy my hair was, even though it hadn't been cut in over five months.  This was one of the benefits of being pregnant, she told me; shiny, healthy hair.  She was impressed.  Of course, it was probably going to start falling out immediately after I give birth to my son.

"Don't be alarmed if this happens," she warned me, and went on to describe how chunks of hair would probably fall out once all the happy hormones stopped being produced.  It might not happen, though.   I would just have to wait and see.

"Alright, already!" I wanted to scream.  "Cut me some slack, Jack!"

Let's get something straight.  My body is so rotund that I am no longer able to see my private parts.  I sleep in 45 minute intervals, and it generally hurts to sit, stand, or lie down.  My stomach frequently makes loud, strange sounds at inappropriate times.  Once I sit down onto a couch, I will most definitely need someone to pull me back up.  And if tubby little me chooses to look on the bright side, ie: shiny hair, a bigger cup size, glowing complexion, healthy fingernails, giddiness at the impending arrival of my precious, long awaited first born...some jackass is bound to notice my good cheer and tell me:

"You'll be flat chested, bald and covered with stretch marks in no time, sister.  Oh, and by the way, it's hard.  And it's going to hurt."

And before I know it, someone has seasoned my chili with too much ground coriander.  Again.

Drama-rama

Years ago, I bought a really fascinating Astrology book that gives a personality profile for every day of the year.  It's uncanny the way each day's description relates so accurately to the people in my life.  (My particular day is entitled: The Day of the Hellraisers.  Tee hee.)

Each day comes with a custom meditation, and the one given for those born on my birthday is: Difficulties are lessons, obstacles are challenges, impossibilities are invitations.

Hmmm.  Now, I've been casually trying to figure out why things have been so topsy turvey in Odd Broad Land as of late.  I won't bore you with all the gory details, but suffice it to say my mouse of a landlord has been being a pain in the ass again.  In a nutshell, we were given an order to go to housing court, for possible criminal charges, for a gas grill that we do not own.  (We use an electric grill, y'all!)  This form was processed two days after we told the guy downstairs (and his cousin-in-law, our landlady) that the building needed to be treated for fleas.  Fleas that came from his dogs and feral cats, mind you!

Has the fool downstairs been reporting us to the fire department in retaliation for demanding basic renter's rights, or was it the witless, absentee landlord?  I can't be certain, though I must say I'm beyond curious.

Of course, when the fire inspector actually came out to our house he saw for himself that we don't have a propane tank and told us not to bother coming to court.  He also shook his head a lot and said, "These people have no class."  He told Hubby I sounded like a very nice girl over the phone.   (Well, I am a nice girl!  Plus I called him sir.) 

As the inspector was leaving, Hubby pointed out the vast array of paint cans and paint thinner piled on the steps leading down to the back entrance, which is why the landlord is now getting an abatement order of her own.  (Paint cans are a fire code violation, you see!)

So we hadn't done anything wrong, and in the end this was acknowledged, but it's the principle of it that annoys me.  I mean, on top of all of the valid things I'm probably supposed to be spending my energy on these days (the impending birth of my first child, finding suitable day care, buying a car, re-learning how to drive after a thirteen year hiatus, Hubby finishing school and finding a job a month before our son arrives, moving from this godforsaken apartment and finding a new place to live), it seems like instead I've constantly been putting out fires regarding our current housing situation. 

At the risk of sounding dramatic, I'd even go so far as to say this apartment has been nothing but a headache since the minute we got involved with it.  But why?  I like to believe everything happens for a reason, so there must be a point to all of these petty little trials.  But what lesson am I supposed to be learning?  And am I somehow unconsciously manifesting all of these troubles?

It could be a sign that we need to move outside of the city.  It could be the universe's way of forcing me to become more assertive.  It could be I'm supposed to learn how to let things roll off my back more easily.  Or...all parties involved could simply be f*ckfaces.

I do wonder about it, though.  Kittie the Wonder Cat has also been suffering a good deal lately, and after taking her to two doctors she finally seems to be a little bit better.  She's been put on the 'roids, a low dose, so as not to interfere with her dormant feline diabetes (Drama!  And...jazz hands!).  The vet told us we'll have to treat her for fleas for as long as we stay in this apartment.  Yipee!  The poor thing has been in itchy agony and losing hair from grooming herself so often.  It's sort of turning her into a lunatic.  I could punch that fool downstairs for doing this to her; and I would, I tell ya- if I had any upper arm strength.

In the meantime, there are less than eleven weeks left to my pregnancy.  The time has gone by amazingly fast.  I'm feeling good, still squeezing into mostly non-maternity clothes, which leads me to believe my pre-pregnancy wardrobe was either very, very stretchy, or just made me look preggers. 

The other day my friend Diane told me I looked like a Dr. Suess character, because I'm still skinny everywhere on my body except for my tummy.  (I suppose this has only been intensified by my deep affection for maternity stretchie pants.)  She eventually decided I looked like Mr. Grinch, the way my stick-like legs contrast with my enormous stomach.  But...not in a bad way, or anything.

Gee, thanks!

I think about my sweet little son constantly.  I can't wait to meet him, to hold him, to finally see what he looks like, to gaze into his eyes.  It pisses me off that an otherwise lovely pregnancy has been interrupted by my landlord and neighbors, but what can you do?  Everything is going to work out, I'm quite certain.  The future is still unclear, but it does seem like the fog is lifting.  Now is the time to be brave.  Now is the time to have faith, and fortunately that's one thing I've already got.

In the meantime, I'm focusing on staying centered.  And one of these days I've got to start doing those damn kegel exercises!  (A lady on the bus told me so the other day.)

And if this broad needs to raise some hell in between Qi-Gong moving meditations, so be it.  I can always go back to being a pebble in the pond afterwards.  Happy Friday, Dear Reader. 

Love,

The Grinch.  xoxo