Love is never having to give up your body pillow...
I bought a Snoogle on Wednesday. I may have mentioned it. I mentioned it in passing as I referenced how amazing Mr. Forty is for staring at body pillows with me at 10 a.m. At that time, I truly believed that Mr. Forty was the most amazing thing in the entire world. That was before I slept with my Snoogle. Now the Snoogle is the most amazing thing in the entire world. Truly, pregnant or not, you need one of these things. Go. Get. One. Even the dog vouches for...
Change We Can Believe In
When Mr. Forty signed up to be my husband (less than a year ago) he did a lot of stuff. He packed up his house in Atlanta and he moved. (His house is still for sale, btw, please let us know if you’re in the market, it’s very nice). He wedged himself into my tiny bungalow that was just big enough for me. He did wedding stuff, like spray painting picture frames silver and ordered cafe lights on the internet and tasted cake. He gave up wearing socks (this really doesn’t count as a sacrifice, I just thought it was worth pointing out). He bought a house with me – almost impulsively (it was the first and only house we saw, we still stand by it’s perfection, but he saw scores of houses before he picked the one he bought). He found my Old Dog when she decided to take her final nap in a sun spot and not wake up. He agreed, three weeks later, while studying for the bar, and anticipating a move into the new house, and working on all the closing issues for the house, to go to the Humane Society with me and Little Dog to go find a new furry friend. He studied for the Bar, surrounded by boxes, with a new wife, in a new town, with a puppy, in a tiny bungalow. He took the Bar Exam in Florida – not an easy feat. And he kicked it’s ass. He got a new job. He knocked me up. He has been 100% involved in this pregnancy from the moment we found out. This dude fucking loves me. Yet I don’t think anything prepares a man for what we women do when we gestate. All that crazy shit I listed (and it’s some crazy shit) pales in comparison to this morning at 10 a.m. when (after a doc’s appt) he helped me pick out a body pillow in a big box baby retail store. I mean, come on, who signs up for that kind of nonsense? I don’t know how he calmly endures me. I really don’t. He’s so patient. I don’t think I’m terrible, but nobody could want to stare at body pillows at 10 a.m. Nobody. I’m a tiny person (as we may have mentioned) and the weight and Critter are really putting me at a disadvantage. My joints are mad, my circulatory system is mad, my back is mad, everything is just… mad. And yet Mr. Forty quietly rubs Tiger Balm on my knees, heats up my Happy Bag of Warming Rice, brings me water, and stares at body pillows with me. It just leaves me in awe. I didn’t marry him to be taken care of, I lived long enough without anyone taking care of me. Mr. Forty isn’t the protective type. He’s not the controlling type. He’s not the jealous or competitive type. In fact, he is the most confident, self-assured, and grounded person I know. He lets me be me, which is exactly why I married him. I let him be him. Which is also something I happen to find pretty perfect and without need for improvement. But lately, even the farm boy has looked at me, usually stuck (literally stuck) on the couch with some strange pain or malady, and he goes into protective mode. He takes amazing care of me. And nothing in the whole world could make me happier. Strange how things change....
Compliment?
“You look like a very small, very white, George Foreman.” Mr. Forty remarking on my appearance wearing his Georgetown basketball shorts. I want to go for a long walk, my shorts no longer fit. This is my life now.
Accidental Weigh In
I don’t have a scale. I had one, but it made me cranky, so I got rid of it. This was before Critter. As Critter has come to “be” I have to endure weigh ins at my doctor’s appointments. I do care, I do ask, and so far, I’ve been well within my weight limit. They haven’t told me to slow down, chew my food, pick fruit over cupcakes, etc. I have been told by many people that I look the same, with the exception of the basketball I am smuggling under my shirt. I take this as a compliment and a good sign. I work at a place where things are frequently weighed. I’ll leave it at that. In order to get into a storage room today I had to walk over a scale. I saw the number. I got back on the scale. The number didn’t change. I broke one of my biggest rules and looked up the number (corresponding to my height) on the interwebz with the Google search “Weight gain during pregnancy.” Good news? I hit goal!!! Bad news? For Week 36. *sad...
Note to self
At 23 weeks one should not sit on a floor for several hours watching a rehearsal. That is all. Ow. Oh. And I can’t get up. Oh dear.
Baby Dreams
We all have special talents. Mine is sleeping. I’m really, really good at sleeping. WELL KISS THAT GOOD BYE MS. FORTY – YOU’LL NEVER SLEEP AGAIN! And that’s why I know am speaking with a public defender and attempting a Stand Your Ground defense based on Mommy-shaming and the fact that I managed to kill someone by hurling a canister of Tums at their head. (It is Florida, I have a better than average chance of being acquitted). Seriously, I’m a champ at sleeping. Last night, Mr. Forty put Tiger Balm on my chest, because I’m having a “time.” It seems nothing in my person is working. At all. I can’t breathe, I can’t move, I can’t word, I can’t get off the couch. Everything hurts, or feels weird, or is annoying the shit out of me. And critter, who is being still today, decided yesterday to scope out his entire treehouse and basically had the Zooms non-stop. (The Zooms, alternately, the Rips, is my term for when the dogs suddenly decide they need to be everywhere in the yard/house/car at once). After Mr. Forty put the magic creme on my chest, I went night-night. Immediately. Really, less than a minute I bet. And I had dreams. Pregnancy dreams are the best – they’re very real and lucid and bright. I have been enjoying them very much – even the disturbing ones are still so profound and rich with symbolism. Last night was the first time I dreamed about Critter as a baby. He was very small and, in dream-like logic, often morphed from baby to puppy without me feeling a bit concerned. It was also not a bit disturbing that I had fashioned a car seat for him out of pizza boxes and metal pizza pans. He seemed quite content strapped to a silver disk and riding around in the car. He was obviously a newborn, but his eyes were wide open and he was smiling quite a lot (neither of which rank high on a newborn’s resume). He also was talking. Not complete sentences, but attempts at basic questions with some gibberish thrown in for good measure. We had a lively chat. Mostly about how old I was and what should he call his grandmother. Then he lifted his arms up and I picked him up under his arms and stretched him out – much like one of our cats likes to stretch. All perfectly normal I’m sure. Then he morphed into a teenager. I’ve had a few teenager dreams about him, so I knew immediately who he was. Currently, he looks quite a bit like his father (when I met his father at 17). He was in a band and Mr. Forty and I were very proud to see him do something artistic and creative (Mr. Forty plays guitar and I hope Critter picks it up at some point. It would be best if he played it I suppose, but if carrying around a guitar gets him laid, why put in the effort I guess….). We asked Critter what the name of his band was and he said, “Try Age.” We asked him to spell it… he spelled it t-r-i-a-g-e. I woke myself up from fear. Oh god I hope he isn’t an...