Oh…what? Am I supposed to be blogging this week?
Picture taken on Christmas Eve. Followed up by lots of screaming about who was taking up too much space on the stool.
So my husband drove away from the house this morning in this:
And came home four hours later driving this:
Yes, people. A minivan. I now drive a minivan.
It was as much my decision as his to get a minivan—with three kids plus stroller, passengers, a zillion cloth shopping bags and other gear, it was our only option—but that hasn’t stopped me from giving him the cold shoulder all day for buying it.
I know I am being a spoiled brat to complain about the brand new, unblemished car that is currently making our whole garage smell like it’s fresh off the showroom floor, but For the record, I sent Kevin out with instructions to “get a good deal on a minivan that looks about as trashed as our current Hilander.” Anyone who knows Kevin, though, knows that he loves spending money and he loves shiny things.
So we now own a car that I am not only ashamed to drive because of its minivanishness but also that I am terrified to drive because of my long history for hitting other things with my car. Plus, it being new and all feels like we’re going to own it forever and not just like we’re borrowing it for a couple years. The Sienna came with heated seats but it didn’t come with built-in denial. Blech.
Kevin texted me from the dealership to see if I wanted flames or skulls painted on it to make it look cool, and I replied that yes, I’d love to have something painted on it. Maybe something about lipstick and chickens, for example. Then I asked if he could pick up a pair of mom jeans for me on the way back home so I don’t look weird driving it.
I hope any of you who already drive minivans are not taking too much offense at this post. I’m one of you now, after all, so I figure it’s all cool.
In a very uncool kind of way, of course.
1. I would like to wake up before the kids just one day. Just once. Christmas Day would be great.
2. Correction: I would like the kids to wake up after me just for one day. And not right after me, but like an hour or two after me.
3. Remote-control carpet that I could roll out throughout our upstairs when the kids want to wrestle or practice jumping as far as they can off the couch or doing timed sprints down the hallway, then roll away the rest of the day to reveal gorgeous, unmarked, highly polished hardwood floors.
4. Toys that throw themselves away when they sense that they are annoying to me or are not played with for a couple months.
5. For my ears to be reconfigured so that they enjoy the sound of whining
6. For everyone to start thinking minivans are cool
If you get me all this, Santa, I’m pretty sure we’ll also instantly achieve world peace.
Mondays are coming fast around here, eh?
So I got the cutest little cold last Monday. I named it Baby Cold and showed it off to everyone around me. On Friday, WHOMP. Baby Cold grew up. I didn’t see it coming.
Since then, at random moments of the day and night various parts of my face start weeping a clear liquid. When I sneeze it’s so forceful that this little fire lights in my lungs and also I have to change my underwear. There was a day last weekend when, if someone had peeled all the skin off my face, I would have been just fine because of the thick covering of mucous right behind my skin. I am disgusting.
And of course, pregnant ladies can’t do a thing about colds except roll over and take it. Only I can’t roll over because my stomach is so gigantic it is now messing with the tides; plus, rolling over involves lying down and I can’t lie down anymore because the heartburn that has been a constant since my second month of pregnancy decided to kick it up a notch this weekend.
Oh, and a new colony of spider veins popped out just below my knee sometime last week.
And I have gained more weight than I did with any of my other pregnancies and I still have 2 months to grow.
And I am still nauseous all. the. time.
Now go ahead and tell me in the comments how much you loved being pregnant and how you just glowed for nine months.
I dare you.
Psst. It’s me. I’m up before 6 and, miracle of miracles, neither of my kids is. I will try le blog now.*
A good friend lent me her Hypnobabies kit for this upcoming labor so I can have an “easy, joyous, pain-free childbirth.” The thing is, I’m not sure someone as cynical and crusty as myself can be transformed. After three labors that were the complete opposite of “easy, joyous, and pain-free” I am definitely an old dog and this is a new trick.
Actually, I shouldn’t even be using the word “labor.” Hypnobabies wants me to call it “birthing process” because the word labor indicates work, and birthing your baby is not work, despite husband’s claim that I’ve only worked for three days out of the past six years. I guess now he can say I haven’t worked a day since I had Vincenzo.
Also, I’m not going to be feeling “contractions” during this “birthing process;” I will feel “pressure sensations.” Kevin (who is no longer my “husband” but rather my “birthing partner”) told me he’s going to call them “uterus hugs" instead. I am SO looking forward to that.
Oh, and when those joyful pressure waves begin, I will not be in “pain” but rather “discomfort.” Seriously. “Discomfort” to me means wearing a pair of too-small underwear or having an itch I can’t reach. Not what I’ve felt in my past “birthing processes.” I imagine myself screaming, “I AM IN AN EXCRUCIATING AMOUNT OF DISCOMFORT HERE!” and, “THIS DISCOMFORT IS GOING TO KILL ME!”
Anyway, Kevin and I are trying to be more precise with all our vocabulary, not just those related to the birthing process. We no longer call them “numbers,” for example, but “letters’ more complicated cousins,” and instead of “children” they are “angry little howler monkeys.” It’s really helping.
That being said, I am loving the hypnosis CDs and if I can replace the word “cynicism” with “optimism,” maybe, just maybe this is going to work. But with all this new vocab I think I need to take a break from doing Kiegel exercises and instead build up some finger strength. There are an awful lot of finger quotes flying around these days!
*That was 6AM yesterday, BTW.
A couple years ago my siblings and I were reminiscing about decorating the Christmas tree—how we would place our favorite ornaments front and center; how we would meticulously place each glass ornament directly in front of a colored light; how anything we had made ourselves, especially if it involved dough and our picture, ended up in some place of honor.
Then my mom piped up. “Yeah, and after you all went to bed I’d go move the ornaments around so the tree actually looked good.” Or something like that. We were appalled, and I promised myself then that I would never do that to my kids.
That was before Vincenzo put this…
…center stage on our Christmas tree. Yup. Right next to this:
…even after I told him how the first year Kevin and I were dating we wanted to find the tackiest ornament we could for our future tree, and that’s how we came to own this one. He said with all the enthusiasm and honesty of a six-year-old, “Well you guys sure failed on that one!” (I think that’s the original paper clip we hung it with, too, before we could afford to buy ornament hooks.)
Vincenzo went on to decorate the entire tree using all of our ornaments and only two branches. It really defied gravity and physics in general, and I’d insert a picture of it here but…well…
Mom, may this picture serve as proof that you have been forgiven.
And here we have a picture Vincenzo drew for school of him decorating the Christmas tree.
But it’s really more of a passive-aggressive statement that we need to cut his fingernails, don’t you think?
Also: it looks like he might have a bad case of Cauliflower Hands we need to get checked out.
And also: you may now refer to him as NIV.
The kid is a friggin’ genius.
Not much to report here. My body has approached the Ewok stage of pregnancy; I’m fairly disgusted with it. But, as eating is no longer about being hungry but rather about managing my nausea, and as managing my nausea involves consuming copious amounts of juice and candy every day, I’m kind of at the mercy of my hormones. I really really REALLY hate being pregnant. Have I mentioned that yet?
In cheerier news, we got our Christmas tree last weekend.
While most of us were busy dreaming of a white Christmas, Rocco, apparently, was dreaming of a wet Christmas.
(Picture taken seconds after Rocco yelled, “ME WANT GO HOME GO POTTY!”)
All that pant-wetting, of course, made him rather thirsty.
And when one of my boys gets thirsty (or gets anything, for that matter), the other one has to get it too.