Room Sharing: UR doing it wrong

People have been asking us where we’re going to put the baby when he comes, since we only have a three-bedroom house.  Where we’re going to put the baby has never been the question for us, though—he’ll get the nursery and Vincenzo/Rocco will share the fire truck room.  The real question was where to put Vincenzo’s weapons that were covering the top of his bed.  So over Christmas break Kevin built a classy weapons arsenal above Vincenzo’s bed, and now there’s nothing holding us back from having this baby.

Oh.  Except there’s this one small issue…

Two weeks ago we moved Rocco into the bottom bunk of the fire truck bed and Vincenzo to the top.  The first night in there, Rocco talked for an hour straight.  “Dendo on top bunk.  Occo on bottom.  How you doin’ up dere Dendo?  Dendo want binky?  Me not tired anymore.  MOM!  MOM!  MOM!”  Only he says each of those 40 times before moving onto the next one.  He also called us in about ten times during first night to ask what time it was and then scream at us when we answered.

Vincenzo tried to get Rocco to stop talking the first night by reminding him of the nightmare Rocco had a few months back. “Rocco, remember the itty bitty funny things? They’re going to come get you if you don’t stop talking…”  Then Rocco talked for another hour about the itty bitty funny things that might come get him.

Two weeks into the new sleeping arrangement and things haven’t gotten much better, only now sometimes Vincenzo opens the door to let Rocco out and he comes sprinting through the house, jail-break style while we frantically try to turn off Tosh.0 before Rocco sees a video of a monkey drinking its own urine or something worse.

Vincenzo summed it up the other day, “Mom, if you added up all the words Rocco said today and put them together without any breaks, that’s how much he talks at night.”

Tonight it is an hour past bedtime.  Vincenzo is sleeping in my bed because I decided to try tough love with Rocco, which has resulted in hateful screaming, an unsuccessful 20-minute return to the crib, sobs that turn into the sound of throwing up, and zero smiles or hugs from me.

Help?!

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Maternity Monday: I have no respect for the actual day of the week anymore

Nesting today consisted of ironing the crib skirt and dusting the blades of the ceiling fan.  Both tasks are important, of course, because newborns can be soooo particular about those kinds of things. 

This weekend’s to-do list includes the very real act of opening up the car seat and installing it in the minivan, and probably packing up my hospital bag.  I can do this with all the smugness of someone who has an induction date set for 39 weeks* and thus has fate by the balls.

If you remember, I’ve been listening to Hypnobabies CDs in hopes of having a drug-free labor and while I don’t know if they’ll lead to an “easy, comfortable, and pain free birthing,” I do know I’ve slept better these last couple months than I have in my whole life.  I also know it gets kind of weird when the lady on the tapes says things like, “My pelvis is soft and flexible…” and, “My cervix is as soft as melting butter…”

This pregnancy, I’ve been treated to a symptom I managed to avoid in my other ones and because I am a proper lady I won’t spell it out for you but I will say I’ve made good friends with a tube of Preparation H.  I also cannot walk more than about 50 yards at a time anymore.  My doctor keeps saying, “We’ll‘address’ them after the delivery.”  Yeah, um…not super excited about that one.  Considering that toilet paper feels like broken glass lately, I really don’t want to think about anything down there being “addressed.”

So yeah.  Pregnancy is beautiful.  And if you don’t agree, that’s an issue we’re just going to have to address.

 

*I have Factor V Leiden, which means my blood gets a little over-excited about clotting, so my OB doesn’t like me to go all 40 weeks.  Sooner equals safer for me and the baby.

MrMouthy’s Marrow

I have always been very in love with my husband.  This week I am even more in love with him than ever.  Usually if someone starts a blog post or does a FB update like this I don’t read beyond the first line, but the rest of this is not sappy, and I promise that you will love my husband by the end of it, too.

About six years ago Kevin signed up to be a bone marrow donor, for no other reason than that he happened to have bone marrow and some people in the world happen to need bone marrow.  He actually got a call right away that he was a match for someone, but the person decided not to go through with the procedure.

A month ago, that person changed her mind.  We don’t know much about her—just that she is a 53-year-old woman with a form of leukemia—but Kevin didn’t even hesitate.

Thanks to modern medicine, Kevin doesn’t have to have his hip cracked open like they used to do (and sometimes still need to do); he just has to go to our local blood bank for shots five days in a row, and the shots trigger his body to make more stem cells.  They cause some bone pain, as he noticed as soon as he got in the car to drive home.  I’m worried about how bad it’s going to get by the fifth shot, but Kevin’s doesn’t seem phased by it.

This Thursday Kevin  will spend eight hours hooked up to a needle while the stem cells are harvested out of his body, then immediately flown to the recipient’s hospital and transferred to her body.  Crazy, eh?

Even crazier is what happens on the recipient’s end.  Last week and this week, she has undergone treatments that will kill off all of her bone marrow.  She will be super susceptible to every ailment known to man, and I can’t imagine the pain she will be going through.  Once her bone marrow is gone, she is completely, 100% dependent on Kevin to give her life.  She will die without his bone marrow.

Hopefully her body accepts it.  If not, they’ll go through the same process in a few months and cross their fingers that it takes the second time.  Kevin’s body will kind of be on-call for her for about a year.

I love how Kevin is doing this for a complete stranger, how he is completely unconcerned for his own comfort, how he doesn’t overthink it, how he just gives.  That’s just how Kevin is.

I love him.

Dating the Mouthys

Kevin and I went on a date the other night.  Ever since we ran out of conversation topics about five years back, we’ve been kind of quiet on dates.  That’s how this one was going until…

Me: Hey.  Remember Crystal Pepsi?
K: Yup.
(Silence.)
K: Remember jelly bracelets?”
Me:  Yup. 
(Silence)
Me: Remember Moncheechees?
K: Yup.
(Silence)
K: Remember 3-2-1-Contact and the Electric Company?
Me: Yup.

…and so on.  Without saying the rules out loud, we intuitively knew it would be over when one person couldn’t say “Yup.”  It happened when I remembered the Uncola guy from 7-Up.  Remember? 

(Sorry the audio is so horrible on this video.)

Unfortunately, I got disqualified because I somehow remembered something from before my time (the commercial aired in 1975 and I was still in utero).  I have no idea how I remembered something from before my birth, but that is some powerful marketing.

And so we continued, through shoes with kangaroo pockets, the Micro Machines guy, friendship pins, L.A. Gear, ET dolls with frilly dresses, Captain Caveman and Wrigley’s Doublemint twins…until I pulled these little guys out my memory banks:

shirttails

Shirttails.

Kevin–who was raised by TV and whose parents attempted to name him after Rocky* while his sister was named after Wendy from Peter Pan—stumped!  By me!  Me who watched as much TV in a week as Kevin did in a day!  It felt good.  ‘

Of course, K tried to demean my win by pointing out that Shirttails only aired for one year and he was four years old that year, but still.  It was almost enough to not make me not cranky anymore.

I guess there’s not really much point to all this other than to remind you how few friendship pins you got compared to the other girls in your class.  You know the ones.

As we were leaving the restaurant, I mentioned to Kevin how much more fun this game is going to be when we’re, say, 80 years old:

Me: Remember the porridge we ate for dinner last night?
K: No.  I don’t remember shit!
Me: Ha!  Remember when “shit” was a bad word?

Anyway, next time you’re at dinner with your significant other and you realize you’re the old couple with nothing to talk about, you can start by saying, “Hey, remember that one post by MrsMouthy?”  And enjoy your following ten minutes of conversation.

 

*K’s parents were going to name him Rocco (after Rocky) until the grandparents weighed in and said they couldn’t name a kid that, so Rocco was demoted to Kevin’s middle name.  Flash forward 30-some years to their great grandchild—our Rocco.  For the whole first year of Rocco’s life, Kevin’s grandparents would ask during every phone conversation, “How’s the baby?  And what’s his name really?)