You are currently browsing the monthly archive for January 2009.
So Carol, my dear friend who, if I won the Lotto I would fly over via private jet and wheel chair to have her at the birth of dear little Loki, is feeling rather bummed what with her ankle and all, tagged me for a photo meme which is fabulous because I have nothing non-baby, mid-wife, or construction terror to talk about these days unless it’s about odd episodes of The Closer.
Here’s the photo from the folder labeled Dad’s book. I’m about eight years old and my mother conceived and manufactured matching Halloween costumes for Jeff and I – Rabbits.
Jeff was a cute little rabbit. I was a cute pregnant rabbit complete with a pillow bunny bump. My mother might have had one or two glasses of wine while coming up with that idea.
The rest of this story is that when I wore it school for our annual Halloween celebration, I got sent to the Principal’s office with an inappropriate costume. My teacher, room mothers and then my principal didn’t find the humor in the whole pregnant rabbit idea. Something about age-appropriate costumes. I had no concept of how a pregnant bunny was inappropriate, I still kind of don’t.
However, being who I have always been, I put my nose up and said that my mother made my costume and I was not going to change it unless my mother told me to. After spending 2 hours in the office while they discussed the fate of the belly I lost the belly and became a sleepy rabbit, carrying the pillow around for the rest of the day.
Today has been particularly satisfying. Partly due to a full night sleep – the first in oh, about 24 days.
Today’s relief started with yesterday’s misery. A rush of hormones had me weeping all day. Weeping for no reason. My eyes did not dry all day and the worst part was that I wasn’t particularly sad. (Well, there was the court scene from Reign Over Me that had me sobbing for a good 30 minutes, but other than that…) I just could not stop the tears and THAT made me sad. See a problem here? Yeah. Well, all that misery tired me out.
- I got about 7 hours of sleep last night. My sleep buddy, Olli, stayed close, following me to the bathroom and following me back to bed each time. He snuggled close enough all night to warm my nose and only required my pillow and an occasional nose rub as payment for this night-time loyalty. Oddly, it helped me sleep. Score another one in my personal co-sleeping experiment. (I’m testing them all out personally.)
- I’m wearing stripped knee high socks. I really like knee highs and stripes are my favorite. This particular pair are gray, pink and black. Sparky got me these for Christmas. It’s nice when your husband knows your particular taste in socks.
- No More Pants! decree. My maternity pants keep slipping down. I’ve tried pulling them up high enough to tuck into my real purty maternity bra and while this works for a little bit, actual movement tends to ruin this effect. My pre-pregnancy sweats and yoga pants need to be rolled down below my belly and while this keeps my legs warm, I’m not real comfortable. Neither option makes me very happy so I’ve decided not to wear pants anymore. Problem solved.
- Sparky brought me a cherry almond muffin.
- Sleep provided enough energy to clear out a few more shelves prepping for the construction project.
- Sparky isn’t going to workout, but rather spend the time with moi. This makes me very happy as he’s been working a lot lately and I’ve missed him.
So yeah, not a bad day so far. I have two episodes of Bones to watch tonight and as long as I don’t nap, I think I might be able to get another full night of zzzz’s.
May I suggest, if you’re not having a good day, try the knee high socks/no pants combo.
(Edit: Uh, tiny problem with the No More Pants! decree – When a neighbor unexpectedly drops by, one might have to scurry to find pants before opening the door.)
Not in any particular order.
1. When I like a song, I have to listen to it over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over. This sometimes drives friends, lovers and neighbors to want to hurt me.
Right now it’s Coldplay’s Viva la Vida. Sorry, Sparks. I just like the triumph first thing in the morn.
2. My first inclination when I walk in the door is to drop my shoes and clothing. Living with a partner means giving up some of these habits. I leave the clothing on, but drop the shoes then forbid Sparky from moving them. All he wants to do it put them in the same place and at a 90 degree angle. I forbid it. A little rebellion at his need for order.
3. Contrary to the shoes, I must wake up to a clean kitchen. This means cleaning it at night. Waking to dishes in the sink… Ooh watch out. Best you put that plate in the dishwasher before I get up.
4. When I’m not dancing with Insomnia at night, I usually wake up way too chipper. It would be fine if I left others to their own personal wake up moods and modes, but no. I don’t. I’ll serenade you with made up little ditties until you want to throttle me. Then I’ll skip sprightly away while you contemplate the 50,000 ways you’d like to kill me.
5. I’m tactile. I must touch stuff. Especially stuff that is not mine. Especially if there is a little sign that says “Do Not Touch”. Buttons are actually the worst for me. Never show me a button I’m not allowed to push. I have no self control. This has actually gotten me into some trouble if you can imagine.
6. When I need attention, I need it Right. This. Second. I’m 36 and I’ve never really learned how to be patient when it comes to this need. Sparky thinks it’s because I was Cry It Out* baby.
7. I’m right more often than I’m wrong. This is a gift and a curse.
8. I suffer from an illness called “Let Me Do It” Syndrome. Sometimes this is also referred to as “I Can Obviously Do It Better, Faster or More Completely, You Dolt” Disorder. It’s hereditary. My entire maternal line is afflicted. However, in my defense, Sparky suffers from Pedantic Kraut Sickness.
9. I like to be on time for things which often means being early as I anticipate possible obstacles to my punctuality including getting people off their asses and out the door. This is in direct conflict with every single person in my life that I love being more of the “Eh, we’ll get there when we get there” variety.
9. Math is more of a fluid concept for me.
When I asked Sparky to add to this list, his first and immediate response was to laugh heartily. “You are an angry, angry bitch. Is that what you mean?”
Sparky is no longer has to worry about how difficult it is to live with me. Or anyone else for that matter.
*We’re reading baby raising books right now and the debate of choice is Cry It Out vs. Co-Sleeping.
Before I move on, I just want to say a big thank you. You guys really know how to pull a girl off the ledge. I want to invite all of you over for a lunch, dinner, cocktail. I don’t know exactly how to show my appreciation, just know it’s there. I’d don’t know what I’d do without you all helping me out. Again, thank you.
Now, on to a less boring subject than babies and birth and insomnia.
My family, specifically my brother.
My brother and I have an agreement for Christmas. We tell the other one what we want and we get it.
This year he asked me for more sheets and another duvet cover. This is is how the conversation went:
“Sheets? Are you sure? That’s so boring and I just got you those red ones last year.”
“Yeah. I know. I count on you to get me the boring stuff I won’t get myself. I also need a duvet that coordinates with the sheets I have.”
“Fine. Fine. I just got these great flannel sheets. Can I get you flannel?”
“NO! NO flannel. I had a bad experience with flannel one summer.”
He was so vehement. His face so serious when he delivered that last line. I could actually see the fear streak through his eyes. It was like he had been water-boarded with flannel or something. I just started laughing. I couldn’t help it. He’s such a guy’s guy. And other than his irrational fear of ducks, heights and flying, he’s pretty macho. Apparently, we can now add flannel to that list.
When Jeff first moved out on his own some ten years ago, he bought his first set of sheets. They were remarkably low priced and on sale. Being a 21-year-old guy, he bought the cheapest set he could find. These were very inexpensive from a monetary perspective – probably because it was June and they were indeed flannel.
His apartment didn’t have AC, was on the top floor and very inland – the temps reach well into the 100’s.
He’d lie awake at night, sweating, not understanding how he could be so hot. There was never a cool side to his pillow. What he saved in money, he paid with butt sweat.
I’m not sure who clued him into the flannel issue, but eventually he learned. And it seems to have made an impression.
So I got him these babies instead. He acted all tough at first, but I could see he was secretly delighted.
My gun toting, whiskey drinking, flannel phobic brother is now the proud owner of Star Wars sheets and a very grown-up navy blue duvet.
*As an aside, I got the most fantastic set of periwinkle blue fluffy flannel that cuddles me as if I were in a cloud. Sparky, having spent way too much time with Jeff over the holidays, has decided he doesn’t like flannel either. I need to keep those two separated when we are back in the States. Sparky picks up all sorts of bad habits.
This is my Dad, Step-Mom Karen and Jeff at my baby shower.
It might be the lack of sleep, but I am officially freaking the “F” out. Sparky is in Hamburg today and unable to do more than freak out himself. And we’re going to be parents??
I’m not quite sure how this works out here in Krautland, but so far I think I need a gynecologist to monitor me up until birth. Then I need an Obstetrician at the birth along with a midwife who is different than the midwife who will do home visits? And when I actually give birth the chances that I’ll know the people at the business end are slim? Does this sound right?
I’m a little late to this game, but I have no farging clue as to what I’m doing. I’m searching for a midwife, but the one recommended doesn’t travel to my area. She gave me a website to check which is very helpful and there are a ton of midwives in the area, but only 2 that don’t deal in homeopathic medicine.
Let me tell you, if I were homeopathically pregnant, I might consider homeopathic medicine in the birthing of said imaginary baby.
I also don’t want a midwife who is my sister’s age(21, really?). Or who has never has a kid. Or who doesn’t speak English because my German might be fantastic when I’m drunk or medicated, but child birth is not one of those times I want to risk misunderstanding something or depend on Sparky to translate.
I don’t want to give birth in my haus or by a maus. I don’t want to hear that women have been doing this since the birth of man so just relax and let nature handle it, because you know what? I haven’t had a kid before. I have no clue as to what I’m doing.
I think maybe I’ve made a mistake.
And then there is the whole “Your Obstetrician is the one who decides if you need pain medication” issue. Wait a second, I thought that was me. I thought I got to make those decisions. “Oh, no Frau R. It’s your doctor’s decision.”
Like hell it is. I’ve already been forced from my planned C-section to the Big V and let me tell you, Heidi is not happy about that at all. I am not going there without an epidural even though those look very painful (too many Birth Stories when I was in America).
So my question is, here in Germany, do I have ANY say in how this whole birth thing is going to go? Barring Loki’s agenda, shouldn’t I be the second in command? Any other answer than yes is going to get me on the next flight back to America. Homie doesn’t play that game.
How does one choose a hospital? There are three in my area, one with which I’ve had great experiences in bad circumstances. Can I check them out like I can in the States? See the maternity area etc?
Argh. This is getting a bit overwhelming. It could be because I haven’t slept like a human in weeks, since I left California. It could be because I’m in high anxiety mode today which is directly related to the lack of sleep.
I’ve been so good with Loki. I haven’t dyed my hair or gotten my nails done. I’ve avoided all chemicals, I eat better than ever, cake notwithstanding. I haven’t touched Deli meat even though I really want a salami, turkey and ham with cheddar on a soft roll so bad I can taste it. I’ve held back petting stray cats and kittens and had my cats tested for toxo to make sure I could still live with them while pregnant. I’m not playing in the snow because I fall in the snow (this is a guarantee). I’m not driving in the snow because I’m afraid of crashing on the ice. I’m not taking hot baths because I don’t want to cook him. I’m doing everything the fourteen books I’ve read have instructed to keep this kid safe and yet the only thing in the world I want right now, other than a clear understanding of how the whole “getting the boat out of the basement” is a fucking Ambien and a full night of sleep rather than the 2 am wake up.
This post should be titled “Welcome to my Pity Party”.
I’m sick of my own whining. Give me 10 minutes and I’ll get back to you.
10 minutes later…
Okay – A phone call to Sparky and to my Dr. and I’m off the ledge. I’ll see her this week to go over everything including a “baby safe” sleep aid. Meanwhile, I’m going to go have a nap. I’m flipping my middle finger at the whole sleep fight. Come on, cats. Flannel calls.
Dude, I love this site. I’m sure it’s been around the neighborhood before, but I just discovered it.
It warms my heart that there are others like me who just want to punch people in the face.
I also love the word Douche Bag. It aptly describes one type of guy because really, women can’t be douche bags. It’s not like bitch or dick or asswipe. Other words can have so many meanings and definitions. When some says “That guy was a total Douche Bag”, a very clear picture comes to mind.
He might not have been wearing a pink polo shirt, but he owns one. His hair is way over-gelled. He over-colognes with some fragrance some girl told him smelled nice in college. And he never, ever matures. He just turns into a an older version of the same guy with the same stories of that one night he did 10 Jager shots and was so hammered he barely remembers the best blow job of his life by that really hot blond chick with fake tits.
You know who I’m talking about. Sadly, California is full of them. Happily, I mock them all.
Don’t know if you can tell, but it’s 2:52 am where I am. Yep. 2:52.
Sparky is fully adjusted and is functioning just fine. Sleeping he is. Like a kitten or a baby or a million and four things I am not right now. I, on the other hand am finding that pool of crankiness I’ve been so long without as I continue to struggle.
Perhaps I’m just supposed to get up everyday at 2 am. Perhaps it’s my new normal to fall back to sleep at 6 am to get up at 10 am completely wiped out. Perhaps this is just training for Loki. Perhaps I’m going out of my mind with this and I really want to take a farging* sleeping pill.
Whatever.
In other news, I had a fantastic time in Cali this year. I didn’t get to see everyone or do everything I wanted to do, but it was so relaxing and enjoyable. I really miss home.
I’m not one of these expats that has fallen hopelessly in love with Krautland. Not even a smidgen. We will move back to California and it’ll be sooner than later. I want Loki to be raised bi-culturally, but I really want him around extended family.
One of the best lessons I have ever learned, in all my years, was not to take myself so seriously. I have my family to thank for that. I got away with nothing. From pranks to commentary, my family was a tough-assed crowd. NO ONE – not parents, aunts, uncles, siblings- pulled any punches.
On a date? The clan was there to be very nice and wish me well and when I got home, holy moly, the poor guy was torn apart. Unless they liked him more than me. Then my short comings were reduced to a fine sauce and liberally spooned over what would become my corpse of embarrassment.
It’s why they never saved me from my red Sally Jesse Raphael glasses. They needed fodder for later. A savings account for humiliation.
I have cousins who were sheltered or “protected” from the tough crowd and today they are the most pompous, ridiculous people who scream to be mocked. When I see their faces get red from indignation, I can only think that if they had gotten when they were younger, it wouldn’t be so bad today.
I will not have Loki raised to be boring and so full of self-importance that I can’t stand to be around him. I need family to step in when I get too kissy face with the kid because I already feel it coming. I’m going to be ridiculously in love with my kid and there is only one way to save him.
The only shot Loki has at a truly functional dysfunctional life is is MY family.
*Farging – I’m working on not swearing so much. I don’t want a two-year-old who mixes the perfect cosmo AND swears.
So yeah, I’ve been back for a while now. Eight days to be exact. Eight long days and even longer nights because I can’t sleep to save my life. I finally crashed yesterday at 10 am after getting roughly 4 hours of sleep for the last week. Even Sparky had to agree that I looked awful with red lined eyeballs and black, not just dark, but black circles under my eyes. I think he even made some reference that all I needed was a ragged cat ready to throw to complete the look.
In general, I’m doing very well. I’m still on that “happy” thing when I’m not so exhausted. That is getting quite boring, but I just can’t muster up enough venom these days to get really riled.
And 2009 is bringing some heavy duty changes. I suppose I’m preparing mentally right now as well. Taking the big change cake, I have left Loki off the list because, well, being pregnant, all I do is think of him, all the time. It didn’t seem fair to add him.
The first noticeable difference of 2009 is that I am no longer blond. Over the holiday, I made my yearly pilgrimage to John and he did a beautiful job of matching the blond to the 3 inches of dark roots in a low-light fest. So now and for the foreseeable future, I am living life as a brunette.
Second big change of 2009 – My dear, dear friend Tatiana and her family have left Krautland for good. It was difficult to say goodbye, but I have a feeling it’ll get harder in a few weeks when I just want a cup of her coffee and an ear and all I have is the coffee maker she dropped off to me before she left. Speaking to expats, it’s hard making friends out here, even harder finding those friend with whom you have that total connection. Germany will be a very different experience for me here on out.
Then there is the massive amounts of construction that is due to start soon. Our floors are to be sanded and sealed. We have Loki’s room to build out, paint and furnish. All which require our entire household to be shifted at one point or another.
Anyone want to come and hang out with me and move loads of books and furniture and other crap? As I’m 6.5 months along, I will need help and I’ll probably end up calling Sparky’s mother.
Yes. That’s what I said.
It is no doubt what I need to find my unhappy place. I recently found out that dear anal-retentive Sparky was “clean” by 1 year. “Clean” being her word, not mine, for potty trained. I can already feel the blood rising to my face once she finds out I’m from a very different school of thought and tries to “help” me with my sweet little Loki.
Well, the tiredness is hitting again and my brain isn’t working quite right. I think I’ll go watch Gilmore Girls and try for a little nap. See, I must be tired. I’m not even going off about MIL issues.
