You are currently browsing the monthly archive for February, 2009.
I had a weird dream last night and it included a lot of you. First there was Vailian who had sent me a letter to give to his daughter in case something happened to him and there was some sort of vague threat that had me very worried. Then Carol and Elisabeth showed up to sit and chit chat. Then Kim. And Kim and I were smoking even though I was still pregnant and I was flipping out because I knew I should not be smoking, but I seemed so addicted, I couldn’t stop. Then Sparky got really mad at me because he liked the way I smelled before I smoked and was disappointed that he couldn’t sniff my neck anymore.
Out of all the things I no longer do, smoking is the not on my top ten things to add back into my life. A glass of wine, yes. A party where I can drink and flirt, yes. Being able to turnover in bed without needing a crane, without a doubt, but smoking is the last thing I want to pick up again.
I woke up feeling a little like Dorothy. And you were there. And you. And you…
Anyway, here are today’s pictures. Miranda and Jeff. As babies. Now, they have different dads, Mim being a second marriage baby. All parents have brown hair. How Jeff and Mim ended up as fire cats no one knows. I’d love a redheaded baby. I think Sparky would be very surprised if that happened, but I’d be delighted.
I told Jeff this and he got really mad at me. He told me it was a horrible thing to wish upon a kid because he can’t even say the word “Sun” without a gallon of sunscreen.
But they do make really cute babies, don’t you think?
This is Jeff, the last time he used a tool. He’s cute, even today.
And here is Miss Miranda. She was so cute and smelled so good all you wanted to do was eat her up.
This picture is of us kids and one of my favorite places in time. I think I was about 17 years old. Jeff was about 12 years and Mim was about 2 years. And we were all napping together on the family room sofa. I never sleep as soundly as I do in the middle of family chaos. It makes me feel safe and secure in a way I’ve never been able to duplicate. This moment was as sweet as it ever got.
My mom took the photo and I can only guess as to how she felt seeing her three babies all snuggled up like kittens together.
You know what? I’ve crossed that line where as much as I love Loki and this pregnancy was not only desired but actively sought after, I’m uncomfortable enough to be a cranky pants. And a tired cranky pants at that.
Construction went as planned: The electrician did not show up, ever. He went on vacation and had forgotten about our job. This turned out not to be the utter disaster it could have been because Sparky freaked out at the idea of splitting the room just as the hammer was raised to nail beams into the floor. We don’t have two rooms as planned, we have one, just like before only now with a door. Sparky’s desk will share space with Loki’s room and as bad of an idea as I think it is, they’ll deal with it.
I cleared the entire room, floor to ceiling, wall-to-wall to add a door. Now I have to put it all back after I hose it down to remove all the dust and grime. Then I have to figure out wall color, furniture placement and all that jazz because my fingers are itching to get Loki’s stuff done. Literally itching.
I have no other mental energy. So this week will be pictures.
Today I will bore you with cats. My family loves these little fuzz butts for some odd reason. Well, all of us but Miranda. She’s more of a dog/bird person.
This is my Dad on Superbowl Sunday with his favorites. The big cat is Sawyer, the white Siamese is Zoe and the other Siamese is Teddy. Jeff and I take places 4 and 5 in my Dad’s Hierarchy of Love. I have 4th place right now because of Loki, but as soon as the kid makes his appearance, I’ll be back into last place. I’ve had enough therapy to be okay with this.
These are my two boys, Butt Licker and Butt Muncher. Please note that they are sitting on my freshly laundered cashmere sweatshirt. It’s still damp and drying, but the boys decided it was a really good place to hang out this morning. Do not be fooled by the delicately crossed paws. He is a devil cat with a penchant for snuggles. Evil, I tell you. Evil! This is after I was woken up with whiskers and cold noses looking for kibble at 6 am. I don’t know why they haven’t been made into soup yet, but soon. Very soon. ( Notice the contents of the red room in the background. Our house is a freakin’ sty.)
And these beauties are my brother’s cats, Teya and Kaden. Kaden, the white one, is the most laid back surfer dude of a cat I’ve ever met. Teya, the black sucker fish face, is the sweetest little girl. We almost cat-napped her back to Krautland, but I actually thought it through and figured four cats, one baby and two adults was simply too many heartbeats of our size of dwelling.
So yeah, I promise no more cat photos this week.
Wanna sure fire way to become very happy with your skin tone, regardless of age?
Contract the rotavirus, puke non-stop for four days with the added bonus of uh, issues of the other end, stop all consumption of liquids because said liquids start you puking for hours at a time.
Then look in the mirror.
I promise you a couple of things. One, very fast weight loss. Two, you will quickly come to understand the necessity of a good moisturizer. Three, you’ll instantly have that Oscar-nomination look of Kate Winslet as an old woman in The Reader.
Got home yesterday from an additional four day drip-fest stay at the local hospital thanks to said virus. It only took the Voo-Doo Dr. Phlebotomisogyonist 6 sticks to get an IV in after the initial IV blew the vein. He didn’t speak English, but seemed to understand the phrase “Sonofabitch!”. In my defense, it was only after the fifth hand stick in which the needled ended up on my actual wrist bone which he then flicked to try and open the vein which was closed because uh, I don’t know, severe dehydration. Seriously, that man was far too calm in causing pain through needles not to be a.) a voodoo priest or b.) a very experienced sadist. I’m sure there are chicken bones around his house. I look like a heroin addict only with more bruises and needle holes.
They gave me good drugs to stop the vomiting, but chose to give me yeast pills to stop the other symptom. (I just hate that word. I can’t even type it.) Well, that didn’t do anything but add severe gas to an already explosive situation. Not a good idea. This was my other less than friendly moment. Let’s just say that at my stage of pregnancy, I’m not getting up from horizontal position very fast. Add an IV pole and the need to find house shoes, getting to the bathroom fast was insane. I think it was when I grabbed the doctor’s coat and demanded real drugs, “…no more bullshit natural remedies…adding nitrous to the gas tank.”, that he finally understood that I’m not a big fan of his yeast cure. I had real drugs within minutes and sleep within hours and finally on the mend.
Loki is fine. In fact, he was fine the entire time. He was fine when he was kicking me in the stomach causing me to puke for an hour. He was fine when they did the ECG machine on him and he kicked the paddle out of the technician’s hand. He really did not like that machine and after U-booting towards my spinal column when the paddles touched my belly, he’d give it about 15 minutes before kicking non-stop until they removed the paddles. Seriously, he was so active and strong while I was so weak and pathetic, I started to feel like he had heard my complaints about boats and basements and was looking for an alternate way out ala Alien. At this point, I think I prefer the old-fashioned way, thanks.
By the time I was hospitalized, I was pretty much out of it. I tried to, you know, walk it off, so to speak until Sparky threw me in the car and insisted I see my doctor who then insisted I go directly to the hospital.
The ironic part of this story is that I had a kids virus. It was just days before with Claire and Tilman that I was bitching about this particular illness and the homeopathic, granola crunching moms who don’t vaccinate their kids and then give them sugar pills and host chicken pox parties.
As I recovered in quarantine in the local Gothika hospital (I played the Halle Berry part to the old crazy man down the hall), I had a very stern convo with Loki about how I was sure I picked this thing up at Segmueller in the kids department because some parent thought it would be a good idea to have their sick kid around people.
I’m exhausted and will be back in better form later in the week. I have zero stamina these days and really all humor aside, I was pretty scared. I’ve decided to take it easy and NOT push myself.
Oh and I have construction starting tomorrow! Like the timing?
Because my drawers are too full to stick Loki in. And really, this “sacrifice for baby” thing is getting old. I have to stretch out Heidi, my lovely and perfectly-toned nether regions, AND give up drawer space? I think not. I’m ordering that crib post haste.
Somehow, in a span of four days, I went from being more-fat-than-pregnant to “Hello World, here’s my uterus and the reason for my Selma Hayek-like chest.” Seriously. Four days. I now waddle. My back hurts. I get up slowly from chairs and scoot backwards off the bed. All in four days. Four days? Even Sparky gave me a “Whoa, you look really pregnant.” He looked scared when he said it. Not scared like I was going to belt him, but scared like my stomach was going to take over the world. And Baby, it’s only gonna get bigger. Scheisse.
Claire came down this weekend. Not only did she bring gorgeous hand-me-downs and an infant car seat, she hauled my now really pregnant ass down to a hellacious furniture mecca to look at baby furniture that was not made for elves. Seriously, this place makes Ikea look like a nice mom and pop shop.
I’m 5′9″ (unless you ask Jami or Mim) and Sparky is 6′. Neither one of us were looking forward to bending down 4.5 feet to put a baby in a crib and I hadn’t found any that were made at a reasonable height.
Claire said there were other cribs out there and I didn’t believe her. Well, she showed me and my negative attitude towards German baby furniture. This Wunder von Weiderstadt actually has some cute cribs that are about 5 inches higher than my hip bone.
There is an eight week delivery window. I’m nine weeks out. I think I might want to order that crib/dresser, bookshelf today.
Claire also gave me the total scoop on Drugstore Baby Care. Seriously, how lucky am I? She spent about 40 minutes talking me through baby butt products telling me what was necessary as opposed to what might look necessary but isn’t, formula in case I need it, baby food when Lok is old enough. All that jazz. It was awesome.
And to top it all off, she came for the weekend, handing her little dude off to her mother-in-law for her first weekend away from him all for me and Loki. I am a very lucky girl indeed.
It’s snowing. I think I have to thank my friend Tilman for that. I complained to him that I didn’t get enough snow this year and lo and behold, I wake up and it’s snowing. Big, fat, just for me flakes. He also fixed the internet that the electrician broke (after the phones went out) so I pretty much think Tilman can do anything.
When Sparky heard the internet was down, I thought he was going to go into shock. He was like Amy Winehouse when she heard her dealer had been arrested. In. Total. Panic. Mode. Sparky started stabbing at his keyboard. When that didn’t work, he went to his iPhone and got a small, maintenance fix, but you could tell by his rolling eyeballs that it wasn’t going to be enough.
Tilman saved the day. He looked at it, figured out the problem, SMS’d Sparky and over all just handled it. Don’t you just love people who can just handle shit. Did I mention he knows how to make coffee too? Seriously, the man is almost myth-like in his abilities.
So all in all, I lucked the “f” out this weekend.
I think I’ll leave it at that because Ironus is always listening and I’m waiting for him to make me pay for the fantastic time I had. I’m sure the baby furniture I picked out today will be back-ordered for nine months and the bassinet will be recalled after I get it home due to spontaneous combustion or something.
The electrician showed up! Yay! With points for being early even though I was fresh (read naked) from the shower.
Our phones are now out.
Is there a connection?
Yes.
Will I leave it at that? Yes.
Sparky: The Electrician just called. He’s sick and can’t come today.
Jen: Really? Surprise!
Sparky: I know, but they’ve already got points with me. They called to let us know.
You know, Germany has made me a better person lowered my expectations and thus freed my mind from the ire I would normally feel. Thanks Krautland, for making me a better person.
And really, I am very happy with this professionalism. Most of the time we make appointments, rearrange schedules and wait all day for someone not to show up. Even the housekeeper we had would fail to show up. No call, no notice, just nothing.
Last week I waited all day for the floor guy. When he didn’t show up, we called. Oh, he was in our building, but he just didn’t think we were home.
He didn’t knock. He didn’t ring. He just didn’t think we were home. Now, if only I hadn’t been home, I could claim to have a psychic floor guy. How cool would that be? I wouldn’t even need to explain 4 thousand times what I wanted, he’d just know. I wonder if he can guess what I’m thinking right now?
So, testing my psychic abilities, I predict he’ll show up today, BUT won’t be able to do the work until April 29th.
There are many, many things that irritate me. Some I write about, most I don’t. Stupid things like walking down the street can irritate me. Mouth breathers and people who move their lips while reading irritate me. I hate it when I can hear people swallow. Yellow cars, knee high boots with leggings a la Robin Hood, purple nail polish, loud bass in a car next to me at a stop light, singers who get record contracts before they are old enough to drink – all these things send irritated signals to my brain. You get my drift.
However, this octuplet lady hits that Palin level of pissiness in me.
I’ve always been irritated at the 5,6,7 baby fertility stories. Most of the time, these couples cannot afford to support this many kids. ”Oops”, they say,”We didn’t expect this?” Really? And how is it different than the teenager who didn’t think she could get pregnant the first time? You have to assume: You shoot, You score. Act responsibly. These litter moms get community sponsorship and corporate sponsorship alike for situations they and their irresponsible doctors created.
What makes couples who have this many kids in one batch more deserving of couples who have only say, two kids and are struggling to pay the bills, work and care for them? What about the single working mom of one who needs help with diapers, a functioning car, formula or just plain house cleaning?
Okay. Enter this 33-year-old divorced mother of six between the ages of 2-7. She has eight frozen embryos left from her earlier fertility treatments. So being clever, under the guidance of REALLY clever and ethical doctors, she uses all eight in one try because she doesn’t want them destroyed?
There are so many problems with this logic that it’s best that I’m writing because I can’t catch my breath I get so pissed.
1. No need to destroy the embryos. I know at least ONE woman right now who would have taken one of those embryos, given it a very nice uterus to grow in and a very wonderful life full of love and happiness. I know there are at least seven other women who would take one. If not donate/sell them, let them sit on ice for a while. Way, way less emotionally and financially expensive than 14 kids.
2. What doctor in their right “First, Do No Harm” mind would implant 8 embryos? Loki was conceived on my last try before IVF. One of my limited cycles produced 2 or more follicles that could have resulted in multiple births. My doctor ended the cycle prematurely specifically because of this possibility. While twins would have been just fine with me (don’t ask Sparky’s opinion), Dr. G was more concerned with the possibility of three or more and health of all of us. Her goal was to help me have a healthy family and not put any of us at risk? The doctor who implanted this woman with 8 embryos was obviously not so concerned. And frankly, that doctor should be held financially responsible as if he/she knocked up this woman the old fashioned way.
3. How about the 6 other kids? Ever think of them? This borders child abuse. How does a single mom care for 14 kids under the age of 7? Seriously? Any moms out there feeling overwhelmed with one or two? There are limits on day care centers as to the teacher/child ratio. This woman will need help. She’ll not be able to do it alone. This ain’t like practicing for that triple axel so she can go to the Olympics. It must be a team effort and this lady doesn’t have a team.
4. So, a single, unemployed mom with 6 other kids has 8 babies and gets a new van, book deals and corporate sponsorship. What if she were gay, employed and financially responsible? Would GM be jumping to provide her with a van? Would the Christian anti-choice movement be jumping to defend her reproductive rights or would these same people be condemning her for her “lifestyle”?
5. Who is absorbing the cost for this? She’s a Kaiser patient, so the 46 or 49 doctors required to deliver the kids is covered by Kaiser, but later? Tell me, how is this woman going to support 14 kids? She’s unemployed and living with her parents. A sperm donor ensured that there won’t likely be any child support from a partner. Are we going to be bailing out this woman? Probably. Seems to be en vogue to bail out the irresponsible. Anyone going to help Carol with her kids college tuition? She did everything right, she saved for her kids, thought ahead, worked hard, but that didn’t stop the economy from devastating those savings accounts. Is she less deserving? I think not.
How is this woman any different from say an old woman hoarding cats or more appropriately, a Wall Street exec? With the cat hoarder, they take the cats away and give them better homes because the woman, and it is usually women, is mentally ill. How many people would scream in defense of this woman if it were suggested that her kids be given to loving families?
This woman and her doctors represent everything that is wrong with America. America is all about having the freedom to make choices. This freedom is in the bones of every American I know. But this freedom comes with a price and that price is responsibility. It’s the consummate greed paired with absolute irresponsibility and complete narcissism that has brought America to her knees and it is these exact qualities that will bring 14 innocent kids, in the public eye no less, to a very difficult childhood with an obviously mentally impaired mother.
And we just watch. Our failing companies sponsor it, our medical teams enable it, our media encourages it. America is Pinocchio’s Pleasure Island and we’ve all become jack asses.
Things are going smoothly around here these days. Construction still hasn’t started and Loki’s room is still just a glimmer in my eye, but the new start date is only 2 weeks away. I’m anticipating door jam delivery problems and electrician issues. I figure I’ll be giving birth while the drywall guy is taping plates, but I’m letting go because as my doctor says, when it comes to babies and such, one must give up control.
Yeah, right. Give up control? Let things go? Hahaha. Yeah, I read Richard Bach and the New Thought patrol when I was 16. I got over it. I think there are exactly two people on earth who have witnessed me giving up my need to control situations that involve me, my body or a great deal of money and one of them was an anesthesiologist who lectured me to relax as he pumped up the meds when I did actually count to ten. I sleep with one eye open. Baby in the belly ain’t gonna change what years of therapy could not. Seriously, I’d rather beat my head against the wall over and over again. It makes me feel better.
I’m officially 10 weeks from my due date. No, Dad, it’s not going to change. Loki’s conception date is a pretty much a known factor. The due date is too. Only Loki can say when in that ambiguous 4 week period he’ll make an appearance, but expect later when his head is at least 20 cm in circumference because really, Go Big or Go Home, right?
True to Loki’s personality, his head is already measuring around 8 cm. Yeah. For those of you not in in the know, this is HUGE, three weeks ahead of his fellow babies. He’s also close to 4 pounds. And I don’t have Gestational Diabetes. He’s just a big kid. This was discovered right after Dr. G talked me off the mid-wife/OB/hospital ledge. Funny timing as she was trying to convince me that once I go through childbirth, without pain medication, I will have something to be be proud of. I’m already guilty enough of that sin, thanks. I think I can skip the whole childbirth part.
Really, Loki, I want you to be happy and healthy, but can you perhaps slow down on that head growth thing. Seriously. I promise not to be the least bit irritated anymore when you wake me up at 4 am with your version of moon walking and I’ll even throw in more left side sleeping regardless of how my hip hurts. Just slow down the noggin size, duder scooter. You’re scaring Mama.
I just realized that my iPod has been playing the same Texas song for the last 40 minutes. I did not do this on purpose. I just lost my cup of coffee for about the same period of time only to find it hiding on my desk about 2 inches from my left hand. I walked through the house, forgetting several times why, in search of said coffee. The cat just snatched the last bit of egg from my plate, the sneaky rat bastard and his slow relaxed reach with wicked quick snatching powers.
I’m going to go make the bed and call it a day. Such is the life of a potted plant.
