Blown Fuse

Cue the tiny little violins.

Where's Tiffany? Snarking over at Snarky Momma. I hadn't intended on my mommy-blog becoming my primary journal, but over the past few months I've simply been less angry. Uh huh. After poking the fire for three+ years at Blown Fuse, I've simply become less angry. Much of that has to do the fact that I stay home all day and no longer have the "man on the street" blog fodder that I used to.

I intended to keep Blown Fuse as my "dirty little secret": the blog the other mommies don't know about, but then I started to realize that anything I've had the energy to write about could fit equally well with Snarky's content. Whereas before my blogging was the literary equivalent of ultra-low-rise pair of jeans, it now leans more towards the waistband-over-the-belly mom jeans category. I didn't want to become a "mommy blogger" (*spit*), but, yeah. De facto, and such.

I don't blog about Rosco all the time. I really don't. However, I do tend to write more about myself in my new role and the politics of being a parent, so that tends to sway my commentary in one specific direction.

So...Blown Fuse, my little electronic baby, will be *sniffle* going vacant, and I'll be shuffling any relevant content over to Snarky in a piecemeal fashion.

Additionally, I plan to whore my mommy blog out for ad revenue (which I didn't want to do with my Munu blog - Pixy was kind enough to host it for me for free, and I didn't want to make money off of it). I'll let Blown Fuse stay up until Pixy notices the dust covering it and decides to recycle the server space (it'll take me at least that long to figure out how to retrieve any images I'd want to keep, anyway).

Stop by occassionally - the mommies don't bite...hard, or email me at tiffany [at] snarkymomma [dot] com if you need someone to yell at you.

Bad mommy.

Oops. I guess there are worse things I could do as a parent than let R fall asleep on his play mat with his foot stuck in a toy. Click to enlarge.

Okay, one more!

You know, there's just something about having a baby that makes you want to have another one. Or two. Or three.

Not that I'm trying to put myself in that situation right now, but just sayin'...

My poor, paranoid husband.

My dear husband suffers from a condition known as Papaparanoia: the symptoms include freaking out when the kid cries ("Why is he crying? There must be something wrong."), assuming the worst case scenario for every freckle, blotch, and scratch ("What is that, skin cancer? It doesn't look normal.") [okay, I made that one up], and creating mountains out of nonexistent mole hills, ("Whats wrong with his eye? Why can I see the veins in his super-pale, thin, baby eyelids?").

Okay, so I'm making Scott the butt of a joke here, seriously, he needs to loosen up. I'm home with The Kid every day all day and have developed a knack for knowing what stuff to sweat. For example, puffy eyelids are an unsweatable thing. A little puff doesn't signify pinkeye - it signifies "baby's been rubbing his eyes again."

However, if I hear Roland in the crib hacking and coughing, I sprint back there quick as lightening to turn him over and make sure he doesn't choke on his own spit-up (a peril of back sleeping, I suppose). I have my limits.

Last night, I had to put my foot down when Scott suggested we put a helmet on our child because his head is a little flat in the back. You want me to put my kid in a helmet? Let's just get him a hockey mask. Same thing, right?

The kid has a little flatness. Um. That's because he sleeps facing the ceiling. It'll round out when he picks a side to turn to. Besides, Scott has a flat head in the back, as do at least one of his sisters. (My head, mind you, is perfectly shaped as far as I can tell through all this hair.)

I just can't make it seem serious enough to worry about it. He's pretty symmetrical and it's not like his soft spots are fusing before they should. He just has a flat head.

Honey, chill. Or at least learn to take my word for it.

That's muh boy.

This is kind of blurry, but I think it's funny. You always wonder if your child will take after you and exhibit your traits. Yes. Yes they will. Here's Rosco in an identical sleeping position to my own. Scott took this using a slow shutter speed to not wake us up, so you may have to squint or look at it sideways to get a clear view. Click to expand.

Cupid is irrelevant.

Valentine's Day is a lot more interesting when there's a kid in the picture. Scott and I have been together for 5 1/2 years and tend to go through holidays like a frog bounding from lily pad to lily pad - we never really go all out and spend a lot of effort on one particular one...except for Christmas 2005 - the first time we bought a tree.

I can't even remember what we did for V-Day last year, so that should be a indicator of "nothing." Rosco won't even remember what happened on his first Valentine's Day, but now is a good time as any to start giving him these little events to look forward to. I want to mold him not to give his future girlfriends obviously cheap gifts like the one a certain ex-boyfriend gave me in high school (it was a cheap-ass stuffed bear holding a minature foil balloon mounted on a plastic container filled with hard candy and a single rose in a plastic tube that he got from his job).

Ever since he was born my arts 'n crafts gene has been working overtime and I keep wanting to start projects. Being home full-time certainly allows for a bit more freedom in that regard. I made homemade valentines for Rosco to send to his aunts and grandmothers this year (even though in a state of sleep-deprived delirium I accidentally put the wrong date on the inside: there are at least eight people wondering if that was meant to be some cryptic code). We (meaning I) made a special treasure hunt for Scott that involved enough decorative paper and planning that any Kindergarten teacher would be put to shame. Maybe he'll grow up thinking that it isn't all about the commercial crap, but a time for people to connect (yeah, right). I have to say it was fun hiding little clues around the house leading to Scott's gift - I actually looked forward to setting that up more than the fact that I would potentially get a gift.

Anyway. Rosco got a Valentine's Day outfit to wear for today. Unfortunately, he can't yet fit into his Captain Heartbreaker pajamas or booties...or the matching superhero belt we bought. :)

On a lighter note...

Rosco has been worn the same pair of pants for three days, and he doesn't give a damn. That's what I love about babies - they have no concept of social niceties and rules of wardrobe. He would still be wearing those pants if he didn't spit up on the shoulder of his last clean long-sleeved bodysuit requiring a change into pajamas.

I, on the other hand, would love to wear the same pair of pajama pants three days in a row. If it weren't for Rosco soiling them with upchuck and requiring me to change them twice/day, I'd be more than happy to stink. Who's going to see me, after all? Am I supposed to be showering on the off chance that someone sees me creeping out to the mailbox? Pshaw.

Just to make myself sound a bit motivated, I did a mileage check between here and the post office. I always wondered how far it was and whether I could walk it with a baby strapped to my front. I always have stuff I want to mail and don't usually want to wait until Scott gets home (like Netflix movies I want to get back so that I get something new by the weekend.) It's half a mile. Now, all I need is for someone to tell me that 40 degrees is NOT too cold to take a 10-week-old excursioning in.

Tsk tsk tsk.

Here's Scott and Roland "watching" George Bush giving the State of the Union address about five minutes ago.

After getting approximately two hours of sleep last night/this morning due to a uncooperative baby, you'd think he'd select more stimulating programming. Even I know that if you're trying to stay awake until at least 11, you keep moving or else you'll stick like velcro to whatever chair you're nearest.

See, I'm trying to keep my eyes open just a little while longer. A very uncomfortable pregnancy trained me to survive on minimal sleep. I'm doing a load of laundry (yes, at 10 pm) and writing a blog post. Next I'll glue together a scrapbook page. Then I'll wake the baby to top off his tank, and put him back to sleep. Perhaps tonight he'll behave and not wake up in a shrieking panic every thirty minutes.

Double Agent

I have a confession to make. I have a second blog. It's my "mommy blog." You may wonder why I would feel the need to have a seperate blog to discuss The Kid, but that's a fairly simple answer: I felt dirty.

Seriously. I went from being this high-tempered, foul-mouthed beer lush to someone genuinely afraid that she's going to fuck her kid up during the past year. While I'm still a high-tempered, foul-mouthed beer lush and just as snarky as ever, I've had to learn to exhibit two very different personalities at home. I'm not going to change who I am, no sir, but I don't want my kid to be as sarcastic as I was when I was an ankle-biter (but my mom TOTALLY deserved that). When I cross the threshold into whatever room he's in, I plaster on my "happy mommy" face so that he'll feel secure and loved, even if in my head I'm thinking "GRRRRRRRRR! Scott pretends he can't hear you cry, but I know the truth! I want a nap, damnit!"

I'm not one of those moms who feels like her life is over because she has a kid. I had plenty of time to go out to bars and come home late. Most of the time I spent my weekends watching HGTV and surfing the internet. I got all that partying out of my system my first two years in college, thanks. It's a miracle I never got alcohol poisoning...or maybe I did? *reminisces*

My eyes haven't become vacant and empty because I've wandered onto the path of parenthood. I haven't turned into a Stepford Wife robot. The only things that have changed are my aggressive driving habits and my relationship with my mother (aka "the woman who has yet to come visit her new grandson even though she's only three hours away and owns a vehicle.").

I just need to keep all the overflowing gushy baby love-babble and my anger/aggression/"I'm a woman first, mommy second" diatribes in seperate places, ya dig? It's cathartic.

I'm not bored, that's for sure.

Those of you lacking kids probably wonder how a person can occupy themselves being at home all day. Certainly, there isn't that much to do, right?

On some level that's true...or would be if I didn't have some superficial requirement that my house not turn into a sty.

Rosco isn't a particuarly needy baby. He doesn't scream his head off all day begging to be held. He'll actually sleep so that I can get stuff done, even if it's in little chunks. I do, however, spend a good deal of time nursing and putting him back to sleep. He's not really old enough to stay up and "play" yet.

I'll admit, though, that during the day once he's gotten really excited from staring at some blemish on the wall, it's next to impossible to calm his chattering down (yes, he's practicing real, human-like words such as "ah-goo!"). I'll sit holding him, watching Star Trek until he dozes off. That may take as little as fifteen minutes or as long as an hour and a half. Sometimes I'll fall asleep before HE does and will wake up with my neck pressed against the sofa in some weird contortion. Multiply that by the five non-bedtime feedings he gets during the day and math tells you that on a bad day I can spend up to 7 1/2 hours with a kid dangling off my fleshy bits.

I spend the rest of my time trying to adhere to a writing schedule, finding a few minutes to unload the dishwasher each day, and taking the occasional pee. I may shower if Rosco is in a really, really deep sleep. [I smell purty!]

As it pains me to hand Rosco off to Scott the moment he walks through the door each evening, I don't do it unless I really need to get stuff done. Primal momma instincts say that there's no way some dude can be as good as a parent to my child as me, even if he is my husband. Sorry, hon - it's not personal; it's biological. Even when the kid has annoyed the crap out of me (he has a superb knack of looking at me and making a "YOU'RE A BAD MOMMY!" face), it pains me to hear him whimpering, so of course I have to entertain him and tell him he's a "good baby."

I realize I'm setting myself up for a disaster if I ever have to take my kid to daycare. I'll probably melt into a puddle in the doorway bawling my eyes out. I guess my armor has some holes in it, huh?

Anyway, days for me really aren't that long. If I had a couple of additional hours of sleeping baby time I'd do better meal planning or getting my writing hustle on, but I'm not really missing out on anything huge.

So, that's what I do all day.

I'll try not to be TOO offended.

So, I was just singing Rosco a little of "Jingle Bell Rock" and he had the audacity to cover his ear.

Cultured, my kid is.

Lachrymose Mommy Musings

Rosco* is four weeks old today...or will be in about 45 minutes, anyway. I scratch my head in wonderment of how fast the month has gone past. Not only do I feel like time is slipping away from me, but if I take my eyes off the kid for a split second, something about him has already changed.

He's gone from being a placid little cuddler to an often-cantankerous chubby-cheeked leg-kicker who has beat the shit out of me over the past two weeks. (It's just a little colic; 20 hours of the day he's perfectly amenable to behaving like a civilized adult human being.) He's had a hell of a bout with baby acne and has learned to jut out his bottom lip and pout when he's feeling his demands aren't being met. He has learned his first non-cry syllable: "Gah." He has discovered the wonder of holding his head up like a little turtle while he's on his belly.

I've been pondering whether or not my kid has a personality yet, which I know is a dumb-ass thing to worry over. Of course he has a personality, whether I can identify its components or not. I have myself been told in the past that I exhibit absolutely no personality, so chances are that he favors me more than originally thought and chooses not to go the extrovert route. We'll see - when he starts hiding under his bed with a flashlight to read and pretend that he's in his own personal tent, we'll know for certain.

*One of many nicknames that have evolved from interacting with The Kid, this one being the one I use when he's behaving like an ill-mannered long haul trucker. Rosco = Roland Scott.

Impulse Purchasing

Today I exercised considerable restraint in Target. I went in to purchase diapers, baby wipes, and that's it knowing full well they'd be overpriced at Harris Teeter (which was to be my final stop). Unfortunately, I got stuck walking behind one of those slow people who knows you're behind them and zig zags their path to make sure you don't walk ahead of them. I made a detour through the children's clothes. Of course, I had to see if they had any widdle pants that would fit a newborn. I bought a couple of pairs last week using the length/weight sizing on the tag, but they were too big. (I didn't want to buy the newborn size if he was going to grow out of it too soon.)

Anyhow, there was this cute little pair of newborn sized khaki pants (complete with faux zipper fly) with a matching zip-up knit hoodie sweater. The whole outfit would have set me back $15, which I don't think is an unreasonable price to pay to have a well-styled baby. I put it into my hand basket and continued in my quest, trying not to get distracted by colorful baby feeding paraphernilia. Got the diapers, wipes, and baby tub (which I forgot we needed) and made my way up to the cash register.

Something clicked in my head at that point. I think it was the fact that I was about to spend $38 on five items, two of which will be gone by next week. Plus, I didn't know how much the drycleaner was going to try to bamboozle me out of for hemming my pants. I put the outfit back, sullenly, and vowed to return one day with a vengeance.

Perhaps someday when the baby leaves the house more often than to just visit with the pediatrician he can wear big boy separates.

Don't say I never told ya.

You know, there's something they* don't tell you when you're shopping for your baby's layette and picking out cute little accessories to adorn your child's head and feet with. They don't tell you that your child can easily go through three separate outfit changes per day. Easily. They won't tell you, but I will. Buy cheap and a lot of it.

Roland is fed the way nature intended: laying sideways on a Boppy rooting around my chest for signs of milk while scratching the hell out of me with his dagger-tipped fingers eight times/day. Because he's breastfed, he poops a lot (breast milk being a helluva laxative). Not only does he poop a lot, but being an infant he has no qualms about setting off small explosions in his pants when he does go.

Although this is 2006 and disposable diapers are as advanced as we can hope they'll be, sometimes you can't prevent ... escapes. Sometimes, even the wee widdle socks can't even forgo being replaced during a diaper change. For that reason young babies need a lot of clothes that are easy to peel off, and momma needs to have clothes that are as close to disposable as possible (think about it). A bunch of cute little outfits with bows and ruffles aren't going to do you a damn bit of good when you feel something warm on your leg and you have to hold your kid at arm's length to prevent your clothes from being fully ruined.

My bottle of Shout stain remover with the little scrubbie brush has been my constant companion in the past three weeks. Tell your pregnant friends to add it to their gift registry, and to be prepared to use it indiscriminately at the very SUGGESTION of a stain.

*They = people who try to scare you with stories of parenthood while you're pregnant

Birth Story, Part 2

You would think by now my periodic hiatuses would indicate that we’ve been busy teaching The Kid how to sleep through the night, change his own diapers, and sleep in his own crib. Not so. I would probably have a lot more free time on my hands if we didn’t have cats. The layout of our house requires that if I leave Roland in his room, I need to be near enough to hear him. I won’t set him down in the living room or front room because the cats have been far too curious/jealous. Anyway. Right now I’m wearing him in a sling on my chest (snoozing away) and a monitor has been purchased so I can listen to him flail around in his crib even when I’m in the laundry room. That didn’t stop me from having him sleep in our bed again last night, but oh well. At least I have two hands to type now.

To continue the story, I woke around dawn and ran a hot bath. I lay in the tub, sleeping between contractions, until the water turned cold. The contractions were coming fairly close together, but not so close that I was wakeful enough to want to remove myself from the tub. After one particularly painful contraction, I got out, wrapped a towel around myself and nudged Scott awake. I mumbled something along the lines of “Let’s go” to which he responded with an expression of half-“you’ve got to be kidding me” and half-“this better not be another practice run.”

I pulled on whatever clothes were on the floor nearest me: a pair of grey sweatpants, a high school marching band tee-shirt, and rubber flip-flops (I would later regret this). We left a little food out for the cats and headed back towards the hospital for the second time in eight hours.

The parking situation was a little miserable. Because of all the construction going on at UNC Hospitals…never mind. Not worth discussing. While Scott found a valet to take the car a nurse coming off the night shift sat me in a wheelchair stored by the entrance for that exact purpose. I guess the woozy state the Ambien I took had put me in hadn’t worn off. Between the contractions and the loopiness I’m sure I looked as if I were going to pass out.

Scott pushed me upstairs to labor and delivery, and guess which doctor was still on duty from the night before? Yeeessss, the one that sent me home with that f*cking sleeping pill. I hated feeling like I was panicking over a false alarm, but damn it, at that point I was shameless enough that if I had to threaten someone with some high-octane swearing they were going to admit me. If I wasn’t in labor, then something was wrong.

In triage I stripped down again into one of those backless gowns and endured the humiliation of yet another pelvic exam. Still hadn’t dilated. WTF? I had been at 1 cm for three weeks. I remember the first time my obstetrician had checked me at my 37-week visit. As I was walking into the building, a woman getting into her car (with way too much energy to suit me) was squealing with glee that she was 2 cm dilated. Hmph. I’m still annoyed that I couldn’t dilate on my own. Oh, I’m getting ahead of myself. Because my contractions were pretty much right on top of each other and I was completely effaced (which equals miserable), they admitted me.

The next thing I remember was Scott putting my street clothes into a plastic bag and someone asking if I wanted an epidural. The little Homer Simpson voice in my head was saying “Hmmmmm, druuuugs. *drools*” I had told myself early on that I was going to try to experience childbirth without an epidural. HA HA HA HA HA HA! I was in labor for close to 24 hours. No way. Somehow I got to a birthing suite (how’d I get there, Scott?) and my nurse worked with me on some breathing exercises while I contracted. She was six inches from my face and I kept thinking “DAMN, why didn’t I brush my teeth?” (Answer: because teeth don’t matter when your contractions feel like Rockettes kicking the hell out of your spine, uterus, and bladder.)

Because I was the only woman on the floor in labor, the anesthesiologist appeared fairly quickly to insert my epidural. Within 30 seconds of that puppy getting switched on I was on cloud nine and able to get some sleep.

You’ll have to excuse the fact that I can’t reference any sort of timeline here. I was so stoned that I was having a hard enough time controlling my anger at the fact that I hadn’t ate anything since … shit. When had I last eaten a real meal? Anyway, the fact that Scott ate a sandwich in front of me was perturbing. Anyway, the clock meant nothing seeing as how I was slipping in and out of wakefulness.

A doctor (who happens to be a very important doctor) appeared to invade my pelvis again. I guess there was a discussion about breaking my water and administering Pitocin in a few hours if I didn’t start dilating, but I can’t remember consenting to that. I guess I must have. The amniotic fluid was meconium-stained. (For all you laypeople, that means the baby had his first poop prematurely. Not normal – usually means the kid is distressed or else has been in the oven too long.) On top of that, because his head was turned in the wrong direction he wasn’t dropping where he was supposed to (hence the back labor).

The doctor left me to progress and would come back to check if I had dilated later. Fortunately, breaking my water was what my cervix needed to move out of my way and the Pitocin wasn’t necessary. I had some fear of Pitocin because it a) causes very intense contractions that may stress the baby and b) you could go through all that painful labor and if the cervix hasn’t moved you end up having to get a C-section.

Some blah blah happened (sorry…two weeks removes details from memory), and at 4 o’clock I was fully dilated and began pushing. I pushed for an hour and the doctor came in and suggested that we consider giving the baby some help with forceps. If I hadn’t been the type of person that goes into to “Chill” mode during stressful events, I probably would have began to bawl at that point. You never hear anything good about forceps. I evaluated the situation and decided I wanted my kid in my arms within the next five minutes. I didn’t want to labor for another hour and have his heart rate fluctuating the way it was. He would already have to be immediately assessed by NICU nurses because of the meconium: I didn’t want him to be taken away for longer if I could prevent it.

Once the forceps were applied he was out lickety-split, crying like he was offended. So, he was okay! He hadn’t aspirated any meconium, he didn’t have little forceps dents in his head, and he wanted to be fed immediately. 20 ¾”, 7 lb 13 oz. My little junior Scorpio.

Yeah, it was all worth it. The epidural shakes, stitches, limping, the catheters (no comment), the indignity of peeing in a pan in front of nurses – I’m not ashamed at all. Even when your kid comes out looking nothing like you, all you really want to do is smother him with kisses, take him home, and try to raise him better than you were raised.

I’m exhausted, but I love the squirmy little sucker. Other stuff matters less.

Birth Story, Part 1

Things have settled down around here sufficiently enough for me to sit down in five minute blocks and type out what went down on Roland’s birth day. Thanks to all for the congratulatory wishes – it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy to know that people care! Squeeee!

Anyway, on Saturday the 18th, we got up and had our respective hot beverages and newspaper perusal as usual. Being increasingly perturbed with a pregnancy that seemed to be stalling its ending, I suggested that we go walk the mall (for all you locals, this was the day that they were lighting up the tree at the Streets of Southpoint and Cheyenne Kimball was performing). I figured that putting some pressure on the area where my two legs meet would remind the kid that his shelter was meant to be a temporary one and that he should make his way towards the nearest exit. The mall traffic flow was disastrous, but we left early enough in the day to find a parking spot by Belk (fewer people park there – it’s like the mall boondocks).

[I must interject here that going into a mall knowing that you’re not going to buy a damn thing is a completely liberating feeling – especially getting to tell the clerks that you’re not interested in the particular item you’re fingering. Scott and I were poking about Williams-Sonoma and were conversing about how the coffee maker he’d purchased five years ago hadn’t gone down in price yet – of course, the clerk came over and tried to sell us one.]

A couple of hours into our mall wandering, I needed to stop and sit for a while. I had the sensation of a bowling ball being stored in my pelvis and my lower back was voicing complaints as well. We sat for a few minutes, but the firmness of the display we were sitting on made me even more uncomfortable. I could only get settled by sitting back on my tailbone which passer-bys must have thought to be quite an interesting sight. After doing one more lap around the ground floor I wanted to call it quits so we headed towards the car.

We stopped at Target for something or other…shampoo? Then I decided that I was in the mood for P.F. Chang’s and we circled back around to see how long the wait was. After being told by a hostess that we would have to wait two hours for a table (“But ma’am, you can also wait for a seat at the bar and next time you can call ahead for advanced seating…”), I gave her stink-eye, and a dry “Um, no – that’s okay.” What woman at 39 weeks 5 days pregnant is going to sit at the freakin’ bar when she has enough trouble getting off the toilet seat? I can’t remember what we ended up doing for dinner. I think it involved potato chips and Rice Krispies Treats.

At home I fired off an angry blog post in between periodic back pains that had me pacing around the front room. It didn’t dawn on me to time them until I realized they were going away and coming back regularly. After about three hours of toe-curling back tightening I realized I was probably having back labor. At that point I began freaking out because I was expecting uterine contractions and didn’t know if they’d even admit me for weird back pain that I couldn’t even describe. All knew is that my obstetrician told me that if I got reeeeally uncomfortable that I should go to the hospital. When I was sufficiently uncomfortable, I made Scott put his shirt back on to drive me to the hospital.

Of course they didn’t admit me. My cervix still hadn’t dilated beyond 1 cm and was 50% effaced. The triage doctor wanted to see at least 3 cm and contractions that were more regular. Although the nurse suspected that I would be back by early afternoon, they gave me an Ambien to try to sleep through the pain at home (HAR HAR HAR). The doctor told me that if my contractions started to get regular, (“trust me,” he said) that I wouldn’t be able to sleep through them. I took the Ambien at the hospital and Scott drove me home. Pissed.

By the time we pulled into the driveway I was so high off the sleeping pill that Scott had to physically escort me across the threshold. It was a little after midnight and I shed my clothes and got immediately in bed. I won’t speak of the weird hallucinations and dreams the pill brought on mostly because I can’t remember their exact contexts. All I can say is that pill had me so jacked up I thought that someone had slipped me some hard drugs.

Something woke me at around 5:30 or 6. I don’t know if it was the cats scratching on the door or some distress from my mid-regions, but I got up and went to the potty figuring that if I was indeed going to deliver that day I should do a load of laundry so I’d have something clean to wear home. I never did get those clothes washed.

[To be continued after a nap or two]

Cootchie coo.

That there is a baby. More specifically, mine. Er, "ours," I guess. His name is Roland, but I'm holding out for a suitable nickname.

He was born Sunday afternoon. Details later. Must forage for food before the whining begins.

Oh, by the way - inflatable donuts are awwwwwesome.

Tiffany on Obsessive Parenting

Okay, seeing as how I'm up and not quite ready to fry that bacon in the fridge, I'll discuss with you my feelings about Stepford Mommies (mentioned last night). To start, Stepford Mommies and Soccer Moms are not necessarily the same breed. Stepford Mommies almost always have an agenda. Soccer Moms may not necessarily have an agenda, but their zeal may cause them to have unfortunate nicknames (like "cowbell lady" at football games). Stepford Mommies are like "stage mothers" in that they only show up to push and support their own child. Soccer Moms tend to want to support a team.

Some background:

I was raised in a single parent home in rural NC. Specifically, I lived with my grandma. Some of you may know how I got there in the first place, but I don't have the mental stamina to include that story now. The property I lived on was several acres large, handed down trough the generations since right after the Civil War, blah blah blah.

Certain responsibilities go along with living out in the boonies that town kids are often not affected by, mostly involving yard work, clothes lines that were just a wee bit too close to the woods for my comfort, and fixing stuff with inadequate tools. I played in the dirt a lot. Me and the neighbor kids also played a lot of Barbie on my back porch.

We lived at least five miles from my elementary school, four miles from my middle school, and 18 miles from my high school.

When it was time to become involved with all those PTA meetings, band parents associations, and all that crap, my grandma would sometimes attend the meetings, find out what she needed to buy/make/send, and send it to school with me. She didn't sit on boards and make decisions. She didn't have an "agenda" to help get her kid ahead. She just picked me up, dropped me off, and didn't ask a whole lot of questions. That's the way I liked it. (I wasn't the kind of kid who liked being "watched" when put on a stage.) We always had the sort of relationship where if I needed help or for her to participate in something, I'd push her into it, but for the most part, I was a pretty independent kid and wanted to rise above all the riff-raff using my own talents. To be frank, my grandma was an elderly woman (even then) and would rather just take my word for things than sit on bleachers and listen to boring people drone on and on about selling shit to buy new banners for the cafeteria. Been there, done that.

It annoys the shit out of me when people naturally assume that a parent doesn't participate in their kids' activities because they don't care. I'm sure there are many parents who'd like to sit on boards and make decisions but are unable to take the time off work (do you know how long it takes the average American to earn enough money to buy a Big Mac?). Many other parents simply have children (like I was) who would die from shame if their parents helped them in public.

Okay, so what does that have to do with the so-called Stepford Mommies? Well, mostly that they have their kids on such a tight rein that every aspect of their lives is controllable. They tend to guide their children towards activities that may have nothing to do with the child's interests but are based on some trend that the mom feels the child should be a part of. They sit on boards and make decisions that are the best choices for their children, but not necessarily best for the greater group. They feel attacked when "outsiders" make suggestions that are contrary to the status quo. They show up at rehearsals and practices that already have adequate, trained leadership and tell other peoples' kids what to do (I can think of one particular parent during j.v. cheerleading who was always trying to get her heavier-than-average twins on top of the pyramid....ooOooh, that woman burned my biscuits).

Stepford Mommies tend not to research serious issues and merely parrot what their husbands/mother-in-laws/pastors tell them. They gang with others holding the same "beliefs" and attempt to exclude people who wish for them to hear both sides of a story.

If you know anything about me at all, you can assume that I won't be that type of parent. I will bitch and moan and scratch eyeballs out to make sure that my kids are gettng an academically sound education, but unless they ask me to be there, I'm not going to stalk all their extra-curricular activities. That's where kids develop leadership skills and refine their personalities. They don't need me to watch them experimenting and making painful mistakes.

I think I'd rather be known as the "smart" mommy. Until my kid is old enough to say "Mom, can you not come?" I'll be sitting out there with my crappy little camera taking pictures and dabbing my eyes with snotty Kleenex.

He must not understand.

I've been beaching myself on the bed like a whale for the past couple of days using my dinosaur of a laptop and the wireless connection to keep myself entertained. Since it's Saturday and Scott is still asleep, he has effectively trespassed on my beach.

So I'm up. And I'm not happy about it. Now I have no choice but to be productive. Grr!

*stretch, yawn*

Still pregnant. This kid is reluctant, it seems. After Scott's mom told me that he would only come out after her water was broken I'm not looking forward to potentially being pregnant indefinately. (Yeah, yeah - "No pregnancy lasts forever" and all that crap.)

While I was at the doc's yesterday, I did go ahead and have a "just in case" induction scheduled for the evening of the 26th. They don't like to go past 1 week beyond your due date at UNC clinics, which is fine with me. I'm 100% certain that my due date is accurate because I charted pre-pregnanchy, so he's just dragging ass.

I can't even get out and walk to help get the contractions closer together because the weather is kooky. I'm just going to sit here on the bed and feel sorry for myself until lunch time.

*wookie roar*

Had the membranes swept. Within three minutes the reflex points in my feet that correspond to my reproductive bits began throbbing.

Oh my feet. Oh my back. Oh my feet and my back.

My doctor's success rate with membrane sweeps that result in labor within 24 hours is about 33%. Say a prayer to your diety of choice that Tiffany is lucky today. I have this psychologically perverse desire to be in enough pain right about now that a baby magically appears in my arms before nightfall.

I'm even tempted to go walk the neighborhood to get this party moving along. I might even have to talk to a neighbor or two.

Dang.

Completely effaced, but not dilated. Not dilated means no room to strip the membranes.

Frick.

Hee hee, hooooo. Hee hee, hoooo.

I'm up early with the cats today...or, I guess I should say, I've been up since around 2:30 am. I went to bed super-early last night, being completely exhausted and all around bored.

Shortly after midnight the top of my uterus started bunching up near where the kid has his feet stationed. It felt sort of like he was trying to rotate his body straight up and down, placing his feet right between my breasts where they've never been. For those of you who do not know what this feels like, imagine a square-shaped peg being smooshed into a triangle-shaped hole: something has to give way. Anyway, I'm not physically large enough to accomodate the position it felt like he was trying to take, so it hurt like hell.

I got up and squatted on the toilet for a while to relieve some of the pressure and eventually his feet returned to their 10 o'clock location.

Over the next four hours or so, that little foot bump turned into minute-long contractions radiating off my right side. They've stopped now, but my back is killing me. I'm afraid to go back to bed as every time I lay on my side they come back.

At one point I was in such distress that I was going to take a shower and head towards the hospital, knowing full well that unless I demand to be admitted and induced they'd probably send me home to labor. I was dealing with the kind of pain that makes you contort your lips into odd shapes and curl your fingers and toes until they cramp in protest.

I have a 9:15 prenatal appointment. It's 5:18 right now, so I assume I can make it that long without crying like a little bitch. If when I go in I'm told that I'm indeed in early labor and dilated enough for admission, I swear to God I'm going to punt my purse and do a damn happy dance. If this is "false" labor, or "pre"labor, then they'd better go ahead and administer the epidural right now because this ain't pleasant.

I can tell by my ringtone that I don't need to get up.

I've got about six phone calls that I need to return to friends and family. You see, I have set periods where I feel like having phone conversations. They tend to be very short windows during the day right after my morning tea and before I turn catatonic around lunchtime.

So, when a bunch of people call me on the same day, I start thinking the fates are conspiring against me. Generally I prioritize my calls by listening to my voicemail, seeing who wants something, and calling them last.

I think most people are calling me now because they have some sick curiosity about the pregnancy. NOBODY I know has seen me this pregnant. In fact, the last time a friend saw me was when I was about five months. I could easily hide a tummy bulge with a baggy t-shirt and well-formed slouch. My grandma hasn't seen me since around month 4, at which point my mother had informed me that I was "carrying in the back." (Like hell if I was going to parade around and be insulted after that.) I last saw my mother-in-law back during that whole morning sickness marathon...I guess sometime during month three.

Anyhow, they all know I'm fixin' to evict this kid any day now so they're trying to get their last conversations in to make sure that when he is born, they'll be amongst the first to be notified.

I'll start with returning grandma's call. She bought me stuff.

Can't...bend...from...waist! Uhhh!

I do believe the kid has engaged into my pelvis. The feeling of a big ol' head battering my crotch is the tell-tell sign. He can no longer reach my ribs, either. (Good for you, you little ruffian!)

The frequent need to piddle is indeed annoying, but hey - it's not like I have anything else to do.