I'm being followed!

I have a follower! Um...WOW! And thanks!

Guess that means I really have to keep up with this thing. Luckily it hasn't been too difficult so far. (Although Mr. Clean keeps looking over suspiciously to see why I am typing so much. He doesn't know about the blog yet. I should probably clue him in, but then he'd be all WHY ARE YOU TELLING PEOPLE THAT? Sigh.)

RTT: Random Tuesday Thoughts

So even though I have never officially joined the RTT linkup, I am going to participate. Hope that's okay. If not, I guess it's too late anyway!

I had both of my baby showers (family and work) this weekend. Someone told me not to register for or buy clothes because I would receive so many. They were dead on. The grandparents were the worst.  They literally gave me STACKS of clothes. I think I got enough outfits to last a lifetime...if she stayed in the 0-6 month range for her whole life. I'm not really complaining though. I am incredibly lucky to have the amazing support of my family and my coworkers.

I am tired of seeing Facebook status updates with spelling and grammar errors. I'm not perfect in this area, but I'd like to think I'm close. Besides, these are grown ass adults. They ought to know better by now. A friend posted something about attending a "bad suite convention - AKA career fair." Uh, unless you are at a convention about crappy Vegas hotel rooms, you are spelling that WRONG. This guy has been looking for a job for a looong time now. I hope there aren't more errors like this on his resume, although that would explain why he can't seem to find gainful employment. I had another friend that posted about his arms being "soar" after riding quads all weekend. I replied that I hoped he didn't fly away anytime soon. He didn't seem to get it and said he wasn't going anywhere. Riiiight.

I am really looking forward to this weekend. My mother is going to come over and help me get Baby's room finished. This includes painting. I have no idea what color or colors we'll be painting the walls, but I'll let you know when I figure it out. My mom is just about the best interior painter EVER. She's remodeled and painted the interiors of every home she's lived in and has got the whole process down to a science. I think I should hire her out and take a cut of the profit. I could make some good money that way. I'd be like a paint pimp. (Insert joke here. Pregnancy brain won't allow me to come up with anything clever.)

Spin Cycle: Pet Peeves

I have several pet peeves. You can find some examples here and here. But if you are one of the 3 people (Woohoo! 3 whole people!) that have read those already, here's more recent  peeve 'o mine.

Yesterday I had one of my regular checkups to ensure Baby and I are cohabitating nicely. After the nurse weighed me, checked my blood pressure and the baby's heartbeat, I got to wait for the doctor. No biggie, except while I waited patiently but uncomfortably BECAUSE I AM PREGNANT I could hear an entire conversation between my doctor and the nurses. That lasted for like 5 minutes. Which is forever in "I'm waiting for the doctor" time. Especially when the only thing to look at is the giant, detailed poster of a vagina plastered to the door.

Normally I really don't mind waiting for things. I'm actually a pretty patient person. (You kind of have to be to teach middle school. Or almost any grade level, really.) But the conversation I overheard was about Avatar. The movie. With the big blue aliens. I loved the movie and thought the 3-D was cool but ARE YOU REALLY MAKING ME WAIT IN THIS ROOM WITH A VAGINA POSTER AND PEA-SIZED BLADDER WHILE YOU TALK ABOUT A FRIGGIN' MOVIE? REALLY?!

All I know is that it had better not happen when I am delivering Baby or I will rip someone a new one (before Baby rips me a new one. Oh yes, I went there.)

Da Bomb

I had a dream last night that I dropped the f-bomb in my class. Let's hope I'm not clairvoyant.

Just call me Jackhammer

Apparently I was sawing logs again last night. Or maybe I should say I was JACKHAMMERING CONCRETE.

I woke up at 12:30 AM and Mr. Clean was not in bed. At first I thought he might be milling about (he frequently has mini bouts of insomnia) but the house was still totally dark. I went back to sleep and awoke again at about 2:30 AM. No Mr. Clean. It occurred to me in my drowsy haze that it might have something to do with all of the animalistic sounds I'd been making the past few nights. (Um, not because I'm an animal in bed or anything. Because I'm sick. With a cold. Get your mind out the gutter you pervert.) I decided I didn't care if he was in the other room because I'm miserably ill, carrying his baby, and he will have to learn to live without sleep pretty soon anyway. I'm such a sweetie.

Sure enough, he came into the bedroom at 6 AM. I know because he scared the crap out of the dog, who barked LOUDLY, scaring the crap out of me and nearly inducing an early labor. (Don't worry, Baby is still in there. She doesn't scare easily, just me.) Turns out Mr. Clean slept on the couch. That probably sucked a lot for him because we have a really small ass couch. (We no longer have a spare bedroom with a bed because it is now the baby's room complete with all of the TONS OF STUFF that comes with one of these things.)

Guess who is napping again today?

Miserable

I got completely SACKED with a wicked cold this weekend. It started out late Thursday as bit of a cough but there were no other warning signs. I mean, usually when I get a cough, there's a sore throat and some other misery involved. Nope, not this time.

Saturday morning when I woke up my nose was completely stuffed, I had a hacking cough, and all I wanted to do was go back to sleep. And I probably would have if I could have breathed (is that right because it sure sounds weird?) through my nose. When I'm really sick and stuffed up, I have a horrible time sleeping because I am incapable of falling asleep breathing through my mouth. It just doesn't happen for me.

Under normal circumstances I would have chugged some Nyquil and said hello to the blissful, passed-out-drunk coma it manages to always put me in. But things aren't normal because I'm baking a bun in my oven, which means I can only take certain medicines and Nyquil is not one of them. Dayquil isn't on the list either. (Being pregnant sure makes you appreciate the drugs you're allowed to take when you're not knocked up!) I decided to go ahead and take some Benedryl (which is on the "allowed" list) last night so that I could at least get a few moments of sleep. Mr. Clean said I was sawing logs, and I felt pretty good when I woke up for real (not my 4 AM trip to the potty), so I guess it worked out. (I'm pretty sure I kept him up, too because he's taking a nap right now.)

I'm still plugged up and coughing and slightly miserable today, but I refuse to use any of my sub days at work because I'm saving them for when Baby comes, which means I have to be a total trooper and suck it up.

I suppose that's enough whining for one day. I'll have lots to more bitch and moan about once the baby comes!

Ahhhh, freak out

The other night, as I lay in bed, struggling to get comfortable amongst my umpteen pillows, I started thinking about the impending arrival of Baby. As my thoughts drifted, the realization hit me: I am going to be a mommy.

Now some of you might be thinking, Duh, what were you expecting with that eggplant growing inside you? But there was just something in that moment that brought the feelings and emotions tied to being responsible for a human life right to the forefront of my mind. And then the thoughts were like a flood, a rushing stream of confusion and fright and holy-shit-what-the-hell-did-I-get-myself-into. It went something like this:

Oh my god, I am going to be a mommy. Will I be a good mom? What if I'm not? I have no idea what to do. I don't know anything about having a baby. What if I fail? I'm scared. Is Mr. Clean scared to be a daddy? I should ask him. I don't want to ask him because I'm crying and being all weird and emotional. Oh my god, I am going to be a mommy...

And because I have more hormones running through my system that an entire middle school full of teenagers, I started crying more. Not a big cry with heavy sobs and chokes and all that. But I cried. I was scared. I am scared. EVERYTHING is about to change. Forever. And change is scary for me. Plus it's not like it's going to be a gradual change. No, no. I go into the hospital without a baby (one on the outside anyway) and come home with a screaming, pooping, nursing bundle of joy. Then I have to figure out what to do with her and how to care for her. For the rest of my life. Tell me that's not completely intimidating.

I have been told countless times that this will be the most exciting time in my life; that I will love her more than anything else and that "it will all be worth it once you see her." I believe it--I really do. I'm sure that I will be able to figure things out as I go. I know that everyone and their mother will want to give me advice (needed or not) about how to care for her. And I know that Mr. Clean will do anything and everything to make sure that Baby and I are happy and well cared for.

In approximately 7 weeks, Baby will be coming home with us. As ill-prepared as I feel, I'm certain that we will make it work because we always do. I'll let you know how it works out.

A few scattered thoughts

This blogging thing is going to be harder than I thought. How do people come up with witty/heartfelt/amazing blogs several times a week? I can barely manage one or two and it all depends on the drama of my own life. No drama = nothing to blog. And quite frankly, I prefer things to be drama-free. I get enough of that teaching middle schoolers. Oh god, it's like the stuff radiates from their oily pubescent pores. (Shudder.)

Frankly, my life tends to be on the boring side. I'm a homebody and so is Mr. Clean, which means we don't get out much. I guess the upside to this is that there will be no dramatic shift in our social lives once Baby arrives. We're used to being boring losers. So, we will just be boring losers with a baby. That poor kid has her work cut out for her.

Maybe that's the upside to having a kid. It forces us off our couch potato butts and out into the world. There are trips to the zoo and the aquarium and Disneyland to plan, not to mention the museum, the ocean, and grandma and grandpa's house. Mr. Clean has never been to Disneyland. Poor, sheltered man. His parents weren't really fans of getting out the house either. Note to self: Take Mr. Clean and Baby to Disneyland. Do not end up like Mr. Clean's parents. Ohmygod, please do not end up like them. (These people only leave the house to go to work and of course shopping at WalMart on occasion. Double shudder.)


I think it's time to invest in a good travel agent.

How old?

Today I asked someone how old their child was. Her response: 18.5 months. WTF? I am not a mathematician (although I'm fairly good at math in general) and I do not want to have to do mental math when you tell me how old your fucking kid is. Just say one and a half. How hard is that? Why do you insist on putting it in months? And the fraction (decimal) of .5? Is that really necessary?

Now granted I do not yet have kids of my own, and perhaps once Baby is born I will turn into one of those moms that says how old their kid is in months until they are three ("Oh yes, Baby is 36.5 months old now!") but I really hope not. I mean, I get it at certain points (when they are under a year, that's about the only way to state their age) but after year one, it seems ridiculous.

Can anyone explain this to me?

Twice as good as me

I've been reading Half As Good As You and it's about the funniest damn blog I've ever encountered. Not that I've read them all, but damn, it's good. If you need a laugh, this is the place to go.

Start with this post. You won't be sorry.