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.

Donate. It's the least you could do.

Do something easy to donate. It's quick and painless and 100% of the proceeds go directly to the Red Cross relief effort in Haiti. Even I did it and I am the laziest person alive.

Whip out your cell phone and text the word "Haiti" to 90999. Even your 9-year-old can do that.

Confessions of a non-housewife

Guess what my husband is doing as I write this? Cleaning. Vacuuming, dusting, wiping and disinfecting and Swiffering. And while he buzzes around the house doing these things, there is also a load of laundry in the washer. There's one in the dryer too. Because he put them there.

Guess what I am doing? Well, duh. But guess what I do every week (yes, this is a weekly event) while he cleans? Nothing. I know, I'm a horrible excuse for a wife. But I do bring home some serious bacon and some great health insurance, so I contribute. I even put my dishes in the dishwasher. Usually.

See, Mr. Clean is exactly that--he is just one of those very clean, organized people. He likes to be busy and he likes to be needed and this provides a way for him to fulfill both of those needs. It stems from an unfortunate place because he liked to keep the house clean in order to keep the peace between his alcoholic parents. They weren't awful or abusive or anything like that. But it kept the peace and he likes peace.

When we first started living together, I helped a lot. I did dishes, laundry, vacuumed, cleaned toilets, etc. But gradually as we have cohabitated over the years, I have gotten lazier (admittedly) and he has picked up my slack. At least when I was in college, working my ass off to get my teaching degree, there was an excuse for my lack of housewifelyness. Although the fact that I am currently 8 months pregnant gets me a get-out-of-everything-free card lately too.

I am entirely and eternally grateful for Mr. Clean because I KNOW my life would be chaos without him. I also know that he is going to make a GREAT dad because he is so willing to help out (and/or do the majority of the work) around the house. And I have a feeling that once our little bundle of joy has arrived, he will prove to me all over again why I am insanely in love with him--because he takes care of me like no one else ever could (or would want to, for that matter) and I know he will take even better care of her.

Decaf grande extra hot vanilla latte, you are my saving grace. Bless you, Starbucks.

Being pregnant = I MISS ALCOHOL

Okay, I'm not saying I miss alcohol RIGHT THIS SECOND. I very rarely drink on weekdays, especially when I must function as a working human being the next morning.

I just miss being able to have a glass of wine when I want to, or my favorite, a big ass margarita. I make great margaritas. Tequila. Lime. Rocks. Salt. YUM. I actually had a dream the other night that I was chugging a margarita from a PITCHER. I also happened to have a cold in real life, meaning I was breathing through my mouth which was drier than a popcorn fart (oh, that's my dad's favorite saying) and the margarita was likely my brain's way of saying, "Wake up and drink something!" Imagine my disappointment when I woke up and had to drink water instead of a margarita from the pitcher. Bummer.

Wine is great, too. I love wine. I am a fan of the reds, especially cab-sauv and merlot, but I really love them all. I've been known to split a bottle with a friend...and then open another and split that one, meaning by that point I've had a whole bottle of wine. Yup. Lush. I have a feeling it's going to take a good amount of time to build that tolerance back up once the baby is born. I've got some work ahead of me.

I don't just miss the taste of margaritas and wine. I'll admit, I could have used a little nip to get me through the holidays. My family is a little kooky but Mr. Clean's is downright nutty and being around his nephew for more than 20 minutes warrants busting out the tequila shots. We spend a lot of time with his family over the holidays. I could have really used a drink...or five.

Alas, I am still going to be carrying around Baby for two more months and breastfeeding will commence upon her arrival. Alcohol, I will come for you soon. Just not soon enough.

Currently Reading

A bit juvenile but still fun to read.

If you made the mess...

There is one thing that drives me absolutely crazy every time Mr. Clean and I go shopping: abandoned shopping carts. Why is it that so many people suddenly become crippled after they've put their groceries in their car and cannot seem to then push the cart the five feet or so to the cart return?

Oh no! Now that I've put my groceries in my car, my legs have stopped working! Whatever will I do? Certainly it would be too difficult to put my shopping cart in the cart return. I know, I'll just leave it in the minuscule space between my car and the car next to mine so that:

(a) the cart can later prevent someone from being able to park in the space
(b) the poor idiot who parked next to me will have to move it/put it away so that they can back out of the space without scraping the crap out of their car
(c) the cart can blow into someone's car on a windy day and leave them a nice little door ding
(d) some poor schmuck who works here can earn their minimum wage by cleaning up after my lazy ass

I really think it just comes down to pure laziness. Is it really that hard to put your cart away? What in God's name is preventing you from being a decent human being and cleaning up after yourself? You pushed that thing all around the store, out the door and to your car. PUT IT AWAY. That's all I'm asking.

True Test

The other day my wonderful husband (Mr. Clean) and I decided to buy a closet organizer for the baby's room. I was under the very incorrect impression that we would wait a while before installing it. (Can you tell which one of us is the procrastinator?) However, since Mr. Clean cannot possibly sit still and relax for more than five minutes, he decided to install the dang thing that very evening. And since there are several parts of the process that require an extra hand, I got wrangled into helping.

I have decided that there are at least three things that truly test a marriage. These are:

1. Moving
2. Putting up a Christmas tree
3. Installing a closet organizer

For the record, we have now officially passed all three tests.