April 8th, 2010
Our cat Lewis has been hit with FLUTD â€” that is, feline lower urinary tract disease â€” and I’m totally bummed.
Even though the diagnosis could be much, much worse, I became a wreck this evening over the thought of it indeed being much, much worse â€” as in a fatal condition that the doctor threw out as a possibility.
So we have to monitor Lewis’ litter-box visits as best we can now, which I’m sure perplexes and annoys the heck out of him. But since returning from the vet this evening, I observed that he tried to empty his bladder 11 times within one hour, and only the first visit to a box was successful. He’s also keeping his distance from us and choosing to camp out under the dining table despite our coaxing.
Just the other day I was telling Ben that we have the best cats in the world and that I hope they stay healthy and live long enough for our son to love and play with them too. So I found it incredibly unfair to find that so soon after that conversation we are faced with thoughts of those same sweet cats’ mortality.
Get well soon, Lewis.
March 5th, 2010
I’ve been debating for days whether to write about this topic, so I’m just gonna be quick with it to make it as painless as possible.
I am afraid about pooping during labor.
This blog post reassures me how normal a phenomenon it is for pregnant women to experience this during birth, considering that “pushing” is the same as excretion. The problem is, with all said and done, I DO NOT FEEL ANY BETTER.
It’s yet another reason to keep Ben at the my side from waist up in the delivery room. If the poor guy doesn’t pass out from seeing a human head peering out from my vagina, he will certainly pass out at the sight of shit.
March 4th, 2010
My son is an athlete. On second thought — knowing my longtime love of dancing and Ben’s penchant for randomly awesome bouts of river dance — my son is probably a dancer.
Because that is all he’s been doing for the past two weeks: Dancing in my belly, above my bladder.
If ever there was a time for Depends, the incontinence accessory, now would be it. Not because I leak from Baby’s sudden kicks and stomps, but because I’m just tired of feeling as though I must pee every half-minute.
Friends tell me it’s only going to get worse — which, thank you, friends, but common sense could’ve helped me figure that one out on my own. By the way, Baby has doubled in size from three weeks ago.
So when you meet him, ask him to do a little jig for you. From what I can tell, he’s quite good.
February 26th, 2010
I had a liberating experience this past weekend —Â I bought clothes that fit.
Iâ€™m in the second half of my pregnancy and I was still putting off the purchase of maternity clothes until recently, telling myself that I could do without for a little longer and to continue with the rubber-band-through-the-button-loop technique for my pants.
Quite simply, I was behaving like a moron.
The second I pulled on the pants in the dressing room of a maternity store, feeling the stretchy waistband hug â€“ not suffocate â€“ my belly, I did my happy dance. Booty shakinâ€™. Arms pumping. Head bobbing. All of this and there wasn’t even music involved.
When that was over, I threw back the curtain of the dressing room and walked out to my waiting husband. He noticed the goofy smile on my face and even goofier back-and-forth march I did for him. And when no one was looking, I flashed him my belly â€“ pronounced but content under a swath of black elastic.
This is the best thing ever!â€ť I exclaimed, maybe a bit too loud.
So I bought two more pants, a pair of jeans and three blouses, all of which look ridiculously adorable on me. (Yeah, I said it.)
I don’t care that it’d qualify as a fashion faux pas to the Nth degree, but I plan to rock my maternity pants for a very … very … long time.
February 19th, 2010
Even though there is little, if any, evidence of baby preparation around my house, Iâ€™ve been working every day on preparing mentally for July 12 (aka Due Date) and thereafter.
I make to-do lists. I read my pregnancy book. I pore over ratings on cribs, car seats and carriers. I think constantly about my diet and worry about nourishing the little man inside, wonder whether heâ€™ll latch on to my boob when the time comes and if Iâ€™ll have the time and energy to make most of his baby food from scratch.
My network of moms and dads have told me that one can never truly prepare for the arrival of a child. â€śYou just learn as you go,â€ť they say. And that makes sense, but, good God, that means I have to pay close attention. At all times. Even when Iâ€™m bored, or unmotivated, or sleep-deprived and crabby.
Which brings me to the following conclusion: This kid â€” heâ€™s going to be one charismatic dude, even more so than his father, who from Day 1 re-ignited my creativity, perseverance and optimism for a happy ending.