I had several paragraphs in draft lamenting how my body has finally changed and the aches and pains that come with it and worrying about feeling guilty since I know I should be on my knees every day thanking the good lord for my good luck in being pregnant at all, and then I thought, so what?
If I want to bitch about it, then I should be able to bitch about it. Why should anyone think that I should be crossing myself over and over because a hemorrhoid (or a multitude of them) decided to bleed, giving me what I’m sure was a mild heart-attack when I went to the bathroom? Or how I’ve noticed in a completely random exploration of my body, that I have nipple- lint/jam? Or that I’ve thrown up in my mouth more times than in the toilet because my stomach has seemingly overnight eloped with my heart so any burp, harmless yet enjoyable 6 months ago, now is my cue to find a water-proof receptacle?
Maybe I should even be jumping for joy (if I could without stunning myself into temporarily paralysis with the inevitable Braxton Hicks) that my husband said to me this weekend, as I safely bitched to him, that I did "get pretty big really fast", considering that a month ago I was worried that the baby was going to be of gecko proportions at term.
Of course, let’s not leave off the fact that by the time I take off my socks at the end of the day, that the pattern of the socks is left perfectly imprinted into my foot. Now I’m not talking about the tight-but-stretchy opening of the sock leaving a pattern. I’m saying that the PATTERN of the sock (let’s say today – argyle) is imprinted into my skin, because the bloatiness is not content to micromanage my abdomen or face or fingers.
I hope you will bear with my overall malcontent I have with my body, which I realize is not going to get any better over the next 12 weeks. Especially since my diet has consisted of left-over Easter candy I’ve hidden from XBoy and evenings filled with CSI marathon showings on Spike. Maybe when I come down from my sugar high, I’ll feel a little more remorse.
Want to hear a funny story?
It’s not really funny, but kind of tragically-funny and it’s about XBoy and his most recent school adventure (I can’t hope but help that he gets his personality from me so that we won’t be prematurely gray(er) when Murdock reaches this stage. However, I’m fairly certain he’s getting all of this from his father).
A few days ago I received a phone call from Mr. DD who said that the school had just called him. Since it was about a half hour after school had been dismissed, I figured it was because my mother, who said she would pick up XBoy, forgot; therefore he was sitting at school waiting for his ride home.
Instead I was told that one of XBoy’s friends, Zeke, was missing and it was suspected that he left with XBoy and my mother.
The hairs curled on the back of my neck and the prickly sweat caused by adrenaline broke out in my armpits.
I told Mr. DD that my mother had asked if it was OK for XBoy to get a milkshake before his swim lessons which started a couple hours after school, so Mr. DD volunteered to hit the streets, or what we fondly refer to as "Burger Row" to see if he could spot my Mom’s car.
In the meantime, I agreed to run home to see if they were there. Yes, I tried calling our house phone several times, but there was no answer.
When I turned down the lane I saw my Mom’s car, which was good since Mr. DD had called to let me know he hadn’t had any luck. When I walked up to the mudroom from the garage, I could see through the window XBoy starting off on an ice cream cone. I opened the door and asked him if Zeke was with him. Before he could answer, Zeke popped around the corner, "Yep!"
I just about died.
I looked over at my Mom and told her in what I hoped did not sound like screeching and informed her that Zeke’s Mom has no idea where he is. "Oh…well I heard the phone ringing but I didn’t know where it was, and he told me that his mother knew he was with XBoy."
I was too upset to respond. Instead I instructed both XBoy and Zeke to get in the van as we were going back to school. XBoy, who was realizing he was in deep poo, didn’t want to go. I insisted – strongly.
With the boys loaded in the van, ice cream cones still in hand, we jetted back to the school, which I had already called to confirm that I had Zeke.
Once we arrived, I escorted them both into the principal’s office. Zeke was oblivious. XBoy was reluctant and scared. The principal briefly talked with the boys, reviewing their policy about permissions, while I stood quietly in the corner. He was very calm and patient with them, but you could feel the underlying tension.
XBoy and I left Zeke in the principal’s office as he made more phone calls. When we stepped outside, XBoy burst into tears.
I told him that I didn’t blame him and I wasn’t angry, just scared. We had two six year olds discussing a playdate and ultimately convincing themselves that it would be OK; on top that, telling my Mom, a woman from a place and generation that never locked the car when in town, that everyone was in the know…well, it was a situation where no one person could be blamed.
I never informed the school that my mother was picking up XBoy (yes, I should have), but they let him go without a second thought. Why would they blink if there were two? How could the teachers standing outside know who is to be released to whom? My Mom, bless her heart, should have known a little better. Instead I had to lecture her a bit (after I had calmed down), that I would have told her if someone else was coming home with XBoy.
From start to finish, it was an hour. But I’m sure within those 60 minutes, Zeke’s Mom aged a million years. We’ve "lost" XBoy at Target once when he was two and that was just for a handful of minutes, and the thoughts that went through my head…they are thoughts every person has when you get that phone call in the middle of the night or when your caller ID shows up as the daycare or school or when you yourself were a child and you turned around and found not one familiar face in a crowd.
I’m not happy that this happened, but I guess if Zeke had to be lost, I am glad that he was somewhere safe, with my Mom, enjoying an ice cream cone with a friend.
I’ve been blogging since Summer 2005 so I didn’t get to wish a Happy 41st Birthday that year to Mr. DD.
April 2006, I was "enjoying" IVF number two and his 42nd was mentioned only in passing.
April 2007, for his 43rd Birthday, I shared this picture I used in the local paper for his 40th. He swears I photo-shopped the second from the left picture. I swear I didn’t. See prior post for hair reference.
April 2008. Today. Mr. DD is 44. He lamented this age by reminding me that when Murdock turns 16, he will be 60. While we both wish we would have started a family earlier, we have been able to take pleasure in acting out the things that Kindergartners enjoy…like potty jokes, burping contests and blaming farts on each other.
Maybe at 60, Mr. DD will get a kick out of showing Murdock how to convert a muscle car into 4WD. He did it once, why not again?
He doesn’t read here even though he knows about my blog, but someday when I convert this all to Blurb, I want him to know that I think of him with love and frustration and joy and irritation every single day.
Happy Birthday, Mr. DD.
Remember the senior pictures from yesteryear?
Bangs up to heaven and the bottom of your jeans were pinch-rolled? I guess I should clarify: if you were graduating from high-school in the 80’s. You younger bitches just didn’t have style, I’m telling you.
Your poses, if you had pictures taken in a independent studio, were pretty basic: head shot where you sat with your body turned three-quarters and facing the camera (chin down…we don’t want to see up your nostrils!) Maybe you had one where you rested your chin on your fist, which always looked as if someone was giving you an uppercut; and for those with truly daring photographers, a full-body pose outside wearing a denim mini-skirt, scrunch boots, a big ole’ hip belt and pink bandanna. (Oh, yes. I did. It was my first realization that while I may have been a size nothin’ at the time, my thighs were like crystal balls into my future of cellulite).
The world changes, but as I get older, the more I start muttering about today’s youth like the crazy cat lady who refuses to buy groceries from any area of the grocery store but the pet aisle.
Senior pictures today look like either head-shots for a remake of Showgirls; or a cover shot of a Christian songs CD. Examples?
Girls aren’t the only ones who find themselves lured by the potential myspace avatar’s siren: guys are just as guilty. In fact, the inspiration for this post came from a senior portrait displayed proudly in our local mall. Before I show you that one, here’s one I really don’t get…
Is it wrong that for as much as I love artistic photos, I hate this? Therein lies how old I’ve become. What will senior portraits be like when XBoy or Murdock reaches that age? CT scans of their brains, colorized?
If nothing else, I can guarantee that every one of these kids will look back on their pictures in 20 years and wonder what the fuck were they thinking. Don’t you?
Here’s the picture that was being used to advertise a local photographer’s studio. Sorry about my reflection in the glass and the quality – still using my phone because our good laptop is still in ICU (after being sent three sets of HP start-up discs where the first two sets were defective…I’m hating on HP).
Oh, no…it’s really a kid wearing a polo and wielding a sword.
I can’t explain why I feel the uncontrollable desire to kick this kid’s ass.