Wednesday, September 21, 2016

Blow. Out.

The scene is the children's museum.

The toddler is happily playing in the water room.  It’s loud.  There’s a cacophony of splashes as simple machines and delighted children pour and squirt what I’m sure is the purest mountain drinking water. 

You have seven minutes left on your parking.

The baby, snug in the ergo, is looking around the room quizzically, his mouth slightly agape, drowsy from a nap upon your bosoms. 

A grandmother remarks how funny your toddler looks with a coffee cup drawn on her face and you explain that, at the face painting station, she did not want to be a “cat nose” as per usual, but insisted on a cup.

Then you feel it.

The reverberations.

From within the baby. 

And you remember that his last poop was last night. The ergo rumbles with yet another tiny but productive fart.

You try to encourage your toddler to leave the room. You bribe her with stamps. You implore her that her brother needs a diaper. She does not want to leave. Why would she?  What’s in it for ME, she seems to ask as she ignores you and moves onto a station that seems to be for racing rubber ducks. 

Finally, with a combination of bribery and flattery, you coax her out of the room, make her stand under the dryer for a minute, and then lead her, still mostly wet, to the stamp station, side stepping a toddler having a tantrum face down on the ground.  You smile at the frazzled mother and tell her, “Everyone lies on the floor at the children’s museum at some point.”  But really, you’re just hoping your toddler doesn’t choose this moment to join him. 

You make it to the stamp station.  Methodically she tattoos her arm with the fairy stamp and then, miraculously, allows you to take her hand and exit the museum. 

She, for the first time ever, crosses the parking lot while holding your hand and without complaint, and lets you buckle her into the car seat, all while the baby begins to feel the effects of his rumblings.  The sun blinds him and he begins to thrash in the ergo as you hand the toddler a book and get the spare clothes from your backpack. 

You have two minutes left on your parking.

And anyway, it is far too late. By the time you strip away the sweaty ergo you see the telltale orange stain. It has gone through the diaper, through the baby pants, through your sweatshirt, through your undershirt, and onto your skin.

The baby howls as you peel off his soaked pants and wriggle him out of his onesie.  Wipe at the ready, you remove the tape of the diaper. 

It is epic.  It is front to back. It is in every tiny baby fold. It completely coats his baby boy genitalia. 

Your “one and done” wipe is not enough.  Wipe after wipe you remove the watery milk poop from every nook and cranny.

“He’s crying.”  The toddler remarks.

“YEAH!” You yell over the yowl. 

“He not in his car seat.”  Bossy toddler remarks.

“I know.  I’m changing his diaper.”

“I’m in MY car seat!”  Just the facts. 

“You’re being very patient, thank you.”

“I spilled water on my bagina.”

“Ok…You can have clean clothes at home.”

Finally, the baby is clean enough.  He begins to wiggle happily, letting the cool autumn air dry his nether regions.  You fear for the fire hose and quickly diaper him and put on the fresh onesie. 

Baby goes into the car seat.

“He has a DUCK on his shirt.” She exclaims.

“Yeah he got a new shirt.”

“Fun at museum!”

“I’m glad.”

Thursday, March 24, 2016

The Sequel

You know how sequels are just like the original but with MORE EXPLOSIONS and the same basic jokes and they’re usually more expensive but not better?  Yeah.  That’s how this pregnancy is…

Issue: morning sickness
Original: puked twice.  Roughly weeks 11 and 15.  Not a big deal.  Just vitamin.
Sequel: 6 weeks.  Puked more than ever in my life.  Took anti-nausea meds for 10 more weeks. Lost 10 lbs.  Most fun diet ever. 

Issue: heartburn
Original: had heartburn, whined.  Took drugs.  Went away.
Sequel: heartburn came on SO STRONG the minute I stopped being morning sick that I went to lie down and surprise threw up stomach acid.  Took drugs.  Went mostly away. 

NOTE: No more vomit in this post I promise. 

Issue: footies.
Original: See post about my plantar.
Sequel: Tuesday, Alice’s bday, I was carrying her down some stairs and, at the bottom, I just straight up stepped on the side of my foot and it went POP and I got a grade 2 sprain which I paid a $15 copay to hear after Dr. Google told me that’s what I had.  I walk like a Walking Dead extra, but it is healing. 

Issue: old lady hip pain
Original: started at week 39.  SUCKED.
Sequel: started at week 20.  Went to get a massage and the lady was like, “what is wrong with your hips?!”  So basically I get more massages?

Issue: Pregnancy glow
Original: Glow = sweat.  Starting in January, I carried ice water everywhere and wore only undies at home.
Sequel: whose idea was it to have a baby in JULY.  Mine?  Right.  That was dumb.  I’m gonna be so sweaty, you guys.  And new babies are SO HOT and make me sweaty.  And hormones.  Gonna be steamy, people. 

Issue: resulting baby
Original: Booberry is the bestest little crazy toddler I could have ever asked for…she says while lying exhausted and elevating her foot caused by carrying said toddler while she washes her jacket that Boo threw into the toilet at the OB this morning. 
Sequel: this kid is gonna be like the Aliens of second children: more exciting, scarier, higher production value, and more catchphrases.  But he better exit the normal way not like…

Wednesday, February 10, 2016

Prenatal Yoga

            I hate yoga.  Why?  I dunno.  I don’t breathe right.  And I don’t like paying money to lie about on the floor and feel unflexible.  Inflexible?  NOT FLEXIBLE!  And I don’t like hippie bullshit.  Except recycling.  That’s not bullshit.  And coconut oil.  That’s just delicious.  And fresh eggs. 

            But I like prenatal yoga.  Mostly…mostly…

            At 7pm, I heeded the Doctor’s words. “Run.  As fast as you can.  Get out of here.”  Booberry was crying and snotting everywhere and we don’t know why.  He put her in the bath and she was TOTALLY FINE so I snuck out with my yoga mat, which has been unused since last pregnancy, wearing a hand-me-down maternity t-shirt that says “I love you already.” I figure prenatal yoga is the only place I can respectably wear that.  
            I walked into Om Base, which, yes, is a witty name for a yoga place and I like witty names for things (the best food cart name is “Fried Egg I’m in Love”) and was immediately chastised to take my shoes off before crossing the threshold into yoga land.  After I, barefoot, padded up to the desk and paid the price of four delicious lattes (or two quesadillas) (or half a pedicure) for yoga, I chatted with the other moms until it was time to enter the sanctuary or whatever the crap you call the yoga place and find a good spot. 

            The room was warm and balmy from whatever crazy class was happening right before mine and the preggos complained about the heat. It was quickly remedied because no one likes an overheated preggo.  Once everyone was settled, the teacher, who spoke with a very pronounced vocal fry, told us it was time to share. 

            Everyone shared how far along they were and if it was their first and what is going well and what wasn’t.  It was a diverse group.  Ok sure three people were 27 weeks and I think everyone was white, middle class, 30 something women (duh, women).  But some people were…more bumpin’ than others. Yoga really brings you together because you realize how alike all of mankind (in this yoga class) really is.  

I was glad that I got to share last.  I think I forgot to mention how many weeks I was or anything about Smudge (new fetus’ fake name) but I did mention that I have a “passionate” toddler and that first trimester sucked and that I have a sinus thing and that my sciatica is already bothering me and that I feel big already and that I’m bad at being preggo.  People offered advice about chiropractors and elderberry syrup and then we got to yogaing. 

            The significant difference between regular and prenatal yoga is that prenatal yoga is MUCH more low pressure.  In regular yoga you’re supposed to get better and more flexible as you go along, but in prenatal, you just get worse and worse until all you can do is Shavasana (after three failed attempts at spelling that, I googled “when you lie there at the end of yoga.”  Bingo).  Anything you do is considered an amazing physical feat and if you don’t wanna do something you just “listen to your body” and do something easier. 

            After a triangle pose and some clam legs and lots of downward dogs, we made it to some gentle hip stretches against the wall and transitioned right into the sweetest of yoga poses, Shavasana, “when you lie there at the end of yoga” and try not to fall into a deep and impenetrable sleep (or fart or cough).  The teacher offered to rub lavender oil on us and I politely declined (so allergic—later story) and tried not to hack up a lung from my sinus issue/lavender allergy/lying on an incline.  Then we sat up and put a hand on our heart and a hand on our baby (oh you, forgot about you, second child) and did a little blessing.

            And then it was over.  Class was supposed to end at 8:45 but, with all the sharing, it was now 9:15 and the Doctor had sent me a concerned text, wondering if I’d run off to join an all women commune or something.  After jealously quizzing my friend on her car (so many seats!) and driving home, I began to wonder, was it worth it?  What did I get out of yoga today?

            I don’t know.  I mean my hip hurts less, which is COOL, and I spent an hour relaxing.  An hour of relaxation that was probably completely marred by the night terror Booberry had two hours later.  She thought her pacifier was in her tummy and was thrashing around completely crazed and inconsolable for a good twenty minutes.  She might be confused about where babies come from…we can work on that later.  And I maybe started to notice this thingy that lives inside of me as more than just a parasite who is in collusion with its sister to kill me through sleep and food deprivation.  And I maybe decided I need a vehicle with three rows.  And I got to wear my cheesy maternity shirt. 

            Smudge, I love you already.  Let’s Shavasana again sometime.