Posts from — July 2008

Despite my sounding like a high-pitched ninny, I really did forget to be scared of riding in a plane this time around. It really wasn’t all that hard with a seat mate like this:

I’d fly with him any time.

Today Bug and I head to Tampa on a plane to spend a week with Lorso’s parents. It’s Bug’s first flight ever and my first flight since 2002. I will tell you, because I am a whiz at math, that that means it has been six whole years since I have flown.

So it’s not so much that I’m afraid of flying as I am just inexperienced at it, you see. But in this case, I am The One Who Has Experienced It All And Can Impart My All-Knowing Wisdom About Everything in the eyes of a boy who is totally excited about his first time on a plane. So it’s important to me that I make this a fun filled event in all ways possible. This probably does not include yelling “THE PLANE IS GOING DOWN WE’RE DOOMED” every time we hit a bit of turbulence. I’m guessing.

But here is my deal with myself: You will not freak out, because your kid is super excited about flying for the first time. You will act just as you did when you were a camp counselor nine years ago and passed the alligator sliding into the water mere feet from your canoe. Though you may feel scared shitless afraid, you must think of the young ones, excited about their fun expedition. You will simply keep the AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHOMGAAAAAAAAAAAH in your head and keep rowing until you reach your destination.

That analogy seems to be working for me. Although if I have to get on to Bug for any small thing, my nerves may be at a point where I won’t be able to refrain from saying DON’T YOU TIP THAT CANOE YOUNG MAN.

Next update coming at you from the Sunshine State.

Yesterday was my 28 week appointment. I’m in my third trimester now (sidenote: HOLY SHIT) which means after this appointment I’ll start going to the midwives every two weeks. On the docket for yesterday’s visit: pee in cup, stand on irritatingly accurate scale, listen to baby’s heartbeat, check iron levels, take glucose tolerance test.

And can I just say - the glucose intolerance test is my kind of test. Directions: Drink a bottle of fizzy Hawaiian Punch. Get blood drawn. The End. WAY easier than the MCAT. The nurses apologized profusely about the terrible taste and the fact that it was carbonated OMG and I was all, sanctioned sugar ingestion? BRING IT ON. Then I downed it, smacked my lips and asked for another.

When I got my blood drawn, the phlebotomist just went on and on about my AMAZING clotting abilities. I mean, like, went on and ON and on. I might have felt great pride about this, except that what it really meant was that though they SQUEEZED MY ARM LIKE HOLY HELL after they took my blood for the glucose test, they still had to prick my finger to get another drop of blood for the iron test. Because I am Super Clotter! Able to stop blood flow in a single bound! Can’t say I don’t have skillz.

In other news, Bug could probably perform a basic prenatal check up on any pregnant lady right about now. He’s been to all my appointments but one, and he has got that drill down. They call us back from the waiting room and he runs straight to the bathroom. “This is where you PEE IN THAT CUP, right Mom?” Then after I’ve weighed myself he says, “How many is it this time Mom?” and then after I tell him (which JUST NOW I’m realizing that I should totally lie about, WHY didn’t I think of that?) he trots off happily down the hall to our room repeating the number. Loudly.

The midwives usually put him up on my legs when we listen to the Doppler for the heartbeat and tell him which buttons to push to turn it on. Today he was holding the part not touching my belly, and as soon as we heard the whoosha whoosha of LG’s heart, he held his end up to his mouth and said “HEY BABY!” Bug to LG. 10-4. Over and out.

All in all a routine visit, which is just the kind I prefer.

If I failed my glucose test, they’ll let me know in three days. In the meantime, in my blissful ignorance I am consuming as much Häagen Dazs as possible.

Just in case.

“You know, I’ve actually been in this world for 30 years now.”

“No, not actually in this world for 30 years. Come on now.”

“Well, I wasn’t born yet at this point 30 years ago, but I was viable! I was a viable human! I was!”

“Well. Congratulations on 30 years of viability.”

“Thank you very much. Now go engrave me a plaque with that on it.”

You’re dying to jump into this post after that title, aren’t you.

This week, I just didn’t blog. Just didn’t do it. It’s a slippery slope, the not-blogging. I knew this would be true when I started Yestertime, which is part of the reason I committed to posting every day. The longer you’re away from it, the harder it is to start back up.

But the truth of the matter is that despite my site’s subtitle, life isn’t always funny.

I’ve spent this whole week at home with Bug. My life has consisted of playdates and the pool and Go Fish and snacks and discipline and playing cars and housework and BOREDOM. I commented to someone yesterday that I just really wanted to go out one night with girls (yes, I said GIRLS, because I am not yet 30 and am hanging onto that for as long as I can) my own age and not talk about kids. But later I realized that even then my need for non-parentdom wouldn’t be quite satisfied, because one of my children is glommed onto my front. Largely, and in a non-removable fashion. I live and breathe “Mommyhood” wherever I go because of my physical state, and right now I’m feeling kind of buried beneath it.

Even my blog has been getting to me, because all I can think of to write about is Bug. [And quickly I just want to step up on this soap box over here and say that I have a pretty intense dislike of the term “Mommy Blog” when it is used to refer to Yestertime. And I can’t even articulate the reason why well enough, but I think it’s because 1. I didn’t start this blog to write about “being a Mommy” 2. “Mommy Blog” sounds fairly demeaning to me (though some people embrace it, and to those people I say DO YOUR THING, SISTERS) and 3. I just don’t like it, The End.] And when that happens I start to think, well wait. What else is going on in my life that I can talk about instead? And when when the answer is BIG FAT NOTHING, I start to feel a little crazy. Because, as much as I love my kid and wanted to have him in my life, I am so much more than just his mom. (And LG’s mom! Sorry! She just kicked me.) I am more than just Lorso’s wife. I am myself. I am Rachel.

There is, of course, an added factor into all of this. Heaped upon my head, like so much chili and cheese on loaded nachos is the tremendous guilt I feel when I start to bitch and moan about the tedium of home life and parenthood. In my head I think, You chose this! Buck up! Fall in line! No complaining! Drop and give me twenty!

I can be kind of drill sargeant-esque with myself sometimes.

But here is where that comes from: remembering how much dread I felt every day going to class, saying goodbye to Bug in the car knowing I wouldn’t see him sometimes until the next day. Remembering the hours and hours I spent face to face with my anatomy cadaver with not so much as a kiss goodnight on Bug’s very much alive cheek. Remembering being up to my eyeballs in biochem and physiology and never actually laying those same eyeballs on my kid for hours. Remembering standing outside my study room whispering on the phone to Lorso to put Bug on, just so I could hear the sound of him. And then trying to keep my sobs to a minimum as to not disturb my fellow studiers.

That life - not so funny.

So I left, and it was hard, and it was right, and I still think it is right. But that doesn’t mean I don’t miss medical school. And it doesn’t mean that I love every minute of my life now. And sometimes I need to complain about it, even though I know I am immeasurably lucky for what I have.

So now I have done that. And on Monday, you will be returned to your regularly scheduled spectacular slapfest at normal Yestertime, because I am tired of writing about Serious Shit.

But I needed to. So thanks for reading.