To Conceive or Not to Conceive, That is the Question.

I think it's normal for every mom of a one year old to look back and reflect over the year that's passed. For me, I've been looking at my walking, talking little girl and realizing that she's not a baby anymore! I'm afraid I've also been bitten by the baby bug. This may sound exciting, but let me take you on a little trip back in time and introduce you to Trying to Conceive Me.

Trying to Conceive Me is completely insane. I scheduled my ovulation times into my husband's Blackberry (Bing! You're about to get lucky!). I could tell you my basal body temperature and the state of my cervical mucus at any given time, and if you asked me the date I answered in days past ovulation. Add to that the Clomid/Provera hormone cocktail I was prescribed to get things going, and you get one hot mess.

I am trying to keep her under wraps, but Trying to Conceive Me is fighting her way back. I've started to get jealous of pregnant women again, the first sign that she is emerging. I heard yesterday that Pregnant Man is knocked up again, and I yelled at the TV "are you freaking kidding me? A man can get pregnant three times and I'm not?!"

Of course, I am trying to remind Trying to Conceive Me of the reasons it's good to be non-pregnant. One being, I turn into a giant moose when I'm pregnant. Seriously, it's surprising that Captain Destructo didn't come out shaped like a loaf of bread because I probably ate one everyday for 9 months. You think I'm joking? Here is pregnant me above. And that was like, 23 weeks. There are no pictures beyond that because my camera doesn't zoom out that far. There's also the constant worry about the baby, the need to pee every 20 seconds, and, well, you know. The production of an actual newborn. And while babies and children are wonderful, having a newborn is kind of a thankless job. They pretty much eat (nonstop), sleep (in 10 minute intervals), and perform bodily functions on your clothes, without so much as a smile. Trying to Conceive Me would like to add that newborns grow into babies you love more than your life, which makes the newborn phase seem worthwhile, but it's still a long 3 months.

But who wouldn't want another one of these?

My Kid Can Beat Up Your Honor Student

I love kids. I was a teacher before Captain Destructo and in my spare time I babysat and volunteered in the nursery. It was a great day when I made a baby laugh at the grocery store or played with someone's kid. And then I had kids of my own.

It's not that I don't like other people's kids anymore. I do. They're all well and good, but I like them (a) far less than my kid, and (b) far less than I did before she was born. (I hope I'm not offending anyone. Your kids are great, really. You know what I mean, right?)

I came to this realization while at playgrounds with Captain Destructo. Except for the past few days, the weather here has been very un-Texas like, forcing us to find somewhere to go before I lose my mind. One week we went to the germ factory known as the indoor playground at the mall. There were 2 little girls playing nicely until Captain Destructo toddled in, and they proceeded to stick to her like glue, following her around, even going so far as to touch her face with their grubby little hands. Now, 2 years ago I would have thought this was adorable, but now all I can think is, for God's sake, take your germy selves away from my daughter. Of course, their parents were talking on cell phones and ignoring them, so I (politely of course) told them Captain Destructo could play by herself.

The next week, at a different, more crowded, playground, Captain Destructo got her hair pulled by another toddler. It was so sad I almost cried-she was all excited and crawled up to her new friend, and New Friend grabbed 2 handfuls of her cute little hair and yanked until her mom pried her terrorist hands off. Now whenever we see this little girl I pick Captain Destructo up and move her. I'm sure this is just the beginning of assault by other kids-at this time most of M's wounds are self-inflicted-and the thought of other kids hurting her seriously breaks my heart. Heck, even the thought of other kids taking her toys makes me sad.

On a completely unrelated note, is anyone else sick of the Winter Olympics? I wish they would just get rid of them altogether. Seriously, did you just preempt The Office for curling? You like watching curling? Come watch me sweep my floors. It's actually more interesting as I am doing it at warp speed to keep Captain Destructo from eating the dirt pile.

Have a great day y'all.

One of those days

Today's just been one of those days. I've heard parents joke about giving their kids "back." Does anyone know where "back" is? It's probably a good thing no one knows because Captain Destructo would have been heading there this morning.
As she has been most of the winter, Captain was sick this week. She's got that disgusting snotty nose/cough thing where she's not that bad but I feel guilty bringing her to playgroup, so we're quarantined. Tuesday she was a hot mess, whining all day long and nothing I did was right. I was running through my arsenal of Things to Make the Baby Stop Crying. Food? Nope. Water? Nope. Mommy singing Phredd songs? Nope. We finally resorted to watching 3 back to back episodes of Elmo's World, which she still whined through, but Elmo's "guess what Elmo's thinking about today? Ya-da-da-da!" was loud enough to drown her out. She had been better Wednesday and Thursday, but was super fussy last night, which I attributed to her being tired. Unfortunately she woke up this morning still fussing. I seriously almost cried when I looked at the clock, hoping it was naptime, and it was only 7:30 AM. She ended up falling asleep about an hour ago, and I'm kind of scared for her to wake up. Thank goodness for naps though because I was about 5 seconds away from locking myself in my closet and crying hysterically.
Hope your children are happier than mine today!

Pink's His Favorite Color

So I've accepted that my daughter is bald. She was born with some dark hair, but it all fell out (I don't know when though, I didn't notice baby hairs in her bed or anything, but I also didn't notice my 40 extra pounds, so I'm not a great judge). By six months she was a total cue ball, but now, at one, she's got a little hair. No ponytails by any means but I can't see her scalp anymore. I was so excited to have a little girl and I dress her in pink/purple/other girly color all the time, so it infuriates me to no end when people call her a boy. Here is one conversation I had with an old guy at a car lot:

Old Guy: Hi handsome! What's your name>
Me: Very girly name.
Old Guy: (looks briefly confused, then embarassed) Oh, I thought for sure she was a boy. I guess I should have noticed the pink.
Me: (smiles uncomfortably)

and another conversation with an old lady at Wal Mart:

Old Lady: Hi big boy! What are you eating there? (Captain Destructo is covered in graham cracker shmutz) How old is he?
Me: She just turned one.
Old Lady: Oh, I thought she was a boy! She is in pink though (as I walk away, to check out lady) I thought for sure that was a boy!

I even sucked it up and put her in big, obnoxious bows, which did help in curbing the "what a cute little boy" statements. Now she's older and has learned that she doesn't have to wear big, obnoxious bows if she doesn't want to, so she pulls them down and lets them hang around her neck like a bowtie. I feel that a bowtie would only exacerbate the problem so she is bow-less. I could pierce her ears, but don't get my started on the ridiculousness of baby ear piercing (if you are offended by this, I'm sorry, but it's my blog. You can start your own on the virtues of baby ear piercing). Even if I didn't think it was totally tacky, I cry every time she gets her shots so I don't think I could deal with inflicting unnecessary pain. And that's just one more thing I'd have to worry about keeping clean-I've got enough to worry about, like whether or not anyone is going to notice the rugburn on her cheek (I thought rugburn on the face only happened in college!).

Moral of the story: if you don't know the gender, just say "what a cute baby." And, for goodness sake, if the baby is in pink IT'S A GIRL.

Worrying is like a rocking chair...

...it gives you something to do, but it gets you nowhere (author unknown).

I have always been the queen of worry. Before Captain Destructo, I worried that I would never get a job, never get married, die a lonely old woman with dozens of cats, etc., etc. When we decided to start trying to get pregnant (and what a boat load of fun that was! I took so many ovulation/pregnancy tests I should have just peed on a hundred dollar bill), after a few months of trying I was convinced that I was barren and was googling adoption and IVF options.

Obviously, I did eventually get pregnant, which intensified the worrying about a million percent, especially in the first trimester. I was uber excited, so I told people I was pregnant as soon as the stick dried, then immediately realized that if something were to go wrong I'd have to tell everyone I knew. At my 8 week doctor's appointment my OB tried and failed to hear the heartbeat (and, having read about 6 months ahead in What to Expect While You're Expecting, I knew this was normal, however I hoped I would have a baby with a superhuman heart), I FREAKED out so badly that she scheduled an ultrasound (as a side note, a baby at 8 weeks gestation looks roughly like a tadpole with no legs, or a jellybean. I was like "should I act like I am emotionally touched by seeing this weird bloblike creature in my abdomen? Will the songrapher think I am heartless and call CPS pre-emptively?"). Thank God Captain Destructo was an active baby (fetus I guess). Whenever I didn't feel her move for a few hours (or seconds) I would jab around in my belly until I felt a body part, then press on that body part until it moved.

Since Captain Destructo has been born, I haven't worried so much about if she was dead or sleeping, mostly since she never slept long enough for me to have to wonder. But the littlest things freak me out-like just today I heard you're not supposed to put baby girls in a bubble bath because of the UTI risk. So I've been worrying about her poor hoo-ha all day long. And surely the child is destined for a life of ADD, since I recently heard that having the TV on "for background noise" as I did for oh, the first 3 months straight of her life, is just as bad as having your kid watch it (but she'll be a very worldly, well-dressed dummy as we mostly watched What Not to Wear). And every time we go to storytime at the library I feel like the other moms are more interactive with their kids than I am (I catch myself just sitting listening to the book), so hopefully those kids won't be in her kindergarten class. They'll be all into multiplication while Captain Destructo can't count past 5 because Mommy would only count with her during the commercials.

Come back and check on me in a few years because I'm sure I'll be writing about how worried I am about her making friends and having a prom date, and if anyone will make fun of her cankles in high school (hopefully she'll outgrow them). I think I'm going to go take a Mylanta.

An Open Letter to the Ridiculously Skinny Girl at the Gym

Dear Ridiculously Skinny Girl at the Gym,

Congratulations at being ridiculously skinny! Really, I'm thrilled for you. I just want to let you know that we can all tell you are ridiculously skinny just by seeing you in your short shorts and skimpy tank top. Therefore, it is not necessary to remove said tank top in the middle of aerobics class and complete the class in your sports bra. However, thank you for standing front and center so that the rest of us could see your abs. I did appreciate how last week, instead of removing your tank top completely, you folded it halfway up. That way you maintained your dignity while still allowing us to see your abs.
I will assume you are not a mother, since you are (a) ridiculously skinny, and (b) not wearing t-shirts with old breastmilk stains and holey gym shorts like the rest of us. So thank you for still taking the aerobics classes at 10 AM with all of the moms, and reminding us what we could look like if not for our saggy boobs, stretched out belly buttons, and stretch marks. I look forward to seeing you again tomorrow, as I assume that's where your scantily clad self will be. I'll be the one in the back with the mismatched socks and shorts that are rolled up sixteen times because I wore them when I was pregnant and stretched the elastic past it's maximum.

Love,
Me