There are a few things I wish I knew before we decided to try to get pregnant. In my more desperate moments, I imagine myself going back in time and having a chat with my pre-TTC (Trying To Concieve, in the lingo) self:
1. You will never again have time off. Oh, sure, you'll get some occasional moments where you don't have a child hanging off of you, when you achieve escape velocity and find yourself in a space (car? store? mall? town? state?) where your kids aren't. But, you'll never get to just Blithely Walk Out The Door ever again. So, make sure you enjoy it now. At 10pm, just because you can, leave the house. Go outside. Walk down the street. One night, just stay up until 3am (or 4, or heck, even 5!) and then go to sleep and -- here's the really awesome part -- wake up when you want to. Revel in the fact that if you get yourself hungover, you don't have to still get up anyway and make breakfast and change that disgusting diaper.
2. Sleep Deprivation is torture. Yeah, you know it in an intellectual way now, but after the kid you will be on a first name basis with it. You will learn to dread a night waking the way you dread shots. So enjoy the unbroken sleep you are getting now, cuz it's a thing of the past.
3. Pregnancy is NOT easy. At least not for you. You're going to miscarry, twice. The miscarriages will leave you unable to invest in any gestation until about 24 weeks have passed, and even then you will be unable to plan for the baby until you begin to panic that you have no diapers and the baby is due in 2 weeks. Your second pregnancy will end poorly, and leave you with anxiety attacks for years to come. Your fourth pregnancy will be so uncomfortable that you will wonder daily what the fuck you were thinking.
4. There will be days that you will wish you didn't have kids.
5. Fortunately, there will be many more days you can't imagine not having kids.
6. The second child is 4x more work.
May 21, 2008
May 9, 2008
Installations
Mr LSG and I were putting together The Baby's crib last weekend. The Toddler, who is not a Toddler any more but rather a Preschooler, wanted to help so badly that she even said "Please?". So, we gave her little jobs to do -- carry this sheet here, move that stuffed animal over there, put The Baby's diapers here. She soon realized that we were fobbing things off on her, and the important work was being done in the middle of the room where the nuts and bolts and crib pieces were scattered on the floor.
By this point, the only thing left to install in the crib was the support for the mattress. It's a metal frame laced with springs (little finger catchers) and metal side supports that scissor open and closed to raise and lower the mattress base. Yep, I said scissor. Little finger choppers. Luckily, she usually respects us when we say "this is a Mommy and a Daddy job," which we very quickly deemed this little project.
But she Really Really Really wanted to help. She held the bolts and wing nuts for us, handing them to us as we needed them and watching us hold the screwdriver to hold the bolt still while we turned the wing nuts. "Mommy, I can do it!" She proclaimed, anxious to try before it was all done. I reminded her that it was a Mommy and a Daddy job, not a Preschooler job due to the sharp edges on which Daddy had already managed to slice his finger (oh yeah, such a safe crib. Actually, this part of the crib is out of reach once installed).
She thought about it for a little while, and then piped up: "Only Mommies and Daddies screw."
By this point, the only thing left to install in the crib was the support for the mattress. It's a metal frame laced with springs (little finger catchers) and metal side supports that scissor open and closed to raise and lower the mattress base. Yep, I said scissor. Little finger choppers. Luckily, she usually respects us when we say "this is a Mommy and a Daddy job," which we very quickly deemed this little project.
But she Really Really Really wanted to help. She held the bolts and wing nuts for us, handing them to us as we needed them and watching us hold the screwdriver to hold the bolt still while we turned the wing nuts. "Mommy, I can do it!" She proclaimed, anxious to try before it was all done. I reminded her that it was a Mommy and a Daddy job, not a Preschooler job due to the sharp edges on which Daddy had already managed to slice his finger (oh yeah, such a safe crib. Actually, this part of the crib is out of reach once installed).
She thought about it for a little while, and then piped up: "Only Mommies and Daddies screw."
May 5, 2008
Sensitive
This weekend, Mr LSG and I went to see our first movie in the theater in at least a year. We chose Iron Man, partially because the reviews were good (Mr LSG) and partially because of Robert Downey Jr (me). Unfortunately, I didn't know the backstory of how Iron Man -- the character -- came to be, or I would have thought twice. You see, depictions of torture and I don't mix. I can still remember watching Reservoir Dogs and having to leave the room when they were cutting off someone's ear -- I can hear the moans of the character as I type. And that was 10 years ago.
Anyway, let me try to explain my sensitivity. I *feel* the pain that the actor is portraying. In that instant, my mind flashes an image of it happening to me or someone I love. I know it's coming sometimes, but often not. Usually, I'm just cruising along, watching the spectacle, then WHAM! Full technicolor image of my fingers being twisted off. I can feel the water filling my lungs and my last breath leaving. My kidneys disintigrating under that blow from the villan's steel tipped boots.
Mr LSG (and others) watch me go still and silent, cover my eyes, sometimes moan a little and wonder what the heck is wrong. It's just a movie, for goodness sake! It's not real. I remember watching Titanic, a full year after my father had died. I thought, cool, CGI, great SFX, let's go! And about an hour in, I thought "whoa, this is a huge mistake" as I watched the terror and tragedy unfold. A corner of my mind was still able to appreciate the mastery of Cameron's creation, but the other %90 of me was sobbing as if my heart was rending anew. I was LIVING the tragedy with the actors. I can still see out of the corner of my mind's eye my best friend and her husband watching me sob with a mix of humour ("isn't this funny that we're tearing up in this disaster movie") and shock ("wow, she's really coming undone").
Now that I have kids, the mental images have gone in a new direction. Just watching the news can send my Demon of Imagination into fits of ecstasy. For instance, a story of a sect in India that drops infants from a two story building onto a stretched sheet as an initiation rite of some sort has me imagining for days my children meeting that fate. The images pop into my mind unbidden and unbanishable. I can barely pay attention to the story to find out that the kids aren't harmed bodily by the drop because I'm imagining the terror they feel. Now you know why I refuse to watch Michael Jackson dangling his kids over a balcony. As my stomach does a million flips, I squeeze my eyes shut in a vain attempt to stop my brain from finishing the accident-in-waiting.
Is this visual sensitivity down to Mom and Dad striking disaster/horror movies from my view list, preventing me from growing a thick mental skin? Or was I always this way and that's why they didn't let me watch those things? My Grandmother used to refuse to watch "nastiness". I used to think she was just old. Now I wonder if she was sensitive too. I do know that after Dad died, I suddenly had to strike death from my movie/tv show theme list as I just couldn't handle it. Especially if the theme was Daddy-dying-leaving-daughter-to-bravely-soldier-on. Anyway, I can't ask my parents any of these questions, so I'll never know. (There, did you feel the pain? The loss? It's always there. Like an iceberg, the raw exposed tip is there, worn down by the years, not a sharp or as big as before. But the large, gaping pain is underneath the surface. You may think you are avoiding hitting it, but man, it's too big.)
Anyway, let me try to explain my sensitivity. I *feel* the pain that the actor is portraying. In that instant, my mind flashes an image of it happening to me or someone I love. I know it's coming sometimes, but often not. Usually, I'm just cruising along, watching the spectacle, then WHAM! Full technicolor image of my fingers being twisted off. I can feel the water filling my lungs and my last breath leaving. My kidneys disintigrating under that blow from the villan's steel tipped boots.
Mr LSG (and others) watch me go still and silent, cover my eyes, sometimes moan a little and wonder what the heck is wrong. It's just a movie, for goodness sake! It's not real. I remember watching Titanic, a full year after my father had died. I thought, cool, CGI, great SFX, let's go! And about an hour in, I thought "whoa, this is a huge mistake" as I watched the terror and tragedy unfold. A corner of my mind was still able to appreciate the mastery of Cameron's creation, but the other %90 of me was sobbing as if my heart was rending anew. I was LIVING the tragedy with the actors. I can still see out of the corner of my mind's eye my best friend and her husband watching me sob with a mix of humour ("isn't this funny that we're tearing up in this disaster movie") and shock ("wow, she's really coming undone").
Now that I have kids, the mental images have gone in a new direction. Just watching the news can send my Demon of Imagination into fits of ecstasy. For instance, a story of a sect in India that drops infants from a two story building onto a stretched sheet as an initiation rite of some sort has me imagining for days my children meeting that fate. The images pop into my mind unbidden and unbanishable. I can barely pay attention to the story to find out that the kids aren't harmed bodily by the drop because I'm imagining the terror they feel. Now you know why I refuse to watch Michael Jackson dangling his kids over a balcony. As my stomach does a million flips, I squeeze my eyes shut in a vain attempt to stop my brain from finishing the accident-in-waiting.
Is this visual sensitivity down to Mom and Dad striking disaster/horror movies from my view list, preventing me from growing a thick mental skin? Or was I always this way and that's why they didn't let me watch those things? My Grandmother used to refuse to watch "nastiness". I used to think she was just old. Now I wonder if she was sensitive too. I do know that after Dad died, I suddenly had to strike death from my movie/tv show theme list as I just couldn't handle it. Especially if the theme was Daddy-dying-leaving-daughter-to-bravely-soldier-on. Anyway, I can't ask my parents any of these questions, so I'll never know. (There, did you feel the pain? The loss? It's always there. Like an iceberg, the raw exposed tip is there, worn down by the years, not a sharp or as big as before. But the large, gaping pain is underneath the surface. You may think you are avoiding hitting it, but man, it's too big.)
May 1, 2008
Still Searching
There's a church nearby that is looking for a priest. They've been looking for one for at least a year now. I know this because I drive by once a week, and there's a rather large sign outside in the parking lot that says "SEARCHING FOR A PRIEST". This isn't terribly noteworthy to me, really, other than the method of looking for said priest. I thought there were committees to set up and internal organizational dictums to follow. I didn't know that one could just advertise for a priest and one would magically (divinely?) show up. (Full disclosure: I have a thriving disdain for organized religion. I was shocked -- shocked! -- to read somewhere that %95 of the people of the world believe in God. In my ego-centric world view, I thought that at least half of the world felt as I did.)
However, the last time I drove past the church there was an addendum to the sign. Someone had petulantly added to the top of the sign these equally large red letters: "STILL". As in: "Goddamn it, we're STILL looking for a priest." Or, "I know you drive by every day and this sign has faded into the scenery, but don't ignore this, we're still searching."
Do they think that priests looking for a - what, parish? - church drive around looking for big signs? Do they think that someone (like me) would say "Hey, I just happen to know an out of work priest!" And in the Boston area, isn't that dangerous -- any out of work priests may be that way because they um... took liberties with altar boys?
However, the last time I drove past the church there was an addendum to the sign. Someone had petulantly added to the top of the sign these equally large red letters: "STILL". As in: "Goddamn it, we're STILL looking for a priest." Or, "I know you drive by every day and this sign has faded into the scenery, but don't ignore this, we're still searching."
Do they think that priests looking for a - what, parish? - church drive around looking for big signs? Do they think that someone (like me) would say "Hey, I just happen to know an out of work priest!" And in the Boston area, isn't that dangerous -- any out of work priests may be that way because they um... took liberties with altar boys?
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