Preggo my Eggo Update: 18 weeks down, 22 to go.

So the place where I work has a lot of places to go to get deliciously-horrible-for-you food. Funnel cakes, corn dogs, chicken strips, you name it (no, I am not a carney at the fair). It has over three places to get ice cream, alone. 

Here is one of my biggest pet peeves: when I ask someone to go for a walk to get ice cream with me and they reply, “I don’t need any but I will go with you to get some.” F*ck you. Yes, I want to take my fat a** to the ice cream stand and wolf down a hot fudge sundae while you sit there and watch me. Are you serious? 

Last time I was pregnant, I had a girl say she would go for ice cream with me only for us to get there and have this happen: I order my ice cream, turn to her to ask what she was getting and she replied, “Oh, nothing. I am lactose intolerant.” I kid you not, I seriously almost slapped her in the face and cried. It was the meanest thing anyone had ever done to me. I canceled my order, went back to my office and told her to never talk to me again. She thought I was overreacting. I still don’t really like her. That was two years ago. 

I think there should be some sort of pregnancy friendship clause. When the pregnant person wants to eat something, you have to belly up to the nacho bar with them. No questions asked. No talking about the calories or where all this fat will land on your body. Nothing. Just pass on the margarita, ask for an extra side of guacamole and start snarfing the 'chos along with your preggo amiga. That is what true friendship is.

18-week ice cream bump

18-week update: I am just fatter because I eat ice cream five days a week. Lay off me, I’m starving.

A Helpful Hint

Lately I have been having some unbearable gas pains. Fun! I have survived all of this with a little thing we like to call "FP" in our family. I learned FP from a friend who learned it from her mama. Since FP is such a wonderful and relatively unknown scientific method of gas removal, I thought I would sprinkle some knowledge on you all and help my fellow ladies with a rumbly in their tumbly. 

You see, FP stands for Fart Position. It is life changing. When in this position, all the gas that is trapped in your gut magically gurgles down and out of your system. Like, instantly. Within about five seconds of being in FP, you will release the most glorious fart you have ever released. This is all of that uncomfortable air that has been trapped in your body. It is glorious.

Here is how FP goes down: get down on all fours. With your knees on the floor and your butt up, put the front of your body as low to the ground as you can get it. Basics: butt in the air, boobs on the floor. Once in this position, wait for the magic to happen. Repeat as necessary.

For those of you who are grossed out by this post, I am sorry. I also laugh at the fact that I am about 99% sure you will still try FP once you are alone. FP: Learn it, love it, live it, ladies.

The grossest things my child has done to date.

What's a few boogers, between family?

• While ADD Daddy and I were laughing at The Quiet Contemplator’s antics during dinner one night, she decided to plant her finger in her nostril. Wondering what was so funny, she removed the finger, along with a slimy new friend. She then proceeded to put said finger, and its new friend, in her mouth. Our commentary went like this, “ew. Ew! EWWW!”

• While playing outside, The Quiet Contemplator handed me something and said, “Rock.” Super excited at a new word that she both understood and could say out loud, I said, “Yes, sweetheart. Good job. Rock.” Only to look down and find that what she had indeed handed me was not a rock but in fact a prehistoric dried out dog turd.
• After watching ADD Daddy and I stuff our faces with Oreos one night, The Quiet Contemplator picked up on how to dip cookies in milk. The next day, I walk into the bathroom to find her taking a foam bath letter “O” and dipping it into the toilet and then putting it into her mouth. Honey, that is not a cookie and that is NOT milk.

Preggo My Eggo Update: 17 weeks down, 23 to go.

So I am going to start giving Preggo My Eggo updates on Fridays, when my weeks change. As of today, I am officially 17 weeks. I am finally starting to feel movements and look a little more pregnant than fat. In fact, a guy that I work with has been eyeing my stomach for the last few weeks. He finally got up the nerve to actually ask me if I was having another baby this week. I replied, “Yes, and I have noticed you staring.”

We had an ultrasound last week to check on some things and though it was late enough in the game to see the sex, baby kept his/her legs crossed. Hey, at least they are modest. We will give it another go on August 10. 

I will also try to post a pic every week of my chubbiness progression. Excuse the creepy headless shots as I can’t get far enough away from my desk to get a full-on image. 

I know it is creepy that you can't see my head, but I am too lazy to do anything about it.

I think my family needs a witchdoctor. STAT.

I think my family may have a curse on it. In the last three weeks, the following events have occurred:

1.     The Quite Contemplator started getting her second molars.
2.     The Quite Contemplator got the stomach flu.
3.     I got the stomach flu.
4.     Me and My Sponsor ended up in the hospital for dehydration.
5.     Said stomach flu and hospital visit caused me to miss the solo Eddie Vedder show that I have been dreaming about for the last six months.
6.     ADD Daddy got walking pneumonia.
7.     The Quite Contemplator got hand, foot and mouth (and butt) disease.
8.     Our decently new dishwasher crapped out on us—for good.
9.     My lost license was found by a convicted rapist who is on parole and wants to be my pen pal (no, seriously).

I am starting to feel like the Old Yeller of families. Maybe someone should take us all out behind the shed and put us out of our misery. Is it possible that another affliction could actually hit my family in the next week?

What’s your guess as to the next plague that will lay itself upon my household? Mad cow disease? Anal warts? Something involving the DMV?

More Man Hands Mayhem

So I come home from work one Friday to find my new car all shiny and freshly washed. My husband had spent the day hand-washing it so it would look all spanky clean for me to drive up to the wineries with my girlfriends who were visiting the next day. What a sweet man I married. Before said girlfriends arrived in town, I had to go to the store to stock the house with the appropriate amount of booze and cheese-filled goodness. So, I headed out to the garage to take my shiny new wheels for a spin.

Much to my horror, I noticed that the driver’s side door of my new car no longer had the sheen of a new paint job, but more resembled the flat, scratched-up crappy paint job of a beater you would find at the junkyard. I go back in the house and the following conversation ensued:

Me: Did you do something to the door of my car when you were washing it today?
Him: No. Why?
Me: Because the paint is all scratched up in a weird circular pattern.
Him: All I did was clean the bird poop off of the side of it.
Me: What did you clean it with?
Him: The green sponge in the sink.
Me: You mean the green scratch pad in the sink?
Him: Yeah. Why?
Me: Because that is a heavy-duty scratch pad, not a sponge.
Him: So?
Me: So it not only takes crusted food off pans but it also takes the paint off of cars.
Him: I think you are making a bigger deal of this than it really is.
Me: Seriously? You basically used a BRILLO PAD to clean bird sh*t off of my car.
Him: It isn’t that big of a deal.
Me: Seriously? I have owned that car for less than a month and now the paint is ruined on the driver’s side.
Him: It isn’t that big of a deal.
Me: Seriously? Do you think using a scratch pad to wash the car was a GOOD idea?
Him: It isn’t that big of a deal.
Me: Seriously? Just get me a beer and don’t talk to me for a while.

Argh! What a pretty pink eye patch you have, matey.

So my daughter was diagnosed as farsighted with amblyopia and strabismus. WTF does that mean? She can’t see things up close and has a wonky (lazy) eye. The cure for the former: glasses. The cure for the latter two: an eye patch—argh!

The glasses people find adorable. Who doesn’t love a toddler with a lollypop head and glasses strapped on? The eye patch, however, is a different story. We get everything from, “My god, what happened to her eye?” to people talking to her like she will always come in last place in the Special Olympics. Seriously, people? It’s an eye patch, not a wooden leg. She even has a pretty pink felt eye patch that fits over her glasses and makes her look even more adorable.

When we found out what she had, I felt really lucky. We found it early and it is extremely curable. We weren’t dealing with chemo and a wheelchair. All we had to deal with was a tiny pink eye patch. For now, people’s rude comments only bother me. What I worry more about is when she is a bit older and they bother her. I really don’t want to have to punch someone in the neck in the toilet paper aisle in Target, but if they make my baby cry or feel uncomfortable, I won't hesitate.

Attack of the Man Hands

So my husband is a wonderful man. He does the dishes, actually knows when our daughter eats, sleeps and poops, makes late-night mozzarella stick runs for me when I am pregnant, cleans the litterbox, etc. But, unfortunately, he is still a man. Therefore, he has what I refer to as “Man Hands”. This dreaded affliction causes him to do some very stupid things. See below for just a taste of the good stuff.



The Wet Vac Incident

So my poor obese cat frequently gets UTIs. The unfortunate result of this is a sick kitty cat that pees in the house. One such day, my husband found the puddle on the carpet and said he would clean it. Sweet. Thanks. Yeah, I regretted that response five minutes later. I come back in the room to find my husband using our regular vaccum cleaner to vaccum up the pee. The rest of the conversation went something like this:

Me: WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
Him: Cleaning up the cat pee.
Me: With the VACCUM?
Him: Yeah. Why?
Me: Because it isn’t a WET VAC!
Him: What’s the difference?
Me: The ability to vacuum up WET things.
Him: Why does it matter.
Me: Because now there is cat pee in the electronic-y part of the vacuum and cat pee in the dust bin.
Him: So?
Me: So that probably isn’t good.
Him: So?
Me: So you get to do all of the vacuuming from now on.


All Dish Soaps are Not Created Equal

One Tuesday morning, my husband was nice enough to do all the dishes and start the dishwasher before he headed out for work. Awesome, right? Wrong. Twenty minutes later, I hear a weird sound from the kitchen. I go in to check on it and find my entire kitchen flooding with water and foam. “WTF?,” I think to myself. Then it hits me: the hubs used dish soap in place of dishwasher detergent. After I clean up the kitchen, I call to confirm.

Me: Did you put dish soap in the dishwasher instead of dish detergent?
Him: Yeah. We were out of detergent. Why?
Me: Because it flooded the entire kitchen.
Him: That sucks. Why did it do that?
Me: Because you can’t put dish soap in the dishwasher.
Him: Why?
Me: Because the detergent you use in the dishwasher is non-foaming. Dish soap isn’t.
Him: Well that’s stupid.
Me: Not really. It’s science or something.
Him: Well that’s stupid.
Me: Um, OK. Just don’t do that again.
Him: OK.

Preggo my Eggo Update: 15 weeks down, 25 to go.Fat vs Pregnant Limbo

So here I am, stuck in the wonderful limbo that is "Is she pregnant or just fat?"

15 weeks is a wonderful time for many reasons:

1. You finally don't want to barf your guts out at the mere thought of certain things.
2. You finally have the energy to actually get out of bed and stay there long enough to watch an entire episode of Master Chef.
3. Things are a little more stable in the is-this-just-my-uterus-expanding-or-am-I-having-a-miscarriage department.
4. You don't have to fake drink so the people you work with won't spread the news when you are a mere four weeks along.

15 weeks is a suck time for one reason:

1. You are starting to show when you are nekid, but when you are clothed and in public, you just look like you decided to throw caution to the wind and spend your summer downing cheeseburgers and milkshakes.

Now, don't get me wrong, pregnancy is the perfect time to throw caution to the wind and spend your summer downing cheeseburgers and milkshakes. But, this is only cool once you are past the 20 week mark and obviously pregnant. Until then, the super fitness freaks at my gym will continue to look at me with disappointment every time I walk in and my shirt is a little tighter and I have to walk a little more of my run. Granted, I could just tell them my eggo is preggo, but I don't know these dudes and how do you exactly bring up the contents of your uterus to a dude who you usually only talk to about squat thrusts?