Last September I had dinner with my dear, childhood friends Liz and Donna. Liz was in her third trimester with twin babies (her 3rd and 4th kids), and I recall that she was lamenting her overall state of discomfort. She had weeks left before she was officially full term, but Liz said she would have let the doctor rip her open that moment—right on a table in the middle of Panera Bread—to end her suffering.
Okay, those are my melodramatic words, not hers.
I was at the barely-there baby bump phase of this pregnancy, and I remember encouraging/lecturing her on the importance of carrying full term and the absolute atrocity of c-sections for the sake of the mother’s comfort or convenience. Shame on these mothers for wanting to rip a child out of the womb before he or she is fully developed, I thought to myself. Shame on them!
Oh…stupid, stupid Katy.
There comes a time in the natural course of parenthood when a mom or a dad realizes they have to let their little ones go. As parents, we all know it’s coming. And, yet, it doesn’t make that moment any less difficult or emotional.
For some, that moment comes when they send their little ones to day care or preschool for the first time. Many parents experience it every. single. time. their kids reach a new milestone like eating solid foods, potty training, or their first manicure. These parents will post a photo on Facebook and say something ridiculous like, “I can’t believe my little baby is already _________. It seems like only yesterday when _________.”
Then the rest of us roll our eyes and say to ourselves, “Ugh. I’m so sick of hearing about all these perfect parents with their perfect kids. I’m quitting Facebook.”
“I realized somebody oughtta make an alarm clock that sounds like a baby barfing. ‘Cuz you know what? There IS no snoozing’.” —Bill Engvall
I generally give you a chance to finish your breakfast burrito before I throw a vomit quote out there all willy-nilly like that, but I figured this was the best way to kick off my post-Thanksgiving wrap-up.
Get it? Burrito. Wrap-up.
[Someone get this comedic genius her own TV show.]
These past few weeks here in our corporate apartment in Birmingham, Alabama have been challenging to say the least. Brian began his new routine at a regular, 8-5 job for the first time in our marriage. And please believe me, neither of us is complaining. Brian is home every night, and I’m pretty sure the greatest hazards facing him in this particular career field are paper cuts and carpal tunnel.
What has been most challenging for me is the period between 7:30 a.m. and 5:45 p.m. where I have two sets of eyeballs staring at me like I’m supposed to know how to entertain them all day every day.
Do I LOOK like Chuck E Cheese’s?
Don’t answer that.
Last Wednesday I had my first appointment with the doctor who will, Lord willing, deliver our 3rd child on (or hopefully very close to) March 30th. It’s currently November, and I hadn’t seen a doctor since August. Unless you count Dr. Doogie Howser who saw me in the ER after my flu shot. I didn’t talk much about him in my post, but I’m pretty sure he graduated from medical school approximately 15 minutes before he walked into the exam room.
And I know some of you type-A personalities would freak out if you had to wait 3 months for an ultrasound, but we had no choice. In three short months, we packed up our entire lives, left Kansas, semi-moved to my in-law’s place in Georgia, left the military, looked for a new job, found a new job, semi-moved into a corporate apartment in Alabama, found a house, and then found a doctor.
Basically, I’ve been sitting on my pregnant butt eating cheese dip and watching Judge Judy since August.
[She seems like the Judge Judy type. Also, the cheese dip type.]
I could seriously go for some cheese dip right now.
Last week I shared our house hunting adventures in Birmingham, Alabama, but I failed to mention that we’re already here in a corporate apartment close to Brian’s new office. We “moved out” (most of our junk is still there) of my in-laws’ place at the lake in Georgia and decided to live on top of each other in a two bedroom apartment until we close on our house. And thanks to our very nice but very close quarters, I have a whole new appreciation for parents whose children share a bedroom. Seriously, how do y’all do that?
Bedtime around here resembles feeding time in the chimpanzee cage at the zoo.
And I’m not talking about the cute, cuddly chimpanzees who will hug you and pick bugs out of your hair for you. Because those are some helpful, well-trained chimps. I’m talking about the crazy ones who plot against the zookeepers and help each other escape.
Bedtime is like a code red lockdown at the zoo.
If I’m being 100% honest with y’all, I’d have to say that I reluctantly went to BloggyCon ’14 at Cedar Point this past weekend. Veeeeeeery reluctantly. So much so that I was tempted to call the event organizer and just lay out for her all of the reasons I didn’t want to go:
[Well, that’s a negative attitude. Why couldn’t Katy enjoy herself at one of the happiest places on earth?]
I don’t often have great ideas when it comes to parenting/housekeeping/life in general, but when I do, I have to publish them here for the rest of you to behold. So, if you’re keeping track, this is “Super-Duper Parenting Idea” number . . . sorry, there are so many I can’t keep track. This is probably number . . . let me think. Number . . .
Let’s just start with 1 to keep it simple for everyone.
Basically, in 19 months as a mommy blogger, I have had ONE good, original idea.
In case you’ve never made the mistake of telling a toddler that Christmas is coming soon, I’ll give you a quick lesson in cognitive development.
Toddlers have NO concept of time. None.
In fact, toddlers have no sense of any type of measurement. We made the mistake of telling JJ a few weeks ago that he has grown so much recently and that he’ll soon be taller than daddy.
“Soon,” we said . . . like a bunch of stinking amateurs.