At Least I Know He Could Survive in the Wilderness

If I were a believer in previous lives I would think that my son must have been a goat at some point past. The kid (no pun intended) puts literally everything into his mouth. Everything. Excepting, of course, things that we would like him to put into his mouth, like apples and oranges, and maybe a little red meat or lettuce now and again. Dredging up some past posts will reveal that he has eaten cat litter, dirt, and more recently an ant or two.

People at the grocery store or the laboratory will ask before giving stickers to my two-year-old daughter, but little do they know that it’s not her I have to worry about when it comes to tasting/eating non-food items.

For whatever reason my son has settled on paper as his snack of choice. He has digested large sections of paper bookmarks; gnawed through the plastic cover on DVD cases to get to the paper jacket; even chomped through the binding on nice shiny new board books. Gym shorts with elastic pull type waistbands are another satisfying nibble. Keep chewing on the end of one of those things and a person can produce a string about a foot long.

But as I do not believe in past lives or reincarnation I don’t know that I should be afraid of walking in on him puncturing soup cans with his vicious canines. Thankfully he has not attempted to eat shards of glass or metal shavings. In lieu of those things, I suppose I can handle the nail biting and the finger chomping and the booger eating. I guess I shall sew my own silver lining onto that cloud if there isn’t one there already. I’ll just make sure to hide the needle and thread when I’m done.

Haven't I Done This Before?

This is not the first time I have found myself about to give birth. Nor is it the second. Still, I find myself wondering if I’ll know when I’m truly in labor. You know, before the baby starts working its way down the birth canal and onto the kitchen floor.

I realize that this sounds stupid and irrational, but it happens. I’ve heard stories. With my first born, my water broke and that always equals going to the hospital. No brainer. My second was a scheduled induction due to the horrendousness that was my first delivery. So needless to say I’ve never had to time contractions or anything like that.

This pregnancy has been pretty uncomfortable all the way around. I’ve had problems with sciatica since about the three-month mark and the last couple of months have been punctuated by sudden and intense pain in the area of my groin muscle. And those wonderful Braxton Hicks contractions have been around since the beginning and are getting more intense all of the time.

With just two weeks left until the date plotted for baby’s arrival I find myself wondering “will today be the day?” every time the baby even has a hiccup. It’s all very intense and exciting.

Yes, I’ve done this twice and I found that I still needed to prepare a list of things that had to be washed. I couldn’t remember what few items ought to be packed for the stay in the hospital. At least I remember how to burp a baby. And how to kiss and nuzzle that sweet little face. I suppose those are the things that really matter anyway.

We Have a Cricket in Our Cave

The other night my husband returned from spelunking in the basement and informed me that there was a hideous cricket of monstrous size hanging around down there. Given his proclivity toward telling tales that aren’t so much lies as they are pretty darn tall and his intense exaggerations, I smiled and nodded with raised and knowing eyebrows during most of his description.

“…and it has leopard spots, and it can jump really far, it’s huge!…”

“Its back legs have knees!”

“It attacked me!”

Sure. Right. A Cave Cricket with leopard spots that’s as big as a small dog; and right in our basement too. Uh-huh.

Nonetheless, I felt a little cautious as I did the laundry downstairs in its lair. Bugs of Unusual Size seem to be frequenting the underground bottom level of our home. The previous week I had slain a rather large black spider with a gallon bucket of bleach as my only weapon: turns out that a gallon of bleach is a heavy and effective tool for squashing the life out of unwelcome arachnids.

It certainly did not help me feel any better about the cricket of much largeness when a few days later my Dad started telling me about a fellow he works with whose shed is suffering from an infestation of Cave Crickets.

“They’re big and move really fast. They prefer to hide, but when they feel threatened one of their defense mechanisms is to jump at you. And supposedly they have teal blood.”

Nice. So not only did I have some freaky monster hiding out in my basement, I also felt badly about basically telling my husband that he needed to get a grip on his fantastical imagination. I’m afraid that my disbelief may come back to haunt me in the form of a Cave Cricket attacking me and sucking my face off.

*For more fun tales involving my super-silly husband click on "the husband" label below.
*To see a real live picture of the scary monster described in this story click here.

I HEART Tums

I’ve been spending a lot of quality time with my computer in the middle of the night over these last few weeks. Being startled awake by a river of acid rushing up one’s throat and threatening to spill out of the mouth onto the bed sheets is on par with being forced out of sleep by dreams of falling off of tall buildings. How is it that carrying a tiny human inside of one’s body can wreak such havoc?

My fear of the dreaded acid reflux monster has begun to affect my desire to feed myself. Even food that looks delicious and smells even better holds very little attraction for me. I can’t imagine what those poor women who puke for months at a time during pregnancy go through: vomit is infinitely worse than piping hot acid. Unfortunately for me, the little munchkin needs to be fed via my digestive system, so I eat a bit here and there.

Those two little meatballs and their tiny bit of marinara sauce that I ate nine hours ago are probably to blame. I’m sure it had nothing to do with the big ol’ ice cream cone I had shortly after that. Nothing that delicious, eaten outside on a bench with a warm breeze blowing around me, could turn into the evil monster of acidic doom that is currently ravaging my body. Nope. I shall not believe it was the ice cream cone.

Early Morning/Middle of the Night Thoughts on Pregnancy and Womanhood

It’s four o’clock in the morning and I’m awake. I am not a farmer; I do not need to get up to make the doughnuts; nor is there any kind of rowdy sleepover going on in my house. Even though the little munchkin in my belly is sleeping soundly for the moment, the Tiny Ticking Time Bomb is causing my body to be plagued by acid reflux, intense sudden hunger pains, and the constant sense that a bathroom must be found- or else.

Some people say that the third trimester is prime time for a mother’s body to start adjusting to the many sleepless nights ahead of her; considering that this is my third sweet-cheeked baby I personally think that my body should be smart enough to know what’s coming at this point and just bloody sleep already! But alas, I seem to have the multi-tasking mind of a woman/mother, and once the eyelids roll up into my head and I become conscious of my brain activity sleep becomes a thing for sissies and I’m up. At four o’clock in the morning.

So here I am, eating an oatmeal chocolate chip cookie and a banana, praying that the swallow of orange juice I had doesn’t anger the acid that lingers in my throat. At some point I’ll manage to fall back into a semi-sound slumber- probably about five minutes before my daughter wakes up. When it comes to getting out of bed in the morning she has that woman thing going for her too. My husband and the little man will still be fast asleep and that little girl’s eyes will pop open and she’ll be declaring “good morning, Mommy!” from her crib and letting me know that she wants to get out and go downstairs.

I'm Still Mommy, Even When I'm Alone

I found myself childless and without a husband Saturday afternoon: Daddy was at work and the kids had gone to the pool with their Nana and Auntie B. Being eight months pregnant and unable to stand/walk for long periods of time without having extremely uncomfortable pains in my child-bearing regions, I could not go anywhere to meander and window shop at my leisure; I couldn’t even go to the fabric store and touch the bolts and admire the wonderful texture of linens. In other words, I was alone in the house.

It’s kind of an awkward feeling, being in a place that is so often filled with the sound of singing children, arguing children, children running around in circles. A place that was silenced suddenly and now held the sound of a clock ticking, the hum of the refrigerator, the tumble of some clothes in the dryer.

Awkward yes, but also peaceful because at least I knew that the children would be back to fill it with noise again and to tug at my dress, mommy I need a drink; the toys that now lied undisturbed would soon be grasped by two sets of little hands, that’s my car!; sweet little mouths would again pucker up to my own, I love you mommy.

But there is still something strange about lying down for a nap without another warm body, something unnerving about the absence of small bodies climbing on mine. I knew that it would be foolish to deny my tired and very pregnant body a chance to rest, so I forced my busy hands to stop and I stretched out on the couch. After a few minutes I called one of the cats over to lie with me.

Empty house and all, I was still Mommy and that spot in my chest that craves the comfort of something small and warm was crying out to be satisfied. The cat couldn’t quite fulfill that need, but he would have to do. He would just have to do.

May I Borrow a Cup of Sugar?

As our little family walked in the door last night after running a couple of quick errands, one of the men that currently lives in the rental property a couple of doors down called up to my husband from his porch. He wanted to know if Sean smoked; apparently he was trying to bum a cigarette.

I have never smoked and my husband quit shortly after he expressed an interest in dating me because every thing about it just turns my stomach. One or two of my friends smoke, but I don’t generally go around kissing them and they don’t live in my house: so besides the fact that I love them very much and want them to live long and healthy lives, I can handle it.

Now I understand that bumming cigarettes is a relatively normal practice among people who smoke. Perhaps it is just because I am not a member of that social group and am therefore ignorant on what is deemed acceptable, but something in or about my sense of propriety finds it highly offensive to go around asking people, especially people you don’t know, for little rolls of expensive white paper to light on fire.

I don’t go around asking, “Hey, do you eat? Can you make me a piece of toast?”

Or, “Do you like chocolate? Mind if I have a nibble?”

Seriously. People would look at me like I had two heads. Better yet, “Do you have a vehicle? Great! I’m just going to siphon off a couple of gallons.”