If I eat asparagus, then breastfeed, does the babies' pee smell funny?
Also, I'd like to note that in the past week, I've actually had the following questions asked of me in a completely clinical setting.
"Can I see your nipple?"
"Is it OK if I touch your breast?"
The sad part is, I didn't even bat an eye and it took me days to realize how funny that was. And I wasn't even drunk. Although the vicodin might have had something to do with that.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
So this is how it's gonna be
Jerry, you asked "what's next?"
Well, I'm not entirely sure, but I think I got a pretty good clue Sunday morning.
I threw open the front door at 9:30 a.m. to greet the day in my cozy robe (thanks, Nora!) and sheepskin slippers from the State Fair, about half my hair back in a ponytail and the other half sticking out at crazy angles.
At that exact moment, Miss Adventure was walking up my front steps, looking like freaking Audrey Hepburn. She had a jacket for me on a hanger in one hand and copper-colored elbow-length gloves in the other. Her hair was pulled back in a stylish 'do, and she was wearing sunglasses, a black coat with a fur-trimmed collar that matched the gloves, a sequined skirt, black tights and the cutest damn pumps I've ever seen.
"Are you on your way to church?" I asked, knowing damn good and well Miss Adventure is as much of a godless heathen as I am.
"God no, I'm on my way home," she replied.
And so begins the Year(s) of Living Vicariously.
Well, I'm not entirely sure, but I think I got a pretty good clue Sunday morning.
I threw open the front door at 9:30 a.m. to greet the day in my cozy robe (thanks, Nora!) and sheepskin slippers from the State Fair, about half my hair back in a ponytail and the other half sticking out at crazy angles.
At that exact moment, Miss Adventure was walking up my front steps, looking like freaking Audrey Hepburn. She had a jacket for me on a hanger in one hand and copper-colored elbow-length gloves in the other. Her hair was pulled back in a stylish 'do, and she was wearing sunglasses, a black coat with a fur-trimmed collar that matched the gloves, a sequined skirt, black tights and the cutest damn pumps I've ever seen.
"Are you on your way to church?" I asked, knowing damn good and well Miss Adventure is as much of a godless heathen as I am.
"God no, I'm on my way home," she replied.
And so begins the Year(s) of Living Vicariously.
Friday, October 17, 2008
and just like that
B.I.G. is a mom.
Corndog and Tater Tot made their worldly debut a few minutes before midnight on Thursday, Oct. 16. They're early, of course--33 weeks instead of the full-term 40 weeks--but weighed in at 5 lbs. 3 oz. and 5 lbs. 4 oz. Big beefy kids. They're in the neonatal intensive care unit and will be for a while, until their lungs mature, but they're all there and they're beautiful.
I'm loopy from all the drugs in my system, plus I just, you know, gave birth to twins, so I'm out. Pics later.
Corndog and Tater Tot made their worldly debut a few minutes before midnight on Thursday, Oct. 16. They're early, of course--33 weeks instead of the full-term 40 weeks--but weighed in at 5 lbs. 3 oz. and 5 lbs. 4 oz. Big beefy kids. They're in the neonatal intensive care unit and will be for a while, until their lungs mature, but they're all there and they're beautiful.
I'm loopy from all the drugs in my system, plus I just, you know, gave birth to twins, so I'm out. Pics later.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
here we go!
OK, I had this great post written about how I miss the days when men would talk to my breasts instead of to my face, because now they just talk to my belly, which I think is worse. But before I could post it, my water done went and broke. So instead, I'm here in the hospital and they're getting ready to give me a spinal and wheel me to the OR. Wish us luck!
Oh, and no worries....Nora's here and taking lots of pictures.
Oh, and no worries....Nora's here and taking lots of pictures.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
This is why I moved away
My sister came to visit me this weekend, and to provide some much-needed help around the house, specifically, cleaning the massive amounts of fur off the floors, which I haven't been able to reach in weeks.
She also proved invaluable in helping to teach me some of that patience I'm sure I'll need as a parent. Within minutes of her arrival, she offered the keen observation, as I sat on a stool in the kitchen making myself a snack, that "You look like Leadpipe."
I don't believe I've officially introduced Leadpipe here. He's our father, who in his last years of declining health was forced to give up everything in life that gave him happiness, except food. He had to be buried in one of those jumbo-sized extra-wide caskets, his suit jacket cut up the middle in the back so it would button in front.
Apparently I'm acting more like Leadpipe these days too, because I offered her a heartfelt "Fuck you" in return.
Later over dinner, after she loudly asked me if I'd be able to squeeze into the restaurant booth, she helpfully pointed out that I am not in my 20s anymore and that "You know, your body's not going to bounce back from this."
I politely informed her that she was not, in fact, helping me.
"Well, it's not. You're going to sag all over the place. Maybe you'll make enough money to get some corrective surgery."
I suggested that our mother, who gave birth to me, her fifth child, at age 38, didn't look all that bad.
"No," she countered, "Mom was pretty droopy."
Well, I said, I guess I'll just start having sex with the lights out. Assuming I ever again find someone willing to have sex with me, given my grotesquely deformed body.
She took the hint, changing the subject to how she can't believe I'm not freaking out, because she would be if she still had as much to do as I do before the babies get here. And how actually, she wouldn't be freaking out because she'd have her husband, but if it was just her with no husband, she'd be a mess.
Much better.
Today we went to the dog park. As she watched me struggle to get up from the picnic table to pull the Monster off the back end of an eager-to-please golden retriever, she said, "You know it's not going to get any easier."
Seriously, would a "Only a few more weeks" have killed her?
Back home, I tried to help her out as best I could, taking frequent breaks on the couch to admire the skilled tradesman with the cute turned-up nose and the long curly hair installing new windows in my living room. (Side note--this is an unexpected fringe benefit of working for The Man, that I can afford to have attractive men come work on my house.)
She examined the new double stroller, which Crazy Cat Lady and I successfully assembled with only minimal cursing. Noting its heft, she suggested "You'd better start working on those back muscles."
OK. Should I start my new workout regimen now, when I can't bend or turn at the waist, or perhaps wait until I'm recovering from a C-section while simultaneously trying to feed and take care of two newborns?
Blessedly, she had to leave after less than 24 hours. She called later to tell me she made it home and threatened to come to Indy to cook Thanksgiving dinner this year. I wonder if my therapist has Sunday appointments?
She also proved invaluable in helping to teach me some of that patience I'm sure I'll need as a parent. Within minutes of her arrival, she offered the keen observation, as I sat on a stool in the kitchen making myself a snack, that "You look like Leadpipe."
I don't believe I've officially introduced Leadpipe here. He's our father, who in his last years of declining health was forced to give up everything in life that gave him happiness, except food. He had to be buried in one of those jumbo-sized extra-wide caskets, his suit jacket cut up the middle in the back so it would button in front.
Apparently I'm acting more like Leadpipe these days too, because I offered her a heartfelt "Fuck you" in return.
Later over dinner, after she loudly asked me if I'd be able to squeeze into the restaurant booth, she helpfully pointed out that I am not in my 20s anymore and that "You know, your body's not going to bounce back from this."
I politely informed her that she was not, in fact, helping me.
"Well, it's not. You're going to sag all over the place. Maybe you'll make enough money to get some corrective surgery."
I suggested that our mother, who gave birth to me, her fifth child, at age 38, didn't look all that bad.
"No," she countered, "Mom was pretty droopy."
Well, I said, I guess I'll just start having sex with the lights out. Assuming I ever again find someone willing to have sex with me, given my grotesquely deformed body.
She took the hint, changing the subject to how she can't believe I'm not freaking out, because she would be if she still had as much to do as I do before the babies get here. And how actually, she wouldn't be freaking out because she'd have her husband, but if it was just her with no husband, she'd be a mess.
Much better.
Today we went to the dog park. As she watched me struggle to get up from the picnic table to pull the Monster off the back end of an eager-to-please golden retriever, she said, "You know it's not going to get any easier."
Seriously, would a "Only a few more weeks" have killed her?
Back home, I tried to help her out as best I could, taking frequent breaks on the couch to admire the skilled tradesman with the cute turned-up nose and the long curly hair installing new windows in my living room. (Side note--this is an unexpected fringe benefit of working for The Man, that I can afford to have attractive men come work on my house.)
She examined the new double stroller, which Crazy Cat Lady and I successfully assembled with only minimal cursing. Noting its heft, she suggested "You'd better start working on those back muscles."
OK. Should I start my new workout regimen now, when I can't bend or turn at the waist, or perhaps wait until I'm recovering from a C-section while simultaneously trying to feed and take care of two newborns?
Blessedly, she had to leave after less than 24 hours. She called later to tell me she made it home and threatened to come to Indy to cook Thanksgiving dinner this year. I wonder if my therapist has Sunday appointments?
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