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.
Friday, October 17, 2008
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?
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Open letter to residents of Central Indiana
Would you people just get the fuck out of my way? Really, we’d all be much happier. Do you not see the orange “slow-moving vehicle” triangle on the back of my shirt? Did you somehow miss the “Wide Load” banner across my belly?
Well, they’re there, if only implied. It should be fucking obvious that I’m having enough problems getting around without trying to navigate the normal-sized-person hole you left between you and that wall/post/other person/display. And another thing—because my fingers have turned into snack-sized sausages, I will drop whatever I’m carrying on the floor, from whence retrieval will take me approximately 10 minutes, so just stay the fuck out of the hallways at the office, too.
How, you ask, is all this your fault? It just is, dammit. So fuck you.
Oh, and while you’re at it, I am aware I am a (barely) mobile freak show, so spare me the cute knowing smiles and the unsolicited comments. I do not believe you really care how I’m feeling, I know I do not care about your friend/sibling/cousin who’s knocked up or who had twins, and frankly, if I had the energy, I’d just as soon kill you as look at you.
So unless I know you and like you, please just go back to your useless, pathetic excuse for a life and leave me alone. Thanks for your cooperation.
Well, they’re there, if only implied. It should be fucking obvious that I’m having enough problems getting around without trying to navigate the normal-sized-person hole you left between you and that wall/post/other person/display. And another thing—because my fingers have turned into snack-sized sausages, I will drop whatever I’m carrying on the floor, from whence retrieval will take me approximately 10 minutes, so just stay the fuck out of the hallways at the office, too.
How, you ask, is all this your fault? It just is, dammit. So fuck you.
Oh, and while you’re at it, I am aware I am a (barely) mobile freak show, so spare me the cute knowing smiles and the unsolicited comments. I do not believe you really care how I’m feeling, I know I do not care about your friend/sibling/cousin who’s knocked up or who had twins, and frankly, if I had the energy, I’d just as soon kill you as look at you.
So unless I know you and like you, please just go back to your useless, pathetic excuse for a life and leave me alone. Thanks for your cooperation.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
bitch is goin DOWN
So, I left work early Friday for one of my increasingly frequent ultrasound/checkups. I have to take a shuttle bus from my office building to my car, a half-mile away.
I rolled my eyes when I saw the bus was being driven by Lurleen, the shuttle bus driver I'd most like to see meet an untimely and unfortunate death. By itself, her shuttling style is annoying. Not only does she look left, then right, then left again before pulling out, she throws in at least a couple extra glances each way. And then waits if there's a moving vehicle anywhere within a half-mile radius--in a parking lot where the speed limit is 20 mph.
She also waits an inordinate amount of time for people who maybe, just maybe, might be almost ready to exit each building in search of her shuttling services, as if she's god's gift to shuttle busing and there won't be another one coming in a few minutes.
One day I got on the bus and she was playing "The Old Rugged Cross," complete with a spoken-word missive about Jesus' love and being saved. I did not think this was behavior The Man, in his uber-political-correctness, would condone. I should have turned her in while I had the chance, but I was hoping some devout Muslim would take up that cause for me. No such luck.
Not long after, I was the last remaining passenger and she held me captive on the bus, refusing to open the door until I answered questions about when I'm due and what I'm having.
But the last straw was Friday, when, as I struggled to haul my ass up the bus steps with my laptop in tow, she started laughing--cackling, actually--at my ridiculous plight. Listen, bitch, I'm toting 38 extra pounds in the area where my waist used to be, my feet have turned into plump sausages, and I've completely lost any center of gravity I used to have. Am I supposed to be pleased that I'm amusing you??
It's clear to me I must infiltrate the shuttle bus yard and stick peanut butter in her tape player. At a minimum.
As for the aliens living inside me, Corndog is weighing in at approximately 4 pounds, and Tater Tot has caught up and surpassed him, tipping the scales at a hefty 4 pounds, 4 ounces. And they still, in theory, have 8 weeks left to cook. They are big healthy babies, finely representing the hardy German peasant stock from which they come. As for me, I'm going to have to hire someone to push me around in a wheelbarrow before long.
I rolled my eyes when I saw the bus was being driven by Lurleen, the shuttle bus driver I'd most like to see meet an untimely and unfortunate death. By itself, her shuttling style is annoying. Not only does she look left, then right, then left again before pulling out, she throws in at least a couple extra glances each way. And then waits if there's a moving vehicle anywhere within a half-mile radius--in a parking lot where the speed limit is 20 mph.
She also waits an inordinate amount of time for people who maybe, just maybe, might be almost ready to exit each building in search of her shuttling services, as if she's god's gift to shuttle busing and there won't be another one coming in a few minutes.
One day I got on the bus and she was playing "The Old Rugged Cross," complete with a spoken-word missive about Jesus' love and being saved. I did not think this was behavior The Man, in his uber-political-correctness, would condone. I should have turned her in while I had the chance, but I was hoping some devout Muslim would take up that cause for me. No such luck.
Not long after, I was the last remaining passenger and she held me captive on the bus, refusing to open the door until I answered questions about when I'm due and what I'm having.
But the last straw was Friday, when, as I struggled to haul my ass up the bus steps with my laptop in tow, she started laughing--cackling, actually--at my ridiculous plight. Listen, bitch, I'm toting 38 extra pounds in the area where my waist used to be, my feet have turned into plump sausages, and I've completely lost any center of gravity I used to have. Am I supposed to be pleased that I'm amusing you??
It's clear to me I must infiltrate the shuttle bus yard and stick peanut butter in her tape player. At a minimum.
As for the aliens living inside me, Corndog is weighing in at approximately 4 pounds, and Tater Tot has caught up and surpassed him, tipping the scales at a hefty 4 pounds, 4 ounces. And they still, in theory, have 8 weeks left to cook. They are big healthy babies, finely representing the hardy German peasant stock from which they come. As for me, I'm going to have to hire someone to push me around in a wheelbarrow before long.
Monday, August 18, 2008
The Bat Man Cometh
Sunday, the Bat Man (background) showed up in the Silverado Bat Mobile. I was a little concerned about his superpowers, since he has a hunchback and a little bit of a limp. Heck of a Gal said he looked more like an organic farmer. Fortunately, he had his trusty sidekick, Bat Boy, with him.
I even got a glimpse of their secret weapons.
Before I left for one last trip to the State Fair, the Bat Man warned me that despite his best efforts, I might have one last visit from a bat or two that refused to be evicted. Sure enough, there was one flying around the bathroom last night. This morning, I found it hanging out in my closet. I think it's still in the house somewhere. I hope it crawled into a hole and died.
Nonetheless, today I found myself worrying about the bats. I mean, they've been living here for at least the 7 years that I've been here. What happened this morning as dawn broke and they headed back to the roost for a well-deserved day of sleep after a long night of bug-eating, only to find the locks changed? Where did they sleep today? Where will they go? Will they find a new home in the neighborhood? How far will they have to travel to find a new belfry? Will some of them perish in the transition? The babies are barely out of the nest!
It's dark outside, and I don't hear the familiar squeaking. I hope they're OK.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Pregnancy Fun Fact #63
“Pregnancy can make skin tags and moles change and/or grow. Skin tags are small tags of skin that may appear for the first time or may grow larger during pregnancy. Moles may appear for the first time during pregnancy, or existing moles may grow larger and darken during pregnancy.” --Your Pregnancy Week by Week
And suddenly, there was discomfort and chafing where none had been before. That's all I'm sayin'.
So I went to a dermatologist earlier this week to have what felt like a few bits of sandpaper removed. The dermatologist seemed to be slightly uncomfortable with the prospect of removing moles from a part of the body that, I'm guessing, dermatologists rarely have the need to examine, much less perform excisions on. Apparently his solution was to share the discomfort.
There I was, in the office chair, barely covered and in a most indelicate position, when the dermatologist started probing more than my skin. It was the most unpleasant experience I’ve had with a man between my legs since I was married.
“So…..twins. Were you taking fertility treatments?”
WTF? First of all, it’s not like there’s 6 of them. Second of all, isn’t that kind of like accusatorily asking a cancer victim if they smoked? "No."
“Didn’t your chart say you’re divorced? Are they the ex-husband’s?”
Oh, no he didn’t. I started incredulously at the ceiling. “Um, no.”
“Oh! Whose are they?”
“It’s probably best not to go there.”
“How are you going to take care of two babies all by yourself?”
“Welfare and the charity of strangers.”
I wish that last one would have been my actual response. It wasn’t. Then again, it’s difficult to think of a snappy comeback when someone's holding a scalpel mere inches from your private parts.
How many more weeks till the aliens release my body?
And suddenly, there was discomfort and chafing where none had been before. That's all I'm sayin'.
So I went to a dermatologist earlier this week to have what felt like a few bits of sandpaper removed. The dermatologist seemed to be slightly uncomfortable with the prospect of removing moles from a part of the body that, I'm guessing, dermatologists rarely have the need to examine, much less perform excisions on. Apparently his solution was to share the discomfort.
There I was, in the office chair, barely covered and in a most indelicate position, when the dermatologist started probing more than my skin. It was the most unpleasant experience I’ve had with a man between my legs since I was married.
“So…..twins. Were you taking fertility treatments?”
WTF? First of all, it’s not like there’s 6 of them. Second of all, isn’t that kind of like accusatorily asking a cancer victim if they smoked? "No."
“Didn’t your chart say you’re divorced? Are they the ex-husband’s?”
Oh, no he didn’t. I started incredulously at the ceiling. “Um, no.”
“Oh! Whose are they?”
“It’s probably best not to go there.”
“How are you going to take care of two babies all by yourself?”
“Welfare and the charity of strangers.”
I wish that last one would have been my actual response. It wasn’t. Then again, it’s difficult to think of a snappy comeback when someone's holding a scalpel mere inches from your private parts.
How many more weeks till the aliens release my body?
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