Friday, July 23, 2010

Bric-a-Brac

Hopelessly Obligated to You: Our friends and family are working feverishly to squeeze in quality time with us before the due date. Which is sweet, but frakking exhausting. I cannot keep up. For example, our dinner reservation tonight (the third in a week) is at 8:30PM. Which, in pregnant time, may as well be midnight. I'll have to eat pre-dinner just to survive. [Quasi-amusing side note: our dinner is with a casual friend we see about twice a year, and have somehow neglected to tell we are having a baby. So we will show up with my 30-week pregnant belly leading the way and then wham-o! surprise! I am a little squicked out by dropping such a huge knowledge bomb on said friend and his new girlfriend, but KB thinks it's just peachy. And I'm a team player, y'all, and also too lazy to do anything about it, so I'm rolling with it.] I just can't maintain this schedule of dinners and get-togethers every weekend, Friday through Sunday, and then back to work Monday morning. KB always asks me if it's okay before confirming any plans, but I'm lousy at saying "no" when I feel a sense of obligation to our friends and family, who only want to celebrate and spend time with us. If only they knew it was killing me. I am putting my foot down for the month of September, though, and preemptively striking with declarations of no plans in the weeks leading up to the due date. For one thing, I'll be busy transitioning work projects to colleagues, which will be a job-and-a-half in itself. Second, I need to set aside time to call my OB in tears, begging for induction, and/or boiling steak knives and making homebrew spinal anesthesia from crushed Altoids and peppermint Schnapps so I can perform my own C-section out of misguided desperation. Or as I call it, nesting.

Braxton Hicks Part Deux: They're baaa-aack. They never really went away, but they are increasing a little now. Combined with the constant backache and growing activity of the bebe (who may well be an octopus, based upon the pattern of kickpunches), these little "practice" contractions suck donkey nuts. Oh, and I figured out how these contractions were so-named. I believe it's based on a hypothetical duet between Toni Braxton and Taylor Hicks, which (when it occurs) will signal the opening of the seventh seal and the onset of Armageddon. Beware. Ready the bunkers and start investing in gold. And remember to bring a sweater.

Boob Tube: Double entendre alert! First, my lovely lady lumps have grown again, and the few nursing bras I bought a couple of months ago are practically obsolete. Also, wearing any type of bra is now downright uncomfortable, as they push down on my ribs while a bebe head or foot or buttock or jabby little finger pushes up. I keep meaning to go to le Target and buy nursing camisoles, but that requires leaving the house which is not in the plan for now. It's ninety million degrees Kelvin outside, and I feel like a pile of turds most days, so no-go. Although, I am starting to think that if I don't find some kind of support for these milkjugs, I will end up looking like a National Geographic centerfold. Second, our television died this week. Our monster, 50-some-odd-inch television that costs, like, a zillion dollars to either repair or replace. (KB bought it years ago after he had his first, and only, big win in Vegas -- we called it the Vegas TV.) We've already replaced the super-expensive lamp and had a repair dude come disable the lamp door sensor which kept erroneously triggering a system shut-down, and this week the color wheel (maybe?) went kaputt. So KB, being a frugal man when it comes to electronics, bought an emergency replacement television that is even bigger than the outgoing model. There goes the kid's freshman year college tuition. (Actually, it's cheaper than its predecessor as flat-screen prices have come down since the early 2000's.) But being a voluntary shut-in requires some form of mindless entertainment, and I have a week's worth of Daily Shows on the TiVo that aren't going to watch themselves. And the new TV is so shiny and pretty. The TV is dead, long live the TV.

1 comment:

Lisa said...

I hate to break it to you, but new bra or not, breastfeeding will give you National Geographic boobs. It's a bummer. You'll be so in love with your baby that you won't care though. It's worth it!

10 weeks to go!!!