To My Bubble Boy

DISCLAIMER: If you are looking for a standard Expletive Baby type rant and rage, please turn around and leave now. You may not find that here today. Apologies.

Dear %^@! Baby:

I want you to come on time, I really do. This is no time to procrastinate. This is your official two week notice. Please pack up your water apartment and vacate the premises in fourteen (14) days. You will be refunded your security deposit upon final inspection.

That said, it pains me to evict you. In the physical sense, OBVIOUSLY it will pain me to evict you, but I’m focused more on the figurative right now. You have been a model tenant, requiring zero calls to the cops for noise complaints. I’m sure that will change. I’ve gotten used to your late night ninja practice, wall-banging, drunken hiccups and booty shaking. I’ve grown (literally) to enjoy it.

It’s going to be odd not having that movement anymore. And if I do, I know it really is just gas now. And that’s gross.

It is a scary world out there and you’re safe and protected in your little uterine bubble. I feel like I can shield you from everything. You’re cozy and warm and fed and safe. I could keep you in a bubble forever, but the threat of being deflated by Costanza, mud wrestling with Stacy Keibler or ending up like this is just far too great a risk.

You and I have been a team, man.  You parasite away my nutrients and in return, I eat whatever the hell I want to.  You’ve given me a plethora of new excuses to use that have been accepted without question. It’s a bullshitting freedom I have never experienced before. And it’s amazing. TEAMWORK.

You’ve been an attention-getter without being seen, meaning the attention is on me. Anyone who knows me knows I sort of totally dig that shit. I’m the youngest, I am the only girl in my family, I was and remain a mo^&#%f$#%@^ng princess. Out of your bubble, the swooning gets passed to you. And not saying I’m not going to go banana sandwich over your little face, but no one will be looking at my little face anymore. What can I say, I’m conceited and selfish.

I appreciate the luck that you’ve brought me, courtesy of your father’s genes, however I know once you’re out it is no longer you and I against the world, it’s you and your dad against me. There is no hope for me after that. I will never win.

While you technically belong 50% to your father, for the past nine months you’ve been tied solely to me. You’ve been mine. I know you better than anyone else can. I know what you like, what drives you crazy, what makes you squirm. No one else knows you like I do. I am not really ready to share you yet.

I know you’ve been in there for 38 weeks/almost nine months/long enough, but I feel like it went by too fast and I am just starting to fully absorb and appreciate the experience. At the same time, it’s also felt like you’ve been in there so long I cannot remember my pre-fetus body. It’s an emotional tug of war, thinking it went by too fast and wasn’t long enough and that it’s time and you’re ready and I can totally see why women can be prone to depression after the fact.

I’m not going to get into the part about how we don’t know what we’re doing but we’ll always have your best interest at heart and blah blah blah. I was actually going to, but I started tearing up at work so, yeah, no, not going to happen. I AM HUMAN, AFTER ALL.

THIS IS ABOUT ME NOT WANTING TO SHARE YOU WITH ANYONE ELSE. About not being ready to let you out into the real world. Like I said. Selfish. Plus the real world? It sort of sucks.

So, Little Buddy, let’s spend the next 14 days enjoying each other’s company as you pack up to vacate. Things between us will never be the same. Things will be better, of course, but never like this. Let’s revel in the next two weeks together – indulging on our favorite things, poking each other, playing guess the body part and making your dad do anything and everything around the house as we sit and watch Storage Wars and So You Think You Can Dance.

And then you leave the building. On time. Fully packed. Taking your 20 pounds of gear with you.

You’re strong, you can carry it all out yourself. That’s why I’ve been drinking protein shakes.

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And I Ate It, Too.

Yeah, this totally happened on the way home from work because of yesterday’s frosting thesis.

CAKE IS THE ONLY THING THAT MATTERS.

I’m pretty sure I felt Hyperbole and a Half surging through my sugar fueled veins. Cake was all I could think about yesterday.

Also, many congrats to fellow blogger Emily over at The Waiting who became the proud owner of a baby girl Saturday night! She was one of the first “pregnancy” blogs I started to follow when I began this whole thing, so it is sort of surreal to realize how fast time has gone! Her blog is witty and fab and smart and funny – I cannot wait to read her views on having a newborn!

Pregnancy Means You Don’t Have to Give a Shit!

Dear Shithead.

Apparently because I get to carry your leecher ass around, that means I don’t have to care about my appearance, my health or my job responsibilities!! YAYYY!

I came upon an article about “Pregnancy Benefits” yesterday. I didn’t expect it to be amazing and real and usable, considering its source. But I read it anyway because I had work to do and I was avoiding it. Read it, made fun of it on Twitter and wound up thinking about it again this morning. It was so stupid it angered me. Read it yourself and then return for my commentary.

So. According to Nickelodeon Parenting or whatever, pregnancy gives me the excuse to be as trashy and rude as possible.

Letting my roots grow out.

Eating huge hamburgers.

Not wearing make-up.

Ditching out on work and shopping or napping.

Cutting in line.

Hogging the TV and being a DVR douchebag.

Wearing flip flops without shame.

Thanks, but I’ll pass. I’m not saying I am a perfect work ethic (far from) or that I don’t eat more fast food than I should. But shit, I did that crap when I wasn’t pregnant so I’m not using it as an excuse now. But the slacking on your personal appearance?? That’s just dumb. If you’re feeling fat and bloated and you’ve got a mini monster kicking you in the bladder, wouldn’t you WANT to look good? The one thing you have control over?Why is it a benefit to ignore your charming good looks? More people, including strangers, pay attention to you. Don’t think they aren’t passing judgement just because you’re a baby carrier. BLESS HER HEART she is so in tune with that baby bump she can’t get her hair done or put on real shoes.

F. THAT. And I wear flip flops a lot. In the snow.

Now, granted, I’m early into these shenanigans and three months from now I’ll be saying F@$K YEAH I DON’T HAVE TO PUT MASCARA ON OR DO MY HAIR. But at this point? Yeah, no. I’m the rebel that got her hair dyed at 11 weeks.

And the you-don’t-have-to-go-to-the-gym “benefit”? That’s just irresponsible. While I haven’t gone yet (but I went running once, three weeks ago) I know deep down that I SHOULD go. Telling women they have a built in excuse to avoid working out (unless there’s a smoothie bar hehe) is idiotic. We’re told to do some form of physical activity. But not going is way easier than going so hooray excuses!

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Honestly.

My list of “benefits”:

I can eat what I want, when I want. IN SEMI-MODERATION.

At some point I’ll take advantage of mom-to-be parking. IN SEMI-MODERATION.

I am sure I will come to appreciate lycra. IN SEMI-MODERATION.

I will cut in line if I am peeing my pants. IN SEMI-MODERATION.

I may be oversensitive to the lolololololol I’m a woman tee hee schtick, though. Which is why I like to troll some pregnancy boards instead of participate.

The end.

At some point, I will draw myself being that described, lazy, dirty, scrubby woman – but I’m not drawing that picture at work. I have some dignity to maintain.

 

AS PROMISED.