I loathe baby showers…

I have been subjected to (tortured at) many a shower. Whether it’s a bridal or baby, it’s all the same to me. You are cornered in a room full of people you don’t know, eating on tiny plates and talking about the only thing you have in common-the host.

 

Men don’t realize this, but as a woman, you are subjected to all sorts of horrors–disguised in pink and yellow decor, along with mandated group responses of “oohs and ahhs” for the 10th time over a pair of tiny socks. AND-you must play games like “sniff the diaper”, and pretend you are having a great time.

All I want to do is pile my plate really high with more food, take off my high heels and laugh (snort) with someone that thinks Nacho Libre is one of the best cinematic presentations ever.

However, I’m usually wedged in between Aunt Ethel and Grandma Betty and the last movie they viewed at the “movie house” involved Robert Redford’s first starring role. So, I sit back and relax and carefully dip my celery stick into the unnamed dip. And I try to go unnoticed as I pick that horrible celery stringy thing from my teeth.

So, that’s why I did this.

This is our baby shower invitation. And it has received mixed reviews. (As do most things that I put out there for the world to see.)

I will promise you this-there will be no games at our baby shower. There will be no sniffing of diapers. No clothes pins. No pacifier exchange. No frou-frou decor.

But, there will be food-and lots of it-on giant plates. There will also be men present at our Co-Ed shower. There will be no belly measuring, no guessing of the baby names, and no forced oohing and ahhing.

Is that wrong?

Firefighter Station Secrets

Biceps has an interesting schedule as a firefighter. He is at the station a full 24 hours before coming home.

This 24 hour time period allows for a lot of shenanigans to take place while he’s gone.

For example, I may or may not be guilty of buying lunch out while running errands. Biceps would rather starve or eat a protein bar than buy something from a restaurant. I would rather eat.

This would not fly with a firefighter. Sinks are to be empty; dishes are to be washed, dried and put away.

I call this the “mysterious soaking ritual” that is a necessity when one has made muffins on a whim and is pregnant and tired.

The same goes for our thermal mugs. They will be washed-eventually. Probably right before I leave the house in the morning.

And seriously, what’s the point of making a bed? We all know I’m going to try and nap in it later on.

This button fell off while I was grocery shopping today. I ran after it as it skidaddled around the produce area. It now sits on the counter waiting to be re-attached. I keep thinking about eating a banana muffin instead, though.

But, I seem to be in good company as far as shenanigans go. These two don’t judge and don’t seem to notice my lack of motivation. In fact, they encourage me to nap-so that they can nap with me. And they remind me that a rested pregnant lady is a happy pregnant lady.

I call this a win-win for all parties involved.

What is my Mom thinking? (Installment #3 from Baby Greiman)

My mom is so awkward. I’m not talking about a normal smell-your-armpits awkward.

I’m talking about making everyone and everything in a room feel an intense dread come over them, with no hope of escape awkward.

Yep, that’s her. In this never-before-seen photo, one can clearly see a hint of the awkwardness she’s capable of.

My mom may be a bit old-fashioned. But, I see that as a good thing. Who wants a wild child, table-dancing, booby bead gathering woman for a mom? Not me.

However, this type of old-fashioned behavior is not a welcome thing in the doctor’s office. It just makes everyone wish they were somewhere else. Let me tell you a little story of what happened at her last exam so that you may judge for yourself.

Due to an insurance change, my mom had to switch doctors in the middle of me growing in her belly. She loved her original doctor who was/is kind, sweet and understanding of her bizarre behavior.

The new doctor is also kind but less understanding. (See below).

Doctor: I’m going to leave the room. Go ahead and get undressed and put this robe on.
Mom: Um… Why?
Doctor: We need to do an examination and make sure everything is progressing normally.
Mom: “Everything”-like what?
Doctor: (at this point, he has sighed audibly) We’ll do a breast examination and I want to see what kind of pelvic structure you have.
Mom: I wasn’t mentally prepared for this.
Doctor: Would you like to make another appointment when you are more prepared?
Mom: No, it’s cool. Seriously. Totes. I mean…I just didn’t know. I wasn’t ready. Do I get a treat afterwards? (Dad suddenly found his phone very intriguing).
Doctor: There are some chocolates up front. Are you sure you’re ok?
Mom: Yeah. Totally. I’m great. Really. I’m ready. Alright, I’ll robe it up. This will be awesome.
(The doctor slowly vacates the room).

It got worse from there. She put the robe on backwards, said “ouch” and tried making small talk throughout the examination.

I may be only 2 pounds and have just formed my own eyebrows, but I can recognize abnormal behavior when I hear it. Once again, please pray for me to have a semblance of a normal life when I finally reach the outside world.

Baby G. out.

*read Installment #1 and Installment #2 from Baby G

What is my Mom thinking? (Installment #2 by Baby Greiman)

Dear Readers:

Baby G again, here. I’m past the 20 week mark and I’ve started to hear–a lot. Which means that I’ve started to assimilate some information as to who this woman is carrying me around.

I’ve heard her boisterous laugh that only a few get to hear. She usually tones it down for normal human consumption. But, Dad and I? We hear it all.

This-this-is my mom. She’s weird and eccentric. She runs into walls and corners of countertops. She drops hot coffee all over herself and her response is: “Geez, oh Pete’s”. (The only other participants of that phrase are avid users of denture cream and are pushing 90.)

She also sings at the top of her lungs while on the treadmill and sometimes gets so into it, she falls off the side. When she’s done singing-or just bruised up a bit, she prays. Usually, she starts with her parents, my Dad’s parents, then moves onto the siblings, then their kids, then me (“baby G”) and rounds it out with world events (which unfortunately she mixes up and ends up praying for Nelson Mandela; who she thought was sick and was in fact, dead).

But, you see this side of her. Calm, collected, composed. Holding in farts. Not spitting while talking.

This is instead the reality of my Mom. That’s one of her favorite faces to make, take a picture of and text to loved ones. She cannot grasp the “looking into the camera lens, rather than the front of the phone” concept. And, she is probably both spitting and farting at the time.

However, she has nice teeth. So, there’s that.

I’m just beginning to get to know these two. They started off normal enough-or so she says. She was a tough woman, working for a marketing company, and he was in a loud, unruly rock band. He wouldn’t wear shorts in the summer, she preferred dresses year ’round.

Years have passed and she’s become more comfortable in her skin, she tells me. She doesn’t feel the need to be tough. I’ve heard her cry over stories of animal cruelty and during commercials where soldiers return home. That’s normal.

But, then she cries while watching puppies eat on the Jimmy Fallon show. Makes no sense to me.

I think she’s been encouraged to be more herself (a.k.a. more weird) by that guy on the right.

And, they haven’t wanted to find out if I am a boy or a girl. So, they refer to me as either “Baby G” or “he/she”. Talk about confusing a little brain.

Just wait until I get into the open air and rock their world. Watch out, Mom and Dad. I’ve heard a lot of secrets, weirdness and farting-and I’m not afraid to use this information to my advantage.

Baby G out.