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.

What is my mom thinking?! (A letter from baby Greiman)

Dear Readers (that my mom talks about all the time):

This here is baby Greiman. I may be a boy or I may be a girl-I’m not sure yet. Things haven’t quite developed in my nether regions.

However, what I am sure of is that my mom is crazy. Like seriously, ridiculously out of her mind. Granted, she’s not afforded the brain to body ratio that I currently enjoy (her brain is merely 2% of her body), but she should know better.

Take for example what she put me through yesterday: 1 hour of a modified WOD in Crossfit. Apparently, her doctor said I’m already changing her life. She has to give up handstand push-ups, double-unders and box jumps.
But, I still am sloshed around while hearing muffled grunting. And, I can sense stinky sweat just outside my cozy oasis. Why mom, why?
How about a nice bath, some netflix and a fire going instead?

Then, as if to ironically offset all the hard work-she eats THIS! Are you kidding me?! I would prefer a salad, some lean meat, an avocado, maybe the occasional bowl of yogurt…but THIS?

And, I’ve been informed that this is the guy who supplied this greasy mess. Apparently, he’s going to be my dad. I have to question both of their ability to make sound judgements-not just for themselves, but for me.
After all, I’m subject to whatever it is that they put me through.

Including this nonsense. Every weekend-multiple times a weekend, I endure a super noisy, clanging cacophony of sounds that I’m confounded as to the purpose.
Although, mom seems to really enjoy it. She sways back and forth, stomps her feet and sings really loud. Sometimes she stops only to stare at the aforementioned ‘dad’, which she tells me quietly is “so cute”.

I think I’m doomed to have a strange life with really weird parents. Please pray for me.

A Revelation

I’ve never been one to want to smell a baby’s head, cuddle it while it’s crying or envision myself as a mom. I don’t get gooey over anything baby related other than tiny shoes. Seriously-tiny shoes are cute.

I know that the mothering side to me is there-my heart is not completely black. And I’ll admit to being a little jealous of women that had these motherly attributes that were seemingly and utterly “all that is female”. But for some reason, whether I was scared of admitting it or worried it may never happen, I wouldn’t allow myself to feel this way about a child. I love children, and I love them more when you’re taking care of their poopy diaper.

I was completely ok with life being only Biceps and I (and maybe a cat or two). Or so I thought. And then I hit 35 and the thought of having a little stubborn mini-Biceps running around shooting at squirrels with a stick, throwing rocks into ponds and generally being a boy overwhelmed me. Or maybe even a little mini-Rebekah with sassy pigtails organizing her stuffed animals.

But nothing happened. For awhile. Like a long while. Women all around me seemed to get pregnant with ease. I was happy for them, but there was that twinge. It’s like that feeling after a break-up when all you see are happy couples and you’re sitting alone in the corner with your single served ice cream glaring at them like a freak.

I’ve been that freak on more than one occasion. And here I was again. Well-meaning women would ask why we didn’t have children or why I didn’t like kids. My heart was ripped open one day, and I wrote this–A Letter from a Childless Wife.

It was cathartic but also extremely revealing to write something so raw for the world to read, to pass on to others or to judge me by. But, I did it with the hope that even if we couldn’t conceive, others might know the pain I, or any other childless wife, might feel each time their “motherly duties” were questioned.

And then, this happened.

I am blessed beyond words to share this revelation with all of you. I am honored that God chose this time for us to conceive. And, I covet your prayers as we move forward to our due date of April 22nd.

Biceps and I are finally going to be parents. Amen and amen.

♥♥(If you are in the midst of or have been through this same story, I would love to lift you up as you did for me when I wrote my letter. Privately email me or comment below.) ♥♥