Twas little more than a fortnight until Baby G’s unveiling

This is a fancy way of saying “16 days until Baby G is supposed to come into this world.” Biceps and I are feeling a little more prepared, but I tend to freak out silently from time to time. I have a few questions that no one seems to be answering:

1. What if the baby comes early and I’m not ready?
–The typical answer: Oh, you’ll be ready, you say.
–My rebuttal: Oh yeah? You don’t know my emotional ramping-up needs. It took me two years to be emotionally ready for marriage after a terrible break-up with the “wrong guy”. TWO YEARS. I could have acquired a Master’s Degree in that time.

2. What if I toot around my kid, then realize I shouldn’t have, then apologized, then he/she tells on me in some ridiculously public place and uses this ammunition as their own leverage to toot willy-nilly?
–The typical answer: That’s the least of your worries, you say.
–My rebuttal: Is it? I have a non-tooting reputation to uphold. Be quiet any of you out there that know otherwise.

3. What if not getting enough sleep, along with my hormones going wacko, along with a dirty house, piles of laundry and a messy kitchen causes me to just walk out of the house one day and never come back? What if I’m not quite the superhero woman I think I am?
–The typical answer: You’ll adjust, you say. You’re going to get used to your house being messier, the dishes not being done and you’ll eventually get sleep.
–My rebuttal:You apparently don’t know my obsessive-compulsiveness or my extreme need for a clean house.

4. What if I totally screw up my kid and they turn into some sort of Hannibal Lecter or a serial killer or, even worse-don’t like cats?
–The typical answer: You’re going to screw up for sure, you say. But you won’t screw up this badly.
–My rebuttal: I once put my baby brother underneath a clothes hamper, sat on top of it and didn’t move until I was threatened by my mother. Who does that? And, I’m sure Hitler’s mother didn’t think she would screw up Adolf. Look what happened there.

5. What if my kid follows my pattern of a self-absorbed childhood thinking I looked awesome in this dress, my risky teenage years of driving too fast and dating too old of guys, ill-planned college years where I barely made A’s and broke a boy’s heart out of complete selfishness and finally a few adult years of somewhat gained but lackluster maturity where I see few peaks but mostly valleys of incompetence?
–The typical answer: Your kid is going to be awesome. Besides, you’ve got Bicep’s influence and he’s awesome.
–My rebuttal: I’ll give you that. Biceps is awesome.

How could a kid not grow up to be awesome with this guy as his dad?
–The typical answer: It’s impossible.
–My rebuttal: I have none.

What were your biggest worries or fears before becoming a parent?

Four Weeks to Go. (Installment #4 from Baby Greiman)

Mom,
You’ve done some weird things lately. And I’d like the world to know what just what you’ve done.

1. You’ve sung to me in the middle of the night while I am trying to enjoy my 15th round of hiccups.
2. You’ve cried while rocking-in what I assume will be-my rocking chair. For no reason. While holding an ancient stuffed lamb with an internal jingly bell in its head. Should I be concerned that you are not emotionally stable?

3. You keep trying to work out and I keep telling you to stop it. I don’t like it. Even these 3 mile walks are not my cup of tea. Can’t you tell I’m trying to sleep in here?

4. You’ve videoed me while I was trying to get comfy in your tiny belly. Could you expand a little and give a brutha/sista some more room?

5. I have a list of things I need to get done when I get “on the outside”. Do you think we could speed this process up a little bit-why do insist on keeping me inside?

6. And last, but not least, you’ve taken to eating huge amounts of vegetables. I’d like a burger once in awhile-with cheese, ketchup, pickles and lettuce. I appreciate you cramming me full of folic acid and vitamin A. But, I have a feeling the lineage of the Greiman’s raising angus cattle has somehow crept its way into my blood. Sorry, veggie mom. I’m a carnivore. And I’m hungry.

 

Other than that, I’m totally happy and can’t wait to meet you and dad. I think.

Love,
Baby G.

Yes, I’d love to hear your horrible birth story…and other things.

This bump in my front has received unsolicited advice, thoughts, stories, warnings and the-world-is-ending-for-you notifications. I’ve had the Quick Trip lady tell me that I’m too small to be 34 weeks along and that possibly I’m wrong on my due date-or something is wrong with the baby.

I’ve received advice from a well-meaning Sprouts employee that I should eat unpasteurized cheese because it will help my child build up immunities (that’s a big: “thank you but no”, by the way).

I’ve been told that I’m crazy for not wanting the drugs given to most mothers during birth and that of course, I’ll change my mind.

And that I’m weird for wanting to cloth diaper and that this desire won’t last long. That I’ll realize I’m missing out on life for me and baby without Baby Einstein’s “must-have walker”. And, that if I make my own baby food, my baby probably won’t be receiving enough nutrition.

All of these things are tolerable. However, the one thing I cannot get out of my mind are the horrible birth stories I’ve been told-mostly from complete strangers. Their water broke at the state fair while at the top of a ferris wheel, they bled out and almost died, oh-also the baby almost died, the doctor didn’t know what he was doing, the cord was wrapped around the neck, and they labored for 3 days straight.

My question is why do tell a perfectly happy pregnant woman all of the terrible things that could go wrong? Is to help her increase her faith (I would have to say no) or to show off the invisible badge earned through an extremely painful and traumatic ordeal?

It’s like telling a virgin the night before she weds that she’ll just have to “get through it”. Which is helpful. Which happened.

I may appear tough to you (or not). However, I’m a fragile little egg right now. It’s not that I don’t value what other mother’s have been through. But, let me get through it first. Then, we can swap stories all day long. I’d love to hear about the bloody placenta that fell from the doctor’s hands, the hemorrhoids and the elusive sleep that never came for the new mother.

Seriously. I’ll brew the coffee.

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?