The Ninth Month

The ninth month of pregnancy is the longest. It's at least twice as long as any of the other months. And while we're at it let's talk about the mean trick of calling pregnancy 9 months in the first place. The average is 40 weeks. 40 weeks divided by 4 weeks in a month = 10 months, right? Plus, that's only the average, meaning some people are pregnant for 10 and a half months. Lord, please don't let me be one of those.

Meanwhile, everything's done in there. The baby's just sitting around getting fatter. No, really. Look at our last ultrasound pic. This is a close up of fat rolls, labeled "fat rolls" by the ultrasound technician for clarification. The ninth month is the fetal equivalent of that one summer in college where you just binge drank, ate Poptarts and watched Snapped marathons on Lifetime. Just like you, he's got nowhere else to be till August.

PS- We think this is his side. 

In the ninth month you are tired. Maybe you are too tired to care if batman wears cowboy boots to swim lessons or a long sleeved spiderman suit to the library when it's 110 degrees out. You are making a new person, for goodness sake, and that trumps wardrobe decisions. That explains why you are down to wearing glorified muumuus and chacos everyday too.  You may also become less organized and together in the ninth month. Yes, less than you were just a month ago. Maybe you get to the grocery store and have to put shark slippers on your kid because somehow you lost his shoes in the last 10 minutes. Then, as you put the groceries in the back of the car, maybe you realized one shoe rode on the tailgate all the way there. Maybe you'll find the other in the parking lot of swim lessons, I don't know. 

In the ninth month things get messy. If your three year old cries in frustration that he didn't quite make it to the potty and peed on himself just a little, you can respond "me too" with all sincerity, and get everyone a fresh attitude and pair of undies. One of you may or may not have to waddle to your room, past the front door which you left open so that The Boy could watch the pest control guy try to get the bats out of your attic, just before said pest control guy sticks his head in to say he's done. Whatever. Your OBGYN appointments will morph from "how are you feeling?" to intrusive questions about the appearance of a "mucus plug" and "bloody show". Girlfriends will also start to think these are appropriate topics for conversation, and you will not care. These are obviously terms reserved for Insane Clown Posse lyrics, sci-fi movies, and of course, the ninth month of pregnancy. 

In the ninth month, strangers stop you in public bathrooms, where you spend much of your time, to ask you how far along you are and to tell you that you must be close to your due date. They will tell you that you are having a boy or that you are carrying low or high or backwards. They touch you without invitation. They talk to you like you have not noticed that you are pregnant. It's not that you want to be rude, but you want to wear a sign that says "2 weeks. August 10th. Boy. 2nd one."  Also, you will feel the urge to mention something inappropriate and obvious about their bodies too ("And you, ma'am, have bad breath." "You are forty pounds over weight", or "sex change operation?"). Resist. 

You might have all the feels. You may alternate between feelings of frustration and isolation, feeling like the first person on earth who has ever been pregnant and having NO ONE understand the plight of carrying another human internally for 24 hours a day; being angry and frustrated with all of humanity; and being grateful and tearful over each blade of grass you see, each opportunity you have to connect with others, each healthy checkup with your midwives, each time you put gas in a car that reliably works. I don't mean to complain but this cycle is exhausting. 

In the ninth month you are hot. You are swollen.  You feel bigger than the side of a barn you used to make out behind when you were a teenager. Your back hurts. You are tired. You have a pregnancy swagger that can only be described as a waddle. 

You appreciate the miracle of life that you are carrying, and understand that people pay tens of thousands of dollars to be in the condition that you're in, while you did little more than make out behind that barn. And while you appreciate these things, also you don't always love the condition that you're in. You are ready to get that fat baby out of your belly, even if you don't always feel ready to bring him home. The ninth month is like baby purgatory and you are stuck between being fearful that you'll be pregnant forever, and fearful that you won't. It's pregatory. 

The only thing worse than the 9th month....is the 10th. Come on, baby. 

That Time I Was Pregnant With Gary Coleman

You may remember from this post It's All Fun And Games Until Somebody Gets Dwarfism that
1. The Boy was tiny, and 2. I love little people.

Fast forward to today. I had a 36 week ultrasound for Beyoyo. He is growing well, I had plenty of fluid, and everything looked a-okay. (sidenote: so grateful).

I saw his little ribs, hands, face, and man parts. All good. Then the technician asked if I wanted to try to get a 3D picture of his profile. Duh times 100. Since I am so far along it's a little harder to get a good picture because of the squish factor. Apparently it's pretty crowded in there.

So she scanned around trying to get him to cooperate for a picture. What came up was unbelievable.

.

.

.

.

.

. 

Y'all, he looked like Gary Coleman. 

While I was waiting to see my midwife I googled a picture of Gary Coleman just to make sure I wasn't seeing things. 

I inexplicably started crying. I texted the Husband and told him baby was fine. I texted my friend Kati, saying the baby was big and fine and looked like Gary Coleman and I was crying. This was her response: 

Isn't that a good friend? It's a little are-you-okay-get-it-together-this-is-what-you-always-dreamed-of. 

When I left I called The Husband, who was stuck at work, and gave him the details.

"He looks like Gary Coleman." I said.

"You love Gary Coleman!" he said. "It will be our own little Webster." 

"That's Emmanuel Lewis!" I said, with the tone of arrogant comic-conners who are offended that you said Star Trek instead of Star Wars. 

At any rate, I cannot WAIT to see what this little guy is going to look like in real life. 

So, karma again. This is a combination of me loving little people and loving black people all squished into one. The squish factor.

Whacoo talking 'bout Beyoyo? 

Update: this post, the best baby present ever. 

The Boy's Batman Birthday

The Boy is THREE! Can you believe it? Me either. He's pretty pumped too.

This was his birthday breakfast.

He's said for months he wanted a Batman party. The Husband wanted a party that wasn't at our house. (He also had the nerve to ask me not to bake anything. Has he ever even met me?? Baking things is my jam.)

We are party people. We enjoy a good party, and boy can we run with a theme. So when The Boy kept saying he wanted a Batman party my eyes glazed over with thematic ideas. I told him he could have a Batman party, as if because this is about him. I know one day my child will ask me if he can please have a regular, birthday themed party with no print outs and no thematic cupcakes. And that will be the day that I will look at him with lies in my eyes and tell him of course that will be fine. Until then, Batman it is!

The Boy loves to climb. He could climb to the top of his playscape ladder before he was two. He climbs our furniture. He climbs everything at the park. I am not even kidding you when I say he tries to climb our cabinets and fridge. So it was only natural that we took him to check out our local rock climbing facility to see if it was party appropriate. He loved it, natch.

He kept asking if he could go higher on his first try. "Three is a little young for a climbing party" the lady said, trying to talk us out of it. "Sometimes they freak out when they get up there and don't know how to get down." The Husband looked at her. "Can't we just climb up and get them? It's not a mountain." he said. I love him. So we booked the easy party place that was 1. Batman friendly 2. Not at our house and 3. Not age appropriate.

The day of the party finally came, and The Boy could hardly wait. He woke up saying "is it tomorrow yet, is it tomorrow yet?" We told him it was indeed, tomorrow, the day of the party. He beamed. We gathered our party supplies and headed to the climbing place.

We had a cityscape for the kids to take save-the-day pictures. 

Aren't our friends the cutest? 

I used wrapping paper to wrap some small boxes for tablescaping and cupcake holding. I will say I'm a little concerned about the inefficiency of how many lights stay on in Gotham City. 

My mother-in-law made the cupcakes, and I compromised with The Husband by just making the fondant batman cutouts on top. 

Superhero fruit snacks, suckers with capes and masks, and cupcakes. We also printed some batman coloring sheets and had crayons, which no one used. I framed The Boy's birthday interview with a few recent pictures for the table. 

I used the same batman fondant cutter (via etsy) to make batman imprints in the watermelon. 

Excuse the blurry pictures, but snacks were penguin shaped crackers (from Aldi) and 

      Catwoman claws (Bugles). Three adults said to me they'd forgotten how delicious bugles are.        
                        Truth. The characters you see are just laminated printouts via the internets.

 

                                   Drinks were Joker Juice (capri suns) and Gotham City Water.

Baby brother came dressed as Robin. Turns out there aren't a lot of maternity Robin outfit ideas out there.

All the friends got a black cape to take home (via The Dollar Tree)

Some were more excited about it than others. 

The kids climbed the rock walls with the assistance of some pretty cool staff members. That's The Boy in the middle, with the owner climbing beside him AND belaying him at the same time. He climbed to the top and rang the bell over and over. That's his cousin on the right. Some adults climbed too. 

                              There was a smaller climbing wall and ladder for fun......

That led to a huge 20 foot slide. 

There was also a lot of running around in circles, jumping off and onto mats, and rolling on the floor. Most of my pictures look something like this:

At the end of the party, the verdict was this: no major injuries, no kids stuck on the top of the rock wall, leftover cupcakes for the staff to keep, and only one pair of shoes left behind. (Anyone?) Better yet, we tired out the kids and sent ours home with his grandparents! Success on all fronts if you ask me. 

Happy Birthday, Batman! 

Six Under Six

We are Wednesday into the annual Saturday to Saturday family beach trip. I have been coming to the beach with The Husband's family for 14 years now, since we first started dating. If you're trying to do math, we were 10.

When I started coming, it was two parents, three boys, three girlfriends. My hair was bleached from the sun and even though I was sometimes unsure about it, my body sported a bikini. The other two girls and I laid around reading People magazines and getting our sun on. We took just a towel and book to the beach with us. We did flips in the pool and talked about how amazing and annoying the boys could be.

We went to dinner all together every night. I washed and dried my hair and put on nice clothes. Girls slept in one room, boys in another. Once people started marrying off, The Husband and I were allowed to sleep in a room with twin beds. We said things like "Is this People magazine old? I thought they broke up." "I think I forgot an extra refill of my razor. What if I get razor burn?!" and once we were old enough "we should stop for drinks after dinner." We stayed up late eating good food, playing games and hanging out. We were free. We didn't know it, but it was QUIET.

Now my roots betray my neglected salon-highlighted hair. I have no business in a bikini, and have not for some time. We are bigger and smarter, both a result from being on the other side of a college degree. But the biggest difference is now there are six (6!) kids under six.

It started off with just two. Wasn't that cute? Our adult-child ratio was far in our favor, and (bonus!) I could pose the kids any way I wanted for precious little pictures.

Then there were four. And you'll remember that was a little harder (and louder). 

And last year there were five, and that was a little harder (and louder) still.  

But now.....now there are six. They are starting to outnumber us. There are meltdowns, and sword fights and running away and screaming and injuries and refusals to eat and every picture I try to take looks like spring break senior year:

There are no People magazines. There was one magazine here, but it was some artsy fartsy magazine and the baby ripped it up this morning. There are no concerns about razor burn. We are instead making sure that each person has bathed once since we got here. We go out to eat in shifts, or eat at the house. We all made it out to the same restaurant at the same time once. Lord help our waitress. 

Instead of getting our sun on, we lather everyone up in thick, non-toxic, non-spray SPF 50 until they are all pasty white because their skin cannot absorb anymore. We take snacks and towels and toys and drinks and umbrellas and chairs and phones and games down to the beach. We say things like "you're going to need to find a better way to communicate" and "don't jump on your cousin" and "use your words please" and "no karate in the house" and "where is your father?" and "stop screaming" and "I SAID STOP SCREAMING!" The good food has turned into juice boxes and fruit snacks and "who wants apple slices and green bean chips?" 

Instead of boys rooms and girls rooms, children are splayed around everywhere. Some sleep with their parents, some sleep with grandparents, one is in a pack and play. Ours sleeps on a shelf in a closet like Harry Potter. He couldn't be happier. 

And let me tell you about Wednesday of a week long beach trip with six under six. Wednesday is the day that everyone forgets that you paid perfectly good money and took off work for a week to bring them on VACATION where they get to have fun and be at the beach and swim and play and have the time of their lives. They are exhausted and delirious and Wednesday is the day they think they have been at Guantanamo Bay for 5 days and they are suddenly MISERABLE. And this trip is INTOLERABLE. And would you believe it but they are suffering atrocities like the wrong toothpaste and the wrong lunch choices and someone is wearing their shoes and "SHE BROKE MY TOY!" and "I BROKE YOUR TRUCK JUST LIKE YOU!" We have ignored a lot today. 

This morning all the kids declared they did not want to go to the beach or the pool or any other fun thing. They did not want sunscreen or bathing suits or fresh breath, or all the other dreadful things us adults were trying to impose on them. The other kids eventually went. My child  wanted to stay inside in his pajamas and watch the beach house's box set of PeeWee's Playhouse until noon. Who am I (100 weeks pregnant, swollen and exhausted) to impede upon a child's goals? 

We are exhausted. This vacation is not relaxing. There are moments I miss the quiet we didn't know to appreciate years ago. I miss the not having to do anything for anyone relaxing on the beach or going in whenever I dang well felt like it, instead of strategizing when someone needs to nap or eat, or tag teaming who is watching who. But this vacation is exciting. It's exciting to see the kids loving being with each other. It's exciting to see them running in the sand and laughing with joy and staying up late. They are making memories, and hopefully those memories do not include how exhausted the adults are.  These are the days that I'm sure I will miss one day, and I won't remember how hard it was sometimes with six under six. 

As I am reflecting on the differences in our vacations then and now, I am reminded of three things. 

1. We are so lucky to get to do this year after year. 

2. We still talk about how amazing and annoying The Husbands can be. 

3. Next year we will have seven under seven! God help us.