Take me back to the hospital.
Yeah, yeah, I know, my hormones are out of whack. My moods are dictated by how long it's been since I took my last Lortab. Once I've taken it, I'm as happy as can be--nothing's wrong with the world. If I forget, my life truly sucks. It's only been a week. I miss having a nurse come press my pills into my hand every so many hours.
My house is as hot as the desert. I hate this summer weather already. I'm dying here and don't feel like I can walk into my own kitchen to refill my glass of water. I guess I can just use the tap in my bathroom. But it always makes it taste worse. I miss the pellet ice at the hospital and pressing a button to have someone go fill up my cup again.
I'm up about three hours at different times throughout the night. I feed the baby, and she cries minutes after I put her back in the crib. I can't keep her awake to eat, and I just want to crawl back into my bed. But it never lasts. I wish my house had a nursery where I can send the baby when I really need to sleep.
I miss sleep, water, sanity. I actually miss the hospital. Is it crazy that I want to go back?
Monday, April 30, 2007
Thursday, April 19, 2007
I was tagged
The rules are: Once you have been tagged you have to write a blog with 8 weird or random things, facts, or habits about yourself. At the end, you choose 8 people to be tagged, list their names, and why you chose them to be tagged. Don't forget to leave a comment that says, "You are tagged" on their profile and to read your latest blog. Have fun!
1. I've gained 43 pounds in the last 9 months
2. I love winter time more than all the other seasons.
3. I can't have the closet door open while I sleep at night.
4. I like watching Backyardigans with my 5-year-old, and singing along, of course.
5. I have to work hard to get vegetables on the table each night--I don't like them, but Bianca will never know.
6. I am a believer in horoscopes now.
7. I belong to three book clubs, and two writing groups
8. I can't stand the sight of blood or having an IV or needle poked into me. I've thrown up and passed out in the past because of them.
1. I've gained 43 pounds in the last 9 months
2. I love winter time more than all the other seasons.
3. I can't have the closet door open while I sleep at night.
4. I like watching Backyardigans with my 5-year-old, and singing along, of course.
5. I have to work hard to get vegetables on the table each night--I don't like them, but Bianca will never know.
6. I am a believer in horoscopes now.
7. I belong to three book clubs, and two writing groups
8. I can't stand the sight of blood or having an IV or needle poked into me. I've thrown up and passed out in the past because of them.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
My mini me
never thought Bianca was much like me. She definitely doesn't look like me the way Miranda did. I always just kind of thought she was a nice mix between Eric and me. But lately, I'm seeing a lot of me in her.
When I was about Bianca's age, probably a little younger, I told my mom as I was drawing pictures that I wished I could write so that I could make up the story to go along with my drawings. I used to glue the insides of the pages together to make books.
Over the last several months, Bianca's taken quite an interest in writing stories. Her first story was about six-seven pages and was about a princess who had eight pet birds. The birds turn into fairies in the story's climactic ending. Not bad. Pretty creative.
Her next story she wrote was about a princess whose sister died. The sister would come to the princess while she slept and take her to heaven, to do all sorts of different fun things together. She illustrated it too. I submitted it to a contest (I'll let you know how that turns out) for kindergarteners.
She has this amazing creativity and I've been so proud.
In Bianca's phonics class, they've spent the last several weeks writing stories. I couldn't have been happier. All the parents were invited to this "Author's Tea." I couldn't wait to see what Bianca came up with in class. At 9:30 this morning, Eric and I were both there, sitting on kindergartener-sized chairs packed in to see the 15 kids.
Bianca went up to the front to read her story. It was about a Cheetah, which incidentally was the topic of about seven other of the kids' stories as well. It went like this: "Cheetah maxe friends. One day there was a cheetah. It hunted for lions. The End."
Of course I clapped like she'd just won the pulitzer prize. After all, she wasn't scared to get up there and read to the entire class with all the parents. But I looked to Eric like what-just-happened-here. It's not that I thought the story was bad, but it was just like most of the other kids' stories. I know Bianca has the potential to write a much better story. I've heard it. I've seen her do it. And here she is, reading something so below what I know she can do.
Why do I care? I'm not sure. I'm never going to say anything about it. I want her to keep writing stories. But it's just so hard for me to stand back and watch.
When I was about Bianca's age, probably a little younger, I told my mom as I was drawing pictures that I wished I could write so that I could make up the story to go along with my drawings. I used to glue the insides of the pages together to make books.
Over the last several months, Bianca's taken quite an interest in writing stories. Her first story was about six-seven pages and was about a princess who had eight pet birds. The birds turn into fairies in the story's climactic ending. Not bad. Pretty creative.
Her next story she wrote was about a princess whose sister died. The sister would come to the princess while she slept and take her to heaven, to do all sorts of different fun things together. She illustrated it too. I submitted it to a contest (I'll let you know how that turns out) for kindergarteners.
She has this amazing creativity and I've been so proud.
In Bianca's phonics class, they've spent the last several weeks writing stories. I couldn't have been happier. All the parents were invited to this "Author's Tea." I couldn't wait to see what Bianca came up with in class. At 9:30 this morning, Eric and I were both there, sitting on kindergartener-sized chairs packed in to see the 15 kids.
Bianca went up to the front to read her story. It was about a Cheetah, which incidentally was the topic of about seven other of the kids' stories as well. It went like this: "Cheetah maxe friends. One day there was a cheetah. It hunted for lions. The End."
Of course I clapped like she'd just won the pulitzer prize. After all, she wasn't scared to get up there and read to the entire class with all the parents. But I looked to Eric like what-just-happened-here. It's not that I thought the story was bad, but it was just like most of the other kids' stories. I know Bianca has the potential to write a much better story. I've heard it. I've seen her do it. And here she is, reading something so below what I know she can do.
Why do I care? I'm not sure. I'm never going to say anything about it. I want her to keep writing stories. But it's just so hard for me to stand back and watch.
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
There's something lurking around the house
Call me crazy. I swear everytime I'm pregnant, there's one night in particular when things seem to go "bump in the night." It happened on Saturday.
Eric was out for the night with the "guys", so I put Bianca to bed at 7:30--her bedtime--and I sat down to finish the book I was reading. I had about 75 pages to go. I decided to take a jetted bath to help with my back pain. Baths are about the only relief I can get from the constant pressure nowadays. I read in the bath until sweat dripped into the tub from my forehead and then got out and continued reading on my bed.
About 20 minutes after I had gotten out of the tub, as I was lying on my bed, the jets from the bathtub automatically turned on. There was no water in the tub by that point, so I'm sure you can imagine the sound it made. Something between a hovering helicopter and what my dog sounds like after he's peed off the mat on my newly cleaned carpet and my foot sent him into his bed for "time-out." It wasn't good. I jumped up and turned it off, thought how weird it was, picked my book back up, and continued reading.
Five minutes later, which is about just how often I have to get up anymore to pee, I had to take a bathroom break and fill up my cup with more water. The door to Bianca's room that she just moved out of--before she moved to her new room downstairs--seemed like it was opening on its own. I wasn't wearing my glasses. I put them on and thought it was just an optical illusion. But by that point, I called Eric and asked him when he'd be home.
He returned a half hour later without another problem. We talked, went to bed, and after much tossing and turning, fell asleep. I always feel safer after Eric's here. It was dark and peaceful in bed.
Around one o'clock, we were startled awake by the brightest light that there ever was. I hurried to turn it off, scared, jumped back into bed, and nestled in as anatomically possible to Eric, inside the comforter and sheets, as I could.
Eric's convinced that it's our new baby checking things out at her new house. When I was pregnant with Bianca, a huge shelf in my bathroom jumped off the wall. With Miranda, it was probably the same old thing--lights turning on, and just sounds.
He got the idea from his mother who swears the same types of things happened while she was pregnant.
I am a believer in ghosts, always the scary kind that won't leave me alone--especially when Eric's out of town. Whenever you have time, I'll tell you about the "ghost" that lives in my parents' basement and I revisit every summer when I go hhome to visit.
I'd prefer to believe this was Portia messing around than a ghost. But it could always be wishful thinking. What do you think? Is it possible?
Eric was out for the night with the "guys", so I put Bianca to bed at 7:30--her bedtime--and I sat down to finish the book I was reading. I had about 75 pages to go. I decided to take a jetted bath to help with my back pain. Baths are about the only relief I can get from the constant pressure nowadays. I read in the bath until sweat dripped into the tub from my forehead and then got out and continued reading on my bed.
About 20 minutes after I had gotten out of the tub, as I was lying on my bed, the jets from the bathtub automatically turned on. There was no water in the tub by that point, so I'm sure you can imagine the sound it made. Something between a hovering helicopter and what my dog sounds like after he's peed off the mat on my newly cleaned carpet and my foot sent him into his bed for "time-out." It wasn't good. I jumped up and turned it off, thought how weird it was, picked my book back up, and continued reading.
Five minutes later, which is about just how often I have to get up anymore to pee, I had to take a bathroom break and fill up my cup with more water. The door to Bianca's room that she just moved out of--before she moved to her new room downstairs--seemed like it was opening on its own. I wasn't wearing my glasses. I put them on and thought it was just an optical illusion. But by that point, I called Eric and asked him when he'd be home.
He returned a half hour later without another problem. We talked, went to bed, and after much tossing and turning, fell asleep. I always feel safer after Eric's here. It was dark and peaceful in bed.
Around one o'clock, we were startled awake by the brightest light that there ever was. I hurried to turn it off, scared, jumped back into bed, and nestled in as anatomically possible to Eric, inside the comforter and sheets, as I could.
Eric's convinced that it's our new baby checking things out at her new house. When I was pregnant with Bianca, a huge shelf in my bathroom jumped off the wall. With Miranda, it was probably the same old thing--lights turning on, and just sounds.
He got the idea from his mother who swears the same types of things happened while she was pregnant.
I am a believer in ghosts, always the scary kind that won't leave me alone--especially when Eric's out of town. Whenever you have time, I'll tell you about the "ghost" that lives in my parents' basement and I revisit every summer when I go hhome to visit.
I'd prefer to believe this was Portia messing around than a ghost. But it could always be wishful thinking. What do you think? Is it possible?
Monday, March 26, 2007
Saturday morning breakfast
Two cars arrive separately and take parking spots next to each other in a McDonald's parking lot. A woman, pregnant in a flowing olive-green tunic, steps out and waits while a man gets out of the other car.
"Do you have a pen?" he asks.
"Yeah." She unlocks the door she'd just locked with the remote and pulls out a heavy leather bag. She straps it across her shoulders and they both walk inside. Eyes downcast.
They wait, standing a couple inches apart, behind several people ordering Egg McMuffins or pancakes or breakfast burritos. They don't speak. Just wait. Then order. She orders a sausage biscuit, and he gets a McGriddle sandwich. "I'll get it," he says and pulls out a credit card, swipes it, while the woman finds an empty table, across from two elderly men with discarded wrappers littering their table, still drinking their coffees.
The man walks over and takes a seat at her table. "Let's get this done," she says and pulls a black pen from her bag, then sets the bag carefully next to her seat. He opens a stapled wad of papers.
"Okay, sign and date here," he says, pointing to a blank line on page three. She signs, a sadness in her face, while she stares down at the words on the page.
"Now here." She signs again. The black ink trailing and drying on the page while she hesitates, her arm resting on the page.
The man stands and brings over their food.
"Don't you think we could work it out?" she says, resting her arm on the shelf her pregnant belly provides. Then rubs gently the foot away from where it's lodged under her rib, creating a sharp pain.
He shakes his head back and forth, then slides her sandwich across the glossy table until it stops, in front of her. She opens the wrapper and eats quickly.
"The child care isn't a write-off," he says.
She nods understanding and signs one more time, after he points out the last blank line.
"Why?"
"Your company had a loss this year." She looks up and smiles.
"What? I didn't make a profit?" They smile.
"Maybe next year."
They finish their food quickly. Then walk out of the restaurant separately. She sits heavily into her car and drives south, while he goes north.
"Do you have a pen?" he asks.
"Yeah." She unlocks the door she'd just locked with the remote and pulls out a heavy leather bag. She straps it across her shoulders and they both walk inside. Eyes downcast.
They wait, standing a couple inches apart, behind several people ordering Egg McMuffins or pancakes or breakfast burritos. They don't speak. Just wait. Then order. She orders a sausage biscuit, and he gets a McGriddle sandwich. "I'll get it," he says and pulls out a credit card, swipes it, while the woman finds an empty table, across from two elderly men with discarded wrappers littering their table, still drinking their coffees.
The man walks over and takes a seat at her table. "Let's get this done," she says and pulls a black pen from her bag, then sets the bag carefully next to her seat. He opens a stapled wad of papers.
"Okay, sign and date here," he says, pointing to a blank line on page three. She signs, a sadness in her face, while she stares down at the words on the page.
"Now here." She signs again. The black ink trailing and drying on the page while she hesitates, her arm resting on the page.
The man stands and brings over their food.
"Don't you think we could work it out?" she says, resting her arm on the shelf her pregnant belly provides. Then rubs gently the foot away from where it's lodged under her rib, creating a sharp pain.
He shakes his head back and forth, then slides her sandwich across the glossy table until it stops, in front of her. She opens the wrapper and eats quickly.
"The child care isn't a write-off," he says.
She nods understanding and signs one more time, after he points out the last blank line.
"Why?"
"Your company had a loss this year." She looks up and smiles.
"What? I didn't make a profit?" They smile.
"Maybe next year."
They finish their food quickly. Then walk out of the restaurant separately. She sits heavily into her car and drives south, while he goes north.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
This is an UN-premeditated blog . . . so beware
This is the first time I've actually sat down and started a blog that I had no idea what I was going to write about. I've felt so uninspired lately, to write anything, to clean my house, to stand up.
The good news is that my house IS clean. I hired some ladies to come over and clean it, and they came this morning. It was wonderful. Well, great, except for I felt so guilty letting them clean my house that I had to be up organizing and straightening while they worked. Why is that? I can't just sit down and relax. Not while they're cleaning up my mess. That and well, they were speaking Spanish to each other and laughing and I just couldn't knock that Seinfeld episode (where Elaine's getting her nails done by some Japanese women who sat around talking about her while they worked). Everytime they laughed, I wondered if they were laughing at how dirty my house is. Did I mention that pregnancy makes me a little paranoid?
I've been upset lately. Mainly about my dad whose health is deteriorating fast. We found out that his neck is fractured, along with several vertebrae. No wonder he couldn't hold his neck straight. Looks like he's going to have surgery soon. To put in some rods or something. I don't know if he's healthy enough to undergo anesthesia. I worry. My sister says that he's having a hard time concentrating on a conversation. That his brain just isn't functioning like it was. And worse, he's lost hope. I'm scared.
I'm also starting to worry about having this baby. I know it's going to be hard. I'm worried that I'll be overwhelmed, my hormones will be all out of whack, and then I'll have Miranda's birthday several days later. I'm worried about being depressed. My only other spout of depression (not catastrophe related) was post-partum, so I know it's possible. I hope that if I expect the worst, then it won't be as bad as I think. But not only that, I'm worried about the first fifteen months of Portia's life. That everytime she does something, I'll be thinking about the last time I went through my baby's first time, which will have been with Miranda. I'm pretty sure that's why people always said that that's why the first year after losing your baby is so hard--because you have to go through your first Christmas, Easter, birthday, everything without her. Well, here I go: I'm going to have a complete fifteen months of firsts with a baby that isn't her. And I'm scared. I'm scared I'll resent this baby for not being Miranda and that's not fair.
Wow, so I just dumped a lot down. Sorry. I guess I needed it somewhere besides stuck in my brain that wakes me at 3 a.m. and won't let me get back to sleep. I have, however, gotten a lot of reading done because of my body's inability to go back to sleep.
The phone just rang. It's a miracle. Eric's on his way home and it's 5:15. I think the last time this happened was in college.
The good news is that my house IS clean. I hired some ladies to come over and clean it, and they came this morning. It was wonderful. Well, great, except for I felt so guilty letting them clean my house that I had to be up organizing and straightening while they worked. Why is that? I can't just sit down and relax. Not while they're cleaning up my mess. That and well, they were speaking Spanish to each other and laughing and I just couldn't knock that Seinfeld episode (where Elaine's getting her nails done by some Japanese women who sat around talking about her while they worked). Everytime they laughed, I wondered if they were laughing at how dirty my house is. Did I mention that pregnancy makes me a little paranoid?
I've been upset lately. Mainly about my dad whose health is deteriorating fast. We found out that his neck is fractured, along with several vertebrae. No wonder he couldn't hold his neck straight. Looks like he's going to have surgery soon. To put in some rods or something. I don't know if he's healthy enough to undergo anesthesia. I worry. My sister says that he's having a hard time concentrating on a conversation. That his brain just isn't functioning like it was. And worse, he's lost hope. I'm scared.
I'm also starting to worry about having this baby. I know it's going to be hard. I'm worried that I'll be overwhelmed, my hormones will be all out of whack, and then I'll have Miranda's birthday several days later. I'm worried about being depressed. My only other spout of depression (not catastrophe related) was post-partum, so I know it's possible. I hope that if I expect the worst, then it won't be as bad as I think. But not only that, I'm worried about the first fifteen months of Portia's life. That everytime she does something, I'll be thinking about the last time I went through my baby's first time, which will have been with Miranda. I'm pretty sure that's why people always said that that's why the first year after losing your baby is so hard--because you have to go through your first Christmas, Easter, birthday, everything without her. Well, here I go: I'm going to have a complete fifteen months of firsts with a baby that isn't her. And I'm scared. I'm scared I'll resent this baby for not being Miranda and that's not fair.
Wow, so I just dumped a lot down. Sorry. I guess I needed it somewhere besides stuck in my brain that wakes me at 3 a.m. and won't let me get back to sleep. I have, however, gotten a lot of reading done because of my body's inability to go back to sleep.
The phone just rang. It's a miracle. Eric's on his way home and it's 5:15. I think the last time this happened was in college.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
I'm ready to take my dog to the humane society
It was weeks after Miranda was born that I got rid of my cat. Kitty Bumpkin. He'd been with me since before I was married, when I was living alone in my first 400-square-foot apartment in Taylorsville. I loved him. But when Miranda was born, he started peeing all over everything. I don't have that much patience.
I don't know if this is related to the baby on its way or not, but Tigger has been going all over my new basement. At first I thought it was because he was staking his territory with the construction workers downstairs all the time. But now they're gone and he's still doing it. I can't get it to stop and I'm about ready to go crazy.
So, I've decided to re-train him to go outside--he's been using training pads because he was never really trained. I put him in his travel kennel and I'm only going to let him out to go outside or if I can keep my eyes on him 100 percent of the time. This is a last resort. If this doesn't work, if any of you know someone who would like a purebred chihauhau who goes on pads, let me know.
He really is a cute dog and we've grown to love him, but it's usually right after I have a baby that I lose patience for anything that didn't grow in my uterus. I know this makes me sound like a horrible person, but I never really wanted this dog in the first place and I think of him as expendable. He was given to us. And he was an expensive dog. The person who bought him paid over $2000 for him. And you know me, I can never pass up a "good deal."
I'm trying to be patient. I really am. Even now, as I'm listening to him whining and barking and trying to get me to take him out of the travel kennel. He'd better get used to it. He's got another hour before I'm taking him outside again for another potty break.
I don't know if this is related to the baby on its way or not, but Tigger has been going all over my new basement. At first I thought it was because he was staking his territory with the construction workers downstairs all the time. But now they're gone and he's still doing it. I can't get it to stop and I'm about ready to go crazy.
So, I've decided to re-train him to go outside--he's been using training pads because he was never really trained. I put him in his travel kennel and I'm only going to let him out to go outside or if I can keep my eyes on him 100 percent of the time. This is a last resort. If this doesn't work, if any of you know someone who would like a purebred chihauhau who goes on pads, let me know.
He really is a cute dog and we've grown to love him, but it's usually right after I have a baby that I lose patience for anything that didn't grow in my uterus. I know this makes me sound like a horrible person, but I never really wanted this dog in the first place and I think of him as expendable. He was given to us. And he was an expensive dog. The person who bought him paid over $2000 for him. And you know me, I can never pass up a "good deal."
I'm trying to be patient. I really am. Even now, as I'm listening to him whining and barking and trying to get me to take him out of the travel kennel. He'd better get used to it. He's got another hour before I'm taking him outside again for another potty break.
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