About me: I'm 40 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 8-year-old Junior, our 5-year-old Everett, our baby and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Random Tuesday Thoughts: Slime, snorting and hand towels
This week was supposed to be my last week at work, but I’m going to try to make it one more week. I can put my accrued vacation and sick time towards my unpaid leave. That’s a whole ’nother week on the other side of this baby.
In mom time that's, like, 45 minutes.
Normally I’d say it was worth it, but dragging my pregnant ass to work isn’t the most pleasant experience. I’ve dropped. I waddle. Everyone gawks. Plus, my co-workers must assume I don’t realize I’m nine fucking months pregnant, because they feel the need to stop me in the hall and tell me how big/huge/gigantic I am.
Imagine that. Looking big three weeks from your due date. If I wasn’t afraid of being sued, I’d sit on every one of them. Then I’d moo and buck and snort a lot.
The nice thing is that having my water break at work isn’t scary because it happened with Junior. Though this time I am not going to bring a lone hand towel to the hospital. I’m going to pack a damn bag.
The cute articles in parenting magazines about what women should bring to the hospital crack me up. All you need is: a bathrobe, a pillow, slippers, socks, toiletries, and comfortable pants that won’t dig into your C-section incision.
Yup, that’s right. After a lot of internal and blogternal agonizing, I’m going for the elective C-section. Thank you for all your thoughtful comments on that by the way. If Diddlydoo stays indoors until the week after Christmas, yours truly will be spending New Years Eve at Mulletville Hospital.
Chuck’s going to bring a big, big bottle of champagne. After nine months of not drinking, I’ve been having intimate dreams about that bottle. The delightful, fizzing bubbles. The throat tickle of said bubbles and the ensuing giddiness.
How I need me some giddiness.
I’m giddy just thinking about the giddiness.
Of course, I’m going to breastfeed, so the giddiness is only imaginary.
Don't you just hate when you pop your own giddiness bubble?
Here, I'll do it again: I haven't bought one Christmas present.
And again: I don't have any clue what to get anyone.
Head on over to the Un Mom for more randomness. You'll learn neat things, like how Canadians excrete a natural oil that keeps them lubricated during the harsh winter months (straight up!). By golly, we're going to Canada on our next family vacation just to get slimed by some Canadians.