Well hello, those of you who are still reading. I kind disappeared there for a while, huh? I apologize, but I can’t guarentee it won’t happen again. In fact, it probably might, because…
Yup. That there’s a baby, unofficially known as Tater. Okay, so it’s actually a uterus holding a baby, which is the thing on the left. Well, we’ve been told it’s a baby. I’m holding out for a pony. Tater was only six weeks along right there, which is why she looks like a seahorse. Which is almost like a pony, but not.
So yeah. I am pregnant. Preggers. Knocked up. Bun in the oven. My eggo is preggo. I am WITH CHILD. (I hate that one, it creeps me out…) Due July 24th, but that’s up in the air because I was three weeks early and my husband was three weeks late and ain’t been on time since.
Why’s this an excuse for not posting? Because apparently for me, being pregnant is like being hungover with mono. (But without the fun pinot grigio bender the night before…oh, pinot grigio. I MISS YOU OLD FRIEND!!!!!) I’m alternately nauseous or starving (occasionally both) and I’m exhausted most of the time. I even went to work WITHOUT MAKEUP for two days. (This may mean nothing to some of you, but those of you who have seen the array of beauty products that coat my bathroom counter just gasped and passed out.) So no posts. Sorry about that. Mostly. Right now all I really care about is when I can get a nap. Unless you have a grilled cheese sandwich on your person. Then I find you fascinating.
While I do have a few fun baby related posts coming up, I can promise you that this is more than likely NOT going to even remotely resemble a “mommy blog.” I truly respect those that have them, but in the past week I have referred to my fetus as a dick on at least four occasions. I don’t see Parenting.com putting me on their front page any time soon…
But yes, joking aside, we are ecstatic. And terrified. Mostly terrified, but in that way that you are before you go over that first dip in a roller coaster – you’re thrilled, you’re petrified, you wonder why you thought this was a good idea and you might want to throw up even as you can’t wait to go over the edge. And although I’ll probably talk about Tater and my pregnancy a lot on here, I’ll do my best to keep it entertaining. Cause if you can’t laugh about having to wear some sort of bra 24/7 because you’re only 13 weeks and your tits are HUGE, well that’s a world that I don’t want to live in.
But first, some ground rules for the new slight babyification of Kind of a Mess.
Everything I know I learned from STFU Parents
1.) I will not being sharing super personal details. I respect everyone who uses their blog/social media as a means of sharing intimate details as a way of connecting, but that’s not my thing. Anyone who demands to know my test results must have either wiped my ass as a child or held my hair back as an adult. You understand.
2.) I will not mommyjack conversations. I promise that I will not on your blog and post comments like, “Oh, you think recovering from brain surgery is tough??? Now you know what it feels like to be pregnant and you get baby brain!!! HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!” Those people suck.
3.) We might not find out what the sex is. This drives some people BATTY. Which in turn makes it more fun for me. But I also am positive it’s a girl, so we might find out so I can prove Jethro wrong. We’ll see. I’m terrified of girls once they reach age nine and make each other cry for no reason, but boys at 15 start to smell REALLY weird so I’m not sure which one I want more. The slight winner is girl, just so I can put her in giant poofy pageant dresses. Not pageants, just the dresses. SPARKLE, BABY!!!!
4.) We’re definitely not sharing the name until she’s born. (Or he, FINE, JETHRO…) I know way too many teachers to be able to say ANY name without at least someone shuddering and going, “Aw. Really?” As discussed previously, I already have strong opinions on names so I don’t need to sabotage our child with outside opinions. Let me find out later that your neighbor’s daughter’s best friend had the same name and turned out to be a crack addicted stripper who specializes in furries. (MOM. DO NOT GOOGLE FURRIES.)
5.) I promise to keep the grossness to the lovely standard I’ve already established: bodily functions talked about in abstract are okay, specific instances 0r in anticipation of said act are not.
- Acceptable: “Taylor Swift as Eponine in Les Miserables makes me want to vomit.”
- Unacceptable: “This baby makes me have to poop like WHOA.”
- Acceptable: ‘The Kardashians make me want to sh*t in their purses.”
- Unacceptable: “Let me tell you about this discharge I got…”
6.) This also goes for instances of former body parts, as in mucous plugs and placenta. I’m a little crunchy, but this will be no lotus birth. (MOM. DO NOT GOOGLE LOTUS BIRTH.) Also, that sonogram is the grossest picture that you’ll get. Unless you count belly pictures, and if you do I hate you.
7.) Speaking of belly pictures, I’ve popped, but I look about a month ahead of where I actually am. (I’m supposed to look like this, this week. I don’t think I’ve EVER looked like that….) And it doesn’t help that I’ve spent every day since November 13th going, “Jethro, am I getting bigger? This wasn’t here yesterday right?” only for her response to be “You’re not bigger.” Which translates in my head “You already had a pregnancy gut before you were pregnant,” which then makes me run off and pout and hate Jethro. And makes Jethro glad I left the room because he can watch his flying Alaskan lobster crocodile noodling moonshine show without me. So there might not be baby belly pictures until I am positive it’s all baby. Right now it’s baby plus Sonic bacon cheeseburgers.
8.) You can’t always tell from my writing, but I’m a pretty warm and fuzzy. I like hugs and puppies more than the average person, I will nom on teeny baby hands if given the chance and I’m pretty Pollyanna about life in general. However, I’m also realistic and occasionally cynical, so I will more than likely talk sh*t about my future child. I’ve already told someone at work that I’m pissed Tater’s tail is gone because I’ve always wanted circus folk in the family. I complained about the lack of crate training information in baby books to Jethro and I was mostly kidding. I told my friend Stacey the other day that sometimes I start thinking about how much a baby is like a parasite and it freaks me out. Know that I love this baby more than anything else in the world, but also know that I cannot be excited and ecstatic CONSTANTLY. Those people are annoying and it’s exhausting. I’m settling for happy with occasional bouts of pissy. That doesn’t make me a bad person (there are so many OTHER reasons) and it won’t make me a bad mother. But it’s okay if my sh*t-talking about my child disturbs you. It’s cool if you want to leave and if you ask nice, I’ll probably send you some links to blogs that you might like. I am adopting Ariel of Offbeat Everything’s new stance on scolding; it’s okay to not love me. It’s not okay to spend three misspelled paragraphs telling me why and how I need to change. Save that for your own blog, that’s what it’s for.
I give you these promises because, honestly, the other parents TERRIFY me and I’m scared they might find us. (There’s a couple of you already here. Y’all can stay.) I’m worried that I’ll do a post on my birth plan or something, they’ll sniff it out and move in. Things will be fine and dandy as they dole out helpful advice and positive affirmations littered with exclamation points…until I mention how I used a disposable diaper when we went for a long drive and then BAM!!! They pounce with unsubstantiated studies, personal anecdotes and righteous indignation and treatises on how I should have CPS called on me. So while there will be more baby content, there will also be more Sad Bastard Songs and book talks and complaining about Jethro farting.
Y’all just keep it down, maybe they won’t find us….
And on that note, I’ll leave you with how I WANTED to tell everyone about the baby.
Jethro said nah. Spoilsport.