I am 17 weeks along, or just a little over 4 months. Well, mostly. Here’s the thing about pregnancy weeks. Some people, like my mean doctor, like to count you as far along as you are—as in I am 16 weeks because 16 weeks have already past. Some people, like my lovely pregnancy tracker, count the week you are in—as in I am in my 17th week as 16 weeks have already past. Then there are the people who count thing like the exact days, as in I am 16w1d or 16 weeks and 1 day. Until I am overdue, we are gonna ignore that sh*t. Between that and the food you have to remember to eat and NOT eat, the myriad of doctor’s appointments and all the crazy acronyms that pregnancy boards toss round, no wonder women get pregnancy brain. Too much crap to remember and you brain shorts out and you put your phone in the freezer. (Don’t tell Jethro.)
So anyway, 17 weeks and I’m already a bad mother.
First off, I don’t think I’m drinking enough water. Honestly, I don’t think anyone is drinking enough water, but since I’m sharing my space for the next five months, I should probably be more considerate. But I just don’t FEEL LIKE IT. It’s tough, trying to plow through 64 ounces a day. I mean, that’s a butt-ton of water, y’all. Yes, I can count other drinks as my fluid intake, but I JUST DON’T FEEL LIKE DRINKING.
Unless it’s a beer. Because I really super want one of those right now. I sipped one of Jethro’s crappy Coors Lights and it was like ambrosia dripping from the petals of a flower held by an angel.
Hell, if I’d had a Paulaner Hefe, my face might have exploded.
Second, I’m irritated with my belly. I blew right past baby bump and went straight into baby GUT. Which is cool, means I don’t have to suck in when waddling around anymore, pathetically trying to NOT look like I have a food baby rather than a real baby. The baby gut is mostly hard, but there is definite jiggle. Now, I realize most of the gut is my own organs and that nice layer of fat that I lovingly crafted of bacon cheeseburgers and sushi, but does there have to be JIGGLE? It feels funny. Not gross, just WEIRD. Aren’t pregnant bellies supposed to be all hard? Has Hollywood LIED to me?
Also, my gut has consumed my feet. I think feet are gross in general (Jethro has almost been stabbed many time after sticking his toes on me,) so I don’t miss them. But did they have to go away so soon??
And by covering my feet, this also means my gut sticks out further than my chest. Where are these amazing pregnancy ta-ta’s I’m supposed to get??? Why are they not growing in direct proportion to my stomach? I’ve always had a big chest and never once have I lamented their size, until now. I want bazonga’s that cannot be contained. I want boobies so big that I need Hooter-Hider even in the privacy of my own home. I want the La Leche League to be knocking on my door, offering me endorsements. WHERE ARE MY GIANT BOOBS?
Third, we have decided to find out the gender, but for completely selfish reasons. I keep referring to Tater as “she,” mostly because I really do feel she’s a girl. This makes Jethro reflexively respond with “he,” because Jethro is scared of girls. He knows that a teeny little girl with giant eyes and curly hair will break him like nobody’s business and he does not want that. He also knows that one day she will have a boyfriend and considering how he feels about any wrong done to his sister, we know will be possibly be looking at future assault charges. (Between him, his father, my father and then myself, this child will have to leave the country to date.)
Previously, we thought we’d wait to find out. The ultimate surprise! No gender-molding! No pink onsies OR sports-themed baby tees! We are so progressive! However, because our relationship is built on a mountain of snark and bickering, Jethro and I have decided to find out the sex of the baby at our next appointment at the end of February. JUST TO PROVE EACH OTHER WRONG.
We are terrible people. Me moreso because I am bound and determined to get Jethro to bet on this. Mama needs some Kate Spade.
Finally, I am ambivalent about making the house baby-ready. I’m sure a nesting phase will set in, but right now my nesting consists of me wanting to buy baby stuff very badly. Which doesn’t count because I look for any excuse to buy things. “OMG, IT’S ARBOR DAY? There’s got to be a sale somewhere….” However, Jethro is on a baby-proofing kick. It started with him wanting to add a railing to our stairs. We have the second and third floor of a condo, so we have return stairs that take us up the bedrooms. The bottom set doesn’t have a railing on either side and I made the mistake of joking about tumbling over the side and my ever-cautious husband now has a phobia of dropping the baby off the stairs. I want to tell him that you can drop the baby anywhere and it would be bad, but I don’t think I need to continue to contribute to his neuroses.
Thing is, we’re renting so it’s not like we can just put in a railing whenever we want. Also, does ANYONE know how to put in a railing?!? Do they have classes at Home Depot on that? Is there some talk radio show I can call into and speak to grumpy old men who call me puddin’ and assume I don’t know what a Sawzall is? WHEN is this a skill you have to learn? (I just googled it. Apparently there are YouTube videos on it. OF COURSE THERE ARE….shut up, y’all.)
Jethro’s next pet project is that he thinks we need to replace our living room carpet. We have hardwood floors throughout, with the exception of a teeny square-footage where our TV and couches are. Apparently, this carpet is now “nasty.” This carpet was brand-new when we moved it. It is not pretty because it is brown and boring, but any part of the nasty is completely achieved by us. Does it need to be shampooed? Sure, we have a dog and I craft on it too much. It wouldn’t hurt. But I really don’t plan on serving the baby any of her strained carrots on the carpet, so WHY replace it? And shouldn’t the baby get USED to our brand of “nasty”? It probably won’t happen in the beginning, but eventually I’m going to stop sterilizing the baby’s binky after it falls out and just blow on it to remove the dog hair and pop it back in her mouth. Because as fussy as we are right now, once we get the hang of this parent thing, we’re going to relax. And then we’re going to realize that we can’t protect Tater from ALL of the gross things in life, so we just need to protect her from the MOST gross. One day, we will find her licking the dog and we can either flip out, or just sigh and rescue poor Maggie. So we might as well start now and just clean the carpet and call it a day.
Because if this child is anything like me as a child, she is going to do enough damage that we will HAVE to replace the carpet before we move.
So, yeah. Bad Mama already. And I’m trying to be a little better. I’ll drink more water, stop glaring at my stomach as it jiggles as I walk upstairs and let Jethro plan on saving the Tater’s life before she even has her first breath. (PLAN, not actually do. I’m not endorsing the crazy.)
But don’t hold it against me if I count a Cherry Coke as part of my water intake. I got up to pee three times last night, Mama is TIRED.