One

One centimeter. That’s all.

I need to hold off until Thursday night because I have to pick O up from camp that day. August 5th is a good day to have a baby, right?

Tomorrow I will mostly be bitching my head off because it’s supposed to be 105 degrees here. ONE HUNDRED AND FIVE. That’s obSCENE. I have the girls’ inflatable pool all set up in the back yard. I will fill it in the morning with nice, cool water. I will slather up the Boo with sunscreen. I will slather up myself with sunscreen. I will fill the cooler with ice and we will be spending 99.9% of the day getting pruney. Tomorrow is going to suck sweaty donkey balls.

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The Green Mile

I’m currently avoiding watching this – it’s on in the next room. Jesus. Fucking weird movie. It goes from funny to setting a man on fire in an electric chair in about 30 seconds. Not my cup of tea.

I should have watched the new Alton Brown show, dammit. Like I wanted to.

Two days

That’s how much time TCBIM is taking off when I have the baby. The day she’s born and the day after. Unless, of course, she’s born over a weekend. Then he won’t take any time at all.

I can’t even begin to tell you how angry I am. Two days? I realize that he doesn’t have any vacation time, but two days? I haven’t even been able to talk to him about it because I’m so upset that I know I’ll just go off and get hysterical and that won’t win me any points.

I don’t know why I can’t make him see that I need his help. Not forever, but for now. Every day, while he’s at work, he calls and says he’s going to do thus-and-so when he gets home. And every night, he gets home, eats his dinner and plops down in front of the tv and does exactly nothing. He might wash the dish he uses for his dinner, but no one else’s and never any pots and pans. When I complain, he rolls his eyes at me. When I try to talk rationally and calmly, he says he’ll do more. But he doesn’t.

His big argument is that he does all the big stuff, like mowing the lawn. But the lawn hasn’t been mowed in three weeks. He rushed down to Home Depot to get a screen door for the back door, but it doesn’t fit properly. So it’s hanging there, half open all the time and useless, because there’s a huge gap and, oh, it doesn’t close. He threw it in my face that he was going to be the one replacing the heating system. But the heating system, all three-fucking-thousand dollars worth of it, is still sitting in the driveway. It’s not even in the cellar yet, it’s in the drive, under a tarp. It’s been there since May. Three THOUSAND dollars worth of stuff. Sitting there. Rotting.

The thing is, I can’t do this stuff right now. I can’t mow the lawn. I can’t fix the door. I certainly can’t hump a cast iron boiler into the cellar all by myself. And I’m sick of it. I’m sick of living this half-assed existence and hearing these stupid excuses from him. I wouldn’t mind doing all the housework if he was doing his bit, but he’s not.

He leaves stuff everywhere. In my back yard are his golf clubs, golf shoes and hockey gear. They’ve been there since last night. I’d imagine they’re going to be there for another week or two, getting ruined in the weather. His side of the bedroom is no better. We have a very small room. There’s maybe a foot of space between the edge of the bed and the closet. It’s impossible for me to get in the closet because his clothes cover the floor space. Mind you, the laundry and hamper are about three steps outside the door, but he doesn’t put them in the hamper, he just leaves them on the floor. He can’t even feed his own dog. I asked him to three times last night and when I got up this morning, the dog had no food and no water.

I can’t get him to change his ways. I can’t make him see that this is a problem, a serious problem. He’s ruining things that cost money; lots and lots of money. I don’t know why he doesn’t see this.

It’s not going to get any better once the new baby gets here, either. I’m going to have less time than I have now to get things done. And he’s already said that he doesn’t want to come home and immediately take over the child care. So. What do I do? How am I going to cope?

I wish I hadn’t gotten pregnant. I wish we hadn’t bought this house. I wish I’d kept my job and stayed in the town we were in and just left everything as it was. At least when I was working, I had his help. But now, now that I’m not working, he seems to think that I’m going to be able to do it all. I just don’t see that happening. And I don’t know how to make things better.

What do you think? Is it me?

Once again, I’m soliciting opinions from my imaginary internet weirdo friends.

I love my little Jizo guy over there. He’s cute, but he does kind of look like Yoda. I was thinking that this photo pretty much epitomizes this blog.

Kind of a pissed-off-get-outta-my-face-holy-shit-my-hair-is-awful thing.

Whaddaya think?

*Edit* Ok, how the hell do you make a picture smaller? I tried using that, but it’s huge.

So my choice is "Or death?"

You know your kid is sick when she refuses a small slice of angel food cake. Oh dear.

I woke up last night to pee (I’m really getting tired of that). I got back into bed and was just starting to fall into this weird dream where I was giving birth on the floor of my Honda as TCBIM sped down the highway, when I heard this little voice, “Mama. Oh, mama. Oh, mama. Hot. Oh, mama. Hot.” Once I woke up enough to figure out it wasn’t the dream child I was birthing, talking to me, and that I wasn’t actually giving birth anywhere, never mind on the floor of a Honda Accord, I realized it was The Boo.

And yes, she was hot. Very hot. I doped her up with some Tylenol, gave her a sippy cup full of cold water and she went right back to sleep.

This morning? Stink city, man. She’d pooped out the back of two diapers by noon. Disgusting, orange, runny, smelly poops, the kind that make you reel back, fanning the air in front of your face, when you open the bedroom door. She’s drinking a lot, but not eating. I’m not panicking yet, but if she’s still like this tomorrow morning, I’m calling the pediatrician. She hasn’t been sick in ages, so I’m probably overdue for a bout.

Oh, and to add insult to injury, the damned cat puked all over my bed at 6 a.m.. Lovely. Just how I want to be woken up. He’s already been to the vet once, last week, for this. Apparently, the antibiotics he’s on aren’t doing the trick.

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In other news, O is at camp until next Thursday. I miss her a lot, but there’s this cool e-camp thing where you can send emails to your kid and see pictures of them online. I spent a while this morning, scrolling thru the pictures, looking for her. There were a few and she looks like she’s having fun. I’ve already sent her two emails and she’s only been gone since Sunday.

Her dad never called her back after totally blowing her off last weekend. She refused to call him, said she didn’t want to talk to him. He called here Sunday night and all he wanted to know was if she’d made it to camp. I said yes and he pretty much hung up on me – I’m sure he didn’t want to get an earful from me.

O has said that she’d write to him from camp. We had this long conversation on Saturday about it and she said she just didn’t want to deal with it, just wished it would all go away. I told her that she was going to have to deal with it or her dad was just going to keep doing this. He’s being immature, but if they both keep putting their heads in the sand over this, then nothing will ever change. I suggested that she write down how she’s feeling, in a letter to her dad, and if she feels like it, to send it to him. I told her that I know it’s hard for her to confront him in person or on the phone, so a letter is probably the best way. And then, she’ll know. If he responds and actually talks to her about this (highly unlikely, given his track record), then maybe they can salvage something. If he doesn’t respond and continues to act the same way, then she’ll have to decide what she wants to do. I can’t make that decision for her. I will support her 100%, no matter what she decides, though. As much as I loathe her father, I will not keep her from seeing him.

Book Guilt

I started this blog back in October, right before I got pregnant. I signed up with the name bookish because, well, I am. However, it seems that the second that pregnancy test came back positive, all my book-reading abilities flew right out the window.

These days, I can’t concentrate on anything to save my life. I have hundreds and hundreds of books and probably 50 of them are books that are waiting to be read. Some I’ll probably never get to (The Tao of Physics? Probably not gonna happen.) but some I really want to read (I’m looking at two PG Wodehouse books, Six Wives by David Starkey and Last Train To Paradise, all begging to be opened). And what am I reading? The Shell Seekers by Rosemund Pilcher. The fucking Shell Seekers. Which I have read, no lie, probably 15 times already. It’s a nice book, very comfortable, like sinking into a feather bed, but still. What next? Re-read Little Women for the eleventy-third time? This is ridiculous.

I know that being pregnant makes me lose what little concentration I have. Plus, there’s that whole annoying exhaustion thing. But I’m starting to get a little disappointed in myself. I have huge amounts of book guilt – does anyone else suffer from this or am I a total lunatic? Books that I haven’t read yet, that just sit there on the shelf. I can hear them. They say, “Oh, that’s right. Read that Maeve Binchy again. That Jennifer Weiner, like you haven’t read her books enough times. We’ll just sit here. Mouldering. Don’t mind us.” I tried separating them into different book cases, to shut them up, but it hasn’t help. Now, instead of one big section of waiting-to-be-reads, they’re scattered all over the house, waiting to snag my guilty conscience as I pass them over for that battered copy of Maia or the well-thumbed Autobiography Of Henry VIII. (Both are excellent, though. I highly recommend them.)

I don’t want to start reading drivel. I like my books, even the ones I’ve read many times. They’re like old friends. But I want to make new friends. I NEED to make new friends, so my mind doesn’t turn into complete mush once the new baby gets here, as is highly likely. So what do I do? Stop reading so many blogs? But I like the blogs I read, I enjoy them, I get information or support or a laugh from them, and that’s important, too. They do, it has to be said, severely cut into my reading time. Maybe I need to ration my blog-reading time. Only do it for an hour a day. But then how will I remember which ones I haven’t read yet? There’s that whole seive-for-a-brain problem again.

I just don’t know. I do think I’ll shut down the computer now, though, and go finish my book. Even if I have read it before.

I Wonder If I Can Teach Her To Sing "The Jackal"

Finally. We have come to a decision on a name. Nothing like waiting until the last minute.

Charlotte Jane. TCBIM has a bee in his bonnet that he wants to be able to call her CJ at some point. Oooooook. I shan’t be calling her that. At least, I don’t think I will. I’ll have to wait until I meet her, see if she’s CJ material.

After all, that’s a hell of a name to live up to.

Hell

That last post kind of wrung me out, so here’s a meme for your amusement (and because I haven’t done one in a while.)

Stolen from Behind The Stove, (who already bagged the best quote) who stole it from Badger, who stole it from…someone.

What’s your Hell like?

Drinks in my hell:
Budweiser/Miller/Coors and any beer of that ilk
Clamato
Blackberry Brandy
White Zinfandel
Wine coolers

Food in my hell:
Chicken livers the way my mother made them – overcooked, dry and nasty
Manhattan clam chowder
That awful sweet potato dish with marshmallows that people serve at Thanksgiving
Green bean casserole, or anything made with cream of whatever soup
Pureed turnips
Riced potatoes (what is the point of that, exactly?)
Buttermilk dressing
Ranch dressing
Thousand Island dressing (aka Puke In A Bottle)
Processed Cheese Food

Occupations in my hell:
Forest ranger (I hate bugs. To the core of my being. Hate. Them.)
Daycare teacher (I don’t much like other people’s children – hell, I can barely stand my own sometimes)
Stable cleaner-outer (Bugs AND shit. *shudder*)
Garbage collector (Trash breeds bugs. And stench. And sweaty men.)

Music mix in my hell:
James Blunt
Metallica
Any of those nasally rock bands, like Nickleback and System of a Down and such. That’s not music, that’s whining.
Stevie Nicks/Fleetwood Mac
99% of country music
Folk music – not trad. stuff, but girl-with-a-guitar kind of thing.

President in my hell:
Hah. Take a wild guess.

Authors in my hell:
James Patterson
Danielle Steele
Nora Roberts (sorry, Sarahtoo!)
The guy who wrote Corelli’s Mandolin
Charles Dickens

Husbands in my hell:
Jim Carrey
Will Farrell
Jack Black
Ben Stiller

Only activities allowed in my hell:
Pap smears
Dental work of any kind
Dish washer

The Body Image post

Beanie Baby has a really interesting post about parenting special needs kids. Go, read, comment. Scroll down and read her other post on eugenics. It is snark heaven. I loved it.

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Over at i obsess, there’s a great post about a mother’s body. She also links to Shape of a Mother, which is an amazing site. It’s made me cry and think and get very envious of these women who are celebrating themselves in a way I’m unable to.

I’ve seen this site linked on a lot of blogs I read regularly. I’ve liked reading the stories these women have shared. I’ve looked at their pictures. And I think “They look amazing compared to me.”

I’ve always had body image issues. I’ve hated the way I look since I was aware that I have a body. Since 1st or 2nd grade, I’ve been teased about my butt. My mother was always trying to get me to tuck my butt in – what? How the hell do you do that? All these years later, I have no idea. She even took me to a doctor about it. He told her I had some sort of spinal curvature – not scoliosis, because it didn’t go side-to-side, but rather in and out. My mother, figuring she knew more than anyone who attended medical school, didn’t believe the guy. Her answer to this was to put me in dance classes.

I have never been a graceful person. I don’t posess any athletic ability what. so. ever. So why my mother thought ballet and tap lessons were a good idea is beyond me. But she and the ballet teacher were determined that I was going to do this. And of course, one of the first things I had to learn was the splits. I can’t do the splits. Even when I was a flexible little 7 year-old, I couldn’t do the splits. My mother and the ballet teacher had other thoughts. I vividly remember them shoving me by the shoulders as I attempted, yet again, to get my butt to touch the floor. Both of them, hands pushing hard on me and the entire fucking class in a circle around me, laughing, while I cried and begged them to stop. It was mortifying.

I used to go up a grade for reading and English and there was this boy in that grade who would tease me mercilessly. Anthony Salvidio. I’ll never forget him. He was hardly a svelte creature himself, but he felt that it was his duty to torment me at every opportunity. He never called me Julia, he called me Jellybutt. Once, we had to make up a skit and he decided to write it. His name for my character? Bertha Butt. I just flat out refused to take part. I think it was the only zero I ever got, but I just couldn’t do it. It was hard enough being the only non-Catholic in the school, but you add glasses and a fucked up body to the mix and, well, suffice it to say, I wasn’t the most secure kid, certainly not secure enough to get up in front of the class and make fun of myself.

I grew about 8 inches in a year and in high school, weighed 117 pounds. At 5’8″, this was almost underweight, but of course, I thought I looked awful. And I still had that ass.

And now? Now that I’ve been pregnant 3 times in the last 3 years, now that I’ve given birth to three, soon to be four, children, I absolutely loathe the way I look. I don’t have massive stretch marks from being pregnant, but I have this stomach. I had a c-section with O and even when I’d lost a ton of weight, I still had this saggy, pouchy stomach that hung down a bit. It made me sick. It still does. I haven’t gained any weight with this preganancy, or with the Boo’s, but I did gain something like 70 lbs with O – most of which I never really lost. Well, I lost it, but I gained a lot of it back over the years. I don’t even want to talk about my boobs or the cellulite on my legs or my flabby arms. I’ll make myself puke.

TCBIM thinks I look great. He’s always telling me that he loves how I look, but I can’t seem to get past this. I’m so insecure about how I look that it’s unhealthy. I constantly worry that he’s going to get disgusted with my body. I have to force myself to let him look at me. He’s a lot younger than I am and I know it’s kind of stupid and vain, but I worry (incessantly) that he’s going to wake up one morning and wonder what the fuck he’s doing with this fat, flabby old hag. I’ve never told him any of this.

It’s so shallow of me, but if I ever won the lottery, the first thing I’d do is hire a personal trainer, lose weight and then get plastic surgery. Get the boobs up where they belong, get the tummy tightened, get rid of the cellulite and flab. I wouldn’t care what people though of me for doing it.

I really admire the women who can proudly display their bodies on that site. I am beyond envious at the comfort level they have about themselves. I don’t know how they got that and I wish I could be that way, but I can’t. People can tell me I look good and I never believe them. I don’t see it. I don’t look good. I look awful and I hate it and I wish I knew how to make these feelings stop. It kills me inside a little, every day, every time I have to look at myself in the mirror, every time I have to go try on clothes, every time I meet new people. I wonder what they’re thinking, I wonder what they’re saying and I wonder why I ever leave the house at all.

Let’s play Name That Baby!

I think we’ve narrowed it down to the following:

Eliza Jane
Charlotte (no middle name yet)
Sarah Jane

I’m leaning heavily towards Eliza. I like it. It’s different without being weird. But I also really like Charlotte.

If the 87 ultrasounds were wrong and it’s a boy, we’re fucked. We haven’t even discussed boy’s names.

The opinions of my imaginary internet weirdo friends would be appreciated.

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