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If you’ve been reading a while you probably have read a few posts by my friend Sara. Mama to two of the cutest boys I’ve ever seen with the biggest blue eyes imaginable, she’s back today sharing one of her favorite Little Moments.
Some days are hard days. They did not sleep, they would not nap and their “listening ears” are clearly on the fritz.
Some days are frustrating days. You are sleep training or potty training or “mama’s computer is not a toy” training.
Some days you can’t find a sitter, or a sneaker, or the calm person you once were.
Some days you miss an appointment, miss a flight, or miss your husband.
Then there is this day. The day you go to get your three-year old from his nap and he beams proudly, “Mama, I got you some flowers.”
My dear sweet child…these are the days.
Long time readers may remember a few posts by my friend Sara. She is a mom to two beautiful boys, and when she decides to write about them, it’s always so good. I am honored to continue to give her a place to share her words.
Plans and Wishes
I was recently talking to a friend of mine about my children. “You know” I said, “having them so close together is not nearly as bad as I thought it would be”. “You mean you did not plan to have them close?” she asked. Um, no. I did not plan to have them that close. In fact, no part of either pregnancy was a well thought out plan. When I became pregnant the first time I was…how shall I say this delicately…shocked. As I wrote in an earlier post, it was not that I did not want to have kids, I was just not so sure about having them at that moment. I spent the first few months alternating between nausea and indifference and had to remind myself about the growing life inside me. The whole thing seemed rather abstract until I went for that first ultrasound. My husband and I joked around about curfews (12:00 am for a boy, 11:00 pm on the dot for a girl) and said the obligatory ‘yeah, I see it’ whenever the tech pointed out a limb or an organ. After doing her measurements she asked if we wanted to know the sex. We said yes and she replied “It looks like you are going to be up until midnight, it’s a boy”. “A boy” I replied. “A boy” she said. I went and peed in disbelief.
It was not that I did not want a boy; it’s just that quite frankly, I had no idea what to do with one. You know those women that have a mix of male and female friends or the ones who are more comfortable with men than with other women? I am not one of those people. I am a girl’s girl. I love the camaraderie of sisterhood and I absolutely adore and cherish my girlfriends. In fact, I would venture to say that I don’t have one male friend who is not married to someone I was friends with first. How was I, lover of high tea and the ballet, going to raise someone who thinks bodily functions are funny until…well according to my husband…until forever?
The moment he came, I was in love. In love in a different way than I had ever experienced. I was his mother, he was my darling son (future daughter in law eat your heart out, he will be my darling son for-ever). My second pregnancy was as un-planned as my first but from day one I felt different. I smugly proclaimed to the world “It’s a girl” as I turned green and ran to the bathroom. I confidently told my OB, “Its got to be a girl” as he noted my early weight gain and belly growth. My husband and I thought of girls names to match our sons and I spent every free moment I could looking at gender neutral nursery décor for the room both siblings would share. We marched into the ultrasound with the confidence of second timers. Once again the tech went about her business as my husband and I used the precious quiet moments to catch up. “Do you want to know the sex?” she asked. “Sure” I replied, thinking I already do. “It’s a boy”, she said with no pomp or circumstance. “A boy?” I asked. “A boy” she said. “Are you sure?” I asked. “I’m pretty sure” she said. “But sometimes techs are wrong” I reminded her. “Is their chance it could be a girl?” I said with hope. “Do you see this?” she pointed to a small white line on the screen, “You don’t want a girl with one of these”. Quiet. Blub blub of amniotic fluid. More quiet. “I mean, he looks healthy if that matters”, she said. I was appropriately mortified. I went to go pee with all the dignity I could muster and sulked out of the room in disbelief.
We walked out to the car. “Boys are good” my husband said. “What am I going to do with my doll collection?” I asked. “We are going to save a fortune on baby clothes” my husband offered. “What about my doll house?” I replied. “I had no idea you wanted a girl so bad” my husband said. “Me either” I whispered.
For the next few weeks the reality of my all male household hit me in different ways. I took solace in good non judgmental friends and spoke to other mothers of multiple boys. I went out and spent way too much money on various forms of pink tulle and sequins for my nieces. I gazed at an Edward Hopper-esque picture my friend sent of her daughters first day of ballet class for hours. I thought about printing it and hanging it up in our spare room because the photo was just so striking but decided even for me, that was creepy. I joked about fulfilling my husband’s dream of starting his own hockey team and unbookmarked web pages of nursery décor. We picked out boys names.
When I went into labor, far earlier than I had hoped, the reality of this future man hit me like a ton of bricks. Please don’t let him be too small I begged the car on the way to the hospital. Please try to make it stop I pleaded with the nurse when we walked through the door. He’s not ready I proclaimed to the anesthesiologist as he raced me into the OR. Less than 30 minutes after we walked into the hospital he was here. He was small but he was mine and he was perfect. My sweet darling boy. Visions of pink evaporated from my mind the moment I saw his face. Brothers I thought. I have brothers.
A few weeks ago I was sitting at the computer when we got word from my in-laws that my niece had recently been nominated for and accepted to make a wish through the Make A Wish Foundation. I sat at the computer and cried softly as I thought about this beautiful little girl who would never be able to wear high heels or take ballet and the wonderful people who were working to make her wish come true. That night my husband was reading to our toddler in his bed as I sat nursing the baby in the rocker. I held him close and gazed into his eyes while listening to the sweet sounds of peace, joy and laughter fill the nursery. I said a silent prayer for my niece and a thankful one for myself. For my life, for my children…for these two beautiful boys I never planned on but always wished for.
Editors Note and Shameless Plug: Since our family became involved with Make a Wish Foundation I have spent a lot of time doing research about the organization. I was pleased and surprised to discover there are lots of ways you can help with out opening your check book. Old airline miles, unused timeshares or extra building supplies can all help make a child’s wish come true. If you are interested, please take the time to check out your local chapter and read some of the inspiring stories of children facing the most extreme adversity and the people that bring them joy. Have tissues near by and warn your loved ones of extreme hugging to come. www.wish.org
During my blogging maternity leave, my friend Sara wrote a beautiful post about her emotions when she fell down the stairs holding her son. The response to that post was overwhelming; it was just so good. So, I offered her up a space to write down her thoughts on motherhood every now and again.
Oh baby, I hate to go
By Sara
Last night I had one of those nightmares that paralyzes you with fear. I dreamed that I was at home with my son when a group of zombies or ghosts (they did not identify themselves in said dream) arrived to take one of us. “No” I cried. “He is too little,” I sobbed, “he can’t be with out his mama”. I woke up drenched in a combination of sweat and tears. I padded into the soft blue nursery and turned on his little night light. I watched him sleep. I thought about waking him up just so I could hold him in my arms but settled for resting my palm on the small of his back and feeling his body rise and fall. I touched his hand, felt his little feet and smoothed his hair before convincing myself to go back to sleep.
The next morning I recounted the dream to my husband. He listened with as much interest as anyone can show in someone else’s dream and got quiet for a second. “Um,” he paused, “Do you think this could have anything to do with your trip next month?”. I knew it did. My part time job was sending me to San Francisco for 4 days against my will and I vehemently did not want to go. After 9 months, I was still breast feeding so being away from my son for any extended period of time required too much planning to be done with any real frequency. I had spent a night at a hotel for a good friends wedding and a day at a spa with my college roommates but neither had been further than a 20 minute drive from my baby. I knew that mothers did this sort of thing all the time and I needed to find some perspective, but there was no available perspective looming on my horizon.
The free-market economy has shown that people, in general, are pretty freaked out about becoming parents. You can find books telling you how to be pregnant, how to get through the first year, how to sleep train, how to teach your baby to sign and how to make your own baby food. A book called “How to Leave Your Baby and Get On a Plane” may exist, but I have yet to find it. In theory, I know how to leave my baby. I know how to prepare his meals, schedule his naps and lay out his clothes. I know how to pack my own bags, print out my boarding pass and segregate all my liquids into a plastic bag. I know how to leave lists, how to check in from the road and how to walk out the door. I know how to do these things, I just don’t want to.
The truth is, it’s not the things I can explain that worry me. It’s the things that can’t. You can tell someone that he likes to hold your hand when he gets rocked to sleep but how do you show them exactly how he prefers to lace his little fingers with your own? You can tell them what his favorite lullaby is, but how do you explain how to trail off at the final verse and hum softly in his ear as you put him in his crib. I can leave instructions on how to take care for him but I can’t leave a list of how to love him.
In my head I know that he will be just fine while I am away. In fact, I think some would argue that the separation might be good for us. But in my heart I am paralyzed with fear. I am afraid that he will get sick while I am gone. I am afraid that he will stand on his own for the first time or take his first steps and I will not be there to see it. I am afraid that he will get hurt. I am afraid he will get sad and I am afraid that at some point he is going to want his mama and not understand why she is gone. Mostly, I am afraid that he will be fine. That he will enjoy the time with his Dad and with his Mimi and not realize I am away at all. I am afraid that in those four seemly endless days, my little boy, my life, will realize that a world with out mama exists and that even with out a book, he can navigate it just fine.
How could you leave this little face?
Recently, a friend of mine told me a story that made me laugh out loud. The more she told, the more convinced I was her story should be a blog post. She’s a good sport and wrote it out for me, even though not all people like to share the intimate details of their lives on the Internet. (What, that’s not normal?)
How do you know that you are in the throes of a post partum life? When you approach the checkout of a pharmacy and have the following three items in your basket:
1. A pregnancy test
2. A box of tampons
3. A box of condoms
As any menstruating woman can tell you, in theory, if you need any one of these items, you should not need the other two. Some may argue that #2 and #3 could go together but that has never really been my thing as I have been blessed with severe cramps and have too high of an affinity for my linens.
So there I was, waiting for a post pubescent high school short stop to check me out, daring him to smirk and violate his company “do not make a face when people are people are buying things you find amusing” policy so I could point out that at least I was not buying cigarettes and prenatal vitamins. After seven months of exclusive breast feeding I still had not gotten my period and I was sure that my mood was either a result of 16 months of back logged PMS or my early pregnancy phase exhaustion. To make matters worse, for the past week I had had bouts of that “I am going to get my period any freaking second” cramping with no visit from Aunt Flo in sight. This reminded me just enough of how I felt 16 months prior to warrant the pregnancy test.
When I convinced myself for the third time that morning that I really was going to get my period any freaking second I went to try to locate a box of tampons and discovered that they were inconveniently packed away with my skinny jeans, my dangle earrings and any other evidence I had of a pre-baby life. I looked at the down pillow sized pads I had left over from the hospital and decided to add a box of OB Super Plus to the list just to be sure. On the short but blissful solo drive to the store the reality of a possible pregnancy began to set in.
Flashbacks of midnight feedings and three hour stretches of sleep being classified as a ‘good thing’ came back to me in the parking lot. By the time I walked through the automatic doors I realized that kids 16 or 15 or however many freaking months pregnant I could be apart would mean two in diapers at the same time. It would mean needing to buy one of those double strollers I eyed with pity at World-of-Baby. It would mean no sushi, no wine, NO BRIE CHEESE! I panicked. I promised myself with all of the earnest sincerity I had shown my OB and my 11th grade health teacher that I. Would. Use. Condoms. And that I would use them every time. I practically ran to the Family Planning aisle (HA!) and threw a jumbo pack into my basket. I was officially prepared for everything.
The next morning I peed on the stick. Not pregnant. That week I waited. No period. The box of condoms? Still unopened but residing in my bedside table which seems like a step in the right direction.
Oh well. Life is what happens when we are busy making other plans right? And lets face it, I’m too old for the skinny jeans anyway.
Today’s post comes from my friend Sara, a mother to a 7-month old boy who has the best smile I’ve ever seen. She’s the friend that can always make me laugh, offers a shoulder to cry on, and gave me mommy support throughout my pregnancy and early weeks of motherhood. I adore her.
This must be what all the fuss is about
I was never one of those people who dreamed about being pregnant or having a baby. Sure, I knew that some day I wanted children, but that desire was always sort of abstract in my mind. When I found out I was pregnant I was excited but to be totally honest I was scared. While my teenage peers honed their mothering skills babysitting for pudgy toddlers, I worked on my tan as a lifeguard. I always bought my nieces and nephews gifts that I later discovered were choking hazards and I am one of those people who can not correlate a child’s age with their grade level so I perpetually have my 5 yr old niece in first grade and my 10 yr old nephew in second. I don’t think this makes me a bad person, but I worried it might make me a bad mother.
This fear did not improve with pregnancy. I took a prenatal yoga class but mostly because it gave me a chance to nap during silent mediation. My husband and I went to the birthing classes but ended up being that couple in the back that giggles to themselves and stops paying attention when the instructor talks about things that do not interest them. Like anyone else who has had children, my birth story is at the very same time, totally unique and just like any other that you hear. It was hard, it was unexpected and it was exhausting. When I finally saw my son for the first time, I let society down and did not cry. I smiled at him and introduced myself, “Hi” I said, “I’m you mama”. He cried enough for both of us.
When they finally put my insides back together (4.5 hours a pushing followed by an emergency c-section that I was totally unprepared for). They brought me back to my room and put my son on my chest so I could nurse him. I took his little body in my arms and held him close. I smelled his new born smell and breathed in his little breath. “This must be what all the fuss is about” I thought to myself. I was in love.
Weeks later I was talking to a girl friend of mine. “You don’t really love him more than your husband?” she asked. I did not hesitate for a moment. “I do”, I replied. “I love him more than the sun and the moon; I love him more than myself. He is my everything.” Twelve short weeks later I returned to work. I cried and cried. “Help me understand” a good friend said to me. “It’s like the first time a boy broke your heart” I replied, “You know in your head that someday you will stop hurting, but in the moment, breathing in and out brings tears to your eyes.”
Months have gone by and with each passing day I love him more and more. Every time he laughs it is as if I am hearing sound for the first time, a symphony of joy. I have been able to transition to a part time position at work and each day that we are together I feel blessed to be the one to put him to bed and the one he reaches his arms out to in the morning. I am grateful for every bath, every story and every tear.
Has becoming a mother changed me? I once heard a story about a famous violin player who trained himself to fight human instinct and pull his arms behind him if he fell forward. His face would take the brunt of the fall but his hands, his livelihood, would be protected. This morning while holding my son in my arms, I fell down a flight of stairs. In the instant it took my body to recognize what was happening I became that violin player. My left arm pulled my son in closer to my chest and right arm came across his body, my hand protecting his head. We tumbled together. I took the brunt of the fall. When we reached the bottom my husband came running over. “How is he?” I franticly asked, fighting back tears. “He is not even crying” my husband replied as he took him from my arms. “How are you?” he asked concerned. We assessed the damage.
How am I? I’m bumped, I’m bruised, I’m sore. I may not sit for a week. How is my son? He is fine. He is perfect. He is my everything.
Today’s post comes from Jenna of That Wife fame. I’ve followed her for awhile and developed a lovely internet friendship with her as we were married, then started a family very close together. She’s also a great photographer, and a trip to her blog is well worth it!
Growing up in my family, it was known that kissing on the lips was something mommies and daddies did. Not mommy and Jenna, not daddy and Jenna. This of course, led me to believe that I would want to follow the same policy when I had my own children. Kissing my babies on the lips would be rather icky after all.
Then I birthed a son in April, and he has lips that look like this.
Photo credit: Kelli Nicole Photography. Click the link if you’d like to see more pictures of my little one as a newborn. 🙂
I don’t know what it is, but those lips look like candy to me. I am Eve and those lips are the forbidden fruit. Sometimes he turns his cheek right as I’m about to go in for a cheek kiss and our lips meet and I find myself loving these little mother —> baby son kisses we are sharing. So juicy and sweet and innocent, and I’m thinking that I might be the mother who kisses her kids on the lips after all. My younger childless sister is rolling her eyes as I type this I’m sure.
Something tells me that this won’t be the only time I break my parent’s family rules. Now that I’m a parent myself I’m breaking new ground, the same ground my parents broke back when I was a wee one, but finding that the terrain is spread out before me looking entirely different than what my parents must have seen. Same goes for the household rules that my husband grew up. I’m coming to different conclusions, making different mistakes (and some of the same ones), and if I’m smart I’ll quickly figure out which rules were meant to be broken, and which ones our parents were wise to set. As a teenage girl I would have given almost anything to start wearing makeup before reaching the age of 12, but now that I’m older and wiser I know if we have any girls we’ll have the same policy in our home. Turns out my parents were a whole lot smarter than I gave them credit for after all. I still might kiss my kids on the lips though.
What “family rules” will you be keeping or ditching with your own children?
Today’s post comes for Kaley at Cheap Therapy. She always makes me laugh, and I think you’ll enjoy her too. For the record, I attempted to start Mr. O’s birth story tonight, but then he wanted to nurse and before I knew it he was asleep on my chest and I got lost in the sweet baby scent of his head. I’ll try it again tomorrow!
The Tie That Binds
Once a woman gives birth to her child – who is, undoubtedly, the most adorable baby that’s ever lived – she is automatically initiated into the most exclusive sorority of all: Motherhood.
Though I was never involved with or part of a sorority in college, I had some friends that were. One particularly close friend disclosed to me one night over mixed berry wine coolers exactly what kind of embarrassing initiation rituals the girls had to go through in order to finally become a member of the sorority; things involving spontaneous karaoke performances, body image critiques, and 2 a.m. ice cream runs for current members who happened to have the late night, post-party munchies.
Yes, those things all sound horrible to me, but then again I’m an antisocial dumdum who would rather staple my cheeks to the carpet than get up in front of a bunch of catty, intimidating girls to sing my personal rendition of Girls Just Wanna Have Fun and then have my love handles circled with a Sharpie marker as an area to “work on.”
But however horrible as that may sound, it doesn’t come close to comparing to the kind of initiation we go through to bring a child into the world and become a member of the Motherhood.
Unlike college sorority sisters, mothers must actually put on weight and get fat. We must endure nine months of rapidly outgrowing every single article of clothing in our closet and watching the numbers on the scale creep higher and higher to scary, unknown territory, and then learn how to waddle with at least some semblance of grace.
We are forced to share our bodies with someone we haven’t even met yet and allow them to go all World Cup on us, kicking us and headbutting our ribs at all hours of the day, and most often, night.
We have to push a HUMAN out of our VAGINA. So, there’s that.
We must wear maxi pads in our bra to protect ourselves from leaking out the most precious of all liquids. Even still, we will wake up in the middle of the night to find that those pads have become useless and that we’re laying in a milky puddle. However, we’ll be too tired to get up and change our pajamas and sheets, let alone to give a shit.
We must put ourselves second to our child. While our baby will receive daily baths, we will not. While the baby will eat whenever he’s hungry, we will not. And although the baby can sleep whenever he wants, it won’t ever be when we also want to sleep.
Once we become a member of the Motherhood we are smacked upside the head with the challenges that being a mom brings, and no one will ever really see just how difficult it is until she herself is one of us. No one can look in from the outside and understand why we sometimes want to slump into an exhausted heap on the floor and cry along with our baby or why we look so disheveled and haggard for the first few months of our new baby’s life. Not everyone will understand why being a mother is the hardest job we will ever have.
But no one on the outside will ever understand the immense love that we mothers feel for our children, either.
It’s a love that is limitless, wide, and deep. It’s a love that we feel before we ever see our baby’s face and one that will last forever and ever. It’s what keeps us going when we’re tired of life, tired of all the crying, and tired of poopy diapers, one right after the other.
But ironically enough, it’s a gift, the greatest gift that we could ever be given, being initiated into the exclusive Motherhood.
Today’s guest post is from Laura over at Navigating the Mothership. She is fab.
Hello, These Little Moments readers! First of all, HUGE congrats to Molly and family on their new addition. I am happy and honored to provide a guest post so that Molly can spend all of her free time with Owen. While I have never met Molly in real life, I feel connected to her in that funny bloggy way. I have been loving her posts about the bizarre world that is pregnancy and can’t wait to hear more about life with Owen. She really is a blogging superstar, but you already know that.
A bit about myself. My name is Laura and I grew up in Fargo, North Dakota. Yes! That’s right. People actually live there amid the tundra. Or at least grow up there. We all leave, though. Can’t imagine why. These days I’m living in Minneapolis, Minnesota with my husband, named, uh…Husband (this is possibly a pseudonym) and our one-year-old daughter, Bella.
I’m currently a stay-at-home mom (and loving it), and prior to that I worked as a dietitian. Before you start asking me for nutrition advice, I should tell you that I have a little dessert problem and eat a decadent dessert every.single.day. Sometimes twice a day. Or maybe three times. Well…we’ll just say once a day. Moderation-slash-there-are-some-things-you-shouldn’t-admit-to and all that. I guess I would describe myself as one of those yuppie-hippy types when it comes to being a mama. You know, the classic unmedicated-birth, cloth-diapering, and make-my-own-organic-baby-food trifecta that’s all the rage these days. Of course, I’m just doing it to be trendy.
But I’m not hear to bore you about my adventures of being a yuppie-hippy. Today I want to tell you about the time Husband thought I pooped my pants when I was 40 weeks pregnant. A story like this is best told with dramatic flair. I shall now exit stage left.
Scene from a Movie Theater
An Enormously-Pregnant Woman (EPW) and her husband head to the local cheapie theater to take in a flick on her due date. The husband is taking her out in an attempt to distract her from the fact that she is probably going to be pregnant forever and TLC will be forced to make a frightening documentary about it. The couple arrive at the theater and EPW tries not to see how scared all the other patrons are of her ginormous belly. Once the couple is settled into their seats, EPW is still not able to take her mind off her pregnancy as she simply cannot find a comfortable position in her seat. She keeps shifting in an attempt to get comfy, but her trickster baby then shifts herself in utero, causing further chair shifting in the woman. It’s a real shift-a-palooza. EPW gives up on getting comfortable and settles for not-in-total-pain, but this requires endless fidgeting in her chair. A half hour of the movie passes and we now find EPW slouched very low in her seat and feeling sorry for herself…
Enormously Pregnant Woman (leans over to Husband and whispers): I need a bigger uterus.
Husband (distracted as he is watching the movie and can only focus on one thing at a time): Yes.
[The woman gets a sudden baby foot sticking out of her side and she slides up quickly to try to dislodge it. In the process of sliding up, however, her yoga pants and underwear stick to the seat and she is now in a preggy pickle of having major plumber’s butt. It is not easy to swiftly and inconspicuously remedy such a situation at 10 months pregnant.]
EPW (leaning over to Husband and whispering a tad frantically): I pulled down my pants!
Husband (EXTREMELY alarmed, but aware that his pregnant wife is in a rather delicate state of mind, not to mention not exactly in full control of bodily processes these days, says in a hushed and panicked whisper): YOU POOPED YOUR PANTS?!
Woman explodes in laughter and then suffers from emotional incontinence in the form of giggling for the rest of the movie, which only serves to draw more attention to her enormously-pregnant state. On the plus side, she is finally distracted from her pregnancy. Husband’s heart slowly returns to a normal pace, but he cannot get the horrifying image of trying to help EPW and her poopy pants out of the movie theater. All other movie-goers glance nervously at the slightly hysterical EPW for the remainder of the movie, certain that a baby is about to fall out onto the floor at any moment.
[END SCENE]
Pregnancy is such a time of beauty, isn’t it? If you are in the market for more stories like this in addition to regular posts about boobs, awkward moments, and figuring out this parenting gig, then you can find me at Navigating the Mothership. If you are interested in reading the generally embarrassing play-by-play of my first pregnancy, it’s all documented at Preggy Blonde. Thank you to Molly for letting me guest blog!
Today’s guest post comes from Kasia of Good Finking, a new mother to a beautiful little boy!
The question that you should never, ever ask
As Molly is off having new little moments with her baby boy, I thought I’d share with you a little moment of my own which just so happens to be pregnancy related (because c’mon admit it, you can’t get enough of these preggo stories).
I recently gave birth to my own bouncing baby boy but the day I found out I was pregnant still feels like yesterday. I was thrilled and shocked and scared and million other things but once those died down, I was… Hmm, I don’t know if there’s a word for what I was. How do you explain that feeling you get when you have a secret so ginormous that it makes you feel like your rib cage is filled with helium and is going to lift you off the ground and it’s all you can think about so you’re totally freaked out you’re going to spill it by accident and anyway, can’t people read it all over your face… but you can’t tell anyone? Yeah, that.
Well I walked around feeling that for fourteen whole weeks which is an ETERNITY when you’re feeling that feeling. We told our families halfway through that period but wanted to wait a bit longer before telling everyone else and needless to say, it almost killed me.
Whoops, did I say fourteen weeks? Well with some people it was shorter, but not by choice. Because guess what? They asked the question you should never, ever, EVER ask:
Are you pregnant?
I know, it seems so harmless, right? I mean, isn’t that a happy, joyous thing to ask someone who you know has been married for awhile and you know loves and wants kids and ha ha, isn’t it fun to tease them a bit about it and watch them squirm?
Yeah, I used to think so too… that is, until I was the one in the hot seat. And the day my (male) coworker* poked me in the paunch and said, “Whoa Kasia, you’re getting a little soft there, are you knocked up?” was the day I realized that the time to ask whether someone is pregnant or not is NEVER. I mean, consider the scenarios:
1. Yes, she’s pregnant but she’s not ready to tell you yet. I can’t tell you how excruciatingly uncomfortable it is to have to make up crappy lies to explain why no thanks, you’ll pass on the wine tonight (when everyone clearly knows you’re a lush), especially when you suck at lying. (By the way, the one that worked best was: “No thanks, I’m on antibiotics.” You’re welcome.) And what’s more, no one likes it when you rain on their parade. Maybe they have certain plans for how they want to tell everyone. Be a good friend – don’t ruin it for them!
2. No, she’s not pregnant and not trying and now she feels fat and you look like a dumbass. This is the classic one we all know about and hope never happens to us – on either side of the scale. No explanation needed.Ouch. I never really thought about this one until I had some friends who were going through this oh-so-painful experience and, well, yeah. It’s pretty terrible. They might smile and say, “Oh, not yet!” and seem fine about it but let me tell you, chances are high that the moment they get into the sanctity of their parked car, their hurt will overflow into tears. (My heart goes out to you if you’ve ever been in this situation.) Ok so maybe you’re clueless but maybe you’re just asking if she’s pregnant as an icebreaker because you really want to talk about babies but don’t know how to initiate the conversation. Either way, don’t do it!!! We all know women are touchy about their looks but pregnant women? Pregnant women are insanely sensitive and usually neurotic too and oh yeah, there’s that whole hormonal rollercoaster thing. Be kind and if you’re not 100% sure, keep your trap shut. If she is pregnant, I guarantee you it will make its way into the conversation somehow. Well, if it’s her first baby, anyhow. (It’s almost impossible to not talk about it.)
3. No, she’s not pregnant but is trying and thanks a lot for reminding her that she’s not pregnant yet.
4. Yes, she’s pregnant and quite far along thankyouverymuch and are you casting doubt on the fact her belly looks like there’s a baby inside instead of a lot of Big Macs?
5. I’m sure there’s another scenario that I can’t think of right now but um, yeah, it’s bad too so don’t do it.
See? I told you. It’s never a good situation.
Having that said all that, when you see a woman (like Molly) who’s very clearly glowing and happy and hiding a super-sized beachball under her belly and debating the merits of a Diaper Genie in the aisle of Babies R Us, by all means yes – DO take a moment to smile at her or even congratulate her and ask her how it’s going. Growing a baby is a beautiful, wonderful thing and when you’re doing it, nothing feels more lovely than being acknowledged.
Just make sure your feet are firmly planted on the ground and nowhere near your mouth.
*By the way, that coworker who poked me in the gut is actually not a jerk. No, really, I swear. We have a crazy goofy brother-sister relationship so he thought he was just being funny. Not that that makes it okay – the day it happened I was mortified. But now that story is one of our favorites so thanks for your offers to hunt him down and pull out all his fingernails one by one but it’s not necessary. (This time.)
With winter rapidly approaching, I’ve found myself once again searching for the perfect winter boot. In my struggles, I sent some links to my sister, who in turn started sending me boots that should never, ever, see the light of day. Her finds were so — wow — that I asked her to guest post.
*****
While jokingly swapping pictures of ugly boots online with Molly yesterday (yes, we really do that. We also did it with wedding dresses for a long time.), she suggested I do a guest post. But not any post. A winter boot edition of “Makes My Feet Hurt.” And Of course, I was totally down. And I think I can speak for everyone when I say that we’re long over due for a new edition. So here you go!
Makes My Feet Hurt : The Winter Boot Edition
By Shana (Shay-na, not Shanna, not Shania), The sister.
For every winterized dominatrix out there, try these cozy yet intimidating lovelies on for size!
Molly says: What? I thought big belts were in?
These boots aren’t awful, but I do think they should have Velcro on them so its easier for the kids to get them on. Oh wait….these are for adults? Really?….Oh.
Molly says: Barney is a dinosaur from our imagination and when he’s tall he’s what we call a dinosaur sensation…
Okay, I realize these are not winter boots, but I thought they deserved a spot. And while really, they speak for themselves, I will say this. They have one zipper on the inside so you can get them on and off, and an identical, non- functioning zipper on the outside for decoration….Some things I just don’t understand.
Molly says: How Fembots do winter.
Its one thing to wear fur on your boots, but do you have to make us envision you strangling the poor thing?
Molly says: Mythical creature Centaur: Half man, half horse, totally creepy.
Some of you might actually like these, but I think they look like moccasins that were left unattended to grow out of control like vines. Keeps your mocs below the ankles ladies.
Molly says: Yeah, I have no words.
Sneakers or Boots?
Molly says: Dear Michael, I would like these for Christmas. Love, Molly.
Now this one should really impress you. After much begging and convincing, Spider Man himself let me take a picture of his winter boots!
Molly says: Anatomy boots: for when wearing your muscular system on the outside is the only solution.
And last but certainly not least, an exotic rare fur to keep you warm this winter. Yeti!
Molly says: Ugly, yes, but at least at least they’ll blend in with the snow.
I guess its safe to say that for every cute shoe, there’s at least 10 terrible pairs lurking near by!
These Little Moments 