Hot Fun in the Summertime?

Since the beginning of last May, I have pretty much been a hormonally-challenged, sleep-deprived lunatic. It's quite possible that I was all of those things before May, but it was in the month of May (I can say that with all certainty) that I was fully in the throes of pregnancy, packing for a move (thank god just a local one), and a hot and sweaty spring that turned into an even hotter and sweatier summer.

For the record, I don't recommend packing or moving whilst hugely pregnant and chasing a super inquisitive (and cute!) toddler around. And did I mention how I was also in the thick of fine-tuning my active toddler radar? My eldest child was content staying on one place as a toddler. My middle child (said active toddler) is on the move.

Fast-forward to May 31st--our moving day--which was really just a heinously disorganized, frenetic mess that I just want to banish from my memory stores. So, then, let's skip right to June 1st; we were in our new, bigger digs and trying to whip 3 bedrooms, a kitchen, 2 bathrooms, and a living room into shape before our daughter was born. No easy task when your stomach is the size of a keg barrel, your exhaustion level is dangerously nearing "comatose," your active toddler decides to really start walking all over the place, and your 'tween child's hormonal fluctuations are having daily jousts with your own.

As the summer inched by (and it was *insert expletive* hot, let me tell you), I grew increasingly huge and miserable, sick of being pregnant and sick of unpacking. Some days were so wretchedly exhausting that I would just cry. Seriously. And the wallop of heat and pregnancy made me insanely tired, to the point where I never felt rested. Ever. I'm not sure what I did in any of my past lives, but I was undeniably in the 9th circle of hell.

I got my long-awaited reprieve on Saturday, July 24th--the day our daughter was born. She blessed me (who am I kidding, us, 'cause I'm quite certain my husband was ready to have me committed) by arriving at exactly 39 weeks, 5 days before my scheduled c-section. I had said to my husband that very morning, "Wouldn't it be cool if she came today on the 24th, since Kai was born on the 23rd day and Trevor was born on the 25th day?" Apparently she thought it would be cool, too. I started contracting regularly at about 4:30 pm, and she was born at 11:13 pm. Chloe and I spent 4 days in the hospital, coming home on a Wednesday to an as-of-yet unpacked home and a toddler who was clearly pissed off at me for leaving for 4 days.

It took a while for all of us to become acclimated to our newly expanded family unit. For the longest time (i.e. until about 2 months ago), Kai pretty much ignored Chloe's presence, except to steal her binkys or make oft-botched attempts of sticking his index finger in her eyeballs. He still steals her binkys, but now he kindly puts them back from whence they came. And when she routinely screams in protest of an unwanted car ride or being strapped into any one of her lock-down devices, Kai giggles. Sometimes he just stares at her. So, I think we're finally settling in as a family of five in what is now a not-so-new home (okay, it's really an apartment, though labeled a condo; but we all know that condos are really just apartments that you may or may not own).

Our "condo" was finally unpacked in October. In a PMS-fueled frenzy, I unpacked the last of our boxes one Saturday afternoon and freed myself of the constant gnawing of Unfinished Business. The five boxes that sat on our dresser from June to October were a proverbial thorn in my side, mocking me each time I tried to relax--such a dirty word--in what little time I actually have to do such a thing.

Now it's January and I've been waiting out rapid-fire (with no end in sight) snowstorms with my cubs. My husband and oldest child venture out into the world every day to go to work and middle school, respectively, while I hang out with the little ones, fantasizing about seeing pavement again. (My alternate fantasy, particularly when both babies are disharmoniously dueting, is to laze on a chaise lounge in Hawaii, a bowl of fresh pineapple to my left, mountains off in the distance, listening to the rhythmic lull of warm ocean water ebbing and flowing.)

And just when I was getting to the good parts, an icy draft at my feet reminds me of this evening's temperature in Massachusetts: It says negative 1 degree Fahrenheit, in case you're having trouble seeing it. So, with a cold snap back to reality, I will end with this thought (another of the Unfinished Business variety): I seem to have forgotten about a dozen or so photos and pieces of art that are collecting dust in their positions against my bedroom wall. There are also several closet "issues" that need to be, ahem, straightened out. It will be with great satisfaction and pride that my next (or near future) blog will include how I really finished all our unpacking, organizing, and decorating by springtime. I hope.

It was a long 2010, at any rate. We're settled now, artwork and closets aside, and we're a hectic family of five. My next long-term goal is to find a way to get to Hawaii before I reach my mid-40s. That gives me five years.

Future blog topic: How I just heard the news that only 1 space after closing punctuation is acceptable and how I am too rebellious and habitual to not use two spaces.

I'm Only Sleeping

Exhaustion has a way of taking your goals, lofty or otherwise, and squashing them much like I would a mosquito that just sticks its evil little proboscis into my forearm.

What I'm getting at here is that I am tired. I'm not talking about your run-of-mill-I-worked-a-long-day tired, but more like who-just-spiked-my-macchiato-with-roofies? kind of deal. By the time my husband gets home from work, which is on average around 5:30 (yes, I consider myself lucky on that front), my irises have been replaced by animated spirals and my tongue is lolling out of my mouth. Being pregnant can be relentlessly exhausting, especially in the first and last trimesters (I'm presently in the latter), and so can entertaining and chasing a highly inquisitive and active 12 month-old boy; a combination of the two creates a cocktail of fatigue that I've never before encountered. (Not to mention that I'm also dealing with an increasingly moody 'tween.) Perhaps in the near future I'll come up with a new word that can describe my present state of being.

Okay, so I'm complaining here, but I think I've managed to get my point across. I. Am. Tired.

But what I really want to say is how my level of exhaustion has managed to turn me into a lifeless blob on the couch, evening after evening. Against my better judgment, I sit on the couch each night in order to squeeze in some quality time (or speechless next-to time) with my husband. I guess that my desire to be near my husband for just a few hours each night overrides my passion for a longer get-together with our Tempurpedic (shameless plug here...).

Before I became pregnant this time 'round, I had plans to chase after my above-mentioned little guy, agonize over homework with my 'tween, and work on a children's book that I began writing last year for a grad school class. Knowing how tired I am, my girlfriend suggested starting a blog--something less daunting than a novel with which to wet my feet.

Problem is, I can't even seem to muster the energy to blog. Well, maybe I could get it up to type, but to actually think? We're talking about using several parts of the brain at once in order for that to happen. Typing is so much more simple. Kind of like breathing.

So, what prompted and produced some writing this evening? That's easy. I threw my back out on Mother's Day (not exactly the kind of stay-in-bed-and-get-waited-on-all-day celebration of motherhood I had in mind) and have since been making a concerted effort to rest. Also, at the moment, my husband is running a call for work, my little one is sleeping, and my oldest is reading in bed. As far as the actual production of the written word, I can only surmise that I've been overcome by a sudden and inexplicable surge in synapse activity.

If my karma has finally managed to right itself (dear god, I hope it has), my post-pregnancy hormones will harmonize, I'll endure a month or two of newborn-related fatigue (which also deserves its very own term), and I'll be back to feeling human at some point not terribly far in the future, all of which are far more conducive to both thinking (or at least thinking clearly) and being productive.

That all being said, I'm winding down into my oft-state of drooling incoherence, in five-four-three-two...

Stand and Deliver

Let’s face it, pregnancy sucks. Don’t misunderstand me—I am awed by the complicated process of getting pregnant and being able to, dare I say, miraculously sustain a life in my womb. Obviously, the end result is the single most intense and amazing reward one gets in life. It’s the journey that is a monumental pain in the ass, rife with anxiety, fatigue, a mile-long list of things that can go wrong, and an even longer list of things that do go wrong. Or at least awry, and usually temporarily.

First up, the mood swings—wanting to hurl blunt objects at strangers in the supermarket just because. They are frequent and, well, uncomfortable, often leading to tears. My husband can attest to that. (But, please, there is no real need for you to comment should you happen to read this…) Then, there are the middle-of-the-night muscle spasms in my calves that so rudely jolt me from an already restless sleep. Hmmm, how ‘bout those, ahem, hemorrhoids!? Next, are the wild bouts of intense nausea, followed by periods of eating a week’s worth the food in one sitting with a Tums chaser (one of the few “medications” a pregnant woman can actually ingest). These are but a few of my personal pregnancy peeves, though I could write at least another two paragraphs.

In case it was assumed I was going to write an unrelated paragraph, here is a long list of annoying pregnancy symptoms, some of which I have personally experienced in one, or all, of my pregnancies: pigmentation changes, varicose veins, bloating, vomiting, ligament stretching, vaginal pain (yeah, like weird shooting pains around the vulva area), cramping, frequent urination, physical and emotional exhaustion (the likes of which can only be described as how you would feel if someone beat you, then kindly gave you a half dozen Xanax), leukorrhea (coined “Cheeseburger Crotch” on WebMD), throbbing breasts, itchiness (breasts and stomach, especially), excessive hair growth (think Sasquatch), food cravings and aversions (including a strange phenomenon called “Pica,” an inexplicable occurrence during which people crave inedible things like dirt and motor oil), insomnia, heartburn, constipation (best friend of both bloating and hemorrhoids), and a perpetually stuffy and/or bloody nose. Please feel free to add any that I missed in the comment section below.

In my experience, managing pregnancy symptoms requires keeping your eye on the prize, a bottle of Tylenol, a heating pad, cold compresses, a humidifier, and an extremely loving and patient husband. Oh, yeah, and good friends who don’t cringe when you mention “Cheeseburger Crotch.”

Never Say Never

Come this mid-summer, I will be the mother of a ‘tween, a toddler, and a newborn. The age difference between my youngest two will be a little more than 15 months. What a lesson in “never say never”—when asked if we’d have more kids, I always offered my standard response, “I’m not the type to have two in diapers.” Well, didn’t I chew (or did I choke?) on every last word when the digital ClearBlue Easy hourglass turned “pregnant” in a sub par Target bathroom on a rainy Friday evening, on Black Friday of all days?! Yeah, I did.

Since then, I’ve come up with a list of reasons why it’s better this way. First, my husband and I were up in the air about whether or not we’d add to our small brood—a hot topic, considering my present age of 38. I mean, I knew that I wasn’t into chasing a toddler around in my late-40s like my mother did (she had my brother when she was 45.5 years old). So, we will officially be done after this one. As in, kitchen closed. Second, I still had (please note both the verb tense and disappointment) 30 pounds of pregnancy weight to lose from the last one—wouldn’t it suck to lose all that weight and get back into those size 8s, only to have to do it all over again? Definitely. Then, there is the career consideration. I recently wrapped up graduate school, with one make-up class to go, and was planning to look for a teaching position this fall. Well, wouldn’t it also suck to be several months into my career only to slink into my principal’s office to discuss my impending maternity leave (not to mention that I’d feel like an ass after lying on interviews about being done having children)? Uh-huh. Finally, I did the diaper thing all over again once. I don’t want to do it again. That all said, two in diapers it will be.

I don’t really have any expectations as to how life will be when I’m a mother of three. I’ve lived long enough to (sometimes) know better than to have expectations for how situations in the vast unknown will turn out. Do things ever really turn out according to our expectations? Rarely. Anyway, I have bigger fish to fry, like how to make boys clothing gender-friendly, should my husband have made an X chromosome contribution.

Next up: Did my husband make an X chromosome contribution?