Strippers and Babies Don’t Mix

Pregnancy does some weird things to you physically and mentally. Your body balloons in size, the smell of chili makes you retch, you drool like a Saint Bernard in your sleep, and you lose all rational thought. Who wouldn’t want to spend nine months like this?

Besides getting to the uncomfortable stage since I’m near the end, I’ve had to deal with some pretty vivid and messed up dreams. This one from last night really takes the cake.

I woke up in a sweaty panic thinking that the hubby really was cheating on me with a Japanese stripper named Skoshi and that he didn’t care one bit as I cussed him out for being such an effing A-hole. Even his own mother was there telling him what a pig he was. And still he didn’t care that I was about to pop out his second kid and he was off gallivanting with filth! Confessed and flaunted it right to my face! The nerve, I know.

The hubby always thinks I’m crazy when I have dreams like this and wake up angry at him. He never remembers his dreams and if he does, they’re always about flying through space or killing zombies–typical dude stuff. So he can’t relate when my overly dramatic unconscious mind concocts these wacky scenarios.

I don’t remember all the details, but those were enough to give me an icky feeling when I woke up. But I was so happy that I indeed did wake up and it was all just a dream. Such a relief that I wouldn’t have to chop his balls off.

I’ve heard other pregnant women complain about similar dreams of infidelity because we don’t feel attractive anymore and are insecure because our bodies aren’t what they used to be. This makes sense because with each passing day I feel more and more like a beached whale despite the fact that I’m growing a human.

I just hope I can make it to the end without Skoshi making another appearance because if she does, this preggo mama is gonna give her a beat down!

Fog of Denial

You would think that my burgeoning belly (and the squirming baby inside) would snuff out this fog of denial that’s been lingering around me for the past 37 weeks, but it hasn’t. Well, it’s starting to as my midsection is so huge now that I can’t see beyond my belly button and every time I pick my daughter up it feels as if my crotch is gonna fall out from under me. These are pretty tell-tale signs along with the never-ending heartburn and mini-earthquakes inside my abdomen that soon I will give birth. But it’s taken nine months to sink in.

Don’t get me wrong, like I’ve said before I’m really excited to be welcoming a new life into our family and I was thrilled from the moment we found out we were expecting, but it all seems a little surreal still. I felt this way with my first so maybe it’s just the norm for me. Not until I’m holding this baby in my arms will it finally occur that I’m a mom to TWO kids!!

As the hubby stares in what is supposed to be awe at my changing physique (all I see is terror), he can’t help but comment, “There’s a baby in there!” Well no shit Sherlock. I wish for one day he could be pregnant and know what it feels like. I’m not complaining, I’m one of those freaks of nature that actually likes being pregnant but it’s something I usually don’t forget about on a daily basis as I’m sure he sometimes did in the beginning and still does. The other comment I love from him is, “Oh my god. We’re having another baby.” It’s these moments when I look at him like, “Duh, welcome to Earth…have we met?” No wonder I walk around in a self-induced fog.

Today the fog of denial was officially lifted. My daughter needed a box of diapers and realizing I didn’t have any for our new arrival (that’s how prepared I am!) I threw in a box of newborns as well. I purchased two boxes of different-sized diapers.

That did it.

Fog gone.

Holy shitballs, we’re having another baby!

Forever Hold Your Peace, Lady!

Today as I stood in the checkout line at the grocery store allowing my 18 month old to hold my bag of candy so she’d be quiet, this woman standing next to us said, “Oh you’re going to have another one pretty soon.”

“Yep, 3 or 4 more weeks.”

She responded with an exasperated look. “And how old is this one?”

“18 months.”

“Was it planned?” She asked.

Instead of saying it was none of her business like I wish I had, I said no, but it wasn’t unplanned. I politely laughed and said I was getting it all over with in one shot and never looking back to diapers or sleepless nights. (Hah, yeah right.)

She then proceeded to tell me that she started potty-training her son when he was…wait for it…four months old. Four months old?! Riigghhht. Like I really believe that. She was such a “veteran” that I doubt she remembered where she parked her car, let alone forty-some odd years before. Then she went on to share how she could only deal with one kid at a time, that’s why she spaced hers out 8 and 10 years apart. I’m sorry but that just sounds like torture to me. Why would you want to go backwards and do the whole baby thing over again once you have a ten year old? But did I say that to her face followed by a look of extreme disapproval? No, because I have manners and a filter, unlike her.

A checker rescued me and I was happy to leave Negative Nelly behind, but she kept right on talking as I made my way into the next lane. I couldn’t see her face anymore, but I could hear her jabbering away at me, spewing out more unwanted advice on how to potty-train my infant. At first I pretended to care as I hurriedly threw my items on the conveyor belt, then I said screw it and let her talk at the wall of magazines and bags of chips separating us.

To the next bitter lady that makes me feel this way about my life choices I shall say, “I’m happy my kids will be so close in age (ask me again in 2 months) and I could give a rat’s ass that my 1 1/2 year old is not potty-trained yet. Thank you, ma’am.”

God, I hope I never become that lady. And if I do, as my Mummy likes to say, “Just put a pillow over my face and say goodnight.”