So, it looks like today is The Day.
For a pregnancy blog, that can only mean one thing.
Keep your fingers crossed for us.
Oh and if you’re having some trouble putting this together, just scroll down to the tags.
So, it looks like today is The Day.
For a pregnancy blog, that can only mean one thing.
Keep your fingers crossed for us.
Oh and if you’re having some trouble putting this together, just scroll down to the tags.
There is nothing more fun than sitting around waiting for your water to break and to start experiencing what could be the most intense pain you have ever felt.
And actually wanting it. Bring it on, Bebe.
This is my life. It’s pretty quiet in my little apartment here in North Carolina these days, and while I’ve got loads of ideas for edifying, educational posts such as why Burt Wolf is the greatest of all the PBS travel show hosts (and I can give you like thirty-four reasons right off the top of my head) and how kimchi saved my life, I just can’t focus long enough to compose them.
Ergo I was pleased to see that my great pal on the interwebz Liquorstore Bear had tagged me in the Guten Tag game and invited me to tell you more tidbits about myself that you never wanted to know. The composition of such a post is fun and indulgent and I’m all about fun and indulgent these days. My life will soon be tinted with meconium and boob juice and I’m a diligent enough blogger to keep those aspects away from you, gentle readers. I’m working hard to distract myself from these facts of life.
So here are the rules:
Now for the eleven questions I am concocting:
And the lucky bloggers I’m passing this on to:
Can I just gush for a sec? Thanks.
I’M 38 1/2 WEEKS PREGNANT! I could have my Bebe in my arms by next week’s end! Or – gasp! – this week’s end! Or – faint! – the end of today! I think back to when I found out about my pregnancy last July and I am flabbergasted that the time has flown/ crawled by. I’ve become convinced over the course of my pregnancy that when kids enter the picture, time becomes unhinged and doesn’t follow the rules that we’ve become accustomed to. It’s a grown-up version of the countdown to Christmas because it just crawls like mad but then at the end it flies.
A few thoughts:
I don’t know whether or not this is A Thing, but when I got pregnant I became much more attuned to the celebrities whose pregnancies were more or less on the same timetables as mine. I get that she has a clothing line and does all sorts of highly productive and beneficial-to-society celebrity spots for acne medications and whatnot, but am I the only person who still remembers the whole “chicken of the sea” bit? And how she had the eternal wisdom to broadcast her celebrity marriage on MTV? This is the same person, people. I really don’t know who on earth her target audience could possibly be other than skiivy guys or why anyone cares that she’s knocked up (seriously, Snooki is at least controversial and therefore interesting; Jessica is just milquetoast at best), much less that she’s some stand-up person for being yet another pregnant celebrity to pose nude for the cover of a magazine (remember Demi? This is nothing novel or original). IMHO, she really should take a note from Hilary Duff. Yeah, she just had a baby too, but she’s not using it to garner attention.
Yeah, so he’s really cold all the time now because I am really hot all the time now, but he doesn’t whine about it at all. He rubs my feet, asks me how I’m feeling, takes me to On the Border*, talks to Bebe, plays Scrabble with me 8,000 times every weekend, makes the bed without being asked to, and is a walking gold standard.
*Which, I gotta say, is better in Korea. Yeah, OTB is in Korea, and they’ve got their shiznit together there because everything is properly seasoned and massively fresher than it is in the US.
So, I attempted to write a funny post yesterday. Won’t lie; I actually think it’s really really funny. Unfortunately, it apparently had some trouble posting to some of y’all’s feeds. It may have posted, but the time signature was all bizarre. I dunno. Anyway, will you read it if you didn’t already? (And, of course, thanks to all those who did and posted comments.) Pweeze? *Kiss*
One of the fun things about WordPress is that you can see the search engine terms that brought others to your blog. The pure randomness of them helps give you a pretty nice snapshot of how miraculous it is that the Google functions with any efficacy. The other day I got a search engine term that I would like to address for those of you who have also wondered:
what you mean waiting?
This blog is titled “The Waiting” for a couple of reasons, the primary one being that I’m pregnant and therefore waiting for my baby to come. There is some logic to that, I believe. Coherency.
There is not a lot of logic to how some people got to this blog by plugging in certain search engine terms. But they got here nonetheless. And I think that since they apparently scrolled down to the 34,123rd link (mine) in their Google search and thought enough of it to enter the blog, we should at least dignify their searches with some content.
So today we will play a game I like to call “Find the Real Search Engine Term.” Let’s dive right in.
1. Today was a bad day for many reasons. I forgot to bring my lunch to school, I had a pop quiz in algebra, and I missed the bus on my way home. But the thing that spoiled my day worst of all was that I found out ________.
a. my dad made my teacher pregnant.
b. a hair was growing out of my tongue.
c. the baby had only one eye.
2. With the sudden passing of his cat Marlene, the middle-aged cashier at 7/11 reassessed his life and decided it was high time he start composing his memoirs. On March 27th, he penned the first line of the story of his life:
a. “Handling child custody when parents are on meth is difficult.”
b. “I was 14 when I developed a feeling for loving to wear panties and some female clothing.”
c. “Lots of people were jumping off the boat.”
3. There is a great deal of discussion about the problem of childhood illiteracy in America. Many contend that as long as the youth are reading anything at all rather than watching smutty television, it is a victory for our culture. However, lately with the publication and overwhelming success of ____________ among juveniles, parents and educators alike are beginning to reassess their preference of books over video games.
a. Beebs and Her Money Makers
b. Braces Make Me Want to Kill Myself
c. The Perks of Being a Hipster Loser
4. With the heyday of celebrity chefs, cable channels devoted exclusively to food culture, and websites chronicling every recipe imaginable, it has become more difficult for the home cook to feel as though s/he can infuse any originality into her own cooking. Luckily, creativity is in no short supply for the makers of ________.
a. Coors Cake
b. Spam Pudding
c. Plutonium Yellow Dumplings
5. Indeed, causing an unplanned pregnancy brings about stress in any man’s life. He quickly assesses what parts of his daily routine could have brought about his new potency.
a. “The shark tank made me stronger.”
b. “On my feet all day, sore but strong.”
c. “I drink coffee so I got my girl pregnant.”
6. With the popularity of viral image memes and social networking sites such as Twitter, people often look to the Internet to see where that song or hashtag they can’t get out of their minds originated. Correctly attributing this information not only helps them appear more on-the-cusp at cocktail parties, but it also helps them avoid plagiarism litigation. It is critical to know __________.
a. the moment when The Situation became a douchey star.
b. if “live simply, laugh often, love deeply” is in the Bible.
c. who said nerdy girls don’t get drunk.
7. It takes a special person to see the extraordinary in the mundane. Carol Sedgewick, a researcher at the University of Nova Scotia, has devoted her professional life to eradicating HIV/AIDS. The contribution she has personally made to finding a cure for the disease cannot be understated. However, she commented in a recent interview that her real passion lies in ____________.
a. creating city maps of the best public bathrooms.
b. photographing the most beautiful chickens.
c. smocking gorgeous frilly diapers.
8. New parents face challenges every day that no amount of planning during pregnancy can prepare them for. Every part of their lives is affected by their bundle of joy, and they often mourn the loss of their prior freewheeling lifestyles. But Spencies, a specialty toy manufacturer based out of Ann Arbor, hopes that their new line of infant toys will help bridge the gap between babies and their still-cool parents. The line includes toys such as _______.
a. a cigar kazoo, to celebrate the arrival of your new little one in pesky smoke-free L&D wards
b. Arrested Development baby rattles, to introduce your child early-on to the disappointment of TV cancellations
c. a beer teddy bear, designed to insulate your Guinness while singing lullabies to Baby
1. a, my dad made my teacher pregnant
And I am proud to say that mine DIDN’T, so score one for me and my family and zero for Google for bringing someone whose problems I can’t help solve to my blog.
2. b, I was 14 when I developed a feeling for loving to wear panties and some female clothing
Funny, so was I, but as a 14-year-old girl, I don’t think that separates me from the crowd too much or warrants a click on my blog.
3. a, beebs and her money makers
Aaaaaand that’s the last time that will EVER be said about my soon-to-be-born child.
4. a, coors cake
Now someone’s thinking. Excellent idea, although I would possibly change it to Blue Moon cake or Guinness cake.
5. c, I drank coffee and got my girl pregnant
I’ve heard the same thing about drinking water, breathing air, and eating food. You can never be too careful, brah.
6. b, is live simply, laugh often, love deeply in the Bible?
Ooh, ooh! I’ve got this one! No, Internet searcher, it’s not, as God doesn’t freelance for Hallmark or write lyrics for adult contemporary radio.
7. b, the most beautiful chickens
I can definitely help you in your search for the most beautiful collection of glasses. I can possibly help you find some decent-looking chickens. But the most beautiful chickens? Sorry, not here. Maybe here?
8. c, beer teddy bear
Whoops! Wrong WordPress account! I think you are looking for this guy. I’m flattered, Google, that I’m somehow associated, though.
I have a confession to make: the reason we decided to have a baby is so our lives can be a walking game of Mad Libs, which is possibly the best game ever. No, really. I will sacrifice myself to dirty diapers, $8,000 braces, and parent/teacher conferences if, every so often, my child just walks into the room and describes her new set of (adjective) blocks as making her feel like (gerund) (adverb) whenever she (verb).
The Set-Up: My brother was six years old, and for probably the fourth time in his life he was making a trip to the ER for a gash/infection/broken extremity. The doctor entered the consulting room where Trevor and my dad were waiting to see him. The doctor was of Middle Eastern descent and wearing a Kelly green blazer.
My Brother’s Response: Trevor looks straight at the doctor and asks him, “Do you speak Irish?” What makes it best is that he said this in a highland twang.
Y’know, so the maybe-Irish doctor could understand him were he not yet acquainted with a southern American accent.
The Set-Up: I once worked with a guy whose girlfriend was a first grade teacher. On the first day of school, the teacher asked the students to draw a picture of what they wanted to learn to do that year. One child was hoarding all the gray crayons, so the teacher came over to investigate the situation.
A Student’s Response: When she asked him what he wanted to learn to do that year, he looked straight at her and said, “I want to learn to cut metal.”
Well, YEAH. Me too, come to think of it.
The Set-Up: The year was 2003 and newly-coupled B and I had just seen The Lion King Broadway musical with my family. It was a-ma-zing. We were struck with how well-staged and moving it was, and based on the comments of other theater-goers who filed out of the theater with us, they did too. In the crush of the crowd, we were caught behind a dad and his little boys, probably ages three and four. The dad was pumping them for information on how much they loved the show.
The Boys’ Responses: The three year old glowed, as the dad clearly wanted. The four year old?
“I have earwaxes in my ear.”
The Set-Up: B was teaching social studies to a classful of first graders in Korea at our English academy. The text was an American social studies book and included a brief explanation of slavery in the US. B did his best to give the kids a rated-G version of this pretty sensitive topic that these kids could have very well never had any exposure to before. He explained that slaves were people who worked in the houses or farms of other people for no money, and who often lived in those homes as well.
One Student’s Response: “Oh yes! My mom is thinking about getting one of those!”
We think that maybe the girl’s mom was looking for an English-speaking au pair.
And the creme de la creme:
The Set-Up: 2000 was the year that brought the world my awesome cousin Maddie. She was the most awesome baby EVER. I am crossing my fingers that Bebe takes after her. But I digress.
So, Maddie couldn’t've been more than a few months old when one day my mom, Trevor, and I went over to my Aunt Jaye’s house for an afternoon visit. We were all sitting in the living room watching Miss Maddie coo and be generally adorable when Trevor sneezed.
Maddie’s Response: This tiny little thing said, “Gesundheit!” I swear on all that is holy that she did.
We all heard it.
All our jaws dropped. We looked at each other to confirm what we had just heard. The blank, astounded expressions on our faces affirmed that we had just heard a German word pass through the lips of this tiny person.
And of course Maddie then went back to blowing spit bubbles.
I follow what, to me, seems like a lot of blogs. The blogs I love, I love a lot, and this is probably because I can actually form a relationship with the people who write them by coming to appreciate their talents as writers and people. I don’t really follow the behemoth blogs like Dooce* because it’s difficult to strike up a rapport with a blogger whose readership totals the same population as the EU. That’s just me, though.
*And the thing is that I think I could make a good friend for Dooce. We both grew up in the suburbs of Memphis. I mean, I get her.
So I notice when bloggers go missing. I start to get nervous.
“What happened to ***? Did her evil boss finally do her in? Shall we release the hounds?”
“I need a laugh about sorority life. So where’s ***? Spring Break has got to be over with by now.”
It goes on. I get fixated on these bloggers’ unannounced hiatuses. I forgive them, because y’know, life gets in the way sometimes of documenting new low-sodium recipes, posting pictures of LOLcatz, and detailing the pains of dental work. I get it. I’m guilty of it too.
But seriously, guys, just phone home every so often. I’m your weird Internet mommy who wants to know you’re alive. Just check in. Please? Pweese?
How does it feel to be on the cusp of a radical life change? It’s strangely calm.
B and I spent the weekend making some preparations. We bought about 100 rolls of toilet paper, made a mountain of food to be stored away in the freezer for when Bebe first comes home and we don’t want to cook, and cleaned some more. The cleaning just never ends with a baby coming. Nothing is ever spotless enough.
And as I put the completed bolognese sauce and the loaves of banana bread into the freezer along with the endless sheets of lasagne and canisters of soup, I thought to myself, “I’ll eat this as a mother.” That toilet paper? We’ll use it as parents. This apartment we currently inhabit? A baby will soon be living here with us, too.
A baby who is ours.
A baby who will make us parents.
How does that change things? How does that alter the imprint on time, this traversing of objects and people across a major moment?
In the weeks and months prior to my graduations, my wedding, and other transitional points in my life, I always expected to awaken as a newly-birthed version of myself on the mornings after those events had taken place. Simply going through the motions of these ceremonies and rituals would speak into existence a dramatic life change. Food would taste different. My clothes would take on a new significance simply because they had accompanied me through that life-altering moment. I would have earned my right to see the world through a more seasoned and more profoundly transcendental perspective. That right would be cashed in by the Universe and redeemed to me instantaneously.
I consistently would wake up the next morning and look at myself, expecting to see a newly-transformed person. I expected a Kafka-esque metamorphosis (albeit a more pleasant one) but never got one overnight. I would tell myself that I had changed, but by day’s end, I would realize that the food tasted the same, my pants still needed to be hemmed, I still couldn’t hold my own in political debates, and the love I had for my husband hadn’t really undergone a transformation in profundity or substance since the previous day when I had vowed to love him and honor him forever.
The world was still the world. I was still me. And it was a let-down. A big one.
I liked the idea of banking on a change brought about by some event. It was appealing to count on an awakening ushered into my life by a preassigned rite of passage, which had appeared so meaningful to everyone else. So when I didn’t feel it right away, I wondered why I was comparatively numb to the experience and why I clearly wasn’t gleaning enough profundity from the moments of my life. Why hadn’t the charm worked? Why were these events turning out to be so disappointingly arbitrary?
With a baby, it’s different. Reflecting on myself as I dance on the precipice of her entrance into the world is something I do not for my own benefit but for hers. I’ve let a lot of myself go since the last major change in my life, and I’m not sitting around wondering how the world will perceive and deal with me as I become a mother. I don’t care if I exude “college graduate”, “asset employee”, “engaged/married woman”, “seasoned whatever”, or even “new fussy mom” anymore. Despite the fact that giving birth to a new human being is by far the most profound, beautiful thing I’ve ever done and will change the workings of my day-to-day life more than all the other things I’ve ever gone through combined, I won’t be waiting around with a pen in the hours and days after Bebe’s birth to record how the food tastes, how much more insightful I now am, how the palpable objects of our lives acquired meaning overnight. Most of all I won’t be paying too close attention to myself.
B, the baby, me. We’re all going to grow together. The moment she’s born, time will indeed be imprinted with the seal of her arrival and nothing will be the same. But instead of looking at myself and eagerly awaiting my new dubious superpowers and motherly distinction, I will look at her and at B and just sigh. I’ll realize that that moment is so pregnant with love and perfection that it will take our lifetimes to release it all.
I shouldn’t have to tell you these things about eating out at a restaurant. Most of you are couth (Is that the opposite of uncouth?) members of society who know how to compose yourselves when dining out with the rest of us. This post should just serve as entertainment for you.
But as a former server at a fine dining restaurant in Chicago, I know that a particular few of you are unaware of the cultural niceties that should be observed when you chose to dine out. Oh sure, you dressed yourselves in the presentable guise of the masses and had enough sense to choose a good restaurant (mine) for dinner, but apparently in making these practical preparations you forgot to observe a little sense.
I shouldn’t have to tell you not to do these things, but I am going to.
1. If you are going to bring in a bottle of sparking wine to enjoy with your meal, kindly don’t shake it up prior to me opening it. Contrary to what you may think, I don’t mind at all if you are bringing in a bottle from home instead of buying one from me. Even the most clueless of patrons know they should be tipping on the bottle, especially if no corkage fee is applied.
But I shouldn’t have to tell you NOT to shake up your bottle prior to me opening it up for you table side. I am telling you this, though, because it happens. Part of my job was to observe proper etiquette and decorum when opening bottles of all types, and it’s nearly impossible for me to do so when you took said bottle to Six Flags and rode around with it on the Batman ride all day prior to me opening it for you.
2. Don’t intentionally enter the kitchen. There are so many things wrong with this, it blows my mind. You know that general notion you have of restaurant kitchens being stressful places? Of chefs being loud and moody? Of it being hotter than the surface of the sun? Of personnel trying to maintain an admirable level of hygiene and cleanliness in their workspaces?
They’re all pretty freaking accurate. There is a lot more reality to Hell’s Kitchen than there probably is to America’s Next Top Model. Even if you have the noblest of intentions – for instance, to compliment the chef on an excellent meal – don’t you dare go in there. Not only might you actually get snapped in half but I will most certainly get ripped a new one because I couldn’t corral you to your own little table.
Don’t go in there. I shouldn’t have to tell you this.
3. You may be patrons, but please don’t patronize me. I’m not going to pretend that all servers in the world are great at their jobs and deserve an excellent tip*. I for one have had some really lackluster servers who detracted from what could have been a fantastic meal. But that doesn’t give me or anyone else a pass to treat my server like someone who has failed at life and is therefore relegated to a substandard profession. I already had my MA when I made the cognizant choice to enter into the service profession. The entire staff I worked with were just as educated (if not more) as most of our clientele, and the regulars who I developed a rapport with respected me because I was on their level and engaged with them there. The customers who would treat me like a wench and set me up with difficult questions they assumed I would never be able to answer about the wine list just made themselves look foolish when (Egad!) I was able to field their demands seamlessly.
*Although they ALWAYS deserve their 15%.
4. Don’t eat your entire meal and then “send it back” because it was unsatisfactory. I never got this one at all. In a purely logical sense, you can’t “send back” food that you have already consumed in its entirety and then complain of its supposed “inedibility”. If you are trying to scam me for a meal, do us all a favor and be a bit more creative about it.
People who would pull these kinds of shenanigans typically drew a lot of attention to themselves in other ways, primarily being really loud when complaining. Since our dining rooms were small, most of the other guests were well aware of what was going on with these loons and could see the level of jackassery they were attempting to pull. SO, not only did these people look ridiculous to us, but to everyone else around them.
Pretty common sense. Don’t do that.
5. The onus is on you if I can’t accommodate your requested reservation time. OK, so maybe I should actually have to tell you this because there is a small sliver of a chance that you don’t know.
But here’s the thing: Valentine’s Day Dinner? Mother’s Day Brunch? BIGGEST RESTAURANT DAYS OF THE YEAR. You had better make a reservation and make it early. I don’t mean “early” the day of, either. I mean weeks and possibly months ahead of time. Don’t you dare get snippy when I have nothing to offer you other than 4:30 and 10:30. Our books are configured to accommodate as many guests as we can humanly get through our restaurant on these busy days and if I had a table for you I’d gladly give it to you. So please don’t act like I’m hoarding the tables because I have a personal vendetta against you.
6. One of the surest ways to convince me of your lunacy is to drink 20 shots of espresso in the span of two and a half hours. Again, see title of this post. I think the house is a bit divided over the humor that can be gleaned from drunk customers; some servers think it’s funny when a customer gets royally sloshed, whereas some others are extremely annoyed by it. But we all generally agree that the over consumption of coffee drinks into the late hours of the evening is bizarre and annoying. How does one “cut you off” of coffee? We are not Starbucks. We are a four star restaurant. And you are clearly interested in staying up for the next 36 hours.
7. Don’t leave me a tip in foreign currency. I shouldn’t have to tell you that in the US, business isn’t typically transacted in Canadian currency. But I am. I’m telling you. I’m on the record.
Our restaurant would regularly hold wine dinners that would highlight a specific wine region and pair those wines with special dishes, and the press typically came out for these events. As the press, they would generally not be charged for their meal, although they would be expected to leave a gratuity. On the night of an Argentinian wine dinner, two reps from a (American) wine publication came out to cover the dinner. They glowed at every course and every wine paring, complemented the attentive and warm service*, and concluded the meal exceptionally pleased.
*Which, incidentally, included me having to tell them a lot of pretty basic information about the wines which one would think that as reps from a wine publication they would already be extremely familiar with.
One would think.
But they left no tip. I alerted my manager, who graciously approached them and gently reminded them to compensate me for my work that evening. They had no cash, so they left me with $1.50 in Canadian currency, which they laughed off and explained away as “a great way to finally get rid of that cash we’ve been carrying around since our trip there last March.”
Thanks, bruh. And enjoy your time in that special corner of Purgatory reserved for clueless imbeciles who take advantage of service employees.
8. You are not “allergic” to raw vegetables and fruit as a whole. You may dislike them. They may not agree with your insanely difficult intestinal tract and bowels. You may be getting over a foodborne illness caused by a piece of contaminated produce. But “allergies” in the strict sense of the word to all uncooked produce don’t exist. So, NO, I will not request that the chef heat up the iceberg lettuce in your Cobb salad.
I shouldn’t have had to tell you this, but I just did. Be informed.
In February 1995, a very important discovery was made as I rode home with my mom for dinner.
Trees have leaves. And you can see them. Like, from far away.
I had just been outfitted with my first pair of glasses and it was love. (Yeah, the “first sight” kind. Har Har.)
I didn’t need to wear them everyday and I didn’t until I went to college, but those glasses were my gateway drug to the world of what is the best accessory ever created. If they love you as much as you love them*, they will fill your life with the blessings of clear sight and that just-finished-attending-a-foreign-film look. We are smarty-pants and we are proud. Or at least we simply appreciate the idea of looking like we’ve read a book.
*And let’s face it: glasses don’t love everyone. But please allow those of us who
can’t shouldn’t wear jeggings the small elite pleasure of wearing our glasses well.
My glasses are my constant companion. No matter how much more my eyesight deteriorates, I could never bring myself to get Lasik and eliminate the need for them in my life. I don’t really do earrings and necklaces so my glasses are my foremost accessory. And that’s fine by me because the idea of putting contacts in my eyes makes me wretch.
When I got married, I finally broke down and tried to get contacts so, you know, I could SEE and all. As much as it pains me to say it, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to include my red glasses as part of my bridal ensemble on the big day. For shame. Before the optometrist could officially dispense the Disks of Torture to me, I was required to demonstrate that I could put them in and take them out on my own. I tried, to no avail. Putting those things in my eyes just made me feel nauseous and seasick. So I went home and “practiced” for Round Two by trying to touch my eyeballs. I returned the next day and had no luck again, nearly ralphing in the garbage can. Day Three came and I was determined to show those contacts who was boss.
But yeah, I couldn’t get them in. No surprise there. My body was literally rejecting the contacts. Glasses had chosen me and I had reached the point where I couldn’t opt out of that designation. No worries; I instead purchases a pair of Vera Wang frames that I wore to the reception on my big day. It is my thought that every lady should don something Vera Wang for her wedding day, and I would highly suggest glasses if a dress costing the same as a Miata is not in the budget.
It kills me when the Stacy Londons of the world accuse those among us who wear glasses as “hiding” behind our big clonky frames. Sometimes we just need the safety that big clonky frames can give us. And I mean “safety” in a very literal sense. Half the time Adam Savage doesn’t even put on goggles when he dips his hand in boiling lead on Mythbusters because he’s already wearing his giant military-esque glasses. I suppose you could make a claim that stilettos could also be wielded in such a way to actually protect your body in a pinch, but that’s a bit of a stretch. “Fierce” is a word misappropriated by the most vulnerable sitting duck fashionistas among us. In the real world, it’s a giant pair of glasses – not a pair of Christian Louboutins – that are going to keep the weirdos from approaching you on the subway. They are so afraid that you’ll insist that they attend a poetry slam with you or have to listen to your diatribe against the Establishment that they keep their distance.
When the baby arrives in a couple or so weeks, she won’t be able to see anything for awhile. Babies’ eyesight is really poor at the beginning of their lives and they can only really see maybe eight inches. But that’s OK. Once she ages a bit, I can’t wait to schlepp her to the optometrist and get an assessment of her eyesight.
Because, you know, babies with glasses way out-cute all other babies. Is it wrong that I want my baby to be as blind as me?
I didn’t think so.
My energy level hit an all-time low today. And by “energy” level I also mean “motivation to do anything other than eat pudding out of old Cool-Whip containers, watch PBS, and feel sorry for myself” level. Ergo, rather than compile any cohesive thoughts, I just thought I’d hit you up bullet-point style with some random thoughts from my 37 week pregnant mind.
Until next time, keep it real, yo.