It’s Almost Time

This is my last week of uncertainty. With oblivion comes a glimmer, a spark of “what if”. In a few days, I’ll know what the baby is. At this point, I still have the dream of all good things that would come if I have a boy or a girl. The dreams are different, yet they are both important.

So what do I think it’ll be? My gut has told me girl all along, yet my head tells me boy. I catch myself saying “she” when I talk about the little rascal squirming around in there. Yes, it would be nice to have a girl. For many reasons, really. If nothing else, the chances of developing autism are lower for a girl. I know there is no certainty, but it’s still on my mind. All in all, I just want a healthy baby.

I spend a lot of time alone. I think about my life and how bringing a child into the world is, I believe for a good mom, the ultimate sacrifice. Things are never the same. So, here I am, often alone with my thoughts. Will I be raising a little rebel like myself? How can I make this child better than his or her parents? I want so many things for this baby. I guess after having a child with special needs, opinions and dreams change. I know this child is coming into the world with a lot of obstacles to overcome. The risk of autism and living with an autistic sibling, for starters.

But, it will be what it will be. I believe it’s predestined. Hair bows or action figures (that I’ve never understood the concept for), I suppose it’s already in the cards. God will give me what he wants to. I just pray that I’m ready.

I’m Good Enough, I’m Smart Enough, and Doggone It, People Like Me (Kind Of)

I’ve been in a mental rut lately. I’ve considered therapy…any kind really. Retail, food, controlled substances, whatever. I’ve made my list, checked it twice, and come to discover that I am either too poor, too fat, or too pregnant for any of the previous solutions to truly be effective. So, I’ve decided on the next best thing: Stuart Smalley.

It doesn’t matter how negative I get (Go ahead, let your government screw you up the ass, don't take my word for it...or better yet...Keep messing with me, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.), I can always go to a mental place where butterflies and puppy dogs play. That place is called Saturday Night Live.

Sometimes I feel like eating chocolate cake by the double handfuls or pulling into the garage and leaving the car running…and that’s…ok. I stop what I’m doing (a moment on the lips is a lifetime on the hips) and remember that I am a worthy human being, if only in Mr. Smalley’s eyes.

Spreading the Love

How many TV’s in our house can Dan Patrick be on at one time? Every room I go in has the TV blaring with him talking about some useless sports figure. I don’t have a problem with Dan Patrick. He’s a fairly funny guy. I enjoy looking at him. And I do love radio. But sometimes, it’s just nice NOT to have Dan Patrick at the house. Hayden looks at him like he's some long lost relative. I’ve even started calling him Uncle Dan, just for shits and giggles.

I know, I’m pretty sad. I used to have a fulfilling life. Now I spend my days sorting laundry, cleaning out closets, and dustbusting. And it’s gotten even worse. I’m almost embarrassed to say it, but I’ve taken up genealogy. All I need is a fucking metal detector. What has happened to me? I’ve morphed into the biggest dork on the planet.

And let’s talk about dorks for a moment. I’m walking around my neighborhood the other day, and I see something that should’ve NEVER occurred. A dork on a motorcycle. It’s ok for geeks to watch Star Trek or even have tattoos. That’s borderline sexy. But for heaven’s sake, do not get on a moving vehicle with fewer than four wheels. It’s just not safe for anyone. So, how do I know he was a dork, you ask? Well, if the vintage superhero shirt didn’t give it away, the fact that he waved at me did. Not a motorcycle wave, but a full-fledged “Hi, how are you?” wave like you’d give someone in a damn parade.

I apologize in advance for venting. Since I have no contact with the outside world, I’m forced to expel my feelings here, for courteous readers all over the world to endure. Thanks, cyberspace. You’ve been a friend like the ones I used to hear from (but who’ve now shunned me in my time of need). I appreciate that…

Isn't Pregnancy Sweet?

I'm finally in my maternity pants. Nothing makes you feel sexier than jeans with a pouch in the front. Well, I can't say that I'm sporting those pants yet, but I did put on some very stylish elastic waistband maternity jeans today. I can't help it. I'm a force to be reckoned with in the fashion department.

I'm still researching for my planned "natural birth." Actually, I don't think there's anything natural about losing your figure, having the contents of your colon turn to cement, or getting ripped from asshole to elbow, but still, that's my plan.

And I don't know why I feel the need to buy those silly shirts that say, "Bun in the oven," "Fertile Myrtle," or even "His boys can swim." Maybe because I know this will likely be the last time I do this. Perhaps I have a need to tell the world and wear stupid shit just because I can. It's sorta like wearing a fanny pack. Yes, you can, but no, you really shouldn't.

I leave you with one more of the Things That Really Should Get On My Nerves During Pregnancy (But They Just Don't):

I Wonder if the Duggars Wear Deodorant?

I have a confession to make. I TiVo 18 Kids and Counting. Yes, I’m a Duggar whore. A friend of mine mentioned that they showed a home birth today. At first, I was afraid I’d miss it. Then I realized that my overly-priced, husband-demanded ginormous TV has every episode at my disposal. I feel better now.

So, as I watch the beloved Duggar family enjoy mundane life, I sit and smell myself. Well, not like that. Not quite as obvious as the cheerleader on SNL, but discreetly, I smell (just let me put it that way). Since Hayden was diagnosed with autism, I’ve learned the importance of natural living. I refuse to wear anti-perspirant during this pregnancy. I’ll wear natural deodorant, but that’s kinda like slapping on some baking soda and hoping for the best. I’ve scrubbed, cleaned, deodorized (as much as Whole Foods can offer) and it’s never too long before I’m less than fresh.

And I’m really ok with that…the natural smell and the Duggar’s home birth. I’m learning, slowly but surely, how life should be lived. I do it one episode and deodorant swipe at a time.

Medicinal Marijuana, The Neckline Slimmer, and My Emotions

I lack the creativity to blog about one single topic for any length of time. I’ve turned into an ADD nightmare. So instead, I’ll combine themes tonight and talk randomly about stupid shit that nobody likely cares about.

First of all, I recently read an article about a mother who gives her nine-year-old autistic child pot. Being a former sheep, my first instinct was to gasp and tskk this lady. I snapped back to reality fairly quickly and realized the majority of Americans willingly inject mercury (the second leading neurotoxin on the planet) into our newborn babies. So, what’s the big deal with giving them a plant? Nothing. Our children are sick. If Hayden is still in chronic pain when he’s older, you can bet I’ll do what I can to ease his aggression and make him feel better. Rock on, autism mom. In fact, I think most autism parents probably deserve and need an occasional break (without the children, of course social services) to fire one up and get baked. Unless you’ve walked a mile in my shoes (and even some autism parents whose children are mildly affected have no idea what it’s like), you can’t begin to imagine how badly we warriors need a home makeover, extreme makeover, weekend getaway, or to take a hit off a rather large bong (or perhaps an obscene amount of alcohol would do the trick).

On a non-autism related note, I purchased a neckline slimmer the other day. I figure if the rest of me is going to get fatter, I’ll be damned if my neck does. Why, from the clavicle up, I’ll look relatively the same (as long as my nose doesn’t expand like last pregnancy). At first, I was a closet neckline slimmer user. I knew Brock would make fun of me and accuse me of buying into anything. I figure once I get rid of my quadruple chin, he’ll be a believer, too.

Pregnancy is making me an emotional, feminine mess. I actually cried the other day while watching a State Farm commercial. How sick is that? I spent the majority of the day in a fetal position damning autism and anything that relates to it. A fellow blogger reminded me of an anniversary of sorts that we unknowingly share. Our boys were both diagnosed with autism three years ago this month. Maybe it’s taken me three years to realize that Hayden may never recover. I don’t know. All I know is that autism is really getting on my nerves. I’m not seeing the progress I’d like to and I just want to bitch about it. I know what would help…but I’ll save the medicinal cookies for next year.

The Griswold's Go To Nashville

Life is puttering along unremarkably. We loaded up the Clampett-mobile yesterday and headed for Nashville. Everyone was satisfied upon return: Brock got to shop, I got a cinnamon broom from Whole Foods ($3 of happiness which will last approximately a month or so), and Hayden got to ride the train at the mall.

As we passed the panty outlet, the conductor honked at a lady in a wheelchair who was apparently in our path. Suddenly, it hit me. This day was somehow not complete. I thought about it for a while and realized that being coffee-less is such a drag. I don’t think about it everyday, but sometimes, say, in the middle of a mall train ride, I realize how much I miss it.

But then, I try to put things in perspective. After all, I got a cinnamon broom, for God’s sake. What more could a girl ask for? Although I didn’t ride it home, I tried to remain pumped about my little treat for the day. And, I remember that, when the baby is a year or so old, I’ll be done with my bodily service. I can return to Starbucks and hook up the drip. Good times for all.

Housewife of the Year

Let me explain to you the type of woman/mother/housewife I've become. If I awaken before 10 am (and most days I do unless my husband so graciously lets me sleep in), I spend the morning dragging myself from the couch to the kitchen. And if I'm not big enough to spot, I can usually be found by following the sounds of burps around the house (it could be worse).

I take care of my son, meet all of his needs, manage to play Memory and read Winnie-the-Pooh while wearing nausea bracelets and a sports bra. Side note: I have two points to make here. 1. I thought the nausea was over? 2. My breasts are extremely tender... only a sports bra brings me comfort. Don't judge. I rarely make it out of my pajamas until after noon, let alone into the shower. I typically trip over my son's lined up toys at least once during the day and mixing his medicine brings me to tears (the gag thing again). My toes are in dire need of a pedicure, my son is in need of some outside time, and Brock is in need of a new housewife who can meet the needs of this crazy place. All applicants will be interviewed by me (I could use another set of hands).

And to top it all off, I'm looking more like this unfortunate fellow than any resemblance to the poster behind him. Pregnancy is getting the best of me. Autism has the rest.