Sunday, August 29, 2010
One of "Those" Moms
Would you put one of those yellow "Baby on Board" magnets on your car? I have been contemplating this the past few days. Okay, I'll be honest. I bought one. A moment of weakness at Babies R Us. In that moment, I had mental flashes of those insane highway drivers who weave in and out of traffic and tailgate and erratically merge in front of you when clearly there isn't enough distance between yours and the preceding car. This magnet would work, I thought. This magnet will tell people to drive cautiously around me because, I've got a Baby on Board.
That's what I thought at Babies R Us, but then I came home and skepticism set in. I used to think these magnets were ridiculously stupid. As cliche as pocket protectors and cell phone belt clips and BMWs. What happened to me? How could this have seemed like a good idea? Am I destined to become one of "those" moms? One day it's the Baby on Board magnet, the next I'm wearing a pair of Jordache mom jeans?
But, I still had a nagging feeling of protectiveness lingering, so I decided that I would do an internet search to look for any statistics as to whether or not the magnets actually helped to promote safe driving. If they were effective, I would proudly slap mine on the back of my car, abandon any hope of being a "cool" mom, but assured that I have taken every known safeguard to protect my baby. If not, well, I'll have to find something else to do with that magnet.
My search turned up nothing but a host of tirades from people angrily ranting about how much they despise these signs. One person even said he felt more inclined to ram into a vehicle displaying one. No one had a positive comment about them, unless you count the companies that manufacture them. All of this made me seriously question my judgement. I am going to have to be much more cautious if I am to avoid turning into one of "those" moms.
A few days ago, while watching one of the many Bravo reality shows that Mark and I are obsessed with, a commercial came on and my dear husband remarked "That is exactly how you are going to be as a mom." It was one of the Toyota Sienna commercials, the one with the diaper bag. I'm not sure how I should take that.
Incidently, if you haven't gone on YouTube and watched the Sienna Family commercials, you probably should. They have lots on there that I haven't seen before, and they are hi-larious. My favorites are Meet the Parents, Swagger Wagon, and Mommy Like Versatility. Oh, and you should probably watch Daddy Like Bonding Time. Actually, maybe you should just watch them all.
I've decided that I'm not going to use my Baby on Board sign on the car. I'm a little concerned that there may be more negative implications than positive ones. Like, if I'm on the road with that guy who is one magnet away from ramming his vehicle into mine like we're in a demolition derby. But, luckily, I've found another use for my sign.
That's what I thought at Babies R Us, but then I came home and skepticism set in. I used to think these magnets were ridiculously stupid. As cliche as pocket protectors and cell phone belt clips and BMWs. What happened to me? How could this have seemed like a good idea? Am I destined to become one of "those" moms? One day it's the Baby on Board magnet, the next I'm wearing a pair of Jordache mom jeans?
But, I still had a nagging feeling of protectiveness lingering, so I decided that I would do an internet search to look for any statistics as to whether or not the magnets actually helped to promote safe driving. If they were effective, I would proudly slap mine on the back of my car, abandon any hope of being a "cool" mom, but assured that I have taken every known safeguard to protect my baby. If not, well, I'll have to find something else to do with that magnet.
My search turned up nothing but a host of tirades from people angrily ranting about how much they despise these signs. One person even said he felt more inclined to ram into a vehicle displaying one. No one had a positive comment about them, unless you count the companies that manufacture them. All of this made me seriously question my judgement. I am going to have to be much more cautious if I am to avoid turning into one of "those" moms.
A few days ago, while watching one of the many Bravo reality shows that Mark and I are obsessed with, a commercial came on and my dear husband remarked "That is exactly how you are going to be as a mom." It was one of the Toyota Sienna commercials, the one with the diaper bag. I'm not sure how I should take that.
Incidently, if you haven't gone on YouTube and watched the Sienna Family commercials, you probably should. They have lots on there that I haven't seen before, and they are hi-larious. My favorites are Meet the Parents, Swagger Wagon, and Mommy Like Versatility. Oh, and you should probably watch Daddy Like Bonding Time. Actually, maybe you should just watch them all.
I've decided that I'm not going to use my Baby on Board sign on the car. I'm a little concerned that there may be more negative implications than positive ones. Like, if I'm on the road with that guy who is one magnet away from ramming his vehicle into mine like we're in a demolition derby. But, luckily, I've found another use for my sign.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Product Quality Tester II
Thanks for the buggy,
Sarah and Marty! Riley gives it a thumbs up and will be breaking it in for Bitty.
Sarah and Marty! Riley gives it a thumbs up and will be breaking it in for Bitty.
Our neighbors think we're crazy. They're probably right.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Mederma Isn't Going to Work on This Scar
I had such a productive week. My classroom is nearly completely set up. I made record time this year. I love productivity. A day that I can get some things crossed off my list is a great day for me. To extend this streak of efficiency, I decided to stop into the Wal-Mart down by my school to pick up a few things.
It was pleasantly quiet inside Wal-Mart on this particular day. Normally, I try to avoid the store. It seems that whenever I'm there, the child-to-adult ratio is about 15:1; and the majority of those children are running through the aisles, playing hide-and-seek, tag, and otherwise screaming like banchees. And their parents are either clueless or pretending to be clueless. It makes me crazy. The teacher in me is compelled to reprimand these little fiends, and if the mood strikes me, I do. "No Running!" "Your mother told you to come over there, and you need to listen." I can't help myself. Especially since probably half of these children are students at my school, so it sort of just seems like an extension to the school day.
But, as I mentioned, this visit was quite the opposite. I calmly perused the aisles in peace. I picked up the items that I came for, and a few things that I didn't. Walking past the women's section, I spotted a display of underware. I have recently grown to have an affinity towards the comfort and coverage of granny panties. These days, when it comes to undergarments, the bigger the better. I stood there, inspecting the color and sizes, when to my right, I heard a voice say "Hi, Mrs. Bittenbender!"
I glanced over to see one of the students from my school. I did not have him in my class, and I am unsure of him name, but I recognized him--I think maybe a fourth or fifth grader; a nice one, the kind that holds the door open for you and says hello in the hallway.
Any teacher can imagine the look on a student's face when they spot you out in the "real world" doing regular stuff. They are so shocked and excited to see you outside of the school environment. Like in disbelief that teachers actually go grocery shopping, or to a restaurant. The younger, the more astonished they are.
The next moment passed quickly, but it was seemingly slow-motion. The nice boy had that familiar excited expression on his face when he first saw me, but then he noticed what I was holding up in my hands--a set of gigantic granny panties. His expression changed from excitement...to surprise...and then utter disgust.
I decided to play it nonchalant. I placed the undies in my basket and said,"Oh, hi. I hope you're having a good summer!" He nodded and then we both spun about face and carried on in opposite directions.
Retrospectively, I probably should exercise more prudence when it comes to shopping for unmentionables. Like, not do it anywhere in the vacinity of my school. But, truly, I am not the victim here. The memory of one of his knocked-up teachers purchasing an enormous pair of underware will surely scar that poor child for life. I can only pray that time will heal the wounds.
It was pleasantly quiet inside Wal-Mart on this particular day. Normally, I try to avoid the store. It seems that whenever I'm there, the child-to-adult ratio is about 15:1; and the majority of those children are running through the aisles, playing hide-and-seek, tag, and otherwise screaming like banchees. And their parents are either clueless or pretending to be clueless. It makes me crazy. The teacher in me is compelled to reprimand these little fiends, and if the mood strikes me, I do. "No Running!" "Your mother told you to come over there, and you need to listen." I can't help myself. Especially since probably half of these children are students at my school, so it sort of just seems like an extension to the school day.
But, as I mentioned, this visit was quite the opposite. I calmly perused the aisles in peace. I picked up the items that I came for, and a few things that I didn't. Walking past the women's section, I spotted a display of underware. I have recently grown to have an affinity towards the comfort and coverage of granny panties. These days, when it comes to undergarments, the bigger the better. I stood there, inspecting the color and sizes, when to my right, I heard a voice say "Hi, Mrs. Bittenbender!"
I glanced over to see one of the students from my school. I did not have him in my class, and I am unsure of him name, but I recognized him--I think maybe a fourth or fifth grader; a nice one, the kind that holds the door open for you and says hello in the hallway.
Any teacher can imagine the look on a student's face when they spot you out in the "real world" doing regular stuff. They are so shocked and excited to see you outside of the school environment. Like in disbelief that teachers actually go grocery shopping, or to a restaurant. The younger, the more astonished they are.
The next moment passed quickly, but it was seemingly slow-motion. The nice boy had that familiar excited expression on his face when he first saw me, but then he noticed what I was holding up in my hands--a set of gigantic granny panties. His expression changed from excitement...to surprise...and then utter disgust.
I decided to play it nonchalant. I placed the undies in my basket and said,"Oh, hi. I hope you're having a good summer!" He nodded and then we both spun about face and carried on in opposite directions.
Retrospectively, I probably should exercise more prudence when it comes to shopping for unmentionables. Like, not do it anywhere in the vacinity of my school. But, truly, I am not the victim here. The memory of one of his knocked-up teachers purchasing an enormous pair of underware will surely scar that poor child for life. I can only pray that time will heal the wounds.
Another Obsession
A few weeks ago, at the end of July, I went to Michigan for a few days to attend Sarah's baby shower. Sarah is one of my oldest friends (well, oldest in terms of how LONG we've been friends, not in terms of age), and she is expecting a baby girl in September. Look, here is a picture of us, aren't we cute?
Sarah, 34 weeks & Me, 23 weeks
While I was there, I admitted to Sarah another one of my newfound obsessions--baby leg warmers.
No, not THAT kind of leg warmer... Adorable, charming ones, like these...
Okay, maybe it was less about coming clean and more about trying to convince Sarah that HER baby was going to need this wardrobe staple as well. I was a pusher. A baby leg warmer pusher. Bitty has had four pair since the age, oh, gestationally 17 weeks.
Sarah tried to convince me that these were no less kitschy than the switch flops that I had teased her about last summer, but clearly the two are in completely different leagues.
Baby Leg Warmers--delightful, precious, and functional. They keep the babe's limbs toasty, while you change a diaper without needing to remove a pair of pants.
Switch Flops--matchy matchy, and I think that's all I need to say about that.
Sarah, 34 weeks & Me, 23 weeks
While I was there, I admitted to Sarah another one of my newfound obsessions--baby leg warmers.
No, not THAT kind of leg warmer... Adorable, charming ones, like these...
Okay, maybe it was less about coming clean and more about trying to convince Sarah that HER baby was going to need this wardrobe staple as well. I was a pusher. A baby leg warmer pusher. Bitty has had four pair since the age, oh, gestationally 17 weeks.
Sarah tried to convince me that these were no less kitschy than the switch flops that I had teased her about last summer, but clearly the two are in completely different leagues.
Baby Leg Warmers--delightful, precious, and functional. They keep the babe's limbs toasty, while you change a diaper without needing to remove a pair of pants.
Switch Flops--matchy matchy, and I think that's all I need to say about that.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
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Dumb Things I've Read
My extra-curricular reading as of late has revolved around the topics of (surprise!) pregnancy and babies. I read pregnant lady books. I read baby development books. I read parenting books. I read pregnancy and baby magazines, blogs, websites, etc. etc. etc. Lots of reading, and mostly because this is our first baby and I really don't know what the hell I am doing. And, being the obsessive and anal planner that I am, I need to be prepared.
Right now, I am reading several books on sleep training so that I can compare approaches and decide which I want to follow. Just in case our baby has sleep issues down the road. Like, ten months from now down the road. As I said, I need to be prepared.
I've read some good things, but I've also read some really dumb things. Here are a few of my favorites:
1. These are the two most common cravings among pregnant women:
33% crave chocolate
20% crave sweets of some sort
Well, luckily for us pregnant ladies, Your Pregnancy, Week by Week has a recommendation for combating these sweet cravings. The authors write, "When you crave something sweet, eat a cherry tomato or some broccoli pieces to help curb your sweet tooth." Really? Seriously? A tomato and some broccoli are supposed to take my mind off of a giant hot fudge brownie sundae topped with Oreos and whipped cream and rainbow sprinkles? Riiiiight. If this has ever worked for you, please let me know. Dumb.
2. And that reminds me, there is the issue of weight distribution during pregnancy. Here is a typical breakdown for a woman who gains 30 pounds during pregnancy:
7.5 lbs. is baby
1.5 lbs. is placenta
4 lbs. in increased fluid volume, and another
4 lbs. in increased blood volume
And then, two pounds each can be attributed to the mother's uterus, big boobs, and the amniotic fluid, for a total of 6 pounds.
The rest of the weight? Oh, the books account for that as maternal stores; also known as, all the fat you've packed on to your hips and ass. I cringe every time I read the words maternal stores. No need to sugar coat it (pun intended), just label those extra lbs. for what they are. Cottage Cheese. Dumb Dumb.
3. There is no shortage of unnecessary PC-ness found in the baby genre. Take Dr. Sears, for example, who coined the term "high needs baby." Ech, this one drives me crazy, too. To me, this is of the same caliber as referring to an old person as "chronologically gifted," and incompetence as "unique proficience." Why not just keep it literal? Fussy baby! High-maintenance baby! I know that Dr. Sears has a devoted following, especially in regard to this issue, and I don't intend to offend anyone; my husband, for one, is convinced that if Bitty's temperment resembles that of her mother's she will surely be a fussy, demanding little creature. If this is the case, you will never hear me refer to her as high needs. High-maintenance, yes. Screaming, blithering la creatura, maybe. But not a high needs baby. That's just dumb.
4. A website I recently encountered listed some interesting facts about babies that are likely unknown to most people. This one caught my eye: Babies and toddlers are, pound for pound, stronger than oxen. Oxen? Who uses THAT word anymore? I think the only place I've heard anyone even utter the word oxen was on an episode of "Little House on the Prarie." Is that really the best comparison that they could come up with? Now think about this amazing baby-strength fact and look at this picture and tell me that isn't a weird visual.
If this is truly the case, then shouldn't babies be "pulling their own weight," so to speak, around the house a bit more? Dumb.
5. I guess this one might not be characterized as "dumb," but it is kind of weird to think about. At 19 weeks gestation, the female fetus has already produced 6 million eggs in her ovaries, though by the time she is born she will only have about 4 million. My first thought was, "Wow, that's a lot of eggs." And secondly, "what happens to the other 2 million in utero?" Seriously though, where did they go? Are they in my belly? Weird. I relayed this interesting piece of info to Mark, who immediately covered his ears insisting that he did NOT want to hear about the ovaries and eggs of his unborn daughter. Fair enough.
Right now, I am reading several books on sleep training so that I can compare approaches and decide which I want to follow. Just in case our baby has sleep issues down the road. Like, ten months from now down the road. As I said, I need to be prepared.
I've read some good things, but I've also read some really dumb things. Here are a few of my favorites:
1. These are the two most common cravings among pregnant women:
33% crave chocolate
20% crave sweets of some sort
Well, luckily for us pregnant ladies, Your Pregnancy, Week by Week has a recommendation for combating these sweet cravings. The authors write, "When you crave something sweet, eat a cherry tomato or some broccoli pieces to help curb your sweet tooth." Really? Seriously? A tomato and some broccoli are supposed to take my mind off of a giant hot fudge brownie sundae topped with Oreos and whipped cream and rainbow sprinkles? Riiiiight. If this has ever worked for you, please let me know. Dumb.
2. And that reminds me, there is the issue of weight distribution during pregnancy. Here is a typical breakdown for a woman who gains 30 pounds during pregnancy:
7.5 lbs. is baby
1.5 lbs. is placenta
4 lbs. in increased fluid volume, and another
4 lbs. in increased blood volume
And then, two pounds each can be attributed to the mother's uterus, big boobs, and the amniotic fluid, for a total of 6 pounds.
The rest of the weight? Oh, the books account for that as maternal stores; also known as, all the fat you've packed on to your hips and ass. I cringe every time I read the words maternal stores. No need to sugar coat it (pun intended), just label those extra lbs. for what they are. Cottage Cheese. Dumb Dumb.
3. There is no shortage of unnecessary PC-ness found in the baby genre. Take Dr. Sears, for example, who coined the term "high needs baby." Ech, this one drives me crazy, too. To me, this is of the same caliber as referring to an old person as "chronologically gifted," and incompetence as "unique proficience." Why not just keep it literal? Fussy baby! High-maintenance baby! I know that Dr. Sears has a devoted following, especially in regard to this issue, and I don't intend to offend anyone; my husband, for one, is convinced that if Bitty's temperment resembles that of her mother's she will surely be a fussy, demanding little creature. If this is the case, you will never hear me refer to her as high needs. High-maintenance, yes. Screaming, blithering la creatura, maybe. But not a high needs baby. That's just dumb.
4. A website I recently encountered listed some interesting facts about babies that are likely unknown to most people. This one caught my eye: Babies and toddlers are, pound for pound, stronger than oxen. Oxen? Who uses THAT word anymore? I think the only place I've heard anyone even utter the word oxen was on an episode of "Little House on the Prarie." Is that really the best comparison that they could come up with? Now think about this amazing baby-strength fact and look at this picture and tell me that isn't a weird visual.
If this is truly the case, then shouldn't babies be "pulling their own weight," so to speak, around the house a bit more? Dumb.5. I guess this one might not be characterized as "dumb," but it is kind of weird to think about. At 19 weeks gestation, the female fetus has already produced 6 million eggs in her ovaries, though by the time she is born she will only have about 4 million. My first thought was, "Wow, that's a lot of eggs." And secondly, "what happens to the other 2 million in utero?" Seriously though, where did they go? Are they in my belly? Weird. I relayed this interesting piece of info to Mark, who immediately covered his ears insisting that he did NOT want to hear about the ovaries and eggs of his unborn daughter. Fair enough.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Tiffany's Tip of the Day
Cure for odor-induced morning nausea:
Two bratwurst on a bun loaded with sauerkraut, banana peppers, and mustard. Before 7:30 AM.
Don't mention it, it's my pleasure.
Two bratwurst on a bun loaded with sauerkraut, banana peppers, and mustard. Before 7:30 AM.
Don't mention it, it's my pleasure.
How Big Is Baby?
Like most pregnant ladies, I subscribe to those weekly pregnancy tracker emails. I think I'm getting about four per week, which is probably overkill; The Bump, Fit Pregnancy, Baby Center, Planning Family, and there may even be another one. Among advertisements, links to FAQ's, and discussion streams, each email gives a brief summary about what is happening with the baby's development that week, usually including a length and weight estimate and a size similarity.
I've noticed that the writers of these size analogies are all strangely produce-centric. Week 8, my baby was apparently the size of a raspberry. Week 12, she had grown to resemble a plum, and by week 16, had the likeness of an avocado. Then she got a little fancy in week 19 and morphed into an heirloom tomato. This week, which is 21, I have either a banana or carrot sprouting in my belly, depending upon which email you read.
Maybe it's the hormones that get me worked up, but I am getting seriously annoyed with these comparisons. Irrationally angry. Why are these people so obsessed with fruits and vegetables? Are they being bribed by the agricultural industry to subliminally suggest produce cravings in pregnant women? Well, I'll have you know that it is NOT working. I do not want a green olive (week 9), a kumquat (week 10), a fig (week 11), or a lemon (week 14). Nor do I have a hankering for a naval orange (week 15), a turnip (week 17), a sweet potato (week 18), OR a cantaloupe (week 20).
I'm just hoping for the day I get an email that says "Your baby is the size of a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon." Now that's an analogy I can get excited about.
I've noticed that the writers of these size analogies are all strangely produce-centric. Week 8, my baby was apparently the size of a raspberry. Week 12, she had grown to resemble a plum, and by week 16, had the likeness of an avocado. Then she got a little fancy in week 19 and morphed into an heirloom tomato. This week, which is 21, I have either a banana or carrot sprouting in my belly, depending upon which email you read.
Maybe it's the hormones that get me worked up, but I am getting seriously annoyed with these comparisons. Irrationally angry. Why are these people so obsessed with fruits and vegetables? Are they being bribed by the agricultural industry to subliminally suggest produce cravings in pregnant women? Well, I'll have you know that it is NOT working. I do not want a green olive (week 9), a kumquat (week 10), a fig (week 11), or a lemon (week 14). Nor do I have a hankering for a naval orange (week 15), a turnip (week 17), a sweet potato (week 18), OR a cantaloupe (week 20).
I'm just hoping for the day I get an email that says "Your baby is the size of a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon." Now that's an analogy I can get excited about.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Why, Yes, I Would Like Sprinkles With That
I've been seeing a neonatologist, which is basically a baby specialist, about every two to three weeks since the end of my first trimester. Women who have or are at risk of having a high-risk or complicated pregnancy may be referred to one of these specialists. For example, women carrying multiples usually see one of these doctors. TMI ALERT! THE FOLLOWING SENTENCE MAY BE TMI FOR SOME READERS!
In my own case, I'm being monitored to make sure that my cervix does not shorten prematurely, which could cause stillbirth or premature labor. The good news for me is that everything is going great and normal and without a problem.
I am always a little amused when I am scheduling my next appointment, though. The receptionist always asks..."Single or Double?" I feel like I'm at the ice cream parlor ordering a cone. One day, I thought I'd make a joke of this and said, "Single, with sprinkles, please." She didn't get it. Fail.
In my own case, I'm being monitored to make sure that my cervix does not shorten prematurely, which could cause stillbirth or premature labor. The good news for me is that everything is going great and normal and without a problem.
I am always a little amused when I am scheduling my next appointment, though. The receptionist always asks..."Single or Double?" I feel like I'm at the ice cream parlor ordering a cone. One day, I thought I'd make a joke of this and said, "Single, with sprinkles, please." She didn't get it. Fail.
Bumpit
No, I'm not talking about the volumizing hair insert popularized by Sarah Palin or Snooki from Jersey Shore; I'm referring to my own, personal bumpit under my boobs.
Bitty Bebe and mama after a workout, 19 weeks, 3 days
Bitty Bebe and mama after a workout, 19 weeks, 3 days
Watch Out For Falling Prices...And Pregnant Ladies
Okay, I know that's the slogan for Wal-Mart, and this story takes place at Ikea, but it's fitting and funny and I couldn't resist. This is a longer-than-usual one, so settle in.
It's time to get the nursery in order. Since I have the summer off from work, and I'm obviously not doing any marathon or half-marathon or cycling training this year, I am finding myself with A LOT more time and energy on my hands than I am used to during these months. I never would have thought that I would have MORE energy than usual while pregnant. I'm realizing that those hot summer runs took a lot more out of me than I ever knew. One of my summertime goals is to get the baby's room all set up and decorated before I head back to school in August.
Bitty Bebe's room is going to be one that we previously used an an office. Our townhome was built in the 1940's, and we frequently encounter many puzzling architectural inefficiecies that were used back in that decade. For example, the small galley-style kitchen--why would anyone want such little workspace in the kitchen? And why would you use a regular door to access a wide closet?
This was the issue that we wanted to tackle as we prep the room for the babe; improving closet access by installing folding closet doors. We also planned to have the guys install a ceiling fan and paint. The construction guys were scheduled to start this week, which meant one thing for us--we had to get all our sh@# out of there.
Our office had become a catch-all for a lot of the junk that we couldn't find another place for. In addition to all of the reorganizing, relocating, and purging, we had to find a new solution for some of our books. One of the bookcases that we were currently using had to be crammed into the corner, supported by two walls, in order to keep it from collapsing. A $30 bookcase from Target, I guess you get what you pay for.
A shopping trip for a new bookcase was imminent. My hunt led me to Ikea, in hopes of finding a decent bookcase (at least better than the $30 one) for cheap. Ikea has many smart marketing strategies, like the way they make you weave through the entire lower level of "marketplace" products in order to reach the cash registers. You literally need a map in order to bypass the yellow-brick road that winds you through the dozen departments of items you had no idea that you needed--until now.
I, personally, am always a sucker for the the wafting odor of Swedish meatballs that envelops your nose the moment you walk into the building. It's an unusual balance between institutionally cafeteria-like yet deliciously salivating at the same time. I often wonder if Ikea intentionally pumps the scent down from the kitchen to the entrance to lure customers up to the cafe the way the Pied Piper led the rats of Hamelin to their watery death in the Weser River.
Today, the line was long; a week-long promotion of free meals for childen up to age twelve the culprit. But, I, intoxicated with the bouquet of Scandinavian comfort food, patiently joined the line, eagerly awaiting my fix.
The line moved quickly, and soon I was at the cash register to pay and then dig in. Suddenly, I started feel dizzy, see spots, and feel unsteady. In the briefest moment I was down on the ground, and I opened my eyes to see two ladies peering over me. "Are you okay, dear?" one of the women asked. "I feel like I'm going to faint," I replied. "You did" the woman responded.
Fortunately, the two women hovering over me were nurses who also happened to be shopping. They helped me over to a table, brought my tray of food and got me something to drink. The kind ladies tended to me and assured that I was alright. They were concerned that I may have injured my head because they heard such a loud bang when I hit the floor. Luckily, and as my husband will tell you, I am very hard-headed, and I didn't suffer a hint of a bump or tenderness.
I actually felt better right away and figured that there was no reason to let the perfectly good Swedish meatballs go to waste, so I ate my lunch before deciding that I should probably call my OB's office to see if this whole fainting incident was something that I should be concerned about.
My OB wanted me to go to the Emergency Room in order to rule out the possiblity of something more serious. So, the good patient that I am, that's what I did. Blood work, of course, was part of my check-up in the ER. And you know how that goes over with me. I warned the ER nurse of my Scarlett O'Hara tendencies, in hopes that he would be EXTRA careful inserting the IV. Mark went to the hospital with me and tried to keep me distracted with conversation as the nurse did the dirty work. "Okay, you're going to feel a poke," the nurse informed me. Don't TELL me about it, dummy! I thought. I'm trying not to think about this!
A moment later, I heard the dreaded words from the nurse "Well, that didn't work." Great, he was going to have to start all over again. By this time, I was starting to get that now-familiar woozy feeling. The blood-pressure monitor behind me starting beeping, indicating that my BP had plummeted below a certain level. Although I didn't COMPLETELY pass out this time--I still had somewhat of an inkling of consciousness--I was out of it enough that the nurse was able to insert the IV into another vein without me really noticing.
No worries, all of my lab work, EKG, and whatever else they tested on me while I was there came back perfectly fine. I'm fine, baby's fine. The doc attributed the fainting to something called a vagal reaction. Which basically means that I faint a lot. Thanks for the clarification.
I don't know if it was those low, low prices or the allure of Swedish meatballs that caused me to faint dead away, but I write this as another warning to all of you women readers--perhaps shopping at Ikea, like going to the restroom, is best done in groups.
It's time to get the nursery in order. Since I have the summer off from work, and I'm obviously not doing any marathon or half-marathon or cycling training this year, I am finding myself with A LOT more time and energy on my hands than I am used to during these months. I never would have thought that I would have MORE energy than usual while pregnant. I'm realizing that those hot summer runs took a lot more out of me than I ever knew. One of my summertime goals is to get the baby's room all set up and decorated before I head back to school in August.
Bitty Bebe's room is going to be one that we previously used an an office. Our townhome was built in the 1940's, and we frequently encounter many puzzling architectural inefficiecies that were used back in that decade. For example, the small galley-style kitchen--why would anyone want such little workspace in the kitchen? And why would you use a regular door to access a wide closet?
This was the issue that we wanted to tackle as we prep the room for the babe; improving closet access by installing folding closet doors. We also planned to have the guys install a ceiling fan and paint. The construction guys were scheduled to start this week, which meant one thing for us--we had to get all our sh@# out of there.
Our office had become a catch-all for a lot of the junk that we couldn't find another place for. In addition to all of the reorganizing, relocating, and purging, we had to find a new solution for some of our books. One of the bookcases that we were currently using had to be crammed into the corner, supported by two walls, in order to keep it from collapsing. A $30 bookcase from Target, I guess you get what you pay for.
A shopping trip for a new bookcase was imminent. My hunt led me to Ikea, in hopes of finding a decent bookcase (at least better than the $30 one) for cheap. Ikea has many smart marketing strategies, like the way they make you weave through the entire lower level of "marketplace" products in order to reach the cash registers. You literally need a map in order to bypass the yellow-brick road that winds you through the dozen departments of items you had no idea that you needed--until now.
I, personally, am always a sucker for the the wafting odor of Swedish meatballs that envelops your nose the moment you walk into the building. It's an unusual balance between institutionally cafeteria-like yet deliciously salivating at the same time. I often wonder if Ikea intentionally pumps the scent down from the kitchen to the entrance to lure customers up to the cafe the way the Pied Piper led the rats of Hamelin to their watery death in the Weser River.
Today, the line was long; a week-long promotion of free meals for childen up to age twelve the culprit. But, I, intoxicated with the bouquet of Scandinavian comfort food, patiently joined the line, eagerly awaiting my fix.
The line moved quickly, and soon I was at the cash register to pay and then dig in. Suddenly, I started feel dizzy, see spots, and feel unsteady. In the briefest moment I was down on the ground, and I opened my eyes to see two ladies peering over me. "Are you okay, dear?" one of the women asked. "I feel like I'm going to faint," I replied. "You did" the woman responded.
Fortunately, the two women hovering over me were nurses who also happened to be shopping. They helped me over to a table, brought my tray of food and got me something to drink. The kind ladies tended to me and assured that I was alright. They were concerned that I may have injured my head because they heard such a loud bang when I hit the floor. Luckily, and as my husband will tell you, I am very hard-headed, and I didn't suffer a hint of a bump or tenderness.
I actually felt better right away and figured that there was no reason to let the perfectly good Swedish meatballs go to waste, so I ate my lunch before deciding that I should probably call my OB's office to see if this whole fainting incident was something that I should be concerned about.
My OB wanted me to go to the Emergency Room in order to rule out the possiblity of something more serious. So, the good patient that I am, that's what I did. Blood work, of course, was part of my check-up in the ER. And you know how that goes over with me. I warned the ER nurse of my Scarlett O'Hara tendencies, in hopes that he would be EXTRA careful inserting the IV. Mark went to the hospital with me and tried to keep me distracted with conversation as the nurse did the dirty work. "Okay, you're going to feel a poke," the nurse informed me. Don't TELL me about it, dummy! I thought. I'm trying not to think about this!
A moment later, I heard the dreaded words from the nurse "Well, that didn't work." Great, he was going to have to start all over again. By this time, I was starting to get that now-familiar woozy feeling. The blood-pressure monitor behind me starting beeping, indicating that my BP had plummeted below a certain level. Although I didn't COMPLETELY pass out this time--I still had somewhat of an inkling of consciousness--I was out of it enough that the nurse was able to insert the IV into another vein without me really noticing.
No worries, all of my lab work, EKG, and whatever else they tested on me while I was there came back perfectly fine. I'm fine, baby's fine. The doc attributed the fainting to something called a vagal reaction. Which basically means that I faint a lot. Thanks for the clarification.
I don't know if it was those low, low prices or the allure of Swedish meatballs that caused me to faint dead away, but I write this as another warning to all of you women readers--perhaps shopping at Ikea, like going to the restroom, is best done in groups.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Sugar and Spice...
...and everything nice, that's what little girls are made of! Yes, it's true! Bitty Bebe is no longer an "it." We have a little girl on the way! A petite fille. I learned the baby's gender at my ultrasound on Tuesday, but waited until Father's Day to share the news with Mark. I almost caved and told him on three separate occasions over the course of the week, but I'm glad I held out, and so was he. He liked the suspense this morning. I broke the news to him with a non-gender specific green gift bag, and the surprise was revealed by the baby girl outfit inside. 
I think Mark is still in shock or denial or something, he was POSITIVE that it would be a boy. I'll spare you the ultrasound photo, but the technician was able to get a full-on crotch shot and was pretty confident that we had a "she" on our hands. Even so, I'm saving my receipts juuuuuust in case. And, can I just say that I am loving the fact that we have our first embarrassing baby photo to show to her future prom date.
I think Mark is still in shock or denial or something, he was POSITIVE that it would be a boy. I'll spare you the ultrasound photo, but the technician was able to get a full-on crotch shot and was pretty confident that we had a "she" on our hands. Even so, I'm saving my receipts juuuuuust in case. And, can I just say that I am loving the fact that we have our first embarrassing baby photo to show to her future prom date.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
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Thursday, May 27, 2010
Still Mindless
I've done it again. Another wardrobe malfunction.
Today was hot. Ninety degree stagnant DC weather. I thought a cottony white dress would be a smart thing to wear to work today. About half way through my commute to work, I realized: I forgot to change my underwear this morning. And they are bright orange.
I glanced down, maybe no one will be able to tell. Oh, but you could...it was as obvious as trying to hide an elephant beneath a Kleenex.
Time to problem solve. No time to stop at Wal-Mart, but maybe CVS sold underwear. I had about 15 minutes before I had to be at work, so this would have to be quick. I searched up and down the aisles to no avail. Oh Lord, can I go bare bottom today? Ew, there had to be something. I stopped briefly to consider the Depends...they're white, right? No, no, I just can't go there.
I made a final plea to the sales clerk. They are in aisle four, near the hosiery, she answered. But I had looked there! Making a second sweep through the aisle, there I found them, two lonely little hooks of undergarments, hidden at the bottom of the rack in a sea of L'eggs. I had two types to choose from: High-Waisted and Full Coverage Briefs (read: Granny panties and Great Granny panties).
I went with the plain old Granny variety, and I have to tell you, they were quite comfortable. Today's lessons: Beware of White Dresses and Don't Underestimate Granny Panties.
Today was hot. Ninety degree stagnant DC weather. I thought a cottony white dress would be a smart thing to wear to work today. About half way through my commute to work, I realized: I forgot to change my underwear this morning. And they are bright orange.
I glanced down, maybe no one will be able to tell. Oh, but you could...it was as obvious as trying to hide an elephant beneath a Kleenex.
Time to problem solve. No time to stop at Wal-Mart, but maybe CVS sold underwear. I had about 15 minutes before I had to be at work, so this would have to be quick. I searched up and down the aisles to no avail. Oh Lord, can I go bare bottom today? Ew, there had to be something. I stopped briefly to consider the Depends...they're white, right? No, no, I just can't go there.
I made a final plea to the sales clerk. They are in aisle four, near the hosiery, she answered. But I had looked there! Making a second sweep through the aisle, there I found them, two lonely little hooks of undergarments, hidden at the bottom of the rack in a sea of L'eggs. I had two types to choose from: High-Waisted and Full Coverage Briefs (read: Granny panties and Great Granny panties).
I went with the plain old Granny variety, and I have to tell you, they were quite comfortable. Today's lessons: Beware of White Dresses and Don't Underestimate Granny Panties.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Like An Olympic Athlete
Today, Mark and I went to our first "real" OB appointment. This appointment went far better that my previous appointment for several reasons.
I had my first visit with the doctor to confirm my pregnancy at ten weeks. Among other things, she tried to listen for the baby's heartbeat, unsuccessfully. The doc said that I had a retro-something uterus, which made the baby difficult to hear at this point. A retro uterus? I kept picturing it with an afro and bell bottoms and smoking a doobie.
I have never been much of a fan of needles. The rational part of me knows that it's no big deal, but something in my subconscious makes extreme anxiety about needles protruding from my body occasionally prevail. Unfortunately, this was one of those times. I really don't have much of a recollection of the incident. I just remember feeling a prick in my arm, and I glanced over and got a short glimpse of blood. I began feeling all hot and my hearing seemed muffled. Why are these lights so bright? I thought, so I closed my eyes. The last words I remember hearing were "She's going down!" from one of the nurses, and the next thing I knew, I was lying on the ground with my feet up on a chair. Of course, I was wearing a dress and thongs so my bare ass was hanging out like I was open for business. I suppose if you're going to flash strangers, an OB/GYN office is the least offensive place to do it.
This time, the visit was much more productive. As usual, a nurse checked my weight and blood pressure first thing. After taking one look at me, she exclaimed, "Oh, I remember you!" Yep, I now have a reputation at the office as that fainting girl.
Much to my excitement, the doctor was able to find the baby's heartbeat the moment she placed the doppler on my abdomen. The fetal heartbeat was 160, which according to an old wives' tale a faster heartbeat means girl?? We were given a due date of November 26th, the day after Thanksgiving. At this point I am nearly through the first trimester. Once the doctor was through, the lab technician came in to take another blood sample. She informed me that from now on I should be laying down when I have blood drawn. Finally, Mark has medical professionals that will confirm what he has said all along...I'm high-maintenance.
I had my first visit with the doctor to confirm my pregnancy at ten weeks. Among other things, she tried to listen for the baby's heartbeat, unsuccessfully. The doc said that I had a retro-something uterus, which made the baby difficult to hear at this point. A retro uterus? I kept picturing it with an afro and bell bottoms and smoking a doobie.
I have never been much of a fan of needles. The rational part of me knows that it's no big deal, but something in my subconscious makes extreme anxiety about needles protruding from my body occasionally prevail. Unfortunately, this was one of those times. I really don't have much of a recollection of the incident. I just remember feeling a prick in my arm, and I glanced over and got a short glimpse of blood. I began feeling all hot and my hearing seemed muffled. Why are these lights so bright? I thought, so I closed my eyes. The last words I remember hearing were "She's going down!" from one of the nurses, and the next thing I knew, I was lying on the ground with my feet up on a chair. Of course, I was wearing a dress and thongs so my bare ass was hanging out like I was open for business. I suppose if you're going to flash strangers, an OB/GYN office is the least offensive place to do it.
This time, the visit was much more productive. As usual, a nurse checked my weight and blood pressure first thing. After taking one look at me, she exclaimed, "Oh, I remember you!" Yep, I now have a reputation at the office as that fainting girl.
Much to my excitement, the doctor was able to find the baby's heartbeat the moment she placed the doppler on my abdomen. The fetal heartbeat was 160, which according to an old wives' tale a faster heartbeat means girl?? We were given a due date of November 26th, the day after Thanksgiving. At this point I am nearly through the first trimester. Once the doctor was through, the lab technician came in to take another blood sample. She informed me that from now on I should be laying down when I have blood drawn. Finally, Mark has medical professionals that will confirm what he has said all along...I'm high-maintenance.
Monday, May 17, 2010
My Obsession
I am obsessed with ice cream.
I have always been a lover of the delectable, creamy, sweet treat, but during my pregnancy mere enjoyment has turned into a fiending addiction.
Last week, Mark came home from work and wanted to know what the deal was with the three containers of Edy's that appeared in the freezer. For my milkshakes, of course. Baby needs calcium, right? He just doesn't understand.
Today, I made homemade ice cream for the first time. Fresh mint. It was heavenly. The revelation that I can make my own ice cream...whatever kind I want...in as little as an hour...has my heart pumping with excitement and my mind racing with the possibilities. I can make strawberry basil on a hot summer day. Or minty lime when I'm craving a mojito. Salted caramel, lemon rosemary, cherry cheesecake, fudgy marshmallow brownie...
I need a twelve-step program.
I have always been a lover of the delectable, creamy, sweet treat, but during my pregnancy mere enjoyment has turned into a fiending addiction.
Last week, Mark came home from work and wanted to know what the deal was with the three containers of Edy's that appeared in the freezer. For my milkshakes, of course. Baby needs calcium, right? He just doesn't understand.
Today, I made homemade ice cream for the first time. Fresh mint. It was heavenly. The revelation that I can make my own ice cream...whatever kind I want...in as little as an hour...has my heart pumping with excitement and my mind racing with the possibilities. I can make strawberry basil on a hot summer day. Or minty lime when I'm craving a mojito. Salted caramel, lemon rosemary, cherry cheesecake, fudgy marshmallow brownie...
I need a twelve-step program.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
The Mind Goes Before the Middle
There are certain side effects of pregnancy that I fully expected when I realized that I was cooking one in the oven. Cravings of pickles and ice cream, bouts of nausea, ballooning boobs and a bloated belly were squarely on my radar as surfacing symptoms. What I wasn't prepared for was the sudden plummet in my IQ. Pregnancy brain--it comes on fast and it comes on strong.
I've read a bunch of garbage about whether pregnancy brain "really exists," and that "research data" does not support the notion, but I will tell you that it sure as hell does.
In my own case, annoyed requests of "Mrs. Bittenbender, can you please take your attendance?" have become frequent pleas coming from the loudspeaker in my classroom. I have on several occasions left the house sans purse, and need I mention the backwards sundress incident?
Last weekend there was a lost car situation. After a grocery trip to Whole Foods, I paraded around the first floor of the parking garage with my loaded shopping cart, searching desperately for the location of my parked car, only to realize (after examining every possible parking space) that I had parked on the second floor.
Yesterday, I was convinced that I must have been being punk'd by the gas station. I decided to stop and fill up the tank after work. The entire distance between my school and the gas station I thought about the two partially used Shell gift cards in my wallet (I remembered it this time). Sweet! There is a Shell station right on the way. My fill up wouldn't cost a thing. I pulled into the station and up to the pump, and swiped the first of my gift cards. Authorizing, authorizing, authorizing...went on and on until I canceled the transaction to try the other gift card. Same result. Exasperated, fussy, and annoyed, I tried both cards twice more. I glared at the cashier inside the foodmart. I thought, why isn't that fool coming to help me? Clearly, there is something wrong with this machine. I looked back at the gas pump searching for some sort of clue as to what could possibly be the problem.
And then I saw it.
A sticker on the pump.
Welcome to WaWa.
I've read a bunch of garbage about whether pregnancy brain "really exists," and that "research data" does not support the notion, but I will tell you that it sure as hell does.
In my own case, annoyed requests of "Mrs. Bittenbender, can you please take your attendance?" have become frequent pleas coming from the loudspeaker in my classroom. I have on several occasions left the house sans purse, and need I mention the backwards sundress incident?
Last weekend there was a lost car situation. After a grocery trip to Whole Foods, I paraded around the first floor of the parking garage with my loaded shopping cart, searching desperately for the location of my parked car, only to realize (after examining every possible parking space) that I had parked on the second floor.
Yesterday, I was convinced that I must have been being punk'd by the gas station. I decided to stop and fill up the tank after work. The entire distance between my school and the gas station I thought about the two partially used Shell gift cards in my wallet (I remembered it this time). Sweet! There is a Shell station right on the way. My fill up wouldn't cost a thing. I pulled into the station and up to the pump, and swiped the first of my gift cards. Authorizing, authorizing, authorizing...went on and on until I canceled the transaction to try the other gift card. Same result. Exasperated, fussy, and annoyed, I tried both cards twice more. I glared at the cashier inside the foodmart. I thought, why isn't that fool coming to help me? Clearly, there is something wrong with this machine. I looked back at the gas pump searching for some sort of clue as to what could possibly be the problem.
And then I saw it.
A sticker on the pump.
Welcome to WaWa.
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