Small Red Sneakers

Surprise!

Pretty much from the moment I realized that I was pregnant, I started thinking I was going to have a girl. As the pregnancy progressed, all the old wives tales pointed to girl. Everyone around me said they also thought I was having a girl.

So it should come as no surprise that we are, in fact, having a boy.

During the ultrasound on Wednesday, our little one flashed us the full monty and he is definitely a him.

Now, after mourning the leopard print bikini one of my friends was going to buy for my baby girl and the fact that the nursery theme I had fallen in love with was suddenly woefully inadequate, I am beginning to adjust to the idea of a son.

There was a moment on Wednesday (as I sat in my car, stunned) where I thought to myself that I was going to be a horrible mommy. What kind of mommy finds out the sex of her unborn child and is disappointed? A bad, bad, evil mommy. I was waiting for the Bad Evil Mommy Police to come and arrest me.

I'm much better now. I've thought of loads of reasons why I'm happy to be having a little boy. I feel much closer to him now that I can refer to him as a "he" and not an "it". I've heard oodles of stories from other moms (who don't at all seem Bad or Evil) who were initially "disappointed" upon discovering their child was not the "hoped for" gender. We even began registering for all the stuff that a baby of either gender needs.

This weekend we are going to attempt to select a nursery theme. I do not have high hopes for our success. My husband and I have a long history of being completely inable to agree on anything related to decor. Wish me luck!

Landscape

One of the best things about this house is the gianormous backyard. And one of the worst things about this house is the gianormous backyard. Why? Because it was completely barren when we moved in and we had to do something with it.

"Doing something" meant that we had several options. We could let the weeds grow rampant until all the dirt was covered and then mow it down so it was sort of "lawnlike". We could pave the entire thing. We could cover it in sand. We could landscape it ourselves. Or we could hire somebody else to landscape.

My husband drew up a design and we picked out the trees, shrubs, and plants.
I think everyone will agree that we made the right decision when we decided to hire somebody else to do it. If we were going to do it ourselves we'd still be sitting on the couch, looking at the drawings, and saying, "That's going to be GREAT! Turn up the air conditioning. We'll do it this winter."

So, anyway....

We have a yard now. A real yard. With grass and plants and trees and shrubs. As I said, we picked out those plants, trees, and shrubs ourselves. It was just yesterday, in fact, that we walked around a couple of nurseries for what seemed like hours so we could pick out the plants, trees, and shrubs we wanted. And it was hot. So. Very. Hot.

So, today I was excited to get home to see how good everything we picked out would look. I even snuck out a bit early to see the payoff of our walking and walking in the hot, hot heat.

And, guess what? It looks great! The only thing is......

Well, you see....ummmm. Ok. The plants? Some of them I don't remember picking out. So as we walked around the yard admiring all the prettiness, I kept saying things like, "What the hell is that?" and "Did we pick that?" and "I don't remember that!"

But I don't care! It looks fantastic! Maybe our landscaper saw some of the plants we had chosen after walking, walking, walking in the ohsofreakinghot heat and just laughed at our silly choices. Maybe we were so overtaken by heat and by HATING to shop that the plants we picked out were ri-frickin-diculous. So that maybe Mr. Landscaper had to pick out some things that didn't, shall we say, suck.

Or, maybe we did pick all of these out and I just don't remember. You know, because of the walking. And the heat.

Did I mention the heat?

Now I have to find some patio furniture so we can sit outside and enjoy our yard.

In Which I Share Too Much

Weird things happen to you when you are pregnant.

My skin is insanely dry. I have also developed dandruff. I have never in my life had a problem with my scalp. But now? There are problems. Big, gross, flaky problems.

Another problem? I have a hemorrhoid. That’s right. I said it. How do I know? I. Just. Know.

I also itch. Everywhere. Thankfully, I’m not covered in a disgusting rash or anything. I just feel itchy.

So I had to go to the drugstore today to buy things to help me with my….erm…issues. And just as I was about to toddle on over to the checkout stand with my basket o’ goodies, the frumpy female cashier went on a break and left the cute, young, male cashier to ring me up.

First of all, he called me ma’am. Oh. God. Ma’am. I’m a “ma’am” with a basket of products fit for a she-beast.

He had trouble scanning the dandruff shampoo. While he waved it back and forth trying to get it to beep, I thought frantically to myself, "Don't look at my head. Don't look at my head. Dooooon't look at my head."

He looked at my head.

Then he decided to fill the awkward silence with conversation while scanning my anti-itch cream. "Did you find everything?" "How's your day?"

OhGodOhGodOhGod.

I might as well have thrown in some acne medication, some tampons, and something with "vag" in the name for the amount of embarrassment I was feeling. Seriously. I should have fashioned myself a sash made of feminine napkins and crowned myself "Miss Hygienically Challenged". I then could have waltzed around the drugstore, knighting fellow shoppers with a giant tube of Preparation H.

I feel pretty.

Idiotbox

When I was a kid, the television was always on. Always. Even if nobody was in the room to watch it, the television was our constant companion, its multitude of voices incessently chattering away in the background of our lives. I loved, and still love, television.

There were some shows that I didn't like. For example, "Mr. Roger's Neighborhood" terrified me. I won't get into the details because the whole thing still vaguely creeps me out. Need I remind you of Lady Elaine?

T E R R I F Y I N G !!!!!

"Welcome Back, Kotter" used to depress me. No, that's not entirely true. It didn't really have anything to do with the show. It was that the show was an Early Warning System that my father would be home soon from work.

"Welcome back, Your dreams were your ticket out. Welcome back, To that same old place that you laughed about."

As soon as I heard that song start, I'd hightail it to my bedroom. I did not want to be anywhere in sight when my dad got home. He never came home happy.

Then there was "The Waltons". I was ok with that show until the Walton's house burned down. That started my lifelong fear and obsession that my house was going to burn down. I was six when that show aired. For a couple of years after that, I would pack all my stuffed animals and dolls up every night and leave them by the window in case we needed to make a quick escape.

Now that I'm about to have a child of my own, I've been thinking a lot about television. I heard somewhere that a child shouldn't watch any television in the first two years of their life. Oh! You know where I heard that? It was on a television show!

So, I've been trying to cut down a bit on the television watching. That gets a bit easier with each show I love getting canceled one-by-one. (Rest in peace, Wonderfalls. We hardly knew ye.) But I know that I'll continue to watch it. And I'm sure that I will let my child watch it. And I'd be willing to bet that the amount of television my child is exposed to will be much more than the recommended allowance.

As long as the kid grows up and is able to talk about a few childhood memories that don't involve horrifying puppets with questionable skin disorders or tragic things that happened to families that don't even exist, I'll be happy.

Non-sisters

I got to hang out with Robin and Janice yesterday and it was just what I needed. The day was gorgeous and we spent a lot of time sitting at the edge of a lake next to Janice's house. Be-yoooo-ti-ful!

When I am with them, I always think to myself, "This must be what it is like to have sisters." I feel close enough to them that I don't worry about pissing them off or that I may say something they don't agree with. I know if I say or do something stupid, they'll let me know. I also know that they still love me when it happens.

Right about the time I'm floating into one of my "Ahhhh, sisters" fantasies, one of them will bring up their ACTUAL sister. Those stories bring me right back to earth. My ideas of sisterhood are clearly those of someone who has no sister. That's about when I realize that being sisters would not be better than being friends. If we were sisters and Robin were to get annoyed with me and threaten to kill me, she may have to do it. As her sister, I could be the one buried out by the lake. As her friend, I'd be the one to bring the shovel.

Kvetch

I have been entirely too moody lately. The evidence is abundant and embarrassing. I really don't know what to do about it, so I find myself moping and whining and bitching and just kvetching in general.

I get to see some of my favorite girlfriends tomorrow. That's my happy thought that has been carrying me through the week. We're going to get together for a potluck lunch and do some catching up. It is far overdue.

In a time where we should be especially careful with our money, it seems we are spending an unusual amount. I have mixed feelings about this. On the one hand, I know it needs to be done in order to get the house ready for the arrival of the baby. On the other hand, I feel a little gut wrench with every dollar spent. Sometimes, I am so my father's daughter. I would die a miser in a rundown tenement if not for my less stingy husband. He, of course, is also the one to keep me from bankrupting us when I swing to the absolute opposite side and decide to buy out the entire second floor of Ikea.

We’ve had landscapers coming by to give us estimates on finishing our backyard. Landscaping seems superfluous, but if we don’t get it done before the baby arrives I think it will never get done. Then I have images of our little one playing in a muddy swamp instead of on some lovely grass. The one who came by tonight, we’ve nicknamed Spock.

In my moodiness, I determined that I didn’t like him within five minutes of our conversation. He had spent most of that time telling us what he didn’t like about our patio, yard, plans, etc. I left my poor husband to deal with him. “This patio is insufficient. I would not have done it this way.”

Apparently, as the guy was leaving, he pointed at our fat tabby (Puck) and said in his Spock voice, “You have a nice cat.” Well, that's good. At least there's something here he approves of.

Umbilical Cord Hat

Cat's friend Whitney made this incredibly cute hat for our baby. When it arrived, I squealed in a manner that was likely only heard by dogs and dolphins. Then I cried. Don't worry, this is pretty normal for me.

My stuffed cat is modeling the hat here. I'm more than a bit freaked out that there will be a human being living in this house with a head small enough to fit in this hat.