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I’m 38 weeks pregnant today.

Baby Center is a gift to pregnant women. Whether it is your 1st kid or your 8th, there is something reassuring about knowing what your body is doing in a given week. 40 weeks of updates. 40 weeks of pictures. 40 weeks of reassurance and cutsie quips about pregnancy.

By the time you’re at this point, the quips definitely aren’t cute anymore. Being told that your kid weighs as much as a small watermelon isn’t funny. It is annoying because it means you now have 7lbs rolling around in your abdomen trying to scratch their way free from uterine bondage.

This is the picture that goes along with 38 weeks pregnant at Baby Center.

This is what the picture is missing. The IMPORTANT things that the picture is missing.

Let me explain.

1. Ribs- Do you see where those feet are? Yep, right in the ribs. Kicking and stretching and getting a work out right into your rib bones. Oh, and a little bit of lung too just for good measure.

2. Bladder- At least they show the bladder as compressed in the picture. What the untrained eye doesn’t see though is that it is the pressure pinnacle of the 7+ pounds in the womb. That means every time you stand up, you have to pee. Every time you move you have to pee. Even when there is nothing actually in your bladder, it still feels like you have to pee.

3. Colon- I have been fortunate to not have any gastro-intestinal issues with pregnancy. It does not change the fact, however; that there is still a portion of the bladder pressure distributed to the other side of the head. That when the baby has the hiccups and starts bouncing around, she is bouncing off delicate internal bits sending your colon into odd vibrating spasms. Not cool kid, not cool.

4. Spine- Finally, the spine. I keep describing my back pain as how I imagine it would feel if the baby was chewing on my spinal-cord. Sometimes I am convinced that she is. Either way, look at where the elbow is. I swear she has my pointy elbows.

As I write this, my whole belly is shaking. She is testing out the escape routes, deciding between north, south, east and west. Poking and prodding to find the path of least resistance. Right now, I think she is going with exiting through my back.

I really, really hope she changes her mind.

Please See Cashier

A few months ago I bought a new lighter at the grocery store. One of those big, long stemmed ones that keeps you from burning finger tips when lighting candles. Apparently my municipality puts lighters in the same category as cold medicine and spray paint. It’s part of the playground of miscreants.

I got carded.

Well, kind of.

The teenaged punk manning the mother-station of the self check kiosks just waved at me and said not to worry about the “Please See Cashier” notice flashing on my screen. I then overheard him tell his cohort punk that he just puts in random birthdays from 1978 when that comes up. Because anyone born 1978 is pretty old.

*Wait a minute. I was born in 1978.*

My head almost exploded. Then I fought back tears. And I know I will never be able to forget the heart crushing reality of the first time someone called me old. My mom gets pissy about being called ‘mam. I’ve never had much of an issue with this, because I can write it off as regionalisms and good manners, not a slam on perceived age. This kid though, he flat out said, “31 is pretty old.” Bastard.

While I was convalescing on the couch this past Saturday, I spent an unprecedented amount of time watching TV. I flipped though all the channels and watched more than my fair share of Hallmark movies. Then I remembered my beloved HBO In-Demand. Front and center was 17 Again. Score, it is something Matt would never watch.

This morning, while sorting through all the Facebook posts I missed over the weekend, I saw my 16 year old cousin Kat posted a quote from the movie. “You can plunder my dungeon anytime!” She and her high-school herd had also been taking advantage of Zac Efron’s free presence on HBO this weekend. So I commented.

And you know what? She too unintentionally called me old, by calling Efron old. She said, ‘Yeah, he’s a lot older than he looks. He’s like in his mid-twenties.’

And my heart once again stopped beating for a minute. First of all, I totally thought the kid was jail bait. Second, 22 IS NOT mid-twenties. Third, if 22 is old, then what is 32??

I know I am having this theoretical conversation with a 16 year old. I get that, but WTF.

The more I think about it though, the more I have to realize that maybe she is right. I like to pretend that I am still 20 in my head. Living just a toe over on the wild side. Not having to answer to anyone. Flirting my way into college bars with a barely passable ID. Parties that I didn’t always remember the end of. Sleeping until 5pm and then waking to do it all over again.

Now, I go to bed at 9:30pm. I wake before the sun finds it decent to be up. I dress conservatively and wipe butts and smile at the other daycare moms. A wild night is having an hour and a half dinner without interruption and an extended bedtime of 11pm. Which I then pay for the next day.

Am I old?

I cried when I turned 25. I tried to ignore my 30th birthday. Is the lighter punk onto something that I am completely missing? I don’t have wrinkles. I’m a young mother, not the Grandma. I still get carded at the liquor store… but is that because my signature is worn off the back of my debit card?

I guess that is the answer though. I am old enough. I am old enough to have my own life, family and money which has allowed me the ability to pay cash for my purchases via my debit card. Something I didn’t even come close to having at 20, much less 16. And I don’t want go back there. I love my life and the last twelve years that have turned me into a random old age to punch into a cash register when buying controlled substances.

The spiteful part of me just has to remember: Karma is a bitch and in 2025 it will be you standing in a random line being called old by some other teenaged punk making minim wage kid.

Miscellany

I’m here. I’ve alive. Barely. Things have been, busy.

Opportunity is a funny thing.

Remember this rant? At least part of it null. I moved into a new job this week. And it turns out it was MY fault that it took so long.

Oh well, c'est la vie…. I still stand by the rest of that post though.

On day 4 of this new position though, I keep wondering if I’ve made the right decision. Matt is going to smack me for writing this, especially with all the work he has done to help me get here and stay here, but this job is…. Hard. I know, I know- every new job is hard. At least any job that is worth having. I was just so used to easy.

And it feels like my belly has grown an inch a day this week. I know she can feel my stress and at 5 ½ months my belly has turned into a hard ball of movement. Suddenly, I have gone from looking chubbier than usual to looking pregnant. When I sit, my boobs are almost resting on my belly already. I have to pee every time I move. Every. Freaking. Time.

And I am so tired.

I remember my pregnancy with Gracie as blissful once I got past the 1st trimester sickness stage and before I got to the 3rd trimester oh-my-god-my-belly-is-an-overripe-watermelon- waiting-to-burst stage. This time, not so much. Before I could concentrate on me; sleep 14 hours if I so choose; lay on the couch only to leave for more chocolate. Now I am dealing with the irrational daily tantrums of a 2 year old and her new obsession with Sesame Street.

Which brings me to my third rant, because Sesame Street is making diaper changing the bain of my existence because the freaking Pampers have Sesame Street characters on them. But does Gracie want Elmo who graces 2/3 of the package? Noooooo…. she wants Ernie. Ernie who is on one 1 out of every 10. Ernie who’s name she didn’t even know until I explained that he was the one who sings the Rubber Ducky song. And she wants to look at every diaper in the package of 88 before selecting the one she deems worthy for her bottom.

The synopsis of all this?

I have a new job. I am exhausted. I hate Sesame Street. And my blogging may be sporadic over the next few weeks. Please forgive me.
And if your child refuses to wear their size 5 Ernie's let me know and maybe we can work out an exchange.

Excuse Me Please, One More Drink....

My Grandpa is dying.

I think.

I’m not really sure. Either he’ll be dead soon or he will be as fine as some who is 87 years old and getting senile can be.

Honestly though, I really don’t care either way. I don’t talk about him much. I really don’t think about him much. This is why………

My Grandma died September 1995. I was 17 years old. She was my world; I know that is naive and perfection through the imperfect eyes of a child, but in my eyes she could do no wrong.

My brother and I spent almost everyday with her. Grandpa would drop her off at our house at 6am on his way to work and pick her up around 5pm on his way home. We spent at least one weekend a month at their house, often more. We went on many, many vacations with them. Even as a licensed teenager, I still choose to drive to their house and stay hours on end.

Grandma was the family matriarch. She held everything and everyone together. She arbitrated family fights, she gave the last word on right, wrong and priorities. I always saw my Grandpa as an accessory to her; the one who carried out the commands. Sure, I loved him and have plenty of good memories of him, but they all end after her death.

*******
I was informed of her death moments after he discovered her on the couch via the phone. I don’t blame him for this, I just still wish it had happened differently. He called our house looking for my mom, I answered the phone instead.

Shan, he cried, she’s dead. Grandma is dead. I don’t know what to do. What should I do? Grandma is cold and dead and I don’t know what to do....

Yeah I was 17, but had never really lost anyone close to me. How was I supposed to give him guidance? Really, I don’t blame him though. She was his whole world too and now she wasn’t there to tell him what to do….

*******
A few months after Grandma’s death, my mom booked him a trip to Florida to visit his sister. He never came back. His first week down there he met a lady. Less than 6 months after the death of the woman he was married to for over 35 years and had 7 children with, and without telling anyone what was happening, he married her in a civil ceremony.

He organized the sale of his/their home via the phone. His children and grandchildren found out about this, and the marriage, via the For Sale sign in the front yard and another phone call telling us we had one week to go through the house and take anything we wanted before cleaners came though to get it ready.

He never came back. He left all the family photos hanging on the walls and bookshelves. He left the pictures of me and Jerry in their frames. He declined offers from my mom to mail them to him, claiming it would make is new wife uncomfortable.

*******
I take that back, he came home for a weekend about 2 years later in 1997. My mom decided she wanted to take me and Jerry to the Mall of America for a spur of the moment weekend trip. She bought me everything a teenaged heart desired and took us to an Indian casino where I won something like $400 dollars playing a slot machine.

On the way to the airport she claimed to have a voicemail from an Uncle saying he was having a party that night and we should come. My mom strong armed us into attending playing the goodwill card from the weekend. If Jerry and I had known he would be there we wouldn’t have gone. Not only was he there, but he brought his wife too.

When we walked through the door, he smiled and said hello like nothing had changed and that he wanted to introduce us to our grandmother.

I ran out of the room in tears, while his wife proceeded to tell my brother how selfish we were to hurt him this way and that our grandfather is much happier with her than he ever was before.

I think he went back to Chicago a few times after that, but I never attended. The wife died sometime around 2001. After her death he claimed that she was a drunk and emotionally abusive. Good.

*******
Matt and I married in 2003. Under pressure from my mom, we invited him. I did hug him and stood next to him for 5 minutes to snap a few pictures. I can’t remember what words were spoken, but I do recall thinking about how old he looked now as opposed to the man in my memories. The man from my childhood was my Grandpa, this is just some look-a-like in much wrinklier skin.

Those pictures are the only ones from that day without a smile.

*******
Over the years my mom brings up that I should call him at least once a season. My reply is always the same. What is there to say? Nothing. My Grandpa died when Grandma did. I do not know the man living in Florida and I have nothing to say to him.

As a compromise, I usually send updated photos of Grace when I get them. That takes little effort on my part to address one more envelope. According to relatives, he has a little shrine on his piano of all the photos I’ve sent him of Grace, ones my mom has supplied of us, and the unsmiling picture from my wedding day. I still have nothing else to say.

******
Yesterday, as I browsed through the online clearance section of a store, I stopped short and thought of him. There in front of me was a pair of Santa Claus and Rainbow suspenders. Rainbow suspenders were always his signature piece. At $3.00 each, I thought about purchasing them and sending them anonymously. I didn’t.

When I got home yesterday, Matt said my mom left a message on the machine saying my Grandpa was in the hospital. Apparently he has several blood clots in his lungs. Testing today should determine if they can do anything, but it doesn’t look good. She once again pushed me to call him.

My answer is again, unchanged. I am sorry for the pain this is causing her. I am even sorry for the pain and confusion that he must be going though, but my Grandpa is gone.

My Grandpa is dying.

I think.

I really don’t care either way. I don’t talk about him much. I really don’t think about him much. And now you know why.

Perceptions

With a sly grin, Matt announced last night that he was going to be interviewed by a local online sports magazine about triathlons. And he’s been asked to come to the interview wearing athletic wear.

While I still haven’t gotten over my gut reaction of snickering, and I don’t think I actually have, not out loud anyway, I know how much this means to him. For an outsider to recognize his accomplishments.

I know I have said this over and over again in this blog, but he has worked hard for this. He runs when the weather is cold and rainy. He goes to the gym before work or during lunch. I am proud of him.

People who haven’t seen Matt in awhile tend to not recognize him or freak out due to his weight loss over the last two years. I get the people who go on and on because it is an amazing accomplishment, but I am frustrated and angered by the people who somehow see it as a negative.

Let’s look at this handy little chart.


Do you see the fat guy in the red section? That was Matt at the start of all this. Now go down to the green guy. That is Matt today. How is this a problem?

Now that Matt is getting ready to do the Marine Corps Marathon again this weekend, people outside of our everyday are chiming up again. Sure, there are sometimes deaths at marathons and other hard-core sporting events. But they are explainable, they are catastrophic, the same end result would have happened no matter what. Sure, they might have had another few years before having an aneurism or heart attack, but isn’t it better to drop dead running instead of behind the wheel?

And you know what? Matt has had physicals and EKG’s done. He is in good health and the exercise only enhances that. Of course I would be beside myself if something did happen to Matt, but I could also spend my days worrying about car wrecks and government employees too.

So this Sunday Matt runs his third 26.2 mile run. Sure I worry, but not about his ability to do come home.

He has proven he can do this through all his hard work and dedication.

Dreaming, On a Friday Afternoon

Even before my Friday is officially over, I am going to announce that I have gotten more work done this week than I have in quite awhile.

*Applause*

Why am I applauding myself? Because it was only a three day week.

How does this happen?

Let me tell you.

Burnout.

I always (OK, sometimes) start off strong on Monday, but after 3 days I start to get tired. I become disenfranchised. I start doubting my mission and my work. Which makes me slow down. I hate it. I hate thinking that I hate what I’m doing for 8 hours a day, but that is how most of my weeks go.

This week though, thank you MLK & President Obama, it was only a three day work week, and my productivity is surpassing what I normally accomplish. Sure, I’m starting to feel the burnout, but I’m motivated by the fact that it is Friday instead of being discouraged by Wednesday.

I haven’t been this happy for no reason at all in a long time.

Maybe someone important will read this and decide that I will only have to work for 24 hours a week and still get paid for 40 from now on.

Maybe not, but a girl can dream.

Breathe

My parent’s were here this past weekend. They stayed with us for 72 hours.

Maybe the problem is me and Matt.

We get so used to doing things our own way. We get so used to the freedom one gets from living 700 miles away from family. We get so used to be able to breathe, and while I love my parents, when they come it feels like I can’t breathe.

There is never a break when they stay at our house.

There is never a plan, unless we create it. If you give them options, they say ‘Oh, I don’t know / I don’t care, you choose.’

The problem with that is WE live here. IF we wanted to do these things we do them without the ordeal. Then everyday mundane things that I need to / want to / would be doing if they weren’t here also become an ordeal.

I start to get snippy. I start to shut down.

My mom, on her own, I can handle. I can go about my daily activities, with her in tow, much more easily.

My dad on the other hand, is a challenge.

We like to think of my dad as a cat. You know, the whole 9 lives thing. He has been given more chances at life that most people could ever dream of.

My dad is a Type 1 diabetic also. I will cut him some slack under the notion that he was 6 years old when diagnosed – 1957 – and the technology looks like something the Flintstones would have used compared to today. To add to it, from the stories I’ve heard (second hand), he and his condition, with blamed for a lot of what was wrong in his mother’s life.

I get that things were hard. I get that he was treated horribly. I do. I have sympathy.

What I don’t get is why he is in his current state. So much of it is preventable with a little bit of responsibility and proactivity. Neither of which he has ever attempted.

That is where my patience wears thin.

Your bored because you had to take early retirement? Get a hobby. Read the newspaper. DO something besides watching TV 12 hours a day and sleeping the other 12.

Physical activity is still hard for you? Go for a short walk. Go to the gym. Ride the recumbent bicycle that is 2 feet away from where you are watching TV. Pick up aroudn the house. The surgery and all it’s complications was over 3 years ago. So something besides sit there and complain.

You feel ill because your sugars fluctuate so much? Check your blood sugar! 10 times a day if you have too. Take responsibility for what your are putting in your body. Learn the effect that CARBS have on you. Learn the names and doses of the medicines that your take everyday, 3 times a day!

My mom made a comment to me that she hasn’t seen my dad so happy in a long time. That Gracie was having a wonderful effect on him. He also got visibly emotional when saying goodbye to her.

My gut response to this? Anger.

They are always welcome to come visit, but I am tired of feeling like I’ve been kicked after every visit. I cannot make their lives better. Grace cannot make them feel more fulfilled. More importantly, we shouldn't have to feel like that is on our shoulders. Shouldn’t that come from taking care themselves? I am tired of feeling like I have to fill some sort of unfulfilled void in their lives, especially in my dad’s case.

He has opportunity. He has gotten and keeps getting so many second, third, fourth … chances. He does nothing with them though. I don’t understand the point of wanting all the things that he wants, and then doing nothing with it when he gets it.

----- Stop ranting. Just breathe. Keep breathing. -----

That was my weekend. We did nothing. We went nowhere. We talked about nothing.

It should have been nice, huh? Normally I am lamenting that I don’t get to do those three things.