Satan owns Vistaprint and the Rexburg Post Office.
Satan owns Vistaprint and the Rexburg Post Office.
Things have been … rough around here these last few weeks. David’s sleeping has taken a turn for the worse. We had him sleeping through the night months ago, but suddenly a few weeks ago, he stopped. Sometimes he’ll get up 3 or 4 times in an hour. We’ll get him sleeping all night again, but it will only last a few nights and then we’re back to getting up at least 3 times a night. I don’t know what happened, and I don’t know what to do about it.
He doesn’t take very good naps during the day, he’s grumpy and needy in the evening, and then he doesn’t sleep well at night. I’m not going to lie, sometimes I get really frustrated. I’m not really frustrated with David, more myself for not knowing what to do and feeling guilty because I feel like I’ve done something wrong as a parent. He doesn’t wake up to eat, he just wakes up. Sometimes, it will take an hour or so of him crying and us pacing and shhhing before he settles back down.
I’m sure the fact that he’s spoiled contributes greatly. I’m not even going to try denying that our baby is outrageously spoiled (by me). The spoilage is (mostly) a result of circumstance: he’s the only child of a bored stay-at-home mom. He gets a lot of attention and cuddles. I’ve tried unspoiling him a little, but that’s hard to do.
What we’ve tried:
Things that work:
I’m seriously tempted to let him sleep in our bed and sleep on the couch; I’m that desperate for something to change.
Oh, and what is with this weather?! I NEED to take this baby outside, but it’s been in the 50s and rainy. I have been cooped up in our apartment with David for almost eight months. We’ve only had a handful of nice days in Rexburg, and it’s almost June. My sanity is limited at this point.
David may not sleep well, but he’s a champion eater, giggler, drooler, roller, and biter. He has a bright future.
I despise you.
Why, why, WHY is there no gentle cycle? How come if I want to wash something in hot water, I HAVE to wash it on “heavily soiled” and get it beat up?
To make matters worse, why does your machine steal my socks? I know it does, I’m not joking.
If you are the same person who designed my dryer, I despise you even more.
Why does the dryer only dry on high heat? Why is there no tumble dry? Have you ever heard of “tumble dry, low heat”? Why is there no way to turn off the buzzer? What if I don’t want a loud buzzer that can be heard in every room (including the one my baby is taking a nap in) to go off every time the dryer is done? I know when it’s done all by myself. Why is the hole the clothes go in so small? If it is an “extra large capacity” dryer, why is the hole so small?
PS I want my socks back.
DISCLAIMER: I’m pretty sure this is going to turn into a rant. If you don’t want to experience the rant, go read in another corner and check back with me later.
I try to be kind and polite to everyone, not matter how unintelligent I think they may be or sound. But I would like everyone to know that behind the smile and dimple, I have other thoughts that are usually sarcastic and not as nice.
Today I went in for my second ultrasound of the week. The ultrasound technician was a different one than the one who has given me every other ultrasound I’ve had. I didn’t like this, I get attached and I didn’t like this technician. She wasn’t mean, but she wasn’t nice either. She didn’t tell us what was going on, which is kind of important to me.
What she says: “Well, I think he passed everything today.”
What goes on in my head: You think? Could ya double check, it’s kind of important to our overall well-being? [My head shakes.]
Then I met with one of the other doctors, instead of my regular doctor. It’s a female doctor. I prefer male doctors because they don’t get that fake, three-octaves-too-high voice when they talk to you. But I was willing to give this nice doctor lady a shot. She came in the the room where Matt and I were waiting…
What she says: “You have an infection. Did you know?”
What goes on in my head: Um…no, or I might have called or said something.
What she says: “Have you noticed any abdominal discomfort or anything?”
What goes on in my head: Really? Where is my abdomen again? Oh, that huge thing that blocks my view of everything except my belly button; that thing that’s stretched to the max and full of a living, moving being; that thing that rubs the magnets off the fridge when I get stuff out of the freezer; that thing that’s been in a constant state of various levels of discomfort since January? Well, I thought “abdominal discomfort” was all part of the job description, so I didn’t think of calling in and complaining about it. I can imagine how that conversation would go:
“Hi, how can I help you?”
“Yeah, I’m experiencing some abdominal discomfort.”
“Okay, let’s look at your chart…well, dear, you’re pregnant! That’s why you’re uncomfortable, silly.”
“Oh, wow, thanks for clearing that up.”
I don’t know, it just seems like the what the “witty” people always say when you say, “I think I have something in my eye.” And they say something lame like, “Yeah, it’s your finger.” I call and say, “I’m having abdominal discomfort.” And the nurse says, “Yeah, you’re pregnant, moron.”
Since I’m started.
I also got annoyed with the flat-chested employee and the older employee at the maternity store I was at the other day. First of all, they were having a very loud, personal (and dumb) conversation while I browsed their clearance section. I caught on very fast (because she mentioned it a dozen times in five minutes) that the flat-chested one was pregnant but not very far along.
The flat-chested one measures me and fits me for a nursing bra. I make a negative reaction to the size she declares, which then makes her go into telling me how it’s not as bad as it seems.
Her commentary annoys me because I’ve been busty since puberty, and I know exactly what it means, thank you very much.
Then the older one explains to me how a bra should fit, just in case I woke up that morning and discovered my chest.
Um, I’ve been wearing a bra for 12 years, I think I know how they work.
They both give me a few different styles and sizes to try on.
While I’m trying the giant nursing bras on, they badger me constantly, and ask how it’s going.
Leave. Me. Alone. Talking to me while I’m in the changing room is a lot like talking to the person in the stall next to you in the bathroom: you don’t unless you need toilet paper or you are close friends and the only ones in the bathroom.
They give me advice on names, how I should give birth (just ask for a c-section to make sure I have my baby on 10/10/10), etc. all while I’m trying bras on in the changing area.
I make polite responses while glaring and rolling my eyes.
I left as soon as I could and I won’t be going back any time soon.
I know that being pregnant means people are going to always ask me a lot of the same questions, give me unwanted advice, and possibly want to touch me. For the most part, I don’t mind the repeated questions, people just want to know and that’s okay. I don’t even mind most of the advice. I do mind:
End of longest post ever.
FYI: I’m addicted to peppermint TUMS. I think my mascara smells like honey. I really, really, REALLY want some Oreos (but I don’t get any, because my carb allowance is 3 and I don’t trust myself to eat only 3 when there’s a whole package sitting in front of me). Turning on the AC in the car makes me thirsty. The dandelion desktop wallpaper for Mac makes me sleepy.
Please stop stomping up all three flights of stairs. Please pick up your suitcases when going down all three flights of stairs. Please close your door if you don’t want us looking in when we come out of our apartment. (Yes neighbor, we saw you in your underwear that one time. You thought you ran fast enough, but, alas, we saw anyway.) Please brush your teeth in your apartment. Please stop going in and out of your apartment repeatedly, slamming the door behind you each time–get what you need and leave, gently shutting the door behind you. Once.
Please stop stomping up all three flights of stairs, my dishes desperately need a break.
Thanks so much.
Your tired, very pregnant, has-no-where-else-to-be across-the-cement neighbor.
PS We spy on you through the peep-hole in our door.
I am not cut-out for “group” work.
Group assignments always make me a very ugly person. I will forever delete the cliche “works well with others” line from my resume. I don’t work well with a lot of “others”. I’m friendly, sure. Bubbly and funny, oh yes.
I will explain the why.
I am a perfectionist about most things. When I’m working on something (like editing a real manuscript about to go to real publishers to be read by real people) that means a lot to me, I become an extreme perfectionist. When it comes to what I happen to know I’m extremely good at (editing and writing, let’s say) I happen to believe that I am right until someone provides sufficient evidence proving otherwise.You can see where this causes problems in group settings.
So far my groupies have only proven to me that they do not care about this current project as much as I do, that they have miraculously protected their vast ignorance over the last four years, and that they have no idea what they are doing. I would rather work on projects alone.
Currently, I’m frustrated most by the fact that my group has chosen to work on our project via Google chat and Google doc. When they make idiotic suggestions or say something proving that they have no understanding of editing, they can’t see my blank stare. My slow blinking. My head shaking.
I’m considerably less persuasive via Google chat.
Oh, they’re chatting with me.
We had a week off between semesters. I didn’t really like it.
It was my sickest week yet, so I ended up spending a lot of time feeling crummy and cleaning the toilet.
Jared and Emily moved away, and we’ve been very lonesome without them.
There have also been a lot of new move-ins with the changing semester, and some of these new neighbors seem like they are going to be really annoying; loud music, loud talking and laughing in the parking lot at night, etc.
Even Jonah caught the slumpy bug. He blew a lot of cute little bubbles and just waits for a lady beta to swim by and admire them. He didn’t even show off for me when I went and said “hi” this morning; he hovered on the far side of the bowl, sad and lonely.
A few good things though:
I think I’m going to have some Oreoes and milk. Then, maybe I’ll venture outside.
Lately I’ve been in an almost constant state of pouty anger. I blame it on being tired. I’ve been extremely tired these last two weeks, and being tired makes it harder to cope with my classes this semester. I’m having a really hard time in most of them — not academically, just with the teacher or the students in my groups. Yesterday, I … I was pretty much angry all day long, about different things. I’m not usually an angry person, in fact, I very rarely get truly angry.
So, I’ve decided that I’m going to prescribe myself some therapy.
Prescription #1: Get more sleep. (Maybe if I slept through my classes I would solve two problems at once; I would be getting more sleep, and I wouldn’t have to deal with people. I’d just fail. )
Prescription #2: Laugh it off. I’m usually really good at this, so I just need to go back to finding humor in everything.
TANGENT: We passed a billboard the other day that said, “Concussed kids take longer to heal.” I couldn’t stop laughing. I think “concussed” is the funniest word ever. Matt thought I was crazy.
Prescription #3: Listen to happy music. I don’t listen to music hardly at all, which is kind of pathetic since I have a fancy iPod (it has so many other things, I forget that it plays music).
Prescription #4: Make these waffles:
I refuse to allow myself to get any closer to motherhood domesticity without being able to make the perfect waffle. I have finally mastered eggs, pancakes, and chocolate chip cookies well enough that I can be a good mother, but the waffle has been hard to conquer.
Do you ever have those Mondays when you wake up late so you don’t have time for a shower and you have to leave for class feeling gross and on your way to class (which you’re late for at this point) a female walking bicyclist decides to walk her bike right out in front of your car while going up hill thus making you slam on the brakes so she can take her bike for a leisurely walk across a very busy road, and by the time she’s done your car doesn’t have enough power to finish going up the hill?
Do you ever have those Mondays when you finally find a parking spot on campus and you’re excited you finally found a spot because you’re late and you need to hurry, it doesn’t matter that the parking spot is a block or so away from where you need to be, but you get out of your car and some fancy-pants car tries to run you over because, of all the spots in the empty parking lot a block away from campus, he wants to park in the one right next to yours?
Do you ever have those Mondays when you finally get to the class you were in such a hurry to get to and you walk in to find them wasting away class time trying to look up some website the teacher thought he heard about and you end up just watching him try and navigate the internet for the next 45 minutes wondering why you hurried so much to get there?
Do you ever have those Mondays when you fall embarrassingly up the tiled stairs in front of many students coming and going from class and scratch up your writing hand, so for the rest of the day every time you take notes you’re reminded that you have yet to master walking?
Do you ever have those Mondays when you get to your literature class and realize that you were supposed to read all of book two and not just chapter two and therefore cannot participate in the analytical discussion taking place and feel like a complete moron for an entire hour?
Do you ever have those Mondays when you are really hungry but don’t have any time to stop and get something real, so you go to a little cafe on campus and try to get a relatively healthy beverage from the cabinet, but you’re too short to reach it and end up knocking it over, causing orange droplets to ooze all over a brand new book you were hoping to keep unspotted from the world and down the front of your white shirt, and you’re forced to continue the rest of the day with sticky orange droplets down your shirt and repeatedly explain that it’s just juice?
Do you ever have those Mondays when you try to print a ticket for your sick hubby, but you were unaware that the ticket had to be printed before 12 noon and it’s 12:05, thus refusing to print a ticket for you and you have to come home empty handed?
I’m having one of those Mondays.