I have reached that stage in pregnancy where I have begun to resemble the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man. No, I am not 80 feet tall and lumbering through New York City trying to eat the Ghostbusters (although I think Bill Murray would be a bit salty), no I am talking about being so puffy, that my shoes no longer fit, my face looks like I was stung by ten thousand bees, and my hands are so swollen that I can't wear my rings anymore.
It's great! I love it! Can you sense the sarcasm? So now, not only I do have the stupidest haircut in the world, I now can't fit into my clothes, wear my rings, and lumber about looking like something out of Lord of the Rings. They had to create a whole new character called "The Fatness", and what it does is waddle about Middle Earth eating everything in sight, sitting down every ten minutes, and peeing every five. Yes, The Fatness is incredibly frightening, especially if you catch it without its clothes on.
Seriously, I feel like my body is no longer my own and I'm sort of "inhabiting" this big fleshy mass of boobs, butt, arms and legs. I feel like that woman who was on a mission of reaching her "goal" weight of 1000 pounds.
I think I may go audition for the role of "Thunder" in the remake of Big Trouble in Little China. I can swell myself up like that WITHOUT the use of special effects.
I have begun to Nest. But, of course, true to form, I'm not nesting the way everyone else nests. As Frank Sinatra once said, "I did it my way", and that holds true to almost everything I do. In this case, I think I have invented an whole new way to Nest: The Italian Way.
For those of you who don't know what the term "nesting" means, it tends to refer to a time when pregnant women begin puttering about the house arranging their "nest" for the new arrival. Whether it be folding, rearranging, refolding, re-rearranging, and folding once again the baby clothes, going on a cleaning binge (ha, that would never be me), rearranging the baby's room, and everything else involved with creating a "nest", that is what "nesting" means. Pretty obvious when you think about it.
I actually underwent the traditional Nesting process when I was pregnant with Dante and blogged about it, but this time around, my Nesting techniques have completely changed. Instead of puttering about the house folding, ironing, and rearranging, I have taken to the kitchen and begun cooking gourmet meals every night.
See, it all started the other day when I rearranged (nesting!) my recipe box. I went through all of my recipes, from Pastas and Sauces all the way to Baked Goods and Sweets and reviewed, removed, and refiled everything. I even added new recipes to the box and created new little category dividers. Thanks to Martha Stewart and her little Everyday Food magazine, I have tons of quick, easy, and delicious recipes to choose from that don't require having strange ingredients in my pantry.
So, for the past week or so, Dante and I (poor Randy is at school, but he gets the leftovers for lunch the next day) have been come quite the epicurians. Last night I made Chicken Breasts in a White Wine Herbed Butter reduction and a spinach cheddar souffle. The night before, Balsamic Glazed Pork Tenderloins, a Baked Potato Gratin, and roasted vegetables. The list goes on and on. Who knows what I am going to make tonight?
Don't get me wrong, I cook almost every night, and I'm quite handy in the kitchen, but I usually wing it or make up my own dishes and just be happy with that. But in this last phase of pregnancy, my nesting has shown itself to be cooking. Now sadly, I did not inherit my grandmother's affinity for baking, although certain friends whom I've made pies and cakes for may disagree, but my sweet tooth is virtually non-existent so I have no desire to venture into the Baked Goods and Sweets part of my recipe box, unless I'm looking for a fabulous Rosemary Encrusted Pizza Dough or my mother's famous recipe for Funnel Cakes (also known as Orgasm on a Plate).
No, my cravings and food loves are strictly made up of cream sauces, marsala reductions, parmesan encrusted this, panko coated that, seared this, and sauteed that, and potatoes, potatoes, potatoes. At my next OB appointment, I have to take a glucose test which requires that I eat no sweets at least 12 hours before. For some people, pregnant or not, that would be tough. For me? As long as Fettucine Alfredo with Shrimp and Calamari is not considered a "sweet", I'll be just fine.
So I've become the stereotypical "Italian" mother in the kitchen. Complete with saggy boobs, a wooden spoon, and a constant garlic smell that sticks to me. I even have a mole on my face that sprouts hair and a slight mustache! I just need the apron and I'm all set!
Because my son is less interested in "kiddie shows" and likes to watch more "teen-agery" type stuff, the programs he watches (Mystery Hunters, Truth or Scare, Tutenstein, and Time Warp Trio) are all on a channel which breaks for commercials.
Bad idea Discovery Kids Network. Baaaad idea.
Now, every commercial that comes on, be it Nerf Super Punch in the Face Laser Gun to Skechers Overprices Shoes That Light Up and Fall Apart in a Week, Dante has to say to me, "Mommy, I want that!!!". Seriously, there was a commercial for Credit Solutions and Tax Breaks, and I hear him screaming from the room, "Mommy, I want a tax break!!!" Don't we all kiddo, Don't we all.
My solution to this "problem" has been to say, "Ok well you will have to ask Santa Claus" in hopes that by Xmas he will have completely forgotten about Transformers Bug Robots That Even Daddy Can't Put Together or Paperoni The Pointless Craft Invented by an Idiot.
But I am worried that this will backfire on me at some point as Xmas approaches because a whole new batch of commercials will pop up that WON'T leave his brain and I may have to fulfill some of these promises.
So far, though, the only consistent toy he keeps asking about is a "double side light saver" (translation: double edged light saber). Ahhhh, I can already see that The Force is strong in this one.
If you know me personally, or have been reading my blog, you know that I am that annoying pregnant woman who is constantly espousing the joys of pregnancy and how everything is wonderful and great when you're pregnant, even when you're barfing your brains out or feeling like Jabba the Hutt's cousin, or pulling groin muscles looking at an ant. Yes, that's me the "I Love Being Pregnant" girl who you want to punch in the face on a daily basis.
Well, I have news for you.
In the famous words of Emily Litella (ancient Saturday Night Live reference, that only a handful od people may get):
Yes, I said it. Or rather Gilda Radner said it for me above. "Nevermind".
Nevermind being all happy happy joy joy with this pregnancy right now because frankly, it's making me a nervous wreck. When I was pregnant with Dante, I had no clue what I was supposed to be doing, feeling, thinking, etc. and I had the luxury of being able to lie down, take a nap, rest, take it easy whenever I wanted. I had no idea what to expect other than the beauty of being big and fat and having a good reason to be.
This time around it's different. I am constantly aware of how much weight I am gaining, constantly trying to keep my cravings in check, constantly chasing after a 3.5 year old who, despite me thinking he has, is not really adjusting well to the idea of a "new baby". Between peeing his pants, to tantrums, to screaming, to turning into Godzilla from one second to the next, my praise for my so well adjusted kid may have been premature. On top of all of this, I have an absent husband (not because he's horrible but because he works and goes to school) who is gone from six in the morning until midnight Monday through Thursday, so my house looks like a shithole because I have been lax in my "housecleaning" duties because, well, I AM EXHAUSTED and honestly, because the LAST thing I want to be doing at almost-six-months pregnant is mopping the floors, dusting, and cleaning bathtubs.
The worst part of this pregnancy is me, though. I am seriously a nervous wreck. I was in the hospital last Saturday because I tore a groin muscle picking up my fast asleep 40 pound child (who feel asleep on top of my ass...seriously, I'm that soft). When I couldn't walk and was in pain, did I think I pulled a muscle? Did the first thought that entered my brain involve a strain or a muscle? No. You know what I, the genius, was thinking? I'm having a miscarriage! I swear, reason and logic go RIGHT OUT the window when you're pregnant.....and me.
But it gets better. What does my paranoid, overly nervous, worried, stressed, not-at-all relaxing ass do last night? I stuff my face with chocolate, sugar, Orange Juice, 3 glasses of cold water and lie on my left side for 3 hours because I haven't felt Mr. Bean move all day. Does the thought that he is sleeping cross my mind? Does the notion that he is extremely small still and I may not feel every movement come into play? Does the idea that I'm just overreacting grace the skies?
No. No. and No. I call my mom and go to the Emergency Room at 10 o'clock at night all the while thinking I have a dead baby inside me.
I swear. Where did this tough-I-can-handle-everything girl go? Where is she because she sure isn't here. Maybe she's somewhere hidden underneath these pregnant layers. I have no clue and no amount of "relax" or "stop stressing" seems to be helping.
Don't get me wrong, I still really love being pregnant, but I hope that someday in the future an invention will come along that will allow expectant (neurotic) mothers to have a little window into their uterus so they can check in everyday and make sure everything is going smoothly. It's all about control issues and in this case, I have no control, and I pretty much think that sucks.
On a side note: Mr. Bean began kicking and moving last night at the hospital the instant a monitor was put on him. I think I may have hear a "nyah nyah nyah you can't catch me" at some point. He has also proceeded to kick me throughout the evening and is presently kicking me so hard that I almost peed on my chair here.
Now can someone please punch me in the face and bring me back to my senses?
