my staycation is RUINED!

I have just heard some very, very disappointing news. I wouldn't go so far as to say that it's 'false advertising' because I haven't actually seen any marketing from my local hospital but somehow, I feel ripped off. Turns out that they've changed the rules. You can't send your baby to the nursery, they must remain in your room. The whole time. Sigh... Gone are the days of relaxing until your baby is brought to you to nurse, only to be whisked away when you're done. And so, just like that, no more staycation! What a rip!

I found out about this bullshit new development at Spawn's Sing and Sign class. All the mother's lamented their time in the hospital because the nurses wouldn't let their babies sleep in bed with them. Most of the mothers opted for an early discharge because the hospital was so noisy and the nurses were always bugging them, trying to push stool softener and drugs on them. Obviously, I didn't contribute to the conversation.

I want all those things! I want the nurse to take my baby to sleep where a competent professional can watch over him/her and all those weird noises they make at first. And I like stool softener! Why the hell not?! And pain killers? Yes, please! And if the hospital wasn't so noisy, how would I have learned about Leslie, my roommate's daughter, who was going to have to start kindergarten without her mom to be there? How the hell, I ask you, with only the sight of Leslie's dad's shoes showing from under the curtain divider and the strained conversation that I had no choice but to overhear, would I have been able to gather that their relationship was a loveless lie?

I guess I'll have to get a t.v. this time. But why bother? Now, I'll have to entertain a newborn. Yippy dip. You better believe I'll be taking all the stool softener and drugs I can get my hands on. Thank you very much.

WILL BLOG FOR TOPICAL CREAM!

I googled myself today and I'm not ashamed to admit it. It was very fruitful. Googling yourself is a lot like masturbating: fun and eventful and yet somehow lonely and pathetic. But this google was super rewarding! Like if you haven't masturbated in a long time. Like, if you've been tricked into thinking Angels are watching your every move, or you've become paralyzed or you are lost in the woods and don't really feel like it. But I digress. 

I discovered that a link to my blog was included in a web ad. Check out the ad here! I'm wondering why, if the subject is no laughing matter, they don't send me a 7-day cure?? Now who's laughing.

I'm so tired of dictionary.com-ing 'hemorrhoids'.

 

I've stopped trying to get my Associate to marry me and have moved on to trying to persuade him to renew our vows. I saw this on The Real Housewives of Orange County and I'm sure it's mostly my raging hemorrhoids hormones but I found it touching. Only problem is that you have to get married to each other at least once in order to be 'renewing' your vows. I really like this idea. It's sooo new love language. You know, like 'partner' and 'associate' and so on? Let's review our contract and decide if we'd like to continue with this arrangement. Sign here, here, here. And here. Shake hands. You are officially still combining your pay cheques and mentally/emotionally tallying a list of each others' short comings.

Hmmm.... I better hit my life partner up for that breast lift/tummy tuck I promised he'd buy  me before he starts to question marriage one and/or two to me. At least in the meantime, I get to be really European in our life arrangement. Yesssss.... European. That's it.

The Plan

Every time I have a Braxton Hicks contraction I think: oh yeah, right. Having this baby is going to really hurt. This last one made me think that I should get my birth plan in order.

Just so you know, you bring your birth plan with you to the hospital so that the medical professionals can be on the same page as you and your husband or (sigh) partner. It's also handy to write a birth plan so you know how your labour and delivery are going to go: the exact opposite of whatever you wrote down.

I think it's probably a first pregnancy thing to do? After that you learn two things: 1. you'll  do whatever you have to do to get it out and 2. labour and delivery are a fucking cake walk compared to the months after you leave the hospital so, who cares? Labour and delivery have a beginning and most important, an end. Sleep deprivation is like a never-ending delivery only no one is popping their head into your room to offer you drugs. I don't know why the nurses can't send you home with a little something to help take the edge off? They don't even send you home with stool softener. Bitches. But I digress. Against my better judgement, I have decided to write a birth plan. At least I'll know that my Associate has something on which to jot down all the hilarious things I might say. Or maybe I'll go into some altered state and spew out some really profound stuff that needs to be published? I'll call it: God's Birth Plan For You. He'll need to record that. So, here's my birth plan:

1. survive it.

2. spew out profound shit to be published when my hospital staycation ends.

3. also deliver all weight that I've gained during pregnancy. Screw it, since I turned 26. 

4. time is money and the less time I spend delivering the baby the faster I can move on to the spa portion of the staycation. So, chop chop.

That's it. I'm sure everything will go according to plan.   

Do you hear ominous music?

I have three weeks left until I have to go to hell and back. But in order to make the transition easier, mother nature has seen fit to prepare me for the trauma by making life just about unbearable. Here is a list of things that are annoying, in no particular order.

• sleeping
• being awake
• rolling over while lying down
• walking
• sitting
• standing
• the process of getting up
• the process of sitting down
• putting on socks, boots, etc. 
• picking things up
• lifting up Spawn
• putting Spawn in her crib, now known as dropping her into her crib
• in short, being alive. Being alive is annoying.

Maybe it's premature but I have to admit that Baby B is winning the race for my love. Well, to be honest, there really aren't any winners or losers. Only because this will be a battle for my love that will (thanks to psychological warfare) continue long after my death.

I found out this week that the baby is no longer in a breech position. So, points for that. But minus those same points for being breech in the first place. That puts Spawn in the lead because she can tell me she loves me, and all Spawn:The Sequel can do is give me ragging heartburn and a fat ass. Then my friend told me that a doula said that sometimes a baby will be breech because he wants to be closer to his mom's heartbeat and voice. BIG time bonus points for this. Huge. This kid cannot get enough of me! It loves me to death! Literally! It's love for me almost killed me. Well, maybe I'm getting dramatic now. But maybe I'm not?! So, naturally, in a Stockholm Syndrome kind of way, I'm feeling a lot of love for this baby. And as everyone knows, parents can only love one kid simultaneously. Sorry, Spawn.

It's almost time for me to start breastfeeding again and so, it's also time for all the crap that goes with it. Like, last time, I left a restaurant to breastfeed in the car. I've gone in washroom stalls, left conversations, etc. Why can't I be more free? It's natural and all of that. I really don't mind when other mothers do it. Maybe this time I'll challenge myself? This time, I'm going balls tits out!

This time, I'm going to be the one that takes breastfeeding to a whole new level, making even the most comfortable, uncomfortable. They'll never admit it but they'll feel a little awkward as I pull out a boob, finish up the punch line of whatever extremely interesting and insightful story I'm telling, then breastfeed, then put the baby down, maybe throw my head back in laughter at the appropriate time and then put my shirt back on. Oh, yeah. Because this time, the shirt's coming right off. I'll be topless from the waist up! Deal with that, public! And I'm not just talking about in the comfort of my own home. Oh, no. I mean in restaurants, malls, church (if labour and delivery should be so traumatic that I turn to the Lord?), the library (should I chose to learn to read books), where ever the hell I am! In fact, I'm going to make people so damn uncomfortable with breastfeeding that slinking out of the room will become the new normal for breastfeeders. Then finally, I'll be free to be myself! Repressed, awkward and standoffish.

Viva La Revolucion!

I am so excited! In approximately a month I am going on vacation for three days! Three days at an all inclusive spot where they bring me my meals three times a day, run me a bath and bring me all the fresh towels I can use. All they ask in return is that I go through hours of excruciating pain and torture. No problem! Because I won't have to do dishes for three days. THREE.