Keeping the faith

Were the onus placed solely upon me, The Package would be raised purely under the "Ethic of Reciprocity" or "Golden Rule" aka: do unto others as you would have done unto you. He would be taught to have mutual respect for his neighbors and to educate himself on all aspects of faith, leaving him with the ability to make an educated decision in the future, if he so felt necessary.

Lucky (?) for him, "Dad" disagrees and has mandated that Payton will be baptized.. no ifs, ands or buts about it. That's fine too since I myself was baptized, first communion-ed and confirmed as a child - though a whole lot of nothing it's done for me. I still do not believe in any real "higher-being" but respect the beliefs of others and do not feel the need to share my blasphemy with those in my acquaintance. So with this whole religion decision edging in on us in the near future, I shrug my shoulders, say ok and figure the kid will probably choose his own path later in life regardless of whether or not we drip some cold water over his head at a young age or not.
Once he isn't wearing a dress while it's happening, I won't put up a fight.

Of course, coming from an ubber religious household myself, the natural thought would be that Payton would be Catholic, as we are. But there's a spoke in this wheel you see since "Dad" (who will be 100% responsible for any religious upbringing occuring in our home) is Romanian Orthodox. A mere technicality if you ask me since the two faiths seem to be quite similar save for the fact that one prays to the Holy Spirit whilst the other disregards the divine spook.
Otherwise, Catholics seem to whole-heartedly accept the Orthodox folk into their communion, and consider them the closest "next-best" thing to their own religion. (Feel free to correct me if anything here is wrong... I am basing this solely on some scant Googling done a few years back).

Personally, I could care less what (or if) Payton is baptized, but my parents will obviously have their own agenda here and I suspect many questions will be raised if he is taken to a church outside what they consider to be "right". So for the sake of peace amongst men, "Dad" and I had decided that we would baptize him in the Catholic church. Until that is, a few things dawned on me and I realized that this would be the most hypocritical thing I could expose my newborn, uncorrupted baby to at such an early age.

You see, I myself have not been to church in YEARS. I don't even pretend to acknowledge the big holidays such as Christmas or Easter, in a religious fashion at least... bring on the colorful pressies and eggs! I am divorced and am not seeking anulment, and were "Dad" and I ever to get married, I would refuse to allow it to happen in a church as did my last marriage, against my wishes. It seems when it comes to weddings and babies, everyone has an opinion... so here's mine...

Payton will be baptized Romanian Orthodox.

This I feel is the right thing to do because again, if anyone's taking him to church or teaching him about the Father, Son and Holy... wait... there's no Holy Spirit in the Orthodox church - nix that. Anyways, "Dad's" got this responsibility, not I. So why would I make him Catholic? I can't teach him anything, and I certainly won't be trekking around come age 7 and then age 14 carting him to First Communion or Confirmation classes, that's for damn skippy. So that's the bonus to me with the Romanian Orthodox faith. They confirm their babies minutes after baptism! Isn't that a beautiful thing? Less work for me and wham bam, thank you God and it's over! Now let's start living.

AMEN!

Impulsive motherhood

Every other Tuesday I am scheduled to visit my Diabetes Clinic followed immediately by a trip to my OB. Sometimes, if the mood is right, I also get sent to the maternity ward of the hospital that my Clinic is in for them to do a sono or some other sort of testing or another. The Clinic is actually very prompt and rarely leaves me waiting longer than 10 minutes or so before calling me in. My OB on the other hand has a nasty habit of making me wait at least an hour and a half before seeing me for what is never more than 10 minutes.

Naturally, this is the most infuriating part of these second-Tuesdays and to be honest, my patience has been running thin with her complete disregard for my (or anyone else's) time. Well, that and the fact that all she does is repeats what was already done 1/2 hour ago at the Clinic...... weight, blood pressure, heartbeat, how-do-you-do, etc.
Regardless, let's blame my impatience on hormones shall we?

So yesterday after trekking over to the Clinic, doing all my tests (and getting superb results on my diabetes management by the way, thank you very much), I dutifully picked my way through the rain and over to my OB. (Please let's not forget that this is NYC so by "picking," I actually mean "walking"... in the "rain"... in "pissed-off pedestrian traffic").

I sat in my OB's office, reading the provided materials... Reader's Digest, WebMD Magazine, Family Circle... you know, the standard waiting room garbage, and waited diligently for my turn, noticing there were about 10 people ahead of me. The time was 2:30pm, my appointment was at 2:45pm.

I sat, and sat, and mentally snoozed from time to time, checking my blackberry and putzing around on Facebook on my phone until about 4:30pm when I just couldn't take it anymore and marched up to the receptionists desk, handed her a piece of paper with my weight, blood pressure and heartbeat results per the Clinic, and stormed out trying to once more daintily "pick" my way home in what was rapidly becoming NYC rush hour in the rain.

MAN was I furious!
Luckily (for her), my Doctor called me a few hours later to apologize and express her understanding about how annoyed I must've been to have to sit and wait merely to repeat the same tests. She let me know that she would call the Clinic and have them fax over my results just to confirm everything for her records.

So I've called off my hit on her.
Lucky bastard.

But all of this got me to thinking....
I'm a pretty impulsive person... I march to the beat of my own drum... I will not be contained..... etc, etc....

"Dad" is EXACTLY the same, if not WORSE than I am. We are cut from identical molds.... two peas in a pod... he holds no prisoners... takes no excuses... and every other non-conformist analogy you can muster up.

Which leads me to very, VERY concerned about what a combo-deal of the two of us could possibly produce! I can only imagine that this little guy who's quietly cooking away in my uterus is going to be a TERROR times two. It's the only logical possibility really.

What the hell have I done!

Counting down

So if The Package arrives on schedule - which I sincerely hope he does not but that he arrives early instead - here is the latest countdown we're looking at, effective immediately...

Time until Monday, June 30, 2008
40 days
983 hours
58983 minutes
3,538,983 seconds

Alternative version
It is 40 days, 23 hours, 3 minutes and 3 seconds until Monday, June 30, 2008 (UTC time)

Holy crapholio!

Playing favorites

So I realize that it was just yesterday that I swore off discussing my psychotic mother on this blog anymore, but I need to make mention of this event for a few reasons...

1. This must be documented for future proof.
2. I am just flabbergasted by her obvious preference of child and need to remind myself not to become this person as my family grows.

Back in April, after deciding that I would make the attempt to smoothen things over with my parents and their obvious disdain at my having a child out of wedlock, I purchased a ticket to take our new born home (my parents live in Trinidad) for them to meet him and spend some quality time with us in those early days.

"Dad" has not been thrilled with this plan since he is still churning at their calling our unborn baby "The Bastard," but I figured they're old fashioned and once they meet the little "Bastard" they'd learn to love and accept him as they have all of their grand children.

And then my brother owned up about his drug problem - which I had been telling them about for years but which they had been turning a blind eye to and just giving him more and more money whenever "hard times" hit. In fact, a few months ago they actually had the nerve to tell me that he had convinced them that he was clean and they believed him and so I should stop spreading rumors in the family about him having drug problems. Needless to say no one has since mentioned that I was right... nor do I really want them to. I am happy that shit-head is seeking help but deep down think he's full of it and just using my parents as a way to get out of situation. I predict a relapse within 1 year.

Anyways, so my brother has moved back to Trinidad after his "mommy" flew up to the States to help him pack (!) and is now living with my parents and has convinced them that he does not need to be in an in-patient program. Instead he starts some 3rd world country 6 week program tomorrow whereby he goes in every morning and goes home at night.
Whatevs... it's bullshit, I know it.

The thing is that my brother and I have not spoken since December because (the short version), he chose drugs and his crack head friends over me and his family. And I told him about it. He has not apologized for his behavior that night, or the next time we met to try to truce, and at this point I could give two shits about him really.

So the other day I told my mother that she needs to let me know if he will be there in August when I am planning on coming home with my baby because I refuse to put myself or my newborn in an environment that could potentially be explosive. Additionally, I will not give my brother the luxury of touching, seeing or having any interaction with my child without his admitting he was wrong and apologizing to me for the way he spoke to me. (He called me a manipulative, back-stabbing bitch... or something along those lines). My mother told me that she would monitor the situation and get back to me about where he would be come August but that he would likely not be there. This was 1 week ago.

So imagine my surprise.... shock..... sadness (?), when I got a call from her today announcing that I should probably just cancel my trip because he would most likely still be there and she needs to take care of him.

Pause to digest that again.

This from a woman who travels rarely, and won't come near the North East United States if the temperature falls below 60 degrees. So basically what she has just told me is that I should go ahead and have this baby, and maybe sometime next year she'll meet him because we both know that if I don't go home in August she will not meet him until next summer... IF she flies up to visit.

I am floored!
I understand that her "handsome child" needs help but instead of having him work out his issues with me with his shrink, and forcing him to admit he was wrong and apologize, she would rather block me from bringing her grandson home to meet her for fear of what I might have to say to the shit head.

I am speechless, and I dare not tell "Dad" for fear that he will tell me that he is done with this bullshit with my family and demand I sever ties.

So basically it's just a shitty, shitty situation. I have until August 4th to cancel my flight so I am not reacting yet. Odds are shit head will relapse and they will be forced to put him in an inpatient facility by then. But at this point, do I really even WANT to go home? I mean, clearly the woman doesn't care much about this baby so perhaps I should deny her the luxury of cuddling and cooing at a newborn as well? Maybe that ticket would be better spent taking my "true family" of "Dad, Payton and I" somewhere at another time.

Sounds like a more pleasing option doesn't it?
So then why am I still so damn sad about today's phone call?

A Horse is a Horse of course, of course.

Unless that horse is a Charlie horse… of which I have started having nightly.

At 34 weeks I have started feeling the effects of my growing belly including crippling back pains, swollen ankles, intense cramps in my calves at night, and all round physical and mental exhaustion. Of course, this is all happening as our renovations start winding down and we begin ramping up for the big, final move. Since our home rehab project has been quite pricey ($40K+), we have decided to do the move ourselves (with workmen of course), which means that while “Dad” is at the house daily compounding, painting and laying floors, I’m either at work (during the week) or here at home on the weekends, trying to slowly pack us up, taking into consideration that I don’t move quite as gracefully or easily as I used to.

Needless to say I’m pooped!

I wonder sometimes if it dawns on my mother at all that she has not even offered to come here to help me? Yes, I “get” that she has her hands full with my druggie brother who has finally confessed and gone home to “clean-up”, but still, it really makes me wonder about her reasons for choosing him and his 15+ year drug habit over me, her physically fragile daughter and high-risk grandson. In fact, every time I call her all she talks about is the shit head addict and many times even forgets to ask how I’m doing or how the baby is doing. I’m trying not to let her lack of interest get to my head but sometimes it’s hard not to wonder…. maybe I was adopted?

Anyways, I refuse to allow this post to be a bitch fest about my mother since really I could devote a whole ‘nother blog to that topic and it’s just not worth it.

Back to pregnancy….

The muscle cramps in my legs are a fairly new development and of course only occur in the wee hours of the morning when I find myself rudely awoken by the throbbing pain of Charlie horses, leaving me grappling around my big belly trying to get at my legs for a massage whilst trying to breathe.. “hee, hee, hoo”, when instead all that comes out is “ow, ow, ow” and some other choice words. The dull pain never goes away and I am left with a constant reminder during the day of the fact that when I am not being woken up to pee, there’s another annoying visitor lurking in the lurches just waiting for me to settle in to a nice REM.

The funny thing is that up until all of this started I was truly contemplating a non-medicated delivery – the thought of an epidural just creeps me out. But on seeing how “well” I’ve been handling the pain of a Charlie horse I’ve really started to think about how on earth I intend to handle contractions and then birth without drugs?

I think I’m going to have to seriously reconsider Plan A!

We're moms, and we love to shop, but really?

Wow - two posts, one day... I must be home in bed!

While surfing the net today searching for an attractive pack 'n' play - and no, they don't exist - I came across some pretty hilarious products that I thought some of you might get a kick out of hearing more about.

Take a look at what some silly moms-to-be actually think could be worthwhile buys. And if per chance, you happen to be one of those moms, I apologize for judging you, but would really love to hear more about the logic behind your purchase.

Zaky Infant Pillow
This image just bothers me in so many different ways.
Can you say budding dependency issues?














The Baby Keeper
I believe in some cultures this might be considered child abuse.
Isn't it funny how happy this baby seems not even knowing he's been strung up by his mom!




















Why Cry Baby Crying Analyzer
Unless this little gadget will also tell me how to stop a baby from crying, I really don't see the point.
















But the best product of them all goes to..........drum roll please....

The PeePee TeePee
For the sprinkling weewee.
I have visions of the fabric cone going flying off with the stream of pee.
Personally, I like the sage pattern with the green pom-pom on top... but feel free to visit bebabean.com to select your own glitzy wee-wee cone.
Oh, and it works for girls too.

Rain, rain go away

So I'm not sleeping well these days - partly because of baby, mostly because of my rampant imagination and combined stresses of life. I find myself tossing and turning in the wee hours of the morning (say 2am thru 6am), contemplating random issues such as becoming a mother, owning a home, finishing renovating said home, work, finance, family bullshit - aka: drug addict brother, and so much more. I'm driving myself crazy, and I'm certain "Dad's" feeling it too.

So this morning, on about 3 hours of sleep I headed out in cold, windy, rainy, all together nasty NYC weather, around 7am, ready for work. After standing on the platform of my above-ground train system for about 1 hour (freezing), I decided to go to Plan B and hail a cab. No luck though since it seems half of the city had the same idea and had already occupied the 12,799 yellow cabs and 10,400 "black cars" all in their own feeble attempts to get to work. So I called my local cab company to send me a local car, but alas, they too were fresh out.
A cab company with no cabs - a novel concept!

I then trekked back up onto the train platform where I stood for another 1/2 hour watching jam-packed train after jam-packed train whiz by me while one or two people squeezed their way in - a feat I clearly am not up to these days.

This whole sad scene ended around 9:45am when I frantically called into my assistant, in a fit of pregnant-hormone/it's freezing out here tears, to let her know that I was going back home and would be working from bed. I had had it.

The poor dear. She tried her best to calm me down but I was uncontrollable. My coat doesn't close, I was drenched from my shoes to my knees and that's not even getting into the fact that I hadn't slept and was on the edge of complete and utter breakdown. Wait... I think the breakdown happened.. maybe, I'm not sure, it's all a big blur now.

So I'm home today, in bed, still cold but at least not soaked to the core like I was earlier this morning. Today is a nasty day to be pregnant and commuting so I'm grateful that though my job drives me bananas, I do have the freedom to make an the decision on days such as today to just keep my ass in bed. Had I listened to "Dad" I wouldn't even have ventured out - one day I'll learn, maybe.

Don't get up on my account!

True story…..
Yesterday while commuting home on a jam packed it’s-Friday-and-it’s-raining-heavily subway, I found myself standing, luckily leaning against a door with a man in crutches directly in front of me, and a feeble older gentleman to my right, practically using me as a support to keep from tipping over.

Yes, me!
The 8+ month, obviously pregnant woman.

Naturally, as I have bitched about this phenomenon before, the rows of seats to my left and to my right were as usual predominantly taken up by younger to middle-aged men, conveniently ignoring our little threesome by grooving to their iPods or hiding badly behind newspapers or novels with supposedly sleepy eyelids.

And I stood there mesmerized at the absurdity of this scene whilst trying to protect my little one from being squished by the older guy who kept falling onto us as the train swooshed and swerved on it’s 8 stop ride to my house.

And then, to my shock and awe, the man sitting to the left of me looks up at me and asks, “So, how far along are you?” The nerve of this punk! I look away from him rudely whilst thinking to myself, “I'm sure as shit far enough along that you should get up asshole,” but remember that I have a baby to protect and instead bite my tongue and look away, ignoring him in an equally rude fashion.

So tell me NYC men, does my water have to break before someone will offer me a seat on the train?

What about the poor dude on crutches, obviously grimacing in pain from what I can only imagine must have been a fresh injury by his facial expressions as the pressure as it shifted from side to side on his leg.

And grandpa?
What about him?
Does everyone really not give a fuck anymore?

Coz if that’s the case it’s fine, I’d just like to be told so I can stop being disappointed by your complete and utter lack of concern for your fellow commuter.

"Dad" and his uncanny resemblance to the Missing Link

A few of you have asked about how the renovations at our new home are going.
So far we're about $25K in and the house is still very much a shell of what it needs to be in order for us to move in. (A scary thought considering that this baby is due in 52 days). "Dad" says we won't be done in time which worries me but I've really found a recent peace with the situation and realize that other children have come into this world under far worse conditions, so we'll grin and bear it.

In good news, we now have 2 sky-lights, all new HVAC systems, new electrical throughout, new plumbing systems, closet frames and wall framing. In not so comforting news, we have not yet installed the floors, walls, appliances, cabinetry, or really anything that would make a home resemble a home in any way whatsoever. It's still very much a shell though "Dad" says that now that the foundational work has been done they'll start adding the "prettiness" which should ease my weary soul some.

Speaking of "Dad"...
Have I mentioned that I am living with a Neanderthal these days?

Yup. "Dad" has decided that until the renovations are complete he will not be shaving or cutting his hair. It's been almost 3 weeks so far and I can barely see his face anymore. In fact, the other morning I woke up and was momentarily startled when I realized that a hairy Geico-caveman looking type was sharing my pillow!

What is it with men?!

Otherwise I'm doing well. Baby is kicking hard and stretching out often. The diabetes is coming along as well and though I'm not yet on any meds I suspect I will be by my next appointment since my overnight fasting numbers are still way out of whack.

I'm getting really excited though oddly the actual thought of labor and birth have not yet sunk in and I really have no clue what I'm in for. Unlike many other women I tend to shy away from reading too much about this particular part since I figure it's gonna happen regardless and odds are it won't go as planned, so I'll just bide my time and see where it takes me. I'm hoping for natural birth but no one in my family has ever been successful and both my mother and sister ended having all c-sections.

We'll see how I do.
Stay tuned!

Why I am annoyed - a moment of diabetically induced rage

I am so frustrated with gestational diabetes that I am finding myself sitting here this morning, stumbling on tears because I cannot eat my favorite breakfast cereal and it's all I want in the world right now.

"Just please let me have some Frosted Flakes. Please!"

I have never been one for rules. In fact, I was the kid that got kicked out of schools because I refused to accept that I had to listen to anyone other than my parents. In other words, discipline has never come naturally to me. Self-discipline, or discipline enforced by others. It's not really in my DNA.

Hence, why this "diet" is a challenge for me.
My natural make-up tells me to rebel and fight for my cupcake, but my maternal instinct tells me I must follow the rules, leading me into a terrible power struggle between my natural psyche and my "grown-up" intelligence.

In addition to this, I have never once been on a diet in my life.
Ever.
I have never cared about carbs or calories or fats or fucking proteins, or whatever.
Until a few weeks ago, the food pyramid was something I knew existed but never really understood why. I can't say this has changed much other than I realize there's a purpose for it now.. though even that's still foggy. I still refer daily to my diabetes book to figure out what's a fat and what's a protein. Imagine my shock when I learn bread was a starch! That's how little this has affected my life pre-diabetes.

Portions have always been non-existent in my life.
I don't measure or weigh my food.
I don't look for certain amounts of green versus white in my plate.
That's just not how I live.
My natural being asks for what it wants and rations my intake naturally. I eat healthy amounts without being told to. I eat healthy food, but on my terms.

I am a foodie.
I love fabulous restaurants of all ethnic varieties and flavors. I hate chicken and vegetables. "Bland" sits outside of my dictionary.

And with all of this, I've still always maintained a healthy weight around 125 lbs, at 5'10. I'm blessed. I realize this.

So suffice it to say, this diabetes-diet is KICKING-MY-ASS.

Every meal is an anticipation of boredom - and I'm supposed to be eating 6-7 times per day. Additionally, living in NYC "Dad" and I have become quite accustomed to the menagerie of easy-to-order-delivery around our 'hood. The Thai, the Indian, the Sushi, the Turkish... you name the nationality, it's here on my block and oh so convenient when we get home from work. But now I'm left dragging my weary ass home in the evenings, to then stop to pick up food at the store and THEN start cooking. This may not be so hard for you guys that live elsewhere and aren't commuting by foot, but trust me, after a 10-11 hour New York City day and subway/walking commute, the last thing I want to do is have to think about healthy living or stand over some hot stove.

I suppose in a way this is preparing me for the sacrifice of motherhood and so I try not to whine too much about it, but since this blog is my platform for open bitching, I figure I'd lay all out here.....

I hate diabetes.
I hate rules.
I hate regulations.
And I fucking hate steamed vegetables.

Peace.