One more thing…

So I haven’t posted jack-my-mamma-crap on this blog. I’m a terrible baby house. I was all excited about having a place to share my thoughts through this experience and what I have found is that this experience has left me with monosyllabic responses to most things… “Ms. Forty, how are you feeling?” “Uh, good?” “Ms. Forty, have you picked out a name?” “Uh, we call it baby.” “Ms. Forty, you look tired.” “Uh, fuck you.” “Ms. Forty, you fell asleep on the couch again, would you like to go to our bed?” “Uh, bats are in the tub and I have no checks.” (It’s best not to wake me up and expect anything logical to ensue). Still with the tired, made more tired by a month that would make an Olympic athlete tired, I look back and realize I’ve been all over the place (literally). Critter flew more this month than I did in my first three years.  He even went to Panama this month – which I will get to in a moment and I’m sure this post will never be reposted by the Panamanian Tourism Authority, not that I really care. Work has been overwhelming. Suddenly, for the first time in my life, I’m too exhausted most of the time to get excited about what I’m doing. Which is a shame, because on paper, my job has utterly kicked ass this month. I’ve traveled abroad, I’ve met interesting people, I’ve launched huge initiatives, I’ve taken naps under my desk… Everybody keeps telling me that I’ll get more energy now that I’m in my second trimester. I’m rocking week 16 and this avocado inside me is not producing any energy. I hate to say it, but I still would smack a bitch for a nap. Which makes me sound terribly redundant, which is probably why I’m not posting much. I mean for fuck’s sake, one can only read about tired pregnant lady for so long… So here are some things that have happened that have nothing to do with being tired: During my trip to Panama, the Mayor of our town came with us. He was pleased when I told him I was personally making more Democrats for our voter base. That was a nice moment. Several times I realized I was the only one who was aware what was going on at work this month and the fact that I was also making life officially made me a superhero. Panama is a country I never wish to visit again under any circumstances and maybe it’s because I was pregnant but seriously, I’m over that place. They do have a kick ass ceviche. I’m probably not supposed to eat ceviche, but you know what, I’m also probably not supposed to spend days dealing with uncooperative Panamanians who don’t do anything they say they’re going to do either. During dinner one night I realized my only status at the table was that I was pregnant. This was confusing and disheartening as I am used to contributing significant insight and observations in my industry. Now I have been reduced to, “When are you going to have another one?” That is a really horrible question on so many levels, I have no idea where to begin. But you entertain all sorts of horrible questions when you’re pregnant and you endure people (even people you like) touching you, so you know, you roll with it. Turns out, when you tell a table...

Buying clothes

Mr. Forty has covered much of the recent good news. He stays up later than me and posts things. Must be nice to be able to say up late. And post things. And have a penis. I digress. The ultrasound was all the cute you can hope for out of a baby shaped blob on a black and white monitor. It also gave me the confidence I needed to go shopping. I think I’ve been subconsciously a little resistant to buy clothes until I knew we were okay.  And the genetic tests came back (thanks Maternit 21) and we are having a healthy baby boy who (according the ultrasound) has really cute feet. Yay! Today Mr. Forty was a good sport and went to the pregnant lady store with me. Now let me explain how I shop… About once a year I call up my nice shopping lady at a department store that I like and I say, “Hi nice shopping lady, I need new clothes for work/play/clogging/etc.” Nice shopping lady sets up a time, I show up, she gives me a glass (or two) of wine, and I try on a room full of pre-selected clothes. I decide what I like, nice shopping lady gets them altered for me (as I am Hobbit sized), and I give her a lot of money. Over time I realize I actually spend less this way than I did with the more traditional buying method I had used previously. This usually involved going for margaritas with girlfriends and having them talk me into clothes that, upon more sober consideration, made me look like a cheap Russian whore. So now I usually get 6 or 8 “outfits” a year, and supplement with special occasion purchases. I have a weakness for silly shirts on the internet and I’m not above buying dresses on Mod Cloth. That’s shopping. That’s all I’ll do. Buying maternity clothes had me about as excited as the moment when I learned what meconium was. I hate shopping. Shopping for clothes that I’ll wear for 8 months (I’m figuring two months or so afterwards) tops – that just pisses me off. I have clothes from college that I still wear religiously. Maternity clothes are overpriced, they aren’t very well made, and they have very little “personality.” I dress kinda… quirky? Different? Not like everybody else. Maternity clothes have a terrible generic quality. And stripes? What the fuck is with all the stripes in maternity wear. Look, I have never worn stripes.  I wouldn’t have considered them before I looked like I slammed an entire keg of Natty Light and washed it down with a enchilada el grande. Why in sweet Virgin Mary’s good name would I throw stripes on my current shape? I don’t look awkward enough? Fuck you maternity designers. Fuck. You. I pondered going the consignment route, but again, I’m hobbit sized, and I don’t want to wait two weeks to get everything altered (to what size for that matter) and end up paying as much as I would for retail. I also have to stop wearing yoga pants to work, for real, I’m a professional woman, I run a very successful team, I need to not look like a slightly disheveled college student. My intern is out dressing me. I need clothes NOW. All this taken into consideration, the Mr. showed amazing support and went to the UNIVERSE OF MOTHERHOOD or whatever it’s called at the mall. He sat quietly...

Where has Ms. Forty been?

Probably sleeping. Yeah, I’m sad to say I’m still tired.  Fortunately, it’s a different kind of tired. This is more of a, “Gosh, it might be nice to take a nap” tired, rather than a “OH SWEET CABBAGE FARTS I NEED TO LIE DOWN OR I’M GONNA FIND THE CRY I HAD WHEN I WAS 4 AND DIDN’T GET A PONY FOR CHRISTMAS!” tired. I’m now good to do at least ONE thing a day.  For instance this past holiday weekend I was able to do Zoo. Then I was able to do Small Business Saturday. Today I was able to do Dog Park.  These things are then followed by some focused couch time. As Mr. indicated, we let all the close friends know at Thanksgiving. I’ve then gone around to all the close friends who were with their family. I think I’ve got all the ones who would really lose their shit if they find out via Facebook (which will be our primary method of public announcement, because Critter was conceived and will be born “in a certain time”). I told work about a week ago – which went very well. I had to tell them, none of my clothes fit. I had hoped to go shopping this weekend, but it was Thanksgiving, and it all seemed so awful and unpleasant, I just could do it.  The idea of trampling other pregnant women for the Door Buster 2 for 1 stretch sweater BOGO deal just seemed a little much in my delicate state. And by delicate state I mean, I need to not be around other pregnant women. They make me… competitive. I don’t know how else to explain it, but when I see another pregnant woman, and she’s more pregnant than me (which let’s face it, right now is pretty much everybody), I get really mad that she’s beating me. Yep, I made pregnancy competitive.  Not in a “I do 150 kegels a day” or “I go to prenatal yoga three days a week and only eat organic,” nah, I’m competitive in a “YOU CALL THAT A BELLY?”  I need help. This can’t be normal. If you are a woman and you have experienced CBS (Competitive Belly Syndrome) you’re not alone. Please share your story here. I won’t judge. I promise.  In fact, I’ll send you guava bread pudding and when we meet, I’ll hug you. Unless you’re more pregnant than me, in which case, run bitch....

Hold On and Let Go

When I was growing up, I frequently heard my mother says, “I forgave __________ during my first pregnancy,” “ I got over _____________ during my second pregnancy.” The people in question were often those that had done her wrong in the past (Edie Morrison for stealing Mom’s boyfriend, Bruce Rodgers, her senior year of high school, etc.). Over the years, I have assumed that pregnancy must be a time of great perspective and reflection. I saw gestation as a time when the enormity of the biology at hand causes other things to be trivial and meaningless. Thus, I have been going through this First Trimester and seeing if there are things I need to “forgive” or “let go.”  I would think that I would have a few more things to “release” compared to my mother. After all, she was married at 23, had me at 27 and followed up with my brother when she was 32. When I was 23, I was a bartender at Hooters in Santa Monica. When I was 27, I was newly married and performing nightly at The Second City. When I was 32, I was divorced, living in Tampa, going through a health crisis, and dating an actor. So you know, there should be all sorts of baggage in that time.  Lots of stuff I need to let go, and move on from, and realize that my life is taking on greater importance. Yet there really isn’t.  There were a lot of things that I held on to for a very long time. Not making it as an actor in LA was tough, but I got over it. The crappy way my ex-husband decided to turn-tail and haul-ass was the topic of a couple of years of therapy, but I now regard him with the same distain as stepping in dog shit – a disgusting inconvenience that was ultimately scraped off all at once leaving some annoying bits in the tread. I don’t really have anything I need to get rid of or let go of or any of that stuff. In fact, if I had to take a serious look at my life and try to pinpoint when I unloaded a lot of excess baggage, it was probably right before I started dating Mr. Forty. Huh. My therapist would be so proud. Perhaps in my state of “I’m really good with myself and my relationships and my past,” I got a little overzealous with goodwill towards others. Case in point – One of my exes. With the exception of the poo on my shoe that some might call my previous marriage, I have a pretty good relationship with guys I’ve dated.  The relationship before Mr. Forty didn’t end well, but some people have to have a scorched earth policy to keep their street cred of being tortured and miserable – so I respect that and keep my distance. Most of my other exes are absolute peaches and I’d set them up with anybody. In fact, one of my exes was one of the first to know about Critter.  I’m dying to tell another, because I know he’ll be thrilled (and make an excellent uncle – which was always the extent of his parenting aspirations).  And then there’s my Beautiful Disaster. The Beautiful Disaster and I had a few really good years together – really good.  We even attempting living together, which lasted exactly the course of the lease.  I adore this man. He...

Come on… really?

I stayed home from work. Again. This is only the second time so I’m very careful to not complain too much. I know of women who spent most of the first trimester laying on the bathroom floor. I just feel like I have a low-grade flu. I’m tired, I’m achy, I only eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and I want to cry. All. The. Time. Everything makes me cry. I cried over cottage cheese in the dairy aisle today. I don’t know why. I felt that somehow cottage cheese had been given an unfair shake in this world. I got a mani/pedi – just to get out of the house – and the ladies seemed so nice the way they were cutting my cuticles that it made me cry. I mean they don’t have to paint my toenails, but they do… god that’s fucking nice. And sad.  And nice. I got Mr. Forty a cranberry limeade from Sonic (because he likes the ice) and his love of ice… made me cry. I’m opting not to pet any of the animals so that I don’t cry. As if on cue, one of the animals just walked by the couch and farted. I’m crying again, but it’s for a slightly different reason....