One of our banal conversations.
Husband: Babe, what do you feel like having for dinner?
Me: I dunno. Anything is fine, I guess.
Husband: Are you starving or not really hungry?
Me: What’s the word to describe when you’re not hungry but just want to munch on something small?
Husband: Moderately hungry? I don’t think there’s a word for that.
Me: Peckish. You know, like a chicken. It’s a nice word, peckish.
Husband: Yeah, sure.
The toughest part about being a stay home mom has gotta be the death of adult conversation (No, not THAT kind of adult conversation). Me, I’m a conversation junkie, so its like taking away heroin from an addict or candy from a kid.
I used to play this game when I was a kid where everyone keeps quiet and the first person to speak loses. I majorly sucked at it. I was always the kid that had to say something first. Or else I would go into withdrawal and start twitching uncontrollably. Anyway, awkward silences make me nervous.
Now, there’s just complete silence at home, except for my son’s occasional shrieks (mostly in the key of E minor), which I have successfully tuned out as ambient noise. There isn’t any office gossip, juicy updates or intelligent conversation to go around (Tru, mama thinks you’re a genius, but I just need some time to decode the shrieks), and my brain feels like its gone into permanent hibernation.
When it gets really bad, I sometimes go on a 2-hour soliloquy. I also talk to the ants (before I crush them), birds (mostly curses), and other animals unfortunate enough to venture into my house. But the satisfaction is just not the same. There’s also a nasty side effect. I get so used to talking to inanimate objects that I forget I’m doing it outside sometimes, which makes me look like a total fruitcake.
And so I write. But it’s still a monologue, with the occasional response from you nice people. It’s kind of depressing, really. Now I know why people go for those extortionate chat lines that charge you $50 an hour. The only thing that stopped me was the long and unpleasant conversation I would have with the husband after he finds out.
So do me a favor. Send a little conversation my way so I don’t go down the slippery slope of schizophrenia.
If there’s one thing Tru hates, it’s being confined. He probably imagines he’s a free spirit, going where the wind takes him. I bet he’d be happiest living in the Amazon forest, without any boundaries. And he can eat all the dirt in the world.
I really wouldn’t mind letting him roam free at home, since I’ve pretty much baby-proofed my house. But ever since we started this morbid game I’d like to call Final Fantasy: Dead or Die Trying, I’ve decided to give myself a little advantage and keep him confined in his cot whenever I needed some mommy time (genius, I know).
Not to be outdone, he’s been plotting his version of Shawshank Redemption for some time now. Believe me, it’s sheer ingenuity. I couldn’t have thought of a better plan if I tried.
At home, there are effectively 2 evil confined spaces – his wooden baby cot and this Graco Pack n Play mobile cot.
Here’s the master plan.
He has identified the weakest points in both these contraptions and has started EATING his way out of it. I kid you not.
Good thing I’m on to his little scheme, which only happened due to a stroke of luck one afternoon. He usually screams for dear life the moment I put him into the cot, but this time, he just sat down without any fuss and pretended to play with his Care Bear. I should have noticed the glint in his eye, but I didn’t, so I mistook his silence for maturity. Big mistake. Five minutes later, I heard a strange scratchy noise coming from the bedroom so I snuck a peek.
Lo and behold, he was furiously biting away at the mesh netting at the side of his mobile cot like a deranged beaver. I swear his next step was to grind his Care Bear into a scalpel and cut his way to freedom.
Curious, I proceeded to inspect his wooden cot and there was a row of bite marks on the bars. In fact, he had practically gnawed off the top layer of wood. I only hope he had the good sense to spit out the fragments.
When he finally breaks free, I’ll have no choice but to buy a metal cot, but I’m pretty sure he’ll eat his way out of that as well.
I was asked to do an interview for an article in a women’s magazine today. At first, I was all like “Why, let me check my very important schedule and see if I have time to sit down for a chat.” But before I even got a chance to savor my sense of self-importance, I took a glance at the topic – Sex and Pregnancy, and my chocolate milk almost squirted out of my nostrils.
Now, I’m not a prude or anything, but when it comes to MAKING THE SEXYTIME, I kinda prefer to keep it all to myself, and maybe at most, a very, very close friend.
However, considering that it is for the good of all mankind, (well, my experience is prodigious) I decided to go ahead and do the interview.
Q1. Being a given that sex is very important to men, was sex or the potential lack thereof a concern for your spouse when you first discovered you were pregnant?
What I should have said: First of all, sex is also very important to women. We are after all the masters of multiple orgasms. Second of all, there will be no lack of sex regardless of whether I’m pregnant or not. We are after all the masters of multiple orgasms.
What I did say: We had to sit down and talk about the adjustments we had to make with regards to our sex life during pregnancy, so that we both know what to expect and how to manage it best. Open communication is really important, rather than avoid the topic and try to second-guess each other.
Q2. What physical changes did you encounter that hindered or encouraged intimacy during your pregnancy?
What I should have said: You get bigger boobs, an increased libido and better orgasms. There’s no way I’m losing my mojo, baby.
What I did say: The belly was a real problem in the later months. It was really uncomfortable to lie on my back or side. Actually, it was just uncomfortable all the time.
Q3. What problems did you encounter when being intimate with your spouse during your pregnancy?
What I should have said: What problems? Did you not hear what I said about the bigger boobs?
What I did say: We had to think of creative ways when the stomach got too big and uncomfortable.
Q4. How did you overcome these problems (e.g. change of position, sexual alternatives, substitute with other forms of emotional or physical fulfillment like cuddling etc.)
What I should have said: There is a plethora of alternatives. Blow job, hand job, nose job (oh wait, that’s something else), woman on top, side-by-side, spooning, the list goes on.
What I did say: There was a lot of cuddling and hugging, which is good. We were also quite experimental with different positions.
Q5. Can you provide a few tips to our readers on how they can best maintain or improve intimacy with their spouses during pregnancy?
What I should have said: Pregnant women are hot. Just lay off the chips and I think you’ll do just fine.
What I did say: Have very frank and open communication with your spouse because things are going to be different, and they won’t understand what you are going through unless you talk about it. Also, have realistic expectations of each other so tension can be minimized.
Evidently, my responses were very safe and appropriate. But don’t you just hate reading sterile answers in those women’s mags where it’s all watered-down and boring. Come on, even my grandmother would have been more explicit.
That being said, I totally chickened out. I do have an image to maintain after all.
Great, my son is now also infected with the flu, which makes three. I feel like one of those ebola virus carriers they quarantine in the maximum security cells. Plus I just had one of those insane pull-out-your-hair-and-scream kind of days where you wish it would just be over.
Question: What do you get when you put 2 sick adults and a sick baby together? Groundhog Day.
The day just stretches on forever, and I keep finding myself back at the same place over and over again. Like that scene in the Matrix where you end up in the exact same spot no matter which way you go or how fast you run.
Let me see, where should I start. Tru woke up screaming at 5.45 this morning, cranky and hungry. To put it into perspective, he hasn’t woken up earlier than 6.30 since he was 4 months old, and I certainly do not function before the sun rises. Then for the rest of the day, he refused to sleep without being carried, and he would wake up after 20 minutes.
Normally, I wouldn’t indulge this sort of behavior, but looking into his doleful eyes, I couldn’t help myself. He had a stream of mucus running down his left nostril and his temperature was at 38.2 degrees. Every so often, he would sneeze and rub his nose in that cute baby fashion. So I did what every mother probably would. I held him for the whole afternoon and bawled like a baby.
I have to say, the little man is a real trooper. Thanks to his stuffed nose, every time he tried to suck his thumb to sleep, he would gasp for air and then repeat the process again. Well of course, there was no way of falling asleep like that, but he still tried anyway.
It seemed like the day would never end. But it did, and he finally drifted off to sleep. And for this fleeting moment, he looked at me as if to say, “thanks mom, I couldn’t have made it through without you.”
I guess I live to fight another day.
I’m been down with a massive flu since the weekend. That’s the difference when you’re a mom. Now when I want to go on sick leave, I have to wait till the weekends and clear with the husband (whom I have also infected with my killer virus).
What they don’t tell you is that pregnancy amplifies the flu symptoms by a gazillion times. My head is pounding non-stop, my back is about to break in 5 different locations and my stuffed nose resembles the wicked witch of the west. The weak-ass meds are not helping either, but I can’t take anything too strong or it will knock me out and social services will come take away my kid.
My son though, is blissfully unaware of my numerous afflictions, despite the fact that I look like Helena Bonham Carter and sound like Nelly Furtado. So I’ve still gotta function like I’m all fine and dandy.
I don’t know how moms even find the time to be sick. Or there must be some supersonic tonics that I’m missing out on.
I’m officially relinquishing my supermom status now that kryptonite has been discovered. I just want to curl up in a corner and cry.
Somebody put me out of my misery.
I have this nagging suspicion that my son is an adrenaline junkie. And partially masochistic. First of all, he doesn’t seem to feel/mind pain. He can’t sit still (not even for 2 seconds), he’s totally fearless and he has this massive need to climb to the highest possible point all the time (and then fling himself off it).
I used to think that we are all wired with a basic human survival instinct, which is relatively simple. Pain = BAD. No pain = GOOD. That means I shouldn’t have to tell him fundamental stuff like “Don’t throw yourself off an elevated point” or “Don’t drown yourself” or “Banging stuff on your head is bad”.
Most kids seem to get it, but mine is evidently struggling with that concept.
While we’re at it, isn’t there some research that shows how humans can be conditioned to stop doing stuff that brings detriment to their physical beings? i.e. putting your hand at an open flame will result in PAIN, which is BAD.
Call it bravado (or retardation), but my boy absolutely does not register the fact that stupidity will bring about bad consequences, despite having been at the receiving end many times.
Let me elaborate. I’ve probably mentioned that he’s flung himself off various high objects numerous times (7 times and counting), but he just keeps finding new places to jump off. Just yesterday, he managed to pivot his body off his cot and headfirst onto the floor. Till this moment, I’m still baffled by how he did it, considering the bar was up to his armpits.
Then there was the pool incident. While most kids make it their aim to avoid having water enter their noses and mouths, my little daredevil is completely unfazed by being submerged in the water. To him, swimming is no fun without trying to drown himself. Apparently, staying above water is for the amateurs.
It’s getting out of hand. His mission is life is to devise new ways to inflict pain upon himself, and my mission is life is to stop him. Sorta like a real-life, twisted computer game.
And the count stands at Mommy: 6 points, Tru: 8,527 points. Great, I’m getting thrashed by a 9-month-old.
I’m thinking, it’s time to bring out the big guns. Maybe I should wrap him up like the abominable snowman all the time to provide some additional padding. Or else I’ll have to attach a pillow permanently to his head and his butt.
Forget fashion, survival trumps style.