The Old Man and the (Pregnan)Sea

GET IT?! I crack myself up.

For the past decade, I’ve believed I was a 80-something year old man trapped in a female body. Starting in college, I became hooked on Tums and then later, Zantac. I have a beer belly. I have strokes. Okay, so they are really migraines, but the first 30 minutes of my migraines are signature stroke signs – droopy face, loss of sight, loss of speech, numbness in limbs, etc – so it counts.

And the biggest old man tendency of all? My favorite cocktail is a Manhattan. Which is apparently an old man drink, judging from reactions I continuously get from friends, acquaintances and bartenders. And I suppose it sort of makes sense because I am 89% sure my love of Manhattans started at grade school age, when my Dad and Grandpa would both give me the bourbon-soaked cherries from bottoms of their consumed Manhattans.

But lest I ruin my computer with drool because I would kill for bourbon right now, enough about that.

So, I have an inner old man who has strokes and wicked heartburn and enjoys bourbon-based cocktails. And while I thought nothing could bring him out further, I was mistaken. Pregnancy has awakened the old beast.

I have to pee all the time. All. the. time. I gazed longingly at a pack of Depends the other day, thinking maybe that crazy astronaut who wore diapers on that road trip to confront her lover or whatever was more brilliant than nuts.

Artist Depiction of me in the morning. With added sea hat.

Mornings are stiff. Now, get your minds out of the gutters because I am talking about my back. As I hobble to the bathroom to pee for the 10th time of the night I find myself wishing for a cane or a walker.

I chug Metamucil every night before bed. Fiber supplements aren’t just for the elderly, my friends. But truthfully? This is one habit I will continue postpartum. This shit is awesome…pun partially intended.

My driving skills have become less than aggressive. While I have been trying to keep my foot from being its usual leaden self, because at some point I am going to have to drive a little more conservatively with a tiny being in the backseat, I have also caught myself zoning out and doing a leisurely Sunday driver 30 MPH down the 50 MPH road. Which is the exact thing that gives me road rage on an almost-daily basis. Whoops.

I have a new love for Preparation H. I’ll leave that at just that.

I am ridiculously grumpy. Now, some people may say that is a standard feature of me, but I am seriously curmudgeonly. Everything is irritating, I want to punch everything in the face and everything is young and vibrant and douchey. I yelled at some birds to get the f%^@ out of my tree, for ^&#!s sake. This is possibly working out to my advantage, though, as my mean mugging stops the stranger danger interactions so many pregnant ladies complain about. Random stranger advice? Random stranger belly touching? Random stranger questions? None of the above.

At least I don’t have a beard. Or ear hair. Yet.

Push Out Baby. Get Present.

“Push Presents” – both the term and the actual gifting – crack my shit up. Unfamiliar with this practice? Let me fill you in. Typically in Push Present Scenarios, Husband buys Wife a gift for birthing their child. FOR BIRTHING THEIR %^&#@! CHILD.

If a he doesn’t produce a present, will the mom-to-be clench up and hold the baby in until he buys her a treat?! I would certainly hope not, but some women are %!#$%ing determined. And what if the woman ends up having a c-section? Does he get to take the push present back because, well, she doesn’t deserve it since she didn’t actually push?

The baby and not being pregnant any longer and the upcoming opportunity to explore non-maternity clothing and beer should be the gift. THE NEW BABY SHOULD BE YOUR PUSH PRESENT. And beer. Beer helps with breastfeeding. And it’s delicious. Count that as a bonus present. With a giant entree of YOU JUST HAD A BABY.

What is that, a carat? Pssh, try again, buddy. I can wait.

It’s the entitlement of some women that just gets me. The expectation that she deserves presents upon delivery. That because SHE carried this baby around for nine months and SHE had to deal with all the symptoms and pain and SHE had to push it out of HER body that SHE should get a %^!$! present. Umm, hate to break it to you honey, but that’s what your body was sort of designed to do and women worldwide have lived to tell the tale for eons without a new pair of diamond earrings. Also, judging by your entitlement, I bet YOUR husband had to put up with YOUR shit and YOUR whining and YOUR bitching and if anyone deserves a present it’s HIM. YOU probably deserve a punch in the face.

And it isn’t just little things desired as push presents, like a knick knack with baby’s monogram or a little bauble with the kid’s birthstone. Nope. It’s EPIC THINGS. Diamond studs, new wedding ring settings, tennis bracelets, designer bags, etc. Usually nothing relevant to the baby at all. This is all about Mom’s Journey into Motherhood and the Expensive Gift to Represent It. Seriously. WTF.

I feel sorry for the child who will have to grow up in that type of entitled atmosphere. Except they won’t even notice because those raised in that environment tend to be of the “Special Snowflake” variety who cry if they don’t get a trophy for coming in last. BUT THAT’S A WHOLE OTHER POST.

Will I turn down a present if presented upon presentation of Little A? No. Of course not. I’m not an idiot. I like presents. But am I expecting one? Aside from the bedside post-delivery Manhattan, not at all. I can’t even be facetious and make up a wish list to post here. That’s how dumb I think this new “tradition” really is.

Although I have wanted an emerald cut diamond solitaire pendant for about ten years…

2011 Happened Like This

Dear @#%! Baby:

In the year we made you, the following events happened.

We went to Vegas over Valentine’s Day and “got married” and went all VIP with some friends and bottle service.

   

My cousin and I won the coveted rib cook-off trophy. Neither of us had cooked ribs before. Several family members were not happy.

I turned 30. Yikes. I drank a lot of bourbon and Grain Belt that weekend.

I met Mr. Belding at a Minor League baseball game.

Big A deployed again. But not before we had a Jorts party, during which I saw more of our friends than I ever wanted to.

Our basement turned into a water park during Hurricanes Irene and Lee. Then it was jackhammered and rebuilt. If I never shop-vac again I will be a happy camper. The basement has been dubbed The Danger Zone.

I got to visit Big A – in Africa! It was just okay. Lolololololol J/K it was amazeballs.

We discovered a fetus. YOU. So I started a blog.

I won Skivver Fest 2011 – second year in a row I beat my brother at making Christmas breakfast. Because I’m awesome.

All told, aside from a few major highlights (I mean, HELLO, Africa + Baby), a fairly mundane year – not that I’m complaining. Danger Zone was enough stress on its own. And Lord knows next year is going to be a cluster@^$& of who knows what so I will look back on 2011 with wistful eyes and sigh.

Always remember that year we were Ballers.