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Posts Tagged ‘random thoughts’

I previously admitted that I am majorly afraid of hoarding. I always say, when in doubt, donate and let someone else get all hoard-y with it. So dealing with the reality of all the stuff babies come with has been a bit tough for me.

Lulu guards my diaper stash

I have already set up a fully-equipped baby room with necessities and niceties: crib; changing table stocked with cloth diapers, wipes, and swaddling blankets; bookshelf already full of fantastic books; futon for feedings and mommy-naps; bouncy chair with mobile attachment; and a space-themed baby “gym” including a space-monkey toy hanging from it (how cool is that?). Stocked up!

However, there are items my friends SWEAR by, that I refuse to buy. I am stubborn and I accept that about myself. I hope you can too. I do realize that I may very well buy these items later, but I’d rather it be an organic, need-based purchase, not a registry frenzy/naive new parent sort of thing.

Essential Items I Stubbornly Refuse To Purchase Now (And Forever?)

Baby Monitor: I have crazy good ears. I have mentioned that here. I will hear that baby crying down the hall. My experience is that babies are not shy about crying, so I’m certain I’ll hear her when I’m downstairs too. I am also slightly neurotic — it is the American woman way. So hearing any movements on that monitor will drive me bananas and send me running to the baby’s room. Not doing it. Ever. Stubborn.

Breast pump: What if I can’t do it? That’s $250 wasted! Then what do I do with it afterward? We may be a one-and-done family. My hospital rents them, so I may look into that option if the need arises.

Bottles: I know, know. I’ve done lost my ever-lovin’ mind!  But here’s the thing: If my breast milk already comes with two easily-accessible, temp-controlled feeding devices, shouldn’t I just use those? I’m going to give it a go with the handy milk sacks I already have and wait and see. That is $ saved and time saved — from pumping, fetching, washing, heating, sorting between nipple types and flow options, etc. We’ll see how long this lasts.

An Infant Car Seat: The convertible car seat I bought accommodates a baby between 5-70 pounds. However, many folks buy an infant seat (5-25/30 pounds) first and then move baby to the convertible seat. Experienced parents insist that the infant seat, which doubles as a bulky bassinet-type carrier and fits onto different stroller systems, is better than sliced bread. I hear you, experienced parents. I even believe you!! But I would rather jostle my baby when getting in and out of the car, and wear her when I go out, just to avoid getting the infant car seat. Stubborn.

Two Car Seats: Can a couple survive with just one? The overwhelming majority say, “No way, you weird hippies!” This may be true (not the hippie part), but our friends all bought two seats or two bases before baby arrived. Sure, you are going to use something you already have. I would like to see if we can be a two-car but one car-seat family. So interested to see how this plays out!

A Second or Third Stroller: One kid, one stroller. We got a lightweight but sturdy and maneuverable collapsible stroller. And it is black!  No thank you, bulky, multi-colored, heavy travel system. No thank you, teeny umbrella stroller, I’ll pass on you too. Many flexible parents purchase additional strollers as their children grow and their needs change. Makes sense, but I just plan to be stubborn about this too.

In sum, I’m stubborn.  If you see a woman in line at Target with a screaming infant attached to her chest, purchasing 20 bottles, a baby monitor, and an infant car seat… that isn’t me. I’m stubborn.

Space monkeys can be stubborn too

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Dear Psychic Due Date Predictors:

It is me! The woman who looks like she is ready to give birth at any moment. I have an apology for you.

When you, Post Office Guy, announced to all the patrons of our local post office that I looked like I was ready to be a mom soon, I had 4 more months to go. Honestly, at that point in time, I wasn’t mad at you. I had assumed that you were friendly, bored, and bonkers. More importantly, I was so excited that I looked pregnant to strangers and not just fat! But then your fellow due date prediction pals started their assault…

Lady at Target: Yes, we were due the same month and you barely had a bump, but that did not mean I was ready to rush off to Labor and Delivery just yet. OK, so you didn’t actually say anything mean to me, or suggest I rush to the hospital, but you didn’t have to. Your tiny adorable bump did all the talking for you. 

Neighborhood Porch Guy: In your defense, I was having really bad Braxton Hicks contractions outside of your house during my walk. Thank you for offering to drive me home, to avoid a birth in front of your house, but I still had three months to go! Sheesh! And for the record, I finished my walk. Although my docs recommend that I cut back on the distance. 

Cooking Class Man: Dude, what is up? I’m here to wrap food in paper hearts. Your comment about how it must be “any day now” was not appreciated. I don’t care if your wife had five daughters, making you some sort of psychic pregnancy professional. And your “It is the stripes on your dress” excuse did not help… Stripes don’t add *months* to a pregnancy! Apparently, I am still mad at you!

All ready for doc appointment. I took a picture because I can’t trust the mirror.

So yeah, I got a bit self-conscious thanks to you people. And as Yoda says, “Self-consciousness leads to self-loathing, self-loathing leads to defensive anger aimed towards strangers (and tiny unassuming bumps) who can’t seem to resist foot-in-the-mouth opportunities.” So I got angry with you all. (And Yoda, a fan of anger, is not.) You probably didn’t even notice my rage. To your faces, I sheepishly apologized for being so large as to make you choke on your own toe-jam. Then, in the comfort of my safe-zone (Patrick), I unleashed furious rants directed towards each of you. My rants also make Patrick laugh, so everyone wins!

Then I went to my doc appointment last week. Weight was on target, my BP was nice and low, and baby’s heartbeat sounded like a rave beat on E. Remember raves? Me neither. All was going well until the doc measured my belly not once, but twice. Huh? Turns out I’m measuring 4 weeks ahead. In fact, according to the metric system, my belly resembles a boulder more than a bump.

So my apologies to you due-date predicting, toe-jam sucking strangers. Sorry for angrily talking about you behind your back. I said cutting things like “What does he know? Has he ever seen a pregnant person before? Should I go into hiding (back to self-consciousness)?  They are all mean-butts!” (The baby can not only hear, but can distinguish our voices now, so I don’t want to be known as the pirate-tongued, mean, lady-one just yet.) 

You were all right; I do look big. Just stop telling me about it? OK? Thanks! There, now that we made up, you can touch my belly. It is good luck!

PS. I can’t get my shoes on!

“No, Patrick, don’t help me, take a picture.” No seriously, that is what I said to him.

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All right! Let’s get this started!

Yes. Yessss. Yeah! Yes.

No. No! NOOOOOO!

C’mon, man! Come. On!

Ugh. You’ve got to be kidding me.

Come on. Seriously?

Okay. Okay, here we go.

Now that’s more like it!

YES!

COME ON!

Come onnnnn!

FUMMMMMMMMMMBLE!!!!

All right. Yes! YES! YESSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!

All right! Here we go, Steelers, here we go.

No! No! No! No no no no no no no no no no NOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!

*bleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!*

F@*$-ing Tebow.

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I know what you’re thinking: Okay, it’s been over a month since Patrick started his No-Shave-November pact with Gilly. I wonder how magnificent Patrick’s beard is by now.

You probably think I look something like this by now.

But here’s the shameful truth, as much as it pains me to admit it: I can’t grow a full beard. Oh sure, the ‘stache grows in, full and ginger. If I wanted to rock the ’70s porn star look, I’d have no trouble at all. But the full beard? Well, just call me Patches O’Hoolihan.

In my dreams, I’m able to sport the mighty Kiesel…

…or through time and perseverance, outlast my stubborn follicles until I surpass the Granddaddy Gibbons.

But alas, I’m unable to luxuriate in the full face carpet. I’ll never be able to participate in the World Beard and Mustache Championship. I’ll never be able to be a Macy’s store Santa without artificial enhancements.

This is my reality, and perhaps one day, I will accept my beard for what it is. But for now, I’ll have to bear the burden of my lack-o-Galifianakis.

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Whew. It’s been a busy month. It’s been especially busy on my beard. Growing that thing sure has aged me…

This beard now comes with its own zip code. And animal sanctuary.

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When I was a young boy, I always dreamed of being a Viking. I preferred Thor and Norse mythology, with its tough no-nonsense gods, to the namby-pamby gods of Rome and Greece.

Self-portrait, Age 4

When I grew older, I became an avid reader of the Conan series by Robert E. Howard. Conan was a tough, no-nonsense barbarian who embodied that Viking spirit. Just like me.

Even today, when I play video games, I create characters that embody the rugged-man-of-action-and-fewer-words ethos.

It's almost as if I'm looking into a mirror...

So, I’m proud to say, now that I’m a little over two weeks into my No Shave November pact with Gilly, that at last I have achieved my lifelong desire:

We call this look “The Viking.”

Stay tuned for next week’s update.

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I’m now 11 days into “No Shave November” and I know what you’re thinking. Um, Patrick, isn’t today November 14th? Shouldn’t this be your “week 2” update? Don’t worry – I still remember how to count past 10. But I started 3 days late, and I just posted my “official announcement” here on Thursday. So, even though we’re nearly at the halfway point through November, a “week 1” update will have to suffice.

Now, without further ado, it’s time to bring you my first official status update:

We call this look “The Merchant Marine.” Yeah, hardcore.

Stay tuned for next week’s update.

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