Welcome to the 2011 Nursery Reveal Extravaganza!!!

Okay, I had to give the post quite the name because A) people usually "reveal" their nurseries BEFORE they have their baby and B) I took the nursery pictures with my iphone, so I need to really build it up or else you might look at the crappy pictures and be like, "Wow. I clicked the link on facebook for THIS?"

Well, you might still be let down, but at least the post has a hell of a name.

ANYWAY, I'm not too domestic, but I got down and dirty with this nursery people. Obvs I didn't know what I was having prior to birth, and the trouble with gender neutral nurseries is that unless you like pale green and yellow, you're shit out of luck.

Then I discovered pinterest. So between that and etsy, I was able to scrounge up enough plagiarized ideas inspiration to put something together.

A while back I did a post about my ailments (BIG surprise!) but at the end I put pictures up of a nursery that I wanted to try to somewhat replicate for about $15 dollars.

So, maybe I didn't do it in $15 bucks, but I will say I had a lot of help and I'm definitely pleased with how it came together. So, without further ado...























A few things:

I made the AK, MT, and Hawaii framed art. (The words in between the big text are names of towns within each state.) I found the Alaska one on etsy, loved it, decided to take that idea and role with it. I made one for HI and MT, as Paul and I met in AK, married in HI, and live in MT. Get it??? Since we don't really know much about our son yet (other than that he's the coolest kid EVER) we decided to make a nursery about US. I mean WHY NOT. The cool Alaska state wood carving was an anniversary gift from my friend Lauren. Love it!

My bff Angie screen printed the "Very Sleepy" art. Thanks again, Ang!

My MOM bought the awesome rug for me on Ebay, and the curtains at Bed, Bath and Beyond. Jackie, my step-mom, got the the cute chenille chair...from...get this...WALMART online. I may or may not have led her DIRECTLY to the chair that I wanted. I was bummed that it came from Wally world but it was the one I like best out of ALL OF THE CHAIRS ON THE INTERNETS and I felt a little bit better when it arrived with a huge MADE IN AMERICA sticker on it. So there you go.

I bought the crib linens on etsy, with the exception of the cute monogrammed pillow cover that Godmother #1's mom made for me (thanks Cathy!). I need to get a better pic of that to show it off more.

The decal of the birch trees came from etsy too...and since I was an English teacher, and I hale from English majors (my Dad was even an English Prof.), I went with the Robert Frost quote. My Dad would be all having a fit because it's actually "So was I once" rather than "So I was once"...yes, I screwed that up when ordering it, but hey, I could have kept in the "IT IS" at the beginning of the quote that the vendor so kindly included in the decal (as I said in the email, "Can we change the quote? I'd like a quote from Robert Frost. It is: 'So I was once...'"...yeah, thanks vendor...that was fun to cut out of the quote because they aren't hard enough to put AS IT IS.) A HUGE thanks to Amy for helping me put up that bad boy.

The quilt on the chair was a gift to Paul from one of the parents of his wrestling kids when he coached wrestling up in AK. Paul wanted to hang it on our living room wall when we first moved in. Dodged a HUGE bullet there, and it looks perfect draped over the chair. (What IS IT with dudes and wanting to hang blankets on walls???)

Other details in the room were pretty much all gifted (like the Semisi sign on the children's wardrobe...thanks Erin!). Ohhhh, and the crib I bought second hand (thanks for the awesome deal Shane!), the children's wardrobe was my late Grandmother's, and the changing table I bought at a garage sale for $12...it was an ugly blond wood and my mom and I stripped it and painted it one afternoon this last summer.

We're so blessed. What I actually spent probably came to around $350. What do y'all think?

Actually, if you don't like it, don't tell me. Just shower it with compliments please. My ego cannot take it.

And please quit proofreading my posts (SHELLEY E., I know you're doing this without even meaning to). My ego can't take that either.

Parenthood 101: Keeping Your Baby Alive Without Having a Nervous Breakdown

Warning: I'm too tired to proof read this. Don't judge me for typos.

Dudes. This shit is hard. And I have it easy, because Semisi? The kid never cries. I shit you not. He sleeps, eats, poops, and lets out an occasional grunt, and that's. about. it. So you're all probably like, "Cry me a river!" and "Where's my violin?!?!" and "I suppose your diamond shoes don't fit either, you lucky bastard!??!" You would be right to say all of those things on the baby front. He's rad. But it's not him. It's ME!

This sounds like a bad break up story. NO I AM NOT BREAKING UP WITH MY BABY. Come ON. It hasn't even been two weeks yet. I have to at least let him take me out for Thai food first. DUH.

Okay, but in all seriousness, trying to keep this kid alive is tough work. I almost had a mental breakdown the first week. There are a few reasons for this.

After having the little man home for a few days (two...TWO days) we were scheduled to go in for a quick follow up appointment with our doc to get him weighed...and we did not get good news at this appointment. We discovered that he's lost almost a whole pound since his birth, and that he was getting little to no nourishment from the boob. Basically the little guy was just a sucking away and was getting NADA from me...much to my surprise.

Of course, because he'd only been born a few days earlier, I was a damn basket case, so this, along with the tumbleweed blowing across the doctor's parking lot, made me break in to tears. We were sent home and forced to feed him formula, which we've been doing right along side some serious attempts on my part to pump some milk out of these gigantic boobs of mine.

For a few days, I got nothing...NOTH.ING. Then I'd get an ounce a pumping session, which is basically enough to keep a knat alive for an hour. However, slowly but surely, I'm getting a little more at a time and we're able to give him what little I can pump while supplementing with formula.

Why am I telling you all this? Well I don't know!??! Why are you reading? I guess I expected breast feeding to be some damned hippie ass experience where I would casually lift of my shirt and my son would nuzzle in and drink to his heart's content, giving me a slight hand signal when he'd have enough...upon which he would roll away and begin hiccuping and rubbing his belly in satisfaction...maybe saying something like, "That's some good shit."

But instead, I was basically starving my kid. NOT exactly how I pictured all of that playing out.

Partner this with my uncontrollable urge to cry every five seconds and my constant fear that every thing ELSE I was doing was putting my baby's life in GRAVE danger too, and well, the "experts say breast milk is best" warning on the side of the formula can label can just go F*@& itself.

My psychotic fit of hormone induced wailing has been a damn joy ride for Paul, let me tell you.

Because everything I do feels like it's putting my kid in danger. It's like, if I hold him this way, or burp him that way, HE COULD DIE. AND OTHER BABIES MIGHT DIE JUST BECAUSE I DID IT WRONG. JUST BECAUSE.

But it's getting better. I wake up each morning with a huge sense of relief that we've managed to keep our child alive for yet another day - this brings me a great feeling of accomplishment. And our kid seems happy.

Yet, I'm still a total basket case, and I'm looking forward to the day when I can just enjoy motherhood without being scared to death of it. But the good news is Paul is leading me through this adventure - and he stays as calm and collected as always, which is precisely why I married him. And my mom, who just retired after 35 years of doing day care, is here helping. So really, I have nothing to worry about, right? RIGHT???

Right.

So...tell me something good! Tell me you thought you were going to accidentally kill your baby every five minutes too! Tell me it gets better! Tell me it will all be okay! Tell me that not breastfeeding my kid every ounce he takes in will not result in a major arrested development!

Or tell me to shut the hell up and go eat the cheeks off of my sweet baby boy.

Yeah, that sounds like a plan.

Ohhh...and here's our week, in photos. As you can see, Paul is doing everything...likely because I'm off crying in a corner shouting "I'm killing him!"

In between those fits of hysteria, I managed to get these pictures:



Yes. That's a maxi pad. That's the shit they give you at the hospital. Scared yet, mom-to-be-who-have-never-been?





It's not the baby that's exhausting him. Trust me.



Pure bliss. OH YEAH. THIS is why I had a kid with this man.

It's like a party in my uterus.

The good news about having a tumor? You get to have one of those sweet ultrasounds so they can get a real good look at it. Of course this also meant that I got a look at the kiddo chillin in the ole' uterus, too!

And no shit, these ultrasounds are something else! I kind of feel like we cheated a little. Like we got to see the baby ahead of time. Like when it comes out we'll be all, "Nice to meet you. You look just like your photo."

At first we couldn't get a good look at the face because the babe's foot was in the way. Of it's face. That is correct. And yes I did make them clarify that the foot appeared to be an extension of the leg, showing an unparalleled act of flexibility instead of a foot in place of a hand.

Once the foot moved over a bit, we got some sweet shots of him/her throwing us some gang signs. But then he/she shot us a smile, and that was pretty rad, not gonna lie:



In the above pic the babes is actually holding its foot. I told Paul that's a total cheerleader move.

He just smiled and said, "She has my nose."

And then I was thinking that it'd be sweet if we had a lineman sized boy who wanted to be a cheerleader. Can you image how solid the base of that pyramid would be?

And then I had my first "HOLY SHIT I'M PRETTY EXCITED TO MEET THIS KID" moment.

eeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

So any bets? Based on the pic...boy or girl?

You're so ANAL about your BABY.

Jokes.com
Megan Mooney - Irish = Mexican
comedians.comedycentral.com
Megan Mooney Comedians Stand-Up

First of all, if Megan Mooney were to ask me to marry her I just might say yes, because she’s everything I’ve ever wanted in a comedienne and more. Too bad she's married (with children now, as a matter of fact). (Shout out to Ang for introducing us.)

This particular bit really spoke to me though – on a very deep level. I remember having these very same feelings the first time a friend of mine told me she was pregnant. She was a college friend and needless to say, we’d had some seriously good times - times we'd never be able to continue with a baby on board. After she broke the happy news I remember thinking “WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO ME!?!”

It felt like she was breaking up with me for her reproductive rights. The NERVE.

As I’ve matured (i.e. ever since I've had to deliver the same personal development to my friends), I'm happy to report that I've embraced this news from others with a tad more class...even genuine happiness. However, as of late, I’ve begun to think long and hard about how I’ll continue to navigate my friendships, my marriage, and my work, and my drinking habits with a kid. There are definitely friends who have, in my opinion, been more successful in this endeavor than others, but I’m still unsure about what’s made them so successful. Timing? Good babysitters? A complete disregard for child protective services?

I don’t want to be the type of parent who makes everyone else have kids right along with me. Having a child is a decision Paul and I made on our own…we didn’t consult with our friends and ask them for permission to bring a third wheel into our group. And though I’m confident my friends will not only make accommodations to our new family circle AND go home and talk to one another about how amazing our mad parenting skills are and how they just can’t get enough of our incredibly smart, talented, athletic, and well mannered child, I think it’s equally important that Paul and I demonstrate that we’re willing to make accommodations to maintain our friendships on a kid-free level, too.

I don’t have kids yet, so I’m not sure what that looks like exactly, but I do know that for starters it means getting babysitters (or a small cage with some food) and dedicating childless conversations to each other and to our friends…even with our friends who already have kids (that is, if we can get them to simultaneously cage their kids, too). Because, well, sometimes I think I’m going to need conversation that doesn’t involve lactation and poop. I think they’ll need this too. Especially my friends who don’t have kids.

And when I do need to talk about that? Well, that’s what this blog is for! (Get ready to live, readers!)

Perhaps this is a naïve position to take. Perhaps all of you who currently have children are reading this while making all sorts of guttural noises and saying, with bated breath, “She has NO idea what she’s asking of herself!” Maybe you’d be right. But at the end of the day, when the smiles and sunshine and unicorn fantasy of children begins to dissipate and it starts raining poop and puke, I want to know that I can get by with a little help from my friends. And Jose Cuervo.

And I think in order to make that phone call with dignity, they need to know long before that day comes that I have not abandoned them. Or Jose.

Passing on an evolutionary step in human development.

Like most mothers-to-be, my dreams have been bat shit crazy. To keep you thinking less of me I’ll spare you some of the real doozies, but I will tell you that more than once a week I have that dream where I give birth to something resembling a gremlin. That, or I birth a child with T-Rex arms. I kid you not. That one comes up quite a bit.

These dreams happen so often that during my last ultra sound, I kept asking the radiology tech (in a very suspicious “YOU KNOW SOMETHING I DON’T KNOW” voice) “So everything [insert a checklist of items including, but not limited to, a finger, toe, limb, eye, nose, and mouth count] looks fine then, right?”

Interestingly enough, though, I’ve yet to ask the tech if she’s been able to get a good close-up of the kid’s knuckle count.





That’s right. If you don’t already know (by that I mean if I haven’t already shown you this while exuding a great deal of pomp and circumstance), I’m missing a knuckle. I actually think that the human race does not NEED that particular knuckle (I'm right handed and it doesn't impede on any day to day function of hand use...with the exception of maybe picking my nose...but who picks their nose with THAT finger anyway? We've got THUMBS for that.) However, DON’T TELL MY MOM THIS, because I’ve been milking this little gem for all it’s worth for the past 25 years.

You see, my mom beats herself up over the fact that I have this small hand deformity because she (unknowingly) smoked while pregnant with me. That, and she didn't actually KNOW I was missing a knuckle until I pointed it out to her one day while we were painting our nails together at the kitchen table. I think the conversation went something like this -

Me: Mom, why doesn't my knuckle pop up like yours?
Mom: WTF???

We know, Mom, “NO ONE KNEW YOU WEREN'T SUPPOSED TO SMOKE BACK THEN!!!!” (Side note: my mother has not smoked for over 25 years. I'm guessing she quit about the time we had the above conversation.)

That said, let me be clear: I do not think her smoking had anything to do with this deformity, but when I’m trying to get under her skin about something – I mean REALLY give her a hard time - I’ll sometimes mime the action of smoking by taking a fake drag of a cigarette and setting the imaginary cigarette in the slot where the knuckle should sit…like it’s an ashtray.

Opportunities to pull out this crowd pleaser usually present themselves when my mom is giving me a hard time about something domestic, but lately these situations have been few and far between. I think because I’m giving her the grandchild she’s always wanted, she’s decided she’s got bigger fish to fry when it comes to worrying herself over my lack of domestic capabilities – like HOW WILL I KEEP SAID GRANDCHILD ALIVE?

Suddenly my inability to wash bath towels properly has taken a back burner.

I know, Mom. I KNOW. But don’t worry, Paul’s around to make sure the baby only drinks wine on weekends.

Ehem…anyway, secretly I’m kind of hoping that my kid is missing a knuckle. That way, when my child looks at me with his/her dark curly hair, brown skin and dark eyes and asks me if I’m REALLY his/her mother, I can say “Of course I am. I've given you my lack of knuckle. YOU’RE WELCOME.”

Because when my kid whips out that mime scene for her grandma? Well, that’s going to be proud moment for me, as I’ll know right then and there that I was able to throw a little something special my kid’s way…something I received from my own mother…something even more important than a four knuckle fist. After all, it’s not what you can or cannot physically do with 9 knuckles…it’s how you use it.

28 Week and Counting...

After much anticipation (okay, okay, so maybe it was only like, ONE person who asked[hi Traci!]), I bring you my first belly picture:



I guess I'm just not big on like, sharing pictures of myself when I look like a beached whale. But hey, y'all asked for it, so GIVE THE PEOPLE WHAT THEY WANT!

I'm really looking forward to that moment when I can have a baby and be like, "I lost 15 pounds today!"

(For those of you who have had kids and know that it's completely unrealistic of me to think that I will actually lose 15 lbs the day I give birth: please just let me be blindly led in this department. After all, I thought the baby was in my cervix that one time and you set me straight on that already, so consider your job complete. Don't even get me STARTED on how I think this thing is actually going to move OUT of my cer...errr...uterus?)

Paul has yet to feel the baby move. He has no patience, and the baby appears to get stage fright the minute he lays his giant hand on my belly. It's like when it's dancing around in there like a white girl, and Paul puts it's hand on my belly, it immediately feels judged and just quits dancing altogether.

Wait...are we still talking about the baby? Cause my baby's got MOVES, y'all. MOVES.

My bleeding heart.

You know how they say to not have a kid if you can't foster growth and sustainability in both plants and animals?

I got a dog two years ago, and although it's still alive, I will say that I think comparing dog raising to child rearing is just dumb.

However, lately I feel like everywhere I look examples of this inadequacy are just shouting at me, waving the inadequacy flag.

For example, two summers ago, while walking up the steps to my our condo, my Mom was all, "Look! You're got a little baby bleeding heart sprouting up over here! I bet that will get bigger and bigger every year! Just water it!"

Well, maybe you haven't heard, but Montana has been FLOODED (literally) by rain this spring.

Exhibit A: My neighbor's bleeding heart -



Exhibit B: My bleeding heart -



"All it needs is water..." she says.

Right.

That's like saying all a baby needs is a blanket.

But I can totally raise a kid. No problemo. Don't you worry.