Scared of a Little Bean

When I was 15 years old, I had surgery to remove a grapefruit-size gremlin from my insides. Okay, it was a cyst. But gremlin sounds cooler. And according to my very curious dad, who insisted on examining the specimen after it was removed from his eldest daughter, it looked like a gremlin. Too much information? You just wait. I'm about to describe the devastating aftereffects of childbirth.

Are you still there?

Anyway, about two years later, I had surgery again, for the same thing. As I arrived at the hospital, I was extremely nervous. Shaking, I changed into the flattering, breezy robe and met with the anesthesiologist. I told him that I was having a very hard time remaining calm. I was thinking about the last time I had allowed surgeons to slice an 8-inch gash into my abdomen, and how much it had hurt when I woke up. (This was probably due to the fact that, according to research, redheads have been found to need more anesthetic than others. That's my professional opinion.) I had come out from under the anesthesia to the sound of a nurse telling me it was time to wake up, and I immediately started crying. With tears streaming out of my closed eyes and down the sides of my face, all I could say was, "It hurts! It hurts!" I heard my mom telling the nurse that I was in pain, and then thankfully, was given more medication which put me back to sleep.

Remembering the pain from my last surgical experience made me wary to willingly mount the gurney which would take me into the O.R.

This is how I feel now, in anticipation of the birth of the little bean. Actually, it's not the actual birth that concerns me. I truly enjoyed labor and delivery of the punk, especially after receiving my epidural. (Mmmmm, delicious drugs.) It's the first month with the newborn that terrifies me. The mind-numbing lack of sleep. The mutilated lady parts. The gigantic, extremely sensitive boobs that I'm going to have to willingly let the bean suck on, EVERY 2-3 HOURS! The crazy hormone imbalance that will make me question why in the world I decided to do this to myself, especially when my man is CLEARLY the superior parent because he isn't resentful about letting a tiny human suck on HIS ouchy boobs.

Yes, I am a little worried about our first month with the little bean. If last time is any indication, it's going to rock our world. If only I had an anesthesiologist to give me the "happy drugs" I got the last time I needed them, causing me to smile and slur when being rolled into my second surgery, "Mmmmmm. This feeeeeeeelsss guuuuuuuuud."

Jingle Bells

'Twas the week before Christmas

And all through the house

The punk's singing Jingle Bells

A little louder than a mouse.

Walking in a Winter Wonderland

Skinny Meili

I've reached the point in my pregnancy when I've started to daydream about the day that I can run again. I think all runners would tell you that running is pain. Especially in the days when you are starting from scratch, yet again. I know I'll have to go through that after the little bean is born and it will be miserable. Just running one mile will be a torturous battle of wills between my psyche and my weakened muscles and lungs. But when I see people running outside now, I must admit, I am a teensy bit envious. In reality, I guess I could attempt to run now. But it wouldn't be pretty. Just walking on the treadmill is tough. I guess I'm just looking forward to the day that I can feel in control of my own body again.

Of course, even after the baby arrives, part of my body will still belong to him. My gigantic boobs. Sigh.

Jammin'

And now for our second installment of non-traditional Christmas music,

the punk presents

Ode on the Harmonica.

Itsy Bitsy Spider

Move over Jingle Bells! Itsy Bitsy Spider is taking over.

Feeling Sentimental

My sweet punk will celebrate his 2nd birthday next week. I am currently in the process of putting together our 2010 family photo album. In it, he goes from this:

(January 2010)

to this:

(November 2010)

He is no longer a baby. He is a little boy, almost ready to give up his crib for a big boy bed. He takes my face in his hands and says, "Hi Mommy." He has started calling my little sister "Rachel" instead of "Aychoo." Just today, we asked him to say "wet and dirty," which he used to pronounce like, "wack-a-diddly." (View video here.) Now he says it correctly. Boo. The other day, I actually heard him say, "pleased to meet you!" when he was playing by himself.

Punk, I'm so glad you're mine. Grow away, sweet boy.