So Sleepy

There is a distinct possibility that my head will come crashing into my keyboard and I will delve into a coma like sleep that will last this entire pregnancy. Well, I hope at least. After dining upon a roasted turkey sandwich, I have both pregnancy tired and tryptophan sleepy combining into a whirling hurricane of shut eye. Work ends in two hours or 120 minutes or 7,200 seconds. A freaking lifetime. The problem with pregnancy is that you are very tired - your body is making a baby for Christ’s sake. With my first, I would sleep a ton. My entire weekends would be devoted to the art of sleep. I would go to bed Friday evening at 8:30 p.m., wake up at 8:30 a.m., pee, fall back to sleep until 12:00, eat, and then take afternoon nappy, shower, then lookey there, bed time approaches. Now I have Owen. And second baby sleep is way less. I close my eyes at night only to open them seemingly five seconds later to learn that it is time to get up. This is not good. And now this tired, combined with that turkey sandwich, have produced the zombie state. I am yawning every 10 seconds. My eyelids are impossibly heavy, as if two carnival fat ladies have taken residence upon the real estate. My face is slack, my attitude shaky, my vision blurred. I lust after my bed like a rowdy sailor on shore leave. Oh sweet heavenly, blissful bed. I want you madly.

Nerd Time

CLICK HERE. The Periodic Table of Elements - WITH VIDEOS!!!!!!! Hello, my name is Cassie, and I am a nerd.

Holy Hormones

Well it seems that I have entered the hormonal stage of my pregnancy, wherein my mind usually fun loving and carefree decides to become bi-polar. I reside in one of two states, pissed off wanting to punch someone in the head or overly emotional prone to crying jags. This past weekend, I give you two examples of my bi-polar nature:

Overly Emotional. Saturday afternoon after Owen has descended into nap and John has decided to join him in the endeavor, I sit on the couch flipping the remote while consuming a chunky peanut butter smothered sourdough English muffin. I stumble across Deep Impact. In the summer of 1998 there were two movies about the planet being destroyed by outer space - Armageddon had a big ole asteroid and Deep Impact had a big ole comet. Where Armageddon had Bruce Willis, Ben Affleck, and Liv Tyler, Deep Impact had Tea Leoni, Morgan Freeman and Elijah Wood. Yeah. So as I sat there watching Tea Leoni as an MSNBC anchor describing how the rescue ship Messiah is about to drill into the comet to insert nuclear bombs in order to blow up the comet so that it veers from its course of Deep Impact, I began to cry. At first I shook it off, this was Deep Impact, a movie, and as far as I knew, no comet was currently hurtling to destroy me. But as the music swelled, and Astronaut Gus (played by Jon Favreau) was blown into deep space, my chest began to heave, my eyes watered, and I began a soft wail. OH NO, DEEP IMPACT. You will not Brokeback Mountain me!! That is when I decided to get up and build Owen’s toddler bed, because it is one thing to meltdown after Brokeback when pregnant, another to cry at Spiderman and Independence Day while not pregnant, but obviously PMSed, but not Deep Impact. No way, no how.

Overly Psychotic. Before the football games yesterday John and I rushed to the park with Owen to give him some fresh air time before his parents hunkered down for their Sunday fix of football and fun. Although in hindsight, given the performance of a certain New England football team, I think we should have stayed at the park. At this park, there are often children’s parties, so you will see parents early in the morning setting up for their kid’s birthdays. We arrived at the park at 9:30 to see two guys decorating one side of the park in balloons, red ribbons, and a piñata. That is when this lady came and said - “Excuse me, but where else can you set up.” Now these gentlemen had obviously claimed that area, and told her other areas with tables were claimed by another. “But I have 40 people coming.” cried Mommy Dearest. It was at this point, the hormonal anger in me surged. So you have 40 people coming to a park for a birthday, and you decide to show up to claim tables at 9:30. Stupid bitch. Normally, I could care less - I really don’t plan on having any birthday party for Owen until his 21st. So, there is that. But the lack of planning by this woman was so infuriating. Because if it was me, I would have been up at 5:30 a.m. claiming spots, because you know 40 people (adults included), love to hang out in the middle of the park on the two benches that you now are forced to claim. I think the best part is when she said “Okay, well I guess we will have to have a person up there to direct people over to us.” This is not Yellowstone lady, it’s a kid’s park, that I could probably crawl the length of in a minute. But you get your director of traffic. Geesh. John had no idea why I was so angry, but I was, and I guess still am. Furious Anger!

So yes, be prepared from some fun with my new bipolar mind. Yesterday, as I was cleaning up from football, I spilled a half full beer off the counter, and I swear to God, if I did not want to punch a wall and kick a kitten. Then cry, of course.

For the Love of God . . .

I recently got invited to a birthday party for a two year old. Please hold back your screams of jealousy. It was an Evite. I love these things because you get to read things like the following “Sorry we can’t make it, but our babymoon is scheduled for that weekend.” Are you faithful reader not aware of the babymoon? Well, urban dictionary describes it as:

Mandatory vacation for both parents before the live birth of a child. Maybe a weekend, maybe a week. Requires the male end of conception to pay for all expenses out of his pocket. Travel, lodging, preferably at a seaside hotel, and gifts (to the mother to be, not the baby,) are an absolute necessity. Eases away the stress and woe of pregnancy.

Oh really? You know what I define it as - stupid. You know what else is stupid - push prizes. The only thing I wanted after pushing Owen into the world was him. And maybe a new vagina. But babymoons and push prizes? When did men get so pansy assed to put up with this utter nonsense. I mean isn’t it enough that they are forced into the delivery room instead of drinking and smoking at a bar telling the other drunks that they are about to have a baby. Also, how awkward would the following conversation be:

Person: Oh Cassie, what a lovely necklace. Where did you get it?
Me: John, he got it for me.
Person: Birthday? Anniversary?
Me: Ah, no.
Person: Just because?
Me: Well, if you have to know if was for squeezing Owen out of my vagina. It’s called a push prize. I also pushed out a poop, but I think this is just for the baby. But maybe not.
Person: Nice, I am going to leave now.
Me: Okay!

So maybe I am betraying another secret girl code that I was not privy too because of my tomboy nature, but let me say I am not partaking even if it would mean diamonds and beach vacations. Wait a second, can I retract everything I just said.

Maybe Lasik Is Not So Bad Afterall . . .

In case you did not know, I wear glasses, and am pretty much blind without them. As evidence of this psuedoblindness, I just received the following IM from John:

...so i just got out of the shower. while taking my shower, i noticed something strange in the tub. it turned out to be a poop. so that means that either owen pooped in there last night and it's been sitting in there this whole time (and you showered in there with it...ummm....ewww...) or you pooped in there this morning. which is it cassie? enquiring minds want to know.

Let me just blame this on my eyes, Mr. Bubble and not my incontinence.

Maternity Clothing - My True Dilemma

I do not think there is anything more depressing than maternity clothes shopping. Well maybe attending a funeral, but if it is my family that usually involves drink and food and laughs. So again, maybe it is maternity clothes shopping. And I don’t really find it depressing in the sense of “Wow, I can’t wait to put this on so that I can look like a gigantic peach.” But rather depressing in the sense that I repeatedly said to myself, “Wow. I really hope I can still wear this after the baby is born, super cute!” Also, I said it before, and I will say it again. I love elastic waists. Who needs zippers and buttons and potential muffin tops, when there is cute maternity wear? I ask you this?

Pregnancy Is A Funny Thing

There you are with an itty bitty person growing inside you. You are the vessel controlled by surging hormones and too tight pants. You are the victim of morning sickness and cravings. You are no longer are alone. Things about being pregnant that I have recognized this week:

What is it about meat? I have had two meatball sandwiches in the past three days, one from Toaster Oven and one from Gambinos New York Style Subs, because someone told me that they were much better. A normal person would say, I will get that meatball sandwich next time I crave it - say in 3 months. A pregnant person says. You don’t say, Gambino’s, eh? And then proceeds to think about said sandwich for the next 20 hours. How big are the balls? Is the sauce good? Is the cheese provolone or mozzarella? Is the bread super soft? Conclusion - I like the Toaster Oven better. I am unsure if this actual due to the meatballs or the fact that I in general hate anything associated with New York.

Someone in the office, who knows I am with beastie, said the following to me. “Cassie, have you lost weight? Your face is thinner.” Needless to say, after I dove upon this woman in flurry or kisses, hugs, and inappropriate office touching, I felt blissfully good. I do not think it is often the pregnant are given praise for their weight loss, but hallelujah I was. And do not think this is not going upon my gravestone:

Here Lies Cassandra Michelle Catherine McCall
Born October 30, 1973
Died TBD
Was once told during her second pregnancy, her face looked thinner. Also, loved the Pats. Considers the day Matt Cassel hoisted the MVP Superbowl trophy a day of pure awesomeness. Hopes she gets to haunt people.

I think I need to retire my button and zipper pants, because right now I am wearing a pair that castrating my mid-section. Is my face purple? Because I think it is. I must unleash the belly. I must!

Ham, A Love Story

Today is a great day. Not only has my seven month separation from my true love ended (hello NFL) but I have finally, after six weeks of obsessing, decided to make a baked ham. I desire ham crazily, pretty sure it has to do with this life growing in my belly. Please note that my last foray into haminess probably occurred circa 1998. It is in my thoughts at least three times a day. Dreamingly, I ponder the heavenly taste of it dipped into buttery mashed potatoes and then driven into my hungry wanting mouth, over and over again. I imagine there is no greater joy to me at this time than that of a freshly baked ham with cloves and pineapple. Saturday I have a date with destiny, until then I will drool and daydream. At the supermarket, after a careful and probably fraught filled selection process of the bone-in ham, I will pick up my love and dance a disco of delight. Shall I crochet a cozie for its journey home? Perhaps. Will it mind me peeping at it through the oven while it cooks in its juices and coca-cola (my mother swears by it)? Of course not. Will Owen or John get a single bite? I don’t know. Will I change my name to Hamzilla? It does have a ring to it. Will I eat it all in fit of ravenous desire? Most assuredly. Oh ham, I love you so. I can't wait until Saturday. Ham, sweet precious ham.