I Swear

Here are a few things I swear I will never do as a parent.

1. I swear I will never let my young child wander through a Wal-Mart parking lot barefoot (older children are on their own; they should know better).

2. I swear I will never take my two-year-old to an R-rated movie full of cussing, subtitles, and gunshot wounds to the head. And, no, covering his face with a shirt when things get a little too gorey does not excuse your decision. On a side note, "The Kingdom" is definitely a movie worth checking out with your adult friends and relatives.

3. I swear I will never apply for the WIC (Women, Infants, and Children) program while driving around my tricked-out, double-cab Ford F150 with tires the size of mini-coopers.

Now that I've been all judgemental and snooty, I'll list the mistakes I fully expect to make as a parent time and time again.

1. I will be hypocritical. I will tell people I will not spoil my child and shower him or her with material items, then go crazy at Target buying things that are oh-my-gosh-that-is-just-too-cute!!!

2. I will lose my temper. Again, and again, and again. I like to think I can maintain my cool at most times, but on occasion, I can lose it. My dad likes to remind me of this on a regular basis (usually in reference to "peeling" out of the driveway). But believe me, it wasn't easy growing up as Chuck's daughter. I just hope my anger and frustration doesn't manifest itself in an unhealthy way - you know, like lashing out at some poor, unsuspecting husband, dog, or whatever innocent creature stands in my way.

3. I will have unrealistic expectations. Just because I quit about three different instruments and five sports does not excuse my child from becoming a baseball/violin/mathematics prodigy. It is my child's responsibility to make up for all my shortcomings otherwise he/she will have to eat dog food and sleep on the roof. I'm kidding! Mostly.

In all seriousness, I know I'm not going to be the worst mom in the world. Probably not the best, but I've been lucky enough to have some good examples to follow. I hope I'm like my mom - always calm and collected, and down-right smart; I hope I'm like Andy's mom - creative and instilling the love of animals into any kid she comes in contact with; and I hope I'm like Ralphie's mom (from "A Christmas Story") - incredibly understanding and forgiving, a doting wife, and not willing to put up with any crap, like the glowing sex lamp.

So Loved

I have never believed that material items can truly display one's love and affection for another. But this last week has presented an awfully strong argument against that standpoint. Last weekend my stepmother and stepsister held a baby shower for Andy and me. It was held in Huntsville at my dad's house. There was food, games, football, alcohol, more food, and the world's biggest cake. It was like an SEC gameday party and a baby shower all rolled into one. My two best friends from high school were there - the first time we've all three gotten together since Lindsey's wedding over three years ago. My uncle and aunt arrived from Atlanta toting a relic from the Frew family past (an awesome rocking horse crafted almost 100 years ago, most likely by the Amish). Dyer family friends from Chattanooga were there with embarassing pictures of pre-teen Andy in hand. And Dad's Sunday School class (including members I've never met before) showed up in droves to show their support. Once everyone left, we were left with a dining room stuffed with gifts (and a long list of Thank You notes to write).

Yesterday, my friend Keesha threw me a surprise baby shower here in Auburn. She got quite a few people in on the gig and, boy, was I surprised. I thought I was just going for an ordinary lunch with my friend Emily, but when I arrived at Ruby Tuesdays, there was a dozen ladies there cheering with balloons, cake, and the whole shebang. I was embarrased and instantly regretted not having showered that morning (don't worry, I at least took a bath the night before). It was fun and they showered Baby Dyer with more gifts (though, I guess that's the point of a 'shower').

So now, after all this showering (of gifts, not me physically), our nursery looks like a baby store exploded in it. We still have a few supplies to get, but it has become clear that our friends and family are not going to let our baby go without plenty of onesies, teething rings, travel accomodations, and soothing play things. We don't know much about our little heaven-sent gift, but we know that he/she is already so loved.

Things I Love, Things I Hate, Part 2

This is a follow up to my initial "Things I Love, Things I Hate" posting (August 23). This time I'll list the things I hate first, so I can end on a happier note.

Things I Hate

Need for sleep. I'm tired of being tired - I'm ready to have a nice, flat belly I can sleep on every night (another reason I don't want a C-section). My belly is too big to sleep on. When I lie on my side my shoulder or my back hurts. I'm not supposed to lie on my back (something about circulation and cutting of the baby's supply of oxygen - scary!). I've tried a variety of pillows in a variety of positions. What's a girl to do?

Superhuman sense of smell. I know I mentioned this in Part 1, but it really deserves a second go-round. Today I went to heat up part of my lunch in the microwave on the second floor of Comer and just about threw up all over myself. Someone had left their lunch in the microwave - it smelled like he or she had disemboweled a cow and tried to cook it in the microwave. Now, normally working with students and professors from around the globe is an enlightening experience, but dang, can some of the food those folks bring in smell funky. Now, for all I know, my Campbell's Soup at Hand can be just as stinky to them as their intestines-and-rice combo to me - but I seriously doubt it.

Carefree-No-More Freakouts. Commercials for cruise lines. Stories of alcohol-fueled freshman year hijinks. Pictures of camping in the Rocky Mountains. These are all things that remind us: Holy crap! We're never going to have fun again! No, I know that's not true, but gosh darn it, it's a little frightening thinking that our lives are about to change forever and suddenly we'll have this precious little human at the center of it all. When it comes time to plan our vacation, we won't be asking ourselves "where would it be cool to go explore this year?" Instead, we'll be asking "do you think airplanes will let us carry on a Pack 'n Play so we can go visit/crash on the couches of family members in Virginia?" We're about to have to acquire some serious compromising skills.

Things I Love

Personality possiblities. I love to think about all the different personalities my baby may end up with (but hopefully not all at once - I don't want a schizophrenic after all). Will she/he be quiet and pensive? Or cheerful and rowdy? If baby gets Andy's ADD and my OCD, what kind of life is he/she in for? Maybe the kid will get lucky and get Andy's charm and sensitivity, my knack for logic puzzles and celebrity trivia, and our combined passion for animals and wildlife. I think that would be a pretty fantastic little kid.

Party in my belly. I love, love, love feeling baby rockin' and rollin' in my womb. It's especially fun when it's strong enough that other people can see it. When it's wiggling all over the place, it's telling me two things: "Hey momma, I'm here and I'm doing great!" Most of the time baby is only super-active during early afternoon. Sometimes he/she moves at night, but rarely. Except at 3 a.m. last night when Domino tore a shelf off our foyer wall (don't ask how) and Sullivan got very upset and did his mean bark. Andy and I got up to make sure everything was ok. Apparently baby wanted to join in on the fun because she/he began rolling around for a while. But even in the middle of the night, it thrills me to no end.

Celebration of Me! How often in your life does everyone in the world want to know how you're doing, how you're feeling, and what your plans for the future are? Friends, strangers, people that don't like you - they are all curious about these things and aren't afraid to let you know it. You get to have baby showers and devote entire blogs to yourself! You get to be vain and talk about yourself - but because you're carrying around a fleshy watermelon and waddle when you walk up the stairs, people think your selfless and a pseudo-hero. It's great!

Deja Vu

Man, I'm tired. Boy, does my head hurt. Gee, this reminds me of my first trimester. Only this time I fit into a fraction of my clothes and tying my shoes is a real pain in the butt. T-minus 92 days, people.

Apparently, I'm Boring

I had a checkup today with the doctor. I had my blood sugar tested. I was told I am boring. Medically speaking, that is. Like airplane rides and trips to the DMV, you want doctors' visits to be uneventful, right? My blood sugar is fine, my blood pressure is good, my weight gain is normal (really? 23 pounds already is normal?), and my uterus growth is on schedule (27 centimeters - whatever that means). Even my "problems" are mundane (back pain and heartburn, whoopi!). So I should be happy, right? Well, I am. But a tiny, weird, selfish part of me wishes that something would be sort of wrong (but not really) so I can get more ultrasounds or visit the doctor more often and listen to the heartbeat. I also can't help but wonder, if everything is going so swimmingly right now, am I bound to suffer some horrid fate come D-Day (Delivery Day)? Am I going to be the patient all the other patients are wispering about ("I heard she's been here 52 hours, needed three epidurals, and had two episiotomies!")? Oh, I'm sure everthing will be alright. I just hope I'm not SO boring, my doctor becomes complacent, forgets about me, and I have to deliver in the hallway of EAMC with only a very frightened (and possibly drunk) Andy by my side.

Boy or Girl?

The number one question I get, from strangers and acquaintances alike, is whether the baby is a boy or a girl. It's strange how much this one simple trait seems to define so much. Thank God we're no longer living in a society that gives books to our children titled "Men are Doctors; Women are Nurses." But that's not to say we've overcome all notions of 1950s gender roles. I recently attended a panel discussion on campus titled "Raising a feminist child in a conservative state." It got me thinking about my own perceptions and how they will reflect in my new role as a mother. To be honest, I'm not sure how I'm going to respond if my daughter comes to me and says she's going to play football for Auburn one day or if my son announces his intentions to join the flag corps. I'd like to think I'll be 100% supportive of any and all goals my children set for themselves, as long as they are not harmful to anyone. But in reality, I have my own brand of sexism that is apparent when I consider my reasons for wanting a boy or a girl.

Why I want a boy:

1. Andy's side of the family only has a granddaughter.

2. Boys seem easier to raise than girls.

3. During my short stint as a day care teacher, I liked the boys as a group better.

4. Because of his back and neck problems, Andy was not allowed to play contact sports (ie: football). Having a boy would allow him to live vicariously through the athletic pursuits of our sure-to-be child prodigy.

5. Boys don't squeal, scream, or shriek at the same brain-piercing level that girls do.

6. There aren't enough sweet, respectful, caring yet still very guyish boys out there. I was lucky enough to marry one. It would be nice to raise one, too.

7. Boys can't get pregnant.

Why I want a girl:

1. My side of the family only has grandsons.

2. Girls are less rowdy than boys.

3. Girl clothes are WAY cuter than boy clothes.

4. I know how tough it is to be a 13-year-old girl and I like to think that my experiences can help be be more empathetic and forge a stronger bond with our daughter. If she's talking to me, that is.

5. I'm not sure why, but I think I can mold a girl intellectually more easily than I can a boy.

6. Though I'm not into designer clothes and makeup, I do love to shop. It would be nice to have someone to go shopping with that I don't have to liquor up beforehand.

7. If we have a girl, she will be a Daddy's girl. I know it and I would love to watch as that bond forms and grows. Plus, there's just something sexy about a cute guy with his little girl.

Now before anyone goes and posts a comment saying that boys can be just as difficult to raise as girls or that girls can play sports too, please note that I have already admitted that these lists are woefully sexist and based entirely on presumptions. I'm sure this won't be the last time I'm completely wrong about something. The truth is, I don't know what I'm having, but I'm sure I'll love it to bits and pieces no matter what. Early in my pregnancy I was so sure it was a girl. Now, most days, I think it is a boy. In my dreams it is usually a girl. Of course, the other night I had a dream in which I had two kids, the youngest was a boy, dressed in an Auburn cheerleading outfit (skirt and all), with three eyes. As long as we don't have a three-eyed baby, I think I'll be alright.

Fodderless

My sad lack of posting lately has not been due to a busy schedule. I've just been struggling for blog fodder (blodder?). I guess we've settled into a routine and things are going well for us (AU football notwithstanding). We've got the registry taken care of, the day care lined up, the nursery painted, and the crib assembled. Now what? I guess I need to get life insurance and we need to write a will, but that's boring stuff. My days largely consist of going to work and waiting to have a baby - isn't it a little early in the pregnancy to be thinking "ok, I've had enough, come on out already"? Don't get me wrong, I'm enjoying pregnancy and the excitement of what lies ahead. But it seems like as it drags out, I start thinking less about cute outfits and belly rasberries and more about spit up and sleepless nights (though, thanks to my back, those have already begun). It also amazes me how much I worry already about my kid - the dangerous intersection of University we'll traverse every morning on the way to day care, the black and brown (yes, brown) widows that have made our siding their home, and the scary, scary world we're bringing him/her into (this includes everything from Osama bin Laden to Britney Spears). I guess I need to find a coping mechanism or a hobby. I tried knitting, but even the most simple stitch patterns eluded me (I guess I didn't inherit my mom's amazing ability for crafts). I would love to do photography, but I'm too cheap to keep buying batteries for the camera that sucks the life out of them like it's a digital vampire; and I never actually print out any photos. Maybe I can fill my days by searching for "blodder." Then you wouldn't have to sit through more rambling nonsense like this.