Saturday, August 27, 2005

Lost: Sense of Humor. Large Reward if Found

I'm to the point now where you're just better off not messing with me. If you see me, just pretend you didn't, cross the road and run about 10 blocks before turning around to make sure I didn't spot you.

I'm not kidding.

Because if you don't and you happen to say the wrong thing, you will be killed.

I've been blessed with a really great pregnancy. No morning sickness, no nausea (except for the time Sweetie Pie didn't empty the trash for a few days and the smell of rotting limes made me hurl food consumed 10 hours previously), reasonable weight gain (which considering I lived off cans of Pringles my first trimester is truly amazing) and very high level of energy.

But now I'm in the homestretch, and I'm like one of the last few people left on Survivor island. I'm weathered and tired of living off coconuts and rice and I'm wondering who I still have to destroy to win this fucking thing and get to go home.

Really, I'd be fine if I could sleep my usual eight hours a night (which I didn't do for three days, then actually got a whole night's sleep Thursday night and today, I'm up after only 6 hours at an ungodly hour for no reason), didn't have a 22 pound watermelon strapped to my stomach that makes laying down or sitting in a relaxed position uncomfortable, didn't waddle everywhere and feel like this baby is going to fall out of me if I stand too long, and if it wasn't hotter than freaking hell all the freaking time. I mean why oh why does Satan choose Texas as his summer home? 110 degrees with the heat index is not human. And with pregnancy hormones, it feels like about 130.

All these things add up to me not having much of a sense of humor these days and being ultra sensitive. My parents live far away, since I'm obviously not from here if you haven't been keeping up. This is their first grandchild and I expect them to want to take the four hour flight and spend every possible minute with what will surely be the most perfect baby in the whole world.

My dad happens to have a business trip end of September in Dallas, so he's using that as his opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. Which is fine by me. Except that I would have thought that he would have extended his trip through a weekend to spend more time with us. But apparently my father's a busy man, which I understand, but not even one day??? And then I would have expected him to want to stay with us, since we have a brand new guest room that my boy cat has not had a chance to deface yet, since we keep the door closed to it. But my father claims that he'll just be in our way and it's much easier for him to be at a hotel 45 minutes away from us (because apparently there aren't many hotels in Dallas, don't you know) and that his company's paying for it anyway, so it's better this way. So he told us originally that he'd come by two of the evenings he was in town to see us and the baby. Not exactly grandfather of the year stuff, but hey, it's what the man can do, right?

But then last night, he sends me an email letting me know that he'll come by to see the baby on the 20th and that if we can find a babysitter, we can meet him for dinner on the 21st.

Excuse me????

A babysitter????????????????????????????????

I'm going to be induced on September 8th because it looks like baby boy's managed to get himself a 50" big screen TV in my womb and has no interest in coming out into the real world.

And so my own father, the man who supposedly rocked me for hours on end 30 years ago is now expecting me to find someone to watch my 13 day old baby, his grandson, who will be nursing and who's mother has been told repeatedly by the midwife, the birth instructor and most of the world not to even attempt to bottle feed him until he's a month old or else he'll need a lifetime of therapy to get over his nipple confusion. Not that my father knows about nursing, but still.

I want to give my father the benefit of the doubt and think he was joking or is simply a man. But somehow I don't have this in me right now. Instead I want to let out a tirade that would make pirates and the parrots on their shoulders blush.

It would be one thing for a friend of mine with no kids and no interest in mine to send me an email and say something like "hey, I figure you could use a break from the kid by the 20th. You want to find a sitter and I'll take you out for hard alcohol?" I'd laugh at their attempt to be a good friend and tell them sweetly that not only will I still be adapting to the world around me by then, that I won't quite be ready to leave my new baby with someone but that I'm sure sometime in October I will be ready for a couple of hours away and will definitely want hard alcohol.

But coming from someone who Baby Boy will be calling some French version of grandpa? Nope, can't find the humor there.

I actually called both of my sisters to cry about it. That's how upset I was. I just couldn't bring myself to call a friend, because I felt like I'd be admitting my father's a horrible grandfather and one of them would report him to the bad grandfather government branch. But now I've done that here, so I guess I did it anyway.

Love,

Catwoman.

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