While I can't deny I was a huge fan of Alanis Morisette during my many college years, I have to say that I think she left out an important scenario in her pop hit "Ironic". Ps- I'm also not ashamed to admit I had my share of Sarah McLaughlin, Tori Amos, and the Indigo Girls albums twirling around in my discman during those years. Shutup and call me a "cornflake girl", but I had awesome hippie roomates and we drank lots of coffee at a place where this guy was working back in the day... so I guess I'm the cool one aren't I?? Where was I? Oh. College. Music. Alanis. I'm a little scattered these days what with having twice as many children as I did just three short weeks and one day ago, so you'll forgive me these little quirks and move right along like you know what's going on the same way I do. Alanis said life is ironic. Like rain and stuff on your wedding day and the man who died right after he won a million dollars and so on. By the way, it wouldn't suck to be that guy's wife. I'm pretty convinced that Alanis would've written a totally different song had she been a parent at the time. Sure ten-thousand spoons when all you need is a knife would suck, unless you know someone with ten-thousand chocolate Snack Packs. If I was in the nineties right now and knew what I do about growing some kids like I do these days, I'd write a song like Alanis Morisette's Ironic right before hers came out, but I'd include gems about motherhood and parenting.
Like how right after you figure out how your newfangled baby wrap-carrier thingie works and the baby is all snuggled and drooling against your giant, milky bosom nature calls like a wild beast and you suddenly have to take a giant poop like there's no tomorrow. Of course your inital thought is "well, I am pretty hands-free right now", but if you're at all ashamed to admit the thought crossed your mind to just go ahead and go with the baby strapped to your chest...then we have more in common than you're probably willing to admit in a public forum. (Call me.)
In other news, Sam is already eleven pounds. I guess that's what happens when you have a baby that sounds like a pterodactyl and eats every hour and a half. His little string-bean legs are turning into cute pink sausages (in a good way) and his chins and cheeks are chubby and ripe for the squishing.
I just got totally lost in blog-world and had to say outloud, "no, you cannot follow any more blogs, bitch". What the hell? I don't have time for this. I should be posting in my own blog right about now. Or feeding, burping, changing, enjoying my newborn child.
What's wrong with me?*
Sincerely, Clogged with Blogg
*rhetorical question, please don't answer. i have hormonal issues right now and really don't need your "candid" responses.
So you can see why it's taken so long for me to post. The days look a lot like these pictures and I find it incredibly hard to put Sam down for more than the time it takes me to pee or make a sandwich. (BTW, that is my husband's bare chest in the photo, not mine. I wax more frequently than he does...)
I have so many things I want to get off my chest about the labor and delivery. About how I fell in love with my husband all over again in new ways I never could have imagined while I squeezed the crap out of his hands and fingers and never once said, "you did this to me," like he predicted I would.
I want to remember the minutes (hours?) I lost in a blur of paranoid mania after I decided to try a little Stadol to ease my nerves while the contractions barely moved me from two centimeters to seven. Quite painfully, might I add.
I'm sure I'll have time to recall in detail the look on Jed's face when he first laid eyes on his first son and cried and tried to capture what moments he could with our little Nikon digicam without getting tears in the viewfinder. I was proud of him. I was proud for him.
And how tired I was after the tornado of nurses and doctors finally left us alone. The three of us. And how happy I was. I don't know how to find the letters in the alphabet and put them together into words that would make what we did together and what came of it- our perfect little boy- that would actually be a true representation of the day. Of the moments Jed and I looked at each other and at Sam and were speechless. Because I don't think there are words for that. Speechless.
I do, however, have some notes on the aftermath. The way it hurts your butt to cough for nearly a week after. And how it's absolutely necessary for you to wear a pad the size of a diaper in your underwear for just as long to catch the bloodbath. JG actually looked in the plastic baggie left for me in the bathroom at the hospital and said, "There's no pad things in here, Steph. Just diapers." If you'd like to know, shove your local phone book in your underwear and walk around for a day. It's practically the same feeling.
Well. I thought I wouldn't have the time to write anything. So I sort of hodge-podged it up a bit. The prince stirs and the princess is drooling over our homemade pizza with green olives and tomatoes on top. (mm.)
I miss this feeling of fingers on keys. I'm sure I'll get better at balancing my new duties as a mom of two soon enough and will be able to post more.