Fun With Play-Dough

I know why G-d invented hormones; it’s not hard to figure that one out. He wants us to have babies, and apparently, he thought –at one point in time- that we should start at 14. Nowadays, with longer life expectancy and all that, some of us choose to wait a little longer. What I don’t know is why these hormones have to be so disruptive.

Especially for pregnant women, things can get out of control. While PMS is merely a bump in the road, pregnancy hormones cause whole pieces of interstate to be missing.

Hormones make the pregnant woman crazy, unreliable, high strung, and eager to take her frustrations out on someone else. They cause a constant state of turmoil and irritation; they make the pregnant woman doubt herself, her husband, her life, until even the most accomplished business woman locks herself in the bathroom for hours and tries to drown herself in the toilet bowl.

Naturally, they make pills for when things get out of hand, but unless you want your baby to be born a stoner, it’s not a good idea to take those during pregnancy. Also, I secretly think there’s nothing on the market strong enough to battle these specific hormones; by the time you chemically slow down the pregnancy roller coaster, you might as well be in a coma. Not an ideal situation, no. They say if you’re carrying a girl, it’s worse because you have a double dose. I don’t know if that’s true; frankly, it sounds like an old wives’ tale.

So what to do when you find yourself laughing hysterically one minute, and telling your husband to get the hell out the next? What to do when you feel the urge to yell at strangers, cut people off in traffic, or throw a rock through the Television because you are just so damn irritated something’s got to give?

One thing you should definitely work on is your pregnancy wardrobe. Make sure people can see you’re carrying a baby, whether you’re in your first month or your eighth. People will forgive pregnant women almost anything. It’s even better if you look hot. So slap on that make-up, stop whining about how your stilettos make your feet hurt, and for god’s sake, don’t even think about touching that jogging suit. You can’t have it both ways: a bitch in sweat pants doesn’t evoke sympathy from anybody, and sympathy is what you need when you act like this. And please, call your hairdresser; you’ve had your hair in the same scrunchy for three weeks straight.

Once you’ve taken care of yourself, you can go out into the world and unapologetically piss everybody else off. Go ahead, cut in line. You can’t help it; you’re pregnant. If part of you starts to feel sorry for anybody that gets in your way, ask yourself: do they get up five times a night because they have to pee? Do they throw up after every meal? Well then. Also, once the baby arrives, you’ll have to be responsible. This is the one time in your life when you can act as crazy and irrational as you want. Until Menopause, that is.

My brother and sister-in-law are expecting their first child in September. I must say, it’s very nice to wait for someone else’s baby to arrive; not to even speak of the fact that I’m enjoying the idea of my brother finding out for himself how weird our genes are. My own children are lovely, but a bit wicked. I have no doubt his will be the same.

The hardest part about this “sideline pregnancy” is the urge to give advice. I’ve been through it all, I have been a mom for almost seven years; I know everything. Of course, in reality I know and understand absolutely nothing, but that doesn’t squelch the tendency to tell the expectant parents what to do, what to feel, what to look forward to.

In order to avoid driving them crazy and becoming the least favorite family member within three weeks after conception, I’ve promised myself I will not call them every single day. Also, I will not share too many annoying stories about my own children; after all, they might still be hoping for one that’s totally sweet and pliable. A child that listens, and says ‘please’ and ‘thank’ you all the time. A child that doesn’t put hand soap in his hair five minutes after his bath, because he wants to wash his hair again. A child that doesn’t draw on every wall, or peels off all the wallpaper. A child that is asleep by seven every night, and doesn’t wake up until you’ve had your first cup of coffee in the morning. A child that is potty trained at two years of age. A child that wipes and flushes and washes his hands every single time. In short, a child that behaves.

They must be sort of like Wolverines: in spite of the fact that I’ve never met one, I know they exist. I wish my brother could have one of these good children, from the bottom of my heart, truly, I do.

Unfortunately, I just don’t think it’s in the cards. That’s okay; even if your children are unbelievably naughty, you can still love them very much. There are also many ways to justify the bad behavior, as in “I know she seems naughty, but she’s just really creative! How else did she think of (fill in the blank)” or “No, my child doesn’t play with other kids well, but from what I’ve read, neither did Mozart.”

Don’t laugh; this is the way of thinking that has saved many a parent from despair. It’s the unwritten rule of parenting: revise, revise, revise. I have no doubt my brother and sister-in-law will become masters at it, because their child will be every bit as naughty, creative, and intriguing as mine. The only question is, will it be as cute?

PS yes, that’s a picture of my son. 

I’ve noticed the search “pregnant and bored” shows up on my website often. Apparently, pregnant women get bored a lot. I personally don’t remember this about being pregnant; I haven’t been bored in so long, I don’t even know if boredom is an urban myth or wishful thinking at this point. I do remember –vaguely- there was a lot of waiting involved during the last month or so, and I remember watching inordinate amounts of bad television, so I’m guessing I wasn’t too sure what to do with my time.

Oh, for a little boredom now. I would gladly trade some of the less attractive aspects of parenting for an hour of doing nothing here or there. Take this morning for instance, when, at 7 am, I woke my daughter up for school and she refused to get dressed. By 5 minutes past eight, she finally came downstairs, with no time to spare for breakfast, unless I wanted to be late myself. She went hungry, something for which she had not quite forgiven me when I picked her up eight hours later.  This is nothing new; when you wake my daughter up in the morning, you never know what you’re going to find. Some days she is the absolute picture of loveliness, other days she is as cranky as a hungry barn cat. Dull and boring, never; I wish.  You don’t know how truly nice predictability can be until you live with a six-year-old.

I think being bored while waiting for your child to be born is like that impatience we feel when we’re truly young, and can’t wait to become adults. We are so focused on all we think is good about being grown up, we forget there is a price to be paid for all this freedom. With being able to come and go as we please comes a job and a big fat mortgage. That doesn’t mean you’re a bad person for wanting to give birth already; nine months is, after all, a freakishly long time to carry around all that extra weight.  The problem with the pregnancy boredom is that all the fun stuff you now have time for requires energy. That pile of books you meant to read? Can’t focus. Those DVD’s still in their shrink-wrap? Don’t care.  All that shopping you meant to do, those borders you still want to put up in the baby room? Pa-leeze.  All you are motivated to do is put your big swollen feet up and bitch; even sleeping is too much trouble during the last month of pregnancy.

So what do you do when you find yourself in this position? One thing to consider is reading to your unborn child. She can already hear you, and language skills are incredibly important to a child’s development. Also, children’s books are perfect for your attention span right now. If you haven’t started building a children’s library yet, now’s a great time to start. Amazon does that one-click thing: minimum effort, maximum benefit.

Internet shopping period is a great way to waste your time and your money. Once baby has arrived, you’ll feel guilty spending any money on yourself, so strike while the iron’s hot. Your husband won’t dare to complain; by now he’s pretty comfortable with the whole “don’t argue-she’s pregnant” way of thinking.

Can you still eat? Have friends come over to your house and cook you fantastic gourmet-type meals.

Hire a masseuse to make house calls. You might also look for people to come to your house and give you pedicures, manicures, or haircuts; whatever floats your boat. If you pay them enough, they’ll come; you won’t have to get off your couch to feel fabulous.

Now is a great time to re-watch all those eighties movies you love so much. You already know them by heart; they don’t require any kind of attention span. (Bueller…Bueller?)

Even the most bloated and exhausted pregnant woman can still exercise her mouth. Forget those Lamaze-exercises; practice saying parental things instead. “Because I am your mother” should roll of the tongue easily before your baby has his first birthday.

If you’re a real trooper, read the papers so you can freak the nurses out when you are in the hospital. They’re not used to pregnant women going on and on about current affairs, believe me.

If you do all these things, maybe you won’t regret wasting all this fantastic me-time once you finally do give birth.

There are two types of false labor.

There are the times when you think, this is it, and you call your support, you race to the hospital, they check you in, and it all turns out to be nothing but a storm in a shot glass.  If this has happened to you, don’t feel bad: you’re in good company.  Because no woman since the beginning of creation has been able to give a clear description of what actual labor feels like, we’re all just guessing. Plus, by the time you’re close to that nine-month mark, your nerves are so frayed that you can feel a sneeze coming on and think your water broke.

Who even knows what a contraction feels like before they’ve had any experience? There are a lot of ways to describe getting hit by a freight train, being ripped in half, or feeling like a wrung-out towel. Yes, we get it, it hurts. But when you’re pregnant, there’s a lot that hurts, and who knows whether that pain you’re feeling in your gut is the onset of labor, or the result of that taco you ate last night?  So you play it safe, go to the hospital, where they will shake their heads and send you home.  There you sit on your couch, with the remote in your hand. You’d like to watch a movie, but you don’t have the energy to get up, so you flip channels. There’s nothing on at 4 am, so you end up watching Full House reruns, wondering whatever happened to the Olson twins.

And you solemnly swear to yourself that next time you go to the hospital, it will be for real.  Unfortunately, you find yourself in the exact same position three days later (it’s those damn Braxton-Hicks contractions, how are you supposed to tell the difference?) and the medical personnel treats you nice, and says things like It’s okay, we see this all the time. Don’t worry about it! Of course, their eyes tell an entirely different story; they think you’re stupid and hysterical and decide for the gazillionth time that they just have to change careers, right now, so they won’t have to deal with you ever again.

The hardest part about labor is waiting. You’ve already waited for so long, and it’s not just your imagination, those last days really do take forever. Having said that, it’s easy to see why pregnant women fall for the false labor signs so easily; a trip to the hospital covers at least a few hours, and what else are you supposed to do to entertain yourself? You’ve already yelled at your husband 5,726 times, none of your friends still want to talk to you because you have nothing new to say, and even your own mother has her cell phone permanently set to voicemail.

The second type of false labor happens when you want to get rid of visitors, or you are forced to go somewhere and you really want to leave. You pretend, and if you’re ballsy enough, this can be done as soon as you are seven months along. Put your hands on your lower back; put your hands on your stomach; go to the bathroom and splash just enough water on your face to make it look like you’re sweating. Refuse all food.  Sigh deeply, pretend to have a cramp. Most people don’t know what to expect, and those of us who know what labor is like won’t dare argue with a woman who says: “It’s Time.” Honestly, this will get you out of anything with lightning speed; just writing about it makes me almost sorry I’m not pregnant anymore. It’s such a handy excuse to have.

People that are visiting will want to help; you need to tell them your husband is on the way and right now you’d like to lie down and be alone. If you are somewhere else, make sure you have a trusted friend available, who can pretend to drive you to your hospital.  Otherwise you won’t know who is going to volunteer, and then you are stuck. Once in the car, you can go shopping or see a movie. If you run into any of these people later, you just tell them you were having BH contractions; they’ll understand. Or not; who cares?

The only advice I can give you about all this labor business is this: when labor really starts, you’ll know. You really, really will. 

I think.

Maybe.

You went for that check-up and found out the gender of your baby; congratulations, you can finally decide on a name and finalize the décor in the nursery.  In case you are having a boy, there are certain things to consider.

This is a good time to take a closer look at your homeowners insurance; also, if you own any glass tables, get rid of them now. You can’t have those around boys, whether they’re two, or seventeen years old.

One big advantage: no need to worry anymore about decorating the baby room; paint the walls blue and call it good. More is not required, since pretty things will be destroyed as soon as baby can walk. You might want to put some pillows on the floor; boys will climb on anything, and can scale walls with their bare hands. They’ll need something soft to fall on.

Find all things that are remotely stick shaped (brooms, snow shovels, curtain rods, you name it) and lock them in the garage. If you own a baseball bat, take it to goodwill. Little boys will sense it if there’s a bat hiding somewhere and break down the door to get to it. Then they will use it to go after either the fish tank, or your head.

Wet wipes need to be everywhere, not just next to the changing table. Keep them at your desk, in the kitchen, the basement, and the living room; keep them in your car, your dining room, anywhere baby will go. You’ll use them five times as much if your baby is male; at the age of five, it sort of evens out.

Take boxing lessons; it’s a handy way to learn self defense, which mostly consists of being fast on your feet. You need to know how to duck, or you will get punched and have your hair pulled constantly.

Boys like a place to hide; maybe it’s that caveman-thing. They want something that roughly resembles a fort; sometimes a sheet thrown over the dining room table is enough. Once inside their ‘fort’, they don’t do anything exciting or secretive, although they’d like us to believe they do. Mostly they just sit there. Hiding. Thinking about god-knows-what.

Boys instinctively know how to kick a soccer ball smack in the middle of the flowerbed that you just planted yesterday. They never miss.

Boys will not potty-train unless you threaten to throw away their favorite toy; don’t wait too long with that. A twelve-year-old who still needs a diaper is unattractive and won’t have any friends. You want him to make friends; it guarantees he will be out of your hair at least part of the time.

Boys will laugh hysterically when they burp or pass gas; it’s genetic. They miss that oh-so important extra X-chromosome; you guessed it, the chromosome that holds the key to manners, shopping, and the ability to pick up your dirty socks and place them in a hamper.