Friday, February 24, 2006
This behavior is always received with some apprehension as Alby is not only big enough to make every other dog in the waiting room look like items on a poo poo platter laid out for his snacking pleasure, but his muscular build can intimidate a sixty year old woman waiting to have the anal ducts of her poodle "Ralph" drained. This is pair with enough impending stress, so I try to keep Alby focused on me until we are called back.
When we are called, he leaps from the bench and pulls me back towards the office with no recollection of the panic attack he had in that room 4 months ago. We stop at the scale for Alby to weigh in. He weighs 105 lbs. The tech is already shaking her head in disappointment as I pretend to be appalled at this weight gain, but secretly I feel glad that someone else is getting a head shaken at them on the scale at the doctor's office. She tells me that he has gained 8 lbs. Since they last saw him, and that his target weight is in the upper 80's lower 90's. Then she states that looking through his chart he hasn't weighed in the 80's since he was 2 years old he will be 5 this year. I tell her that we are obviously pregnant as a family, and that Alby often cannot help but find himself eating for two, as the two of us don't sleep at night and share all of our snacks. I think 8 lbs. is nothing, I've gained over 50 lbs. As I plan a more thorough defense for the weight gain of us both, Alby is already pulling towards the office.
We get into the office, he sits on one of the chairs and all of the blood rushes to his face. He immediately realized where he is, what he has done, what happened last time he was here, and that there is no getting out. He drools profusely. His eyes are bloodshot and his gums swell. The tech and I discuss his recent flatulence problems and the blood work he needs to have done to check on the status of his valley fever. She explains that she will take him into the back room where they do all of the blood work and surgeries and I nod in agreement, looking forward to reading the new issue of US in the magazine rack. She takes Alby's leash, walks toward the back door and comes to a dead stop as Alby will NOT walk willingly though that door. She asks if I could walk with him. I take the leash and head towards the back door, he turns and heads out the door we came in through, as if to suggest, "Or we could just leave, right mom?" I encourage him, assure him, walk him to the threshold of the back door and as he walks through it I stop. He realizes I am not with him, turns, and gives me the saddest doggy face I have ever seen in my life. Stunned silent his eyes pleaded to know why. Why would I do this to him? Hasn't he been a good companion? Shared my Cheetos, my strawberries, taken the wrap for some of my worst pregnancy gas? Why was I doing this to him?
Before taking him, the tech asked me if there was anything about him she should know and I said that she might want to put a muzzle on him while taking blood, just to be safe. When she came back in she actually said, "Well, we didn't need the muzzle, but you didn't tell me how strong he was!" As if she wasn't just in the hall when he weighted in at 105 lbs. Look at him!
The vet comes in, Alby's flatulence is again discussed at length as the vet tries to convince me to add a $40 liver test to the blood work to ensure he isn't farting because there is something wrong with his liver. I blame Dan, and say I cannot make money decisions without my husband's approval. It was only fun because it was so untrue.
On our way out to pay the bill Alby is sniffing a Shar Pei puppy, who cannot be a year old yet. I ask his 50 year old lady owner if this is alright. She says she doesn't know, but we'll see. "Either way", she says, "I need to socialize her more." I pull Alby away stating that she might want to practice "socializing" her dog with a dog that won't eat hers if it shows the slightest sign of aggression. Not to mention that no one seems to notice that it might be difficult for me to maneuver over 300 lbs. (Alby and my pregnant self combined) if the shit went down.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
I cannot say for sure what it was about pooping I enjoyed so much. Nor can I explain how during a time when I am at an all time pooping low we have managed to go through 7 rolls of double roll toilet paper in 4 days. Oh, that's right, I pee every 20 minutes. Here is my current pregnancy diet as of this week:
Special K with dried strawberries
Pulled pork sandwich
Prunes (regular and cherry essence)
Carne asada burrito
Egg and English muffin
Girl scout cookies
Juice (grape, cranberry, and orange)
Now, you tell me that this is not the diet of a person who should be shitting her brains out. I even have a special pooping posture I have learned to sit in to best unwind my intestines, but it is as if someone (read: 5 lb. baby) has her little foot on my intestine like a mindless gardener standing on his own hose. Of course she doesn't care, she's still brewing her first shit. She won't poop for another 6 weeks, meantime I am hold equal parts baby and shit. I don't want my baby to shit ratio to be so close in weight.
In the birthing class Monday I asked Nurse Mary Beth about the enema. When can I get mine ?She replies, "Oh, we don't do that." What do you mean you don't do that. "I told you last week, you just poop on the table, we lie and say you didn't, tell you it's just gas, and move along".
As you can imagine, this bitch is starting to bother me.
What I have yet to tell Dan is that now we will be doing our own enema at home in early labor. I imagine his first concern with that last sentence will be defining "we", then "our", Fine. I can do my own enema. I don't mind shitting on the table. At this point I wish that it was going to be Mary Beth there to scoop aside my poop at the birth, then maybe I wouldn't have an enema. I'd just deliver 6 weeks worth of back up shit into her baby grabbing paws. But she won't be there, and while I have found a way to be cool with the excrement, I do not want to be known as the woman who delivered twins, oh wait, no that's just her baby and 5 lbs. of poop.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Last night I dreampt that while Dan and I were in bed, and old lover of mine wandered into our bedroom to stake some claim on this pregnancy. He wanted Dan to know that I had been with him before Dan. This was true, in the dream, and my dates were confused - so I was trying to do the math to ensure this baby was mine and Dan's. I thought, "What if she's born and she's black?" This is funny because the old lover in my dream was not a black man, but a horse. I remember laying in bed with Dan trying to explain the relationship and Dan expressing no concern that I was fucking horses before our involvement.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Monday, February 06, 2006
When Dan and I decided to get married, we were living 1 block away from each other in Tempe. Dan lived with Fraz and I lived alone. The switch was an obvious solution - so Fraz took over my apartment and I moved into the 2 bedroom house with Dan. At the time I was sure I was getting the better deal, as my apartment was owned by an old lady whose son, daughter in law, and grandchild lived right next door to my apartment. This family hated Alby the dog, didn't like my smoking inside, and the landlady was constantly over there.
Little did I know that Fraz was escaping the slum-lord cocksucker that is Tim Wright. If you take more than 2 shits a day in this house, there's a fine. We are fined for when we do or do not mow our lawn, the length of our shrubbery, and the latest $95 went to pay for hiring landscapers to climb on our roof with chainsaws to trim back the huge tree in our yard. This falls under "yard maintanance". Needless to say I am looking for new residence.
What was once a casual, "Maybe we should re-read that lead paint clause now that we're pregnant" has become a vehement, "They're lucky all I will do is rent else where when what I really want is to burn this mother down".
Dan, as always is a good sport. I have finally gotten him to agree to leave breaking the lease, getting a deposit together for a new place, and coordinating moving up to me - which at a surface level may not seem fair, but let me tell you... I would rather do all of this than have to deal with that crazy eye twitch he gets just from worrying about one of the aformentioned items.
At the end of this pregnancy I realize I am no more grouchy than ever, and what I miss most, today of all days, is my ability to self mutilate.The masochist in me is makig the same face Alby makes whenever we construct another piece of baby furniture in front him, as if to say, "You are going to forget all about me aren't you?"
I miss the time in my life when I could go 5 fucking seconds without someone giving me advice. Just because you managed to get your self pregnant before me, and you've popped out a kid or two, does not negate all that I have acheived as a person. I am not nullified into some ignorant twat whose biggest asset is what her body will expel sometime in the next 2 months, and my ability to do so naturally.
That being said, I think this is also an important time to thank a certain mommy friend who wakes up to answer her cell phone at 6 a.m. on a Saturday because I am having my first Braxton Hicks contractions and trust no one else to confirm that this is OK. When I say on a scale of 1 to 10 these cramps are a 4, she responds with no hesitation and a giggle, "No they're not, they're maybe a 2". Which at the time is annoying, but later in the day is humbling. God knows if I didn't have someone to keep me humble through this whole pregnancy I'd be walking around like I was the first woman in the universe to give birth.