Monthly Archives: November 2013

Every Time I Start to Think How Grown Up I Am…

I end up calling my mom or dad in a panic and asking how to do something fairly simple. For instance, this morning, my car did not start. Which is crappy any day, but today is the day I am supposed to drive my pregnant butt 80 miles South to see my family for Thanksgiving. And my car just sat there, laughing at me. So I called my dad, freaking the heck out about what I’m supposed to do. And he asked “well, how are you going to get to work?” I, in my 100% rational state of mind, said something like “oh I’m not worried about work! I can walk to work! How am I going to get down there to see you guys?” I can walk to work. I really can. I’ve done it before. I did it today. I haven’t done it while 6 months pregnant before, which did occur to me, but I figured it would just take a few minutes longer and look super awkward. (It took about the same time as it always did and it totally looked super awkward.)

My dad says “call a mechanic”. I went on about how I couldn’t be there to wait for a mechanic, did he think I could find one that would come to me? I have no idea how we figured this out, but he got me to shut up long enough to waddle to work to call a mechanic. On my way to work, I text Tom “call my cell, it’s an emergency.” Didn’t hear back. Got to work about 15 minutes later (still on time!) and called his cell. No answer. Ok. So I Google the number for where he works, shriek something unintelligible into the phone, and the poor receptionist puts Tom on the phone. (I’m sure the receptionist wasn’t too perturbed. After all, it’s the mental health floor.) So I tell Tom my car won’t start. He asks me where I am. I said I’m at work. He asked how I got here. I told him I walked. And he was like “WHAT? WHY DIDN’T YOU CALL ME?” Um… because I could walk. And besides, I did just call you and you didn’t answer your damn phone! And I texted you 15 minutes before that to ask you to call me and you didn’t! So shuddup! Then we discussed what was going on, blah blah blah. So apparently, I’m supposed to call him if I need a ride to the house. And he’ll just leave work and come get me and take me to our house so my dad can pick me up if need be or I can drive if the mechanic can fix my car.

I Googled again to get the number of local mechanics. The very first one that popped up had “budget” “towing” and “repair” in the name of the company. I thought “Hey, that’s for me!” So I called them and they came and picked up my car keys from me at work and drove to my house and picked up my car and took it back to the shop. I call my dad and tell him all of this. We form a plan, you see, for every aspect of this process. When I should call my dad so we can figure out if he needs to come get me, how we’re going to pay for it, everything. It’s all good. Of course, I still haven’t heard back from the mechanic how much it’s going to cost and all that good stuff, so… yeah. That’s fun. And I just realized that my luggage is still in the trunk of my car, which is at their shop. So I need to at least get to my suitcase in the car. Ugh. I’ll figure it out.

But the point is, I’m not as grown up as I thought I was. I still need to call my dad and cry about every problem with my car. lol


I Know I Talk About This A LOT…

I know I brag on my bosses and my job a lot. I love them, so why wouldn’t I? But I received this email this morning and it made me grin ear-to-ear, so I had to share.

Alicia

 

I know often you come back to my office and chat about your hubby, your friends or family, so I really shouldn’t worry.  However, you know me.  We have such an informal office, that I just like to double check every few months that you are feeling comfortable with the work environment.  Heaven knows, I come up to the front desk enough to talk about politics, give advice, or to debate opinions on modern society or just tell war stories.  Notwithstanding, I just want to make sure that you feel comfortable in your work environment and that these discussions and/or rants are not stressful to you.  I know you have already indicated on numerous occasions (probably getting bored of it) that you really like this kind of work environment, however, I just want to double check.  As always, there are absolutely no consequences if you express that you would rather not chat about a particular topic, such as politics, etc.  If you feel uncomfortable saying something to me, you can tell(other boss).  If you feel uncomfortable about something (other boss) has said or done, you can tell me.  You will have our confidence and what ever is concerning you will be addressed.  I know this is probably far from your thoughts…if so, just consider this the every other month check in. 

 

(Boss)

Other Boss has been on vacation for two weeks, so this boss and I have been talking a good bit lately. Usually he divides his attention fairly equally between Other Boss and me. We’ve gotten a lot of work done, but it’s been pretty laidback the past couple weeks. And, apart from offering to buy a helmet for me while I’m at work (har dee har) they’ve been insisting on carrying the file boxes, climbing the ladders, and locking the door behind them when they leave me alone in the office after 3pm. They used to joke that if I died, they’d make sure Tom was taken care of. Now they insist on doing any kind of heavy lifting or other routine tasks that have the potential to hurt me. It’s totally the pregnancy. They’ve admitted it. I’ve gotten scolded for walking into the walls because I might hurt the baby, not myself (or the wall, which they used to tease me about). And while my lack of grace has been the source of much amusement for the entire time I’ve been working with them, the amusement is now tempered with a level of concern I hadn’t seen before.

In other news, Tom and I will be touring the maternity floor of the hospital tomorrow. I’m hoping to find out certain hospital policies and to check out the rooms. And their brand-new online pre-registration form doesn’t seem to be working. So I plan on pre-registering while we’re there. Every step we take to get ready for the baby, we’re both getting more and more excited. It’s so hard to believe that our due date is less than 16 weeks away. The third trimester is less than a month away.

I am so blessed to have the people I have in my life. My daughter is so blessed in her father and grandparents. I can’t wait to share this experience with Tom. 🙂


Oh, You Mean THESE Hormones???

As someone who has struggled with emotions and mood swings in the past, I try not to hold myself to everyone else’s standard of stability. Instead, I like to think “I may be reacting to this in a less-than-ideal way, but it’s much better than how I might have reacted before I was medicated/if I hadn’t thought this through/before I took a moment to try to understand why I feel this way.” And I figured that once I got pregnant, the hormones would throw me so far out of whack, I would have to struggle to find an even footing. I didn’t expect to be wading through a sea of OTHER pregnant women’s hormones and thinking “Man… I’m practically sane compared to these people.” HAHA But that’s what the birth board is good for! Among other things…

I’ve been doing SO well, in fact, that I have felt a bit superior to my fellow mothers-to-be as far as controlling my rage, tears and anxiety. Tom mentioned once that my ability to control this stuff might be stronger than other women’s because I’ve got way more experience. I mean, these women typically haven’t had to bite back the irresistible urge to spend every cent they have on cross-stitching patterns they’ll never use. Or run into the parking lot yelling “I’m a princess!” at the top of their lungs. Or decide to learn Italian and pursue a PhD in European history and move to Rome to study the Borgia family. You get my point.

I have been doing well. I feel very proud of myself for managing to keep it together. But every so often, I do something or react in a certain way that brings me down a rung or two. Like yesterday, Tom came to pick me up for lunch. I stood up and he went “Whoa”. “What?” I demanded. He then made a huge semi-circle gesture in front of his stomach with his hand, indicating that I have gotten very big. Well, I thought this was funny. And shared it on my birth board. And then a bunch of the other women started talking about funny things their tactless husbands/fiancés/boyfriends/partners had said to them about their sizes. Then one woman gets on there and goes off on how she can’t believe we’re all so insecure and sensitive. Of course we’re getting bigger, she says! We’re pregnant! Duh! We should just laugh it off when our husbands/fiancés/boyfriends/partners say things like that, because they’re not trying to be mean!

I began to see red. Like oh no you didn’t, bitch. You didn’t just misunderstand what I was saying and then JUDGE ME, DID YOU??? A few deep breaths later, I calmed down. But it took a minute and a lot of effort. It reminded me of the time a couple months ago when I became absolutely livid because my boss had stolen my pen AGAIN. (WHY CAN’T HE JUST USE HIS OWN PENS???) And then I remembered other moments when I was angry with Tom for one thing or another, hours of sleep I’d lost worrying about work, the fact that I flipped out on a client for asking me if I’d yet used a broom he saw in our office… So maybe I’m not really doing that well. But I’m doing well enough that the world hasn’t ended. Yet.

It might be a bit odd that I have looked at emotional control as a competition between me and the other women on the birth board. I have no reasonable excuse. But I will say this: I’m still winning. 😛


What with all this kicking and squirming…

Baby girl is now long enough that I can feel her punching me on one side of my tummy and kicking me on the other side. She’s also practicing football rushing, because she’s constantly head-butting me. It was cool at first, but now it kind of feels like… yuck

And that scares the crap out of me.

In other news, we recently discovered that one of our fellow posters on the birth board I often discuss was, in fact, LYING to us. She told us she’d given birth to her little boy at 23 weeks. He was in the hospital and doing well. She also said she was adopting the baby of her schizophrenic sister who drank while six months pregnant and tried to seduce the first sister’s husband. Interesting. Anyway, somehow someone came across a photobucket account with pictures of the baby this poster was passing off to be her own micro preemie. (It’s a real thing.) Somehow, a moderator was able to show that it was not HER photobucket account. So she made up all of this drama for attention on our birth board.

I must say, I was disappointed. This being my first pregnancy, and it feeling all Ripley-esque, I took comfort in the idea that I am now at 23 weeks and 3 days. If that woman’s baby could survive being born at 23 weeks, then my baby might have a chance, too, if something went wrong. But it was all lies.

A baby is considered viable at 24 weeks. I have only 4 more days until we are at that point. I will breathe a small sigh of relief, make faces when I feel her kicking me (like she’s doing now. Ouch!) and pray that I make it another 14-16 weeks. And no greater than 16 weeks. 40 weeks total is more than enough, thankyouverymuch.


Friends Who Think

We all have that one friend (or two friends, or however many) that worry more about the state of the world than we do. Unless we ARE that one friend, and then, God only knows how a person who worries more than you do would be able to function at all in society. I am NOT that one friend. I’m the one who invariably sits by and lets things pass while thinking “there is absolutely nothing I can do to change that. It bothers me, but it’s not like I can do anything, so I just won’t dedicate much time thinking about it.” Yes, I’m a slacktivist. I care. I just don’t care enough to do anything other than vocalize my opinions when I have them and click “like” on Facebook when the subject comes up.

Now see, that kind of disappoints me. I used to volunteer to advocate for the rights of victims of domestic violence. I rarely get that opportunity anymore, seeing as how I’m now paid to work on the other side of the aisle. This doesn’t make me a hypocrite. That abusive partner is a victim of some kind of circumstance, too. And he or she needs help. And there are so many programs through the legal system that are set up to shepard the willing into counseling and rehabilitate them. And sometimes I come home at night needing to wash the day and the guilt off of myself because, every so often, we get the narcissist who believes that, despite the abuse he or she inflicted, he or she is the victim. Sometimes we get the sociopath who doesn’t see any wrong in his or her actions and does not empathize with the people he or she hurts. And sometimes we get the hypocrite, who will blame others and continue his or her behavior.

I always object when I see a meme making fun of Rhianna for being abused by Chris Brown. People always tell me that I shouldn’t take things so seriously. That I shouldn’t be spoiling their fun. That I need to get over my own personal experience, shove aside everything that I know about domestic violence and abuse, and just learn to laugh at the pain and misfortune of others. I once got really pissed off and said “Don’t you see that you’re angrier at me for trying to explain how this meme hurts attitudes toward domestic violence, and thereby victims of domestic violence, than you are about something that is ACTUALLY hurting them? You care more about laughing at others’ pain than you do about their pain.” I was told I was an obnoxious bitch and proceeded to say I accept that and move on. Since then, I’ve resigned myself to believing that no, I can’t make a difference. There’s no use in trying because people would rather laugh than face up to the truth of the matter: Chris Brown beating up Rhianna was not funny because she is a genuine victim of domestic violence.

I gave up. But I have a couple of friends who didn’t. Friends who actually read and support this blog and regularly circulate information, articles, and voice opinions on their beliefs. Like women’s rights. This is still a HUGE issue in the world today. We have it pretty good in America, but even so, we still have many struggles. Sure, we can pretty much wear whatever we want, practice whatever religion we want, and act how we want. But our decisions and emotions face a scrutiny that men’s decisions and emotions don’t face. And that scrutiny is used to discredit us. There is no equivalent word for “bitch” or “slut” to refer to a man. And any words we may try to use, they have effectively managed to turn into almost compliments. “Tool”, “douchebag”, and “asshole” are not character flaws, they’re just a clique you “bro out” with. When we call a man promiscuous in a negative way, we say “man-slut”. The fact that we have to even modify that speaks volumes.

Do I do anything about it? Not really, no. I read the articles, I agree fully, and I share them on Facebook. Then I go on about my daily life thinking about how lucky I am that I don’t suffer from these negative situations personally. This morning was different. This morning, I wanted to say thank you to the ladies who remind me that this is not a spectator’s sport. I do need to continue to speak up, to remind people that these issues are important, and I need to teach my daughter one day about how she should never let ANYONE convince her that she is less than. I need to find a way to do this without turning her into an arrogant, entitled, selfish butthead. But I need to teach her to see her own strength and to address it with a sense of modesty and civic duty. Because all women and all men have a duty to one another to be there for our fellow human, to help defend and even tout their equal rights. So thank you, ladies, for reminding me that my opinion DOES matter. And now I know exactly what I can do to help make things better in the future: my own children.


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