Stretch marks are of the devil

When I found out I was pregnant, I bought some anti-stretch mark cream knowing full well that it wouldn’t work. But I diligently rubbed it on my belly every day in the vain hopes that maybe it might do a little bit of good.

Yeah. It didn’t.

I have so many stretch marks that, when two of my college friends (Leah Lar and Minneapolis-Friend-Who-Now-Lives-in-Pasadena- And-Shall-Henceforth-Be-Known-As-Professor-Lapp) came over for dinner on Tuesday and I showed them, they visibly recoiled in horror. I showed them because they were asking me questions about what life is like post-partum, and I may have inadvertently scared them away from ever having children. They both read my blog, however, so it may comfort them to know that my mother said I have more stretch marks than anyone she has ever seen, and she was an OB/GYN nurse. It may comfort them, but it doesn’t comfort me.

But to anyone who might think that stretch marks can be avoided if you only firm up your belly through exercise, I pose the following question: How, pray tell, was I supposed to firm up my belly button? Because last night I discovered that there are stretch marks inside my belly button. And, seeing as how my belly button has shrunk back down and returned to its former state as an innie, these stretch marks are all compacted down and therefore very dark, and now my belly button is a completely different color than the rest of my skin. Frankly, my belly button looks filthy.

But it’s not as though I’ll ever be wearing a bikini a short shirt ever ever again, so I guess it doesn’t matter. And, perhaps as karmic compensation, I am currently two months post-partum and wearing pre-pregnancy jeans despite my lack of a rigorous workout routine.

I am also wearing a long shirt.

You like me! Or at least you don't suddenly hate me!

I have a stat counter on my blog and because I am vain, I check my stats at least once a day. So imagine my horror when, last Thursday, my hit count suddenly dropped to zero. Zero! Now, it’s not like I normally get hundreds of page loads a day or anything, but I get more than zero!

I figured it was just that people were too busy doing Christmas things and tried not to let it bother me. But when I still had zero hits as of last night I was forced to email Maggie and ask her if her StatCounter was working and could she please go to my blog and let me know that she did so I could check my stats.

Well it turns out that last Thursday, when I updated my Blogger template, the StatCounter code got erased and I forgot to reinstall it.

Thank God.

Ten more minutes!

This morning, Jack started to fuss around 7:00. I knew he was probably hungry, but I wasn’t quite ready to get up, so I sat up and tried to stick the bink in his mouth. Unfortunately, he was having none of it, because he knows the difference between me and the bink. He’s no fool.

It was around the third attempt at getting him to take the bink that I realized what I was doing. Sadly, the bink does not function as a snooze alarm.

Way up north where the air gets cold

For me, the Christmas season doesn’t begin until I’ve listened to John Denver and the Muppets: A Christmas Together. I never saw the TV special, but we had the record when I was growing up and all six of us kids loved it. We played it over and over all through the month of December. My favorite song by far was The Beach Boys’ “Little Saint Nick” as covered by The Electric Mayhem.

When I was in high school our record player broke and I was forced to buy a cassette tape. But my car is too new to have a tape deck, so last year when I saw the CD for only $8, I snagged it.

It took me a while to notice, but one day I realized that I did not remember hearing “Little Saint Nick.” “I must have just missed it,” I thought to myself, but then I checked the song list.

“What the hell?” I said aloud.

“What?” The Husband responded.

“‘Little Saint Nick’ isn’t on the CD!” I cried. “I don’t understand it! Why would they take that off? That was the best song!” Sadly, I had to finish out the Christmas season without ever hearing the best Christmas song ever.

And yesterday, as I listened to my amputated album in the car, I suddenly realized that I hadn’t heard “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” with John Denver and Rowlf. I checked the album cover to make sure. “Well, dammit!” I shouted. And “When the River Meets the Sea” was gone too!

What had they done to my beloved John Denver and the Muppets? Why were they removing songs? And if they had to remove songs, why didn’t they take the annoying one about Alfie the Christmas Tree?

So when I found the “Collector’s Edition” of the album with “Extra Tracks” on Amazon, I bought it. Again. Hopefully, this is the last time I’ll have to buy this particular album.

“Extra” tracks my left foot. Hmph. If they were so “extra,” how come I already know all times that Animal shouts “RUN! RUN RUN REINDEER!”

Needlessly difficult

For the first three or so weeks of his life, Jack would tell me he was done eating by closing his mouth. It was all very clear and simple. He would shut his mouth tight and that’s how I knew he was done. But then, when he was around four weeks old, he decided that a better way to tell me he was full was to yell. Loudly. While appearing to be straining for the breast.

Needless to say, this caused me a teensy bit of confusion, as the way that he tells me he is hungry is by yelling loudly and straining for the breast. The only upside is that he sounds really really funny when his yells are muffled by a mouthful of breast.

What? How else am I supposed to make sure he’s not asking for more?

Christmas? Huh?

I do not feel particularly Christmas-y this year, because Christmas has totally snuck up on me. Perhaps because Advent is only three weeks long, thanks to Christmas falling on a Monday. But I think it's more likely because I am somewhat consumed with the care of a new baby. New babies are a lot of work. Who knew? And, thanks to the lots of new baby work, The Husband and I have not been able to decorate as usual. We didn't find the Advent wreath until the second Sunday of Advent for a start. And last week, although I planned to decorate the house during the day, I got sidelined by mountains of laundry and trying to clean up the general chaotic mess that is constantly overwhelming us. 'Cause of the new baby work. I suppose I could have done it had I stayed inside and done nothing else, but that would have resulted in my going completely mad. I therefore sacrificed the decorating at the expense of visiting people.

Thanks to the lovely, lovely internet, I did get all my shopping done. A few things I bought in person, but most of my purchases were online. I got the nativity set up about a week and a half ago, last week I put garland up on the front porch, and two nights ago we got the tree up. We fully intended to put out the rest of our decorations last night, but instead The Husband got the flu. His copious vomiting - and I'm talking COPIOUS; I think I saw an old boot - pretty much put the kibosh on our decorating plans, as I had to take care of him and the baby without his help because he is currently not allowed to touch the baby. So we have a nativity set, a tree, and red bows on the chandelier. That is it.

But hey, think of the time we'll save undecorating!

While we're on the subject

Now that I am watching Star Trek: The Next Generation episodes as an adult who is free from any embarrassing youthful crushes on Wil Wheaton, I can understand why it is that so many TNG fans hated Wesley. I used to kind of like Wesley, but actually he's incredibly annoying.

By the by, I am not admitting to a youthful crush on Wil Wheaton. I am just saying that right now, I do not have a crush on Wil Wheaton circa 1990^*. That's all I'm saying.

^*Or circa any other year, lest you misunderstand me. This is a Wil-Wheaton-Crush-Free household, thank you very much.

I'm a doctor, not a TV historian!

The Husband and I are currently watching Star Trek: The Next Generation Season 2 on DVD thanks to Big Sister #1 who loaned us the discs. But Dr. Crusher is mysteriously not on board the Enterprise. Wesley is there, but instead of Beverly the ship's doctor is some woman with short curly hair. The Husband, who claims to have seen every TNG episode when they were originally aired, has no idea where Dr. Crusher is.

Does anyone know?

Pressure equals force times area

MO: Don’t you just love holding him when he’s all snuggly like that?
THE HUSBAND: Yes, but I don’t love it when he punches me in the throat.
MO: Yeah, I don’t like that much either.

Priorities

The Doktah was feeling overwhelmed with her laundry list of tasks to complete. In addition to her regular experiments, she was also working on a paper submission, an abstract for a conference, and one of The P.I.’s grants. Since there was no way she could finish everything that week, she asked The P.I. which things had the most priority.

“Everything’s a priority,” he told her.

Ah. Thanks so much.

Thanksgiving traditions

Post inspired by Miss Doxie.

2002 (The first year Mo and The Husband had Thanksgiving together):
MOTHER-IN-LAW: Would you like some squash?
MO: Oh, no thanks. I don’t really like squash.
MOTHER-IN-LAW: How about you, The Husband?
THE HUSBAND: No, I actually hate squash.
MOTHER-IN-LAW: Oh! I had no idea!

2003:
MOTHER-IN-LAW: Squash, anyone? Mo?
MO: No thank you.
MOTHER-IN-LAW: The Husband?
THE HUSBAND: No, Mom. I hate squash.
MOTHER-IN-LAW: Oh, you do? I didn’t know that.

2004:
MOTHER-IN-LAW: Mo and The Husband, do you want any squash?
THE HUSBAND: No thanks, Mom. I don’t like squash.
MO: I don’t really like it either, actually.
MOTHER-IN-LAW: Oh, sorry! I didn’t realize.

2005:
MOTHER-IN-LAW: Here, Mo. Have some squash.
MO: Oh, uh, no thanks.
MOTHER-IN-LAW: No? OK, well pass it over to The Husband.
THE HUSBAND: Mom, we don’t like squash.We’ve never liked squash. We hate squash.
MOTHER-IN-LAW: Oh my goodness! Really?

2006:
(Mo returns from soothing the baby; The Husband goes to soothe in her place so she can actually eat dinner on Thanksgiving)
MOTHER-IN-LAW: Mo, do you want any squash?
MO: Oh, no thanks.
MOTHER-IN-LAW: Do you think The Husband will want any when he gets back to the table?
MO: (laughing) No. Because we hate squash.
MOTHER-IN-LAW: You do?
MO: Yes.

Note to self

I just finished addressing the Christmas cards which, naturally, are pictures of Jack in a Santa suit. I used a gold pen to write notes on the photos, and the pen leaked a little bit. This morning I noticed some gold stains on my laptop. The ink is a little bit rubbed off and there is no luster of gold, so I think I'm going to have to write myself a note explaining that the stains are not dried poop despite being pretty much the same color. Because at this point, I pretty much assume it's all poop.

Whom do you love?

I’m not a mushy person. Nevertheless, Jack’s drooly smiles have me pretty much wrapped around his little tiny pinky. And this morning, he started to cry when The Husband put him in his car seat as we were getting ready to go to church. He stopped crying as soon as I walked into the room, because, apparently, he missed his mom.

Discovering that my very presence was enough to make Jack feel better certainly pulled at my heartstrings, but, Jack, you had me at [gummy smile].

The Husband felt a little sad that Jack sort of likes me best right now, what with my spending every day with him and feeding him and all, but I reassured him that soon, Jack will be hero-worshipping his dad. How could he not? The Husband can do all kinds of things that I can’t do. He can manipulate sports equipment, for example. Me, I fall down a lot. The Husband can also build things out of wood. And Legos! To be fair, I can also build things out of Legos. It’s just that those things are basically stacks of Legos.

So, rest assured, the day is fast approaching when Jack will prefer his dad to me. Oh, sure, he’ll probably run to me first when he needs comforting, but the rest of the time he’ll rather be with his dad. Because, let’s face it, his dad is just plain more fun. His dad is the one, after all, who made Jack laugh for the very first time today.

Oh, yeah, we are whipped.

An ounce of prevention

This morning, The Husband asked me to please wake him up when I feed Jack from now on. This is because last night, for the second time, The Husband accused me of putting Jack back to sleep without feeding him. He woke up and saw me swaddling Jack up to get him ready to put to bed, and said, “Did you feed him?”

It had been over three hours since the last time I fed him and I get increasingly weary with each nighttime feeding, so there was more than a little testiness in my tone when I snapped, “Yes, The Husband, I fed him.” But who wouldn’t be at least marginally insulted by the implication that they are using the “starve the baby back to sleep” method of child rearing?

Thus, The Husband’s request that I wake him up whenever I feed Jack from now on. He is attempting to avoid a future incident wherein I completely lose my temper at being accused of starving my child. The Husband does not like it when I lose my temper. Because I so rarely get angry (Confidential to The Doktah: Shut it.), he once told me that being the recipient of my wrath is “like being savaged by a chipmunk.”

The good news is that I don’t have to shoot him death looks anymore.

This post has been brought to you by Emily, who is an Internet Rock Star and linked to me again! So I had to write something new for her legions of fans who are checking me out. Hi, Emily’s readers!