The thing about living with someone you don’t get sick of is that you end up hanging out with them a lot. And during certain times, like say when renovating and moving into a new apartment, there’s so much to do at home that you’re both around all the time, and weeks go by before you have any real time alone.
When Erik said earlier in the week that he was going to hang out with his boyfriends on Friday night my first thought was, “who should I call?” Because Friday night alone = depressing, right? Luckily, before I had a chance to send out any inquiring emails to friends about their Friday plans, I realized, am I crazy? Friday night alone = AMAZING.
It hasn’t been the most carefree November, what will work being in its busy season, a three-week long cold that still has me hacking away multiple times a night, weeks of microwave meals and new kitchen stress, and impending parenthood. But with the completion of the kitchen (post to come), mug upon mug of chamomile tea, and a productive week at work, my mental load eased up a little this week and I had the brain space to appreciate the restorative effects of a quiet night to myself.
It was the best Friday night I’ve had in ages and I did nothing. Or “nothing” if by “something” one means being social. I did do stuff. I ate Annie’s Macaroni and Cheese with fresh spinach (I hoard these precious purple boxes for the nights Erik is out), watched Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants 2 (shut up), and (shocker!) made something that didn’t end up in my stomach.
It’s been ages since my creativity was put towards anything except cooking, writing, or decorating but last night I whipped out my much-neglected sewing machine, cut a pattern out of an old Special K box and sewed my baby a stuffed animal. It was supposed to be a bear but its frame is more feline and its ears are kind of mouse-like. Whatever, it’s a stuffed creature and I slaved over it – happily – until 2am (poker-playing husband still nowhere in sight).
I would have been done sooner, around the time Lost in Translation was winding down on TV but attaching the final limb gave me some trouble and I decided to make a little jacket to cover the clumsy stitching. Also, I needed to offset the polka dots with a bit of pizzaz. So, the jacket led me to the wee hours and half-way through a bad Denzel Washington movie.
When she was finished (it may have been teetering on unisex before the technicolor coat but I think that put the creature solidly in the she category), I drank one more chamomile tea, brought the New Yorker to bed and fell asleep, so satisfied by my quiet Friday. And now I can’t wait for he-who-I-never-get-sick-of and preventer-of-more-me-time drags his poker-losing self out of bed so I can show him my creation.
The end result is not perfect. The ears are lopsided and she isn’t as fat as I hoped, but I am proud. Mostly because I didn’t back out of my creative plans and stay on the couch with a bowl of popcorn. I’m also, however, doubtful of my ability to create something safe for newborns so the creature will sit on a shelf in the baby’s room until I’m sure she (the toy, not the baby) won’t spontaneously combust or poison a curious little mouth.
Filed under: preggers
OK, things are getting serious here. Last night I had a breast-feeding dream and today I purchased my first round of baby clothes. I had a 30% discount at La Redoute and I put it towards some small clothes for the little one and a pair of pants for the big one (that’s me). The baby clothes I ordered were simple. Two mint green shirts in organic cotton, a 3-pack of white Petit Bateau onesies (oddly called “bodies” here), a “kill me it’s so cute” knitted pant and sweater set in plain and lovely cream, and a miniature baby blue snow-suit of sorts for her first chilly weeks. Nothing extravagant nor particularly frivolous and yet it took me three email exchanges with friends, a consultation with Erik and a few smses before I actually hit the order button. What size do I get? Do we need a “sovpåse” (sleep bag)? Will she even be leaving the house enough to warrant a winter suit? In the end, I got rid of the cozy but pricey “sovpåse” and chanced it with the small size in most things. But I’m getting a little worried here. If I can’t even buy puffy overalls for my girl without doubting my instincts, how will I cope with a shrieking, shitting, puking infant?
If my dream last night was anything to go by, I should be okay. It appears my subconscious is still dealing with my lingering doubt as to weather my boobs are quite prepared for the action they’re about to face. According to What to Expect When You’re Expecting, I should expect 8-12 feedings a day for 45 minutes each during those first few weeks. Say what? I knew it was a lot but MY GOD. It’s amazing how one can get to be 29, 6 months pregnant and still know so little about such womanly things. Like how you should “empty” each breast before moving to the next? And how serious this whole suction business is – Warning! Do not remove breast without breaking baby-to-boob contact with your finger for fear of ripped nipples (or something like that).
Anyway, in my dream there was none of that nasty stuff. Apart from when the baby momentarily switched to a stuffed chick, the dream was nicely normal and uneventful. I birthed a wrinkled little thing, she latched, and then she fed. End of dream. Maybe things will be so easy and all these breast-feeding horror stories will magically not apply to me, kind of like the morning sickness thing. Maybe?
From our current child-free vantage point there is no predicting how those first weeks will go. But one thing is looking pretty definite: in less than three months there will be a baby here. She may have two scared and confused parents to contend with, but she will at least have knitted pants and free food.
