Apologies, Reader.

I have been super-slack about updating my blog, which I find alternately completely unacceptable and completely understandable. Such is the mind-weather of a pregnant woman. That's right, PREGNANT. I'm sure whoever reads this already knows I'm with child, but just to log it, here are the facts. Due mid-January, so far little bitta nausea and extreme fatigue, but no puking so far (fingers crossed), craving canned ravioli, Indian food, and peaches. Feeling very excited and blessed, but also scared shitless. One baby I can handle. Sort of. With the exception of his nuclear meltdown moods, in a given day Henry and I can generally run a few errands, straighten up, play, visit friends, and have an all-around pleasant day. But two? I don't know about two. I think my fear partly stems from me being an only child. I really don't understand the dynamics of having more than one child. What do you do if they both need you? What do you do if they both need you and you're about to tear your own hair out because you haven't slept, bathed, changed clothes, brushed your hair, or had four consecutive minutes to yourself in three days? (I've already experienced this with one.) As I've mentioned, Henry has been a wonderful, awesome kid and I would never change anything about him. BUT, he was a couple dozen handfuls when he was an infant. Can I survive another intense newborn and a fairly intense toddler?
I realize all of these things are problems of a lucky person. I feel incredibly grateful that I had a healthy pregnancy with Henry and that now we have this awesome, spirited kid. And we absolutely, knowingly made the choice to have Henry and to have Lil' Tadpole. So, in conclusion, I'm feeling scared, excited, happy, exhausted, hungry, nauseated, worried, and mostly grateful.

Addictive Personality

Why do I love buying new clothes so much? While we're on the subject, why do I feel giddy, longing and just a smidge guilty when I pass a Starbucks? People who crave/do in moderation, be thankful.

Spit in my Eye With Alpha Phi

While waiting in a ridiculously long line at the Las Vegas Airport's Starbucks, I overheard the following conversation between two sorority sisters (I know they were sorority sisters because they looked like 13 year-old prostitutes; and the only pause in their discussion about which has more carbs-croissants or scones-was to swap rush stories. Look, it was a long line, okay!?):
A: (Taking her wallet out) I'm getting this!
B: NO! There's no way. I know you couldn't afford this trip, and I'm. . .
A: NO! You've paid for too much. . .
B: (Taking A by the shoulders, looking into her eyes, and exclaiming LOUDLY) Listen to me. It's my parents' money; IT DOESN'T MATTER.
Wow.
B loudly repeated that whole "it doesn't matter" line several times before A eventually shrugged, put her wallet away, and gathered extra snacks since she wasn't footing the bill after all.
Look, we all go through dumbass phases when we think our parents are retarded, have never felt the same feelings we're feeling, or owe us something. I can let that slide based on the age of these girls. But for Cripe's sake, have some degree of humility, of realization that you're surrounded by old people (old people who haven't had their coffee yet!) who certainly are NOT sympathetic to your fucktarded argument. (A bunch of us curmudgeons exchanged squinted "WTF?" looks.)
Reader, I'm begging you: If my kids ever remotely mirror these turdettes, please take me by the shoulders, look deep into my eyes, and spit right in my face. I'll get the message.

The Most Awesome Invention You've Never Heard Of

The Egg Ring! Make your own Egg McMuffins!

Glamourous Motherhood

Our house is in such a state of disaster I could laugh. . .if I lived next-door. Since it's mine to clean, I'm pretty dejected. Although I certainly can't blame Henry for the entire mess, I can explain away most of it with the trite observation that one year olds are remarkably destructive. I'm packing for an adults only vacation we've been planning for months. (Up until 6 am today, I have been excited about this vay-cay: fantasizing about sleeping late, taking naps, soaking up rays, getting tipsy on tropical drinks, reading Stephanie Meyer books without guilt; but when I woke up this morning I began to dread leaving our separation-anxiety ridden cutie, missing his drooly face, feeling guilty for leaving Tripp's mom alone for four nights with a teething one year old, and feeling overall kind of terrible. I can't win. ) Anyway, I started packing today. When I realized I hadn't heard the cacophony of xylophones and the slurred singing of various battery-depleted stuffed animals in a while, I decided a responsible mother would probably try to find her child. And since I'm TRYING to be a responsible mother, I picked myself up from the middle of a pile of bathing suits and mismatched socks to go find him. During the 300 square feet I walked until I found Henry splashing happily in toilet water, I discovered he had unrolled two toilet paper rolls (he creatively decided to tear one entire roll into tiny pieces and place them in the tub and traced the other roll through the house Hansel and Gretel style); he also emptied his sock drawer and melded it with the contents of his upended hamper, dumped Lucy's food bowls, transplanted the toilet plunger from the bathroom to the kitchen table, and knocked down the ironing board (we've learned enough to put the iron on a HIGH shelf). This is on top of the discovery that the lemon body spray I'd been looking forward to wearing on this trip had exploded (?!), several loads of brightly colored laundry appear to have been bleached (although we haven't used bleach in weeks--the latest in a string of washing machine-related conspiracies), and the discovery that my post-pregnancy feet no longer fit into the cute, impractical shoes I'd been planning to wear on our trip.
The never-ending, hamster-wheel feel of cleaning, feeding, and entertaining (repeat infinity times) that is mommy life sometimes leaves me feeling brain-dead and asking the existential question, "What is the point?" But as I was typing this Henry ran up to the computer, threw his hands in the air (in other words, "Pick me the hell up!"--on another note, Henry doesn't speak. At all. Not a word. A few weeks ago, I heard a kid his age say "teeth" and point to the appropriate body part on a giant plastic alligator. What's up with this?), jumped in my lap, bit my head (I'm convinced this is his attempt to kiss me) and squealed with delight. Sigh. This will be you soon, all my pregnant friends. It's not glamorous. But it's pretty awesome.

Thanks to Everyone!

A BIG thank you to all the Bitching With Bethany podcast guests, who have made this past year so much fun! An especially BIG thanks to my most dependable regulars: Tripp and Weddle. You guys are the wind beneath my wings. Tripp has put in countless (well, probably around 20) hours to get this debauched freak-show off the ground and running smoothly. I can't thank you enough, Turd Ferguson.
Slightly smaller, but just as sincere, special thank you to others who have put so much effort towards making this podcast so disgusting and humiliating: Alan, Ben, Eli, Chuck, John, Danny and Keith. Also, of course, a hearty thank you to our loyal yet bored and morally devoid listeners.
We're closing in on 4,000 downloads in BWB's first 10 months. Can we beat this next year?! You bet your sweet ass we can.

Special Snowflake

Each child is different. Everyone, from my grandmother (mother of 7; grandmother of 14) to the friendly Kroger bagger has told me so. You can't predict how your future children will look (or more importantly, ACT) based on the child who's wailing and banging his head on the floor because you won't let him watch more than 25 episodes of "Yo Gabba Gabba" without seeing the light of day for a few minutes. (On a side note, isn't that strange? Assuming a first child has the same parents as subsequent children, the second, etc. is being created by the same mishmash of genetic material. And (s)he's being raised by the same people at, approximately, the same time. Really, siblings SHOULD be more alike than they are, right?!) Anyway, Tripp and I have gone back and forth about whether or not we want more kids. Henry is wonderful--he has enriched our lives in ways I never could have imagined. I love him, and I would never change anything about him. That being said, I don't know if I could make it through another Henry. As a newborn/infant, Henry screamed A LOT. He also didn't sleep much. While the baby books say newborns generally sleep around 16-18 hours/day, Henry slept about 9, mostly in 10-20 minute intervals which were mere parentheses to his hours and hours of shrill, red-faced shrieking. Things have gotten much better, but the kid still tends to be very, shall we say, vocal. I love that about him. But I don't think I'm strong enough for another kid like him; and we can't guarantee that a future child won't be just as intense.
All of this flashed through my brain today during a playdate. A woman with two impossibly cute and well-tempered little girls (one around 3, the other around 18 months) described what she considered a rough day with her daughters: "[Three year old] didn't want to get dressed. She kept saying, 'Just a few more minutes, Mommy.' Finally, I got so frustrated that I screamed at her. Then she started crying and wanted a hug; but I was so upset that I couldn't hug her. We ended up not going out that day." Wow, I thought. Other than the speaking, that sounds like a fairly typical morning at our house. I started to feel annoyed and jealous (that's a BAD day?). But when I really considered it, I realized I wouldn't want it any other way. I love my high-maintenance baby. Along with the frustrated screams are the happy squeals of delight, belly laughs, and mischievous sense of humor. (I know he's only one, but I swear that kid already has a highly-developed, sophisticated sense of timing!) I know I'll love any other children we have just as much. Even if they're all throwing themselves on the floor because I won't let them watch another "Gabba" episode.

Jane RULZ!

Thanks for reading and commenting, Jane!!!

Mommy Woes

An issue that continually comes up on this motherhood journey is the "am I doing a good enough job?" question. It manifests in many ways. I belong to a Stay at home mom's (from here on out referred to as SAHM--yes, they actually use that acronym) group; and one of the other moms babysits Henry when I work. My work schedule is something I would in any other situation consider incredibly PART TIME. One full day/week and the odd day or two per month. Since I'm self-employed Henry also stays at the sitter's a few extra hours each week so I can catch up on paperwork, book-keeping, and the other odds and ends that keep me operating legally. Not that much, right? But inevitably, whenever I attend an outing with the SAH group, a bunch of moms will come up to me and say something along the lines of, "I don't know you, but I've met Henry! You must work a lot! Haha! I'm Marie, and unlike you, I love my child." Okay, no one's actually said that last sentence, but it feels implied. Once Henry's sitter had a friend over when I dropped him off with her. The friend (who I'd never met and didn't bother to introduce herself) exclaimed to the SITTER when we walked in, "Look how big Henry's gotten, Heather! He's so cute!" WTF? I stuck out my hand and said, "Hi, I'm the lady who watches Henry when Heather isn't able to." No, I didn't say that; but I wish I had. Partly because of my experiences with the SAHMs and for a variety of other reasons, I'm often wondering if I spend enough time with Henry and if the time we DO spend together is educational, stimulating, developmental-enhancing enough? In other words "quality".
Along these lines, a continuous battle in my head is "Should Henry watch TV?" And if so, how much TV? This issue first entered my radar before I even considered a child of my own, when I witnessed a friend shield her 6 month old daughter's eyes from a television. "What are you doing?" I asked. "She's not supposed to watch TV until she's at least two" friend replied. "Huh?" When I was a kid, I had literally NO restrictions on TV. I could watch what I wanted when I wanted, and at the time I thought that was F-ing awesome. I pitied my friends who could only watch certain shows for a maximum amount of time. I didn't have my own TV, and a lot of time I'd watch it WITH my parents; but I watched A LOT of it. I think I turned out fine, I never felt like I was missing out on something when I was growing up; but now I wonder: Was I missing out on something? Was there a better way for my parents and I to spend our time? (Please understand I hold no animosity towards my parents on this issue. Like most parents, they did the best they could with what they had. They both worked full-time (my dad often worked MORE than full-time) and had busy lives.) Besides relaxing with the boob tube, much of the time we spent together involved them multi-tasking. My mom grocery shopping with me in tow, my Dad doing errands with me in the car singing the "Annie" soundtrack. I never gave the situation much thought, although I always wanted my mom to be the field trip chaperone and the Brownie leader.
Despite a lack of what today might be considered "quality time" with my parents during my formative years, I have loads of great memories from childhood. Running errands with my Dad Saturday mornings was something I always looked forward to--still look forward to. To this day if I'm visiting my parents and my Dad says he's got to run to Costco on a Saturday morning, I beg to go with him. Also, I always felt very included in my parents lives: I went along with them on most trips and evenings out with friends. I always felt included, loved and important to them, even if they weren't spending hours a day playing with me.
Thoughts from others are very welcome. I'm looking at you, Anna (the only person I know for sure who reads this blog; yet she refuses to comment).

I'm With Jar-Jar?

I'm sure this is terribly unfashionable, but the whole Conan/Jay Leno debacle has made me like Jay Leno MORE. This is coming from someone whose watched Leno maybe twice and prefers Conan and Letterman. . .but honestly doesn't stay up late enough to watch any of them. Seriously, who stays up this late? Anyway, I can understand why Conan got upset. . .sort of. They wanted to move his show back a half hour and still call it "The Tonight Show", but that was messing with some kind of "TS" tradition, right? Okay, I get that. But I thought the backlash against Jay was sort of ridiculous and out of control. Why is it his fault that NBC (his boss) wanted to change his job? It's like if I'm a salesman and my boss gives me Tripp's clients, and I do terrible at it (Sorry, Conan. For the record, I think he did a great job hosting the "TS", but the ratings weren't there and that's how TV measures success) and my boss gives Tripp back some of his clients. . .would it make sense for me to be mad at Tripp? I just don't get it.
All of this being said, I love Conan. I TiVo'd his "Tonight Show" finale and was near tears when he gave his farewell speech. I mean, that whole "don't be cynical" message to the kids? Don't even get me started. But I think Jay's getting a bad rap. Prove me wrong, reader(s)!