Motherhood Uncensored

Odd Pregnancy Symptom #6,701 - The Mysterious Crusty Elbow

I've heard women talk about some pretty strange pregnancy symptoms. And while I can't say I've ever craved cigarette ashes or hair, I've sucked down my fair share of Taco Bell hot sauce packets.

But with all the odd pregnancy complaints, I've never heard any woman admit to having the rough, scratchy 85-year-old man elbow symptom. I suppose it's not that surprising since it seems like most pregnancy symptoms can be seen on most men over 70 -- weird hair growth, oddly placed skin tags, and the growing belly that requires suspenders.

Of course, the whole situation was made worse by the fact that I discovered the damn elbow when it snagged one of my favorite maternity shirts.

That's right. It's not enough that I now have to shop from the forbidden "Size 11" shoe rack that they keep way in the back of store away from the other pretty nice tiny shoes.

My nasty dry elbow snagged my shirt.

I'm a bit embarrassed that I haven't noticed sooner, in fact, I instantly thought of all the rubbing elbows I did at BlogHer and imagined that's why so many bloggers said they saw me but emailed later to tell me that they didn't get a chance to say "hi." They masked their disgust with my elbow as "intimidation."

But since it was a summery 45 degrees in San Francisco, my elbows were actually covered the whole entire time (Thank God) by a sweater.

What's even worse about this whole elbow debacle is that I slather my body in tubes of overpriced "this better fucking work" big pregnant woman lotion every night, and yet, I still have the mysterious moisture repelling left elbow.

I've tried Vaseline, Aquaphor, hell, even Neosporin, and I'm about to just cover it with a bandaid so I at least don't obsess about it all day long and my husband won't complain about it waking him up at night.

Of course, there's always KY Jelly or Astroglide. I figure if it works on those chapped lips, then it might just work on my freaky elbow.

School Daze

Dear Quinlan,

I'm sitting here, staring at your picture, trying to figure out what to write to you on this momentous day, but I keep getting interrupted by your little [monster rugrat] brother.

Enjoy your daily four hours of freedom from his [wrath] company, and give 'em hell. Well, good, nice Catholic hell, that is.

Love,

Mommy

PS. I'm sorry I was too cheap to buy you expensive dress shorts because your uniforms haven't arrived and so instead you had to wear size 2T boy shorts today (that are actually too big on you -- go figure). Just remember, if you're going to blame someone in therapy, your dad was the one who got you there late on your first day.

PPS. If you're looking at this picture and wondering where your other braid is, I swear there were two on your head when you left. You know, in case that comes up in therapy too.

PPPS. These are going to be the longest four hours. I miss you already.

Sometimes Your Words Just Hypnotize Me

If a person named "Nortorious" applied for your babysitter position would you:

a) Run screaming (after laughing just a little)
b) Look up if that's the way to spell "Notorious" and you've just been spelling it wrong all these years
c) Curse her (yes, her) poor parents
d) Worry that maybe you're taking this baby naming thing a bit too lightly
e) All of the above

Sideways

After waaaaaaaaaaay too many bad interactions with my midwife, I decided to kick her to the curb (or the stirrups) and find someone new -- someone cooler, someone closer, and someone with a fucking sense of humor.

"And, do you hang out at any crack houses or meth labs in your free time?" she asked me.

Oh, we're going to get along famously.

Hathor-fetus has been quite the elusive one, head bumping me in my ribs and kicking me in my bladder, which led the new midwife to do a quick ultrasound to confirm that the girl is lying sideways. With much optimism, she's pretty sure that the baby will slide down in a few weeks to that lovely head down, feet kicking my ribs to hell position.

And if not, we'll worry about it then.

It's amazing how a lot, if not all, of my concerns have dissipated just from switching over to a new midwife, and talking to my doula.

Too bad it didn't suck away my hormonal mood swings.

Welcome to the pissy-bitter-don't fuck with me trimester! Need to tell someone off? Call me.

Now I get to worry about the good stuff. Like who's going to watch my kids when I go into labor. And what the baby is going to sleep in since we don't own a bassient or extra crib.

And what the hell we're going to name her.

At this point, Blog is sounding really damn good.

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*I'm updating the Blog the Recession page with new participants and prizes, as well as my links sidebar with some cool links and contests -- including this one that asks a question that I asked readers on my blog awhile back: Are you THAT Family? (The prizes are two $250 visa gift cards. Definitely participate).

But you're all clicking through, so you should know this already, right?

The Incredible Shrinking Toddler

My husband was convinced that Drew had gained a good three pounds since his last well-visit. He held him up like a prize fish and said "28lbs" before driving off to the mall with my daughter.

Try same exact weight, save a couple of extra ounces.

Apparently his diet of all the fruit and bread, intermixed with a sprinkling of steak, breakfast sausages, and eggs on every third Tuesday when the sun is just partially out and the grass has just been cut hasn't done him well in the weight department.

His other developmental milestones, like head growth, height and the repeating useful words like "cut" and "poke" (don't ask) over and over a good fourteen times in a row are perfectly on track. But he's gone from chubby baby to lithe toddler in a matter of a year.

I really shouldn't be surprised considering Quinlan is just barely 30 lbs sopping wet in snow suit and boots and I can cup my husband's ass cheeks comfortably in my two hands.

And I imagine that our decidedly anti-milk drinking (gag), fat meat eating (ew) household probably don't help the situation.   

But when your kid isn't gaining weight, it still makes even the most laidback mom a little concerned.

And I'm not a laidback mom.

Now with my daughter, I added extra olive oil to her veggies and meats, and upped her protein with various smoothies and other tasty concoctions. But quite frankly, I soon realized that she was healthy, regardless of what that damn scale said, and I just made sure she ate a healthy, balanced diet, bought her adjustable waist pants, and left it at that.

But considering Drew has no consistent foods, like veggies, meats, hell, even noodles (seriously, what kid doesn't have "noodles" in his arsenal of consistently ingested foods?), for me to add olive oil to, I'm finding myself having to shop like I've never had before.

Whole milk yogurt and I met for the first time a few days ago. And the 85-15 turkey sausages and I are like old friends.

I'm not sure if he's gaining any weight as of yet. But one thing's for damn sure.

I certainly am.