I have this nasty lil feeling that all my new cellulite is distracting people from my glorious pregnancy glow. And that’s a shame, because from the chin up — wearing sunglasses and an appropriate amount of makeup; occasionally, a hat — I swear there is some magic happening there. Amidst the dam sweat, tears, and peanut butter smear my son left.
And that’s on a good day.
I met week 33 with mild cramps, shortness of breath, a fantastic new level of hell fatigue, ALL the nausea, and absolutely no desire to clean the house (see above pic). Basically, first trimester pains all over again, with a much larger belly and more caution while laughing (to avoid the pee, ya know?). To combat these joys, I made a list of every Gelato shop in Amsterdam and I am currently touring their facilities. I am working on a rating system for each location, complete with a color-coded enjoyment chart. It’s really for them, not me. My kindness knows no bounds.
We will meet our dam girl next month. And as uncomfortable as I currently am, I know life will just be scarier, harder, and more joyful than I can imagine once she is here and the bump is gone. I just wish I could follow everyone’s splendid advice and sleep now while you can! and enjoy every second of just being a family of 3! and please, PLEASE, will you just wash your hair, already!? But those things are easier said than done when sleeping is the worst part of your day (nausea and leg cramps and insomnia — oh my!), family time consists of running after your toddler and realizing he prefers daddy to the slow hippo that has replaced mama, and honestly, how bad can my week old hair really smell!?!?!?
I haven’t hidden the fact that this pregnancy was much harder than my first, but I also think I am a more excited this go round. And, if I might ever be so bold, a bit more confident. I even thought I had developed this hip pregnancy swag, but turns out it was just my sciatic nerve ruining my life again.
But seriously, I know can do this. Even if my anxiety is telling me to go play quietly in a corner.
I LOVE being a boy mom. I love the crustiness of it all. I love how fiercely he adores me and how he doesn’t shy away from adventure. He’s strong and dapper and enjoys the feeling of daddy carrying him and mama’s kisses. He is everything gorgeous, stinky, and wonderfully weird in my world.
But now, in approximately 6 weeks, I will become a girl mom, too. And I fear I haven’t bought enough glitter.
When I found out I was pregnant for the first time, I owned a New Orleans wedding planning company. When I finally broke the news to my brides, the majority of them seemed devastated that I was having a boy. They thought, surely, a bubbly wedding planner that spends her days among chandeliers and white dresses must be yearning for her own little girl to join the world. What a shame.
Truth was, I was pretty happy with the news. I wanted a son first. Because as much as I do adore all things pink (every shade, seriously, it’s a sickness), dolls with big eyes, twirling around aimlessly, and painting in pastel colors — I yearn for the grittiness of mud pies, all things creepy and reeking of monsters (check that blog name, yo), superhero dreams, and would rather watch ANY action movie than pretend to enjoy a chick flick.
And for a while, it was all pretty amazing and easy. But times a changin’ and mama can only play with cars and trains and dinosaurs for so long before something is getting bedazzled and/or painted gold.
GIVE ME THE BARBIES. And sleepovers. And friendship bracelets. And heart shaped everything. And ruffles on ruffles on ruffles. And if you are giving me a bow, much sure it’s obscenely large — think cartoonish with lilac flare. I am also going to need every unicorn and mermaid article ever produced and delivered to our dam address. Like, yesterday. Preferably in a pink box, smelling of Lisa Frank stickers and cartwheels.
But my ambition goes beyond tulle and picking perfect peonies.
One day, I sincerely hope, big brother will pass on his Goosebumps collection. She will most likely dress up as Superman (not woman) on more than one occasion. And I’ll sign her up for soccer the same day as dancing. If she doesn’t like either, give her a tuba or a blank notebook. Choose your own art, baby girl. Rock that shit. Even if you are wearing mismatched socks.
We’ll talk about the importance of kindness, celebrating with champagne, not ignoring wanderlust, how to pray, those big dreams of hers, and when it is appropriate to throw rocks at boys and tell your friend they are being a real dick.
Her daddy will melt daily and sing to her whenever she asks. Her brother will be confused, at first, and then protective forever. Her mom will lose her mind with happiness and nerves and not ever having enough iphone photo storage.
And she’ll be worth every sleepless night, forgotten chore, leg spasm, and extra stroopwafel.
Plus, I have heard that girl boogers aren’t nearly as sticky so I am looking forward to cleaner walls and jackets.