Baby Showered!

Saturday was my baby shower, and it was full of adorable clothes, delicious cookies, and heartfelt wishes from family and friends.

I warned my nurses in advance I’d be eating cookies over the weekend. ALL the cookies.

I kept that promise.

In other news, here’s photographic proof that there’s a baby in there (and that my boobs are huge).

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I didn’t get to take a lot of pictures, because I was busy stuffing my face with mini quiche and mustache-shaped cookie bars, and by the time I got to use my camera, the party was almost over.

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My friends and family filled out Wishes Cards for Mr. Baby — which wasn’t a total surprise, because, well — I had to make them — but I didn’t mind. We had them at my cousin’s baby shower last year, and I really, really wanted the same thing for my shower. What I didn’t know though, was my mom mailed blank cards to the people who couldn’t come to the party so they could still participate. Man, that lady sure is thoughtful.

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The common consensus? Everyone thinks I’m hilarious, and Mike’s beard is amazing.

But we already knew that.

Mike and I were so touched by what everyone wrote for Mr. Baby, and all the gifts we received. And now I have a dining room full of adorable clothes, books and stuffed animals, and strollers-and-bouncers-and-playmats oh my!

And since 1) I got my hair cut for the first time in more than a year, 2) used a hairdryer for the first time since February, and 3) put makeup on my face (as opposed to my usual getup of chapstick and a sweat-stache) — here are some more pictures of my face (and some other faces).

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That last one right there? Parents in sixish weeks! Say what?!

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Just Like Me.

Since I was approximately 12 years old, my mother has told me repeatedly that she hopes I have a child who is just like me.

She seems to think this would be some sort of poetic justice, and I will be punished for all my alleged sins (I was, and still am, the perfect child).

I think it sounds like the awesomest baby ever, so I’m not really worried.

Recently though, she’s changed her tune. Now she thinks it would be a terrible thing to happen …to Mike.

“He’s just such a nice guy. I wouldn’t want to do that to him.”

Gee, Mom. Thanks.

Last week, a few days after our embryo transfer, Mike was getting a little sassy (in an adorable, jokingly smartass way that I appreciate and encourage) and I don’t really remember exactly what he said, when I told him that I hope both babies stick, and I hope they’re both girls, and they’re each tiny little Ashley clones — and he’s stuck with three of me.

He said that is literally his worst nightmare.

I think he was kidding.

I guess we’ll just cross that awesome bridge when we come to it.

Two Little Birds

I did it.

I added to my tattoo collection, much to my poor mother’s dismay. Sorry, disapproving family members.

Smoop’s response? “Well, I guess it’s not as horrible as it could have been.”

Which, coming from her, is really a glowing review when it comes to tattoos.

But it’s done, and it’s adorable, and I love it. I’m also slightly biased, but I think it’s super cute, easily concealed if necessary, and very feminine.

Originally, the plan was to get three little swallows on my wrist — which resulted in me humming every time I told someone about it.

But once I got in the chair, and saw the design shaping up, I decided to go for two instead of three. Mainly because things were a little off balance with the third bird.  As in, I couldn’t tell what was a wing, or a head, so I said, “maybe we don’t do that one, okay, thanks.”

Why swallows? Well, there were a few reasons, really.

For starters, once swallows get together, they mate for life. (Not like seagulls, those feathery whores!) So, they’re considered symbols of loyalty and fidelity — which is always a good thing, yes? So right now there are two: one for me, and one for Mike. Once we finally make some babies up in this piece, I can add to the flock (or if we have twins, I figure I can just call it a day so my mother doesn’t disown me.)

Back in the day, sailors (and let’s be honest, probably pirates) looked for swallows for signs of nearby land — so they were considered symbols of hope and freedom (also always a plus). And while I sort of hate boats, I do have a mouth like a sailor, so that should count for something.

And let’s not forget the fertile “birds and the bees” connection — an area I’ll take help where ever I can get it. And since I’m terrified of bees, that really just left birds — so here we are!

So my bff Kristina and I headed over to Ghost Town Odditorium in Old Ellicott City — and left with her son’s birthday in roman numerals, and some swallows respectively about an hour later — both on the underside of our left wrists.

The last time I got a tattoo — it was a sort of good luck charm — and four months later, I met Mike.

So here’s hoping these wee birdies are full of positive fertile juju and work their magic quickly.

 

Snow Globes

Every year for Christmas, I get my mother a snow globe.

And she hates it.

Smoop collects angels — she has for years, and probably has hundreds of them — and I’ve probably given her more than anyone. But you can only buy someone so many angels.

So about five years ago, I found a fancy-pants snow globe with an angel in the middle (perfect, right?!) — it played christmas music and everything. Fancy-pants, like I said. She opened it on Christmas morning, and told me how much she loved it.

About a year later, I was at her house helping her decorate for Christmas, and she pulled the snow globe out of one of her holiday totes from the attic.

She held it up, looked at it for a few seconds, turns to me and says, “I hate this.”

I said, “Uhh, I gave that to you last year. You said you liked it.”

“You didn’t give it to me. I think grandma gave it to me.”

“Um, no. I gave it to you.”

“You did?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“Really?!”

“Really.”

“… I don’t hate it,” she said, very unconvincingly.

And so, ever since then — she gets a new one each year. And while my initial intentions were good, now I try to find the ugliest snow globe possible.

Merry Christmas, Smoop.

Hot Date Tonight

But before I tell you all about that — allow me to share with you the phone conversation I just had with my mother:

Me: Hello?!
Smoop: Hi, Honey.
Me: Gaaaah, you made me get out of bed!
Smoop: Oh, hang on a second, I have another call. BEEP-BOP-BEEP-BEEP-BOOP-BEEP-BEEP. Hello?
Me: It’s still me, Mom.
Smoop: Oh, hang on. BEEP-BOP-BEEP-BEEP-BOOP-BEP-BEEP. Hello?
Me: It’s still me, Mom.
Smoop: BEEP-BOP-BEEP-BEEP-BOOP-BEP-BEEP. Hello?
Me: Mom, are you hitting redial? You need to hit flash.
Smoop: I can’t find it!
Me: It’s where it has always been!
Smoop: Ahh, it’s too late now.

She is hilarious.

Speaking of hilarious, I have a hot date tonight, with my boyfriend, my step-brother, and Louie CK. (The following clips are not really appropriate for work, or Grandmothers)

You’re welcome!

So, So, Spiteful.

Someone asked me a few days ago why I named my blog the way I did.

Clearly this person does not know me as well as some of the rest of you do.

I am a very, very spiteful person.  That’s not to say I’m not nice.  I think I’m nice.  I have lots of friends, so I must not be that bad.  Granted, we all share a pretty twisted sense of humor.  But, really — I give money to charity, I’m always lending shoulders to cry on, I adopt homeless animals, and people regularly ask me to watch their babies.  So, I’d say in general, I’m a good person.

Also, Karma scares the crap out of me.  I try not to put things out there that I wouldn’t want to come back around my way.

But still…  when provoked, my initial guttural reaction is pure, unadulterated, spite.

Great example.  When I was about two years old, my mom had to go back to work.  When she told me, my reaction was to crawl under her king-sized bed, and pee on the floor.

When she told that story to my husband, he dubbed me The Spiteful Pee-er.

Which, unfortunately, is pretty accurate.  Even now, 28 years later — in addition to that initial desire to say or do something spiteful, is an instinct to pee on something.*

Like, your boss is rude to you?!  Pee on her chair!

That saleswoman was a bitch?!  Pee in the dressing room!

Your roommate didn’t clean up the kitchen?!  Pee in her bed!

*This reaction also falls under the category of oozing.  For as long as I can remember — my mother has encouraged me to fight these urges.

It should be noted, I don’t actually pee on things.  At least, not anymore.  It’s just a gut reaction.

Also, it’s not not really practical.  What if you accidentally peed on your shoes or something?  Then everyone knows it was you, and you smell like pee all day.

Smoop – Part Three

… or as I like to call it, “Smoop Gets Sexy!”

The birds and the bees we’re discussed pretty early in our house.  And by discussed, I mean I had a book about it.  I can’t tell you how many times I read that book.  My obsession with baby-making started early.

The Talk
When I was 12, I got my period (sorry, fellas).  It was the summer between seventh and eighth grade and I was convinced I was never going to get it, because all my friends had theirs, and mine was nowhere to be found.  Why was it taking so long?! What’s wrong with me?!  I insisted that she explain to me how it works, over and over again.  She drew me a diagram of a uterus  and ovaries on a note pad — and let me tell you, looking back, that sucker was pretty accurate.  Also looking back, I was an idiot.

Anyway — then, one day, it was just there.

So, I called my mom at work to tell her.  I remember I was standing in our dining room, because the phone was in the kitchen, and back in the day, they were still tethered to the wall.  I took most of my calls pacing around the dining room table, or on the landing of the stairs.

“I think I got my period.”
“I don’t think so.”
“No, really, I think I did.”
“Well what does it look like?”
“Um…  blood?”
“Well, I’ll have to look at it when I get home.”

(I like that her initial reaction was that I was wrong.  That there must be some other explanation for whatever was in my underwear…)

So, after work, she confirmed my suspicions.

And then it was time for The Talk.  Which, for most people is probably pretty awkward for all parties involved.  In my house, it was one sentence.

“Well, you can have babies now — so don’t get pregnant!”

Direct.  Concise.  Effective.

Thanks Mom.

The D***o
I have been forbidden to tell this story.  So, instead, I’ll show you this picture from the photobooth we had at our wedding.

The Birds and The Bees and Robert Pattinson
A few weeks ago I went with my mom, my aunt and my cousin to see Water for Elephants, which — in case you were wondering — was good, but not as good as the book.  When we were leaving, my mom and I were walking to the car.

“That’s that Vampire Boy, right?”
“Yes.”
“What’s that all about, anyway?”

So, for the next ten minutes, I give her a cliff’s Notes version of the Twilight Saga.  I wrapped it up with:

“Basically though, it’s really just a thinly veiled metaphor for graduating from High School, and uh…”
“Marriage?”
“Well, yes, but no.  What’s that word?  Where you don’t do things?”
“Laziness?”
“Hmmm… It’s uh…  Shit, what is it called?!”

“Oh, ha.  Right.  Abstinence.”
“I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t know that word.”

She knows me so well.