This is my confession
Mrs. Flinger tagged me to do a blog-board confessional thing. Alright, alright...but because I've been meaning to do something like it for awhile now, it will be Confessions: Second Pregnancy Edition. This all, therefore, must come with an important disclaimer.
U.B., I love ya. You were very planned, and you are very wanted.
With that said...
Confession: I have eaten complete crap while pregnant with you. Lately I have been more conscious of this and have done more to eat fruits and vegetables. When I was pregnant with your brother, I ate a large bowl of oatmeal for breakfast every morning, yogurt for a morning snack, organic vegetarian dehydrated soup and a piece of fruit for lunch, and then something at least moderately healthy for dinner. No wonder your brother is a fruitatarian. I think you, U.B., will be composed of 50% fudge and at least 30% Lean Pockets.
Confession: I haven't been as religious with the prenatal care as I was with your brother. Oh, now, not to the point of maternal negligence, but still. I didn't see any practitioners between 9 and 20-or-so weeks, when I should have had 2 or 3 visits. Your dad and brother and I are getting ready to go on a long vacation and I will probably not get back to the doctor until you are almost full-term, meaning I will be skipping another two visits. I didn't interview your O.B.; in fact, I've only ever seen one actual doctor in my pursuance of your care. When I was pregnant with your brother, Dada came to every prenatal visit with me. Now, Dada is my babysitter and I go by myself because your brother is a holy terror inside an exam room. Despite all this (and perhaps what encourages me to think that most of these visits are probably not necessary anyway), you appear to be thriving, all of your own accord.
Confession: Your middle name will be Michael, after your father. We still don't have a first name picked out for you. Yours is much harder than your brother's was, because now we feel we must pick something that is not only good for you, but also one that won't sound ridiculous when said quickly next to your brother's. Your dad comes up with the most awful names. He wants to name you after crusty authors: Bertholdt or Landon or Clive. Don't worry, I won't let him. Unfortunately, if he weren't around to stop me, I would ensure you a lifetime of teasing with my own name choices. First I wanted to name you Jackson. Dada laughed almost to tears thinking I wanted to name my child Jackson Michael, you know, in mirror image of a certain child-molesting pop star. Then I wanted to name you Ryan. Apparently there is already a very famous actor named Ryan O'Neal, and you would forever be saddled with stereotypes going along with the lead character from Love Story. We have pored through our ridiculously unhelpful baby name book and we hate everything. Hopefully we will get our act together and your name will not go in hospital records as "TBA O'Neal".
Confession: I have a secret fear that you will be a camper. If I hadn't unknowningly lied about my water breaking, I bet your brother would have been, too. I have been told that if you run two weeks late they will induce me. Today, I realized that two weeks late = March 8. My birthday is March 9. I don't want you to mess with my birthday. I think we both deserve our own birthdays, don't you?
Confession: I am deathly afraid of your coming. Not in that short-term-labor-pain sense. I could really care less about that. In fact it has always angered me mightily to hear whiny ho-bags (like Britney!) losing sleep over how much pain labor will cause them. No, my fear is more in the whenever-I-pick-up-another-baby-your-big-brother-totally-freaks-out sense. In the when-exactly-am-I-supposed-to-sleep sense. My lame attempt at self-soothing is to TiVo episodes of "A Baby Story" where the family is expecting their second. In the last one I watched the dad said, and I quote: "Having two makes having one seem like having none." Great. I am still not sure how this all is supposed to work, with me being shared between you and your brother. I am only slightly reassured by thinking that I probably would never be capable of knowing until you actually come along and I am thrown into the den of little-boy lions.
Now I am supposed to tag people, but everyone I regularly read has already been tagged, so this is the end of the road for this confessional lineage. Unless Susie wants to carry the torch.
U.B., I love ya. You were very planned, and you are very wanted.
With that said...
Confession: I have eaten complete crap while pregnant with you. Lately I have been more conscious of this and have done more to eat fruits and vegetables. When I was pregnant with your brother, I ate a large bowl of oatmeal for breakfast every morning, yogurt for a morning snack, organic vegetarian dehydrated soup and a piece of fruit for lunch, and then something at least moderately healthy for dinner. No wonder your brother is a fruitatarian. I think you, U.B., will be composed of 50% fudge and at least 30% Lean Pockets.
Confession: I haven't been as religious with the prenatal care as I was with your brother. Oh, now, not to the point of maternal negligence, but still. I didn't see any practitioners between 9 and 20-or-so weeks, when I should have had 2 or 3 visits. Your dad and brother and I are getting ready to go on a long vacation and I will probably not get back to the doctor until you are almost full-term, meaning I will be skipping another two visits. I didn't interview your O.B.; in fact, I've only ever seen one actual doctor in my pursuance of your care. When I was pregnant with your brother, Dada came to every prenatal visit with me. Now, Dada is my babysitter and I go by myself because your brother is a holy terror inside an exam room. Despite all this (and perhaps what encourages me to think that most of these visits are probably not necessary anyway), you appear to be thriving, all of your own accord.
Confession: Your middle name will be Michael, after your father. We still don't have a first name picked out for you. Yours is much harder than your brother's was, because now we feel we must pick something that is not only good for you, but also one that won't sound ridiculous when said quickly next to your brother's. Your dad comes up with the most awful names. He wants to name you after crusty authors: Bertholdt or Landon or Clive. Don't worry, I won't let him. Unfortunately, if he weren't around to stop me, I would ensure you a lifetime of teasing with my own name choices. First I wanted to name you Jackson. Dada laughed almost to tears thinking I wanted to name my child Jackson Michael, you know, in mirror image of a certain child-molesting pop star. Then I wanted to name you Ryan. Apparently there is already a very famous actor named Ryan O'Neal, and you would forever be saddled with stereotypes going along with the lead character from Love Story. We have pored through our ridiculously unhelpful baby name book and we hate everything. Hopefully we will get our act together and your name will not go in hospital records as "TBA O'Neal".
Confession: I have a secret fear that you will be a camper. If I hadn't unknowningly lied about my water breaking, I bet your brother would have been, too. I have been told that if you run two weeks late they will induce me. Today, I realized that two weeks late = March 8. My birthday is March 9. I don't want you to mess with my birthday. I think we both deserve our own birthdays, don't you?
Confession: I am deathly afraid of your coming. Not in that short-term-labor-pain sense. I could really care less about that. In fact it has always angered me mightily to hear whiny ho-bags (like Britney!) losing sleep over how much pain labor will cause them. No, my fear is more in the whenever-I-pick-up-another-baby-your-big-brother-totally-freaks-out sense. In the when-exactly-am-I-supposed-to-sleep sense. My lame attempt at self-soothing is to TiVo episodes of "A Baby Story" where the family is expecting their second. In the last one I watched the dad said, and I quote: "Having two makes having one seem like having none." Great. I am still not sure how this all is supposed to work, with me being shared between you and your brother. I am only slightly reassured by thinking that I probably would never be capable of knowing until you actually come along and I am thrown into the den of little-boy lions.
Now I am supposed to tag people, but everyone I regularly read has already been tagged, so this is the end of the road for this confessional lineage. Unless Susie wants to carry the torch.
posted by Claire at 7:12 PM
9 Comments:
Wow you were a perfect pregnant Mommy with Isaac eating all healthy and everything. I felt guilty there for a minute until I read that you are a NORMAL pregnant Mommy this time!
You have probably considered this already, but how about the name Ian? "Ian Michael O'Neal" sounds pretty good, as does "Ian and Isaac." Just a thought.
Claire, you crack me up!!! "whiny ho bags" ROFLMAO. I hear ya!!! Hey, if they want to be cut open by choice and have a child ripped from their abdomens... more power to 'em. Me? I'll take the short-term pain (please, it's not even as bad as a root canal) and the easier recovery.
As for having two... it scares the pants off me too! I'm glad you are going first! ;)
Dear Anonymous: thank you for your suggestion. Actually, Ian is my #1 pick for a first name. But the hubs has decided that having two kids that start with "I" is way too cutesy for him, and also that he is averse to more names that start with vowel sounds (like other names from my good list: Ethan, Aidan). So we are back to square one.
Thank you all for your cute and reassuring comments. It was fun for me to let out my major worries about #2. And Erin -- I think that is my major pet peeve, hearing pregnant women bitch about "how much it's going to hurt". Because major abdominal surgery will hurt less. Riiiiiight. Suck it up, loser, like the 50 gazillion women who have come before you.
LOL Claire! If they only knew that the labor is the EASY part. The months on end of no sleep and dealing with a newborn afterward is the Hard part.
LOL! No doubt, Dawn.
You just scared the hell out of me about ever having a second child!!
Claire, How about Seth Michael
OH MAH GAH.. That is the best confesion post, girl! Loved it. Especially the fudge/lean pocket part because LB is a poptart/chocolate/creme frappacion baby herself. Ahh, yes. I'm sure "number 2" will be TBA Flinger grown on narry a veggie or fruit whatsoever.
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