Monthly Archives: July 2007

A confession

I can’t stop calling the advice nurse at my son’s pediatrician’s office. It’s getting out of control. I have to stop, I know I have to STOP. This worrying won’t go away if I keep picking up the phone. Or googling things like “co-sleeping+crush baby”.

I’m a worry wart. I’m more than a little obsessive. I tend to think of worst case scenarios. Not a good combination. Especially not a good one when you’re a parent. Supposedly, by the second kid I’ll be one relaxed girl. Until then, deep breathing (and maybe a swift kick to the head) is in order.

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No, you can't have my baby.

It took Andy and I a year and a half to get pregnant. I was beginning to think that I was infertile and it was a pretty scary thought. We definitely didn’t have the money to explore IVF. Just getting a sperm count was expensive. And when we did get pregnant that year and a half later, I miscarried soon after. Then I went to see an acupuncturist and found that my chi was “blocked”. Whatever that means. I drank herbs 2 times a day for… well I can’t remember. And I don’t put much stock in all that…I don’t know… gee your aura is a nice shade of magenta. Oh look, it’s glowing. The force is strong in this one. I do know that I ended up getting pregnant again pretty soon after I chugged my last fucknasty cup of tea.

Anyway, for that year and a half, and the months after I miscarried, I searched the Internet for something to read that I could relate to. I needed to feel encouraged. And since I assumed that I was infertile, it’s no surprise that I ended up perusing through and reading a good amount of blogs written by infertile women. A little pregnant being the primary one. That chick is pretty damn funny. She manages to joke and and write in detail about her painful experiences with infertility, the several times that she miscarried, and how she finally lucked out and managed to stay pregnant long enough to give birth to her son. I love that she wrote about that crazy Duggar family that seems to want to take over the world, when I saw the show on Discovery Health I thought mine eyes were deceiving me. The whole special was about how they were going on their 15th kid, and by the end of the segment they find out she’s pregnant again! Even if you’re not infertile and bitter, who wouldn’t find humor (and possibly disgust) in the fact that this woman has been pregnant non stop for at least 15 years? Turns out Michelle and Jim Bob (that’s right, kids. JIM BOB.) gave up birth control pills after she miscarried in the first few years of their marriage, because miscarriages never happen spontaneously. They only happen when you’re using contraceptives. Duh. Oh! And I love how the mom dresses her daughters in what have got to be the ugliest jumpers I’ve seen this side of Little House on the Prairie, while the boys get to enjoy some kind of normalcy in khakis and polo shirts. The eldest kids who are in their teens can’t even date, at least, not unsupervised. I see a Flowers in the Attic storyline unfolding…*Checks website* Dude. She’s STILL pregnant.

I’ve also been reading blogs written by white women who have adopted black children (I think a couple of these women live in Portland, too); it’s interesting how they are essentially black parents*: when their children are persecuted against, they are in kind. They hear and see things that they weren’t privy to before. I came across one entry that really resonated with me. The author wrote that black babies are seen as adorable, but black teenagers are another story. See, black teenagers are automatically felons and thus, are to be feared. *sighs* When I’ve heard people say things like “Black babies are so cute” or “Everyone wants a black baby” I’ve never quite known what to say to that. It’s strange to hear people speak that way. They think they’re paying you a compliment, but it just comes across offensively. It sounds like something you’d say about a pet, not a human being. It’s kind of like all those vapid starlets who just have to have the latest tiny rat dog that they can fit in their purse. Does everyone who adopts a black baby do so just to be trendy? I don’t think so. I don’t think the people who make these statements are actually the ones who’d risk leaving their safe little bubbles to live life as “the other”. It’s just cool in theory, right?

There’s also the whole “interracial babies are the most beautiful babies” argument that gets thrown around a lot. It makes me cringe sometimes when people come up to us when we’re out and comment on my kid’s attractiveness. I know it’s what people do with babies, but sometimes I feel like Zain is seen as some kind of novelty (one nurse in the hospital told me that she really liked his complexion). Look lady, I don’t know you from Adam. Please take two steps back. My kid’s beautiful because Andy and I are his parents, and that’s just how we do. Case in point: My Zain

* ETA: Yeah. Let me rephrase that, since I don’t necessarily agree with my phrasing.  I don’t think that having a child of color makes a white woman/man a black parent because the absence of that child will allow them to safely “pass”; to put in crudely…blackness can’t just…rub off on you. It doesn’t work that way. I do think one can acquire a heightened sense of their surroundings, and like any parent, feel their child’s pain when they’ve been mistreated.

to be continued…

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Hair drama

I just found out that I have to find myself another stylist. The woman that’s been cutting my hair, Sharon, has decided to up and move back to Oklahoma. Her daughter lives there but her husband doesn’t (oooh…gossip); every time I saw her she was always talking wistfully about wanting to see her grandsons more and how her daughter couldn’t survive without her. So…good for her I guess. Not so good for me. It’s not even as if I was always pleased with the job she did on my hair: I once had to go back in and have her redo it because she rushed through it and didn’t properly wash out all the product I had in before adding another…the result was crunchy, clumped together locks. And she had ran her fingers through it, felt it and sent me out the door (I didn’t touch it ’til I was halfway home). I was pissed.
The only reason that I didn’t find another stylist was that it is insanely hard to find a stylist in this town that does black hair. Word of mouth seems to be the ticket. That means I have to run down any black women I see around town that has the look I want(which should be simple, what with the booming black population in Portland /sarcasm) and ask them who they see, or try to simply google my needs. So either way has me knee, no…NECK high in a hay stack trying to find one (ONE!) damn needle.

to be continued…

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Clothes Off

Clothing is optional in my house right now. Actually it’s been optional since Zain got here; it feels like I am breastfeeding every five minutes. But now, it’s due to that AND the fact that it’s crazy hot right now. CRAZY hot. And it’s 9 in the motherfucking night. Can the weather be enjoyable here? I don’t need excessive rain, I don’t need excessive heat. Give me something I can move freely in without being sopping wet and I’ll stop complaining. KTHANX.

I went to Baskin Robbins tonight to get some much needed ice cream. The guy behind the counter handed me my rainbow sherbet and as I tried to grab my money and hold the cone upright, my ice cream ended up on the counter. Both our faults, I guess, since he could’ve just put the cone in the holder while I tried to dig in my wallet and pay him. And I could’ve thought of that too. But the clincher is this…he actually expected me to EAT THE ICE CREAM OFF THE COUNTER. I looked at him like he was crazy and said “Uhhh…I’d like my sherbet without the germs, thanks.” He tried to say something about feeling bad about wasting the ice cream and how he couldn’t take responsibility blahblahblah. You’re crazy dude. Just because you like to eat food off of dirty counters (and possibly floors, didn’t look like he really cared where food came from as long as it was edible) doesn’t mean I will. Sorry I couldn’t juggle, but next time don’t have the scoops dangling precariously on the edge of the cone. Did I mention I was hot???

Bur now on to happier topics: Zain, or Zephyr as Bethany has dubbed him today (speaking of which, can a zephyr blow through my window right about now?). He’s amazing. He’s the most gorgeous baby ever. EVAR. You’ve all seen pictures of this god-like creature, you know I’m right. And compared to some of the stories I’ve heard, he’s a pretty well behaved baby. Thank God we don’t have to deal with colic! He does have a bit of a issue sometimes with my breasts, where he likes to fight with them in the wee hours of the morning…oh and kick at my stomach like a CHAMP…but I can’t fault him for that. Poor kid doesn’t know how to express himself yet. That’s what Andy told me when I told him that our child hates me. HEH. I can’t wait until he can give hugs and smile just for us. I need my validation!

Now that I’ve pretty much lost all my pregnancy weight I’m feeling more or less myself. Let’s go with more. See, I can’t fit a lot of my shirts because my breasts are too large. There was a time when I thought large breasts might be good times, but they’re kind of annoying. They leak, they hurt, and they take up WAY too much space. Funbags? Nay. NAY I SAY.

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