I know I’ve
been a total slacker in keeping up with this blog. Not only have I been posting
less frequently, I feel like I’ve let “you” (whoever YOU are reading this) down
in terms of content and quality. HowEVER, I never really set forth any sort of mission
statement or specific production goals, so never mind that sentiment. This blog’s
very essence is a testament to my state of being at this phase in my life:
random, disjointed, roller-coaster-rific.
Organization
was always the hardest part of essay writing for me in school anyway.
I
thought I ought to document a little more about my surrogacy “journey” at this
mid-pregnancy moment. I’m like 6-ish months along right now and everything
looks good. It’s a girl. I’m sure the intended parents are “over the moon” (the
customary and apparently only permitted phrase used to indicate happiness or excitement
in the surrogate world), but it’s hard to know their specific moon proximity
from emails that come every twenty days or so. They’re very busy people. And
probably guarded about getting too close, which is fine, and totally
understandable, but…it is odd going through a pregnancy with zero excitement. I’m
excited on principle—that the pregnancy is going well and all—but obviously
there isn’t the anticipation of bringing home a baby or anything. And since I don’t
talk on the phone with the parents, there’s not really anyone to squeal
excitedly with.
The
parents are coming out here next month to attend an ultrasound, have the
hospital tour and discuss our birth plan. I’m totally nervous about it because
we haven’t seen them since LAST summer when we first met them, and that was in
a supervised environment, like having a chaperone on a date. So that will be
nice and awkward.
I’m
watching Brother Bear 2 right now. Just put the kids down for nap and here I
am, still watching the movie. I want to know if Kenai’s girlfriend is gonna
turn into a bear, of course. Kids are surprisingly quiet for two little people
who were still quite energetic a few minutes ago. It is so freaking windy
outside, shaking the house with its fall-y-ness. I just had a bowl of cereal
(my third since last night’s midnight breakfast of champions, aka Wheaties). Baby
girl is kicking. I want to take a nap, but also need a shower, but also need to
work on my painting…I don’t bother throwing exercise in the suggested pile of activities
at this point. Same story different day.
I
started the first in a series of pregnancy-related body image paintings last
month but lost my momentum after I finished the underpainting, as I often do. I
want to get one done each month, but self-imposed deadlines are way too easy to
ignore. Plus there’s a few Christmas doggie portrait commissions on the horizon,
and the nakey exhibit isn’t until next fall.
At least
I can stick it to the little boy about actually making art now. Sort of.
A little
while back, Dirt asked me what a studio was. I told him it was a place where
creative people make things: music, art, movies, etc. He then asked, “Are we
creative people?” I told him yes. Something to the effect of “You are very
smart, imaginative, creative people. You are such good artists too, with your
drawing and painting!” Without skipping a beat, he said “You’re not.” A tad
taken aback, I asked him why he would say that, and he replied, matter-of-factly,
“Well, Mom, you just never draw.” POW! Way to call me out on never doing art,
son. But now he has to deal with my nude drawings, even though he told me I need to put a bra on them.
The end
of this movie is totally making me cry. Not sure if I can blame it on preggy
hormones, but that’s what I’m going with anyway. I called it, by the way.
Girlfriend is turning into a bear. Also, I was wrong about at least one kid
actually being asleep; Dirt just emerged, naked, eagerly asking me to check out
his recent potty deposit. “Is that a huge pile?” (If you must know, the answer
was yes.)
Do you
know one frustrating way to spend an hour? Trying to take a nap with a little
boy who says he just wants to cuddle but then is all wiggly and chatty and when
you get stern with him and try to send him back to his room he runs off crying
and says you hurt his feelings cuz he just loves you and wants to snuggle you
so you end up feeling like a big ol’ meanie and got no actual nap at all. And
the pointy-nosed dog keeps poking you with his pointy wet nose cuz he’s needy
and shooing him away makes you feel even more like a big ol’ meanie.
Sooooo
the husband is on a week-long hunting trip and I’m left to fend for us alone,
keeping the kids, dogs, and horses fed. For the human variety, I stocked up on
frozen dinners and mac’n’cheese (and cereal, as usual). I am enjoying the fact
that the house stays fairly clean in his absence, but I am bored, and feel even
more boring than usual in terms of hanging out with the kids. All I can say is,
I’d better get a freezer full of delicious elk meat after being abandoned with
all the beasts while 6 months pregnant.
“In
other news” (as I’m prone to say), I swapped out one part-time art job for
another in recent months. The great little local studio where I was working closed
because the rural folk couldn’t appreciate its awesomeness, and sadly, the
owner couldn’t garner enough business to stay open. So, now I’m working a
little closer to Denver teaching painting classes to non-artist boozers.
Kidding. But not really. It’s one of those “paint and sip” studios. They also
have clay and glass art classes, as well as a whole separate area for kid
stuff. It’s a super cool place too, and although the paintings are often overly
simplistic and I get tired of reassuring patrons that they’re doing well, the
people I work with are great and it’s really pretty fun. After I got over the
awkward performance factor and learned how not to fall off the little stage, of
course. (Don’t worry, B, surely I’m still plenty awkward to those who know me.
Especially when I have to use the silly little microphone.)
Although
I loved the quiet solitude and private lesson setup at the other studio, the
more social aspect of this job is excellent—especially considering the lack of
adult interaction a prairie-dwelling stay-at-home mom typically gets. And once
I’m done being pregnant I can even enjoy a beer while working, which I look
forward to. More than you know.
Speaking
of pregnant (yes we’re back to that…see how outstanding my organization is?), you
know what I hate? People telling me “You don’t even look pregnant!” I suppose they see it as a compliment of
sorts, but seriously. That just means I look fat normally. If this belly does
not even look pregnant, then that
sucks for me. Cuz it’s plenty round.
I
actually got maternity pants this time around and I have no idea how I got by
without them in my other two pregnancies. Really low-waisted and/or unbuttoned pants
all the time?? I remember purchasing a single pair of pants at Motherhood
(maternity store), and never ever wearing them cuz they were atrocious. Instead
of the “full/extended panel” coverage I am currently so fond of, I couldn’t commit and
got the half belly type, which is just a wide elastic band at the top of
normalish pants ("demi panel"), causing both muffin top and hip puffage. Like putting a rubber
band around a marshmallow. But now I’m totally digging the kind that goes all
the way up to your armpits.
The other
day I took all our old baby stuff to the consignment store, with sudden OCD
flourish. Dooley was cleaning out the garage (after two failed attempts in the
past few months, and now we can see the floor and walk through without hopping
over an obstacle course of black widow-infested hurdles), which prompted me to
drag all things baby out of the basement and whisk them immediately away. I
couldn’t even take the time to list them on Craigslist or think for two seconds
if we know anyone that wants them. They. Had. To. Go. Now. Thankfully handling
it that way didn’t allow for too much sentimentality, but it is a little
bittersweet. I think I’ve accepted that two kids is more than I can handle
anyway, and I’m anxious to see what I can do with myself once these guys are in
school.
[Incidentally,
Dirt started part-time preschool, which he says he hates, but you can’t trust a
four-year-old. I just hate having to get up in the morning to take him there.
He is equally bad at mornings, and it’s really hard to motivate for something
that no one likes. Allegedly. And it’s stupidly only three hours long. He can
write his name now, though it doesn’t seem like he’s taking advantage of the
socialization factor like we thought he would; in fact, our loud, crazy boy
apparently turns into the shyest thing that ever was when he’s at school.
Weeeiiirrrrd.]
Anyway,
I wondered to myself, as I hauled in the bouncer and changing table and high
chair, if the consignment clerks were wondering to themselves why a pregnant
person would purge her baby items. Then I thought they probably think that I “don’t
even look pregnant”. Those jerks.
Now excuse me while I go outside and attempt to throw a pile of hay over a fence as tall as me in the cold hurricaney wind and get tons of itchy bits in my bra, then come back inside to clean up poo that has a stench so powerful it is filling the house but I don't want to open the windows because it's cold and windy.
Now excuse me while I go outside and attempt to throw a pile of hay over a fence as tall as me in the cold hurricaney wind and get tons of itchy bits in my bra, then come back inside to clean up poo that has a stench so powerful it is filling the house but I don't want to open the windows because it's cold and windy.
