Babies have favorites, too.

There are days I feel like I'm the most important person in my son's life.  And then there are days I feel completely disposable.

When I come home from work, I come home to a fussy baby.  Actually, I don't generally see the fussiness; the moment I walk through the door L.J. goes from screaming, shrieking banshee to tame housecat.  He'll play in his jumper, sit on Daddy or Mommy and watch TV, suck on his toes, talk to his best friend (that would be the ceiling fan), giggle at the dog, and do his best to either smack or scratch anything in reach.  He pulls the cat's tail and the dog's whiskers.  He laughs.  He naps.  He's wonderful.  This is the evidence my husband gives me to say that I'm my son's favorite person.

On the other hand, that little booger sees Daddy and lights up like Independence Day fireworks.  He giggles, laughs hysterically, and talks.  He doesn't laugh for Mommy... Only Daddy gets that part of him!  He'll shriek with joy just by seeing Daddy walk by.  There's a special bond they have, that I don't have.  It makes me a little jealous to hear L.J. laugh hysterically because Daddy tickles him on the changing table.  I'm lucky just to get a big smile out of him when I do that!  In fact, most of the time what I get is excited wiggling and fist-chomping.  Not that it isn't adorable, because it is, but come on.  I'm Mommy.  Babies should laugh for their mothers.

Babies discriminate.  That's all there is to it.  And I'm pretty sure they know what they're doing.  They're playing Mom and Dad against each other for the maximum amount of love.  It's in their ooey-gooey cuteness.  It's just how they're made.  It's evil.  It's adorable.  It's working.

Honestly, watching the two of them makes me tear up with joy.  There's nothing more amazing than watching my husband be a father to our son.  And there's certainly nothing that makes me happier than watching my family, day after day.

It's all worth it.

Laughing for Daddy.

Truth from the mouths of moms.

I have a small, adorable, darling, downright evil little baby boy. With that said, I would like to just point out a few hard truths, as a first time mom.

First, everyone was right. Everyone.

Second, you can't love your baby all the time. Sometimes they just suck.

Third, your child is a budding genius. Everyone will tell you how amazing s/he is and you'll believe them, because... well, it's true. Your child will be the best at everything. So there.

Fourth, you'll give in to "advice" because you're tired and exhausted and worn out and so-and-so has been telling you to try this every day for the past 3 months. Just remember, if you don't feel like it, don't. You feel worse taking advice you didn't want to take. Unless it works. Then you feel like a fool for not taking it. But really, only do what's comfortable for you.

Fifth, have sex with your husband a lot. He has to deal with your mood swings, temper tantrums, neurotic first-time-mom freak-outs, and a baby. We get to cheat with our boobs (even if you are bottle-feeding, babies loooove to sleep on boobies), our hormones giving us natural maternal instincts, and our emotions can always be blamed on "those damn hormones". Men have to struggle to find their own balance with babies, and it's hard. Give them some credit. Also, when they've had their once-a-week roll in the sheets, they tend to be a little nicer for a few days. They might even do the dishes. (Alternately: Hold off on sex until they do a lot of nice things for you. Train 'em right.)

Sixth, there is nothing like that feeling of "I CAN DO AAAAAAAAAAAANYTHING!!!!!" after your very first successful outing, alone, with your newborn. Shopping? Getting gas? Driving to your mother's? It doesn't matter. You did it by yourself. You. Are. SuperMom. 

Seventh, there's no such thing as too many pictures. Even if they're extremely blurry and terrible, you'll hate to erase them. They grow too fast and they're just so darn cute.

Eighth, your ugly little baby is the most precious and beautiful thing on the face of this earth. Until you look back a few months down the road and think, "Ewww... wrinkles!" Haha. Nah. Your baby's still cute.

Ninth, if you're usually the one being a shutterbug... make sure you have someone taking pictures of you with your precious bundle of joy. I have very few pictures of me and L.J. for this reason. I'm always the one behind the camera, and the older he gets, the sadder I am that I have so few of me and his little wrinkly red newborn self.

Daddy, I hope you miss me, too.

Note:  I wrote this back in August and am just getting around to putting it on my blog.  Appropriate, because I'm missing him a lot today.  If you want humor, you should go here or here.

What was an innocent browsing of Disney videos on Youtube is turning into a complete and utter meltdown. This one has a sweet little look at Disney dads and it made me realize -- I'm not ready to stop being Daddy's little girl just yet. Granted, most of it is the song -- but now I'm just bawling my eyes out for no real reason, just missing those days of cuddling up to my daddy on those bad days when I needed nothing more than a hug and to know that everything will be okay. The days I threw tantrums and cried desperately in my room, certain the world was against me, only to be laughing an hour later after daddy came home with ice cream and a lecture that should have just made me feel bad, but instead just made me realize how stupid I was being. The days I couldn't handle growing up and daddy let me be a little kid, just for a while.

And just all the little things.

• Getting yelled at in the restaurant because I'm too old to be blowing bubbles into my drink.
• The sighs when I tore apart my Subway sandwich because it was just "too much bread."
• The grudging "I love you, too" after I did something exceptionally terrible, like slipped one too many things into the shopping cart.
• The rolling of eyes, sighing, well-intentioned but ultimately failed attempts to ignore me, and eventually the giving in because I couldn't go another day without a new book so help me God or I'll pester you the rest of this week until you give in later so do us both a favor and give in now.
• The annoyed looks whenever I would interrupt his concentration just for a hug.
• The annoyance I'd feel when he'd do the same to me.
• The phone calls just to see how I'm doing.
• The random lunch dates, just because he misses having me around.

Daddy is my best friend, my adviser, the devil's advocate when I just want to bitch, the person I can go to with anything and not be judged, and even now if all I need is a hug, he'll sit there and hug me until I feel better.

Now, I'm married. I'm pregnant. And Daddy is still my daddy, who sighs when I'm being unreasonable, hugs me when I cry, and buys me ice cream just to make me feel better because I've had a hard day.

For the past week I've been stressing over budgets, paying off bills, and trying to figure out how we can get to a point where we don't have to rely on our parents anymore and can stand on our own two feet. I get angry and frustrated because life isn't working the way I want it to. And I forget just how amazingly blessed I am, because my mother and father never judged me. They support me. They are giving up their years free of children to help watch mine. They're spending money they don't have to make sure I'm eating right and that I'm happy. And above all, if I ever need them, they'll be here in a heartbeat.

Money can't compare to that. And I'm so, so thankful for what we do have. A wonderful family -- on both sides -- and a lot of love for each other and for this baby we're bringing into the world.

Daddy, Mommy -- I love you. And thank you. Even though I can't tell you any of this because you'd probably get nauseated and hurl.

And yes. I'm still crying. So I think I'm going to take a shower, maybe get some hot chocolate, and try to sleep so I can get up for work in the morning. I'll tell you what -- these introspective kicks are killer.

Don't be that creepy boundary-crossing voyeur-like person. Please.

Probably the thing that irritates me the absolute most when it comes to pregnancy is the whining.

No, not my whining.  My whining, coming from a pregnant woman, is perfectly acceptable.  (Shut up; I'm pregnantist.)  I'm talking about those stupid arguments you end up having with other people about their so-called "rights" to the 9-month show that is your pregnant body.

We've heard it all, seen it all, or been through it all, right?

"My husband thinks that because my mother has [come to all my appointments/ultrasounds/has listened to the baby's heartbeat], his mother is allowed too."  (And sometimes even his 12-year-old younger brother.)  Okay, let me think about this one for a minute.  Let's see... No.  Good God.  It doesn't matter who you are, you have no right to be at my doctor's appointment.  Even the baby's father has no real right to be there.  Why?  Because I'm the one that gets to be poked, prodded, and has to answer uncomfortable questions.  My mother-in-law does not need to know when the last time I had sex was, or if my vaginal discharge has smelled fishy.  My father-in-law does not need to see my belly and my waistband around my hips while cold gel is slathered all over my belly.  Hell, if I'm uncomfortable with my doctor seeing my belly, I can request a new doctor.  What makes you think anyone else in the world is exempt from this?  On a similar note, what if my baby's father is no longer my significant other and demands to be at every baby appointment?  Sure, he has a right to the baby and all, but he doesn't have the right to see up my vagina, how often I've had sex, what my discharge is like, and how I'm feeling.  That's my business, thank you very much.  And there are women who are uncomfortable with imparting that sort of knowledge in front of their husbands, too -- so no.  I'm sorry.  Baby daddies don't have the "right" to be there, either.  Other than a past medical history, the doctors don't give a shit about how Daddy is doing -- much less how Grandma is!

"If your mom is going to be there to see the baby being born, my mom is too."  I've already said my piece.  Labor isn't a freaking show.

Let me just put it this way:  If somebody is babysitting your child in their house, that does not mean that you are allowed to have a key to their home to give out to whomever you wanted, security cameras set up so you can watch everything that's going on in every nook and cranny of that house with your friends while eating popcorn, and you certainly don't have the right to watch people in the bathroom or while they're getting dressed/undressed.  Especially with popcorn.  That's sick.

But, that is exactly what you are doing to a mother when you demand that somebody be there for these things.  If she's uncomfortable with it, it doesn't matter who you are -- you've just been labeled "creepy boundary-crossing voyeur-like person."  You're violating her body, and to me, that's a seriously creepy thing to do.  Just because there's a baby in there doesn't make it okay.  And how many of you men out there would invite your mother-in-law to your colonoscopy?  Prostate exam?  Vasectomy?  I'm going to guess very, very few.

Well then, Sandra, I can hear you asking, what about the father's rights?

I know my husband doesn't agree with me over this, but I really don't care:  For the most part, the daddy's rights are less than the mom's.  (There are exceptions, as far as I'm concerned, though not everyone agrees.)  There is a reality to the "it's my body" thing.

For example, I want to be on antidepressants during my pregnancy.  (I need to reschedule my appointment with my psychiatrist, now that I'm thinking about it...)  My husband doesn't like this idea, though he's finally agreed to it (for the second time).  And he drove me nuts during the 2 times we've had this conversation.  In all honesty, honey-dear-darling-dearest, I don't give a flying fuck about whether or not you want me on antidepressants or not.  If it's okayed by my doctor, it's my decision.  My health is just as important as the baby's, and can even affect the baby's health.

It's not just antidepressants -- any medication.  And yes, that includes medication with serious side effects.  Now, I would absolutely inform my husband or ask his advice if that is what I wanted if I were to take something with serious side effects for the baby.  But I will not ask his permission.  Why?  Because it's my body.

I know -- men hate that line, and disagree with it strongly.  But the fact remains that it is 100% true.  Yes; it is my body.  You do not "share" my pregnancy and its side effects on my health, physical or emotional; or, for that matter, my health's side effects on the baby!  And before you say "Oh, yes I do, because I'm the one that has to take care of you if something bad happens/I have to deal with the mood swings and craziness/I'm the one that has to pay for everything", that's not "sharing."  Bearing, yes. (And you can stop at any time if you really wanted, but that's a whole different bag of worms.)  Sharing?  No.  If you "shared" my health and complications, we'd both be getting treatment.  We're not.  I am.  Any decisions on what to do during pregnancy for my health is done by me, because you have no right to make a decision on what I can and cannot do for myself.  Even if, in the end, that impinges on what you see as your right as a father.

Let's go to an extreme and say I have high blood pressure, heart failure, diabetes, seizure disorders, and I'm schizophrenic.  My doctor is probably going to take one long look at my list of issues, wonder why the fuck I got pregnant in the first place, and is going to put me on a lot of medication.  Much of it is probably not going to do the baby a lot of good.  So let's say that you, as my husband, say "Absolutely not!" and I'm not put on this medication.  How are you going to feel about your "fatherly rights" when I die of complications due to heart failure because you took me off my medication?  How are you going to feel if I jump off a balcony, survive as a quadriplegic, and lose the baby, because I had a very bad "episode" with my schizophrenia?  How are you going to feel if I have an aneurysm and die on the operating table, baby and all?  How are you going to feel if I die, and that baby survives... with severe issues and the inability to live a "normal" life, or even one past the age of 10?

"Oh, you're being overly dramatic.  Being on an antidepressant/migraine medication/the occasional Vicodin is different than that.  You're not going to die without them."  No, dear, it's not different.  It's still risks, benefits, and probability.

When a doctor looks at putting the mom on medication, they weigh the probability of the baby having any sort of side effects/defects from that medication and the severity of the defect/side effect against the benefits of the mother being on that medication.  Whichever looks more important in that case is chosen. In some cases, that means the doctor isn't comfortable putting the mom-to-be on certain medications.  In others, the risk of the baby being born without a left leg is less important than the mom dying in her 18th week of pregnancy.  Or the mom being unable to get out of bed due to extreme pain.  Or the twice-a-week ER visits due to her disabling migraines.

You may think it's not a big deal.  But then again, you're not the one going through it.  So again, the my body rules apply, with doctor approval.

I'm pretty sure men hate me now, so let's just take a look at some math I've put together:  In pregnancy, 50% of decisions go to the pregnant body owner, 25% to the mom, and 25% to the dad*.  (In cases of surrogacy this percentage is probably not used. I think.)

So I, being the mother of the child, have 75% decision-making power.  You, as the father to my child, have 25%.  In any "fair" world, I have more decision-making power than you do, and I have majority vote.  In other words:  Screw you.  It's my body.  Pregnancy isn't fair.  Get over it.

With that said, I firmly believe that all fathers should have a say in such things as abortion that is not medically necessary for the health of the mother.  I believe all fathers have the right to basic knowledge about their unborn child, such as whether or not the pregnancy is high-risk and how it is progressing.  I believe all fathers have the right to demand you stop abusing the child by using illegal substances, because duh that's illegal.  So it's not like I'm saying daddies out there have no rights during pregnancy... They just have very few in which there is an equal "weight" to their opinion.

And if you have a problem with that, you should probably talk to whoever or whatever created pregnancy in the first place.  Don't look at us.  We're just the baby factories.  And we thrive on chocolate.

Also I probably shouldn't have written this when I'm so tired.  I'm also in pain, I'm grouchy, and I feel like there are a million stressful thoughts floating around my head, but I can't grasp a single one to figure out what I'm stressed about.  I probably jumped from point to point and was incoherent.  But who cares? It's my blog, not my thesis paper.  I think.

Why your mother-in-law does not have a first-row ticket to the delivery room.

Prescript:  If you're my mother-in-law, I love you dearly and none of this post is directed to you. :)


This issue came up on the BabyCenter boards.  I'm sure it's not the first time.  It certainly won't be the last time.  And this is very much an issue many mothers will have to face, fighting tooth and nail with their husbands (fiances/boyfriends/baby daddies).  And -- this is the part where you're going to attack me for being cruel and mean -- you know what?  This applies to those husbands/fiances/boyfriends/baby daddies, too.

You are not entitled to be there at the baby's birth.

Please don't hang me up to dry just yet!  I know that's one of those "taboo" things to say, and I certainly know that my husband does not agree with me one whit.  However, in our case it doesn't matter, as I couldn't dream of going through this without him there.  I want him to be there.  I also hope that he will be allowed to "catch" the baby when he or she is born.  This isn't a question in our family at all.

That doesn't, however, mean that I automatically think all fathers, mothers, mothers-in-law, fathers-in-law, best-friends-since-they-were-five, and the lady that you always see on the coffeeshop at 8 a.m. every Monday are entitled to be in the delivery room.

Most people seem to look at labor as The Great Debut of Child X.  I look at labor as what it is:  A medical procedure.  Regardless of whether this is performed at home, on the highway, or in the basement when zombies attack, this is Mommy X's Medical Procedure.  It's not about little Zach -- yet.  He just so happens to be the reason this is occurring.  When does it become about little Zach?  After little Zach is cleaned up, no longer attached to Mom, and ready for public viewing.  For those of you who might be unaware, when a lady in labor comes into the hospital, she's generally checked in under her own name.  Not her baby's.  Guess what that means?  Everything is about her.  The baby gets its own record -- after it is born.

That is where "entitlement" begins.  Not when the contractions start.  Not when the contractions are this close.  Not when that little head is being pushed out poor mom's vajingo.

"But that's not fair," people say, and it honestly shocks me that people think this way.  It's "fair" for daddy to see the baby's first breath.  It's "fair" that he sit through the entire ordeal, because after all, it's his kid too.  Fair this.  Fair that.  Fair poop, okay?  I want to know, why doesn't "fair" come into play when the mom can't hand off her expanding uterus to daddy so she can have a night off?  Why doesn't "fair" come into play when the daddy feels hopeless because he can't "feel" the flutters of quickening?  Why doesn't "fair" come into play when moms get to bond through breastfeeding, while all dads can do is hold a bottle?  Why doesn't "fair" come into play when hormones run rampant and uncontrolled?  Why doesn't "fair" come into play when the vagina is torn and needs to be stretched back up?  Why doesn't "fair" come into play when a woman has to go through major abdominal surgery just so the baby can be brought into the world alive?

I can tell you why; you just won't like the answer.  Life isn't fair.  Suck it up.

In all honesty, who can tell me that everything about pregnancy is fair?  It's not fair.  It isn't made fair.  The woman's body goes through the brunt of physical and emotional symptoms and men never seem to understand it.  That's not fair.  The dad has to deal with a pregnant, hormonal bitch in full rage without a fucking boat when the tears are enough to make a lake in the basement.  The dad has to be understanding, because "But honey, it's the hormones!"  And then he has to pray that he has the wherewithal to survive until that nasty little red-faced, crying, weird little creature is shoved into his arms and he can think, "Aww.  It's my son/daughter/alien!"  Is this fair to him?  No.  Of course it isn't.

So take fair out of the damn equation.  Fair doesn't belong in the delivery room.  If fair was supposed to exist in the delivery room, men would be having contractions and their asshole would be dilating.  Is it dilating?  Yes?  No?  I'm going to guess "no."

Who can walk out of a 27-hour labor and eat a sandwich?  Let me tell you:  it's not Mommy!

Who can take a nap after hour 32?  Again, it's not mommy.  Take a guess.  I'll give you 3.

Stop talking about "fairness."  Labor is not about fairness.  Shoving a baby's head out of your vajingo isn't about fairness.  Pregnancy.  Isn't.  Fair. 

With that said:


"If your mom is going to be there, then my mom should be too."What do you think we're arguing about?  A birthday present?  For crying out loud, stop trying to trump one another and grow up.  This isn't about "who's going to be there to see the baby's first few moments outside of the womb."  It's about pain, blood, more pain, screaming, possibly fainting, and poop.  The baby comes after all that.  There's more than just "the baby" involved in labor... Mom is going to need any tears stitched up, bleeding stopped (if there was anything insane going on!), and the placenta still has to be delivered.  Guess what?  That's still part of that whole "labor" thing, too.  Now do you see why I say it's a medical procedure...?

"Sometimes the dad-to-be needs support, too, and if he needs it from his mother, then she should be allowed in the delivery room."
If the dad-to-be needs support, he can get his support outside of mom's safe haven of misery and/or drugs.  He's not in labor.  He's not possibly hooked up to monitors.  He's not having contractions.  He probably has two feet, one foot, or a wheelchair.  He can walk out there and say, "Mommy, I'm scared."  She's perfectly capable of giving him support there.  And if he can't handle the entire ordeal without mommy being there, then maybe he should consider not being there -- because that's just going to burden his wife/fiancee/girlfriend/baby mama.

And, on that note, what if dad-to-be needs support from his daddy?  You can't tell me it's okay to say that, then, it's okay for the father-in-law to be in the delivery room.  Hell fucking no, it's not.  I don't care who you are -- if you think that's okay, there's something wrong with you.

"It's his kid, too.  He should be there."
Great -- if Mom is okay with that.  Otherwise, wait until the nurse brings that baby out to you.  I know that men hate the saying, "It's your baby, but it's her body" -- but guess what?  It's still true.  And if your presence is going to stress Mom out so much that she can't push and labor stalls, forcing her to undergo the C-section she wouldn't have needed if you had just stayed in the waiting room, that's ridiculous.  Your "right" to see your child born does not outweigh the seriousness of labor and its effects on mom's body.  I'm sorry.  Again, labor isn't about the child -- the child is just the cause of labor, and a happy result of it.

"This is a special bonding moment between you and the baby's father."
Maybe.  Depends on their relationship.  And quite frankly, if Mom doesn't want to bond, then she doesn't have to.

Quite frankly, everyone's different.  But in the end, there is one woman dealing with every contraction, every gush of ohmygod, did that come out of me?, every urge to push, every tear, every drop of blood lost, and who may even get PTSD from having a terrible experience with labor.  Yes, it does happen, and no, it's not lame, or stupid.  It's very real, and it's very, very scary.

Are you going to be able to say, "Honey, I'll take the next 5 hours of pain for you"?  Is your mom going to be able to push that last push?

Unless you can bear some of the pain, the pushing, the bleeding, the tearing, and the long-term consequences on your body for that person giving birth, then no, you are not entitled in that room.  You can be the husband, the mother-in-law, my mother, a bored nurse from the hospital 2 cities over, or the family dog -- you have no right to say who stays and who doesn't.  And no, it isn't fair.  But that's life.

With that said, I'm hoping to have my husband and mother there through the whole thing.  And I'm hoping my mother-in-law will be able to stop by while my vagina isn't on view.  And, knowing how fucking amazing she is, I'm sure she won't have a problem if I ask her to wait outside because I have the urge to get naked and comfortable and don't want to be naked around her.  I just need to be lucky enough that she has the time and willingness to stick around for it!  :)

Sometimes life isn't funny. Then it's funny that it's so serious.

I should be writing a hell of a lot more than I have been.  But I'm pregnant.  Oh, how I love universal excuses!

"I'm sorry; I can't get my own hot chocolate.  I'm pregnant."

"Do you know how bad typing is for a pregnant woman?  Do you?  No?  Well, then trust me when I say it's bad.  Very bad.  Can't do my homework.  Doctor's orders."  Okay, I haven't had a chance to use this one.  But I would.  Preferably not on someone with kids.

"I can't pour my own cereal.  I'm pregnant.  And I'm on bedrest."  This would probably work on my mom.  She wouldn't let me lift the cereal when it was in a plastic bag in the grocery store -- (with her wonderfully funny/awesome Korean accent) "Don't lift!  You not supposed to lift!  Doctor said!" -- but it was okay when I wanted to pour my own breakfast.  Question mark.

"But Moooooooooooooooom, the baby wants this ridiculously expensive meal.  It's not my fault.  I'm channeling the baby."  This works.  Sometimes.  Then sometimes she gives me this I know what you're doing, I was pregnant with YOU! look and I get scared.

So yes.  My excuse for not blogging on a pregnancy blog is that I've been pregnant.  Personally, I think it's a wonderful excuse.  Do you?

More seriously, however, I have been on bedrest for the past 2 weeks due to issues with cramping and intermittent spotting.  At first we thought it was because the placenta was low, but we found out on today's ultrasound that it's moved up.  Interesting.  At this point, we're waiting for an appointment with Maternal Fetal Medicine (the "high risk doctors", for those who hate medicalese), and I'm trying not to be bored brainless from laying around all day.  Which is hard.  But I comfort myself with the knowledge that it's for the baby.  Meanwhile, I'm moving in with my mother and my dog and cats are going to Ohio to save my mom from fur overload until everything is settled down.  Also, my husband is off learning crime-fighting secrets and probably gleefully rubbing his hands together and gloating over how he does not have to be near my pregnancy crankiness.  (But it's the hormones making me glare at you, honey.  The hormones.  Totally not my fault!  I blame the baby!)

I'm bored.  Entertain me.  Send me boxes of Skittles.  Something.