Why Rhett Can't Win

Rhett has it bad these days.

I am not a suffer-in-silence kind of person. (You knew this already, yes?) I am really a complain--moan-whine-and-then-blame-it-on-the-person-who-donated-half-the-genetic-material kind of person. Because it just seems so UNFAIR that he feels nothing (except for my wrath, of course) for nine months whilst I deal with nausea, sharp, stabbing abdominal pain and exhaustion. And then he kind of wants to hold the baby at the end of my misery. Mitts off, little man, you did NOTHING!

Anyway, some days Rhett just ignores me (this makes me more crazy). Other days he tries to sympathize without actually having idea what I'm going through (my male OB/GYN makes this same mistake, and it's not just annoying--it's condescending).

A few days ago I said something like this: "I hate being pregnant! I HATE IT! I HATE IT! I HATE IT!" Because I've told you I'm trying to be more positive about life these days, right? I know this kind of attitude is really annoying to people who can't get pregnant, and I'm so sorry. But I'm still allowed to feel how I feel, and what I feel right now is miserable.

He responded, "You know, maybe if you want more kids after this, we should think about adoption."

What he meant for me to hear from this was that he loves me so much that he doesn't want me to have to suffer through pregnancy anymore.

What I heard, of course, was that I'm such a miserable human being when I'm pregnant that there is no way in HELL he is going to endure this one more time.

And then he said, "And then maybe we could adopt a little Hispanic baby because they have such beautiful black hair and are so cute."

And then I said, "What, because the babies I make aren't cute enough for you?"

Poor Rhett. He just can't win.

What? I Have A Blog?

It's been so long since I've posted that I actually forgot my username and password for Blogger, which is surely a sign that I'm a loser of a special kind (especially since I use the same variations of the same usernames and passwords for almost everything).

As always (or not), I've got a great excuse for not posting: the nastiest, most vile first trimester of pregnancy. It's not that I couldn't post because I am too physically ill, but instead, all I've felt like doing is complaining. And really, do you want to hear about how much I hate being pregnant? Do you really want to hear about how big I'm getting?

I know I should be writing down these beautiful milestones of pregnancy for posterity and to treasure up in my heart in later years, but this is my fourth pregnancy, people. The wonders of my expanding waistline and shrinking bladder are just not as amusing this time around. (Were they ever amusing? Really?)

So anyway. On the bright side, we invested in a four-CD disco set and I don't care what people say: I LOVE DISCO!

On Wishing

Remember my one wish? The one about having confidence about this really being Rhett's last degree?

Today he told me that the thought he would probably, at some point, you know, when the time is right, go for a degree in employment law, because, you know, it just seems like a natural progression for his career.

I didn't tell him that because of all the schooling he's done, he doesn't really have a career at this point.

Because one wish dying (MINE)? That's surely enough for today.

What I Wish

I wish I had posted recently so that the blogging guilt cloud would stop raining on my parade.

I wish I had confidence that this really, really, really is Rhett's last degree.

I wish I didn't have to threaten my kids with extra chores to make them listen to me. But I do, and it works, so now I'll write a book advising all the other mothers in the world how to use my crap philosophy on raising obedient children and then I will sign your copy of my book for you, because even amidst all that fame, deep down, I'm still just Jenny from the block. Or Heidi. Whatever.

I wish some of my favorite authors weren't dead.

I wish I weren't so tired tonight. How was it possible that I used to stay up past midnight every night when I was in college? Seriously, how was that even physiologically possible? (Was that too hyperbolic? It was, wasn't it?)

I wish I slept so deeply I didn't wake up to snoring. This would make it possible for my husband and I to sleep together in blissful peace every night. Or, alternately, I wish my husband didn't snore. Yeah. It's his fault.

I wish I had a child old enough to load the dishwasher. Seriously, grow up, kids. Mom's got some chores with your names all over them.

I'm Back . . .

I'm back. I survived my trip to the land of alligators (but not without several panic attacks). We had a wonderful time. I got sunburned, because hey, when you expose your bare legs for the first time in a year, you're bound to get a little crisp.

I'll write more later. Unfortunately, these bags don't unpack themselves.

Here with Heidi (figuratively) OR Keeping Kenny Away (literally)

So Heidi left with the kids for the week to head to the fun and sun of oceanfront property. Again, I’m not joining them for beach fun and sun due to work and school commitments. No, no—I will not accept your pity because sometimes it’s nice to work until 8pm and not feel that nagging sense of needing to get home to spend time with your family. It makes it easy when your family doesn’t want to spend time with you.

I’m going to let you in on some little gems from living with Heidi day-to-day. I know Heidi is trying to run a family show on this blog, but she’s not here anymore. If this blog post were a TV show, it would have a rating of HYTGTBE for “Hell yes there’s going to be expletives!” and PKRSC for “Possible Kenny Rogers sexual content” and OSYWC for “Obama says ‘Yes we can!’ ”. If you are offended by expletives, talk of possible sexual conduct, or Obama, then go to Hell!

Let’s discuss Kenny Rogers......although I know that Heidi loves me dearly because I’m such a wonderful husband, I also know that Kenny Rogers is the only man that Heidi would leave me for. In fact, every day when I arrive home from work, I put my keys in the lock in the front door and try to jiggle the keys just enough for fair warning to produce the, “Hey, I’ve got my key in the lock and I’m coming inside in a split second so Heidi if you are in here in the heat of passion with Kenny you better cover up or run away naked” noise. You can imagine my relief when I walk in and find Heidi sitting alone, reading quietly, on the couch, without Kenny—no passion, no infidelity, no home wrecking. Upon finding Heidi not in the heat of passion with Kenny, I can immediately wipe away the moist beads of sweat forming on my brow with relief and thank God for another successful day keeping Kenny away.

Let’s discuss the, “It’s upstairs”……..Come on Heidi! We’ve been married long enough that if you don’t know where something is located, then just say it. I’m certain that every misplaced child or possession that we own is not upstairs. I bought this crap for the first couple of years but now I know that you are just feeding me a line. For the sake of all that is holy and dear, if you’ve lost something, then just say it. Let us practice—“It’s lost!” There—that wasn’t too bad was it? One more time now, all together—“My wedding ring is lost!” See that wasn’t too difficult was it? One last time because good things come in threes (like the trinity or the Back to the Future trilogy or the number of dollars in our checking account)—“My cell phone is lost!” I feel better already, don’t you?

And last but certainly not least by any statistically significant measure (gotta love the p-value. Wait, maybe it’s the f-value? Both maybe?……I was never very good at statistics anyway)…

Let’s discuss you Piles…..oops! Sorry Heidi—I let your little secret slip!!! I know that this might be a little embarrassing for you, and not the best forum to reveal this little secret, but I figure that there might be others who are suffering with the same issues. It’s not easy to discuss such a private matter in public, but it’s not right to have to suffer with hemorrhoids alone either. I’m not talking about hemorrhoids people, but the little piles of stuff or junk or garbage or clothes or kids that Heidi loves to leave lying around the house. In fact, I’ve spent the better part of this morning de-piling. Much like Preparation H Cream sooths real rhoids, I am the balm for Heidi’s piles. I don’t know how all these little landmines pop up but it is really starting to make me uncomfortable and sweaty….I don’t want to talk about it anymore.

Despite these little (and by little I mean major) idiosyncrasies, I’m still here with Heidi. In fact, we recently celebrated our nine-year wedding anniversary. What did we do to celebrate you ask? Olive Garden? The Cheesecake Factory? Oh, no—much too romantic and clearly not expensive enough considering the $3 in our checking account. To celebrate properly I sat at home, alone, on the couch, in my underwear, watching PBS. Where was Heidi you ask? Heidi had class that night and was on campus until late. She did however bring me home a new 3-piece set of anniversary luggage! Who knew that the nine-year anniversary is the luggage anniversary? I can’t wait for the thirteenth-year anniversary when I’ll get new tires on my car! Oh, wait—the new-tires-on-car anniversary is actually the first-year anniversary—sorry Heidi! However, I digress……

Despite these little (and by little I mean major) character flaws, I still love Heidi. After nine years of marriage it is clear to me, now more than ever before, that I love Heidi because of these character traits. They are not simply endearing quirks but represent who Heidi is—and I love who Heidi is. As our lives become more and more connected and intertwined, I can’t think of anyone who I would rather be with (go to Hell Kenny!). Heidi is a strong, dynamic, and intelligent woman who has much to offer those around her and especially me. I have been fortunate to participate in her kindness, grace, humor, and lack of humility when it comes to her profession—I think you’re the best damn teacher as well Heidi! You don’t have to keep telling me—I agree with you! Heidi, I don’t care that you twice tried to break my neck a week ago—first by sitting on me and wrenching my head back—and then by karate chopping my windpipe when I wasn’t looking. I’m still here loving you, vacuuming around your piles, and waiting for your return from the beach. Please don’t let our children drown in the ocean.

Going, going, gone

Sorry for the blog neglect, but get used it, because I'm leaving town for like two weeks.

If the stars align, maybe Rhett will guest post again. Because that was awesome, wasn't it?