I called The Madre at around 6:30pm and asked her about these pesky contractions. They'd been going on all day and were getting worse over the last couple of hours. Neither of us thought it was time to panic yet, so I put my feet up, drank a great deal of water and relaxed for a bit. Slowly but surely, they left me like a john after leaving money on the nightstand (no experience with this by the way. However, in hindsight, if my previous boyfriends had left me money when they dumped me I might have been able to start my own college fund).
So my dearest mother calls me back at around 8:30 and the following conversation ensues:
The Madre: how go the contractions?
Me: Not too bad now, thanks. I'm resting and they seem to be getting less frequent.
The Madre: Good, good. Hey, while you're resting, why don't you put your feet up in front of the computer and write a blog entry?
Me: *speechless*
The Madre: I mean, I just re-read yesterday's post. It's time for something new.
Me: *sputter* But mom.. I've been contracting. I thought I might be going into preterm labour.
The Madre: Yeah, yeah, but you're not, which is good. Get to blogging!
I think it might be time for a Madre intervention. Is there such thing as a blog addiction? Blogaholic, perhaps? Or maybe I'm the blogaholic (says Geekster) and she's the family member of the person with said affliction. She might need Bloganon while I go to Blogaholics Anonymous. Regardless, she's starting to frighten me.
However, in keeping with our highly unhealthy mother-daughter relationship, here I am posting a blog at 10:30pm for no other reason but to avoid yet another phone call tomorrow morning asking how I'm feeling but only because she wants to get on with finding out why I didn't post in my damn blog.
People say we're a lot alike. That scares me more and more every day.
In other news, Intrepid has learned the fine art of positive reinforcement when dealing with a three-year-old. He came with a grand scheme: he started a 'learning club for kids', which is really nothing but a glorified sweat shop. He spent part of the evening making 'merit badges' out of cardstock and sticking them to Gutsy's fire chief hat every time the little guy did what Intrepid wanted him to do. He got him to pick up his toys and clean the bathroom, among other things.
In fact, I found Gutsy scrubbing the upstairs bathroom counter with Geekster's toothbrush and a bar of soap. Yummy. I soaked both our toothbrushes just in case and will go out and buy new ones in the morning. I'm debating telling Geekster unless he comments on a soapy taste in his mouth while brushing his teeth tonight. Maybe the minty toothpaste while hide the evidence.
Geekster told Intrepid how impressed he was by their new club and suggested that perhaps he, Intrepid, might also want to earn some badges alongside his brother. 'No,' replies Intrepid. 'I'm the manager of the club, so I don't do any work. Besides, it's basically just a big scam to get little kids to tidy up without having to fight with them. It would be a good tool for parents, don't you think?'
It was at that point when I realized my son will be a self-proclaimed parenting guru, writing novels like 'How to Con Your Child Into Submission' and 'Ten Easy Steps to Beat Child Slave Labour Laws'.
Anyway, if everyone could send 'baby stay put' vibes over the next couple of weeks it would be greatly appreciated. While every (sane) expecting mother dreams of birthing prior to her due date, six weeks early isn't exactly what I had in mind. I'd like InUtero Boy to know how to breathe and eat before he gets here. Minor things, I know. Call me picky. At any rate, he needs another week or so in there before I'd be confident that those two things would be a reality. Besides, I'm going away this weekend and he has no right to come early and ruin my plans. So there.
Countdown to Oldness and Wrinkles: 4 days.
So my dearest mother calls me back at around 8:30 and the following conversation ensues:
The Madre: how go the contractions?
Me: Not too bad now, thanks. I'm resting and they seem to be getting less frequent.
The Madre: Good, good. Hey, while you're resting, why don't you put your feet up in front of the computer and write a blog entry?
Me: *speechless*
The Madre: I mean, I just re-read yesterday's post. It's time for something new.
Me: *sputter* But mom.. I've been contracting. I thought I might be going into preterm labour.
The Madre: Yeah, yeah, but you're not, which is good. Get to blogging!
I think it might be time for a Madre intervention. Is there such thing as a blog addiction? Blogaholic, perhaps? Or maybe I'm the blogaholic (says Geekster) and she's the family member of the person with said affliction. She might need Bloganon while I go to Blogaholics Anonymous. Regardless, she's starting to frighten me.
However, in keeping with our highly unhealthy mother-daughter relationship, here I am posting a blog at 10:30pm for no other reason but to avoid yet another phone call tomorrow morning asking how I'm feeling but only because she wants to get on with finding out why I didn't post in my damn blog.
People say we're a lot alike. That scares me more and more every day.
In other news, Intrepid has learned the fine art of positive reinforcement when dealing with a three-year-old. He came with a grand scheme: he started a 'learning club for kids', which is really nothing but a glorified sweat shop. He spent part of the evening making 'merit badges' out of cardstock and sticking them to Gutsy's fire chief hat every time the little guy did what Intrepid wanted him to do. He got him to pick up his toys and clean the bathroom, among other things.
In fact, I found Gutsy scrubbing the upstairs bathroom counter with Geekster's toothbrush and a bar of soap. Yummy. I soaked both our toothbrushes just in case and will go out and buy new ones in the morning. I'm debating telling Geekster unless he comments on a soapy taste in his mouth while brushing his teeth tonight. Maybe the minty toothpaste while hide the evidence.
Geekster told Intrepid how impressed he was by their new club and suggested that perhaps he, Intrepid, might also want to earn some badges alongside his brother. 'No,' replies Intrepid. 'I'm the manager of the club, so I don't do any work. Besides, it's basically just a big scam to get little kids to tidy up without having to fight with them. It would be a good tool for parents, don't you think?'
It was at that point when I realized my son will be a self-proclaimed parenting guru, writing novels like 'How to Con Your Child Into Submission' and 'Ten Easy Steps to Beat Child Slave Labour Laws'.
Anyway, if everyone could send 'baby stay put' vibes over the next couple of weeks it would be greatly appreciated. While every (sane) expecting mother dreams of birthing prior to her due date, six weeks early isn't exactly what I had in mind. I'd like InUtero Boy to know how to breathe and eat before he gets here. Minor things, I know. Call me picky. At any rate, he needs another week or so in there before I'd be confident that those two things would be a reality. Besides, I'm going away this weekend and he has no right to come early and ruin my plans. So there.
Countdown to Oldness and Wrinkles: 4 days.