Which Nigerian spammer are You?
My dream of becoming a Nigerian spammer has finally materialized. Oh, happy day! This falls on the same day that Dr. Phil had a show entirely dedicated to Nigerian scams and the scammers and scammees who make it all possible. Apparently about $100,000/day is taken out of the U.S. by Nigerian scams. It appears the stupidity of Mr. Dubyah is starting to ooze its way out of the White House and into the drinking water of lonely/horny/greedy citizens. Imagine people like that being victimized. Shocking!
I've been in my pyjamas since 5pm, when I walked in the door with bags full of artery-assaulting McDonald's and two tired gremlins. Here's a rundown of my day:
7:30am
I leave the house and make my way through the Tim's drive-thru. It's just me, some 80's hair bands playing on a CD mix and a lot of commuters. Tims has finally come out with a breakfast sandwich. Not bad, but a little heavy on the fat. It's not the egg, cheese and sausage I'm complaining about, but the biscuit type thingy it's on. Still, it kept me satiated for a good few hours.
8:30am
I arrive at the hospital (and quickly jump into the one preggo parking spot left) for a critical appointment with the chief OB. This was the deciding moment: armed with the surgical overview of my cesarean and a requisition form from my doctor, I will hopefully get the green light to have a VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean).
Naturally, the OB was late - he was performing a cesarean, irony of ironies - so I was asked to give a urine sample (?), had my blood pressure checked by the nurse (?), the fetal heart rate as well (?), oh, and to please get undressed from the waist down and sit in the chair with a blanket over me until the doctor arrived (???????).
Why, exactly, I would need to be half naked to speak to the doctor about a VBAC is beyond me. Why, exactly, he would need to examine me when we're supposed to be talking about my previous births and making a decision is, again, beyond the scope of my feeble mind. But I did it, and waited 45 minutes in a cold, faux leather chair reading french fashion magazines and drinking now lukewarm coffee. I also sneered in disgust at all the Ross Laboratories 'gifts' provided to the hospital obstetrics ward; nothing like pushing your formula by offering free stuff to doctors dealing with new mothers, right?
The OB came in and spent five whole minutes with me. He said I was good to go for a VBAC. However, the catch is that the labour cannot be induced in any medical way, as it can increase the risk of placental abruption (which is a bad, icky thing I'd rather avoid, thankyouverymuch). So, I either go completely au naturel, or I get cut open from ying to yang again and a baby is extracted through my stomach. Talk about black and white.
Still, that's good news. Now this baby needs to decide he wants to come out, fairly quickly, painlessly, and without the need for interventions. Obviously he should accomodate me, as I'm his mother. It's not like I'm asking a lot of him.
9:30am
I finally leave the hospital and come back to pick up Gutsy. We head out to Mrs. Wailing's house for our scheduled weekly visit (it's not really scheduled, but we pretty much go over every week). She had yet another box of adorable baby clothes for the gestating spawling, a baby bath and a Snugli, among other things. We had a nice time, ate a yummy lunch and listened to more classic Fleetwood Mac on the Kiddy'corder. I've also nearly memorized an entire Baby Einstein animal video, as it played in my peripheral vision about six times before we realized it was on repeat.
12:45pm
I leave the Wailings' abode and head out with Gutsy all the way back across town to pick up Intrepid at school. It takes about half an hour in good weather and it was pouring rain out. Fun. Then we head back out towards where the Wailings live because this is where their speech therapy is. Ironically, their therapist lives about two minutes from our place, yet we have to go all the way out there to work with her. The powers that be like to make fun of me. It's because I'm such a colossal bitch, so I just grudgingly accept it.
3:00pm
Run, run, run through the pouring rain and back into the van. Now we get to head downtown for Intrepid's piano lessons. I love traffic!
I need to brag a little now because it gives me something to focus on other than the fact that 'stay-at-home-mom' doesn't suit me in the slightest these days. I'm anything but 'at home'. I'm a 'haha-you-wish-you-were-at-home-mom'.
Intrepid is apparently an exceptional pianist (I still laugh every time I say that word out loud. I'm so five.) We've known since he got his hearing aids and started taking interest that he has some musical talent, but he's brought it to a whole new level, it seems. He just started taking private lessons this month after doing two years in a stage band with no formal training. His teacher has been begging us to get him some lessons, and with the in-laws' help we've been able to do that this year.
He's now - get this - learning first year university musical theory and soaking it up like a sponge. His teacher said he's never taught this to someone so young. He went so far as to say that Intrepid will be teaching him piano in ten years at the rate he's going. He also managed to get him a second lesson per week with a classical piano teacher until November for free. Intrepid met with her today for the first time and she admits she had a hard time keeping up with his experience level. That's my boy! This is all due to my exceptional parenting skills and superior genetics, so feel free to send me congratulatory cards, flowers, etc.
All that being said, he's still learning how to play well with two hands and needs to work on his fingering (Teehee! Piano is a perverted instrument). He has a lot left to learn, but I'm so darn proud of him!
Incidentally, Impossible Mom had the ovaries to refer to him as 'gifted'. Then she laughed because I'm sure she could picture my face contorting in disgust at the sheer thought of labels being place upon my child. Sorry, my hearing impaired child. My hard of hearing child. My differently-abled child.
Shudder.
5:00pm
We arrive home. We eat. I snooze. The gremlins play. Geekster comes home. Life is good.
8:15pm
The Madre calls. She's going into rehab. I keep telling her to lay off the smack, but she won't have it. She likes the waif look, apparently. Says her clothes fit better and it makes her eyes stand out more.
Ok, it's actually pulmonary rehab, but that sounds far less exciting than the former so I like to just say 'my mom is going into rehab' and watch the reactions. It makes my days more interesting. She's going in for a whole month as of October 10th. You know, my due date? So she kindly informs me that I need to have this baby now, or on the weekend if it suits me better. Sure, mom. I'll get right on that. I'll try and schedule him in for Saturday morning.
Then she calls back a few minutes ago and invites me over for breakfast tomorrow morning. Hmm, how... convenient. I fear it being laced with castor oil. Or maybe she'll drug me and use a crochet hook up my hooha. You can't trust this woman. She's a determined soul and she's MY mother. I have to get my evilness from somewhere and need look no further than the frightening maternal genetics afoot.
Thus concludes my day. I am now eating cookies and about to watch ER. I don't know why I started watching it again. Probably because it gives my pregnant self more time to work on the ass groove in the new couch before our bundle of horns and fangs arrives.