Pink Prickly Pear

Cry me a river...a fast moving river swollen with snow melt.

I'm pretty sure I'm not going to be able to do this year's LIFE is Good conference justice with a blog entry.  I will say that I managed to take a couple of steps outside my comfort zone* and it made all the difference for me.  My family loves this conference, but until this year, I felt like the emotional roller coaster was a little too intense for me.  Way to make it all about you, Mama.  Bah.  I know it's not all about me, but at a certain point - like after Ronnie's excellent talk, which raised more questions for me than it answered, but in a most helpful way - one realizes that if one doesn't focus on oneself, everyone else is going to get shafted anyway, and possibly in a big, ugly, soul-crushing way.  Which is an obtuse and long-winded way of saying that while I've played everyone else's lay-therapist for years, it's really time to dust off the skeletons long banished to my rather insufficient closets and get my own house in order.  

At some point, I'm sure I'll write something substantial about the conference, but not yet.  I did feel prompted to write a treatise little something about the elusive nature of joy (whinge) this morning, but it's nowhere near ready for public consumption.  Maybe it never will be.  There's a reason I keep it short and snarky.  Harumph...and the like.

^{* Why is it called a comfort zone?  I'm not sure most people's comfort zones are particularly nice or comfortable, hence the need to step out of them.}

Wrong needle!

Every time I leave the dentist's office I calculate how many hours worth of custom tattooing I could have gotten instead.

My day sucks. How 'bout yours?

8 a.m. Roll over.  Realize I took the last daytime Alka Selzer Plus packet yesterday.  Also realize that using up said meds, putting on a smiley face and not canceling our play date at the pool yesterday probably fell under the category of Too Much, Too Soon/Overdoing It and has a lot more to do with my grogginess this morning than I'd care to admit.

8:30 a.m.  Someone is cutting their nails in the bathroom and it is so loud.  [Cue Bitchmother stage left].

8:45 a.m. Refridgerator repair company (hereafter referred to as RRC) calls to say they will be here between 1 and 3.  Yes, our fridge is broken.  Yes, it's a total pain.  Yes, now's the time to stock the freezer with easily reheatable meals for after the baby is born.

9 a.m.  Tea magically appears at my bedside and I'm sufficiently awake to call our landlord to let him know when the RRC is coming.

9:30 a.m. Wobble into the living room to email my doula.  Must cancel afternoon appointment with her.  Our house must be crawling with germs and she does a lot of post-partum night time work with tiny little newborns who do not want this nasty cold.

9:45 a.m. RRC calls to say they could come now instead of later.  I call landlord.  He's moved his schedule around and can't come now.

9:47 a.m
I call RRC.  We'd like to keep our original appointment. 
Dispatcher tells me that all six calls scheduled prior to ours have cancelled, so their guy would like to come now so he can have the rest of the day off. 
I commiserate, but it's not my problem.  1 to 3 is what works, so let's just stick with that.
I'm told 1 to 3 is no longer an option.  He could come on Tuesday.
I patiently explain that I am very pregnant and need someone to look at the fridge before Tuesday.
I'm told that as I'm the one refusing a newer, earlier appointment time, I'm just going to have to be a little more patient.
I ask to speak to a supervisor.
Supervisor adds a layer of untruth.  Our repairman is having a family emergency and has to go home early, so this is why they need to reschedule.
I count to ten.  Actually, I've already been informed that he'd rather take the whole day off than wait until 1 pm, so why invent some "family emergency" excuse.  BTW, here's my family's emergency:  I'm very, very pregnant and I NEED A WORKING FRIDGE!

By 10 a.m the supervisor at RRC, hereafter referred to as BOMFC (Bunch of Mother Effin' Clowns), has by now tried to bamboozle me with all sorts of untruths, culminating with an offer to diagnose the fridge over the telephone and so will order the parts for me and thus make "everybody happy".  She also tells me I'll only owe $95 service/diagnostic fee as the repair is covered by the manufacturer's warranty.  I explain that our honest friendly neighborhood appliance repairman already told me that we will not owe any service or diagnostic fee (because our particular problem is covered by the manufacturer's warranty) and to be very wary of any company that implies I need to do so.
Much waffling on her end.  Lots of over-explained untruths and attempts at general bamboozlement.

As I pace my kitchen, I suddenly remember that this is not my fridge.  I wash my hands of whole situation with BOMFC, give them my landlord's number and instruct them to call him and work something out.

10:15 a.m. Ask mini-pear to get dressed so we can go acquire more Alka Selzer Plus.

10:30 a.m. Ask if she's dressed yet, or just trying on different outfits.
She's trying on different outfits.
I use a bad word or two.  Pull the "Mommy's head is literally going to explode if she doesn't get any medicine" card.

10:31 a.m. She's dressed and in the car.

10:38 a.m.  We walk into the drugstore.  An employee with a huge bandage wrapped around his nose asks if he can "hep ooo".
Try to keep all inappropriate laughter muscles under control while asking where they keep the nasal decongestants.

10:40 a.m.  We're walking out of the store.  Mini-pear asks how the cashier knew I was pregnant.
"You're kidding, right?"
"No, how'd she know?  Because you don't really look pregnant, just kind of chubby..."
That kid is lucky I love her to pieces.

10:41 a.m. I plonk 2 disks into the plastic cup I've brought along expressly for the purpose of taking medicine a.s.a.p.  Reason that by the time we reach the grocery store, I'll feel well enough to get in a couple of things for us to eat (because, as you know, we have no fridge! and hence, need to shop for just a couple of items per day - which really works when you've been sick...for days).

I have no idea what time we got to the shop.  Medicine not working yet.  I haphazardly throw chard, sweet potatos, grapes and an english cucumber in our cart.  I know better, but I also grab some just add water soup bowls and some of those yogurt/green onion potato chips.

11:15 a.m. I call my landlord.  BOMFC have not called him yet.  I give him all pertinent phone, model and serial numbers and tell him I'll just leave all this unpleasantness in his capable hands.

And now?  Now it's 11:50 a.m. and I'm just going to go and lay somewhere like a lump.

Hold my calls.

You can pack a lot of kale into a smoothie before it alters the taste of whatever fruity goodness you've got going on.  In fact, this is a relatively small amount of kale, because I'm saving some for tomorrow's smoothie.

My iron count is low again, even though I've been taking a daily slow release supplement!  Even though I've been eating hamburgers!  So, time to get serious and start overloading on the green leafies.  Any excuse to make a fruity smoothie;)  And one of the most efficient ways for your body to get the iron out of any given food, is to consume it with Vitamin C (but not calcium, so make this a yogurt-less smoothie).  They really do taste just fine with a heap of kale.  In fact, when I asked mini-pear if she wanted some, she called back, "Yes!  But don't forget all that really, really good for you stuff!"

While I'm talking about stuff that's really good for you, I have to share the good news about my dentist appointment the other day.  A few months back, when I went for my first dental appointment in years, I was told I had first stage periodontal disease.  I had my roots planed (if you're a masochist, book yourself in for this procedure post haste!), increased the time I spent with dental floss, and purchased a water pik.  So, at my appointment this week, I was informed that I am well on my way to reversing my periodontal disease, which is a very good thing, because who wants soggy bleeding gums and loose teeth?  Not I, said the fly.

That news is good, but what's even better, is that I used the relaxation methods we're learning in our Hypnobirthing class, to relax during my deep cleaning.  For people with periodontal disease, even people who are reversing it with hours logged in front of the bathroom sink, a cleaning is typically a none too comfortable below-the-gum-line affair.  For the first minute or two, I lay back in the chair, trying to be good, but letting myself internally fret, "Gawd.  How long is this going to take?"

That's not very helpful!  So I closed my eyes, started sleep breathing, brought up my peaceful relaxation image, and everything else just melted away.  I was so deeply relaxed, that when I experienced a Braxton Hicks contraction (an all too frequent occurrence these last few weeks), the only way I noticed it was because I had my hands draped over my big belly.  A little voice, somewhere deep in the recesses of my brain, just sort of noted it as a curiosity, "Oh...you're having one of those..."  I had 2 more while in the chair, but they only registered because my hands could feel my abdomen tightening.  No internal discomfort whatsoever.

My hygienist was totally amazed and said she'd never seen anyone so completely relaxed during a procedure.  Here's something I also found interesting - afterwards, I didn't feel any residual soreness or aching either.  A nice plus;)

Ahhh... Eh.

The other morning I called to Mr. Pear from the kitchen, "You can't stay in bed all morning!"

The fact that I was already up and in the kitchen before he got out of bed is noteworthy in and of itself.  Close readers know that this teenage mommy does not get out of bed until Mr. Pear brings her a hot cup of something.  However, I was feeling extraordinarily well rested and therefore, rose quite cheerily and made my own hot cup of tea and hot buttered crumpets (I brave the Trader Joes parking lot for these and these alone).

"Oi!  Pear!!!" I called a little louder.

"It's not going to give me bedsores!"

It's true.  We have a new bed and, among other things, the new bed is engineered not to give one bedsores.  We could lay in it all day long, every day, if we wanted to, to no ill effect.

It is not organic.  Nor is it a futon.  Nor is it king-sized, but it is some ultra-cushy Swedish memory foam that makes me conk out practically the minute my head hits the pillow (which is also new and made of that cushy Swedish memory foam).

However, I think it might be too comfortable.  I fall asleep immediately and don't move for hours.  This makes my muscles feel a bit funny when I do get up.  And usually, I get up because my bladder is bursting because I haven't tossed and turned and gotten up to empty it before the bursting point.  Then I have to hobble to the toilet and hobbling makes me feel old and decrepit.  The new bed is also, we have discovered, not very conducive to cuddling.  Our fancy Swedish memory foam pillows are quite heavy, so I can't tuck my arm under them when I am the cuddler.  I have to lay with my arm sort of mushed in between my burgeoning torso and Mr. Pear's back.  It is clearly to one's advantage to be the cuddlee in this situation.  I can't lay all the blame on the pillows (especially when they cradle my head so gently and require no nocturnal punching and rearranging).  When we had our other bed, we would take advantage of the inevitable tossing and turning and switching sides to cuddle back in.  There is no tossing and turning in this bed, so no opportunities to cuddle back in.  Therefore, I wake up feeling...well, feeling not very cuddled.

And, even worse than the cuddling (is it?  the lack of cuddling is pretty bad), I think it may be too soft.  A familiar backache has reintroduced itself.  It is the same backache I get after sleeping for more than a couple of nights on the expensive cushy mattress at my parent's house, and the expensive cushy mattress at my father in law's house, and yikes!  the expensive cushy mattress I slept on when I lived with The Fridge many, many years ago and basically all the beds I ever slept on until I met Mr. Pear and his very firm futon. 

Or it could be the unfamiliar backache of a lady with a big expanding belly falling asleep on her back and crushing everything in between.  Yeah, it could be that.  Or it could be something else...

Bad time to buy a bed, I think.  I mean, it's a good time, because I really needed it and could not sleep on the crappy futon anymore, but a bad time, because what if this ultra comfortable bed is the right bed for me, but I just don't know it because my body is in a transitional phase at the moment and therefore, unable to judge my new bed.  What if????

We have 120 days to change our minds.  There was a bed just like this one at the friendly Swedish bed shop, but a little less cushy.  I think that one might be the perfect bed.  Or maybe it would be for a pregnant lady, but not so for a no longer pregnant lady.

The anguish.

ETA:  Duh!  Swiss, not Swedish!

You know what's really hard?  Trying to reduce mental stress.  Shoving it all under the rug doesn't actually reduce the stress.  It makes a big, ugly bump in the rug and every time you trip over the bump, you stub your toe and hop around angrily, cursing yourself for being so stupid as to have shoved something under the rug.  What was that thing anyway?  Oh, right.  *stress level creeps back up*

If the bump were all mine, I'd pull it out and spread all the components out on the floor, patching and repairing what I can, sighing and pitching the ones beyond hope of repair.  Parts of this bump aren't mine to fix though, so the whole thing will have to remain under the rug a little while longer.  Until the day we can sit and sort through it together, I'll have to give that bump a wide berth, perhaps avoid the whole room for a while.

Ice-cream makes it all better;)

We all had appointments at the dentist today.  Mr. Pear went on his own this morning, and then Mini-Pear and I had tandem appointments this afternoon.  I worried a bit about how this might work out.  What if she needed me?  Not to worry.  Although she later confided that she did groan (inside, Mom, quietly), she took it all in stride - That really wasn't fun and I always hate the taste, but it's not the most awful thing that could happen .

Mine really wasn't fun either and I always hate the taste, too.  And while, yes, it isn't the most awful thing that could happen, needing a top up of Novocaine two-thirds of the way through my procedure is up near the top of my list of Possible Awful Things That Could Happen.  Nothing like listening to the drill, feeling the pressure and then, very unexpectedly feeling the (very sharp) pain! 

Snuggled up in bed last night, talking over the slightly dreaded visit, I promised Mini-Pear there would be ice-cream.  I'd assumed this would take the form of a carton picked up at the grocery store or a walk over to 7-11 after dinner, but she had other ideas - "Real ice-cream.  In. a. cone."

Oh.  That one's a little more difficult to wrangle.  Just yesterday, my friend G. was explaining how her family waits all year for Baskin Robbins' February Flavor of the Month.  I didn't even know they had a flavor of the month, nor have I seen a Baskin Robbins in my travels about San Diego County. 

I dropped Mini-Pear at choir practice and was on an errand, mentally rehearsing my explanation as to why it was going to have to be ice-cream in a carton from a grocery store, when I drove right past a Baskin Robbins!

So after choir, at 5:30, when no good mama should be taking their child out for ice-cream*, we treated ourselves to our post-dental-trauma ice cream in cones.  I tried the February Flavor of the Month and you can bet I will be back at least once before the flavor disappears at the end of the month.  Raspberry and white chocolate ice cream swirl, with a ribbon of raspberry, and little dark chocolate chunks with gooey raspberry stuff inside??? 

* No we did not ruin her dinner.  She came home and ate a giant apple, a large glass of soymilk and polished off a plate of bean and cheese quesadillas.

Running, running, running...

Some days I feel like all we do is run from one activity to the next.  The activities themselves aren't particularly tiring, and Mini-Pear certainly isn't showing any Over-scheduled Child symptoms, but I think I sort of hit a wall on busy days. 

Yesterday morning, we went to another one of those Classics for Kids concerts.  No male ballet dancers to snicker at this time, but there was one man on man cheek kiss that got the audience "eeeewwww"ing.  We'd intended on having a little lunch date before heading over to our regular park day, but I calculated that while I certainly had it in me to throw together a couple of sandwiches (or more accurately, open the peanut butter and jelly so Mini-Pear could make her own sandwich), I doubted I'd be up for cooking dinner after driving to the concert, then back to our house, then out to the park and then up the coast a few miles for a karate class Mini needed to make up. 

Not that the activities are inherently exhausting for me.  It's Mini-Pear who should be dropping like an overworked sled dog at the end of a hard days actual running.  I mean yesterday, I sat in a dark theatre for an hour or so, sat at the park for a couple of hours, and then sat and watched a karate lesson.  It's more the idea that I need to be on all day long.  Some days I feel like I'm at a never ending all day cocktail party, making small talk sans the social lubricant.  That takes it out of me.  All I want for my next birthday is a hip flask disguised as a sippy cup.  I promise I'll stop complaining.

Plus, I think I cracked a rib or pulled a tendon or something a couple of weeks ago and actually find sitting, whether it be at the park, in a dark theatre, in the driving seat, or on my couch, extremely uncomfortable.  I can't even knit for extended periods.  In fact, the knitting is so painful, I started wonder whether or not it had been the initial cause of my discomfort.  Perhaps I'd sat hunched over or held my body too tightly, trying to keep that little slip of a sock on those toothpick sized needles.

Probably not.  I've had fractured ribs before, so I'm pretty sure this is what I've got.  It may have been one of those "Mom's always base!"  head butt/tackles at the park, or it could have been a particularly vigorous session of wrestling on the bed.  Sadly, I'm actually talking about wrestling.  It's not a euphemism for getting it on.  And yes, I probably should be taking a calcium supplement.

Yawn.

I bet you're not here to read about my dental health.  Yeah, I've never thought it was a particularly interesting topic either.

So uninteresting that I sort of let things go there for a bit.  I haven't been to the dentist in ages.  No, really, ages.  Years, not months. 

At any rate, I finally went last week and found out I have periodontal disease.  My teeth aren't going to fall out or anything, but I do have to get something called root planing (sounds horrible, doesn't it?) and make up for lost time by visiting my dental hygienist every 3 months for a cleaning until such time as they've sufficiently depleted my bank account determined I no longer have periodontal disease.  Yes, it's early enough on that it's reversible, but I strongly recommend that if you've left it too long between cleanings (like 6 years too long), you book yourself in post haste!

My hygienist also recommended I purchase a Water Pik.  I am not happy about the Water Pik, but clearly merely brushing and flossing weren't doing the job (okay, I'll admit, I only floss 3 or 4 times a week, although obviously I'll be stepping things up and flossing 2 or 3 times a day and I might even keep some floss in my bag, as suggested by my hygienist).  The Water Pik takes up too much room on the bathroom counter, and the cord, being brand new, is all kinky and inflexible and takes up even more room on the bathroom counter.  Also, it's obvious that there is a knack to operating the Water Pik.  A knack which I have yet to develop.  I'm not sure if my teeth or gums are seeing any benefits yet, but my nasal passages have been thoroughly irrigated, and every surface of the bathroom inadvertently sprayed with a concoction of mouthwash and lukewarm water.  I think the knack involves being one with your drool.  I just can't do that yet.  I drooled at my appointment last week.  So undignified.  My hygienist took it in stride and wiped my chin and neck for me with a little pillow of gauze.

I had grand plans for the holiday weekend.

I didn't plan on it being a weekend to down endless cups of tea.  I was going to mulch our flowerbeds and hike in the desert.  Instead I spent much of the last three days in bed with the winning combination of a UTI and a sore throat.  The UTI is gone (thank you cranberry juice!) and the sore throat is morphing into something a little more head-swimmy.

Despite my increasing head-swimmy-ness, today I put on my game face, took my medicine like a good girl and marched off to take the test for my drivers license.  After taking a shower, I thought I might be feeling better, but later on, at the DMV, when the lack of working pens almost brought me to tears, I knew I was not.  Why the California DMV can't just look at my squeaky clean driving record and issue me a new license without subjecting me to the embarrassing possibility of failing a written test I'll  never know.  Some employment scheme by the looks of things.  At any rate, I passed (send me prizes for good fellow!) but I did get two questions wrong.  One was a trickily worded multiple choice about when it might be alright to leave a child younger than six in a hot car.  Double double-negatives and all that - never mind all that, that kid over there is seven and I've always remembered to get her out of the car.  The other one?  Something about when it's okay to make a left turn on a red light.  Apparently the answer to that one isn't "Never". 

And now it's not even seven o'clock, but I'm taking myself to bed with another cup of hot tea.