mom, homeschooler, and writer — in that order.
Love,
Mommy
I’ve always been a word nerd. One of my favorite lessons from when I was a kid was the subject of homonyms. Homonyms are words that sound alike, but have different meanings. Today, I got another lesson: the difference between two words that have the same sound can capture a big change in a family.
When I was younger, one of the events I looked forward to the most was opening gifts from “Santa” on Christmas Eve. As part of the tradition, my parents always told me that naughty kids received coal in their Christmas stocking instead of a present. It was a story that that was meant to tip the scales towards good behavior for the rest of the year.
I never really took it seriously. When my cousins and I played to together, I was the one who cried; I was not the one who would make others cry. The coal thing was irrelevant, until I was around five, when I did get a piece of coal from Santa.
There were still presents, but that coal stood out like a mark of shame. The most vivid part of that memory was the embarrassment of having to pull out my hand from that stocking, gripping a crumbling black lump.
Years later, when the whole Santa thing has been explained, I asked my parents what I did to make them put coal in my stocking. They said that I really didn’t do anything wrong. They just wanted to motivate me to be better.
This story turned out to be one of the funnier stories of my childhood. However, I can’t say I would pass on this tradition to my own kids.
Now that I’m older and expecting my own kid, I find myself disagreeing with a lot of things that my parents say, especially when it comes to advice on parenting and my career. My parents are the most wonderful parents I know, but the truth is, I want to do things my own way.
It’s a strange thing, this new dynamics. As kids we think of our parents as infallible. As teens, they become strangers then ideally, friends. As an adult, I’m realizing more and more than they are just like me, struggling to do their best. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that this realization turns me into a gentler, better child (because no matter how old you are and how different you turn out, your parents are still your parents). Hopefully, my kids will return the favor and forgive me for my own parenting mistakes.
Is it just me or did the world suddenly take ownership of my belly when I became pregnant?
I think that everyone loves a pregnant lady. For the most part, pregnancy is an enjoyable experience, especially since it offsets my moody disposition. But, there is a chunk in the population that feels that my blossoming belly is an invitation to:
a. Touch/rub/and in one disturbing moment kiss my stomach
b. Offer unsolicited advice about motherhood and its woes. Extra frown points if the person giving the advice isn’t even a parent.
c. Tell graphic stories of their childbirth and pregnancy experience, if already a mother*
d. Tell graphic stories of their friends’ or family member’s childbirth and pregnancy experience, if not a mother
e. Give really ominous advice.**
d. Comment on the size of my boobs.
It is this part that is not as pleasant. In my heart of hearts, I know that these people mean well and I try to appreciate the sentiment behind it all. At the very least, I haven’t snapped at anyone yet. It’s just that I’m starting to feel like the norms of society no longer apply to me. I mean, last time I checked it is still rude to say to stare at someone’s chest and loudly exclaim that they are enormous.
So universe, please hear my plea. Try to be a bit more sensitive. If you touch us, do we not crave for personal space? If you describe the color of your private parts during labor, do we not shudder and think, “I didn’t need to know that.”?
Pregnant ladies are people too. Say it with me — pregnant ladies are people too.
* I had the experience of meeting a lady for the first time and she launched into a full blown account of the urinary tract infection she went through during her pregnancy. She actually described the condition and appearance of her pee. Whatever happened to “So, where do you work?”
**In the early stages of my pregnancy, I had one person come up to me and say that I will probably miscarry because of my work. Gee, thanks. A first time mom really needed to hear that.
All I want to do is eat cheeseburgers and watch sci-fi movies. Plus, I’ve been making dinosaur sounds whenever the nausea hits. Yep, I’m pretty sure we’re having a boy.
After several tests, the home pregnancy test and I are now friends. I find that we would have gotten to know each other better a lot more quickly if the package contained more useful information.
How about a more useful, non-scientific FAQ, for starters?*
The package says I can use a cup for my urine when I take the test. I don’t have paper cups and using an actual cup would be gross. Any alternatives?
Use the the foil packaging that the pregnancy test stick comes in. It’s convenient, disposable, and has the added benefit of being sterile.
What’s the first thing I should do when taking a test?
Check the expiration date of the test. You won’t get accurate results if it’s expired.
What’s the second?
Read the instructions carefully. You would be surprised how different brands have different methods of use.
I don’t feel like peeing. What should I do?
Drink warm water. Juice also works. For some reason, I find that cold water just refreshes me. It doesn’t really make me want to pee.
There’s a super faint line. What does that mean?
It could mean that the test is expired. It could also mean that the pregnancy is too early for the test to detect fully. Take another test one or two days later.
How many tests can I take before I start looking like a crazy person?
Four is a good number.
*Again, this is a non-scientific, non-medical, non-research based list. This is purely based on my personal experience. If you think you’re pregnant, congratulations! Now go see a doctor.
The other day, my husband had a dream; he was looking at a mirror, baffled as to why he looked so young. He then realized that he was looking at our son. Each time he blinked, the boy would grow older until finally he became a young man. He blinked once more, and our son was a boy again.
Our little boy is wide-eyed with chubby, rosy cheeks. As a grown up, he has a stern look, much like his dad, and hair that falls over his eyes.
It was an awfully sweet dream that I wish I could have shared with my husband. I am now utterly convinced that when we have a kid, we will have a son.
The past couple of days since the dream, summarized:
I didn’t stop bugging him until I was convinced that my son will be adorable, sweet-natured, and healthy. We’re already so in love with our non-existent, future kid.
The past week, summarized:
I was just a little late. False alarm, folks.
Hit or Missus 