Already Has A Big Baby To Look After

, , , , , | Friendly | August 11, 2018

(I’m chatting on the phone with a friend. I recently told her I was pregnant.)

Friend: “So, how far along are you now?”

Me: “Uh, about 26 weeks.”

Friend: *in a disgusted tone* “Ew, no. Don’t do that. Don’t go by weeks. Go by months. Gross.”

Me: “Developmentally, there’s a difference. My doctor and my tracker app say 26 weeks, so I’ve been going by that.”

Friend: “Ew. That’s just too much. Months. How many months are you?”

Me: *internally sighing* “Well, if you can’t do the math, six and a half months. “

Friend: “That’s better. So, when you have your baby, I was planning to take the next day or two off from work and come over and hang out, and stay the night. But I’m not changing any diapers or nothing. So don’t ask.”

Me: *looking for a polite way to tell her no* “Um, I’ll probably be in the hospital for a couple of days.”

Friend: “So? I can sleep in your hospital room.”

Me: “Well, it’s just that we all know how you feel about hospitals. I wouldn’t think you’d be very comfortable.”

Friend: “Huh. Good point. I can just stay at your apartment, then. You’ll have to send me your address, though. I don’t know how to get there. Ooh, and I’ll need a copy of your key. And I’ll make you a copy of mine, so we can hang out whenever, and since you’ll have a baby, you won’t have to get up to answer the door or let me in or whatever.”

Me: *not having the energy for this* “Well, we’re doing some renovations right now, so we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

(When I hang up, I make a mental note not to tell her when I go into labor. We meet up for a girl’s night at her place three weeks later. Unfortunately, I go into labor in the middle of the night, and end up slipping out during the wee hours of the morning to go to the hospital. She blows up my phone all day, wanting to know what’s happening, did I give birth yet, is it “real labor,” etc. I don’t respond until dinnertime, and when I do, it’s just to get her to stop calling and texting so I can rest. I simply text her:)

Me: “Yes, they were contractions. I need to rest.”

(She then tells me she’s at the hospital, in the parking lot, and starts bugging me for my room number, whining that she wants to see the baby. Out of patience, I respond:)

Me: “I was just in labor for twelve hours. My baby is in intensive care, covered in wires and lines. I am exhausted. I’m not feeling social, and I don’t want visitors. Nor is my baby having any visitors because she has little to no immune system. Go home. We’ll talk later.”

(She finally did, but that night, I saw she had posted about becoming an aunt, my child being born two months early — even though it was closer to three, but remember, she believes in months, not weeks, and as far as she cares, I was seven months — while tagging me in said post, along with an ultrasound picture. She did this even though my husband and I had never “announced” that we were expecting, nor had either of us said anything publicly about the birth or pregnancy. I immediately told her to take the post down, as my husband and I fully planned NOT to plaster our daughter all over social media. She removed the post without responding, and the next morning asked what the f*** I was talking about, as she had no recollection of posting anything of the sort. Over the course of the next couple weeks, I ended up ignoring her begging to see the baby, wanting me to send her pictures, etc. She also didn’t seem to understand the seriousness of an eleven-week premature baby in the NICU, and continually asked if she was still in NICU, and, “When the f*** is she going home?” This friendship may need to go on the back burner for a while. Is it really any wonder that I didn’t tell her I was even pregnant until I was already 21 weeks? Whoops, I mean five months.)

Some Rules Should Be Grandfathered In

, , , , , , | Learning | July 22, 2018

I grew up in a somewhat small city. When I was in kindergarten, my school had something called a Grandparents’ Lunch, for which students would bring in money, and on the specified day, students’ grandparents would come in to have an hour-long lunch with them, catered by a local restaurant. It became a big deal in my class, and I soon realized that I would be the only one unable to participate, as my only living grandmother lived in another state and was dealing with some severe health problems. The alternative would be that I would be sitting in the classroom during the program — alone, except for the teacher — to work on busy work. I was very upset when I went home, and ended up crying to my parents about the situation.  

The next day, when my dad took me to school, he ran into the principal. He explained the situation, and asked if it’d be okay if he came to the program so that I wouldn’t be excluded. The principal quite rudely told him, “No, it’s for grandparents only. Parents aren’t allowed.”As I was only five or six, I don’t remember exactly what all was said during the entire interaction, but I recall my dad getting upset and arguing with the principal.

On the day of the program, just before lunch, my dad checked me out of school and took me to one of our favorite restaurants. After we ate — and after the program was over — he took me back to school, and told me that if anyone asked, I had a doctor appointment.

Almost a decade and a half later, my dad still gets ticked off when he’s reminded of the situation. Although our relationship tends to be strained nowadays, I always remember it as a good time with my dad and am thankful for what he did.

Hoping You’d Be Able To Belly-Band Together

, , , , , , | Related | July 19, 2018

(I grew up an only child. I’m currently seven months pregnant, and though I moved out of my parents’ years ago, I only live a couple of miles away. I suspect someone is going through our mail, so I usually have packages sent to my parents’ address.)

Me: “Oh, Mom, I was just going to let you know that I’m expecting a package from [Store we often shop at]. It’ll probably arrive next week.”

Mom: “Okay. Clothes? Or something big?”

Me: “Clothes. [Husband] picked out an outfit for the baby, and I ordered a belly-band.”

Mom: *looks at me quizzically* “A belly-band?”

Me: “Um, yeah. It’s kind of like a belt that’s supposed to help support my stomach and redistribute some of the weight off my back. After running around all day, it kind of feels like a bowling ball strapped to my front.”

Mom: *rolls her eyes* “When I was pregnant, we didn’t have belly-bands. It wasn’t a big thing. Seems a bit excessive.”

Me: “Um. Okay. Well, it’s a pretty common thing now, and if it helps my comfort and it’s on sale, why shouldn’t I take advantage?”

Mom: *exasperated sigh*

(For the record, I did get my package, and as soon as I put the band on, I felt like I could stand up straight for the first time in weeks!)


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Poking At The Source

, , , , , , | Related | July 6, 2018

(My mom and I are standing in the kitchen, talking. Two of the cats, brothers, have followed us, and are making pests of themselves, presumably begging for treats. One of them has a habit of licking and chewing on my arm when I scratch him in a certain spot. I bend down to pet him, but because of the angle, he can’t reach me, so he lightly bites the next closest thing: his brother’s butt. My mom and I giggle, but then the one that was nipped turns around and lightly kicks the other in the side. This sends us into full-blown laughter as my dad walks in.)

Dad: “What’s so funny?”

Mom: *catching her breath* “Oh, the cats are just being funny.”

Dad: “Oh. Excuse me.”

(He reaches around my mom to grab a plate from the cabinet, and my mom takes the opportunity to poke him in the belly.)

Dad: “Hey!” *pinches my mom on the rear*

(Gee, I wonder where the cats learned it from!)

A Bad Case Of Not Scanning The Case

, , , , , , , , | Working | June 18, 2018

(I work at a large discount store. Apple sauce packets can be purchased either individually or by the box. I am buying a large, 24-count box, and have opened it while shopping so my child can eat one pouch as a snack. It is priced by the box, so I am paying the same amount whether one pouch is missing or not. I have folded the four flaps over each other to reclose it before checking out. The cashier then, inexplicably, reopens the box, dumps all the pouches out, and starts scanning them individually.)

Me: “Excuse me; those are sold by the box, not individually.”

Cashier: “Okay.” *continues to scan*

Me: “If you scan each one individually, it is going to take a lot longer, and—”

Cashier: *interrupts* “No, it’s fine. It will be fine.” *continues to scan*

Me: “Ma’am, I’d really rather you didn’t scan it that way, because—”

Cashier: *interrupts again* “It’s all the same. It’s fine doing it like this.”

(I’ve had enough at this point.)

Me: “Ma’am, please stop, and please let me speak. Those pouches are ringing up at $0.99 each. If you ring it up by the 24-count box, it is $13. By scanning each pouch individually, it will cost $24. Please put the pouches back in the box and start over.”

Cashier: “Well, I had no way of knowing that. Now we have to cancel it all, and it might take longer.”

Me: “Yes. I tried to stop you in the beginning, but you didn’t listen. For future reference, things are usually cheaper by the case.”

(Mistakes are no big deal. Everyone makes them. But the bad attitude was totally uncalled for.)

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