I’m not from a very sentimental family. We don’t tend to cherish hand embroidered pillows with platitudes like “If You Weren’t My Mother, You’d Be My Friend,” nor do any of us refer to our weddings as “The Happiest Day Of My Life.” Hell, I had the most traditional wedding of any of us, AND I’m the only one who actually boasts an engagement ring.
The other two women in my family proposed to their (now) husbands (my brother and my father), if that gives you any indication of how traditional and/or schwoopsy-poo we all aren’t.
It should then go without saying that with my two previous pregnancies, I did nothing that would be even remotely considered sentimental to commemorate them, assuming that the stretch marks and loose vaj-jay-jay paid enough tribute to my children. Dave and I jokingly discussed commemoration in the form of those soft-focus maternity pictures, where he and I would look serenely down onto my (heavily airbrushed) belly, assumably imagining the future of our second child together.
And before either of us choked on our own vomit, we agreed that the only way that this would happen is if we were both wearing KISS masks. Because THAT would be something worth commemorating. And also? HILARIOUS.
I’ve seen ads for these things called Belly Casts, and although I haven’t seen one in person, I’m shocked by this. Maybe I’m the only one who grows to Oompa-Loompa proportions, in a way that I can only consider shameful, or maybe I’m the only one insecure enough about it to not want to immortalize the immense shape of things. I’m not sure.
I’m even less sure of what I would do with one in the event that I cast one in my sleep (or semi-conscious waking state, as the case may be). Hang it on my wall? Use it as a serving tray for festive holiday dips? Occasionally pull it out and remind my children, using my most guilt-ridden voice, that THIS is what they did TO ME?
Not gonna happen.
But, Amelia (if all goes well) will be our last child before Yee Old Uterus closes up shop permanently (or gets a fancy piece of expensive, hormone-covered metal stuffed up there), and I do want to try something I’ve only ever seen other bloggers do.
A 3D ultrasound.
Yes, my friends in the computer who keep me sane during long, long days, I am getting one of those new-fangled ultrasounds that will invariably make my daughter look as though she might be part alien. Which, if you’ve seen the shape of her father’s head, may not be entirely far off.
But, I digress. This is not an entry about how my husband may or may not be descended directly from aliens, it’s about my entirely selfish desire to see my daughter before I meet her come January. Because the ladies in my family (namely me) have a uniquely interesting affliction post-birth. We’re ugly. Really, really ugly.
Now, you might argue, most babies, especially those that come rocketing down the old Love Hole, aren’t exactly gorgeous at birth. Unless one happens to find garden gnomes or teeny-tiny old men to be perfectly lovely specimens, which I do not. Ben was a forceps child, and while I will spare you for this moment, the lovely side-effects that a forceps delivery entails, that method of being plucked out quickly meant that he was a beautiful newborn.
(before you think I’m bragging about the beauty of a child who was born wearing what appeared to be a toupee, let me assure you that he was beautiful for about a week. After which, he got acne and lost the bottom half of his hair. And got incredibly fat)
With Alex, the doctor was kind enough to let me labor down, so that when it came time for pushing, I pushed a total of maybe 2 or 3 times before he was born. Let us not speak of what that says about the general size of my delicate girly-bits, okay? But a side effect of that was that he was born looking….kind of funny. Sort of like a tiny, balding version of The Daver, with a head that we often joked could be used to chop ice or bang dents out of cars.
(Now he is a much larger, hairy version of The Daver)
However, when *I* was born, back in 1980, a much different story was told. Specifically, after I was expelled from my own mother, she said (and I am not kidding), “Well, now THAT is a face only a mother could love.” Apparently, then she told everyone in earshot that I was a hideous baby for the remainder of her hospital stay.
Gee. Thanks, Mom. It’s a friggin’ miracle that I have as large an ego as I do.
So, Saturday I will gather up the elder sausages and trek forth into the land of 3D ultrasounds prepare myself for the (possible) Grendel-like baby I will be birthing soon enough. Have no fear: I will love her just as much if she’s weird looking and squiggly than if she’s not.
She is MY daughter after all, so she’ll be fabulous.
All righty, my friends who live in the Internet whom I love more than I ever should, it’s GIVE AUNT BECKY ADVICE TIME. I’m makin’ my list, checkin’ it twice (who am I kidding, I’m totally NOT making a SINGLE LIST because I hate them) and I need your input:
What baby goods do I absolutely require this time around? What did I miss out on? What should I make damn sure I’m stocked up on? Because this Soft Focus Brain isn’t lending itself to logical thoughts, so I’m using your brain instead. Thanks for that.
Help a sister out?