I despair that I may be one of these creatures one day soon. My own mother left last week after a 6 day visit, and of course what better thing to do than blog about it? It does pain me to think that my own children will one day moan to their friends about me, yet here I am, too cool for my own mom. Oh, how the worm will turn.

Highlights of her trip include:

1) Her loud proclamation whilst shopping that I have no ass. I'm not saying that she brought up my asslessness in private later in a moment of mother/daughter bonding over Ben and Jerry's, but rather a boisterous and far too enthusiastic, "Pru, you have no ass at all!" when walking behind me in a public setting. Note to self - always make your mother walk with you or ahead of you so as to avoid any humiliation and much glancing at said flat ass by passers-by.

It gets worse, believe it or not. When countered with my insistence that as the girl that brings new definition to "Whitest person ever" I am not expected to have a budunkadunk, my 55 year old mother says (again, loudly), "I'm a white girl and I've got a big ol' booty." Uh. Yeah. File that in the "Things you never want to hear your mother say" portion of the brain.

2) I was making breakfast one morning and I had the radio on. Usher's "Yeah" came on, and rather than turning it off I endured it just to hear Lil' John say "Yeah" repeatedly just so I could be reminded of Chappelle's Show. Anyway, my mom comes groovin' into the kitchen, dancing in a way she thinks is hip-hop (as interpreted by the painfully unhip nearly-retired crowd), excitedly telling me how much she adores this song. I'm used to this sort of behaviour from her, so I just carried on cooking the bacon. That is...until it happened. She was grinding against an invisible retiree in her imaginary hip hop club for the over 50s and repeating the lyrics - "I want a lady on a street and a freeeak in the bed!" with far too much gusto. The song ended, she sighed with content at her little show, and I was left in the wake too speechless to flip the bacon.

3) In numerous outings with my mom during her trip, I had to put up with pokes and proddings each time a baby or small child would go by. It's as if she needed to remind me that hey - that stomach might turn into one of those things! She doesn't quite get that I'm child ambivalent, lately bordering on the child hating. I will love my child, but I see no point in gushing over the children of others. In my experience, they are mostly brats and I would like them to go away. When I told my mom this, in so many words, she shook her head with the sad recognition that the apple has fallen far, far from the tree.

My mom has been a special ed teacher for nearly 35 years. This is a woman that puts up with children spitting on her, biting her, vomiting on her, swearing at her, tweaking her nipples with glee, and a million other things that would make me chop them up and put them in a barrel. She, on the other hand, loves it. She'll put up with it all with a genuine smile on her face. I admire her immensely, but if you think I'm getting anywhere near that level of sainthood, forget it.

My mom tried very hard to convince me that I would grow maternally and surprise myself. I say, I'll believe it when I see it. Mom said that when your child puts their chubby little hands on your cheeks, cuddles up close, rubs his or her nose against yours and says, "My, you are one cute little fucker", you will be enamoured for life. Those kind words were uttered by one three year old Ms Prufrock to her mother in a moment of tenderness, and if Enid says that to me I will be shocked for a moment, but positively smitten.


Kid gloves

Ah, finally...a little bit of good news in the IF blogosphere. It's about friggin' time.

For those either recently pregnant or still soldiering on with the hope of being pregnant, I warn you of one thing when pregnant: the sudden change of you as an independent woman to a delicate flower. Ugh. It sounds like a dream, right? No lifting, no stretching, no arduous tasks around the house. It's like post-retrieval time all over again, and wasn't that a dandy time? Three days of lounging on the couch wearing stained sweatpants and eating copious amounts of junk food is one thing, but when you have to covertly look over your shoulder and quietly lift a glass from the second shelf of your kitchen cabinets so as not to arouse suspicion, things have gone too far. Yesterday one of the glasses clinked against another and my cover was blown. A disembodied voice called out from the living room, "What are you doing? I hope you are behaving yourself!" Suddenly, I'm 6 years old again and have been caught climbing on the kitchen counter in an effort to reach the candy hidden on top of the fridge.

I have been advised not to walk home a certain way in broad daylight, especially if my MP3 player's headphones are visible. This was not a problem pre-Enid, in fact, it was recommended that I walk that way as it was quicker. It seems that my safety could be compromised when it was just me with barren womb, but put a life in there, and well...the rules have changed.

Caffeine is limited. I know, I know, that's a good thing. I gave up coffee (more or less) pre-IVF, so I've been off the juice for awhile. However, I like to have a cup of nice, strong coffee once every two weeks or so. When I tell The Dude how much I enjoyed my off-limits coffee, you'd think I'd just mixed up a nice cocktail of strychnine and arsenic to make my lunch go down a bit easier. I also like a Coke occasionally, about twice a week. This has been deemed as acceptable, as long as I do not exceed that dosage. The repercussions would be grand if I did.

Rubbing anti-stretch mark cream into my stomach so that I don't *hopefully* get any angry red streaks etched into me? I'm rubbing too hard. I'm bothering Enid. Enid even wants me to stop rubbing so hard, as I'm putting a dent in his/her head, or perhaps putting too much pressure on its torso. This extends to healthcare providers as well during ultrasounds and doppler sessions. When we had our 16 week scan The Dude was focusing more on shooting death rays at the ultrasound tech than he was watching the miniature rope-climber on the screen. He was actually moments away from asking her if she would mind relieving the pressure on my abdomen a little bit. You know, because she doesn't do dozens of these things a day. I would have laughed heartily at the time had I not thought it would result in a rather unfortunate expelling of gallons of urine.

The concern The Dude is expressing is overwhelming most of the time. However, he is also capable of moments of non-obsessive concern, as evidenced by yesterday's surprise for me. Lucky Charms AND Betty Crocker Cream Cheese Frosting? Uh, awesome. In case you're wondering, it's not like I'm baking a cake or something. I eat the frosting straight out of the canister. It's not weird in the least, ok? I use a spoon. Most of the time.

Additionally, any ill will I feel toward The Dude is obliterated when I'm getting the hairy eyeball during a doppler session at home and he says, "Don't push too hard, my baby doesn't like that." It's a simple statement, but to hear him say "my baby" fills me with a happiness I never thought I would be able to feel. I want everyone to know what that is like, especially when it always seemed such an impossibility.