I hear Navy Seals have to train themselves to urinate while sprinting.
I raise the Seals an eight month pregnant bladder, stuck in a snowy seven-hour commute, grabbing hold of a used paper coffee cup in which to pee while driving in bumper to bumper traffic.
I think I've earned my stripes. What do you say?
If I'm completely realistic in this moment about prospective parenthood, I have to say that I don't think it's going to change us that much.
...
And before all of the seasoned parents sigh and send flaming grenades of "Listen Gurrrfrand" up by garbage disposal, I just want to say that I am fully prepared for that notion to change. But here's what: the typical things that change for people when they become somebody's parents relate to their schedules and spending, no? Sleep and work and leisure schedules change, often dramatically. Spending habits shift, often dramatically.
Over the course of the last eight months, let me tell you about schedules. How about 3 jobs? How about night school? How about commuting around the fifth ring of hell? How about weekends that rival a rock band on tour (I've been thinking about putting curtains in our green bus, some sticky stars on the ceiling, maybe a mini-fridge up in there since we spend so much friggin' time on the road).
You want to talk about spending? Honey, get out your spreadsheet, because that's what we did a few months ago. I know they say that you really need to take a long look at your budget, your spending habits before you get married. Somehow, Mr. Loverpants and I were always transparent enough about finances that we never really took a formal look at the numbers. When we did, we were a little bit surprised. And then we looked around and assessed the e-bay auctionability of all of our possessions.
So in these two respects, I feel extremely blessed. Just when we thought we had a good handle on our schedules, spending, God sent us back to batting practice to try and hit the curveball. We're still getting ramped up, we're still learning to be teammates, and we've still so much to learn about accommodating the schedule and spending habits (ha! ha!) of this family member whom we've not yet met.
But ever since I graduated from Small Liberal Arts College on a Hill, I feel that I've grown more selfish with my time and money. I guard my Sundays jealously, I make more time for my DVR than I do for people, I have plenty of money for my favorite moisturizer but really feel the strain sometimes of paying tithe.
So once again, I don't think parenthood will change us that much. Not much more than we can expect something so profoundly wonderful and needing of every ounce of our time and money to change us. Not much more than we can expect someone we are already so in love with to change our hearts completely.
Before you read this, remember this quote:
So, the theme of this week's posts is evidently Dining Out with the Human Hippo Hybrid. Yesterday, I must have been feeling the festiveness of Chanukkah, because I visited not one but two fast food establishments, which is not in keeping with the healthy preggo diet, and really has nothing to do with high Jewish holidays, but I am looking for some way to justify the gluttony that was. I suppose it all would be better explained by the fact that I am looking much like a gordita and a chalupa all wrapped up in an empanada these days, so why not eat all three for dinner.
I got home and Lovey was pretending to interview Randy Moss which you won't understand since you weren't there, but you will understand when I tell you that I had barely set my bag down before telling my husband the mock sportscaster that we were going to go to Toxic Hell for dinner.
The last time I had visited a Toxic Hell was possibly three years ago and I can assure you that no food product ending in a vowel was consumed. Needless to say, I did not know what we were getting into when we drove three miles into the next town to find ourselves the mecca of toxicity, slathered in hot sauce.
I know that we all have our fast food attendant horror stories, but I do not exaggerate when I say that there were three people in line, but you would have thought the cashier was under water. 10,000 leagues under Grade D meat. This may have been due to the fact that the crackhead (aka Presumed Substance Abuser) in front of us needed to order the whole menu, and to really think deeply by scratching his head and rubbing his eye sockets, about whether or not that was going to be enough, and could you make change for two twenties, and wait, "Slow your roll! I haven't ordered for myself yet!" Twelve minutes passed and Lovey and I were trying so hard to swallow our laughter, we were on the brink of combustion.
There were roughly four tables, three of which were covered in several years worth of grated cheese (aged tastes better) and the other was occupied by the Substance Abusers Anonymous.
I ordered a soft taco and the nachos del wimpy, and Lovey got exactly what he didn't order, but as the line was now a dozen deep and the cashier was still doggie paddling and trying to come up for air, there was no choice but to eat the mixed grille of toxins before us and keep right on laughing.
As I was rounding the corner towards nacho home, I contemplated the last few bites and announced, "I think it would be wise if I stopped here."
At which point the sage man that I copulated with eight months ago said, "Wise would have been yesterday, Kendra. Wise would have been today until you got off the Mass Pike."
I so did not buy that sage man a good enough Christmas present.
