Who would have thought that Middle SD & I would make peace over the common cause of pets?

Not I, that’s for sure.  She’s always claimed to hate my dogs, and yet…  And yet here she is, committing to a dog – a girl from a family that’s never had pets, and the girl least likely to tolerate inconvenience of any kind.  With a dog of her very own.

I am delighted.

Seriously – I’ve been reading all these “compassionate parenting” books and finding almost nothing in there that my parents didn’t do intuitively (and hey – I turned out marvelous, eh?) But one factoid surprised me.  I already knew about the health benefits of growing up around a dog or cat – allergies are reduced, the incidence of asthma is lessened, etc.  But also, apparently, having a pet around is one of the best ways for children to learn empathy and compassion at an early age.  Which makes sense, I guess.  I mean, kids adore dogs.  Nellie can’t go to the squirrel park without toddlers & preschoolers just mobbing her.  She loves the attention and is remarkably patient with the ear-pulling and slobbering (theirs, not hers!) for a dog who’s only there to stare at tree-rodents.

So I’m delighted to be able to give the gift of a good dog to Thor, and in a smaller way, I’m delighted to give the gift of a good baby to Nellie.  She’s going to love having another member of the pack to protect and sleep atop.  Although I suspect that until he’s crawling, she’s not going to want a whole lot to do with him, since  - sadly – snuggling with the baby will have to be an out-of-bounds activity for her til he’s big enough to push her off when she sprawls too heavily.

And I’m delighted that middle SD is giving herself the gift of a housepet.  It’ll be a hassle, making sure Petunia gets walked during the middle of the day while she’s at work, but this is NYC – there are professional dog-walkers a’plenty.  She’ll get frustrated with dog hair on her clothing, and with snorting bulldog sounds at night.  But she’ll also have the amazing satisfaction of a dog welcoming her home every night.  She’ll have the experience of caring for something so totally dependent on her that it makes her want to do good things for this small creature who cannot do them for herself.  And she’ll have a whole new outlook on how people interact with their dogs, and with the humanity of strangers met on the streets of NYC (the world changes when you’re walking a dog.  Everybody smiles…)

Maybe it’s never too late to learn a little empathy and compassion.  Maybe Nellie the Wonder Whippet’s good influence is already having an effect on my family.  Maybe – just maybe – this is the beginning of an entirely new era of relations between the SD & myself.

(Or, maybe two weeks from now the Boy & I are going to be adopting a homeless French Bulldog named Petunia.  You never know.)

This was, however, the weekend we were going to ‘come out’ to his daughters & nieces & nephews.  It’s a very close family, we see them all many times a year, and while his parents & sisters have been extraordinarily supportive of this quest-for-sprog, his sisters have been – quite rightly – anxious to be able to clue their own offspring in to the new-cousin-on-the-way thing.

But the Boy didn’t want to clue in everyone until his daughters knew.  Which I understand and would normally even applaud, but remember – they ALREADY know.  I think I mentioned here how youngest SD guessed when I was not drinking & having to sit out a couple of activities due to nausea back in January.  And middle SD confronted her father, who admitted what was going on.  But this was the official, “we’re having a baby, and it looks like it’s even going to be a live baby” talk that he wanted to have with them in person.  I get that.  So yesterday he took his daughters aside and told them our news.  Told them that this baby had not died and that it was a boy, and that it would be here in September.  Meanwhile, two of my nephews took me aside to congratulate me (proving that keeping a secret in this family is damned near impossible and should not even be attempted).

Anyway, according to the Boy, his girls took the news about as well as he’d expected, which is to say, not well at all.  Apparently, their main gripe was that “Susan is stealing our thunder.  Grandpa is already referring to her baby as his first great-grandchild.” followed closely by “What are we going to tell Mom?  You know she always wanted a boy.”

What?  What the hell?

Ok, so that rang my bells on a few different levels.  First off “great grandchild?”  Um no, Grandpa S!  Yuck!  I mean, yes, I’m younger than the Boy, but I’m not that much younger than your youngest daughter.  So please, FIL, you meant it as a joke, but it obviously upset your granddaughters, and it’s creeping me out.  This is your final grandchild, not your first great-grandchild.

Secondly:  Get over it, girls.  Since NONE of you are even engaged to be married yet, let alone expecting offspring, get over yourselves.  Every baby welcomed into a household as baby-crazy as this one is going to establish its claim on perfect babyness, no matter how many babies came before or after it.  And my baby isn’t going to affect the amount of love available for your eventual baby.  For your sakes I’m sorry that your parents finally decided to call it quits after hating each other for way too many years.  For your sakes, I’m even sorry your father fell in love with a woman who needed children of her own.  But you know what?  It’s the way life goes -sometimes it’s not at all how we planned it.  So quit taking your own lives & favoritism-rankings so damned seriously.  There’s enough love to go around in this family, and if you still feel insecure about that, after growing up with these people who worship the ground you tread upon, then you’re incredibly stupid, which is not something I would have thought of any of you.

Thirdly:  Who cares what your mother thinks?  If wishes could kill someone I’d already be dead for having the temerity to love the man she walked away from.  She vocally despises everything about me, and you know?  I don’t care.  I don’t care if she doesn’t hear about Thor until the little man is in college.  In fact, I’d probably feel safer that way.  But regardless, this is SO not about her.  Or her wishes.  Or anything else related to her.

And so I say this to her, as well as to the boy’s daughters:

Get.  Over.  It.

Neither SD spoke to me for the rest of the visit, though the middle SD’s boyfriend came up to me as they were leaving to congratulate me – very sincerely, I might add – which meant a lot to me given that his girlfriend wasn’t even making eye contact.

Sheesh.  Just when I think things are normalizing in this crazy mixed-up family, something else happens.  I’ve been tolerant and tried to be understanding about how weird this situation must be to these girls.  I’ve tried to put my own needs second in almost everything else.  We’re still living in the city I hate.  We didn’t have a family wedding in order not to make them uncomfortable.  But they are grown women, for heaven’s sake.  27 & 25 years old with lives of their own.  I’m tired of their histrionics, and I’m tired of dancing around their feelings when they obviously cannot be bothered to consider mine – even a little bit.

Guess what, girls?  I love your father passionately, deeply, and forever-ly, and I’m better for him than your mother ever was.  Guess what else, girls?  Your father adores me and even after the last two years of shit, was willing to do whatever it took to give me the one thing – a family – that I needed in order to be together for the rest of our lives.  Guess what, girls?  Your being upset about all of this is unfortunate, but ultimately, not very important.  The love your father feels for me does not diminish his feelings for you.  The love he will feel for his son does not diminish how much he loves you, or how much he will love your eventual children.  The fact that you, told your father that you would prefer him to be alone and unhappy just so that you could keep him all for yourself is selfish and you should be ashamed at voicing such a thought.  Grow up.  Get over your own self-importance.  Because honestly,  you’re old enough to know better.  And behave better.

Argh.

Let me repeat:  Get.  Over.  It.

And yeah, FUCK YOU, Fates – I said it out loud and I AM assuming there’s a live one in there, still.  I think we made it past the hump, despite the bleeding that came back yesterday after almost a 12 hour hiatus, despite the waning nausea.  My boobs and I think we’re still ok.

And it’s a good feeling.

In not-so-good news, the youngest and middle stepdaughters have, apparently, guessed at my delicate condition.  I refused wine/sake/beer once too often in Montreal, and what with the refusing to help her move, staying behind in the hotel room to sleep (vomit) etc., youngest SD voiced her suspicions to middle SD, who confronted her father yesterday when he took her & her boyfriend out to lunch in Boston.

Not the way I would have chosen to tell them – nor the time.

She was, apparently, “petulant”, which sums up her personality in a lot of ways.  The boy reminded me that there’s no way she would have taken the news well.  It’s not something she would have chosen, and in her world, things she would not have chosen are never acceptable.  In his words, “If I told her that her mother and I were going to get back together for her sake, even though we knew we’d be miserable for the rest of our lives, she would say ‘thank you’ & be just fine with that.  Actually, she probably wouldn’t even say ‘thank you’.  That’s just how she is.”

Um, yeah.  Only saving grace is that the young woman is completely baby-crazy.  Once Sprog is born, I don’t anticipate many problems, but until then?  Yikes.

Symptom-wise, I’m completely over the whole drink-all-day, pee-all-night thing.  Why can’t I pee it out within, say, six hours of drinking it?  How is it even possible that my body can somehow store liquids up all day, so I’m only peeing a tiny amount during the daylight hours, and then force me to excrete it all at 2am, and 4am, and 6am?  I mean, really, this is obviously a faulty system.

PIO went off without a hitch – or a spurt – last night.  I laid down, and manhandled my giant boobs out of the way so I could twist around to get the proper angle.  Probably looked really kinky, if anyone’d been able to see it.  Take my word for it – not my most graceful or dignified hour.  Oh, and yeah, stretch marks on the boobs?  They’re totally happening.  Already.  Oi.

Nausea seems to be easing, but it’s been replaced by something that I’m not sure if it’s me or if it’s the pregnancy.  I find myself overeating.  Now, don’t get me wrong – I love to eat.  Make that – I LOVE to eat.  Always have.  But I don’t tend to eat too much at any given time.  Lately though?  I’m eating too much, especially at noon.  Then I feel stuffed all afternoon, though usually not nauseous, so maybe my body’s just choosing to go for that overfed feeling rather than that vomitous feeling?

Or maybe I’m just using pregnancy as an excuse to be a big old pig.  Emotional eating, anyone?  How scary can life be if you have a mouthful of carbs & sugar to ruminate on?  Could be that too, I suppose.

The Boy’s home tonight with two friends in tow, so that should be fun.  I have to decide if I’m making Welsh Rarebit for lunch or if I’m going to try to go for something light to break this noontime cycle.

But rarebit sounds so good, and the Boy hates it, so I try not to make it when he’s around…

Mmmmm.  Rarebit. 17 slices of bread made into rarebit! How long til lunchtime?

See what I mean?