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I finally have my own site, something I have dreamed about and now have made a reality! I will continue to copy the posts over here for a little while, but please come over to www.toulouseconfessions.com to see me in html flesh!

Third Trimester Pregnancy sex

March 16, 2010

****Possibility of TMI. Not sure yet as I have not yet written the post. But just be warned.****

Third trimester pregnancy sex is not good. And before Principe (because he would actually read this post, of all posts, since he never reads this blog) gets all upset this has nothing to do with his abilities, anatomy, etc. He tries to be considerate, but I have a 15 pound inflated basketball strapped to my belly that isn’t squishy nor does it cooperate in positions, which leaves us with, what, two that we can use? Besides the basketball I have other weird symptoms. Like last night as we celebrated the fact that the paintball rifle he dropped over the weekend, which landed pointing straight into his man area, did NOT fire off any paintballs into his own paintballs, I had to shove him off of me in order to literally shake off a cramp that went from my hip to my ankle. Just all of a sudden my muscles clamped up and I was in some honest to goodness PAIN. Not like what I am about to experience in a few weeks, but still, it was not fun. Thankfully for Principe it was the end so he tried to enjoy having gotten his while I hopped around the room. Interestingly enough it didn’t occur to him to offer a massage on my legs. The end for him couldn’t have been that bad even though two minutes later he admitted that sex isn’t much fun when you know the other person isn’t really having a good go at it.

You think?

The thing is though, I don’t want to deny sex. I want to enjoy it. Apparently there are some freakies out there that just love pregnancy sex in all it’s trimesters and oh, how I envy those women. Really. Seriously. I think that is fantastic. I read one woman’s post on a forum who admitted to having had two kids in one year because she and her husband just couldn’t keep their hands off each other long enough to get through the 40 day dry-spell. Now, THAT is some freakiness. But I give her props. She also admitted to being one who thought pregnancy sex was better. In all trimesters! And others AGREED with her.

I was floored.

I was in awe.

In shock.

Really? I thought people had sex in the third trimester just to try and get baby out, not because it was sexy or good. Not because the woman actually enjoyed it.

Maybe I should have written her directly and asked for some pointers on positions.

Maybe she has someone who cleans her house so she isn’t so darn tired at night.

Maybe she is just one of those women with insatiable energy.

I wish I was one of those women. The ones with insatiable energy. It sounds nice. As it stands now I can’t wait to be done with the pregnancy and have my two cups of coffee in the morning (sans guilt) and tea or coke in the afternoon (sans guilt). Right now I only have one in the morning and one thing after lunch. But many days the guilt arises and I try not to have it. Or trick my body by drinking half-caf, half-decaf. It’s enough to make a coffee lover want to give it up all together.

Have I lost track?

Perhaps.

But I think I made my point. No?

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Home to stay

March 16, 2010

Principe came home today from Spain. No, not from a long work weekend, but from a bachelor party weekend. That’s right. An entire weekend devoted to torturing the friend next in line to get married. Apparently it was a lot of fun throwing eggs at their friend whilst naked in the cold March weather, and pelting each other with paintballs (that sounds like a nice stress reliever) and basically drinking the land dry.

But now it’s time to stay home, my friend, it is time to stay home.

He smiled when I told him that and then immediately thanked me for allowing him to go.

What a polite man.

Like he wouldn’t have made a stink if I had said anything against it. They purposely organized the whole weekend around me giving birth in order for Principe to be able to go, so unless the doctor was certain Little N was going to come early or put me on bed rest, there was no way I was going to tell him to stay.

What’s the point?

My inlaws, mother and SILs had a different opinion. My mother expressed it with shock and a playful tisk-tisk. My inlaws told their son flat out that he shouldn’t go, that he was a degenerate for even considering it and went on to use his own birth as an example as to how things can change at any moment. (He was born prematurely in a clinic that had no incubator. His father had to drive him, hours old, to the hospital, leaving his mother alone thinking the worst. The doctor told them not to even bother because he wasn’t going to make it. This was Spain thirty years ago. LOTS has changed since.) I had the urge to counterpoint with examples that Principe’s mother has given me about her prenatal care (or lack thereof), but I held my tongue. When they called this past weekend to see if I had spoken to him (basically fishing around for info on how much he was drinking, something I never tell them so I’m not sure why they still try to fish) they told Queenie to give her papa a good punch in the nose when he came home for leaving when I am 37 weeks along.

I’m glad Queenie had no idea what they were saying and just continued to show them her choo-choo through the webcam.

My SILs admitted that they would never allow their husbands off the hook to go out partying if they were 37 weeks along.

But if you are the one that doesn’t “allow” them, I thought, and nothing happens, wouldn’t you feel bad?

It’s one thing for the husband to decide not to go. It is another for the wife to refuse him.

Don’t you think?

But now he is home to stay. For good. At least through the month of April.

Besides, as I said before, pay back comes in the form of girls night out when my girlfriends come to visit!

Anyone want to come visit?

Turning out the lights

March 14, 2010

I can’t sleep. Or rather, I don’t want to turn out the lights and go to sleep. Not that I am afraid of the dark. I’m not. Not really. If I get my imagination going I can become afraid of the dark. My imagination is crazy in its ability to be so real. Really. I’m not sure many people understand what it is like to have nightmares from hearing a description of a movie plot because I can literally see it unfold in my head. This is why I no longer allow myself to watch CSI or any other crime show, read murder mystery or any book with graphic violence (whether implied or described). That goes for movies as well. Can’t do it. I’ll have nightmares for weeks. My sister laughs at me and calls me childish. I then tell her, “watch out, this imagination of mine will make me famous one day!” Just as soon as I get a minute in between having children and chasing after them….

The real reason I don’t want to turn out the lights is because Principe isn’t here. He hasn’t been here all weekend and I have been surviving on less than 6 hours of sleep a night. Not because I have to (although Queenie’s bad sleep habits have a teensy bit to do with it) but because I have trouble turning out the lights when he isn’t here. I just don’t like to sleep alone. And what I really hate is initiating the sleeping alone by turning out the lights.

This was a problem that I had until I met, lived with¬† and married Principe. Living alone I always went to bed too late. Because I didn’t want to turn out the lights.

Now I sleep almost like an angel. Most of my bad sleep habits are gone. They just went *puff* into the air once Principe and I started our lives together. Which I am forever grateful for.

But the days that he is gone they come right back.

Silly, isn’t it?

I am about to turn out the lights, just as soon as I write in my journal. Yes I still actually hand-write in a journal. Crazy, I know. But I have so many thoughts going round in my head. And I write differently than I type. Try it sometime, I bet you do too!

on the other hand…

March 14, 2010

I was hoping Litte N would come early. This was back in December. I’ve been having Braxton Hicks since September and was having a lot of them in December (probably due to stress. Holidays and all.) and was convinced enough to tel everyone that I was sure this little girl was going to come sooner rather than later. All truth be told, what do I know? If the doctor doesn’t know anything than who am I to say when she is going to come? Yes, yes, it is my body and I am the one that feels her and I have the intuition, etc, but that is really nothing when it comes to predicting when a baby decides to come into this world.

I am still hoping she comes a few days earlier than April 6. I am a bit done with this pregnancy. Not that I have anything major to complain about, I am simply looking forward to being able to stretch my aching legs properly, do some yoga and pilates, run after Queenie, sit up without getting a cramp or loosing my breath and not having my muscles cramp up from doing simple things like opening jars, reaching sideways into my purse or having my arm twisted from trying to brush out the curly hair of a screaming toddler. I don’t mind being pregnant. I feel healthy and good. I feel fine, really, considering the ginormous belly in front of me. I can still carry Queenie, I have quite a bit of energy, but I’m ready to meet Little N and continue our family as a unit of four members.

A few days early wouldn’t be bad. For me, selfishly, this coming week wouldn’t be bad. I would like that. On the other hand it would be bad as we don’t have much of anything prepared and her abuelos aren’t set to come until April 1. obviously they will come when we ask them to, but if it were to be a quick labor and delivery we would be in trouble as the quickest they can be here would be about 10 hours considering them packing, getting abuelita ready and okay to be alone and driving the 7 hours it takes to get here. So, really coming a few weeks early wouldn’t be that good. Besides the fact that it wouldn’t allow time for Queenie’s abuelos to learn and understand how important her new routine is.

I was talking about this with my mother earlier today. Queenie’s routine in France is much healthier for her and has led to far fewer outbursts of frustration on both of our parts. But this routine is far from that of most Spanish children and most definitely far different from that of her abuelos. I wouldn’t ask her abuelos to change their own routine, but it will be nice to have a few days to instill in them the importance of keeping her on her routine. To give her breakfast at 9Am, go outside around 10:30am with a snack. Have lunch ready for her to eat around 12pm. Play. Get her in bed for a nap between 1pm and 2pm, etc. It will be nice to have a few days to explain to them how the routine changes when she has a bad night of sleep and the options that they have in the routine (eating lunch outside in order to stay in the park longer). Besides all of this it will be nice for them to know where to buy bread and fruit and meat. Not that they couldn’t figure it out, but what with having Queenie on their hands I’m sure it will be easier for them to just KNOW instead of having to search.

And I have to say now, after all of my professing that Little N was going to come early that I no longer really believe it. She may come a day or two or three early but I don’t think she will be born in March. Honestly, she moves too much to have her head engaged, in my non-medical opinion. But as I said before, what do I know?

How much sympathy?

March 13, 2010

How much sympathy do you have for homeless people or those that beg on the street? No, they are not always one and the same thing. Yes, sometimes they are one and the same thing.

The answer to this question lies much in the fact of whether or not you have ever lived in a big city where you go downtown often enough to really have contact with those who beg or live or both on the street. You don’t get much of it in Small Town USA. One reason is because of our loitering laws (something Spain, and it appears France, do not have).

I have to admit that I am a bit hardened to those who beg on the streets. I have lived in too many big cities in different countries to be as soft as many tourists are. In order to get money out of me there are some criteria that has to take place:

1. If you are young and it looks like you are hooked on drugs or a lifestyle that brings you to the streets, I will not give you money. Being addicted to drugs would be hard, I agree, but I won’t give you my hard earned money (that my husband worked for!) in order for you to walk around the city with your open can of beer laughing at the swirls that your high is making you see. Been there, done that, though I never asked for money and never lived on the street….but it doesn’t change my opinion. Get clean. Get a life.

2. If you are old I will give you money. If you are old and I find you digging through the garbage I will most likely ( I should say WE) give you quite a bit of money and any food that I have on hand. Of course this old person may be just as hooked on alcohol or drugs or perhaps was the young person a few decades ago that I wouldn’t give money to, but now that they are too old to work, too far gone, I will give them money. I feel for the old. (I know I should say “elderly” but my grandmother hates that word with a passion and has taught me not to have it in my mind!)

3. If you are trying to trick people, I will not give you money. There is this man, who is young btw, who everyday is lying on the street asking for people to help him up. If someone helps him up he asks them for money. If they person doesn’t give it to him he insults them. Either way he immediately lies back down and starts the whole game over again. The shop people say they have called the police multiple times, but he always comes back. Yesterday instead of being a few streets over he was on our street almost right in front of our house. Which brings me to point 4.

4. If you try to TOUCH my child I will NOT give you money. WTF? Why are you trying to touch my child? Not to be prejudice and al but you most likely haven’t washed your hands that well and so should not be trying to touch my child’s face. Besides the fact that you just shouldn’t touch my kid. No one should. No. NO NO NO NO NO! The guy lying on the street got within a centimeter of Queenie’s face yesterday and would have touch her full out were it not for my super-mommy stroller moving reflexes. It scared the begeebies out of Queenie who immediately started crying (she also just doesn’t like strangers right now) and quite honestly it was the love of Jesus in my heart that kept my from kicking the guy in the face. That love was not strong enough to spare him some swear words in English though.

5. If you have a child with you I will not give you money. Not cool people. Every where I go, every show I see about people on the streets (there are actually quite a few shows in Europe that go around talking to people on the streets, etc.) everyone says the same about those children: they are being used to ensue sympathy and half the time they aren’t even that person’s kid. Even if it is that person’s kid, I hate the fact that they are using that child instead of taking advantage of the public daycare where they have access. I won’t give them money.

6. If I see you exchange your spot with another person as routinely as one might punch in and out of a job, I will not give you money. Yes, I have seen this. High fives and everything before they settle down, put on their sad face and hold out their cup.

Do I sound heartless? If you are thinking that I would bet you have never lived in a big city. Or in Europe. As I said before there are a lot of people who beg and live on the street here. I’m convinced an anti-loitering law would help with the professional beggars. Not with the drug addicts but at least it would get the professional beggars out of the way. And before you start taking me off of your reading list let me add this one thing: this list only applies to the USA and Europe in that these countries have social programs and help set up. Especially socialized Europe. I’m not talking about India or Thailand or China or Nepal, etc.

Still think I’m a bitch? Maybe I shouldn’t be so honest. But that’s what we are all about here, so there you go. I guess that guy yesterday just really got to me….

Feminism

March 12, 2010

I lived in the 1930’s and 1940’s as a preteen and teen. Lived there. To the point that I thought communism was still illegal in the States. Do you understand? Thought McCarthyism had won or something, if I really even knew what McCarthyism was.

Don’t be fooled by the title of the post. It isn’t that I was obsessed with the women’s rights movement or anything of the sort. No, I was just obsessed with the time period. The dresses. The movies. The shoes (chunky heels? Come on! Nothing better!). The romanticism that Hollywood sold in the movies….. I bought into all of it. I still do when I sit down and get a minute to indulge in one of my favorite Black and White movie. I hate cigarettes and yet Betty Davis can still make me crave one. See what I mean? I totally buy into it.

That is my dreamers side.

The less I see movies from the 40s the more of a realist I am. In everyday life I am more of a realist, which is odd considering I have an imagination that can literally see things that aren’t there. And dream them. Things I’ve never seen but become real.

Wait. Hold on. Let me get back to my point.

Feminism. Are you a feminist?

See, as a teenager I thought that I was. Now, don’t forget that I was lopsidedly influenced by the ideas of 60 years before I was born. I thought being a feminist meant that I believed in a woman’s right to have the same access to anything in life that a man did. Same chances, same rights. Kind of like civil rights. We are all created equal.

That being said, I don’t believe in changing the rules for men and for women. Would you change the rules for blacks, Hispanics and whites? Is there a difference? No? Then why change the rules?

If a woman can’t do the job the same as a man, than she shouldn’t get the job. End of story. I believe that. Same with a man. If he can’t do it, then he shouldn’t get the job. If we are all so equal, that is what life would be life. There would be no favoritism to women because they have a vagina and the company needs to keep a scorecard.

Anyway.

Spanish women are still pretty fierce about something in the feminism department. Probably because it all came a bit later than in the States what with Franco and all. This is where I see it mostly.

I like to cook. Mostly bake. I like it. Not only do I like to eat the finished product and watch other people enjoy said finished product as well, I like the process of it. Finding new recipes, thinking of new things to do, I just like it. I don’t look down on you if you don’t. I don’t really care if you do or don’t except that if you do I may ask for a new recipe or advice. Otherwise, I could care less. But Spanish women of my generation like to look down on me for it. They laugh a smuggish laugh and say things like, “Well, you have time, being at home and all.”

Interesting. Two jabs in one little statement.

See, I am less of a woman to many of my Spanish comrades because I do not work outside of the home. I stay home. And what is worse….(dum, dum ,dummmmmmm) I CHOSE to stay at home! (gasp!) It isn’t that I was fired (although I was fired right as I got pregnant leading to me becoming a SAHM-to-be. Really the worst sin in the minds of working Spanish women everywhere) it is that I choose to stay home. Now, considering that I am now living in a country where I do not speak the language very well (or that Spain has an unemployment rate of 19% were we living there) I am graced with a bit of leeway. But only a bit.

I also like to sew. I don’t have much time to do it, but I like it. I was taught by my grandmother during my summer stays with her and my grandpa. But the very fact that I even know how to sew makes female heads start to shake in disgust and fawned amazement as they look at each other and giggle.

Now, I don’t like to iron. But I iron Principe’s shirts. I don’t make him do it. They would never get ironed otherwise and he would end up going to work in the same two ‘wrinkle-free’ shirts that he owns,¬† as he did when he lived in New York City without me. Being a SAHM I see it as part of my job. Just as cleaning the bathroom is and making dinner. Not that Principe doesn’t help, but why wouldn’t it fall on me to do?

I also like to scrapbook, or do ‘those little crafts projects’ as my SIL calls them. She pretends to look impressed while complaining to me about how hard it is to be pregnant and working and then come home to a toddler. At least I get to take naps. Yes, I think to myself, and at least you can afford a housecleaner……But I never say that.

Because I guess it doesn’t matter. I shrug it off. I actually feel a bit sorry for my fellow Spanish women. It is a shame that they have leaned so far into the idea of feminism being the opposite of who your mother was that they actually look down on those who do “womanly things”. Which basically they look down on their own mothers and the life that they had. It is interesting to note the pride in a Spanish woman’s voice when she gets to say, “MY mother worked….” during a conversation. They don’t realize it, I’m sure, but by belittling the things that are deemed ‘womanly’ and therefore ‘old-fashioned’ they are belittling their mothers and their grandmothers. And me. And the rest of us who choose to stay home for a little while. Or maybe a long while. Or simply those of us who like to cook simply because we enjoy it. We don’t know why. Just as you aren’t sure why you like being an accountant. It is just in your blood. You simply LIKE it.

But in France, see, the women seem to have come full circle. Or perhaps they never leaned so far away as the Spanish women are now. Toulouse is full of merceries (a store to buy thread, ribbon, etc) and fabric stores. This is the home of COUTURE, you know. They also have scrapbooking stores and supplies, though not in the quantity that we have in the States, but as in all things, the States just has to have one of everything on every corner…..!

Women here go to the market with a basket. They seem to be able to meld both being a mother, a woman and a worker into something that is flexible and equally spaced. Now, notice this is observance without being too involved in the French culture as I don’t as yet have any friends here in Toulouse, but this is what I see from the outside.

As much as Spain is my second home and I don’t think France will every get to set up camp in that place in my heart, it is nice not to feel the pressure or see the nods or hear the giggles between two other ‘working’ women. Just a bit of a rest from the Spanish feminist movement. Just to catch my breath.

This is where I live Thursday…on Thursday!

March 11, 2010

Wow, I’m getting things done early today, despite the fact that Queenie was awake from 3:30-5:00 Am and then woke up for good at 8. Not that I wasn’t awake already since Principe’s alarm clock goes off at 7:15 Am and I was already awake enough to tell him to wake up on his own and turn off the darn alarm before it wakes up Queenie. Didn’t matter though, in the end. Although I got to stay in bed another half an hour I wasn’t asleep and with all the creaking that the floors do there wasn’t much chance of Queenie sleeping through her papa going to and from the shower, kitchen and bedroom. Ah, well. What really gets me I think is the amount of energy that toddlers have in the morning even when they haven’t slept a whole night. That energy goes south fairly quickly around noon, of course, but it is the number of times I have hear “mama” or “maneeno” or “deedee” this morning. Repeated over and over and over and over until I answer the correct answer that she was looking for in the first place. All she wants is some attention and someone to play with and all I want is a shower and a cup of coffee. And the printer to be full of ink, because it decided this morning that it no longer had any in it and to show its disgust at me not knowing in the first place it decided to paper jam a few 4×6 picture pages. Not an easy jam to figure out. Especially when Queenie decided to chuck a few of her choo-choos down the pipe of the sofa-bed and can’t seem to understand that mommy’s situation comes before hers. Why? Because I’m the mommy, that’s why! Oh, I can’t wait until she understands that phrase!

Okay, mood is getting back in order. The sun is hiding, it is exactly 0 degrees Celsius (32 degrees F) outside and if I’m not careful I could allow the weather to dictate my sense of humor. We have to go outside as we didn’t go yesterday and we are in desperate need of some fresh fruit. It will be cold, but we’ll survive, I’m sure. And then Queenie will take the longest nap in history….right?

No, no I didn’t forget. Here are the pictures. This is of Place du Wilson and the permanent Carousel that they have there. A must see (though a must avoid most days you want to get anything done!) in Toulouse.