Commutisms: In the beginning there was...

Yesterday morning on my drive to work I did a little bit of math.  I thought perhaps we could all benefit from this math lesson.

 My commute to work is 60 miles each way.  That is 120 miles a day.  If you are a math whiz like me you will quickly figure out that I drive 600 miles a week.  The math spiraled out of control after that:
600 miles a week  x 52 weeks in a year = 31,200 miles driven to work per year - 4 weeks of vacation (2400 miles) = 28,800 miles I will drive this year.

Here are some places I would much rather drive to if I was forced to put 28,800 miles on my car each year:

• Walt Disney World once a month except in August, when it is too hot so I just stay home and look at my pictures from the previous eleven trips this year
• Charleston, SC fourteen times a year to eat shrimp and pretend I am a southern belle
• My parents' house 6.6 times a month so Annabelle could spend time with her Nana and Poppy
• And if it wasn't for the pesky little problem of being unable to navigate my vehicle across the ocean, Athens, Greece and back....twice a year
• And because I love sea creatures so much, the Shedd Aquarium 13 times a month, to perhaps get a part time job there feeding the squids

I'm guessing I lost a few readers somewhere in the math, not because it was too complicated, but because it appears this post is devoted exclusively to my complaining about my commute.  It's not.  But I will complain about my commute often.  The point, I think,  is that all those miles on my car also equate to two hours a day spent in the car. Two hours a day spent in the car equals a lot of time on my hands to think about things.  So to I have decided that any post that is conjured up by my brain in the car will go under the label of "Commutisms."  There is so much that goes through my brain in the car I'm sure I would be doing everyone a dis-service if I kept it all to myself.

Today's Commutism is brought to you by Pregnancy.

While driving I was thinking about Annabelle, as I often do, and how quickly the last four months have flown by.  Many people have already asked when we will have our "second." And now that Annabelle is all grown up and on a steady diet of formula, breastmilk, cereal, and dog hair...I have to confess, the thought has occurred to me as well.   And I don't have an answer to that, but I do know two things:  1. The grown up time Bryan and I have is limited.  Not because of Annabelle, but because any attempt at grown up time is usually interrupted by one of us saying "Do you smell that? I think Milton farted"  and  2. I don't believe I am ready to be pregnant again just yet.  While I love being a mama, I did not particularly enjoy all aspects of pregnancy.

While pregnant I specifically remember more than one person saying to me "Just wait until you feel your baby move. That is the best part of being pregnant."   It is?  I couldn't wait! Because until those kind people clued me in to that very exclusive info I thought that feeling as though I had the worst hangover of my life for 3 solid months was going to be my favorite part. 

Please do not misunderstand me, I am not at all complaining about being pregnant. It would be not only insensitive to do so, but it would be completely inaccurate. I am simply saying that I am not running out tonight to sign up for another tour of duty.  If I happen to get drafted, well then I will bravely and proudly fight for my country. And who knows, after some rehab I may be ready to sign up again. For now, I'm just enjoying Annabelle.

So if you ask me when we're having a "second" my response will be: Whenever the dog stops farting and I feel like being pregnant again. 

While driving, my mind drifted back to all the pros and cons of pregnancy and I remembered one of the highlights from early on. People who have been pregnant love to share their war stories to newly pregnant people.  But armed with all the knowledge of battle people shared with me, I was not prepared for my first brush with pregnancy-related humiliation.  I remember it vividly and at the time the event occurred I emailed the account of the incident to my mom and sister.  That was back when I foolishly believed I would still be allowed to cling to some shred of dignity while pregnant.  Luckily, that email is still in my sent file, so I can share this little anecdote with the 6 people who read this blog.  I suppose this technically may fall under the category of TMI, but as far as pregnancy stories goes...strangers on the street have told me far worse when I was actually pregnant.  This is very tame.

This email was sent to my mom and sister in March of 2011.  I hope you enjoy it.


To begin with, they screwed up my appointment and I had to drive to the Franklin office, only to be told they booked my appointment with the wrong doctor and I had to turn around and go back to West Allis, because that's where my doctor was today. I didn't really mind, except for the fact that I had to pee really really bad, because that's the first thing you do at the baby doctor...give them some pee.

When I got to West Allis they asked me to go ahead and leave a sample. I find that OB doctors and nurses are very casual about urine.  It's a pretty laid back process.

you go into the bathroom and they have all the "supplies" in there.  You grab a plastic cup and a sharpie and write your name on the cup (I used to do this at frat parties too, but you'll be glad to know the cup was never filled with pee).  I personally like to add a smiley face under my name just to brighten the day of the person handling my pee.

so I performed my task as requested and then opened the little metal door in the wall, only to learn that it is a SPRING-LOADED door so it is NOT the kind of door you can open and let go of and expect it to remain open.  I learned this the hard way...

so I half-opened the pee-depository door only to have it slam shut onto my hand- the hand holding the pee-cup. this sent my cup of pee somersaulting through the air with the ease and grace of a 15 year old Romanian girl.  So it's not like I just "spilled" the cup of pee...the cup flipped around sending my urine all over the pee-box, the wall, the door, the garbage can, the floor...and I'm sorry to say...my hands and clothes.

As soon as I felt the door hit my hand I yelled out in that low, growly, slow-motion voice you seen in movies while I watched my cup of pee fly.

The good thing (if there is a good thing about flinging your own urine all over a bathroom) is that it landed right side up in the garbage and there was some left in the cup so I just left it in the pee-depository just in case. And the nurse was really very nice about it when i told her what happened.