So long, farewell, until we meet again... in three years.

I'm, uh, no longer pregnant, rendering my pregnancy-related blog useless. From this point forward, all blogging will merge onto my other site, Prose and Converse. You are cordially invited to join me over there...

Alright, so I'm done with the preggoblogging. Next up? Getting me out of my maternity clothes.

How they get you.

Scenario A:
Cranky baby. Cries for hours. Unappeasable.
Renders mother inable to sleep and/or function, due to constantly tending to baby.

Scenario B:
Sleeping baby. Content for hours. Too good to be true.
Renders mother inable to sleep and/or function, due to constantly checking on baby to make sure they're alive.

Just another manic mom day.

It's been a long day of being a slave to a three-week old. This is nothing new for me, it's my third time, but my brain refuses to go back four years ago, seven years ago, and I feel no more prepared for this than someone going through it for the first time. The fact that I've parented two children already does nothing to ease my mind or boost my confidence- if anything, it compounds the frustration. Why am I not better at this? Why isn't this easier? Why am I overwhelmed by this tiny little person?

My days are easily categorized into two outlooks: I am either enraptured or despondent. The majority of the time, I float around rhapsodically, doting on the baby, my husband, the kids, and the clean house. When things are going well, the bliss I feel is nothing short of euphoria. As soon as that starts to slightly shift, though, I snap. A crying baby presents such a schism to my perfect world that if I can't quickly regain harmony, I'll break down. My mind doesn't want to accept that my baby is anything less than an angel. She can't possibly be cranky- I must be doing something wrong. The fact that she's so freak-of-nature mellow 90% of the time makes the other 10% absolutely unbearable for me, when in reality, I should be thanking my lucky stars that I have it so easy.

Today was a hard day, harder than most, and every minute that passes in silence is like a little gift wrapped up and hand-delivered by an angel. My peace is contingent on the baby's peace, and seeing her lay still and satiated, her long eyelashes resting shut on plump pink cheeks, I can feel the frustration drain and the euphoria wash over me once again.

Something you're never prepared for enough as a mother is how viscerally you will react to every emotion your baby expresses. When your child is happy, it is nearly impossible to be anything but. An unhappy baby makes you want to hurl yourself out the window. These tiny little screaming people, weighing less than a bowling ball, are much worse than your cranky boss, the bully on the playground, that girl who stole your boyfriend in high school, or any petty argument you've had with your spouse. It's like your mother, saying, "I'm not mad, I'm just really disappointed in you." Only she's screaming it. In your ear. For five straight hours. And as much as you'd love to walk around with them some more, your body really isn't being cooperative since it's still mad about the severe trauma it went through to get that baby here in the first place.

So it's almost 10, the baby is finally asleep for the first time all day, and here I am. What you can't see is the bottle of beer and huge stack of candy in front of me. The house is finally silent except for the rattle of the washing machine (baby spit up on the sheets) and the hum of the dryer (baby poop on my favorite blanket). After being on the brink of a meltdown all day, I don't think I'm going to empty the dishwasher, or fold the laundry, or pay the bills. I am just going to sit, greedily, in silence, and just finally relax.

Or not.

Hubby just called to say he was on his way home, and the phone woke the baby, who is now half-grunting, half-crying, and wholly making me want to grunt and cry as well.

...back to the drawing board...

Reagan was officially liberated of her uterine confines July 29th at 12:47pm...

I promise to get back on track soon.
Well, soonish.
I'm trying, I really am!!!

The only time I've used the metric system all year.

According to Wikipedia:

A centimetre (American spelling: centimeter, symbol cm) is a unit of length in the metric system, equal to one hundredth of a metre, which is the current SI base unit of length. It can be written as 10×10− 3 m (engineering notation) or 1 E-2 m (scientific E notation) — meaning 10 × 1 mm or 1 m / 100 respectively. The centimetre is the base unit in the now deprecated centimetre-gram-second system of units.

Though for many physical properties, SI prefixes for factors of 103 are often preferred by technicians, the centimetre remains a practical unit of length for many everyday measurements. A centimetre is approximately the width of the fingernail of an adult person.

Other fun facts about the centimeter:
That's precisely how dilated my cervix was, as of yesterday.

Wish me luck of the "quick and painless labor" variety, and shoot up a quick prayer in the "healthy baby" category...

Reagan needs...

...to get out of my belly.

I told her if she can make it out before my birthday (on Monday), I'd get her
this. It's got a little ruffled butt, I think it's a fair trade/bribe/whatever.

Further evidence that this baby has taken over brain as well as belly...

Someone has a birthday coming up next week OK OK IT'S ME! IT'S ME! but I completely forgot about it until Chris asked me if there was anything special I wanted. The first 8 things that came to mind were from My New Favorite Baby Website and, um, not exactly for me.

The perfect present this year? (Get your insulin shots ready...)
A healthy baby!

Or, um, a healthy baby AND one of everything from here!

Update...

My NST went alright today... the baby didn't respond until the very end, but be that as it may, all signs point to a healthy baby. Phew.

In other news, I finally finished Reagan's wall hanging- you know, the only productive thing I've done all year? Yeah, I'm kind of proud of that. :0)

The Finished Product:

You know the Blogger drill, you best be clicking the picture to see the whole thing...

And let me pose a question to my lovely readers:
Is it just me in all my hormonal glory, or is the song "Isn't She Lovely?" by Stevie Wonder impossible to listen to without crying? It's been stuck in my head all day, and I'll start singing it to myself, only to have tears fall down my cheeks before I get to the "less than one minute old" part. I am so ready to have this baby!!!

And now, home made tacos and cartoons with the kids...

Non-Stress Test? Can't I just eat more ice cream?

I went to the doctor today, hoping to be greeted in the exam room with a bottle of champagne, a box of See's candy, and a bouquet of gerber daisies from my nurse practioner as she exclaimed "SUPRISE! We're going to induce you today!"

And then I woke up.

In reality, the visit started off business-as-usual. I was strapped up to the monitor by two thick velcro bands that wrapped around my belly, each with a different sensor being pressed against my skin. For forty five minutes, I laid in various positions on the scratchy white paper that covered the examining table, with the whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of Reagan's heartbeat nearly lulling me off to sleep. A strip of pink paper was feeding out of a printer showing the steady rise and fall of Reagan's heartbeats in perfectly even waves. There was a line on the other side of the paper with jagged peaks spaced between straight lines, like a seismograph, that was tracking contractions. Between the two was a solid line, straight with a few very small bumps.

It was the middle line that concerned the nurse. She had me roll over to my side, and then the other side, and even gave me some Hershey's Kisses to eat. The center line, the line that is supposed to track fetal movement, stayed placid. It was very uncharacteristic of Reagan, who usually acts like she's already going to be one of those chronic pencil-tappers or foot-bouncers, the people who annoyed you in class because they just can't effing sit still for thirty seconds. Every time the doctor pushes on my belly, Reagan usually pushes back. If they've got the Adult Contemporary station turned down in the examining room, you can barely make out Reagan taunting "Wanna wrassle?" into the Doppler monitor. A mellow Reagan is just not a Reagan.

Because of that, I've got to go back to the doc tomorrow for what's called a Non-Stress Test, which is basically where they monitor the baby to see her heartbeat responds to stimuli. The name comes from the fact that it's a non-invasive procedure which doesn't stress the fetus.

Oh yeah, non-stress! No stress at all! My baby's not moving, no big deal. THAT'S ABSOLUTELY NOT STRESSFUL AT ALL FOR ME. Of course I'm concerned about the baby's well being, but what the hell kind of stress could Reagan be under? Maybe she's getting a little worked up over the fact that a bunch of strangers are going to see her bare bum when she's born, or she's really sweating the decision of which parent to puke on first? (For the record, I nominate Dad.)

Maybe that last part was a bit too cavalier. I'm extremely aware of all the things that could go wrong at this point, all the ways that a fetus actually can be under stress. I've worried about all the what-if-she's-being-strangled-by-her-umbilical-cord and what-if-they-need-to-do-an-emergency-c-section, but the doc assured me that her heartbeat is strong so she's ok, she was probably just sleeping, but they don't want me going through the weekend without a double-check.

I still walked out of the doctor's office and cried to Chris on the phone, scared and stressed and exhausted and grumpy all overflowing from my tear ducts and reducing me to a sniffly whiner. I hung up the phone and was in the process of wiping the wet mess off my face when, like a little whisper of reassurance, I felt a flutter in my stomach. There she was, just a little kick, a little "Hey Mom, don't worry!" I smiled and teared up again, calmed. Then she proceeded to do an entire breakdance routine, causing extreme discomfort and being more than a little show-offy. I called Chris back, to tell him that not only was his daughter fine, but also a bit of a punkass.

At first, I thought that strange quality in his voice was relief, and then my Wifey Radar was able to hone a more accurate description: it was pride.

"Oh good, I'm glad she's moving now. You had me so worried!
(Pause.)
Yup. She's definitely a Cantwell."

Self-fulfilling prophecy

Many moons ago, Chris started calling me "Penguin" as a term of endearment. I have no idea when it started exactly, and if it was contextual to anything at the time, but it stuck. It took about 9 months, but I've grown into my nickname, a fact that was documented by my daughter today as we were walking through a parking lot.

"Hey Mom, when you walk fast like that, you remind me of a penguin. But penguins are cute."

"What do you mean 'But penguins are cute'??? I'm cute!"

"Riiiiiight. It's a different kind of cute, though. Penguins are like, "Awww, it's a penguin!" You're like, "DANG look at that huge wobbly lady!"

I "felt" crafty...

Way back when, I posted an entry with a cute idea for "framing" fabric in embroidery hoops and hanging it on a wall. I mentioned that maybe I'd totally yoink the idea, tweak it a wee bit, and use it for the nursery.

Well, I don't want to send any of you into anaphylactic shock, but...
I actually did it.

I made a wall decoration with Reagan's name using embroidery hoops (14", 12", and 9") that I spray-painted black, fitted with a different pink patterned fabric, and then I cut out the letters of Reagan's name in black felt and made a pink felt background for each letter, alternating light and dark pink. It took me about 2 hours total to get where I am so far. I haven't decided yet whether I'm going to A.) Hand-stitch the felt letters onto the fabric (I am a sucker for those chunky visible stitches) or B.) Lazy-out and glue them on with fabric glue. Then, once I make that decision, I have to figure out how to hang them. They'll rest perfectly on a push-pin- or I can attach ribbon to the backs and hang them each with a bow... everything fully depends on how much energy I have in the next 24 hours.

Here's what I have so far- (everything's just kind of laid out on the floor):


Here's a close-up of the G:


Her bedding is bright pink, pastel pink, lime, and white, (that's her actual bed in the previous entry) and her crib and the rest of the her furniture is black, so everything kinda just flows. I really am in love with how perfectly imperfect it is. I'm not one to stress about details, and I hate when everything is too matchy-matchy, so this is exactly what I was going for. And now, I'll stop with the gratuitous back-patting. (But I will post more pics of the nursery as I pull together more of the details.)

Eviction Notice

Dear Tenant,

Your lease is up. Due to the fact that you haven't been paying rent, I'm going to have to ask you to evict the premises. You haven't been the best tenant- you've constantly kept your Landlord up at all hours of the night with your crashing into walls. Were you break dancing, what the heck is up with that? Also, I am unable to return to you your security deposit, due to the fact that you're leaving the property in poorer condition than when you moved in. No, not all those stretch marks were there when you got there... and let's not talk about the havoc you're going to wreak upon moving out. Let's just say it has to do with the plumbing.

I've arranged a new place for you to stay. It might not be as cozy, but I think you'll like it:

Ok. Maybe. But only if we name it Troy.

When Reagan makes her grand entrance, she'll tip the scales in the household so that the girls outnumber the boys, a fact that has been bragged about mercilessly by us gals over the last few months. Although we'd like, in theory, to have one more baby in a few years, Chris also wants to add a dog to the household, to macho things up a bit. I'm not really on board with this, because I don't like cleaning up after myself, let alone another being. And if I wanted to tend night and day to something that's not going to ever say "Thank you!", then I'd just keep having more kids, right? Besides, the way I look at it is if Chris is going to take time out of his day to pet something, I NOMINATE ME!

Last night, my sister Jadyn, my practically-adopted-sister Chelsea, and my brother Tyger were over, so after the kids were all fed, Chris and I snuck out for a little grown-up time. When we got home, the boys were both asleep, but Maddy, Jadyn and Chelsea were up watching High School Musical. Lucky for me, we walked in right in time for the big finale! GO WILDCATS! As Chris stood silently watching, Maddy, Jadyn, Chelsea and I were dancing around singing. When the credits started rolling, I turned around to Chris. He just looked at me with this expression of almost desperation, and said,

"Babe, I really need a dog."

Pedi-cure

Ah... nothing finer than spending thirty minutes in one of those fluffy massager chairs, having someone make your toes look pretty, giving you reflexology on your feet and legs...

That is, until they ask, "Do you want me to paint a design on your toes? Not like you'll be able to see it, but, I can do flower for you!"

Look, lady. I know I'm big. I know I can't reach my toes. And, yeah, so I can't see them when I'm standing up... but I'll have you know that I spend a good amount of time with my swollen tootsies elevated, and I can see them then. Let's not talk about the other areas of my body that I can no longer see and have, hence, become neglected also...

I really wanted to avoid going into labor with chipped toenails. Seeing as how I'm going to be sprawled out for the world to see, insides coming out, feet up in stirrups, I might as well take every little chance I can get to look semi-pulled together, right? I'm sure, at the time, my toes will be the least of my worries, but every little bit helps, right? And it's not like I'm going to sign myself up for a bikini wax.

More Chins than a Chinese Phone Book

Maternity Leave officially started around 3:45 this afternoon, as I cavalierly tossed my Hawaiian shirt and apron over my shoulder and skipped* out the restaurant, smile on my face and leave of absence paperwork in hand.

No more will I have to deal with customers asking me why I'm still working. Really, is it that hard to figure out? BECAUSE I WANT YOUR MONEY. TO BUY BON BONS. Or, you know, effing diapers for my child.

I can feel my face getting fatter already...




*Skipped? Who am I kidding, it was more like an accelerated waddle.

B-I-N-G-Oh, is that a contraction?

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

For a while now, I've been having intermittent Braxton-Hicks contractions (they're like the Casper the Friendly Ghost of labor pains) and sundry other random baby-related pains. I didn't have my first major "Oh holy bleep is this a real contraction????" freak out, however, until two weeks ago, when Chris was driving us home from my baby shower in San Diego and I was mildly suspicious that my water was going to break on our two hour drive through a mountain range, because why not? That's the kind of luck I have.

It wasn't just unwarranted paranoia, I'll have you know. I was genuinely concerned because the waves of discomfort I was feeling could have been labor. With Madelynn, I went to bed thinking that I just didn't feel good, and sat up in bed a few hours later in a pool of my very own amniotic fluid. Nine hours and one epidural later, I was a Mommy.

My son, the meatloaf, was already a week late when I went to my doctor to beg and plead with him. After the doc, um, investigated the goings-on, he told me that I was neither effaced nor dilated, and we arranged a time a few days from then for me to show up at the hospital and have my labor induced. That very same evening, I remember sitting on the couch feeling really uncomfortable. As much as I hoped it was labor, my doctor had pretty much assured me that my body wasn't going to start the process on it's own, so I just tried to relax. After a few hours of increasing pain, and (skip to the end of the sentence if you get grossed out easily) intermittent amniotic fluid leakage, I showed up at the hospital, where no one believed that I was actually in labor because although I had begun to dilate, my water hadn't completely broken. I assured them that it had, in fact, been leaking, and I think they all just wrote my symptom off as incompetent bladder, but they let me change into a hospital gown because I was so enormously huge and in some sort of pain, labor or otherwise. Was I surprised when my water finally broke completely and I flooded the cot they had me laying on? No. Were they? Yup! And I bet that to this day, the nurse is cursing the day she had to mop up all that fluid. To this day, I'm cursing the fact that once they finally admitted me to a Real Actual Labor Room, it was too late to do a Real Actual Epidural. And I was Really Actually Pissed. Wait, I take that back. At the time, I didn't have the energy to be angry. It was too much work birthing my almost-ten-pound baby. Hang on a second, let that last sentence sink in. Here it is, one more time. It was too much work birthing my almost-ten-pound baby.

So, you can imagine my commitment to catching that pesky labor as soon as it begins, so that I may hopefully partake of any and all medication designed to ease the baby-passing process. I've felt things in the last two weeks that have made me fold over in half like I was punched in the gut, that have made me catch my breath, that have caused an audible "OW!" that I didn't have time to hold back. Reagan's head is down in the "OK GO" position, and sometimes it feels like she's pressing up against my cervix like it's the peephole to the outside world and she's trying to steal a glance. Seriously, it makes me want to go put on a pair of spandex shorts just so I can be sure she doesn't start to army-crawl her way out of my vagina. Sometimes the pressure will be so intense that I literally am afraid to look down, for fear there will be a little goopy baby hand waving at me from between my legs. Or, you know, flipping me the bird.

I feel these phantom contractions often, but I'm only severely uncomfortable when I'm sitting, standing, or laying down. (Yup, that's all. That leaves... um, never?) Every time I feel any flash of pain, I check the time, so if it does happen to be a contraction, I'll know how far apart they are. I've even taking to jinxing myself- because I do have the worst luck ever, I'm tempting Murphy's Law into making me have this baby. Just today I told Chris "Do you want me to fake going into labor so you don't have to go to work?" Come on, if that's not jinxing myself, I don't know what is.

The weird part? I'm praying for it to happen! I am so miserable, physically and especially emotionally, that I just want to get Reagan here. I am a hormonal wreck- there has to be something like Pre-Partum Depression, and I am the Brooke Shields of it. Aside from the two days Chris and I spent in Santa Monica last week, the only time I have consciously thought "Cervix stay put!" was when I was watching a TiVo'd episode of National Bingo Night and playing along with the bingo cards I printed out from the website.

So, what gives? What's wrong with me? I don't want the birth of my baby to interfere with National Friggen Bingo Night??? I'm sure most Bingo Addicts are worried that it's going to conflict with their great-grandchildren coming to visit them in the nursing home, not with childbirth.

Well, what have I left to say? I've already talked about amniotic fluid and babies reaching out of vaginas, let alone divulged my National Bingo Night guilty pleasure. Really, the sad part? I could keep going for hours. It's nearing 11, I think I'm going to try to get myself to bed. Maybe if I'm lucky, I'll wake up in a pool of amniotic fluid! Or maybe if I'm really really lucky, I'll wake up in a pool of Golden Spoon Frozen Yogurt. Either way...

Proof.

Life's so rough...

Here's a shot of Reagan, looking very annoyed by the paparazzi.


From my ultrasound today, 6/11/07... she's got her hand up to her face- quite the drama queen already, right? In front of her you can see her arm and also, the umbilical cord (which she was sucking on right before the pic was taken. WHAT REGGIE? Nutrients zipped right into your body aren't enough for you? You've got to try to suck extra food through the cord itself? You've definitely got your mother's appetite!).

Other news? Our little butterball weighs 5.52 pounds. (Average is 4.75.)
Oy vey...

Is this nature's way of preparing me for the 18 years of sleepless nights to come?

When I woke up this morning after a night of tossing and turning, I felt a sudden burst of energy and sat right up, ready to start the day. Then I looked at the clock and realized it was only 1:45 AM. I tried going back to sleep, but it just wasn't happening, so here I am. It's almost 4 in the morning and I've finally finished editing all the baby shower pictures, posted them up on various websites, caught up on some email, and now, here I am, nearing delirium and unable to sleep.

Life has been a little hard to keep up with lately, which is why the blog has been neglected. The annoying thing is that I'm constantly writing in my head, phrasing sentences and drafting entries- and then I realize that ooooooooooh yeah, these thoughts don't just post themselves, but would I rather sit and type everything out or watch today's episode of Rachael Ray with my swollen feet elevated? We have a clear winner.

According to my doctor's first estimate, I'm at 33 weeks, and if you're going by the updated due date, I'm in week 34. Medically, this means that the baby is probably just under five pounds, and that my body is going through the final preparations of getting Reagan ready to make her grand entrance. Sociologically, it means that I am the recipient of gawks, gropes, and and endless line of questioning from strangers. Chris practically had to hold me back from jumping over the counter at the movie theater on Saturday and strangling the woman selling tickets. I didn't like her tone.

I'm on the verge of losing my mind, and it does happen for fleeting seconds. Last week I literally laughed until I cried when I realized that I burnt our bagels- for the second time in a row. I was standing alone in my kitchen at 7 in the morning, smoke coming out of the toaster oven, laughing one of those big hearty laughs at my own expense, when all of a sudden I didn't think it was quite so funny anymore and began sobbing. Really. Today? Today I had a little stuffed pink rabbit from the Baby Shower hanging around my neck, and it got caught in my ponytail as I was trying to take it off. Tears. Chris: "Honey, what's wrong?" Me: (tears, sniffing) "There's a bunny stuck in my hair!" I am slowly losing all rational credibility.

I've got two and a half hours before the world officially demands my participation, so I'm going to try to catch some sleep while I can...

Baby Shower Pictures!

See the entire set here!

When it comes to fantasies, I'm guessing most women think something along the lines of laying on a tropical beach with Brad Pitt.

Not me.

When my brain has a minute of down-time, I create imaginary conversations with Dr. Jacome, where he calls me at home to tell me that they grossly miscalculated my due date and that Reagan should be born by the end of the week, just in time to be able to use the new childbirth procedure that doesn't hurt a bit and leaves your body looking tighter than it did your junior year of high school. Oh, and I can go ahead and keep the inflated boobs. And wait, wait a second- I won the Free Housecleaning and Nanny service for the next 18 years!

Now nobody speak above a whisper, I don't want to wake up...

Workin' it...

I went back to work the last two days, and I'm not being overly dramatic when I say that it's even more miserable than I remembered it. A woman comically pregnant like I am has no business being in a fast-paced environment, especially one which requires a lot of bending, leaning, walking, carrying, and my personal favorite- squeezing through narrow aisleways. That's just the physical requirements of the job. Even more annoying than the fact that I physically cannot do many of my occupational requirements without straining, huffing and puffing, or bumping into people is the fact that EVERYONE wants to talk about my pregnancy. ALL DAY. STRANGERS. Now, I've got plenty of regulars with whom I'm on a first-name basis, who ask about my life and times in a non-obtrusive way because we've built a professional rapport. That's fine. What I'm starting to get really annoyed with is how I can't make it from Point A to Point B without being stopped and baited into a conversation. It usually goes something like this:

1. Customer notices I'm pregnant.
2. Customer remarks on my pregnancy, usually by saying something that they intend to be humorous but fails miserably.
3. Customer asks when I'm due.
4. Customer then gives opinion on due date, falling into one of three catergories:
A. "Almost here!" (Actually, no. It's about 64 days away, and it seems like for-effing-ever. But thanks.)
B. "But it's going to be so hot in the summer!" (Whaaaaaat? Hot? But, but, but, I don't get it, I live in Palm Desert. It gets hot here? 120 degrees, that's hot? Hmm. Thanks.)
C. "My birthday/husband's birthday/child's birthday/hairdresser's/dog walker's/pedicurist's birthday is in July, shoot for the [insert any day in July here]!" (I usually tell them that I'm only accepting requests for dates before my due date... and that's only if they're excellent tippers. Ok, I don't really say that... although I might hint towards it.)
5. "What are you having???"
Usually, if I want to end the conversation at this point, I say "A BABY." and keep walking. Assuming that didn't happen, things progress as such...
6. Customer inquires about the name of the incubating fetus.
7. Customer inquires about any other children I have, and if I want to have more after this.
8. Customer asks if my husband is excited. (I'll level with you here, I NEVER would correct people before I was married. One of the first things I said to Chris about being married was "Now when I talk about my husband, I'm not lying!")
9. Customer asks my SSN, blood type, favorite color, Chris's favorite pizza topping, and then asks me to guess a number between 1 and 100. Ok, maybe not, this is usually the part where they deliver a monologue about their experience with pregnancy and babies in general. Usually I start to get fidgety and try to weasel my way out of the conversation, because OH I'M NOT ACTUALLY TRYING TO DO MY JOB ON TOP OF HAVING THE SAME CONVERSATION EVERY TEN STEPS. If I'm not preoccupied, though, I try to smile a lot through lovely step number nine, because I will usually reap the benefits in one second...
10. I tell the chatty customer that unfortunately, I have to get back to work. This is when they release me from their conversational clutches, but most of the time not without telling me something nice, usually that I'm all belly! Seriously, as much as I bitch about it, getting a sincere compliment about looking good (especially after all of my preggo trauma) is worth having to answer the same questions over and over again. If it buys me five minutes worth of thinking that maybe not everyone sees the fat sea hag that I feel like most days, well, then I'll do it. I'm aware of how superficial that sounds and you know what? I DON'T CARE.

I'm only a little behind schedule.

Yup, that's the only time you're going to find the words "little" and "behind" on my page consecutively!!!

This picture was taken about three weeks ago.



I love how my veins (which weren't very obvious in the original version of the picture) look like a roadmap of the Los Angeles Freeways.

On the bright side:

Chris and I had enough kidless time to catch Spider-man 3 this weekend. I think it was the addition of our two tickets that made the film earn the spot of Highest Summer Opening Weekend Of Ever And All Time. Needless to say, the Sunday afternoon movie-going crowd was out in full force, but luckily we were able to find two seats, actually next to each other, in the middle of the theater. The downside was that I was left with no claimable armrests, nor a viable cup holder to place my delicious icy-cold beverage. Not to worry, though! Aforementioned cup rested perfectly on top of my belly.

Another wonderful use of my baby bump? Well, aside from housing what promises to be the most adorable child ever, I've also found it comes in quite handy while snacking. Now renegade crumbs and sundry bits of food don't fall to the floor- they land right on the plateau of stomach, giving them the opportunity to be second-chanced right back into my greedy mouth.

Score two for the preggo!

Step right up, folks, step right up!

Either there's something not entirely right here, or the websites/books that say Braxton-Hicks contractions are supposed to be painless were written by a man. You know, just like how PMS is a figment of our imaginations.

Maybe it's round ligament pain or a curse from god. Who knows, but coupled with the general bovine-ish feeling of milk-making and toes that look like cocktail weenies, I've become quite the little circus freak.

The supreme amount of discomfort that has piled up in the last few days comes as no shock to me. I was past due, seeing as how I had a fairly good week, gestationally speaking. I appeased my doctors by gaining less than a pound, and although my sugar levels are still on the high side, they were lower than last month and my Gestational Diabetes screen came back negative. I even made it through my Rhogam shot without as much as a flinch! (This is a huge step up from my usual role as The Girl Who Gets Blood Drawn And Then Passes Out In A Planter.) It didn't even phase me that they didn't cover the injection site with a Sesame Street bandaid, nor did I get a lollipop for my bravery. Oh yeah, this is going to be a blast. I'm patting myself on the back for getting a shot. Just wait till the whole PASSING A CHILD comes along.

Shit.

Just sayin'...

EVERYONE* NEEDS A BELLA BAND!


No longer am I exposing inches of stomach overhang! I don't know who's more excited about my Bella Band- me, or all the people that no longer have to look at my bare belly peeping over my pants and out from under my shirts. I might just be in the honeymoon stage still, but I think this is my #1 clothing-related must-have for pregnancy.



*Everyone who's pregnant, I mean.

Rites of passage.

Yesterday, the nesting instinct kicked in so badly that I found myself digging through my kitchen cupboards looking for pots and pans to scour. The problem with that is my belly is so big that I can't get up close enough to the sink. Imagine the look of shock/horror/amazement as Chris walked into the kitchen to find me sitting on the counter top, feet in the sink, scrubbing my wok with steel wool. I'm about as inclined to scrub pots as Nicole Richie is to eat a cheeseburger, so I'm just glad Chris didn't assume I'd been Body Snatched and try to beat up the Alien Replacement Nik. That would have only made a bigger mess. Which I would have cleaned. With my toothbrush. Instead, Chris found a nice, non-offensive way of insinuating that I had finally lost my last marble, and offered to finish the job. I told him I'd rather finish the job myself, and I meant it, and delegated him in charge of cleaning the top of the fridge.

Other joys of pregnancy have started manifesting themselves this week, such as colostrum and leg cramps. For fear of treading into the murky waters of T.M.I., pretend like I never said "colostrum". That leaves us at leg cramps. Ok, ok, I would probably want to retaliate too, were I a calf muscle. I understand, they're way overworked lately. They're hauling around all that extra weight, I should expect a rebellion. Through both prior pregnancies, I was tortured with middle-of-the-night leg cramps. If you've been unlucky enough to have one, you might remember it as being excruciating, because that's how I think back on them. I have been waiting in silent fear for one to strike since the second I found out about this pregnancy, and last night marked the first attack from my otherwise very trustworthy calves. My muscle is still aching!

Because I am constantly trying to change the way I filter things into a more positive light, I now present to you the silver lining:

At least I am not in the .5% of women who develop a THIRD NIPPLE during pregnancy! Nah, don't bother re-reading that last sentence, you did have it right the first time.

And people, it can happen to anyone, although it is more common during pregnancy. For those of you with no sympathy for myself or my fellow incubators, I hope you all grow nipples on the bottoms of your feet. Because it can totally happen, see? (There's even a picture, that's how much I love my readers.) My gift to you! Free of charge! Now have a great day.

Cue Kelis.

I am proud to report that ever since I saw the look of horror in the nurse's face the last time I was weighed at the doctor, I have been really good about what I've eaten. Sure, it made me miserable to the point of crying because I really wanted ketchup one day, but I made a grand improvement of the overall eating habits. The most painful thing is that I completely, cold-turkey, broke off my love affair with Ben & Jerry. (It's probably for the best, I'm sure Chris was getting jealous anyway.) I am only slightly peeved with The Universe for choosing this dark and bitter (literally, for I am forbidden sugar) time in my life to unveil it's latest sweet temptation, the Del Taco Orange and Cream Milkshake. OK SO I HAD A SIP. OR SEVEN. But it was Maddy's shake, and anyone who knows her knows that she wouldn't let me consume any more than that because 1.) She loves to remind me of my diet, and 2.) Like she's gonna be keen on sharing? Right. Long story short, for all of you who can scamper about slurping milk shakes till your heart's content, Del Taco is offering up a little cupful of heaven. Drink one in remembrance of me... just don't go telling me about it, I'm apt to hit you.

One hundred days to a pregnant woman is like ten thousand years.

Last night at our florid feast, Chris and I were presented with wine, compliments of the house. I had about five sips. Chris had about five glasses. "Are you sure this doesn't bother you, honey?" he kept asking. I insisted that he drink it, because after all, we were only there to celebrate his general Kiss Assery. Also, the way I was raised is that you always finish your alcohol- there are starving children in China, for pete's sake. Chris gets A+'s as far as taking care of me goes, so the way I see it is that the man can have whatever the hell he wants. (Lucky for me, he just wants an occasional cocktail and some lovin', and not a Ferrari and Colombian cocaine.) Suprisingly, I don't get jealous watching him drink. Maybe because he's sexy as hell. Maybe because I'm living vicariously through him? Maybe it's because throughout our courtship, he was always the designated driver and I owe him a couple nights of relaxing. I think the real reason, though, is that if I'm going to keep on using the "Eating For Two" defense, he gets to use the "Drinking For Two" one.



More often than not, strangers will initiate Chris and I in conversation about the baby and her due date. We tell them she's coming in July, and after their eyes bulge out of their heads when they see the size of my belly, they usually make some kind of response about July being here before we know it. Well, that's just not the freaking case. I was checking my progress online today and made an audible noise of malcontent when I saw "100 days left!" on my countdown. Not that I'm in any hurry to go through the anguish of childbirth, but 100 seems like a very large number to me. One hundred days of peeing every hour? One hundred days of getting pummelled from the inside out? ONE HUNDRED DAYS UNTIL WE CAN SHARE A BOTTLE OF WINE? Yesterday, we had that very exchange with a stranger, who tried to get off the hook with the ole "Oh, these last three months will go by so fast!" and I would have said "Not fast enough!" but I was chewing. Chris beat me to the reply and said, "Oh yeah, July is almost here!"

I did one of those slow-motion turns of my head until I was glaring at him dead-on. "NO IT ISN'T!"

Chris: "Uh... what?"
Nik: "Whaddaya mean, 'July is almost here'? EASY FOR YOU TO SAY!!! JULY IS NOT ALMOST HERE! I AM NOT ANYWHERE CLOSE TO BEING DONE!..."

...and I'm not quite sure it ended there.

Cheers, Chris. DRINK UP. Lord knows you've earned it.

(I monster love you. Thank you for tolerating me...)

Painful Labor: My Anti-Drug.

There comes a point in every pregnancy where you cross the thin line between being Cute Pregnant and Pregnant Pregnant. It's right around the time where you officially outgrow all of your pre-preggo clothes... even the baggy sweats. It's the same week where strangers start asking you about your pregnancy, whereas before, you just got lingering, curious looks from people who had visible thought bubbles above their heads that read, "Is she pregnant, or did she just put on few pounds?"

All of that came to a head for me last week- Tuesday, to be exact. My hormones weren't peremptory enough to handle the caving of my self-esteem, so my night landslided from mild bummer to hysterical sobbing.

I had a doctor's appointment the very next morning, and as I sat in the waiting room, my face actually ached from all the crying I had done the night before. "Ah, buck up, Nicole," I told myself. "You're not fat, you're pregnant. This is perfectly normal. You're carrying all the weight right up front in your belly, and you're very active. You're actually very healthy! You have nothing to be bummed out about. You're doing a great job."

The nurse called my name and I pushed myself out of my chair and waddled over to the scale outside of the examination room. I hopped on the platform, not entirely too concerned about what the numbers were.

Until the nurse shrieked, "YOU GAINED TEN POUNDS?"

"Um... here, let me take off my shoes!" Silly me, wearing my platform wedges to the doctor! They had to be a few pounds each, right? I mean, they were pretty high. And I remember that last month, I was weighed barefoot. So ha ha, this is some kind of human error. Maybe my wedges were lined with concrete! I mean, they did feel really, um, sturdy.

Back on to the scale I went, trying to clear my mind of any negative thoughts, because those probably weighed a few pounds as well. The nurse tapped at the sliding thingy, but the scale didn't move. I tried using the Jedi Mind Trick, and slowly, ever so slowly, the scale tipped a bit. And by a bit, I mean, like, half a pound.

Gaining ten pounds in one month doesn't keep you in good graces with your doctor. I am 26 weeks into my pregnancy (out of an estimated 40) and have already accumulated about 20 pounds of extraness. In a perfect world, I should only gain 25-35 pounds throughout the entire gestation, but obviously I do not live in a perfect world. If I did, Sanjaya would have gone home weeks ago, and I could continue to binge on Ben and Jerry's. In my defense: really, it's all in my belly. It's really all mostly in my belly. Kinda.

And, it didn't stop there. Apparently (and I say "apparently" because I now believe that my doctor just really likes to freak me out) my sugar levels are really high. Because of my rapid weight gain, the fact that my baby appears to be big for her age (which they determine with a freaking tape measure across your belly, by the way), my sugar levels, and the fact that my son was over 9 pounds, apparently I am a prime candidate for gestational diabetes. I got a long lecture from my doctor about my diet and an order to go back to the blood lab for a glucose tolerance test.

Ah, the glucose tolerance test. You show up to the blood lab of your choice after 12 hours of fasting. They hand you a bottle of what looks like orange soda, and what tastes like Orange Soda Ass. Picture this- you and a convertable full of friends are going on a cross-country road trip. As you're driving through the desert, you happen upon a dusty gas station. You go inside for refreshments and select a bottle of orange soda. You open it, take a sip, screw the cap back on, and forget about it. For the rest of your road trip, your soda is on the floor of the car, rolling around, getting hot, losing carbonation. When you get back home, you pop it into the refridgerator just long enough to bring it down from throat-scalding hot. It's basically orange-flavored syrup with some fizz in it, to make a long story short. You're then given five minutes to drink the entire bottle, and forced to sit in the waiting room for a full hour before the real testing- the blood withdrawal- can begin.

If you're lucky in the same way that I'm lucky, you'll get the rookie lab tech who tells you that you have Resistent Veins. But it's more like, "This is my very first day on the job ever ever! You have Resistent Veins! How dare you come to get your blood drawn wearing your resistent veins, didn't you know better when you were getting dressed this morning? Couldn't you have just as easily put on your Cooperative Veins, you impossible bitch? Maybe if I tweak the needle 90 degrees up, that'll show those veins who's boss! Grr! Lemme just wiggle this needle around a little, ah ah ah there we go..."

So now, I wait for my lab results. Being on such a restrictive diet is... what's the word? A BITCH. No sugar for me, not even natural sugars like fruit. No carbs. Low fat. Lean proteins. No fun. This is not ideal for a girl like me, who believes any problem can be cured with a cheeseburger, fries, and a milkshake. Or a big bowl of pasta. Or ice cream. I literally felt like a drug addict going through withdrawls. It had a tremendous effect on my disposition. I just had to repeat to myself over and over again, "Would you rather have (insert forbidden foodstuff here) or a slightly easier labor?" Sigh. I'll pick a healthy baby over something I can dip in ranch dressing any day... but that doesn't mean I won't complain about it in the meantime.

Oh Fairy Godmother...

ME WANT!

From what I've gathered so far:

Potential future interests of incubating daughter:
Can Can Dancer
Rockette
Kickboxer
Breakdancer
Soccer player

Chris keeps insisting that she's just headbanging. Perfect, because he's already picked out a couple "Daddy's Little Metalhead" shirts for her.

Because...

I'm too picky for pastels, I think I'm going to undertake the task of making Reagan's bedding. So far, I'm thinking maybe something like this?



This comes from Saari Designs, and I would spend all my money on buying things from her... but since there's a negligable amount in the "all my money" fund, I'm going DIY with it.

I will, of course, keep you posted.

My First Baby-Centric Project:

As if making a baby wasn't fun enough, now I get to make things FOR the baby! Whee! Here's a patch that will one day adorn a shirt for the already adored Reagan.

Preggo Quote O' The Day:

"How much better could another pregnancy really be? I'm still going to have to grow a child inside me and have it come out through the same exit hole. It's not like my next one would grow in a closet somewhere and I'd have to endure nine months of of high cheekbones and dancer's legs."

-Joanne Kimes, from Pregnancy Sucks

Reagan June

It's A Girl!


And now, let the shopping (or more appropriately, "wish-list-making") begin!

Half-Baked.

Tomorrow, Chris and I pay another visit to the doctor. (Whomever coined the term "pay a visit" obviously had the same health insurance that I do.) My March co-pay is due, and I'm going to have Chris write out the check because my hand is likely to cramp halfway through- it's that big a number. And really? For the relationship Dr. J has with my girl parts, he should at least take me out to a nice dinner.

Aside from draining our bank account of most of it's heft, the objective of the visit is to have an ultrasound. This is the ONE TIME where I will openly encourage my child to PLEASE, for the love of God, flash them genitals!

Hey you in there, are you a girl? If you are, your uterus is already formed, and you have all the eggs that you will release throughout your entire life. That means I am potentially carrying not only my daughter, but all future grandchildren as well. No pressure there.

Are you a boy? Are you mad that I make us watch really corny TV shows? Do you hate it when Maddy and I listen to pop songs performed by women? Are you going to grow up and hate your father and me because we're middle-naming you Pirate? Um... am I growing a penis in the depths of my belly?

I am just barely past the halfway point in this pregnancy, and I've felt consistently ok for the last week or two, which is a huge improvement. Let the fun begin!

Aww...

This has to be one of the cutest, affordable ways to decorate a wall. WHY DIDN'T I THINK OF THIS? I might want to tweak the concept and use it for the nursery...

I'm naming my libido Punxsutawney Phil.

My sex drive awoke Thursday night.
"Why, there you are, Mojo! I was about to file a missing person's report!" I said to her.
"Ah, no need to worry about me. I just took a short vacation. I know you've been feeling horrible lately, so I fled town for a little while, went to the Poconos. While you were throwing up and suffering debilitating headaches and intermittent depression, I was drinking Pina Coladas out of a coconut shell and being fanned by natives as I worked on my tan. But I'm back now, and ready for action! So should I clock in? I can't wait to get back to work."
"Uh... about that, Mojo... I'm really glad you're back, but I think you're going to have to take the night off. I have to go in to have my cervix checked out tomorrow, and I'm not supposed to be getting any action tonight. As much as I REALLY APPRECIATE YOUR COMPLIANCE, would it be too much trouble if we rescheduled for tomorrow night? And the night after that? And three times the next day? I've got a lot of catching up to do, here. You have certainly been missed, and now you're going to be working a lot of overtime to compensate."
"You're the boss!" exclaimed my libido jovially. "Just tell me when the coast is clear! I've got big plans for us!"

Little did we know, the next day would bring ominous news from my doctor. He wanted to do a biopsy, and because they removed part of my cervix, sex is out of the question for the next week, and strongly cautioned against for the rest of my pregnancy. It's like my poor libido popped it's head out after a long hibernation, saw her shadow, and realized that there would be six more long weeks of winter. (I've got more details from yesterday over here.)

Had my doctor sprung this news on me oh, say, yesterday- before my mojo came back to town- I would have thanked my doctor for giving me a legitimate reason not to feel guilty about the lack of amourous motivation. Now? Well, now I want to throw something.

This whole "trying to be optimistic" thing really isn't working out for me too well. Although I really am looking forward to my next move- waddling to the kitchen and helping myself to an oatmeal raisin cookie. HEY! People eat oatmeal for breakfast all the time, stop looking at me like that.

Craving style more than pickles.

Chris and I were shopping yesterday, and against my better judgement, we popped into a maternity clothing store. (Which was located right next to a store called The Dress Barn- and I'm sure the merchandise was interchangeable.) 30 seconds later as we were running out of the place, I pulled him close to me and hissed into his ear, "This store makes me want to adopt."

This is the universe's way of making up for the whole "You Can't Ride A Camel" thing.

I've made it no secret that I'm not having an easy time with this pregnancy. (I think the sky-writing and the billboard I rented really drove that point home.) However, all the fun I've been having complaining is starting to wear off, so I think I'm just going to try to be postive and see where that gets me. I'm a little scared- the last time I tried to be positive (see the cheery entry of 2/11/7) I spent the following day crying in bed and then- when I finally ventured out of the house- I threw up in a plastic cup. So I'm not really sure if my body can handle optimism without protest, but I'm not getting any better so I'm willing to give it another go. (I think I just gave Fate the middle finger.)

So, to keep things all butterflies and sunshine, here are 5 Inanimate Things I'm Happy About.

1. Ben & Jerry's American Pie Ice Cream
Apple-cinnamon flavored ice cream with bits of apples and pie crust. Oh. My. Business. I am petitioning Chris to name our baby Bennen Jerry Cantwell.
2. Yogi Ginger Tea
Ginger is a homeopathic cure for morning sickness, AND it's caffeine free, so I've been drinking this instead of the decaf tea I brew at home. If I could only find the Lemon Ginger flavor, I'd be happier than a pig in poo. The regular ginger isn't horrible, but it is kind of strong. If I let it steep too long, I just feel like I'm drinking piping hot ginger ale, and not in a good way.
3. Izze Soda Made with fruit juice and sparkling water, it's a pretty healthy choice when I feel like something sweet. I am in love with the grapefuit flavor which tastes exactly like Squirt, and the apple flavor, which you won't be able to distinguish from Martinelli's.
4. Cupid's Chokehold by Gym Class Heroes. ("I know I'm young but if I had to choose her or the sun, I'd be one nocturnal son-of-a-gun...") Also, in music- Cold War Kids.
5. These hand-sewn Monster stuffies made for my little monsters by the Wonderful And Ceaselessly Amazing Andrea. I love you Pookiepants, even though I know I'm pushing the limits by calling you that.

And although quite obviously not inanimate, I get most of my happiness from Chris, who fixes things when I'm gone and fixes me when I'm here. Thank you for letting me keep the corny Santa Claus toilet seat cover on year round, for your spot-on analysis of American Idol, and for blowing on the spoonful of ice cream I gave you because I threw you off when I said apple pie.

And to Thing One and Thing Two: More nights like tonight, please. But GO TO SLEEP! I CAN HEAR YOU!

Weeks 17 & 18

Loads of important stuff is happening in my belly. Allegedly, the Opportunistic Symbiote is 7 ounces, which is about the amount of alcohol I like in a Long Beach Iced Tea. (Moment of silence for The Good Old Days, please. OK.) He/She/It is about 6 inches long, although by the size of my belly, you'd think it was 6 feet. As for me? I am still suffering through horrible headaches. I was reading online today and came across a couple of articles that theorized about headaches in pregnancy being caused by caffeine/alcohol/nicotine withdrawal. Since I cut out all of those cold-turkey, it makes sense. (That's kind of a lie, I still have a little caffeine as a treat occasionally, but I stay way under the recommended 300mg a day limit.) I told my doctor about the headaches and about how hormonal I am. He said I could take as much tylenol as I wanted, and that my body was just having a hard time dealing with the surge of estrogen. I almost showed him a surge of estorgen right up his DONT MIND ME ITS THE HORMONES TALKING. Right after the doc told me I was at the mercy of my estrogen, he told me that my stomach was about four weeks larger than average. DOCTOR JACOME HAS A DEATH WISH. Care to see the big belly? If not, er... close your eyes. That's it, right there! It's the big humongous white thing next to the precious little girl who really needs a manicure. And now, I have a hot date with my sanchos, Ben and Jerry. In closing, I leave you with a photo of what my baby looks like at this point, approximately. Keep in mind that my actual baby is MUCH cuter.

Why I Think This Baby Is A Girl:

Because I just watched Uptown Girls with Maddy and cried like a baby. The only explaination? I must have TWO vaginas.

An open apology to the minivan whom I inconvenienced when I was pulled over on the side of the road vomiting into a plastic kiddie cup:

I'm sorry.

(Sorry I didn't feel up to chasing you down, finding where you lived, and giving you a piece of my mind. I, however, was too under the weather to be able to keep up with you. [When I say "under the weather," what I really mean is that I was filling up Maddy's CPK Kids cup with Pringle-scented upchuck.] I feel that your kind gesture of honking deserves some kind of reciprocation, and so, for that, I'll just silently curse you forever. I can't believe there are people in the world who have their heads so far up their asses that they are going to honk at a pregnant woman puking on the side of the road, when my car was not obstructing traffic and my hazard lights were on. To top this all of- it was a MINIVAN! Who drives a minivan without being sympathetic to the plight of a pregnant woman? The only people who drive minivans have already popped out a number of kids themselves, right?

I am forced with no other option than to learn how to hone my barfing skills, so that the next time this situation occurs, I can projectile vomit at passersby. Really, this isn't the worst idea I've had all day.

Oh, and remind me never to tempt fate again by posting an entry like my previous one. I should know better!

Take me with a pillar of salt.

This whole pregnancy schtick I'm milking right now?
Yeah, I know I complain a lot. I know I'm maybe a wee bit snarkastic. (Hey hey, see what I did there?) I would like to just state, for the record, that I have been feeling a little bit better lately. The morning sickness has dwindled, although if I ever meet the person who coined it "morning" sickness, I will strangle them for false adveritising. I'm still getting the headaches, but I'm not on my anti-painkillers crusade since I cross referenced over four dozen websites making four-doubly times sure it was ok to take Tylenol. Tylenol and me? We're like long lost best friends. If Tylenol started a cult, I would join it, that's how deeply I believe in The Cause. I look very very pregnant, but I found some clothes that actually fit around the belly without making me look like there's a circus being set up in my shirt. Now it just looks like I'm hiding an Oompa Loompa under there.

Most importantly, now that I'm getting a better handle on how I feel physically, I FINALLY have the energy to actually be excited! Now I can think about fun stuff like how cute Chris is going to look holding our baby, where as a week ago, all I could think about was "Oh god, where's the nearest bathroom?" I am so ready to start enjoying this, I've been waiting impatiently and hoping that I would make it to the point where I wouldn't be constantly bedridden (or couchridden) and afflicted.

I can't wait. Every day, something little happens to show me that I am the luckiest woman on the planet. Here's what it was today:

TheValSlayer [7:12 P.M.]: Shugga, I don't know what the hell I did with my phone charger and my phone is dead.
+17604857297 [7:16 P.M.]: Did u look behind the wine and decanter
TheValSlayer [7:16 P.M.]: Why would I look there? That's the last place I left it, I wouldn't possibly be there. OH MY GOD HOW DO YOU HANDLE ME???
+17604857297 [7:31 P.M.]: With ease baby

Although, I will admit, I am kind of worried that Chris isn't a human being, but an alien in disguise. He's a little too perfect.

No officer, I just had my blood drawn.

I put the PRO in procrastination.

I had one whole month- that's four calendar weeks- to get my bloodwork done, as per my doctor's request. I waited until the last possible minute to go- not because I was too busy, or because I forgot, but because... well, I didn't want to! Want to see me pass out? Put me in the same room as a syringe, and then allude to the fact that you're going to poke me with it. Out. Cold. Needles(s) to say, it was on my priority list right under "clean out the pantry". Well, Chris and I did that yesterday, so I really had run out of excuses.

I'm really glad I've been watching so much Supernanny lately, because the only thing that motivated me to go into the lab was telling myself, "Nicole, if you go get your blood taken like a big girl, you can treat yourself to a manicure." I managed to drag myself to the blood lab, and even managed to make smalltalk with the nurse as she was wiping my arm with antiseptic. I didn't mention to her that I have a history of passing out, because the last time I opened my big mouth, the nurse forced me to lay down on a cot that was four feet long, in a room with a Winnie The Pooh mural painted on the wall. At 26 years old, if I have to get blood taken in the Kiddie Room, I should be ashamed of myself.

I made it through the procedure without fainting, although I did get a mean hot flash, ringing in my ears, and I felt a little dizzy. As the nurse bandaged a cotton ball over my puncture wound, she said I was good to go. Usually I have to sit down for a while until I can pull myself together, but today, I was confidant in my ability to walk to my car. Overly confidant.

As I stood up, the ringing in my ears got louder and my vision blurred. I could feel a cold sweat all over. I focused on the door at the end of the hallway, even though it wasn't staying in one spot. By the time I made it out of the building, darkness was closing my range of vision like a television being shut off. I started walking towards my car, but my knees were giving out and I couldn't walk in a straight line. The next few seconds are a little blurry, but the next thing I know, I'm in a planter. That's right, I was in a planter. I just sat there for a few minutes until I could muster the composure to make it the 30 feet to my car. I sat in my car with the air conditioner on full blast, whining to Chris about how I felt drunk.

That's when I realized: why did I make such a big deal out of getting my blood drawn? I got to feel a buzz for 10 minutes, I should have enjoyed it while it lasted! Hell, I should do this more often! Only next time, remind me to get a designated driver...

Irony:

The alarm that I once used to remember to take my birth control is now used to remind me to take my prenatal vitamin.


And, come to think of it, here's a design flaw: for these 9 months of pregnancy, I don't have to worry about birth control, but I'm not even interested in having sex anyway. Yuk it up, Mother Nature, yuk it up.

I'd rather eat a cupcake than a baby.

I finally decided it was time to let Maddy and Brady in on the big secret of their impending baby sibling. I wanted to make the moment special and celebratory, so I stopped by a bakery on my way home from work and picked out two chocolate cupcakes with enormous mounds of icing made to look like an underwater scene, complete with an orange-icing octopus on top. I led the kids over to the couch, handed them a cupcake each, and told them to sit down.

Me: "Tonight, we're having cupcakes to celebrate something very special happening to our family."
Maddy: "Where'd you get these cupcakes? You definitely didn't make this."
Brady: "Can I eat it?"
Me: "Yes. {Silence. Cupcake eating.) Well? Don'tcha want to know what we're celebrating?"
Maddy: "I thought we were celebrating because you got us cupcakes."
Me: "No, we're celebrating because something special is happening to our family."
Brady: "I know, Mommy! Cupcakes are weally special!"
Me: "No, not cupcakes, something else. Guess what? Our family is getting bigger!"
Maddy: "That's what happens when you eat a lot of cupcakes."
Me: "That's not what I mean. We're going to have a new person in our family!"
Brady: "Mom, I ate all my frosting!"
Maddy: "I ate all my frosting FIRST!"
Brady: "No you diddit!"
Maddy: "Yes, I did!"
Me: "Hey! Um, don't you want to know about the new person in our family?"
Maddy: "Only if it's a cat."
Me: "It's not a cat. You're going to have a little brother or sister!"
Maddy: "Well, I'm still going to be the oldest, right? Can I have another cupcake?"
Me: "No. Hey Brady, did you hear? You're going to have a baby brother or sister!"
Brady: "Baby Brother."
Me: "You don't get to pick."
Brady: "I want a baby brother. Can I have a baby brother for Christmas?"
Me: "It might be a baby brother, or it might be a baby sister. And it's not going to be for Christmas, Brady. Mommy has a baby in her belly right now!"
Brady: "WHAT? Mom! MOM! WHAT ARE YOU DOING EATING LITTLE BABIES?"

The short story.

A very sweet, very well-meaning friend sent me an email this week saying "Let me know if you need anything!"

That's one of those questions you're not supposed to ask someone in my condition... because I really need:

*My house cleaned.
*My laundry done.
*My car washed.
*A personal assistant.
*My bills paid.
*My roots dyed.
*Pants that fit.
*Pizza, eggrolls, and Ocean Salad. Every Day.
*A pedicure.
*A nanny, at least part-time.
*A new DVR.

But really, I'd settle for someone to entertain me during my nightly routine of lying on my couch, miserable and unable to move.

Mother Nature To Host New Season Of Punk'd!

I knew I was pregnant long before the second line turned pink. I knew it the same way that I always know to pick the slowest lane at the grocery store. I knew it even though I didn't feel it, necessarily. How I felt was bloated, moody, narcoleptic, and manic- so let's just say that with that inconclusive list of symptoms, pregnancy was taking the easy way out. At that point, I hoped I was pregnant, because I don't think straight jackets are very flattering to my figure. (Well, neither is pregnancy, come to think of it.)

The test was more of a formality- a rite of passage. As the nurse sat with me in the claustrophobic office, I entertained the thought that maybe, maybe as the nurse was calculating my due date with that little wheel thingy, maybe, maybe Ashton Kutcher would burst into the room, knocking over the racks of phamplets about STDs and birth control options. Maybe the nurse is actually Ashton in disguise. Maybe there's a hidden camera behind the life-sized diagram of the female reproductive system. No, no Ashton Kutcher. No hidden camera. Just a plastic vagina on the desk, and baby in my belly.