Ode to the Woombie

What's the value of a full night's sleep?  Can you put a price tag on sanity, you ask?  Well, I'm here to tell you- YES- yes, you can put a price tag on it.   I'm happy to announce that for me, the cost was a mere $28.95 (plus shipping and handling).   Don't be fooled by appearance.  Your sweet little baby might look as though they are imitating a Jimmy Dean sausage roll, but it will guarantee you at least one REM cycle, heck maybe even two.  I had pretty much decided that I would be willing to dress Ella up as Hannah Montana if it meant that I could sleep longer than 3 hours at a time.  Luckily, I was able to put away the blonde wig and sequins for another time....and instead, found this cocoon of cotton, polyester and lycra.  It's designed to keep baby snug and secure while still giving them the ability to move their arms and legs inside the sack, much like the way they are in Mommy's belly (hence, the name "Woombie.")  The typical swaddle blanket, when used correctly, can work pretty well and will help to pin their arms down, but inevitably, they will get big enough and strong enough to break out of their swaddle and startle themselves awake.  So, as fun as it was for me to hop in and out of bed ever 25 minutes to re-swaddle Ella and shush her back to sleep, I knew there had to be a better way.  I'm *overjoyed* to report that the first night she slept in her Woombie, she went for 7 hours straight.  Seven hours!  I woke up that morning and looked over to see my clock say 5:33 am and I almost wet my bed in excitement.  The next night, she went for 8 hours.  The night after that- and every consecutive night since- she has gone at least a 9 hour stretch.  Last night, we put her down to bed at 9:45 and she slept until 8:30 this morning.  *Nirvana, I tell you.*

I'm sold.  I will buy this for every friend of mine who gets pregnant from here on out.  If the $650 I paid for my epidural was the best money I ever spent pre-baby (and it was), the $32-odd dollars that I paid for this sweet sack of sanity is the best money I've ever spent post-baby.  Such a small, seemingly insignificant article of clothing that I credit with restoring some normalcy into my crazy, overtired, hormonal life as a new mommy...

Finally...the birth story!

Our little Junebug is here!  Okay, well technically, she's been here for 5 weeks now.  But getting this post up got lost somewhere between diaper changes, 2 am feedings (and then again at 5, and again at 8...), too many loads of laundry and too few hours of sleep.  Then of course, there are those moments of just watching her sleep...and those moments turn into an hour, maybe even two. Those are the times when I *could* be catching up on some cleaning, writing the ever-growing heap of thank you notes or even taking a nap (a big HAH to that).  But I just want to sit and look at her.  Try to stop the time from passing so quickly.  Try to memorize all of her sweet little features because I know that tomorrow will bring even more changes.  She's changed so much already, it kinda makes my heart break a little....*sigh*

So here's the long and short of her birth story...(and since I'm stealing a few precious minutes while Ella is sleeping, this will more than likely be the "short" of it).

She took her sweet time getting here- the stats: born at 41 weeks on June 13, 2009- 7:49 pm, weighing 6 lbs 15 oz and 20 inches long.  Someday I will write the entire birth story- perhaps in another post, but judging by the pace of the last 5 weeks I might be lucky to have it finished sometime before her fifth birthday.   My labor lasted for a good 5 days before it was finally the *real deal.*  Yes, I said 5 days.  Yes, they were the longest and most trying 5 days of my life (or so I thought, until we were home and Jake was back at work and my mom had gone back to MI.  Those days were altogether a different kind of "long" and "trying," to say the very least...)  I was one of the unlucky few who had the prodromal labor- basically a fancy term for early labor that starts and stops irregularly with contractions that come close together and that are quite painful at times, but that don't really change the cervix, so most doctors and hospitals will send you back home to continue to wait.  If I had a nickel for the number of times I uttered the words "this is it!!" or pulled out my iPhone to time the contractions on the handy "Contraction Master" app, I would be a rich woman.  I still believe this was Ella's way of preparing her Mommy to realize that life was truly not about me anymore- and will never be again, for that matter. 

When I had my bloody show late Friday night- after labor that started the previous Tuesday- I knew it would be soon and was more than ready to get to the hospital.  We ended up arriving at the hospital early that Saturday morning (but only after stopping at McDonald's so Jake could get breakfast, because we all know the reputation hospital food carries.  But for the record, I passed on the bacon-egg and cheese biscuit, lest it should make a second appearance during labor).  Once we were settled in our room, the doctor came in after I was checked (and it was definite that they were not sending me home this time) and broke my water.  OMG, *ouch.*  I think I gripped the bed railing so hard that I left an indentation.  After that, Jake was too scared to hold my hand for the duration of the labor. (j/k). Next came a dose of stadol, which I was told would "take the edge off" but only served to make me talk out my ass about stupid things and feel nauseous if I opened my eyes the tiniest bit.  Finally, I got the blessed epidural by 1 pm and life was good after that.  Well, "good" in that I felt no pain whatsoever.  However, things didn't go *quite* how I pictured in my head from that point on...

They had determined some time earlier that she was sunny side up with her face looking up instead of at my back.  Because of this, she never dropped into my pelvis, therefore, I didn't progress past 5 cm and 80% effaced....and therefore, the doctor came in around 6 pm that day and said, "I think the writing's on the wall and we may need to proceed with a c-section."  

Done.  

I was exhausted, not to mention STARVING (can I truthfully say that food was probably the number one driving force behind my decision to agree to a section so quickly?  Well, that- and of course, getting to finally meet my baby).  So Jake got changed into the cute blue scrubs complete with matching mask and shower cap and I got topped off with another dose of "heaven-in-a-spinal-tap" and they wheeled me into the OR at 7:28 pm.  Twenty-one minutes later, I heard the most beautiful sound as they pulled her out and she cried for the first time.  

She is probably the most amazing little person I've ever seen (of course, I realize I'm extremely biased), but I look at her and can't imagine that I had anything to do with this little miracle.  She's got her Daddy's nose, my eyes (although they're still blue and look like they may stay that way) and perfectly shaped lips. *Look out Angelina.*  I remember the first time the nurses brought her to me in the middle of the night, only a few hours after my c-section.  I had already been allowed to hold her and bond with her a few hours prior while in recovery, but at that point, I was still heavily drugged and shaking like a fool, so it wasn't the optimum situation.  They wheeled her into my room a few hours later and I was awoken from my drug-induced sleep to hear the nurse say, "Hey Momma, your baby girl is ready to eat again." And then the reality started to hit: Oh my God, I have a daughter.  It wasn't a dream...she's outside in the real world now.  So there I laid in that dimly-lit hospital room, still half-numb from the waist down and with only a little ginger-ale on my stomach to quell the nausea, but none of the discomfort seemed to matter.  I held her with those unsteady arms that scream "new Mommy" and studied every tiny little feature, and just gazed at her and for those few precious minutes, time seemed to freeze.  Ironically now, I can't get the time to stop.  She's changing every day and now I will officially join Moms everywhere who can only comment that this is all going  too, too fast. 

More to come...(when she takes another long nap :-) ) 

40 weeks!!

So this is a picture of a baby at 40 weeks gestation, or more simply, what Junebug and I look like right now (except my boobs may not be *quite* that perky).   A few things come to mind as I scan this picture.  Never mind the fact that until now, I had no idea that I even have something called a "pelvic colon," but apparently there exists such a thing.  And take a look at the poor bladder.   No wonder I'm up 4 times during the night to pee. What's even more disappointing is the "amount" of pee that comes out- I sit down and wait for the deluge, only to have a few droplets echo in the toilet.  So very disappointing but now I see why. 

Perhaps the most disturbing thing to me is the massive size of the head, especially when compared to the ittybitty-ness of the cervix and vaginal canal.  And while we're on the topic of the word "canal," I'd like to say how misleading I find it for doctors and medical personnel to refer to this incredibly narrow passageway as a "canal."  I mean, come on people.  When I hear the word canal, I think of a large body of water capable of allowing barges and ships to pass through unaffected.  THAT is a canal.  What's pictured above is about the diameter of a McDonald's plastic straw.   I understand that psychologically, it's probably not a good idea to envision this part of my body as plastic and unmoving....but for all intents and purposes, it's a TUBE, not a "canal."  A tube that will remarkably allow a 13+ centimeter head to come through.  *And this would be exactly why I'm getting an epidural, thank you.*

So here I sit, 2 days shy of the due date (which I know is nothing more than an educated "guess date") nevertheless, I have the overwhelming feeling that my turkey timer is done and this kid is well cooked.  Right now, this little Bug is doing nothing more than taking up space, head-butting my cervix and bladder, and adding on weight that will inevitably make it harder for me to push out.  I wait for a sign- any sign- that labor is about to start.  Was that a cramp?  Could that be a contraction?  Was that gush of fluid leftover pee or amniotic fluid?  I swear, I never thought I would get excited over feeling period cramps.  I have never run to the bathroom to check my underwear with such enthusiasm for remnants of a mucus plug.  (I'm now beginning to think that I have a phantom one).  And this is the only time in my life I can honestly say I would love to feel warm fluid run down my legs because it would mean my water has broken and could care less if it happens in public where people assume I've peed myself.  (Although maybe I would get off easy and my belly would be a clue that I haven't simply lost all bladder control).   The whole time I'm waiting to feel pain, I'm very much aware that I have absolutely *no* clue what I'm in for.  This is supposedly the worst pain I'll ever experience in my life.  But it's also something my body knows how to do and is equipped to do, so I'm allowing myself to focus on that instead.  As my doctor has said, it's pain with a purpose.  This is not the same scenario as lying in bed for a week with the flu, feeling close to death and almost wishing it upon yourself, only to recover and then say "hey, I had the flu last week."  

I get to hold a baby- our baby- at the end of all of this.  And that's the best reason ever to feel pain. :-)

Fun ways to pass the time at 38 weeks....*tick-tock*

I've obviously slacked off on the blogging lately.  However, since I'm not making much progress according to my doctor (only 25% effaced and not dilating), am no longer working and therefore essentially sitting around twiddling my thumbs in an effort to pass the time, I intend to post as much as I can until this kid decides to make their appearance.  I've also come up with a few other fun things I intend to do in the meantime until "it's time!"

1. Count the dimples of cellulite on my thighs and ass.  This will probably take a good 2 hours, depending on the angle.  I believe that my right thigh and ass cheek have a few more than my left...

2. Scoot myself around our house on my yoga ball.  It's quite comfy actually.  I'm currently trying to figure out how I might be able to roll myself around the neighborhood with Poco when we go for walks.  

3. Rock climbing and/or spelunking.  Because what's more impressive than a big pregnant woman impersonating Spiderman, right? I'm just not sure there are many good spots in Richmond...

4. Figuring out how many different ways to eat a double stuff oreo.  First and foremost, it has to be double stuff- I don't mess with the weird hybrid oreos (mint, cappuccino, peanut butter).  Just give me the plain old fashioned oreo and glass of skim milk.  As for how many ways to eat it, I lost track after the 9th one...guess that means I'll have to start over later this afternoon. *darn*

5. Counting the diapers in the mega box of Pampers I bought. Just to make sure there are, in fact, 216 of them in there.  After that, there are the mega packs of 384 wipes to go through as well.

6. Squeezing and fondling my nipples (and yes, I make sure to practice some self restraint in public).  I've found this to be both fascinating and somewhat painful.  If nothing else, some interesting stuff will come oozing out (*yay- my body works!*).  But supposedly, alternating 15 minutes on each side once an hour releases the hormone oxytocin, which induces uterine contractions.  And I figure, if it doesn't have the desired effect, it will probably at least get my husband interested....which can lead to another fun way to pass the time...

7.  Shaving my legs and "downstairs" region.  Due to the sheer size of my belly, I end up looking like a blind person reading Braille, as I take my razor and feel around to make sure I'm not leaving any patches.  Likewise, I also can't see if I've nicked anything or am bleeding anywhere either, so I guess it's just as well...if things get really slow around here, I'll work on creating a fun design for my OB to find at my next internal.

8. Going to the grocery store and getting revenge....by asking overly curious, stupid or borderline rude shoppers if they would like to strap on a couple sacks of potatoes to wear throughout the duration of their shopping trip and see how they like it. If this doesn't get the message across,  perhaps I'll take a broom stick and mimic baby's kicks by poking them repeatedly in the stomach and back...

9. Writing/editing a series of poems dedicated to my cervix and vajayjay to further encourage their cooperation in project "baby eviction."

10. Going for a pedicure.  I figure if my feet are going to be up in stirrups just any day now, they might as well look cute (since nothing else down there will and all sense of modesty will be lost by then).   Plus, have you seen a 9 1/2 month pregnant woman try to paint her own toenails?  *pathetic*

11.  SLEEP.  Hit the snooze button eleven times before getting out of bed, doze off on the couch after lunch while watching something uninteresting on TV, go to bed at a decent hour and set the alarm for 2 a.m. so that when it goes off, I can remind myself that I don't have a baby to breastfeed *yet.*  Roll over and go back to sleep.  Repeat. :-)

Now off to work on #4 or #11....or perhaps both....

You Know You're 9 Months Pregnant When...

I think it's high time that I write another post. *oops*  Where has the time gone?

I'm officially counting down the days.  That's right.  I'm 11 days from full term, which means I am basically a month from my due date.  *Sweet grandmother's spatula.*  Where has the time gone?  I mean, there were plenty of instances where it certainly felt that time could not go any slower.  First it was the dog-tired days of the first trimester and the waves of incessant nausea when my only countdown was to the golden gates of the second trimester.  Then there was the countdown to the halfway mark of 20 weeks and the "big" ultrasound where most couples will find out if they need to start buying pink or blue.  The next big milestone is viability at 24 weeks, and right around the corner from that is the countdown to the third trimester with it's aches, pains, sleepless nights and flashbacks of fatigue and nausea from the first trimester.  But at that point, you don't care so much.  (Probably because you're too damn tired to care).  You know you're nearing the end of the pregnancy and can manage a few more weeks of discomfort because your eyes are on the prize ahead.  So in honor of officially reaching the 9 month mark (well, in my case, being 3 days short of the 9 month mark), I am dedicating this post to all the joys that go hand in hand with being this pregnant.

And for those of you who are confused about the actual length of pregnancy and think that 9 months means "it's time!!!" I hate to break it to you- really I do, but in fact, we women are lucky enough to have another month tacked on for a grand total of 10 months.  40 weeks = 10 months, but if you are counting lunar months or something weird like that, then it does end up being 9 "lunar" months.  I don't do math and it makes my brain hurt, so moving forward...

You know you are 9 months pregnant when...

1. You drop something on the floor and just stare at it, hoping it will pick up itself because if you DO bend down to get it, one of three things will happen: 

a) You will fart....and this is not the girly fart of days gone by- this is the loud, clear-out-the-room with one whiff type.  If you still have a sense of modesty, you may hesitate to bend down if other people are present.  Otherwise, you've probably reached a point where you could truly give a rat's ass whether anyone hears you or smells you anymore.

b) You will end up like a turtle who's been turned over on it's back- legs and arms flailing about as you try to right yourself and get up again.

c) The baby's head might actually pop out, as you are already feeling some intense pressure from where it has already dropped in your pelvis and before you know it, you will be featured on one of those dramatic baby delivery shows:  "It all started when I bent down to pick up a blueberry..."

2.  You have all but taken your pillow and blanket into the bathroom with you at night, convinced that you can get a better night's sleep sitting propped up on the toilet and at least this way, you do not have to grunt your way in and out of bed an average of 4 times before the sun even comes up.

3.  You're two primary reactions to outside stimuli (TV shows, commercials, strangers with no filters,  husbands who mean well but are unaware of raging hormones) are either to cry or utter the words "bite me."  Both may make you feel better momentarily, but the urge will return shortly- I promise.

4.  You haven't seen your hooha in several weeks (at best) but you are now more aware of its presence than ever before, as it feels as though it's hanging somewhere down between your knees.  And don't even bother picking up a razor to keep things looking tidy since there's no way to really "see" what you're doing down there.  The vajay has taken enough abuse over the last several months without looking as if Edward Scissorhands went to town on it.

5.  You silently pray you don't pee your pants when you feel a sneeze coming on.  You actually throw in a couple of "Hail Mary's" if you happen to be out in public.

6.  You can use your bump as a nice table or "eating shelf" for convenient snacks like crackers, M&M's,  grapes, etc.  If only your tongue was long enough, you could just lap up your treats like a dog and not even have to use your arms.

7.  People no longer make eye contact with you when you're out shopping but continue to stare a hole straight into your navel as if they're expecting the baby to fall out of you at any given moment.  (Refer to # 3)

8.  You're hips feel like they're being held together by a swizzle stick causing you to waddle instead of walk, you can identify the individual ingredients in the food you consumed four hours ago because some of them continue to come back up when you burp, your tail bone feels as if it's been ruthlessly dragged up and down a flight of concrete steps, you have Braxton Hicks contractions that squeeze your belly so tightly that you momentarily lose your breath,  your toes resemble vienna sausages and if you're lucky enough, your hands and feet will swell up to boot....

yet you get excited upon feeling any type of pain or pressure that *might* be the beginning of labor.  You think "YES! I'm feeling pain!" and will proceed to drop whatever it is that you were doing, put on your shoes and walk (read: waddle) a mile and half around your neighborhood or bounce up and down on an exercise ball to see if you can bring about even more pain...because it is, in fact, time to get this show on the road.   

Put the gun down and back away (Getting trigger happy at Babies R Us)

There is nothing that will evoke fear out of a grown man faster than when his bride-to-be or wife-with-child says, "honey, we need to register."  *Dun-dun-DUNNN*  Upon remember the painfully long 2 hours Jake and I spent at Bed Bath and Beyond to complete our wedding registry, I vowed that I would never do that to him- or myself- ever again.  So when it came time to register for all things baby, I took it upon myself to get the job done.  After all, he wasn't ever going to have an opinion on what color nursing pillow I register for.  And what does he care what kind of nipple we use?  In fact, when I found myself standing n front of the "wall o' nipples" at our local Babies R Us, I started to wonder what do I really care about what kind of nipple goes on our bottles? Nipples are nipples, right?

Wrong.  So wrong.  I have never heard a person talk about these little rubber sucking devices with such fervency as the sales associate did that day.  Holy mother of God.  Apparently it does matter, and there is in fact, something called nipple confusion.  So what did I do?  I got trigger happy.  I scanned anything and everything that looked like it might be "Top Rated" or "The Safest" or "BPA free" or "Less Colic."  I am convinced now more than ever that in America, we are paralyzed by options.  Go down the freakin' toothpaste aisle at your local Target and you'll see what I mean.  And if you think that's bad, go look at nipples at Babies R Us.  It's truly eye opening.

I realized that I had neither the time, energy or comfortable shoes to spend an hour in each aisle over analyzing baby products.  Luckily, I had done some online research of certain baby products and gear ahead of time, so I was able to move rather quickly through the process.  The bigger items like the travel system, pack-n-play and swing were checked off quickly as I had already determined which styles I wanted.  Surprisingly, the smaller items like bibs, washcloths and hooded towels proved to be more time consuming.  All the while, I'm thinking, they're going to get bodily fluids on them, why should I care so much whether they start off being mod or retro inspired?  However, registering for gender neutral items is not as easy as it might have once been, and I was constantly checking myself to make sure my choices didn't provide any clues as to baby's gender.  By the time I made it to toys, I was randomly scanning bugs that played musical tunes, farm animals with mirrors and shapes affixed to their bodies and anything else that looked worthy of drool and baby teeth marks.  It didn't matter.  Check and check.  

I have no idea what shape my registry is in right now and have only gone online since then just to make sure there were no duplicates of anything.  I walked out of Babies R Us that day and had no inclination whatsoever to look back.  I spent a relatively short amount of time with the scan gun, but this is not to say that I didn't put some thought into a lot of the selections.  It's just that at some point insanity encroaches, you find yourself wanting a chocolate chip bagel from the Panera next door and your feet are screaming obscenities at you.  When all is said and done, you leave with a whopping 157 things on your registry and think how the hell did that happen? 

I didn't look closely enough, but I'm guessing that at least 38 of those 157 items are nipples...

"Baby Got Back" (pain)

For the record, I've got more than enough "back" these days...I'm just not "little in the middle" anymore.

I sincerely believe my body is staging a coupe once this baby is in the outside world.  It is going to take back all that once rightfully belonged to it.  My pelvis will no longer be floating, and my hips will decide that they want to fit into my size 4-6 jeans again.  My legs will stop resembling Redwood tree stumps, complete with bulging veins and cellulite that could make an orange peel look smooth. I will have a waist again- perhaps with some extra skin and flab to tone up, but Pilates will take care of that.  I will no longer have the telltale "pregnant face" that leaves people wondering, "is that swelling or does she just like to treat herself to Dairy Queen every night?" (And the answer to the latter is no....I only have it about once a week).  And I will have my back back.  

There are some days when it simply does not matter what position I sit or lie in, how much prenatal yoga I have done or how much I plead with Junebug to please move to a different position, my back just hurts.  I was able to alleviate some of the lower back pain by sadly packing away my heels *sniff-sniff* for the Summer.  I now wear flats, but mostly flip flops (regardless if the weather is 40 degrees).  The pain from my lower back, however, began to radiate up to the middle of my back- almost between the shoulder blades.  I know my ribs have been spreading, which I'm sure doesn't help, but I was also told by my doctor that the pain I was feeling was due to my posture and overcompensating as my belly grows and shifts my weight from the back to the front.  That's good to know, considering he has a uterus and has done this before.  I love my doctor, really I do.  But I also love that doctors will tell you why something hurts, and then stop there, as if that in and of itself is enough to make the patient feel better.  It's not like I was going to hop up from the examining table, all cheers, and immediately be able to correct my posture.  Believe me, I've tried "sucking it in."  It takes me from looking 8 months pregnant to about 7 1/2.  At this stage in the pregnancy, nothing short of crawling out of the exam room on all fours would have helped the pain (and for a split second, I considered it, but more because I thought it would just be funny to see peoples' looks).  I guess that was just his kind way of saying, "I'm sorry your in pain, but your sh**t out of luck."  I found this has been a recurring theme when you're pregnant...

Driving is the absolute worst.  Just sitting in the car is bad enough as a passenger, but lately I'm the one driving because I find I'm still pretty sensitive to motion sickness, even this late in the game.  I figure I'd rather have my back kill me, than have my back kill me and be nauseous.  If Jake is with me, no more than 15 minutes will go by before I'm begging him to please rub my back as I hunch over the steering wheel (as much as I can "hunch" these days).   Some days I open my car door and I'm just not sure I have it in me to hoist myself up and out onto the pavement...so instead, I stare out at the open air and sort of "will" myself to levitate out of the car.  I used to laugh and poke fun at those commercials with the old people riding around on their motorized "Little Rascals" or whatever the hell those things are called.   That has never sounded more appealing to me.  I have all but considered taking a few items of baby gear off of my registry and replacing it with one of those....I wonder if people would notice?  

I'm not the kind of person who likes to ask for help but getting to this stage of pregnancy has required me to do so at times, and I'm having to learn to be okay with it.  Preggo sympathy is not an entirely bad thing, after all.  Generally, people have offered to help me without me having to ask: loading and taking my groceries to the car, letting me go in front of them in line at a store or fast food restaurant (maybe I look that hungry?) and overall just seeming to pay special attention.  It's really not all that bad.  I just hate feeling like an invalid and have to come to terms with my own limitations on a daily basis.  I cannot clean the entire house in one afternoon like I used to or move slightly heavier objects and I can expect to be out of breath if I try to.   I can't shop for baby clothes and other fun items with the same gusto and enthusiasm that I used to and there needs to be a comfy bench or chair nearby.  After 2 Easter services, a big family lunch and too much time in the car on Sunday, I was in tears at the end of the day as Jake worked out the knots and kinks in my back.  My lesson: I can still function with achy feet, throbbing varicose veins, heck- even small bouts of nausea and heartburn, but my back will not negotiate.  So I may be shuffling around for the next 6 weeks, but I'm trying to look on the bright side.  At least I'm not shuffling around and wearing a muumuu.  

The "B" Word...

Jake and I returned home yesterday from a relaxing weekend trip to Virginia beach.  We left Friday morning, stopped for lunch at our favorite restaurant in Williamsburg and made it to our hotel in time to still enjoy some good daylight on the beach.  The weather hovered in the mid-70's for the entire time we were there- absolutely beautiful.  We knew we would splurge on a couple of nice meals, but packed some snacks, wine, chocolates and other indulgences "just in case."  There was no agenda except total relaxation.  This was our last trip as the two of us- to celebrate just that: the two of us will very soon be the three of us.  It will never be *just* the two of us again, so why not take full advantage.  If the term "babymoon" has popped into your head, bravo!  That's what most people these days would call it.  Jake, however, thinks the term sounds pretentious and almost refused to go if that's what I insisted on calling it.  Whatever.  You want a long weekend getaway to celebrate the impending birth of our child and the closing chapter of our life as a two-some?  You got it.  Just don't call it what it really is.  Therefore, the only "B" word you will hear me refer to in this post is the beach. *wink wink*

And not only is the beach fun, but I also found it to be very educational.  There were a few things I took away from it, besides unwanted sand in my bra and a little sunburn.  Here are a couple of little nuggets:

1.  Sand hurts.

Bad.  Especially when it gets into crevices that, as an 8 month pregnant person, I can no longer see or reach.  Despite the 70 degree weather and sun, the wind gusts were pretty strong down on the beach.  Which meant sand in my mouth, sand in my shirt and bra (my boobs are going through enough as it is, thank you very much), sand in other fun and surprising places.  Some of this might have been avoided had I actually packed beach towels.  (See #2).

2.  Beach towels and sunscreen are *kinda* important.

Why this wasn't on my radar, I have no idea, other than to blame my stupid preggo brain.  I'm the only person I know who packs for the beach and leaves behind sunscreen and something on which to actually sit at the beach.  *Picture me and Jake toting our small, inadequate bath towels from the hotel down to the dunes.*  Obviously, I'm not one for keeping up with appearances when it comes to "necessities."  Sure, I packed 2 cute maternity sundresses, 5 tops, 3 pairs of pants. 4 pairs of shoes (we were there for 2 days total) and 3 different hair styling products, but no beach towel.  I still hold my head up high.

3.   Once you sit down on the sand, you should plan to stay there for a while.

This was only complicated by the missing beach towel problem from #2.  Obviously, if towels weren't on my packing radar, then any kind of foldable beach chair certainly wasn't either.  (We're gluttons for punishment, what can I say?)  So I plopped down on the sand and then proceeded to flop around like a fish out of water (or more like the kid brother Randy from the movie A Christmas Story) until I found a somewhat comfortable position.  Jake continued to read and write in his journal, clearly deep in thought and completely tuned out to my grunts and groans.  I kept my mind off of my aching hips and pelvic region by feeding the local seagulls, much to his annoyance.  Had Jake not been there to ultimately help me to my feet, I would probably still be lying there on the beach, doing what I consider to be a great impersonation of a beached whale.

4.  It's good to slow down (and not just because of my lower back).

It's finally begun to sink in that the days of just being the two of us are numbered, which brings about some mixed feelings on my part.  Although I'm anxiously counting down the days until we meet our Junebug, I sometimes want to be able to freeze moments of our lives together right now, so that we can always remember them for what they are right now: lazy mornings in bed, going to dinner at the drop of a hat, a leisurely weekend trip to the beach before packing up the stroller and diaper bag...

I'm more aware than ever of how quickly the time is moving now, and although I'm at the point where I'm ready to not be pregnant anymore, I don't want to wish away this time either.  We will never get it back and we will never be expecting our first again either.  Truly a time to slow down and cherish all that's good...

A "Relaxing" Day at the Spa?

Remember those cartoons you watched when you were a kid (okay, maybe you still watch them now) when someone decides to cook a chicken for dinner?  Someone puts a very resistant (and very alive) chicken in a roasting pan (these are cartoons, after all), bastes it,  shoves it in the oven and cranks up the heat.  And as kids, we sat there laughing at this bird as he starts to turn shades of pink and red and sweat, all the while devising his evacuation route, which he inevitably finds, because we all know that cartoon characters don't really die. Might be a bit too morbid a message to send to young kids...I might very well have become a vegetarian at the age of 6 if I had actually watched that chicken die a slow death in a kitchen oven, then get carved open and served with mashed potatoes at the family dinner table.  Well, after a particularly dramatic episode at the spa yesterday, I can now empathize with that poor cartoon chicken.  

First and foremost, let me set the records straight about a couple of things pregnant women don't handle too well: noxious fumes, stupid comments about size/weight made by people who don't have filters, and heat.  I will be talking about the latter of those three.  Due to the residual effects of the panic disorder I had, I did not tolerate heat- or becoming terribly overheated- before I even became pregnant.  It was a trigger for me that instantly made me feel nervous and claustrophobic (which is why I had my wedding reception outside in the middle of July *smart*).   

I arrived at the spa with a good friend yesterday for a little post-birthday pampering and was ready to have my tired, achy body-turned-baby machine worked on.   I stripped down and put on a plush, velvety robe and wandered into the "relaxation room" to sip on some fresh cucumber water as I waited for my pregnancy massage.  After the massage therapist came to get me and take me back, I was instructed to take off my robe and bra and climb under the blankets on the massage table as she went to heat up the body cream she would be using.  *Bliss.*  (I don't normally indulge in packages like these- in fact, this is the first one I had ever done).   She started my massage by having me lie on one side while she worked the kinks out of that side of my back, shoulders and butt and then had me switch to the other side to do the same.  The cream she was using was unscented (thank God) but was a little warm, although it felt very relaxing.  For the last part, she had me lie on my back, semi-reclined, while she put a warm neck wrap around the base of my neck.  She started rubbing down my feet, thighs and legs with various oils and creams and we continued to carry on a jovial conversation.  She then took two heated towels (are you noticing a recurring theme yet with the words "warm" and "heated?") out of what appeared to be a tiny microwave and wrapped them around my feet.  At first, I felt like I just needed to have a sip of my ice water, so I asked to sit up and have some.  Perfect.  I laid back again, but continued to feel *off* and then a minute later, without any warning, I bolted upright (which was amazing enough considering I was almost flat on my back) and immediately knew I was going to pass out.  I didn't even think this was possible since I had been lying down.  I started hyperventilating and tried desperately to remain calm and control my breathing as the black spots started to appear and the room began to spin.  I remember uttering something about getting a fan, and luckily, there happened to be one in the room.  The massage therapist immediately turned it on full blast, went to get an ice pack and placed it directly on the back of my neck.  I was cognizant enough to remember that I should put my head between my knees, but but apparently not with it enough to remember that I had an 8 month pregnant belly in my way.  *No good.*  So there I sat, as hunched over as humanly possible in all my round, naked glory (at this point, the covers had fallen off of me and I didn't even care), wheezing and shaking and trying to find my "happy place," to keep from keeling over.  

I found out later that the bed was actually heated as well.  Lovely.  This person was supposed to be certified to do pregnancy massages.  And she was a nice girl, really, at a very well established, four-star spa.  But at what point in her training, I'm curious to know, did they tell her: "Place the pregnant woman on a heated bed, proceed to cover her with a warm cream from head to toe, then have her lie almost flat on her back (a big no-no when you're this far along) and then make sure she has a warm neck wrap.....oh yeah, and while you're at it, take 2 bath towels, stick them in a microwave until they're almost on fire, and wrap her feet in them."  

*I already felt like I'd been fattened up for the kill with my nice round belly.*  To her credit, I was given a discount because of the "drama," but as I wandered from my pregnancy massage down the hall for my facial, I was greeted by yet another warm bed and steam blowing in my face.  In not so many words, I told the nice lady to turn the bed off and point her steam elsewhere unless they were looking for a lawsuit.  Well, unless she wanted to know the joy of picking a naked pregnant woman off the floor.  The rest of the day, thankfully, was uneventful although I'm not sure how "relaxing" it actually was...

"Me" Day

I am a birthday freak.  I like to make a fuss over people on their birthdays because I think that's how it should be.  Everyone gets their own special day, so it stands to reason they ought to be made to feel special on that day. This isn't like Christmas (don't get me wrong, I'm not bashing Jesus' birthday by any means), when everyone tends to feel special on Christmas morning- perhaps even a bit entitled-  (flashback: 10 years old sitting by the Christmas tree and counting gifts to make sure I wasn't getting "gypped."  Sad, I know).  Jesus had a birthday, and we all run out to the malls spending hundreds of dollars on gifts to give each other.  Some gifts are thoughtful and others are "pressure" gifts- you know, the ones you have to have on standby because inevitably someone that wasn't on your shopping list will give you a gift (*dang-it!*) and you will feel guilty for not giving them one, so you either scrap something together last second (re-gift, maybe?) or have the "standby stash" ready....absolute absurdity.  

Alas, I digress.   Birthdays are different.  In my opinion, it's the one day out of the year a person should feel a bit of entitlement- it is, after all, the day your fabulous self made an entrance into the world.   It calls for a bit of celebration: cake (and let's not leave out candles!), perhaps a lunch or dinner at a favorite restaurant, a little guilt-free shopping spree (if you're the shopping type), a last minute decision to stop for that favorite latte,  maybe a manicure or pedicure or some other form of pampering...(can you tell that I'm the indulgent type?)  A few years ago, I started joking that my birthday should be called "Me Day" (much to my husband's chagrin), and it just kinda stuck.  I still call it "Me Day"- more because I like to watch Jake roll his eyes in disgust.  Jake is at the opposite end of the spectrum when it comes to birthdays.  He wants no special attention whatsoever, could probably care less if there's a cake waiting for him and heaven forbid you put candles on it and actually sing to him (his face becomes a deep shade of burgundy).  He always tells me he doesn't need or want anything for his birthday, but I'll have none of that.  Meanwhile, if I tell him I don't really want anything for my birthday, he knows that I'm lying through my teeth and that there's actually this pair of shoes/handbag/spa day I've been thinking about.  But I will not let him get away with the "my-birthday-is just-like-any other-day" attitude.  I will make a fuss over people- even more so for my husband.  He just has to deal with it.  (A little birthday embarrassment never hurt anyone).

That being said, my birthday was a bit anti-climactic this year- but not because I didn't feel loved or celebrated.  I had so many birthday wishes from family and friends, an afternoon without teaching lessons and going wherever the wind blew me, lunch with a good friend, a special visit to the hospital to meet our good friends' baby boy who decided he wanted to share "Me Day," a birthday dinner with Jake and his family....it really was a fabulous day.  I'm even going to have a spa day this Friday with a good friend of mine for a little third trimester pampering (my birthday gift from Jake).  But even all of that seems to pale in comparison to the *other* birthday I'm counting down to.  Heck, screw my birthday- I'm ready to celebrate this little bug's arrival!  Yeah, you think I make a big fuss over people now...just wait 'til it's my own baby's turn.  It would probably surprise no one if I even insisted on having some celebratory cake in the room after the baby is born (this Momma's got to eat too)!   So the countdown is on...my birthday, Jake's birthday....Junebug's birthday.  

I am very aware of the fact that I will soon be holding the purpose for which I was born and I can't wait...

IKEA and some well-deserved brownie points

Jake and I kicked off this weekend with a trip to one of my favorite stores.  *Ever.*  It's the hard-to-miss blue and yellow monstrosity directly off of I-95 that I like to call IKEA.  I was super psyched to go, not only for the great finds, but also to be able to see some good friends of ours.  The four of us got there around 2 on Saturday afternoon, fueled ourselves up with some IKEA cafeteria food (Swedish meatballs and lingenberries anyone?) and began our excursion.  Being the incredible multi-level money-pit that it is, we didn't emerge into daylight again until about 5:15.  I almost felt like I had been in some sort of time continuum as I blinked into the bright sun.  I might have actually been in there for days and not been the wiser.

First of all, I must dole out brownie points.  The first set goes to Jake.  My sweet husband is normally the pillar of patience in just about any circumstance, but- probably like most guys- his attention span morphs into that of a 2 year-old upon entering into any retail facility.  (After one particular experience in Kohls, I thought we might need to consider counseling).   I recognized that this was not his ideal way to spend a Saturday, but figured since we were able to share the trip with Chris and Becca, he would at least have another guy there with which to commiserate.  As we wound through the maze of mod furniture and knick-knacks with such names like Vaker, Vorkelstopffen, Ekby Hensvik and Malma (to name only a few), I had to control the amount of drool seeping out the corners of my mouth while his eyes glazed over and he became particularly interested in any sign that pointed us in the direction of the checkout.   Unfortunately for him, the checkout was located at the very end of a maze of showrooms, which lead to the marketplace, which in turn lead to the gargantuan warehouse.  Even if you know *exactly* what you're going in there for, the idiotic (or perhaps smart?) design people made it so that you HAVE to wind through every little nook and cranny before you reach the long awaited shrine of checkout registers.  Big brownie points to him.   He's officially maxed out his shopping quota for the year now.  

And major brownie points also go to my right hip, which decided to start aching about a third of the way into our trek.  Being nearly 8 months pregnant, easily fatigued and somewhat achy isn't exactly *ideal* for big shopping excursions, but I felt ready to tackle the challenge (twist my arm, right?)  I arrived armed with Tylenol, comfy (but stylish) shoes, snack baggies and drink in my purse and nothing was going to stop me.  Except my hip.  After navigating tight aisle spaces, guarding my belly against shopping carts driven by people running on pure IKEA adrenaline and sitting in a few too many low-lying Swedish futons- only to discover that I couldn't get up- my right hip was clearly angry with me for putting it through such agony.   On the car ride home, I felt as though I had been hit by a semi.  *Sigh*  I can't wait to have my body back again.

The reason for this trip?  I swear I'm not a masochist- I just love to shop.  And of course, I love my friends even more, so it was a successful trip all the way around.  What's even more exciting?  The set of closet organization gadgets I now get to put to good use (nesting much?) Forget clothes.  If you need me, I'll be in our walk-in closet until all is as it should be.

Noise Aversion

We've all heard that pregnancy hormones can send a woman in her first trimester running for the toilet over the smell of certain foods or even the scent of aftershave her husband has been wearing for their entire married life.  Smell aversion is nothing to be messed with, my friends.  I lucked out on this one though, as I only recall a very few times where I actually ended up walking (or practically running) through the meat section of the grocery store, breathing only through my mouth so as not to start gagging.  I was sensitive to certain aromas, but not enough to bring on the dry heaves, thank God.  Instead, these lovely hormones decided to skip my nose to have a little fun with my ears.

That's right folks, due to a heightened sense of sound, I believe that I have developed certain noise aversions.  Just as smell aversions can often lead to gagging, dry heaving and sometimes ultimately puking, these noise aversions often cause me to have what I like to call *word vomit. This could be as mundane as my dog (I tend to think of him more like a rabbit on crack) barking incessantly at a squirrel outside.  This is an aversion to sounds in a higher decibel range that I simply can't tolerate right now.   It could also be the times when Jake calls me from work, and some days he just doesn't sound quite "right" to me.  Perhaps, I had thought, he should be sounding a little happier to be talking to me.   This is a different type of noise aversion- a heightened sense of tone quality.  *Look out, more word vomit.*   

But there is another form of noise aversion I'd like to address: aversions to noises that are completely and utterly unnecessary.  The other day, Jake and I were brunching at one of our favorite spots in Richmond- a small, eclectic diner situated in the heart of the city.  Like most diners, it's filled with various, and oftentimes loud, sounds: the clanking of dishes and silverware, chefs calling out short orders, the sound of the cash register drawer slamming shut, people talking and laughing.  But these sounds are only to be expected in such a place, so my noise radar had remained unaffected.  That is, until two men walked in and seated themselves at the table directly behind us.  At some point, each of them must have asked the waitress for an iced tea.  I know this not because I heard them place the order, nor did I see the waitress bring it out to them.  I know that they ordered two very large iced teas that must have arrived unsweetened because for the next 10 minutes (really, I'm not exaggerating), all I heard was the swishing of spoons, ice and plastic cups as these two grown men apparently worked feverishly to ensure that every tiny granule of sugar had dissolved into their teas.  Yes, above the talking and shouting, above the clinks of plates being cleared by the busboy, my ears could hear nothing but incessant swishing and stirring of ice.  At one point, I even turned around to look- not because I was aggravated so much as I was completely amused that two people were obviously so intrigued by the process of dissolving solids into liquid (let's go back to 5th grade, shall we?)- and I saw, to my relief, that the ice had actually melted in their cups and they were finally laying their spoons to rest.  Ah, sweet peace at last!  (Even Jake, in all his patience and understanding, was laughing at the antics of the apparently oblivious duo behind us).  I turned back around to Jake to try to finish our conversation but my attention was caught by a waitress walking past our table carrying two large glasses of ice.  Please God, no. No no no no no noooooooo.  And before I can think another "noooo," the swishing resumes.  There's fresh ice in their glasses again and it's not disappearing anytime soon.  I'm in serious disbelief over these people, who I determine must be obsessive compulsive- and mute- because neither one of them is talking to the other.  Not one word.  They just continued to stir the hell out of their iced tea, making mindless and unnecessary noise....and that's when I felt it coming up....more word vomit....and there was no stopping it. 

Needless to say, we left our waitress a good tip for having to clean up after all of that...

 

*word vomit (wurd VAH-mit) v. the vigorous expulsion of a string of obscenities and complaints (which may or may not include name calling) often preceded by thoughtless acts, words or noises on the part of an unsuspecting individual. Warning signs include but are not limited to: facial contortion, bulging eyes and/or veins, gritted teeth, flushed cheeks and white knuckles. 

It's Not Easy Being Green...

This Kermit quote might be interpreted entirely differently if I were referring to the first trimester and the astounding level of nausea I experienced at times.  This time- thankfully- I'm only referring to being "Team Green. "  This is a common phrase for those couples wishing to keep the baby's gender a surprise until D Day.  It's often understood that they want to keep it a surprise for themselves mostly, although I have known of a few couples who find out and attempt to keep it a secret from friends and family.   After leaving the big 20 week ultrasound (the picture above is one we had done at 18 weeks), an expectant couple will be on one of three teams: Blue, Pink or Green.  Most have made up their minds long in advance as to whether or not they wanted a sneak peek at the goods.  Shortly after finding out I was pregnant, Jake and I had such a conversation that went something like this:

Me: "Well, once we know if it's a boy or a girl, we can start working on the nursery and picking a theme...." (*yes, I'm type A...how did you guess?*)

Jake: "We're not going to find out what we're having- that ruins it!  This is one of life's few great natural mysteries..."

*crickets*

You know all the great marital advice you get about communication and working to come to a compromise?  Yeah.  It might work for choosing a flavor of ice cream at the grocery store, but there are some things that compromise just isn't an option for.  This would be one such thing.  I mean, there's no way to compromise and say, "Well, how about we look between the legs at the ultrasound and then pretend like we didn't see a penis."  Or, "I'll look at this half of the baby, and you can look at the other half and we'll flip a coin."  Nope.  It's either Team Green all the way, or no Team Green- those are the options.

Or so I *thought.*  I admit that initially, I was on board with having a Team Green baby.  I had high hopes that I could rewire my pre-existing type A personality to cope with a 10 month surprise-in-waiting.  I fell in love with the idea, not realizing the implications.  Most of the "implications" are currently sitting in the top drawer of the baby's dresser: green, yellow and white (and I might add- somewhat "homely") looking onesies, footies, bathtowels, burp cloths and receiving blankets.  And let me clarify that when I say green, I mean a puke pea-green color, and the yellow is more of a mustard-booger tint (*just whose complexion is gonna look good next to either of those stunning options, I ask you??*)  The other implications of Team Green: patience and...well, just patience.  It wasn't so hard at first.  It's not that difficult when the baby resembles something closer to a sea turtle on the ultrasound photo than it does an actual human being.   Before I even reached the second trimester, I had locked in on a color scheme for the nursery (that didn't remotely involve either of the aforementioned colors) and was gender neutral ready.  We had also already decided on a boy and girl name before I even found out I was pregnant.  Done.  All I had to do was wait....

Fast forward to my 24 week check up and a routine conversation with a nurse who I'd never seen before.  I assumed she was either new, or filling in for someone else.   As she flips through my chart, she decided to let a certain pronoun slip...as in, "well, ___ is measuring right on track and everything looks great."  AHAH!   To which, I said- "it's a ___???"  (I mean, I couldn't help it- if I thought I had heard her correctly, I wasn't about to let her just leave me hangin'.)  The poor woman looked mortified, the color draining from her face. *oops*   I reassured her- in my delight- that it really was okay, that I was actually happy and relieved to know and that my husband was the one who had convinced me to "ride it out" to begin with.

Jake wasn't exactly pleased to hear that I was no longer riding the Team Green train anymore, though, as I expected he wouldn't.  Well, he might have been relieved since I started the conversation with what every husband wants to hear after a long day's work:  "Um, babe....I need to tell you something...and I don't want you to be mad...."  He was probably bracing himself for God only knows what, and I would make a sure bet that his first thought wasn't "oh my god.  she found out the baby's gender."  

I hoped to ease some of his disappointment by promising I would keep the surprise in tact for his sake and that no one else had to know besides me.  My lips would be sealed.    So for now, the baby is still referred to as "the baby" or  "Junebug," just like we've been calling it for the past 7 months.  I'll admit it's been a bit tricky to make sure I don't have the same "pronoun mishap" (as I've come to refer to it) as the nurse that day.  I told Jake that I would just continue to go back and forth between "he" and "she" and told him not to assume the first thing I might blurt out would actually give it away.  So far, it's been working out.  But it's not so fun to have to constantly monitor what I say, or how I say it.  As for baby clothes?  I haven't gone on any shopping spree to speak of since I found out- in fact, I'm rather proud of my own restraint in this area.  When I do decide to indulge and buy this little one some outfits, I plan to keep them well hidden- possibly even stashed at a friend's house until I'm ready to wash them (and then hide them again).   Only about 8-10 more weeks to keep up with the charade. 

Until then, I'm downgrading myself to Team Half-Green (as if there is such a thing).  And half-green = half fun.

"Now...what did I come in this room for?"

I'm a living, breathing testament to preggo brain.  And I quickly discovered that not only is it real, but it's intense.  I swear, I have never felt so stupid in my life (minus, of course, some chosen drunken moments in college).   Friends had warned me of the fate my brain cells would suffer upon getting pregnant and gestating a child and I was somewhat surprised and amused to actually see "brain drain" listed as a potential pregnancy symptom, but I continued to assume this was yet another old wives tale.  Wrong.  

Like clockwork, it started for me- literally- the day I found out I was pregnant.  It was a Saturday morning, and Jake and I had decided to go out and run a few errands after breakfast.  I was in the dreaded two-week wait, and although I had been experiencing some typical early pregnancy symptoms, I was trying to convince myself to wait another two or three days to take my first pregnancy test.  I was in serious need of distraction to keep from getting my hopes up, so I suggested we go look for Halloween costumes for a party we were throwing at the end of the month.   Off we went, and although we had a good time, it proved futile in keeping my mind off anything and everything preggo.  We came back home, unloaded some stuff from the car and came in to have lunch.  Another hour later, I was going to call a friend of mine, but couldn't find my phone anywhere.  It was my newest toy, time-suck, and little modern marvel all rolled into one- the iPhone.  And it was gone.  After realizing that it was not resting in it's usual place in the side pocket of my purse, I frantically turned the house upside down in search of it.   Looking back, I realized this was the only point in that two week waiting period that I thought of something other than being pregnant.  *This was not the distraction I had in mind, however.*  Was I losing my mind?  I didn't even take it out of my purse the whole time we were in the store, and I distinctly remembered having it with me when we left.   I did nothing short of digging through our trash can in hopes of finding my little black beauty.  What the hell?  Frustrated and distracted, I went out to our mailbox to bring the mail in and as I walked past my car, a small black object on the windshield caught my eye.  Holy mother of God.   There it was.  Sitting outside in the bright afternoon sun for two + hours- and yes, on the windshield. Ohhh, right. *lightbulb comes on* I had taken it out of my purse and then set it there momentarily in order to help Jake grab some bags from the backseat. 

Now, for the past five days, I had been experiencing what I thought and hoped were undeniable early pregnancy symptoms: sore boobs, fatigue, recurring tension headaches, some mild nausea, bleeding gums...I had a mental checklist that I was updating every 10 minutes.  For whatever reason, none of the above mentioned symptoms were enough to make me pull out my pee sticks and have a go.  Yet, the first thought that popped into my head upon seeing my iPhone chillin' out on the windshield of my car was, "oh my god.  I think I'm pregnant."   It was pretty uncharacteristic of me to have had a brain fart of quite that magnitude.  Thank God it wasn't raining that day.  I walked into the house and straight into our hall bathroom, pulled out the pregnancy tests and 2 minutes later found myself face to face with two very undeniable bright pink lines.  Thus, the preggo brain drain began.  *Special thanks to that lovely hormone, progesterone.* 

Since then, my memory has deteriorated and is not nearly what it used to be, and I have been warned that it may never return.  I have forgotten phone numbers of people I dial on a regular basis (and this, from a person who could remember every phone number of every house I have lived in, in four different cities since I was five years old).  I have walked into a room and wondered what the heck I came in there for to begin with (if you have seen our house, you'd know this is tough to do as there are not that many rooms).  I have gotten in my car, driven out of our neighborhood to go to....wait, where the hell am I going?   I started leaving myself post-its with reminders- everything from birthdays, bills, my own social security number and cat's name, much like someone with Alzheimer's.  My reaction time is even slower.  When it comes to math, I would fit into the "borderline retarded" category.  But even with quick math (you know, the kind that most 10 year olds can do in their head), I stutter and stammer and search for my calculator, which I also seemed to have misplaced.   

It's gotten bad, people.  It's probably going to continue to get worse before it gets better- if it ever gets better at all.  Thankfully, those on the receiving end of my brain blunders have been more than understanding.  Apparently there is validity to this "brain drain" after all.   I just hope I can get some of these brain cells back once baby is here....*fingers crossed, but not counting on it.*

"Walk this Way"

Ah, the joys of the third trimester:  the impending due date, a now very obvious baby bump, the sometimes uncomfortable but always reassuring kicks and squirms from baby, putting final touches on the nursery....but we all know that mother nature can't leave well enough alone, so she added a few other things to the list as well: heartburn and the acid-vomit burp, swelling in places you never thought possible, the awkward "bend-over-while-crossing-legs" move that becomes second nature when you sneeze so you don't pee your pants, (*this is quite fun to explain to curious onlookers in TJ Maxx: "no, I'm not in labor, just lost control of my bladder, thanks*). And now I can officially add the "preggo waddle" to my list.  

I admit, I always found it adorable to watch extremely pregnant women walk around- one hand on the small of the back, the other hand on the belly- it seemed like the classic "preggo" stance.   Oh, how that has come back to bite me.  I don't even think I'm that big yet, but apparently I am just big enough to have to modify how I walk.  I've discovered that it's not just the belly that causes this- it can be the type of pants I'm wearing or even the shoes.  My old navy maternity jeans are currently getting stretched to their breaking point.  Now, this could be attributed to the fact that my hips are widening to make way for the 13-ish cm head that will be descending in a few more weeks (um, ouch).  OR, it could be the fact that I have four (actually, now only two) boxes of Girl Scout cookies that start calling my name the moment I set foot in my kitchen in the mornings.  *sigh*  Either way, my pants are getting a little less comfortable these days and if I didn't have to look presentable for my piano lessons, I would seriously be rolling up in Jake's oversized flannel pajama pants.  The other day, I was wearing these particular pants and some cute black thong sandals I bought at Target last year.  It was 80 degrees here, and I was already sweating more than I care to admit. I had no idea that my feet were capable of sweating so much, by the way. *Ick*  This meant that I couldn't get any traction on my plastic wedge Target specials.   So let's do some quick math: baby belly + tight jeans + sweaty feet + sweat-slicked plastic soles of Target thong sandals = me, waddling up my students' walkways.   Just call me "Daffy."

I plan to celebrate this minor milestone by investing in some bigger jeans, a new pair of shoes (preferably with better traction)....and maybe one more box of Thin Mints.  ;-)

Knowing where to "draw the line" (more parking fun)

My rant of the day: Parking spaces are too freakin' small.  Or maybe cars are just getting too damn big, but one way or the other, something's gotta give.  I think the "stork parking" is a fabulous idea for us mamas-to be, but unfortunately it's not enough anymore to have a parking space to call our own.  They need to also be 2-3 feet wider to better accommodate those of us who are no longer able to see our feet.  (I don't ask for much, really).  But I have officially reached the point in my pregnancy where turning sideways to shimmy into a tight space no longer works for, well, shimmying.  I have discovered this on several occasions when- and I'm still not sure how this happens- I "forget" that my belly sticks out.  (Yet, I just can't seem to "forget" that my ass is widening...)  Take for example, a sliding glass door that is open only so far.  Having had wonderfully flat abs for most of my life (one of the few things I actually liked about my body), I still instinctively turn sideways in an effort to squeeze through tight spaces, only to end up bumping my belly or find myself wedged for a second or two.

Today, as I was leaving my favorite coffee shop, I was rather irked to find someone had parked their gi-normous suburban right on top of my driver side door.  (Rant within a rant: If people insist on driving these mammoths-on-wheels, they ought to at least know how to park one).  So there I stand- cup of decaf in hand, laptop under arm and now a personal vendetta to top it all off.  I have read stories of women who ended up having to climb through their back doors, or through their passenger door and over the console, and I'll admit that I assumed those women were probably 9 months pregnant, carrying twins, or already on the fluffy side. But I stand corrected: I am barely 7 months pregnant, baking only ONE bun, and don't consider myself fluffy (although when this is all said and done, I might end up revisiting the last part of that statement).  I saw no easy way to get into my car.  Now, given that my car was parked front and center- more than likely, I was providing comic relief to customers who were sitting in the cafe enjoying their lattes as they watched me walk from my passenger side door, to the driver side, then back to the passenger side....and yet again to the driver side...opening my door and getting half of my butt in, closing the door to open the back door and dump my belongings, switch coffee from hand to hand,  reopen driver side door, poke my head in and twist my body, hop on my left leg as I thrust my right leg in...(and realizing that "sucking in" my belly does nothing to flatten it anymore and actually only serves to make me lightheaded).

For a brief hormonal moment, I saw myself hurling my steaming cup of coffee all over the windshield of this vehicle that had clearly been parked by someone who was legally blind.  If that was the case however, then I reasoned they probably wouldn't see the brown liquid all over the front of their car and thus my wrath would be wasted.  *sigh*  (Notice how it never occurred to me not to seek revenge because that's technically the "right" thing to do.   I will say it again- pregnancy hormones cannot be reasoned with).  So after my own personal version of the  hokey pokey to get myself into the driver's seat, I sat there and did something I know will come back to haunt me one day: I vowed that I would never be seen driving one of those larger than life, parking space-hogging, monster suburbans.  Ever.  I've already sworn off mini-vans , so I'm not sure what options this leaves me if our family ever grows beyond 2 kids (which we're hoping it will).  Maybe an ugly gray passenger van?  Now wouldn't THAT be cute.  

Really....snow??

Ever think about the end times?  Or wonder about the pandemonium that will ensue with the approach of the apocalypse?  I am here to tell you I have witnessed it.  It is Kroger here in Richmond the day before a snowstorm.  I kid you not.  I had no idea there was such a dire need to buy ingredients for pancakes when it's going to snow.  And toilet paper- in the event that you will need to poop 13 times in the next 2 days.

It happened yesterday.  Snow, that is.  Around 4 pm, the rain/freezing rain mixture that we affectionately label "winter" here, turned to this unusual white stuff and continued to fall- heavily- through the evening, overnight and well into morning.  The metro Richmond area awoke today to find about 8 inches of snow on the ground, after four + years of barely any accumulation to speak of.  *If you have lived in Richmond for the last decade or so, you might begin to convince yourself that these are blizzard conditions*  It hasn't helped that the last few months- actually make that years- have been nothing but false alarms, so much so that for the last 3 years, I have operated under the assumption that our local meteorologist has a bona-fide learning disability.  I should be so lucky to go to school so that I, too, can be wrong 80% of the time at my job and still get paid. 

That being said, this is one of the prettiest snows I've seen in a long time.  The word "breathtaking" comes to mind.  This is clearly what sets me apart from people who live in the northeast and Midwest, who are probably sick of this weather by now.  I'm sure if this were to hang around for a couple more weeks, I'd be way over it too.  I doubt I'll even go outside to play in it, although with my round belly and pasty whiteness, I might make for a decent snowman if I stood out in our front yard long enough (and maybe stuck a carrot out of my mouth).  Ironically, Jake left his snow boots up in Michigan with my parents over the holidays because we just *knew* that Richmond would never see snow again.  I have to admit, when it came time to take out the trash, I rather enjoyed watching him stumble around in my fur-trimmed platform wedge Payless special boots (complete with rhinestone buckles) because they were the only things tall enough to keep the snow out.  Good times.

So for now, I'll gladly take a day or two of mild cabin fever and enjoy the beautiful view from the comfort of my sofa.  It's a great excuse to have some coffee or hot chocolate, bake some cookies, spend an over-abundance of time online...oh, and clean like a mad woman (if you are the pregnant, nesting type like me). :-)

"In your dreams..."

       ....or perhaps, "how much crack did you smoke before going to sleep?" 

       I have officially entered the phase of pregnancy where a "good night's sleep" is becoming more of an oxymoron.  First, there is the configuration of pillows on either side of me and between my legs along with the sheer fact that I now wake myself up when I have to roll over. Once I do roll over, I realize I have to pee.  I walk to the bathroom in a sleepy stupor, do my thing, come back to bed and wrestle with my pillows for another 10 minutes before I fall asleep again, only to repeat in another 2-3 hours.  Now, one would assume that this is the most likely reason for the restless nights.  

        There's that.....but then there are my wild, beyond graphic, crack-infused, sometimes x-rated dreams.  Supposedly they really "kick in" during the third trimester but again, I find my pregnancy book to be incredibly ambiguous when listing these dreams as simply "vivid."  Let's put it this way: if I weren't pregnant and was having these dreams, I might be telling myself to lay off the pipe for awhile (if that was indeed the cause).  Here's a brief history of what the sandman has been bringing me over the past few weeks.

       If you are pregnant, have ever been pregnant, or have had friends who are pregnant, you are probably well aware that pregnancy dreams have a reputation all their own.   It all started in the second trimester, when literally, I would wake myself up after having had a very, um, detailed and explosive sexual escapade--so much so, that my body was literally gearing up for the big O as I was sleeping.  This was new territory for me, but apparently it's quite common with pregnancy.  *Now there's a pregnancy symptom that can stick around as far as I'm concerned.*  This happened on several occasions, as a matter of fact.  Sadly, I always woke myself up up before it got to the "good" part.  *Just a little disconcerting, to say the least*  So I would lie there horny and frustrated, knowing there was really no easy way to roll over, wake up my husband and ask him to "finish the job" he didn't even know he started.

       These are not quite as fun, but twice in the past week, I have dreamt that I could see the baby by looking down at my belly.  And not just as in, "oh, look at my baby bump"  I mean, "oh look- there's the head, there are the legs and feet...."  At one point, the baby pressed itself so hard into my belly, that I could see the indentation of it's little nose and eyes and lips.  At which point I began to casually lift up my shirt and point it out to random people as I was walking around.   *Freak.*  That's right, no sense of modesty on my part.  Later in the same dream, the baby started crying (keep in mind, it's still inside of me).  So I did what any other mother would do in my unique circumstance:  reached inside my belly, and rubbed the baby on the back until it fell asleep.  I don't remember how exactly my hand got in there, but I should be glad that I don't remember that part.  

        The other night, I woke up in the middle of the night feeling weird pressure *down there.*  So I pulled the covers back, and lo and behold, there was a head!  Acting as if this was the way I had planned to give birth, I reached down and pulled the baby out and laid it on my chest and everything was fine.  No pain, no blood, heck- no umbilical cord to cut either.  Done and done! I'm not sure where Jake was this whole time either-maybe he had run to get some hot water....(never have understood the urgency with which people in movies screamed to "get hot water!!" when a woman was about to give birth, by the way).  

        Probably the most bizarre of all dreams was last night's "midnight madness show," hosted again by yours truly.  Everywhere I went in my dream, people were doing walking handstands- I mean, this is how they were moving about, and of course, it was normal.  Well, "normal" that is, until they began to split in half.   One leg, torso and arm went one way, the other side went in a different direction.  (And keep in mind, everyone is still walking around on their hands).  But apparently, it became my job to put people back together, you know, matching up the correct bodies and making sure that everyone got the other leg, torso and body that was rightfully theirs.  *ummmm, what the??*  I woke up and immediately started laughing as I tried to explain this to Jake, who looked at me as if I had lobsters crawling out of my ears.  (Might be the same expression some of you have right now as you're reading this too).   

     Was it something I ate?  Was it something I saw on TV, or read in a magazine before falling asleep?  It certainly wasn't something I drank or smoked (I SWEAR).  Apparently, it's just pregnancy.  I've learned that pretty much anything abnormal that I experience (and let's be honest, there's nothing "normal" for 10+ months) from weird pains, to weird bumps, to *ahem* growing body parts (see previous post) and most especially, "vivid" dreams, can all be attributed to baby.  

     If I'm already having them now, I can only imagine the kind of dreams I'll be having in another two months.

Wasting Away Again in Margaritaville...

     First, it needs to be said, I'm not a liquor kind of girl.  Well, *ahem* I used to be...but ironically, I don't remember if I liked it or not.  My friends tell me I did, but those stories are for another time. Once I got turned onto wine, it's pretty much been the only thing I drink with any consistency.  Before I got pregnant, Jake and I would have a glass, sometimes two, with dinner almost every night.  *Ah, those were the days.*   We took a trip last summer to Charlottesville to tour some local vineyards and do some wine tasting, although I would not consider myself a "wino" by any means.  Anytime the "wine people" start getting into tannins, acidity and varietals, my eyes will inevitably cross and they will assume I'm already drunk and cut me off.  One man actually told me that the wine I was currently sampling tasted of "earth and saddlebags" and had a "humorous finish."  I stared at him blankly.  Where the crap did he get his marketing skills from?  All this to say, I'm much more surprised to find myself somewhat disinterested in the grape so far this pregnancy.  

      But an ice cold margarita sounds fabulous right now.  I can almost taste it.  In fact, it's all I've been wanting now for the past 3 weeks.  This, coming from the person who was indifferent toward Mexican food for a better part of my life prior to getting pregnant.   Now, I have it weekly- sometimes twice weekly and it's usually my idea to go and get it.  Margaritas were never on my radar either- I would maybe indulge in one or two over the course of an entire summer, but that's about as exciting as it got for me.  Now, seeing big posters of this lime libation splattered on the walls of our favorite Mexican restaurant automatically sets off the countdown in my head.  13 weeks...12 weeks 2 days...12 weeks to go.  All the while we're there, I'm ogling the pictures with glazed eyes the way most women do over the likes of someone like Javier Bardem or Patrick Dempsy.  

      When I start to think this through rationally, it can't possibly be the tequila I'm craving--can it?  I haven't had many good experiences with tequila.  (Whatever you do, do not mix it with diet coke when studying for a percussion exam.  It does not take the edge off.  Better yet, don't mix it with diet coke, period). *shudders*   The point is, I could only drink a margarita if the taste of the tequila was heavily masked.   So perhaps it is the feeling I'm craving (and no, I don't just mean the buzz).  Tasting the fresh lime, hearing the ice clink in the glass, feeling the pure relaxation that is "Margaritaville."    I'm now waiting for a warm weekend (which will probably be in the next few weeks) to try and perfect a virgin margarita recipe and see if it doesn't at least help to curb the craving.  I may end up disappointed.  I have a sneaky suspicion that after all is said and done and baby is here, I will take my first coveted sip and feel that I've been ripped off- that in fact, they aren't nearly as good as I remember them- and that ultimately (and sadly), most of the appeal came from the fact that I knew I couldn't have it.   

Then again, one sip could legitimately send this now light-weight Momma to another stratosphere, thus making it THE best drink I've had in 10 months.  It's all just a waiting game for now...