Oh my god, is it hot in here?
What? No? Hmmm...must just be me...
*rips off clothes and runs screaming down the street*
Yesterday the high was 45, and I rode the entire way home from work with my windows rolled half way down like it was July. You would think I was wearing a fur coat over a full body snowsuit, but I was really wearing a crappy Motherhood shirt and pants and was still giving my Secret Clinical Strength a run for it's money. I did not end up with pit rings but it was a nail biter there for several minutes.
The sweaty hog situation was not enough to stop me from going to the mall to get a dress for my baby showers. I bought a couple shirts to wear but went through much hand wringing over the not-cute-enoughness of them and decided to give in to the witchy ways of old Motherhood Maternity.
The Motherhood Maternity love-hate relationship? It continues.
I bought the first dress I tried on. It's cute and I like it. But I wanted to also buy some maternity tights, because I like to wear tights and I don't care if they make me look like I'm in second grade. So they had 2 sizes: A/B, and C/D. Of course you can't try them on, because MM is a whore. The dirtiest kind of whore, who doesn't allow returns.
The sizing chart was something like this:
Size A/B: 5'0" - 5'4", 100 - 140 lbs.
Size C/D: 5'5" - 6'0", 140 - 200 lbs.
Now. I don't know how to read this...is it your prepregnancy weight? Or, your current weight? Because my height is clearly in the A/B range, and my prepregnancy weight is also in the A/B range. But my current weight is creeping into the C/D range with 2 months to go, and strangely enough I have not grown 5 inches to accommodate the extra poundage. Huh.
So I ask the lady if the weight ranges are prepregnancy or current, and she says, "I dunno, lemme see..." and then after a 10 second examination, she declares, "Current weight!"
Hmmm...I feel an argument coming on. I almost start to feel bad for this lady...
My opinion is that the ranges must be prepregnancy weight because:
1.) Their clothing sizes are prepregnancy. If you were a small before, you buy a small now,
and,
2.) Just because I have gained 19 pounds does not mean that I can wear the same size tights as someone who is 5'8". I mean, it's like trying to put one of Santa's elves into the uniform of a sweedish volleyball player. Not.happening. It's not like the 8 inches of fabric is absorbed by my sheer will to wear $14 tights.
Her opinion is that they must be current weight because:
1.) Hi, I don't care if this tights-sizing theory is not consistent, I am telling you that these are current weights and even though I am probably wrong, I am not giving in. Just buy them!
And,
2.) Your belly will absorb the extra inches!
She was not dazzled by my prediction of bunchy ankles and a waistband up to my shoulders. I was not dazzled by her logic of several disappearing inches of fabric. It was disappointing because I really like winning arguments, and she just kind of copped out by saying over and over, "your belly will accommodate the extra fabric."
No tights for me.
Just as well. They'd just make me all sweaty anyway.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Christmas 2008: The Pregnancy Time Machine
If it weren't for my giant belly, I would have thought that I had been thrust back into the Groundhog Days of the first trimester this Christmas day. Luckily we had no plans and had our family get togethers on the days around Christmas, because I was feeling like complete and total ass. I was barfy and slept all day save three hours, when I ate, peed, and tried to scan pictures but broke out into a sweat and had to lay down so I wouldn't pass out.
Other than the sickness we had a fantastic holiday. Cupcake got some really cute gifts. I followed my gestational diabetes diet for the most part - I did eat mashed potatoes, stuffing, and a few cookies at the dinner we hosted. It is a lot harder to not eat those sorts of things when you actually make them!
Speaking of the 'beetus, I will find out on Tuesday if I have to take medication to control it. I'm guessing the answer will be YES YOU NEED MORE SHOTS, BIOTCH. My OB said they like to see 90% the readings within the desired range, and I'm at about 75% and that is with eating very little carbs. I clearly need more help than just the diet. I have been following the guidelines religiously and still getting high readings. It's frustrating.
My mom took a few maternity pics for me, since I couldn't justify spending money on them. Here is my favorite - we hung it in the nursery until we get our first family picture:
I can't believe we have less than two months to go. I still have so many things to do. I have yet to find daycare or a pediatrician. I have baby showers the next two Saturdays, so I will have lots of things to put away and set up after that. And I would like to be done with work at the end of January.
Mostly, I can't even believe we made it this far. Also, I can't believe that this child will double its weight by the time it's all over, and that she won't burst out of my stomach as if shot from a t-shirt gun.
Other than the sickness we had a fantastic holiday. Cupcake got some really cute gifts. I followed my gestational diabetes diet for the most part - I did eat mashed potatoes, stuffing, and a few cookies at the dinner we hosted. It is a lot harder to not eat those sorts of things when you actually make them!
Speaking of the 'beetus, I will find out on Tuesday if I have to take medication to control it. I'm guessing the answer will be YES YOU NEED MORE SHOTS, BIOTCH. My OB said they like to see 90% the readings within the desired range, and I'm at about 75% and that is with eating very little carbs. I clearly need more help than just the diet. I have been following the guidelines religiously and still getting high readings. It's frustrating.
My mom took a few maternity pics for me, since I couldn't justify spending money on them. Here is my favorite - we hung it in the nursery until we get our first family picture:
I can't believe we have less than two months to go. I still have so many things to do. I have yet to find daycare or a pediatrician. I have baby showers the next two Saturdays, so I will have lots of things to put away and set up after that. And I would like to be done with work at the end of January.
Mostly, I can't even believe we made it this far. Also, I can't believe that this child will double its weight by the time it's all over, and that she won't burst out of my stomach as if shot from a t-shirt gun.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Self Diagnosis: I'm being a baby.
Self Medication: Stop it. Immediately.
I had my 30 week appointment today. I was already pissed because I waited for about 40 minutes for the midwife. Fine - I know they get busy and have other patients, etc. But I was the second appointment for the day, and they have thin doors there. SO, that means I heard her entire conversation with one of the nurses about how she is late because she went to the Browns game yesterday (punishment enough, I suppose) and then went out, and was so exhausted that she overslept and it was so cold outside brrrrr! So at the 40 minute wait mark I busted out of my room and asked when she was coming because I HAVE TO GO TO WORK! Surely she thought I had all day free because I looked like a kept woman, with my pilled Motherhood pants and my maternity top that goes down to my mid-thigh because I am suuuuper short. People always make that mistake.
Yes, I was already pissed, which isn't out of the norm because I'm kind of pissy. It got worse though. It seems that I can't use a midwife because I have the 'Beetus. Thanks a lot, pancreas. You're a lazy asshole.
No kidding, I felt like flinging myself onto the floor and throwing a qualified toddler style fit, fists and feet flailing. I don't know why but I seriously wanted to be a baby about it. I even thought to myself: self, you're being a baby and I am rolling my eyes at you right now.
I was planning on skipping the childbirth class, and just letting the midwife help me out with the labor until my sweet, sweet epidural. But, now I am going to suck it up and go to the five week class. It should be fun, since I heard a naughty rumor that they also make the husbands pretend to be in labor and practice breathing. HAHAHA! All I want from Santa is for that rumor to be true. I have the feeling that someone else in our house may feel like throwing a toddler style fit...
The baby is measuring exactly 30 weeks, and I haven't gained any weight since last time. I don't care so much about the weight, but was glad for that report because it means that I'm not yet carrying the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man (er...Girl?) in my ever expanding uterus. She is normal sized, and face down, ass up. I was also glad to hear that, because I knew that I saw either a head or a butt moving back and forth across the top of my belly and it was driving me nuts not knowing what it was.
I have to go again next week to report my finger prick results and find out if I have to take any medication. Then again the following week for my 32 week appointment. I don't think it's necessary, I think they just enjoy my company and miss my sparkling personality when I am gone.
I had my 30 week appointment today. I was already pissed because I waited for about 40 minutes for the midwife. Fine - I know they get busy and have other patients, etc. But I was the second appointment for the day, and they have thin doors there. SO, that means I heard her entire conversation with one of the nurses about how she is late because she went to the Browns game yesterday (punishment enough, I suppose) and then went out, and was so exhausted that she overslept and it was so cold outside brrrrr! So at the 40 minute wait mark I busted out of my room and asked when she was coming because I HAVE TO GO TO WORK! Surely she thought I had all day free because I looked like a kept woman, with my pilled Motherhood pants and my maternity top that goes down to my mid-thigh because I am suuuuper short. People always make that mistake.
Yes, I was already pissed, which isn't out of the norm because I'm kind of pissy. It got worse though. It seems that I can't use a midwife because I have the 'Beetus. Thanks a lot, pancreas. You're a lazy asshole.
No kidding, I felt like flinging myself onto the floor and throwing a qualified toddler style fit, fists and feet flailing. I don't know why but I seriously wanted to be a baby about it. I even thought to myself: self, you're being a baby and I am rolling my eyes at you right now.
I was planning on skipping the childbirth class, and just letting the midwife help me out with the labor until my sweet, sweet epidural. But, now I am going to suck it up and go to the five week class. It should be fun, since I heard a naughty rumor that they also make the husbands pretend to be in labor and practice breathing. HAHAHA! All I want from Santa is for that rumor to be true. I have the feeling that someone else in our house may feel like throwing a toddler style fit...
The baby is measuring exactly 30 weeks, and I haven't gained any weight since last time. I don't care so much about the weight, but was glad for that report because it means that I'm not yet carrying the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man (er...Girl?) in my ever expanding uterus. She is normal sized, and face down, ass up. I was also glad to hear that, because I knew that I saw either a head or a butt moving back and forth across the top of my belly and it was driving me nuts not knowing what it was.
I have to go again next week to report my finger prick results and find out if I have to take any medication. Then again the following week for my 32 week appointment. I don't think it's necessary, I think they just enjoy my company and miss my sparkling personality when I am gone.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
30 Weeks: Let's get this low carb party started!
Today I had my appointment with the nurse and the dietitian to learn how to manage the diabeetus. Overall, I don't think it is going to be a big deal. And it's sad how excited I am that I can eat salad dressing that is full of fat and delicious ranchy goodness.
(Yes, I am prepared to eat these words at a later date should I be required to use insulin.)
(Also, I might have to stop calling it diabeetus, because I swear to god I almost keep saying it that way. Wilford Brimleyepper, indeed.)
The nurse and dietitian both seemed to think that my levels should be controlled by the diet, because while I did technically fail the 3-hour, it wasn't the worst case scenario. They said it was more like a D- instead of an F, so the rest of the session was filled with grade bargaining on my part. I got points added for only gaining 19 pounds and for typing out my eating patterns because apparently that type of anal behavior is greatly appreciated by them. I left there with a C-.
All of my tests so far have been in the acceptable range, and it kind of feels like a game - what can I eat that I like and still get a good grade on my test? This is a game with which I am very very familiar. I just usually play like this: what is the least amount I can study and still get an A?
I hate our work elevator. It is painfully slow, which makes for longer than necessary social avoidance on my part because I hate small talk. Especially with strangers. Yesterday was a nice little day despite the diabeetus dealings and I was in a pretty good mood.
So I get in the elevator and of course it stops one floor down. Which is awesome because that puts about 15 seconds more between me and sweet sweet freedom. 15 seconds too many on a normal day, especially so when you're stuck in the elevator with Inappropriate Pregnancy Comment Lady.
You know, it's really overdone, isn't it? The whole blogging about inappropriate comments about pregnancy size? I can't resist, though.
I mean, people have been having babies since THE BEGINNING OF TIME. It's not like something that Apple just came out with that old people can't understand and young whipper-snappers are into. If you exist, your mom got fat, or someone got fat on your behalf. Maybe it looks like I shoved 3 Macs down my pants, but I promise: it's just a real live human being inside my enormous joey pouch. No chance of electric shock or anything.
It should not be surprising to me that Inappropriate Pregnancy Comment Lady took one look at my stomach and asked me when I was due, and then feigned complete horror that I had two months to go, going on to ask if I was having triplets hahaha. Triplets!
I should be over it by now, and I should handle it like a grown up, but I was tempted to ask her if her big fat old lady ass was having triplets, and then point out that I probably weigh less than her despite the fact that I am EIGHT months pregnant. The best compromise I could find was to ignore her the rest of the way down while she asked me questions and made comments about how slow the elevator was. She must've been sweating the look of loathing on my face and began to fear for her life as she considered the speed of the elevator and the sheer mass of my very pregnant and wide girth.
Maybe she was doing math problems in her head? Like, if an angry pregnant woman the size of a freight train is 12 inches away from me and we still have 7 seconds left in this elevator, how much longer can I expect to live?
Tell me - what is the worst comment you received while carrying the sweet miracle of life?
(Yes, I am prepared to eat these words at a later date should I be required to use insulin.)
(Also, I might have to stop calling it diabeetus, because I swear to god I almost keep saying it that way. Wilford Brimleyepper, indeed.)
The nurse and dietitian both seemed to think that my levels should be controlled by the diet, because while I did technically fail the 3-hour, it wasn't the worst case scenario. They said it was more like a D- instead of an F, so the rest of the session was filled with grade bargaining on my part. I got points added for only gaining 19 pounds and for typing out my eating patterns because apparently that type of anal behavior is greatly appreciated by them. I left there with a C-.
All of my tests so far have been in the acceptable range, and it kind of feels like a game - what can I eat that I like and still get a good grade on my test? This is a game with which I am very very familiar. I just usually play like this: what is the least amount I can study and still get an A?
I hate our work elevator. It is painfully slow, which makes for longer than necessary social avoidance on my part because I hate small talk. Especially with strangers. Yesterday was a nice little day despite the diabeetus dealings and I was in a pretty good mood.
So I get in the elevator and of course it stops one floor down. Which is awesome because that puts about 15 seconds more between me and sweet sweet freedom. 15 seconds too many on a normal day, especially so when you're stuck in the elevator with Inappropriate Pregnancy Comment Lady.
You know, it's really overdone, isn't it? The whole blogging about inappropriate comments about pregnancy size? I can't resist, though.
I mean, people have been having babies since THE BEGINNING OF TIME. It's not like something that Apple just came out with that old people can't understand and young whipper-snappers are into. If you exist, your mom got fat, or someone got fat on your behalf. Maybe it looks like I shoved 3 Macs down my pants, but I promise: it's just a real live human being inside my enormous joey pouch. No chance of electric shock or anything.
It should not be surprising to me that Inappropriate Pregnancy Comment Lady took one look at my stomach and asked me when I was due, and then feigned complete horror that I had two months to go, going on to ask if I was having triplets hahaha. Triplets!
I should be over it by now, and I should handle it like a grown up, but I was tempted to ask her if her big fat old lady ass was having triplets, and then point out that I probably weigh less than her despite the fact that I am EIGHT months pregnant. The best compromise I could find was to ignore her the rest of the way down while she asked me questions and made comments about how slow the elevator was. She must've been sweating the look of loathing on my face and began to fear for her life as she considered the speed of the elevator and the sheer mass of my very pregnant and wide girth.
Maybe she was doing math problems in her head? Like, if an angry pregnant woman the size of a freight train is 12 inches away from me and we still have 7 seconds left in this elevator, how much longer can I expect to live?
Tell me - what is the worst comment you received while carrying the sweet miracle of life?
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Too sweet for my own good.
Before I got a chance to get my school grades back, I got my 3 Hour Glucose test result: COLOSSAL FAIL.
The diabeetus? I haz it.
I passed the first and last draw, but my middle two were "extremely elevated." It looks like I will be checking my blood sugar four times per day for a few weeks so they can monitor everything.
The hour after my phone call was spent as follows:
Wooooooooooeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
I want caaaaaaaannnnnnnnnddddddddyyyyyy!
Wooooooooooeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
Why is everything such a pain in the ass?
Am going to birth a gargantuan baaaayyyyybbeeee!
I want to go home and walllllllloooooooowwwwwww!
Etcetera.
My OB set me up with a company that handles diabetes, and it sounds like such a great place. They come to your house, teach you how to use all of the testing equipment, and bring all of the testing supplies right to you. And do you think that my insurance covers a program like that?
Um, not so much.
I'm waiting on my call from the hospital so that I can go to their diabetes class, and then they mentioned that I would have to provide my own supplies but I don't really know for sure.
Mostly I'm over it and it will be fine and blah blah blah. And partly I'm pissed, because ohmygod I just wanted to be reproductively normal. The last thing I want is more shots. And while I can surely handle a few finger pricks after twice daily stomach stabbings followed by months of 2 inch long needles of progesterone in oil in the ass, I still feel the need to be righteously indignant.
Me: Reproductively abnormal and righteously indignant...
...also, you may say that I am dressed as Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. Or, drunk. This picture is very descriptive.
Anyone who has had GD: feel free to let me know how horrible, or not horrible, it was. Or how you didn't have a big giant baby. Or how you did. Whatever. I don't really know a lot of people who had this and I mostly just feel embarrassed like I did something wrong or something.
The diabeetus? I haz it.
I passed the first and last draw, but my middle two were "extremely elevated." It looks like I will be checking my blood sugar four times per day for a few weeks so they can monitor everything.
The hour after my phone call was spent as follows:
Wooooooooooeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
I want caaaaaaaannnnnnnnnddddddddyyyyyy!
Wooooooooooeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
Why is everything such a pain in the ass?
Am going to birth a gargantuan baaaayyyyybbeeee!
I want to go home and walllllllloooooooowwwwwww!
Etcetera.
My OB set me up with a company that handles diabetes, and it sounds like such a great place. They come to your house, teach you how to use all of the testing equipment, and bring all of the testing supplies right to you. And do you think that my insurance covers a program like that?
Um, not so much.
I'm waiting on my call from the hospital so that I can go to their diabetes class, and then they mentioned that I would have to provide my own supplies but I don't really know for sure.
Mostly I'm over it and it will be fine and blah blah blah. And partly I'm pissed, because ohmygod I just wanted to be reproductively normal. The last thing I want is more shots. And while I can surely handle a few finger pricks after twice daily stomach stabbings followed by months of 2 inch long needles of progesterone in oil in the ass, I still feel the need to be righteously indignant.
Me: Reproductively abnormal and righteously indignant...
...also, you may say that I am dressed as Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. Or, drunk. This picture is very descriptive.
Anyone who has had GD: feel free to let me know how horrible, or not horrible, it was. Or how you didn't have a big giant baby. Or how you did. Whatever. I don't really know a lot of people who had this and I mostly just feel embarrassed like I did something wrong or something.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Dear Ripley's: I Choose Not
We went on a cruise to the Bahamas for our honeymoon. Our main goal was to come home looking native. Newlywed Sex? Probably. Romance? Eh, if it happens. Eating? Constantly. Sleeping? Certainly. Tanning? OH HELL YES!
Being that we live in Ohio, where there is sun for about 19 days per year (all of them working days), and that our wedding was in March, I'm sure you can imagine the sheer paste covering our collective skin. White like chicken fat is what I call it. People at our wedding had to wear sunglasses just to prevent blindness.
We decided that the best way to meet our tanning goal was to lay out without sunscreen. In the Bahamas. At the end of winter. If I could, I would plead young and stupid, but it was only three years ago and I think we could all argue that maybe the stupid still sticks.
Let me just put on my Captain Obvious Cape and tell you that on day 3 of our honeymoon we were red like lobsters. (Or scarlet Fiestaware*)
Day 4 of our trip was to Key West and there was no way in Red Lobster HELL we were going to lay out. So one of the things we decided to do was to go to the Ripley's Believe it or Not Museum.
The museum was fairly entertaining, but the best part was the picture machine that would combine two faces to show you your future spawn. Me, being the morose overly confident "we're having a honeymoon baby" person that I was, could not wait to do this! So we did.
And...well...
It was a girl...and...it's just...
Let me just show you:
You see? Kind of, like, a face that only a mother could love? It reminds me of a really messed up If They Mated segment from an episode of Conan O'Brien.
As far as actual real pregnancy news, I took my 3 hour glucose test on Friday. Aside from nearly barfing for the first hour, it wasn't all that bad. I am convinced that I failed, though, because today my OB's office called and rang once then hung up. That same thing happened when I failed my one hour, except they called back. They didn't call back this time but it was almost 5 o'clock. Sound logic, right? I bet I've got the Diabeetus.
*Speaking of scarlet Fiestaware - that is the color of Fiestaware that I am hoping to win on Jaci's giveaway.
Being that we live in Ohio, where there is sun for about 19 days per year (all of them working days), and that our wedding was in March, I'm sure you can imagine the sheer paste covering our collective skin. White like chicken fat is what I call it. People at our wedding had to wear sunglasses just to prevent blindness.
We decided that the best way to meet our tanning goal was to lay out without sunscreen. In the Bahamas. At the end of winter. If I could, I would plead young and stupid, but it was only three years ago and I think we could all argue that maybe the stupid still sticks.
Let me just put on my Captain Obvious Cape and tell you that on day 3 of our honeymoon we were red like lobsters. (Or scarlet Fiestaware*)
Day 4 of our trip was to Key West and there was no way in Red Lobster HELL we were going to lay out. So one of the things we decided to do was to go to the Ripley's Believe it or Not Museum.
The museum was fairly entertaining, but the best part was the picture machine that would combine two faces to show you your future spawn. Me, being the morose overly confident "we're having a honeymoon baby" person that I was, could not wait to do this! So we did.
And...well...
It was a girl...and...it's just...
Let me just show you:
You see? Kind of, like, a face that only a mother could love? It reminds me of a really messed up If They Mated segment from an episode of Conan O'Brien.
As far as actual real pregnancy news, I took my 3 hour glucose test on Friday. Aside from nearly barfing for the first hour, it wasn't all that bad. I am convinced that I failed, though, because today my OB's office called and rang once then hung up. That same thing happened when I failed my one hour, except they called back. They didn't call back this time but it was almost 5 o'clock. Sound logic, right? I bet I've got the Diabeetus.
*Speaking of scarlet Fiestaware - that is the color of Fiestaware that I am hoping to win on Jaci's giveaway.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Totally judging myself today.
If I saw me out in public today, I would guffaw and probably utter something along the lines of: what a train wreck.
I left the house this morning already irritated at my clothes. Because they have the nerve to not fit around my body. I can take some of the blame for this problem, because I refuse to buy any more maternity clothing than I have already, and what I have already is not much. In addition, I am trying to wear as many nonmaternity tops as possible so that my 7 maternity shirts won't wear out in the next two months. But! Still! Stupid clothes!
Basically, I spent so much time trying on my teeny tiny prematernity shirts that I didn't have time to put on makeup or, apparent to me much later in the day, brush my hair? I noticed a giant loop of hair sticking out of the top of my head that I missed when haphazardly pulling my hair into a pony tail. And I'm not talking morning realization here. I'm talking afternoon, talked to a bunch of people, looked like a hobo for half a day realization. Like walking around with a booger in your nose all day.
My motivation to groom isn't the only thing lost. I take my last final tomorrow and am finding it really really hard to give a shit about it. The professor doesn't give anything less than a C+, and since my GPA is high enough, I'd graduate and life would be fab whether I study or not. It's like someone saying, "I'll give you $500 if you study your butt off, or $498.75 if you do nothing." My pride tells me to study and keep my A, and everything else tells me to do other important things like buy baby clothes from Gap and hang them by size, or count the number of diapers I have on stock and possibly rearrange them for the bazillionth time.
This blog entry is turning into the place where petty complaints go to die. I am fully aware. But it's doing a great job of distracting me from studying! HA!
I've been creating scenarios in my head that involve my belly button and its need for clothing. My belly button is super shallow and about 700 inches wide. He is having an inner struggle: stay in or pop out? Like, maybe he doesn't want to pop out because he thinks he will be cold and knows that I won't buy anything to keep it warm because they don't sell those things at Baby Gap. Or, maybe he is rebelling against cupcake by refusing to create more room for kicking because she kicks the belly button constantly and he is pissed.
(I don't know why my belly button is masculine.)
(I don't know why I imagine my belly button to have internal struggles.)
(I don't know why I blog about it.)
(Really, folks, I just generally don't know anymore.)
I left the house this morning already irritated at my clothes. Because they have the nerve to not fit around my body. I can take some of the blame for this problem, because I refuse to buy any more maternity clothing than I have already, and what I have already is not much. In addition, I am trying to wear as many nonmaternity tops as possible so that my 7 maternity shirts won't wear out in the next two months. But! Still! Stupid clothes!
Basically, I spent so much time trying on my teeny tiny prematernity shirts that I didn't have time to put on makeup or, apparent to me much later in the day, brush my hair? I noticed a giant loop of hair sticking out of the top of my head that I missed when haphazardly pulling my hair into a pony tail. And I'm not talking morning realization here. I'm talking afternoon, talked to a bunch of people, looked like a hobo for half a day realization. Like walking around with a booger in your nose all day.
My motivation to groom isn't the only thing lost. I take my last final tomorrow and am finding it really really hard to give a shit about it. The professor doesn't give anything less than a C+, and since my GPA is high enough, I'd graduate and life would be fab whether I study or not. It's like someone saying, "I'll give you $500 if you study your butt off, or $498.75 if you do nothing." My pride tells me to study and keep my A, and everything else tells me to do other important things like buy baby clothes from Gap and hang them by size, or count the number of diapers I have on stock and possibly rearrange them for the bazillionth time.
This blog entry is turning into the place where petty complaints go to die. I am fully aware. But it's doing a great job of distracting me from studying! HA!
I've been creating scenarios in my head that involve my belly button and its need for clothing. My belly button is super shallow and about 700 inches wide. He is having an inner struggle: stay in or pop out? Like, maybe he doesn't want to pop out because he thinks he will be cold and knows that I won't buy anything to keep it warm because they don't sell those things at Baby Gap. Or, maybe he is rebelling against cupcake by refusing to create more room for kicking because she kicks the belly button constantly and he is pissed.
(I don't know why my belly button is masculine.)
(I don't know why I imagine my belly button to have internal struggles.)
(I don't know why I blog about it.)
(Really, folks, I just generally don't know anymore.)
Saturday, December 6, 2008
28 Weeks: Getting the name change paperwork, just in case...
As it turns out, I received a big fat FAIL on my one hour glucose tolerance test. So now I have to do the three hour. Next week, which loosely translates as: finals week, you are totally screwed, dude.
So if profanity offends your delicate senses, please excuse me for a moment...
Sonofabitchmotherfuckwhore.
Now. I will be going in for my three hour on Friday, because I had to pull the "I have finals next week and need to study because I am a procrastinating underachiever so screw you and your Monday or Wednesday appointment."
The doctor, being a doctor who went to medical school and so probably understands the sheer doom of finals, was fine with me putting my appointment off until Friday. But the appointment schedulers? Oh, no. They were not happy. Because they already had a three-hour scheduled for Friday.
One. Three hour. Already scheduled. Please forgive me for not understanding the Big Deal. But a Big Deal it was, or, "A Recipe for a Mistake," according to the appointment ladies. Thank goodness for my (super hottie*) doctor, who said that was stupid, and made them schedule me for a half hour later than the first appointment.
But seriously? Is it that confusing to deal with two sets of blood? That is kind of pathetic, and also? There were three cups of pee in the little cubby when I left my sample, so if they can't keep blood straight, what do they do with the pee? What if they confuse it with their lemonade? Dear God! The sheer humanity!
The possibility of Wilford Brimleyepper is still pending until next week. Let's just hope I can get the day off work...
Other than the diabeetus scare, the appointment was fine. Heart rate perfect, growth good, no exposure to RH. Start my every other week appointments. Giddy up.
The belly is growing, the belly button is almost nonexistent, weight gain is 18 pounds. I can't sleep laying down in my bed, so I sleep sitting up on the big comfy chair in our living room. But I am feeling pretty great. Cupcake moves all the time. Life is pretty good right now, and will improve immensely after next week because I will graduate and will have a normal life like a normal adult.
I've been lucky enough to avoid any asshat encounters, save the lady at Macy's yesterday who asked me if my baby was due on Christmas, and then was shocked when I said February. I should have faked labor right there.
26 Weeks:
27 Weeks:
28 Weeks:
*Our doctor is hawt, much to Mark's delight. We call her Suzy (not to her face), which is wholly inappropriate and still hysterical to only us. It's all OK, though, because I have a hawt chiropractor (he has no nickname). We also have a hawt female insurance agent.**
**We are weird. And only do business with hawt people, I guess.
So if profanity offends your delicate senses, please excuse me for a moment...
Sonofabitchmotherfuckwhore.
Now. I will be going in for my three hour on Friday, because I had to pull the "I have finals next week and need to study because I am a procrastinating underachiever so screw you and your Monday or Wednesday appointment."
The doctor, being a doctor who went to medical school and so probably understands the sheer doom of finals, was fine with me putting my appointment off until Friday. But the appointment schedulers? Oh, no. They were not happy. Because they already had a three-hour scheduled for Friday.
One. Three hour. Already scheduled. Please forgive me for not understanding the Big Deal. But a Big Deal it was, or, "A Recipe for a Mistake," according to the appointment ladies. Thank goodness for my (super hottie*) doctor, who said that was stupid, and made them schedule me for a half hour later than the first appointment.
But seriously? Is it that confusing to deal with two sets of blood? That is kind of pathetic, and also? There were three cups of pee in the little cubby when I left my sample, so if they can't keep blood straight, what do they do with the pee? What if they confuse it with their lemonade? Dear God! The sheer humanity!
The possibility of Wilford Brimleyepper is still pending until next week. Let's just hope I can get the day off work...
Other than the diabeetus scare, the appointment was fine. Heart rate perfect, growth good, no exposure to RH. Start my every other week appointments. Giddy up.
The belly is growing, the belly button is almost nonexistent, weight gain is 18 pounds. I can't sleep laying down in my bed, so I sleep sitting up on the big comfy chair in our living room. But I am feeling pretty great. Cupcake moves all the time. Life is pretty good right now, and will improve immensely after next week because I will graduate and will have a normal life like a normal adult.
I've been lucky enough to avoid any asshat encounters, save the lady at Macy's yesterday who asked me if my baby was due on Christmas, and then was shocked when I said February. I should have faked labor right there.
26 Weeks:
27 Weeks:
28 Weeks:
*Our doctor is hawt, much to Mark's delight. We call her Suzy (not to her face), which is wholly inappropriate and still hysterical to only us. It's all OK, though, because I have a hawt chiropractor (he has no nickname). We also have a hawt female insurance agent.**
**We are weird. And only do business with hawt people, I guess.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Possibly changing my name to Wilford Brimley
Or, Wilford Brimleyepper? Clearly, I will have to carefully think this through.
Today is the day of my Glucose Tolerance Test and my RhoGam shot. Today, I will find out if I have the diabeetus.
My appointment is at 8:30, and I have to fast. It is going well, seeing as it is currently 7:03 and I have started to consider eating the couch cushions because they probably do not contain sugar and it wouldn't matter if I ingested a bit of leather, right?
The lady who scheduled my appointment said that I should just drink a tiny bit of water, and not eat anything, but it shouldn't be that bad because I will be able to eat by 10. HAHAHA. I'm sure she was saying that with a KFC drumstick hanging out of her mouth and a chocolate chip triple-thick milkshake just waiting to wash it all down. Back pats for me, for refraining from telling her to kiss the fattest part of my ass because hi, my name is Jennepper, and I get up at 5:30 and I'm not sure if you knew this but I am a sacred vessel carrying sweet, miraculous life, and I require a lot of food.
So. It's 7:07. I'm still hungry, and I might have diabeetus of the gestational variety. Do not plan to be on the roads in Northeast Ohio at 10, because I will kill you with my Pontiac if you get between me and the nearest fast food place (unless I have the diabeetus, then replace "fast food place" with "place that serves salads at 10 am").
Today is the day of my Glucose Tolerance Test and my RhoGam shot. Today, I will find out if I have the diabeetus.
My appointment is at 8:30, and I have to fast. It is going well, seeing as it is currently 7:03 and I have started to consider eating the couch cushions because they probably do not contain sugar and it wouldn't matter if I ingested a bit of leather, right?
The lady who scheduled my appointment said that I should just drink a tiny bit of water, and not eat anything, but it shouldn't be that bad because I will be able to eat by 10. HAHAHA. I'm sure she was saying that with a KFC drumstick hanging out of her mouth and a chocolate chip triple-thick milkshake just waiting to wash it all down. Back pats for me, for refraining from telling her to kiss the fattest part of my ass because hi, my name is Jennepper, and I get up at 5:30 and I'm not sure if you knew this but I am a sacred vessel carrying sweet, miraculous life, and I require a lot of food.
So. It's 7:07. I'm still hungry, and I might have diabeetus of the gestational variety. Do not plan to be on the roads in Northeast Ohio at 10, because I will kill you with my Pontiac if you get between me and the nearest fast food place (unless I have the diabeetus, then replace "fast food place" with "place that serves salads at 10 am").
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
The Newest Member of the Hair Club for Men...
...is not my right breast.
I think it is important to clear that up. My right breast is not the newest member of the Hair Club for Men.
You are familiar with the club? The whole, "Oh, I was balding and thus greatly unloved, but then I joined the Hair Club for Men, and now I have a comb-over and all these young ladies in bikinis are swimming in this pool with me and also I have a Ferrari. Not only am I a member of the Hair Club for Men, I'm the president."
But. About righty. People are always getting confused about her status with the Hair Club for Men, because I have a real Hair Club for Men-type situation here. Involving my bosom.
My less-than-ample bosom.
Now I know that right now you are all grabbing for your tissues and getting ready to cry on my poor, pathetic, flat chested behalf. Please do not fret. I am a proud card carrying member of the Tiny Titty Committee, and have been since...well, puberty.
I'm not only a member of the TTC*, I'm the president.
If you're finding this whole comparison to be quite the stretch, you are so totally right...
But anyway, I'm kind of a fan of my little ladies. I mean, it's nothing that Victoria can't help with her Secrets, right? I find them to be cute.
Well. I found them to be cute. Until this morning I noticed that there was complete ANARCHY happening on old righty.
Being the president of the TTC, I realized that pregnancy would not make me into a brunette Pamela Anderson (or, Pamela Anderson without a bottle of peroxide and Hep C). I did not expect to be mistaken for the St. Pauli Girl. And so far, I've been completely correct.
The ladies have grown - in fact, they have long since outgrown their holster. But they really are nothing to write home about, and they are still rather small. However, righty seems to have grown enough to have developed some STRETCH MARKS.
Bah! I am prepared for belly stretch marks, since my mom has described her pregnancy marks in a way that makes me think that some sort of wild beast was trying to claw its way out. (That wild beast would be me. You're welcome, mom.) But boob stretch marks? On just one? What.the.devil?
I suspect the under-the-shirt anarchy will continue, since my belly skin has been feeling like my face after a terrible sunburn: tight and itchy.
I should go buy a Ferrari.
*1,000,000 bonus points for everyone who wondered why I was talking about Trying to Conceive, and had to figure out that I was talking about the Tiny Titty Committee.
I think it is important to clear that up. My right breast is not the newest member of the Hair Club for Men.
You are familiar with the club? The whole, "Oh, I was balding and thus greatly unloved, but then I joined the Hair Club for Men, and now I have a comb-over and all these young ladies in bikinis are swimming in this pool with me and also I have a Ferrari. Not only am I a member of the Hair Club for Men, I'm the president."
But. About righty. People are always getting confused about her status with the Hair Club for Men, because I have a real Hair Club for Men-type situation here. Involving my bosom.
My less-than-ample bosom.
Now I know that right now you are all grabbing for your tissues and getting ready to cry on my poor, pathetic, flat chested behalf. Please do not fret. I am a proud card carrying member of the Tiny Titty Committee, and have been since...well, puberty.
I'm not only a member of the TTC*, I'm the president.
If you're finding this whole comparison to be quite the stretch, you are so totally right...
But anyway, I'm kind of a fan of my little ladies. I mean, it's nothing that Victoria can't help with her Secrets, right? I find them to be cute.
Well. I found them to be cute. Until this morning I noticed that there was complete ANARCHY happening on old righty.
Being the president of the TTC, I realized that pregnancy would not make me into a brunette Pamela Anderson (or, Pamela Anderson without a bottle of peroxide and Hep C). I did not expect to be mistaken for the St. Pauli Girl. And so far, I've been completely correct.
The ladies have grown - in fact, they have long since outgrown their holster. But they really are nothing to write home about, and they are still rather small. However, righty seems to have grown enough to have developed some STRETCH MARKS.
Bah! I am prepared for belly stretch marks, since my mom has described her pregnancy marks in a way that makes me think that some sort of wild beast was trying to claw its way out. (That wild beast would be me. You're welcome, mom.) But boob stretch marks? On just one? What.the.devil?
I suspect the under-the-shirt anarchy will continue, since my belly skin has been feeling like my face after a terrible sunburn: tight and itchy.
I should go buy a Ferrari.
*1,000,000 bonus points for everyone who wondered why I was talking about Trying to Conceive, and had to figure out that I was talking about the Tiny Titty Committee.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Goodbye Second Tri
Hello third trimester, you sexy thang! Why don't you slip into something a little more comfortable? A t-shirt from the Big 'n Tall store, perhaps? Let me get you 5 oreos and a chilled glass of skim. We have much to celebrate.
So many things to say, yet so many accounting papers to write. Big events: 27 weeks, 16 pounds, finally purchased maternity jeans.
I think I may be giving off the misconception that I am completely uncomfortable. I am not. I am slightly uncomfortable, but really enjoying myself (mostly)(ish). The whole kicking thing is more of a distraction than anything else - like this: Wait, what were you saying? I wasn't listening because THERE IS A PERSON MOVING IN MY STOMACH.
This weekend, I spent my time like this:
9 hours: writing papers for school OH MY GOD.
5 hours: designing our baby announcements OH MY GOD.
2 hours: rearranging the baby's closet OH MY GOD.
1 hour: crying about stupid things OH MY GOD.
20 hours: sleeping.
Remainder: eating.
I fear that the end of school in two weeks will only serve to redistribute my time between sleeping, thinking about the baby, worrying about the baby, and eating.
Things that have made me cry or seriously want to cry this week:
- Walking into Target and seeing all the Christmas decorations. (Because Christmas is fun and I loooove it.)
- Seeing "Community Caroling" on the Community Event board on my way to work. (How cute is that? Need figgy pudding recipe ASAP, just in case.)
- Having the dog lay across the top of my belly. (Awe, he loves her already!)
- Reading that the baby hiccups. (OH MY GOD.)
- More things that make me sound stupid, and maybe I should just delete this list altogether??
27 weeks?! 13 more weeks to go?! I would post belly pics, but who has time, what with all the diaper packages needing restacked, and the closets needing rearranged, and the baby still needing a pediatrician and some daycare...and some other stuff...I don't know, but did you feel that? Was that an earthquake, or my child getting comfortable?
So many things to say, yet so many accounting papers to write. Big events: 27 weeks, 16 pounds, finally purchased maternity jeans.
I think I may be giving off the misconception that I am completely uncomfortable. I am not. I am slightly uncomfortable, but really enjoying myself (mostly)(ish). The whole kicking thing is more of a distraction than anything else - like this: Wait, what were you saying? I wasn't listening because THERE IS A PERSON MOVING IN MY STOMACH.
This weekend, I spent my time like this:
9 hours: writing papers for school OH MY GOD.
5 hours: designing our baby announcements OH MY GOD.
2 hours: rearranging the baby's closet OH MY GOD.
1 hour: crying about stupid things OH MY GOD.
20 hours: sleeping.
Remainder: eating.
I fear that the end of school in two weeks will only serve to redistribute my time between sleeping, thinking about the baby, worrying about the baby, and eating.
Things that have made me cry or seriously want to cry this week:
- Walking into Target and seeing all the Christmas decorations. (Because Christmas is fun and I loooove it.)
- Seeing "Community Caroling" on the Community Event board on my way to work. (How cute is that? Need figgy pudding recipe ASAP, just in case.)
- Having the dog lay across the top of my belly. (Awe, he loves her already!)
- Reading that the baby hiccups. (OH MY GOD.)
- More things that make me sound stupid, and maybe I should just delete this list altogether??
27 weeks?! 13 more weeks to go?! I would post belly pics, but who has time, what with all the diaper packages needing restacked, and the closets needing rearranged, and the baby still needing a pediatrician and some daycare...and some other stuff...I don't know, but did you feel that? Was that an earthquake, or my child getting comfortable?
Friday, November 21, 2008
Cheers! From my uterus!
Ready? OK!
*clap*
My name is Cupcake.
*clap clap*
And I'm unborn.
*clap clap*
I step on mom's intestine.
*clap clap*
So she farts like a bullhorn!
*back handspring*
We've got Punches
Yes we do!
We've got Punches
How bout Youuuu?!
*clap clap clap*
1,2,3,4
Does this uterus have a door?
I don't know!
I'm not sure!
Let me try to claw my way out
Just a little bit more!
*clap clap clap*
*toetouch*
Gimme An O!
Gimme A R!
Gimme A E!
Gimme an O!
What's that spell?
HEARTBURN!
*clap clap clap*
*herkie*
1! I am your fetus,
2! You haven't met me,
3! I will eventually poop on you,
4! More, more, more!
Aaaaaaaaaaannnnddd...
Jazz hands!
*clap*
My name is Cupcake.
*clap clap*
And I'm unborn.
*clap clap*
I step on mom's intestine.
*clap clap*
So she farts like a bullhorn!
*back handspring*
We've got Punches
Yes we do!
We've got Punches
How bout Youuuu?!
*clap clap clap*
1,2,3,4
Does this uterus have a door?
I don't know!
I'm not sure!
Let me try to claw my way out
Just a little bit more!
*clap clap clap*
*toetouch*
Gimme An O!
Gimme A R!
Gimme A E!
Gimme an O!
What's that spell?
HEARTBURN!
*clap clap clap*
*herkie*
1! I am your fetus,
2! You haven't met me,
3! I will eventually poop on you,
4! More, more, more!
Aaaaaaaaaaannnnddd...
Jazz hands!
Monday, November 17, 2008
25 Weeks: Our daughter is a total kick tease.
When we went to the Bahamas on our honeymoon, we went snorkeling. We were amazed by the ability of the fish to sense our movements when we reached out to touch them. They'd be right by our hand, but as soon as we reached a little further, they moved just the tiniest bit further so that it was impossible for us to actually touch them.
Total fish tease.
The baby does this to us - mostly to Mark. She will be kicking all day long, and as soon as he puts his hand on my belly, she is dead asleep. Until he takes it off, then she's back at it. I'm afraid that she's not much of a crowd pleaser. People are randomly rubbing my belly expecting a friendly kick, and Cupake flips them off and floats away to tromp on my bladder or possibly on my butt hole (seriously...I feel like she is walking. On my butt hole).
Total kick tease.
Tomorrow starts my last week of the second trimester, and I definitely admit that I'm starting the feel the whole "Oh Shiz, Am Unprepared" anxiety. I think I'm ahead of the curve on the shopping front. Not so much on the being an organized adult front. No idea about pediatrician, birthing classes, middle name, daycare, etc. For the most part, these things don't bother me. Until the middle of the night, when they are all I can think about.
Speaking of middle of the night - nights are super fun around here. You know, since I have been getting super nauseous followed by RAGING HELL FIRE heartburn. The only relief is to sleep sitting up. And if you think that sounds sexy? You'd be right.
Pregnancy is fun during the day, and a pain in the esophagus at night.
24 Weeks: Stretching this Ann Taylor Loft shirt to the max. Perhaps I should just wear my maternity clothes?
25 Weeks: According to my professor, I'm "as big as a house." But he has stinky breath. So I think I win.
Total fish tease.
The baby does this to us - mostly to Mark. She will be kicking all day long, and as soon as he puts his hand on my belly, she is dead asleep. Until he takes it off, then she's back at it. I'm afraid that she's not much of a crowd pleaser. People are randomly rubbing my belly expecting a friendly kick, and Cupake flips them off and floats away to tromp on my bladder or possibly on my butt hole (seriously...I feel like she is walking. On my butt hole).
Total kick tease.
Tomorrow starts my last week of the second trimester, and I definitely admit that I'm starting the feel the whole "Oh Shiz, Am Unprepared" anxiety. I think I'm ahead of the curve on the shopping front. Not so much on the being an organized adult front. No idea about pediatrician, birthing classes, middle name, daycare, etc. For the most part, these things don't bother me. Until the middle of the night, when they are all I can think about.
Speaking of middle of the night - nights are super fun around here. You know, since I have been getting super nauseous followed by RAGING HELL FIRE heartburn. The only relief is to sleep sitting up. And if you think that sounds sexy? You'd be right.
Pregnancy is fun during the day, and a pain in the esophagus at night.
24 Weeks: Stretching this Ann Taylor Loft shirt to the max. Perhaps I should just wear my maternity clothes?
25 Weeks: According to my professor, I'm "as big as a house." But he has stinky breath. So I think I win.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Anatomy of An Advertisement
Or: Perhaps I Need A Hobby.
Don't you ever wonder who the people are that sit around and think of ways to mold our feeble minds into purchasing crap we don't want or need? And furthermore, how much do they get paid? AND furthermore still...are they hiring?
I thought it couldn't possibly get worse after the Viagra commercial where all these men are sitting in a shed or garage or some other sort of manly shanty, probably with a "No Girls Allowed" sign hanging crookedly on the makeshift door. And they are all playing instruments in some sort of derranged stiffy jam-session celebration. And really, does it make you wonder why they can't get a boner? What message are they really trying to send? That their product will really help you play your instrument while hanging out with all your man friends?
Now there is a commercial for some type of erection pill, not sure if it's Viagra or Cialis or something else, but it always confuses me. It ends with a couple on a beach at sunset, atop a BIG WOODEN PLATFORM, sitting in separate old-fashioned bathtubs. Why? Why are they sitting in bathtubs on the beach atop a BIG WOODEN PLATFORM?! I suppose I get the BIG WOODEN PLATFORM reference. But to me, it seems like they might want to sit in the same bathtub? You know, for logistic purposes?
So. Yes. I way over think ads, especially male enhancement ads.
I got a Target Baby Registry book yesterday, and it started out with this ad:
I suppose I could have just taken it at face value. But I couldn't get past the look on the guy's face. It's like, "Look, you're crazy if you think we're buying one more piece of clothing for this baby. I mean, I need the extra cash for Gap sweaters and snappy leather accessories. And I've really been needing some large aviator shades."
I can't help but imagine that the woman is smiling through her irritation, making good for the camera but actually saying, "Listen, you condescending prick, I have to push a watermelon through my vagina and thus will do/buy/eat what I want and if you have a problem with it, then you should promptly expect a dutch oven while you sleep tonight and I am TOTALLY NOT KIDDING."
Don't you ever wonder who the people are that sit around and think of ways to mold our feeble minds into purchasing crap we don't want or need? And furthermore, how much do they get paid? AND furthermore still...are they hiring?
I thought it couldn't possibly get worse after the Viagra commercial where all these men are sitting in a shed or garage or some other sort of manly shanty, probably with a "No Girls Allowed" sign hanging crookedly on the makeshift door. And they are all playing instruments in some sort of derranged stiffy jam-session celebration. And really, does it make you wonder why they can't get a boner? What message are they really trying to send? That their product will really help you play your instrument while hanging out with all your man friends?
Now there is a commercial for some type of erection pill, not sure if it's Viagra or Cialis or something else, but it always confuses me. It ends with a couple on a beach at sunset, atop a BIG WOODEN PLATFORM, sitting in separate old-fashioned bathtubs. Why? Why are they sitting in bathtubs on the beach atop a BIG WOODEN PLATFORM?! I suppose I get the BIG WOODEN PLATFORM reference. But to me, it seems like they might want to sit in the same bathtub? You know, for logistic purposes?
So. Yes. I way over think ads, especially male enhancement ads.
I got a Target Baby Registry book yesterday, and it started out with this ad:
I suppose I could have just taken it at face value. But I couldn't get past the look on the guy's face. It's like, "Look, you're crazy if you think we're buying one more piece of clothing for this baby. I mean, I need the extra cash for Gap sweaters and snappy leather accessories. And I've really been needing some large aviator shades."
I can't help but imagine that the woman is smiling through her irritation, making good for the camera but actually saying, "Listen, you condescending prick, I have to push a watermelon through my vagina and thus will do/buy/eat what I want and if you have a problem with it, then you should promptly expect a dutch oven while you sleep tonight and I am TOTALLY NOT KIDDING."
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
24 Weeks...you know, last week.
Gah!
Gaaaaaaaaaaaaah!
Not too much happened last week pregnancy-wise, mostly because I was so busy that I managed to ignore the whole expanding waist thing in order to...survive? Yeah. Three more weeks of school, then finals, then done with school forever and ever amen.
Mark did get to feel the baby last week. She gave him one kick and then said that she was done performing and please go away. Oh, but does she kick all the time! I can see it, and I find myself strangely inclined to speak with her when it happens - hello baby! Good morning, baby! Let's eat, baby! But instead of baby, I call her by her real name.
(I haven't decided if I want to tell the internets about her name, because my head would probably get all explod-y if there were any negative comments about it.)
We also got our registries going at Target and Babies R Us. Registering kind of stresses me out, probably unnecessarily. I am overwhelmed by all things feeding, and instead of wanting to research the options I find that I just want to take a nap and maybe just get a bite to eat, since someone brought up feeding. Feel free to leave your advice on how to prepare for breastfeeding followed by mad back-to-work pumping at around 9 weeks. I need all the help I can get.
I am starting to get really worried that I am going to make our daughter into the same flavor of weirdo as me. I may be outing myself as the last person in the world who remembers when Tom Green was funny, but the other day while Mark was washing a pan, I couldn't help but to rub my butt on his butt and sing, "My bum is on your bum, my bum is on your bum, look at me! My bum is on your bum!"
(I may need to start acting more...normal...when the baby comes.)
(More accurately, my bum was on his upper thigh because he is way taller, but upper thigh just didn't fit well in the song.)
Gaaaaaaaaaaaaah!
Not too much happened last week pregnancy-wise, mostly because I was so busy that I managed to ignore the whole expanding waist thing in order to...survive? Yeah. Three more weeks of school, then finals, then done with school forever and ever amen.
Mark did get to feel the baby last week. She gave him one kick and then said that she was done performing and please go away. Oh, but does she kick all the time! I can see it, and I find myself strangely inclined to speak with her when it happens - hello baby! Good morning, baby! Let's eat, baby! But instead of baby, I call her by her real name.
(I haven't decided if I want to tell the internets about her name, because my head would probably get all explod-y if there were any negative comments about it.)
We also got our registries going at Target and Babies R Us. Registering kind of stresses me out, probably unnecessarily. I am overwhelmed by all things feeding, and instead of wanting to research the options I find that I just want to take a nap and maybe just get a bite to eat, since someone brought up feeding. Feel free to leave your advice on how to prepare for breastfeeding followed by mad back-to-work pumping at around 9 weeks. I need all the help I can get.
I am starting to get really worried that I am going to make our daughter into the same flavor of weirdo as me. I may be outing myself as the last person in the world who remembers when Tom Green was funny, but the other day while Mark was washing a pan, I couldn't help but to rub my butt on his butt and sing, "My bum is on your bum, my bum is on your bum, look at me! My bum is on your bum!"
(I may need to start acting more...normal...when the baby comes.)
(More accurately, my bum was on his upper thigh because he is way taller, but upper thigh just didn't fit well in the song.)
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Another Reason to Marry Target
As if there weren't enough reasons already?
Today, I went to vote. I only had to wait about a half hour to rock my vote, which was long enough for the RAGING HELL FIRE HEARTBURN that plagued me all night last night to return in full force.
I went to Target to get my free I Voted Give Me Free Stuff coffee from Starbucks, but ended up with a Peppermint Twist Mocha, because yum. Then I went off in search of something potent enough to tame the RAGING HELL FIRE.
The Target pharmacist must have sensed my Rapunzel-like distress, because she came from behind the counter and asked me if I needed help.
Me: Well, I can't remember what I can take for heartburn, other than Tums, since I'm pregnant.
She: *looks at belly* hmmm...well, let me look. You're not too pregnant yet, right?
Me: 6 months today, actually.
She: REALLY?! You don't look it - my goodness!
Now, given my experiences with the general public lately, you can certainly understand my reaction: a ridiculous Ally McBeal-like fantasy, in which I totally make out with this pharmacist in the bathroom, and everyone breaks out into song and dance and then I snap out of it and the pharmacist is looking at me like I am a flaming moron. Then a weird baby starts dancing around...
Me: Wow, thanks!
She: I remember how bad my heartburn was. Every time I bent over it would start, and then the only thing that would help me were these Tums Smoothies. Want to give these a try?
Me: Ok. Thank you so much!
(And I love you, and Target, and if I could figure out a way to marry you both, we could all be happy forever and ever with unlimited Tums Smoothies and as many of those Choxie treats as we want.)
Speaking of babies dancing around: Holy Kicks and Punches, Batman! A couple nights ago, I was trying to watch a movie, but was instead preoccupied with watching my belly move around and jiggle with each kick and punch. It was crazy!
I think the baby likes me better, because every time I try to call Mark over to feel her, she completely stops. Like, one second she is Tae-Bo-ing, and the next she is taking a little snooze. He has yet to feel her and I'm quite certain he thinks I am making it all up.
Today, I went to vote. I only had to wait about a half hour to rock my vote, which was long enough for the RAGING HELL FIRE HEARTBURN that plagued me all night last night to return in full force.
I went to Target to get my free I Voted Give Me Free Stuff coffee from Starbucks, but ended up with a Peppermint Twist Mocha, because yum. Then I went off in search of something potent enough to tame the RAGING HELL FIRE.
The Target pharmacist must have sensed my Rapunzel-like distress, because she came from behind the counter and asked me if I needed help.
Me: Well, I can't remember what I can take for heartburn, other than Tums, since I'm pregnant.
She: *looks at belly* hmmm...well, let me look. You're not too pregnant yet, right?
Me: 6 months today, actually.
She: REALLY?! You don't look it - my goodness!
Now, given my experiences with the general public lately, you can certainly understand my reaction: a ridiculous Ally McBeal-like fantasy, in which I totally make out with this pharmacist in the bathroom, and everyone breaks out into song and dance and then I snap out of it and the pharmacist is looking at me like I am a flaming moron. Then a weird baby starts dancing around...
Me: Wow, thanks!
She: I remember how bad my heartburn was. Every time I bent over it would start, and then the only thing that would help me were these Tums Smoothies. Want to give these a try?
Me: Ok. Thank you so much!
(And I love you, and Target, and if I could figure out a way to marry you both, we could all be happy forever and ever with unlimited Tums Smoothies and as many of those Choxie treats as we want.)
Speaking of babies dancing around: Holy Kicks and Punches, Batman! A couple nights ago, I was trying to watch a movie, but was instead preoccupied with watching my belly move around and jiggle with each kick and punch. It was crazy!
I think the baby likes me better, because every time I try to call Mark over to feel her, she completely stops. Like, one second she is Tae-Bo-ing, and the next she is taking a little snooze. He has yet to feel her and I'm quite certain he thinks I am making it all up.
Friday, October 31, 2008
23 Weeks: Am hardly showing at all, apparently.
Oh.My.God...
LOOK HOW BIG YOU'RE GETTING!
How far along are you? Are you sure?
Maybe you've got twins in there, AAAAAAHAHAHA! *knee slap* But seriously, are you having twins?
You're so big, you're going to get huge. I mean, you won't even be able to drive, I bet.
You must be getting so uncomfortable. Wow. Poor thing.
Woah. Hide the food! She must be hungry!
LOOK HOW BIG YOU'RE GETTING!
How far along are you? Are you sure?
Maybe you've got twins in there, AAAAAAHAHAHA! *knee slap* But seriously, are you having twins?
You're so big, you're going to get huge. I mean, you won't even be able to drive, I bet.
You must be getting so uncomfortable. Wow. Poor thing.
Woah. Hide the food! She must be hungry!
You know...I am pretty hungry. Go away before I eat you with french fries and a side of ranch.
I wonder what it is about the business of making babies, and carrying babies kangaroo-style, that makes people lose their damn minds? Like, why do people think it is perfectly appropriate to comment on your sex life or your newly massive girth?
Is it ever OK to ask someone if the bothered to brush their hair this morning? Or if they brushed their teeth because HOLY HALITOSIS! I'd just like to know.
Here are my 22 and 23 week pictures. They are of terrible quality; I really need to step it up in the photography department. I'm going to skip my usual commentary so as to avoid the appearance of begging for complements, but will say that I've gone from about 15 nonmaternity top options, to about 4. This baby is growing, that's for sure!
22 Weeks:
23 Weeks:
I had my 24 week appointment today. It was blissfully boring. Just like I like it.
Someone asked if we liked our glider/rocker...YES! We love it! It is so comfortable and soft. Obviously, we haven't used it for nursing purposes yet, but it seems like it will be perfect.
Baxter and Milo give it 4 dewclaws up.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
The Crib is Put Together. We Are Still Alive.
And as an added bonus? We're still married! Although, it is less of a testament to the state and strength of our marriage and more of a testament to good directions and easy to read pictures, designed especially for the furniture-building inept. (Read: us.)
But still. It was much more impressive to make a statement like that after we bought an entire master bedroom full of cheap (and probably breakable) furniture from IKEA, and Mark put it all together by himself while I stood there staring at the directions, repeating over and over, "this doesn't make any sense!"
Love is grand. That's what I always say.
We have no mattress yet. I don't know anything about crib mattresses, and since the prices go from about $60 to over $200, I'm sure I'll be pushed by guilt to buy an overly-expensive mattress. (And, if you know about these things and want to tell me all the reasons why we only need to spend $100, please do so. Or direct me to a place where they will.)
Things are going pretty well! Crib is together, still married, school is almost over, cupcake has mastered the art of FLASHDANCE, and the third trimester is right around the corner.
The only negative to mention is that I think my old gynecologist is having weekend coffee at my study spot. I'm pretty sure it's him, but can't get a good enough look without staring, and I can't stare because he's one of those friendly people who says hi if he catches you looking (I know! The nerve!). I know that gynecologists need coffee, too, but I'd rather not be sipping my latte next to a guy who has seen my vagina.
(Unless it's Mark)
But still. It was much more impressive to make a statement like that after we bought an entire master bedroom full of cheap (and probably breakable) furniture from IKEA, and Mark put it all together by himself while I stood there staring at the directions, repeating over and over, "this doesn't make any sense!"
Love is grand. That's what I always say.
We have no mattress yet. I don't know anything about crib mattresses, and since the prices go from about $60 to over $200, I'm sure I'll be pushed by guilt to buy an overly-expensive mattress. (And, if you know about these things and want to tell me all the reasons why we only need to spend $100, please do so. Or direct me to a place where they will.)
Things are going pretty well! Crib is together, still married, school is almost over, cupcake has mastered the art of FLASHDANCE, and the third trimester is right around the corner.
The only negative to mention is that I think my old gynecologist is having weekend coffee at my study spot. I'm pretty sure it's him, but can't get a good enough look without staring, and I can't stare because he's one of those friendly people who says hi if he catches you looking (I know! The nerve!). I know that gynecologists need coffee, too, but I'd rather not be sipping my latte next to a guy who has seen my vagina.
(Unless it's Mark)
Thursday, October 23, 2008
22 Weeks: Please, Don't Eat My Feet.
I think I've mentioned a few times that I'm a bit of a shorty. A peanut. 5'1" and a quarter. It's not something I mind at all, but more of just a fact. I was "tall" until third grade and then I apparently gave up on growing.
I am little and wee.
Being little and wee makes it difficult to find pants that don't make me look like I'm playing dress up with an adult's wardrobe. Even short or petite pants are too long even if I wear heels and always have to be altered.
So I admit that I skimmed over the part of my pregnancy book that suggested comfortable and sensible footwear. I mean, there are a lot of things that my pregnancy book says that aren't true - that I'm supposed to have a bunch of energy right now, and that Mark should be picking up my dry-cleaning for me - so I wrote off the warnings of swollen and painful feet and ankles as NOT APPLICABLE, AM ABOVE.
(To be fair, there is no dry-cleaning to be picked up.)
(But, maybe Mark should create some dry-cleaning and then go pick it up because I am pregnant and it would be nice of him?)
(No. Probably not.)
Imagine my surprise on Sunday, after being on my feet in un-sensible shoes for countless hours, when my feet were swollen and painful and looked so much like baked potatoes that I was afraid that my two starving, never fed* dogs would eat them right up! My right ankle was floating dangerously into kankle territory!
After a few hours with my feet up and under a heating pad, I was back to normal size wise, but my feet were so sore it hurt to stand up at all. I wore tennis shoes to work all week, which was really professional-looking, and I'm sure my superiors appreciated that oh, so very much.
I need to go shopping this weekend for something comfortable and wide enough to accommodate a baked potato.
So, lesson learned. Swollen feet: APPLICABLE, AM NOT ABOVE.
*I mean, you should see the dogs when we have food. It is so sad how HUNGRY they look, what with that giant bowl of delicious, nutritious, pricey dog food sitting right beside them. That food which is not acceptable for canine consumption, as there is actual delicious food in the room, and also? Puppy dog eyes.
I am little and wee.
Being little and wee makes it difficult to find pants that don't make me look like I'm playing dress up with an adult's wardrobe. Even short or petite pants are too long even if I wear heels and always have to be altered.
So I admit that I skimmed over the part of my pregnancy book that suggested comfortable and sensible footwear. I mean, there are a lot of things that my pregnancy book says that aren't true - that I'm supposed to have a bunch of energy right now, and that Mark should be picking up my dry-cleaning for me - so I wrote off the warnings of swollen and painful feet and ankles as NOT APPLICABLE, AM ABOVE.
(To be fair, there is no dry-cleaning to be picked up.)
(But, maybe Mark should create some dry-cleaning and then go pick it up because I am pregnant and it would be nice of him?)
(No. Probably not.)
Imagine my surprise on Sunday, after being on my feet in un-sensible shoes for countless hours, when my feet were swollen and painful and looked so much like baked potatoes that I was afraid that my two starving, never fed* dogs would eat them right up! My right ankle was floating dangerously into kankle territory!
After a few hours with my feet up and under a heating pad, I was back to normal size wise, but my feet were so sore it hurt to stand up at all. I wore tennis shoes to work all week, which was really professional-looking, and I'm sure my superiors appreciated that oh, so very much.
I need to go shopping this weekend for something comfortable and wide enough to accommodate a baked potato.
So, lesson learned. Swollen feet: APPLICABLE, AM NOT ABOVE.
*I mean, you should see the dogs when we have food. It is so sad how HUNGRY they look, what with that giant bowl of delicious, nutritious, pricey dog food sitting right beside them. That food which is not acceptable for canine consumption, as there is actual delicious food in the room, and also? Puppy dog eyes.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
In Which I Am A Big (Not So) Fat Hypocrite.
There is nothing I hate more than when a blogger gets a less than agreeable comment, then posts a rant against that person. But…sometimes I like to be a hypocrite. From Anonymous, in response to my last post:
“OK I love, love love your blog. But I have to say, PLEASE stop the “I’m so fat blah blah blah” but here is my adorable belly pic.
Don’t forget your roots as an infertile. You’re making us feel kinda bad.”
* sigh*
* eyeroll *
* siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh *
OK.
Okokokokok.
OK.
First let me say: I get it. I do! I completely and totally get it. I can’t count how many times I happened upon a pregnancy blog while I was doing IVF and wanted to scream over the complaints of a pregnant person.
I mean, how dare she be uncomfortable? Or feel fat? Or…ugly? Bah! How dare she be happy or sad or miserable or anything but compassionate for the INFERTILES?!
But really. Really? Get real.
I really hate it when people act like someone can’t complain about something just because there is someone in the world who is worse off. There is always someone going through something worse than you, yet everyone complains, right?
You may hate to read it, but I have news: Things to not turn to peaches and cream once you get pregnant. They just don’t. Things are still annoying, and sometimes pregnancy is uncomfortable, and sometimes it is not all that fun.
I can appreciate, at any single moment, how fortunate I am to be pregnant and for things going so well so far. Actually, after two straight years of being depressed, I can tell you: I am, in fact, feeling pretty fabulous right now. I love being pregnant and while the numbers on the scale do bother me (and I’m not saying that’s right, but that is the truth), my belly is round and adorable and I can feel our little girl every single day. It is the best thing.
However…
Just because I went through fertility treatments and put myself out on a very, very public forum during those treatments, does not mean that my writing at this point needs to revolve around infertility. Actually, I got some of my rudest comments and emails when I was still blogging about infertility at Redbook while I was in my first trimester, because apparently it is common practice to hate someone who was infertile just as soon as they get pregnant.
It has nothing to do with “forgetting my roots.” Trust me. It is a daily part of my life, and nothing could make me forget the way that I felt during my treatments when I thought that there was no hope of ever getting pregnant. And in a year or two, I will be back in the stirrups and will most likely be amusing the infertile population once again. How will it be then? Should I not complain about my second round, since I will already have a child? Shouldn’t I just be satisfied that I could have one when some people can’t even have that? Where does it end?
I don’t feel any need to translate my feelings in a way that is more appealing to the infertile community just because I went through fertility treatments and had the nerve to actually be successful. I am entitled to write a sarcastic entry about being uncomfortable or feeling fat, regardless of how my pregnancy happened.
It is a really horrible thing when people are trying to get pregnant and cannot. You know what else is horrible? Being so bitter that you need to leave a backhanded compliment to someone who has been a huge cheerleader for the infertile community. I think it’s horrible that someone has to leave a “zinger” under the cloak of anonymity just to bring me down a notch because I have something she doesn’t.
It is only going to get worse from here on out. I am only 5’1”, and I suspect that I am only going to be more uncomfortable as time goes on. And then I’ll have the baby and I’ll be tired and will complain about that. And surely I will complain when the baby barfs directly into my face, and blah blah blah. Am I expected to preface every negative or sarcastic statement I make with a disclaimer of guilt for the rest of my life?
This will be the only time I address this, but I’m sure it won’t be the last time it comes up. I refuse to change the way I remember my pregnancy to cater to anyone else’s opinion about my infertility and how it relates to my writing about pregnancy.
**EDIT TO ADD:
As of 10/23/08, comments are closed on this post. If you didn't get a chance to comment, then I'm sure that your viewpoint has been expressed by someone else.
I did approve all comments except three. Two of them being attacks on me personally, outside the scope of this post, which is unacceptable. The third was one of the rejected commentors - who, by the way, said they were NEVER COMING BACK! - who wanted to point out that I did not publish all comments. With the exception of these comments, absolutely all comments and viewpoints were posted. You do not have to agree with me, but you do not need to be an asshole, either.
I don't have a desire to go on and on about this with people. You either "get" my sense of humor, or you don't. You either agree with the way I write, or you don't. You will either continue to read, or you won't. I can't control what you think.
If you don't like my blog, or you think I am not a good read, the solution is simple: Don't read this website.
I would completely understand and encourage you to stay away if the way that I describe my pregnancy annoys/bothers/enrages you.
“OK I love, love love your blog. But I have to say, PLEASE stop the “I’m so fat blah blah blah” but here is my adorable belly pic.
Don’t forget your roots as an infertile. You’re making us feel kinda bad.”
* sigh*
* eyeroll *
* siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh *
OK.
Okokokokok.
OK.
First let me say: I get it. I do! I completely and totally get it. I can’t count how many times I happened upon a pregnancy blog while I was doing IVF and wanted to scream over the complaints of a pregnant person.
I mean, how dare she be uncomfortable? Or feel fat? Or…ugly? Bah! How dare she be happy or sad or miserable or anything but compassionate for the INFERTILES?!
But really. Really? Get real.
I really hate it when people act like someone can’t complain about something just because there is someone in the world who is worse off. There is always someone going through something worse than you, yet everyone complains, right?
You may hate to read it, but I have news: Things to not turn to peaches and cream once you get pregnant. They just don’t. Things are still annoying, and sometimes pregnancy is uncomfortable, and sometimes it is not all that fun.
I can appreciate, at any single moment, how fortunate I am to be pregnant and for things going so well so far. Actually, after two straight years of being depressed, I can tell you: I am, in fact, feeling pretty fabulous right now. I love being pregnant and while the numbers on the scale do bother me (and I’m not saying that’s right, but that is the truth), my belly is round and adorable and I can feel our little girl every single day. It is the best thing.
However…
Just because I went through fertility treatments and put myself out on a very, very public forum during those treatments, does not mean that my writing at this point needs to revolve around infertility. Actually, I got some of my rudest comments and emails when I was still blogging about infertility at Redbook while I was in my first trimester, because apparently it is common practice to hate someone who was infertile just as soon as they get pregnant.
It has nothing to do with “forgetting my roots.” Trust me. It is a daily part of my life, and nothing could make me forget the way that I felt during my treatments when I thought that there was no hope of ever getting pregnant. And in a year or two, I will be back in the stirrups and will most likely be amusing the infertile population once again. How will it be then? Should I not complain about my second round, since I will already have a child? Shouldn’t I just be satisfied that I could have one when some people can’t even have that? Where does it end?
I don’t feel any need to translate my feelings in a way that is more appealing to the infertile community just because I went through fertility treatments and had the nerve to actually be successful. I am entitled to write a sarcastic entry about being uncomfortable or feeling fat, regardless of how my pregnancy happened.
It is a really horrible thing when people are trying to get pregnant and cannot. You know what else is horrible? Being so bitter that you need to leave a backhanded compliment to someone who has been a huge cheerleader for the infertile community. I think it’s horrible that someone has to leave a “zinger” under the cloak of anonymity just to bring me down a notch because I have something she doesn’t.
It is only going to get worse from here on out. I am only 5’1”, and I suspect that I am only going to be more uncomfortable as time goes on. And then I’ll have the baby and I’ll be tired and will complain about that. And surely I will complain when the baby barfs directly into my face, and blah blah blah. Am I expected to preface every negative or sarcastic statement I make with a disclaimer of guilt for the rest of my life?
This will be the only time I address this, but I’m sure it won’t be the last time it comes up. I refuse to change the way I remember my pregnancy to cater to anyone else’s opinion about my infertility and how it relates to my writing about pregnancy.
**EDIT TO ADD:
As of 10/23/08, comments are closed on this post. If you didn't get a chance to comment, then I'm sure that your viewpoint has been expressed by someone else.
I did approve all comments except three. Two of them being attacks on me personally, outside the scope of this post, which is unacceptable. The third was one of the rejected commentors - who, by the way, said they were NEVER COMING BACK! - who wanted to point out that I did not publish all comments. With the exception of these comments, absolutely all comments and viewpoints were posted. You do not have to agree with me, but you do not need to be an asshole, either.
I don't have a desire to go on and on about this with people. You either "get" my sense of humor, or you don't. You either agree with the way I write, or you don't. You will either continue to read, or you won't. I can't control what you think.
If you don't like my blog, or you think I am not a good read, the solution is simple: Don't read this website.
I would completely understand and encourage you to stay away if the way that I describe my pregnancy annoys/bothers/enrages you.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
21 Weeks: My Life As A Simpson Character
21 weeks! I have a lot of posting to catch up on.
First, my 21 week belly pic:
Yes, friends, I am bearing a striking resemblance to Barney from the Simpsons these days. Especially at night, when I put on my pajamas and at least 5 inches of my lower gut hangs out from under my shirt because I am too cheap to invest in whale pajamas because I'd rather buy pink things for MAH BAYBEE!
(And let's face it, the chest hair and blank looking stare aren't far off, either. Plus! My lips totally look like waves when I burp uncontrollably all day long.)
You want proof? Last night's pajama ensamb:
Did you notice that you got a little sneaky peek at our nursery? We did paint it pink.
Like, PINK.
Like, the pinkest pink that ever pinked a pinkhole. For real.
At first, we were shocked, and were all, "Hey, did you notice that the neon pink reflects off the white ceiling and onto the hallway carpet?"
And once? I was in the room for too long, and actually passed out from the brightness, and when I woke up, I thought Mark had eaten me for dinner because we have no food in the house and I was awake in his stomach and all I could think was, IT IS REALLY BRIGHT IN HERE!
But it's grown on us, now that there are some actual things in the room to tone down the PINK. Because last night we had Christmas in October! And Mark's parents bought us our changing table, and we bought our crib! The crib is on order, but here is the changing table...it's so pretty...
The actual set is here, but we are just getting the crib, changing table, and a night stand that matches. And! And! The bedding set is here.
I feel a lot better now that we pretty much have all the big stuff. The only other big item we need is the video monitor I want, but we can swing that if need be.
How about a real 21 week belly shot?
I'm up to 9 pounds gained. All in my face, apparently. And maybe some in my big fat grandma arm.
First, my 21 week belly pic:
Yes, friends, I am bearing a striking resemblance to Barney from the Simpsons these days. Especially at night, when I put on my pajamas and at least 5 inches of my lower gut hangs out from under my shirt because I am too cheap to invest in whale pajamas because I'd rather buy pink things for MAH BAYBEE!
(And let's face it, the chest hair and blank looking stare aren't far off, either. Plus! My lips totally look like waves when I burp uncontrollably all day long.)
You want proof? Last night's pajama ensamb:
Did you notice that you got a little sneaky peek at our nursery? We did paint it pink.
Like, PINK.
Like, the pinkest pink that ever pinked a pinkhole. For real.
At first, we were shocked, and were all, "Hey, did you notice that the neon pink reflects off the white ceiling and onto the hallway carpet?"
And once? I was in the room for too long, and actually passed out from the brightness, and when I woke up, I thought Mark had eaten me for dinner because we have no food in the house and I was awake in his stomach and all I could think was, IT IS REALLY BRIGHT IN HERE!
But it's grown on us, now that there are some actual things in the room to tone down the PINK. Because last night we had Christmas in October! And Mark's parents bought us our changing table, and we bought our crib! The crib is on order, but here is the changing table...it's so pretty...
The actual set is here, but we are just getting the crib, changing table, and a night stand that matches. And! And! The bedding set is here.
I feel a lot better now that we pretty much have all the big stuff. The only other big item we need is the video monitor I want, but we can swing that if need be.
How about a real 21 week belly shot?
I'm up to 9 pounds gained. All in my face, apparently. And maybe some in my big fat grandma arm.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Please nominate me for What Not to Wear.
I was so excited for it to be fall. For a few reasons:
1. Reduction in leg-shaving requirements.
2. Reduction in toenail paint maintenance.
3. Long sleeves to cover up my serious development of grandma arm.
4. Jeans to cover these dimply egg cartons I call legs.
You know, many many good reasons for it to be fall.
But now it's 80 degrees and I'm walking around in cap sleeves that make me arms look like drumsticks and wearing peep toe shoes that show off my attractive calluses and hangnails and OH MY GOD I NEED TO COVER UP.
Not to mention my nervous habit of picking my finger skin until it bleeds when I am feeling stressed. So the only thing that has made it feel like fall is the fact that school is in session and that I am 21 weeks pregnant.
My stomach is really, really getting big. Last night during class, my professor decided that it would be a brilliant idea to make me move from my beautiful, cherry picked on the first day of class seat on the end of a row to a middle seat in the TEENYIST classroom in Ohio so as to promote diversity because I was sitting by too many white people, I think?
I mean, I am all about diversity. I would hump diversity's leg given the appropriate circumstance. Diversity is, you know, fantastic and all that shit.
But why, oh why, would you make a clearly pregnant person squeeze between rows? Honestly. Out of 25 people, he moved me and one other person. It could have been my remark about our pop quiz at the beginning of class that made me the target?
("Are you kidding me? We would have had to memorize all 30 pages of that article to be able to answer these questions!") I'm not sure.
The first problem is that I cannot bend over without a grunt. My uterus does not allow me to bend over without making difficult bowel movement sounds, even if I have been just asked to switch seats in front of TWENTY FIVE PEOPLE who can hear my grunting and can't decide if I am having a baby or if I just ate a really lot of Chipotle for lunch.
I'm not sure if you heard, but I'm bringing sexy back on a daily basis. That, and I am a flaming hot mess these days.
Secondly, I am beginning to resemble the Michelin Man, which is fine and everything except when you are trying to carry your bookbag, water, purse, and folder while squeezing your fat ass through two rows of seating in order to promote diversity in the classroom.
Then, it is not fine to look the the Michelin Man, it is just embarrassing.
On my way to my new, super duper diverse seat, I managed to whack someone in the head with my stomach, drop my pen, grunt as I sat down, then spill my notebook on the floor.
At the end of class, one of my neighbors for the evening asked, "So how soon is your baby going to come out?"
"Not soon enough, apparently," was all I could muster.
1. Reduction in leg-shaving requirements.
2. Reduction in toenail paint maintenance.
3. Long sleeves to cover up my serious development of grandma arm.
4. Jeans to cover these dimply egg cartons I call legs.
You know, many many good reasons for it to be fall.
But now it's 80 degrees and I'm walking around in cap sleeves that make me arms look like drumsticks and wearing peep toe shoes that show off my attractive calluses and hangnails and OH MY GOD I NEED TO COVER UP.
Not to mention my nervous habit of picking my finger skin until it bleeds when I am feeling stressed. So the only thing that has made it feel like fall is the fact that school is in session and that I am 21 weeks pregnant.
My stomach is really, really getting big. Last night during class, my professor decided that it would be a brilliant idea to make me move from my beautiful, cherry picked on the first day of class seat on the end of a row to a middle seat in the TEENYIST classroom in Ohio so as to promote diversity because I was sitting by too many white people, I think?
I mean, I am all about diversity. I would hump diversity's leg given the appropriate circumstance. Diversity is, you know, fantastic and all that shit.
But why, oh why, would you make a clearly pregnant person squeeze between rows? Honestly. Out of 25 people, he moved me and one other person. It could have been my remark about our pop quiz at the beginning of class that made me the target?
("Are you kidding me? We would have had to memorize all 30 pages of that article to be able to answer these questions!") I'm not sure.
The first problem is that I cannot bend over without a grunt. My uterus does not allow me to bend over without making difficult bowel movement sounds, even if I have been just asked to switch seats in front of TWENTY FIVE PEOPLE who can hear my grunting and can't decide if I am having a baby or if I just ate a really lot of Chipotle for lunch.
I'm not sure if you heard, but I'm bringing sexy back on a daily basis. That, and I am a flaming hot mess these days.
Secondly, I am beginning to resemble the Michelin Man, which is fine and everything except when you are trying to carry your bookbag, water, purse, and folder while squeezing your fat ass through two rows of seating in order to promote diversity in the classroom.
Then, it is not fine to look the the Michelin Man, it is just embarrassing.
On my way to my new, super duper diverse seat, I managed to whack someone in the head with my stomach, drop my pen, grunt as I sat down, then spill my notebook on the floor.
At the end of class, one of my neighbors for the evening asked, "So how soon is your baby going to come out?"
"Not soon enough, apparently," was all I could muster.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
20 Weeks: Bump Watch and Plump Watch
OR: Jen's Brain Is Mush And She Has Nothing Amusing To Say So She Posts A Shit Ton Of Pictures and Hopes You Don't Notice kthxbye.
I planned an overly-detailed post about finding out that we are having a GIRL (!), but now it is Thursday and I haven't done it and FAIL. This weekend? Possibly. Or possibly not, as I may still be staring at the two big pink squares we painted on the nursery walls so that I drive myself so crazy that I start eating the paint just to see which one feels more right because I can't possibly imagine another way to try to make a decision.
See? FAIL. On all accounts.
I had what I think was my first pregnancy-induced HOT MESS moment this week. Complete with crying over nothing along with two bloody noses and beating myself up over getting a 94 on my super hard accounting test because OMFG I should've gotten a 99 and GAWD!
In other words, a hot mess moment so fantastic that it made Mark declare: Fuck you, hormones! (Like, from the movie Knocked Up? In a funny way, not in a mean way.)
But maybe it's not fair to declare FAIL, because my repeated attempts to overextend myself have finally become a success. Am scheduling superstar. Clearly.
Is it December yet? Also, is it February yet?
The great news is that I have a nursery closet that is slowly filling up with pink and girly things and I am so excited that I almost just can't even stand it. A girl! So much fun.
Also fun? Bump Watch! The 20 Week Belly...
I'm definitely looking on the knocked up side these days. I only have about 10 nonmaternity shirts that are long enough to fit over the bump, but the maternity shirts I've gotten still look weird and too big. Like tents.
Not all that fun, but still will be mentioned? Plump Watch! At 20 weeks, I've gained 8 pounds. One pound a week for the last 3 weeks. I will spare you the additional weight talk about how I am probably going to have to be lifted from my bed via crane at 40 weeks and then possibly hauled out through the bedroom window because I can't fit down the stairway. (you're welcome)
After our ultrasound on Friday, we went directly to BabyGap, where I purchased cupcake's first two gender specific outfits.
Outfit #1:
This Hoodie
To go over this shirt
With these jeans
Outfit #2:
This onesie
To go with these cords
It took a serious amount of self restraint (and stomach growling because I really wanted to eat ribs) to stop at two outfits.
Maybe I should work at Gap just for a discount? I'm sure I could fit it in my schedule somehow.
I planned an overly-detailed post about finding out that we are having a GIRL (!), but now it is Thursday and I haven't done it and FAIL. This weekend? Possibly. Or possibly not, as I may still be staring at the two big pink squares we painted on the nursery walls so that I drive myself so crazy that I start eating the paint just to see which one feels more right because I can't possibly imagine another way to try to make a decision.
See? FAIL. On all accounts.
I had what I think was my first pregnancy-induced HOT MESS moment this week. Complete with crying over nothing along with two bloody noses and beating myself up over getting a 94 on my super hard accounting test because OMFG I should've gotten a 99 and GAWD!
In other words, a hot mess moment so fantastic that it made Mark declare: Fuck you, hormones! (Like, from the movie Knocked Up? In a funny way, not in a mean way.)
But maybe it's not fair to declare FAIL, because my repeated attempts to overextend myself have finally become a success. Am scheduling superstar. Clearly.
Is it December yet? Also, is it February yet?
The great news is that I have a nursery closet that is slowly filling up with pink and girly things and I am so excited that I almost just can't even stand it. A girl! So much fun.
Also fun? Bump Watch! The 20 Week Belly...
I'm definitely looking on the knocked up side these days. I only have about 10 nonmaternity shirts that are long enough to fit over the bump, but the maternity shirts I've gotten still look weird and too big. Like tents.
Not all that fun, but still will be mentioned? Plump Watch! At 20 weeks, I've gained 8 pounds. One pound a week for the last 3 weeks. I will spare you the additional weight talk about how I am probably going to have to be lifted from my bed via crane at 40 weeks and then possibly hauled out through the bedroom window because I can't fit down the stairway. (you're welcome)
After our ultrasound on Friday, we went directly to BabyGap, where I purchased cupcake's first two gender specific outfits.
Outfit #1:
This Hoodie
To go over this shirt
With these jeans
Outfit #2:
This onesie
To go with these cords
It took a serious amount of self restraint (and stomach growling because I really wanted to eat ribs) to stop at two outfits.
Maybe I should work at Gap just for a discount? I'm sure I could fit it in my schedule somehow.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Still Preoccupied. In All The Best Ways.
The entire process of getting pregnant has been filled with nothing but questions and anticipation. Why am I not getting pregnant? Will we ever have a baby? Exactly how many people are going to be elbow deep in my vagina? How many embryos took - are we talking Mark and Jen Plus 10?
Will this pregnancy make it to its end in a spectacularly boring and normal way?
As I settle into accepting my new patient status - normal pregnant neurotic narcissist - and leave behind my old patient status - average infertile neurotic narcissist - I am finding an entire new list of questions and preoccupations to distract my thoughts and keep me from being a normal, productive neurotic narcissistic citizen...
Is this baby a boy or a girl?
And isn't that the mother of all questions? One might assume that once I found out, I would be able to focus on normal things and be able to function and concentrate on the trivial things - like, oh, maybe school? Work? Personal hygiene?
(It can't be winter soon enough, so that I may have an excuse for why my legs are covered in what can only be called FUR.)
(Always bringing it with the sexy, I am.)
As an aside, how do I keep meeting people who are against my finding out what I am having? It goes like this: Oh, you're pregnant! Are you finding out what you're having? Really? Why would you want to ruin the surprise?
Bah! Kiss my ass, people. I have other things to be surprised about. Like, the never ending stupidity of the general public.
But we did find out. Today! And now there are a whole new list of questions floating around my mind now that it appears that we are, really honest to goodness having a baby...
Will the baby be laid back like daddy, or a little more aggressive, like mommy?
Will it be a sports fan like daddy, or prefer shopping, like mommy?
Will it leave hysterical voicemails in crazy voices for its friends, like daddy?
Will it's friends, like mommy's friends, have to bring extra underwear for sleepovers just incase they laugh so hard they pee their pants?
Will it have a freakishly long second toe, like daddy?
Will it have freakishly small carnie hands, like mommy?
And how about us - will we be good parents? Patient, appreciative, always seeing the big picture and not going nuts over the little things? Will we be able to carry on adult conversations that revolve around things other than parenting and grocery bills? Or will we interrupt conversations to talk to our kids, then forget what we were saying and just generally make people want to blow their brains out?
I can't help but wonder what sorts of quarks we'll pass on to our daughter.
In about five months, we'll get to start learning what kind of little person she will be.
Will this pregnancy make it to its end in a spectacularly boring and normal way?
As I settle into accepting my new patient status - normal pregnant neurotic narcissist - and leave behind my old patient status - average infertile neurotic narcissist - I am finding an entire new list of questions and preoccupations to distract my thoughts and keep me from being a normal, productive neurotic narcissistic citizen...
Is this baby a boy or a girl?
And isn't that the mother of all questions? One might assume that once I found out, I would be able to focus on normal things and be able to function and concentrate on the trivial things - like, oh, maybe school? Work? Personal hygiene?
(It can't be winter soon enough, so that I may have an excuse for why my legs are covered in what can only be called FUR.)
(Always bringing it with the sexy, I am.)
As an aside, how do I keep meeting people who are against my finding out what I am having? It goes like this: Oh, you're pregnant! Are you finding out what you're having? Really? Why would you want to ruin the surprise?
Bah! Kiss my ass, people. I have other things to be surprised about. Like, the never ending stupidity of the general public.
But we did find out. Today! And now there are a whole new list of questions floating around my mind now that it appears that we are, really honest to goodness having a baby...
Will the baby be laid back like daddy, or a little more aggressive, like mommy?
Will it be a sports fan like daddy, or prefer shopping, like mommy?
Will it leave hysterical voicemails in crazy voices for its friends, like daddy?
Will it's friends, like mommy's friends, have to bring extra underwear for sleepovers just incase they laugh so hard they pee their pants?
Will it have a freakishly long second toe, like daddy?
Will it have freakishly small carnie hands, like mommy?
And how about us - will we be good parents? Patient, appreciative, always seeing the big picture and not going nuts over the little things? Will we be able to carry on adult conversations that revolve around things other than parenting and grocery bills? Or will we interrupt conversations to talk to our kids, then forget what we were saying and just generally make people want to blow their brains out?
I can't help but wonder what sorts of quarks we'll pass on to our daughter.
In about five months, we'll get to start learning what kind of little person she will be.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
19 Weeks: I don't need you! I don't need anyone! I have a snoogle!
We have a morning routine with the dogs. Mark gets up at an ungodly hour (4:30 am), showers, lets the dogs out, then brings them to our room to cuddle with me (read:pounce on my face and possibly sniff my crotch) when he leaves at 5:30.
Usually, I am halfway awake when he comes in, and I can fully enjoy the dog food-breath kisses and cuddles. But lately I have been dead asleep because I got a SNOOGLE! I mean, this thing is the best $52 purchase I've ever made!
Here is an incredibly ghey picture of a snoogle, snagged from Babies R Us:
Apparently, the Snoogle has been around since the mid-80's, judging by the fashion displayed in this photo. (My favorite part is the man socks she is wearing. Shexy!)
This morning, I was still asleep when the dogs came in and when they jumped on me I groaned and covered my head with one hand and my uterus with another. So of course, Mark takes the chance to tell the dogs that I don't love or need them now that I have my Snoogle. Because we take every opportunity to manipulate the love of our dogs.
And I said: I don't need anybody! I have a Snoogle!
And I may or may not have meant it. Just a little.
I mean, it does create an issue if there is to be any sort of touching. As in: Mark cannot break the Snoogle barrier. Oh, but the sleep! And the comfy! Can you really expect me to choose between my Snoogle and my husband?
Nobody said pregnancy was romantic, right?*
I'm thinking of making the switch from straight belly shots to full-body shots. I have been taking them myself with the self timer for just belly shots, or in the mirror. I think just the belly looks weird at this point. Here are both for 19 Weeks:
I would like to have Mark take them, but I only could do that at night, and I look like complete garbage after work and school.
Things are moving right along here - I am starving ALL THE TIME now, but can only eat small portions before I am stuffed and OMFG going to die! Then an hour later, I'm starving again, and honestly people, it's getting really hard to support my feedbagging habits.
Only, like, 35 more meals*** between now and when we find out if this cupcake is a boy or girl!
*I might use it forever, though.**
**Meh. Nobody said marriage was romatic, right?
***Or, Friday. 35 was a conservative number.
Usually, I am halfway awake when he comes in, and I can fully enjoy the dog food-breath kisses and cuddles. But lately I have been dead asleep because I got a SNOOGLE! I mean, this thing is the best $52 purchase I've ever made!
Here is an incredibly ghey picture of a snoogle, snagged from Babies R Us:
Apparently, the Snoogle has been around since the mid-80's, judging by the fashion displayed in this photo. (My favorite part is the man socks she is wearing. Shexy!)
This morning, I was still asleep when the dogs came in and when they jumped on me I groaned and covered my head with one hand and my uterus with another. So of course, Mark takes the chance to tell the dogs that I don't love or need them now that I have my Snoogle. Because we take every opportunity to manipulate the love of our dogs.
And I said: I don't need anybody! I have a Snoogle!
And I may or may not have meant it. Just a little.
I mean, it does create an issue if there is to be any sort of touching. As in: Mark cannot break the Snoogle barrier. Oh, but the sleep! And the comfy! Can you really expect me to choose between my Snoogle and my husband?
Nobody said pregnancy was romantic, right?*
I'm thinking of making the switch from straight belly shots to full-body shots. I have been taking them myself with the self timer for just belly shots, or in the mirror. I think just the belly looks weird at this point. Here are both for 19 Weeks:
I would like to have Mark take them, but I only could do that at night, and I look like complete garbage after work and school.
Things are moving right along here - I am starving ALL THE TIME now, but can only eat small portions before I am stuffed and OMFG going to die! Then an hour later, I'm starving again, and honestly people, it's getting really hard to support my feedbagging habits.
Only, like, 35 more meals*** between now and when we find out if this cupcake is a boy or girl!
*I might use it forever, though.**
**Meh. Nobody said marriage was romatic, right?
***Or, Friday. 35 was a conservative number.
Friday, September 26, 2008
18 Weeks: Hey, Hey, Hey...
I have a confession to make that the general infertile community is not going to like.
Involving weight gain.
(I can hear you rustling through your grocery bag in search of tomatoes and possibly darts or other sharp objects.)
(Hold please while I step into my full body armor.)
I realize the annoyances I am about to cause, because I have rolled my eyes and given the finger to my computer many, many times after reading about a pregnant person complaining about weight. I've been the person desperate to just get pregnant who wanted to kill or seriously injure someone smug enough to have what I wanted and have the gull to complain about the very things that are supposed to happen.
I get it.
It's not that I don't like my belly. I think I look damn adorable, if I'm being quite honest. I took this 18 week picture this morning, then exclaimed to myself "self, you are the cutest person alive!"
There has been some significant rounding happening in my abdomen this week and look? Who doesn't think that's cute? Who, I say?
(If you do not, please do not bother to comment because lo! I careth not what you think! Spread bitter elsewhere!)
Now that the disclaimers are posted I should probably get to the point.
The point being that I am having a hard time accepting weight gain. I worry about it. I worry about it too much, I'm sure. Every time I weigh myself (every morning), I calculate the acceptable amount of weight gain that I have left and try to imagine how it will spread out over the pregnancy and how much I will end up gaining overall based on what I've gained so far and try to think of healthier things to eat so that I will not gain too much.
I worry that people think I look way bigger than I should at 18 weeks - which has been magnified by the new development this week of having complete strangers ask me OH MY GOD YOU'RE PREGNANT WHEN ARE YOU DUE?
My favorite was, "You're not fat, you're pregnant!" exclaimed as soon as I walked through the door. And I was all, exactly! But...am I that big?
And trust me when I say that I want to bash my own face into the pavement for having these thoughts.
Speaking of bashing my face into the pavement, I think I am stereotypically becoming the emotional pregnant person. Because it was really hard for me not to cry at the end of The Office this week (the Jim and Pam part, not the Toby part) because OH! LOVE! Tis grand!
Other happenings: I should be studying. Right now. Twenty Minutes Ago. Three weeks ago. Am I studying right now? Well, no.
I cannot study at home because I am too distracted by TV, laundry, MY COMFY BED. Those sorts of things. So I usually go to some sort of coffee shop and study because I am forced to get done (except when they have WiFi and I bring my computer).
Sometimes my efforts are thwarted because people think that I look like I am a nice person and want to talk to the people who hang out in coffee shops on the weekends just for shits and giggles. And conversation, apparently? I swear - I am sitting with papers everywhere, books opened, and a look of concentration. Yet, somehow, someone strikes up conversation with me and will.not.stop.talking. no matter how many times I give a one word answer then look away, or just smile and nod and give looks of death.
I don't think that people realize that I'm not that nice. I mean, I don't care what you do for a living or where you vacation, or oh, you're majoring in accounting well let me tell you a story about accounting! NO! GO AWAY!
(Unless your story is about how you somehow found an extra $100 on your books and want to give it to a knocked up grad student you met in a coffee shop as a means of community service. Then we can talk.)
Involving weight gain.
(I can hear you rustling through your grocery bag in search of tomatoes and possibly darts or other sharp objects.)
(Hold please while I step into my full body armor.)
I realize the annoyances I am about to cause, because I have rolled my eyes and given the finger to my computer many, many times after reading about a pregnant person complaining about weight. I've been the person desperate to just get pregnant who wanted to kill or seriously injure someone smug enough to have what I wanted and have the gull to complain about the very things that are supposed to happen.
I get it.
It's not that I don't like my belly. I think I look damn adorable, if I'm being quite honest. I took this 18 week picture this morning, then exclaimed to myself "self, you are the cutest person alive!"
There has been some significant rounding happening in my abdomen this week and look? Who doesn't think that's cute? Who, I say?
(If you do not, please do not bother to comment because lo! I careth not what you think! Spread bitter elsewhere!)
Now that the disclaimers are posted I should probably get to the point.
The point being that I am having a hard time accepting weight gain. I worry about it. I worry about it too much, I'm sure. Every time I weigh myself (every morning), I calculate the acceptable amount of weight gain that I have left and try to imagine how it will spread out over the pregnancy and how much I will end up gaining overall based on what I've gained so far and try to think of healthier things to eat so that I will not gain too much.
I worry that people think I look way bigger than I should at 18 weeks - which has been magnified by the new development this week of having complete strangers ask me OH MY GOD YOU'RE PREGNANT WHEN ARE YOU DUE?
My favorite was, "You're not fat, you're pregnant!" exclaimed as soon as I walked through the door. And I was all, exactly! But...am I that big?
And trust me when I say that I want to bash my own face into the pavement for having these thoughts.
Speaking of bashing my face into the pavement, I think I am stereotypically becoming the emotional pregnant person. Because it was really hard for me not to cry at the end of The Office this week (the Jim and Pam part, not the Toby part) because OH! LOVE! Tis grand!
Other happenings: I should be studying. Right now. Twenty Minutes Ago. Three weeks ago. Am I studying right now? Well, no.
I cannot study at home because I am too distracted by TV, laundry, MY COMFY BED. Those sorts of things. So I usually go to some sort of coffee shop and study because I am forced to get done (except when they have WiFi and I bring my computer).
Sometimes my efforts are thwarted because people think that I look like I am a nice person and want to talk to the people who hang out in coffee shops on the weekends just for shits and giggles. And conversation, apparently? I swear - I am sitting with papers everywhere, books opened, and a look of concentration. Yet, somehow, someone strikes up conversation with me and will.not.stop.talking. no matter how many times I give a one word answer then look away, or just smile and nod and give looks of death.
I don't think that people realize that I'm not that nice. I mean, I don't care what you do for a living or where you vacation, or oh, you're majoring in accounting well let me tell you a story about accounting! NO! GO AWAY!
(Unless your story is about how you somehow found an extra $100 on your books and want to give it to a knocked up grad student you met in a coffee shop as a means of community service. Then we can talk.)
Saturday, September 20, 2008
You Down With RLP?
Yeah you know me!
And in case you were wondering, as soon as this title occurred to me, I spent a solid 5 minutes trying to figure out how to change the lyrics of OPP to fit with RLP. Unsuccessfully, may I add.*
A rapper I will never be. I will leave the awesome tunes to Naughty By Nature.
Here's a (VERY ACCURATE) description of round ligament pain that I found on Baby Center :
But listen...there is a cure for RLP: Walk like an old lady! Hunch over, put a hand on your abdomen, and walk with shuffling feet whilst grunting and sighing as much as possible. (You may also shake your fists at the heavens.)
Everything is going well over here in uterus central, but the RLP is a little ouchy. I'm handling it well by making strange noises. Clearly, am pregnancy dynamo.
I haven't been having much in the way of cravings. Sure, there are things that sound good, but nothing that causes me to elbow Mark in his incredibly sculpted abs** in the middle of the night demanding that he acquire some ridiculous food or else suffer the consequences of pregnancy hunger NOM NOM NOM.
The things I have been craving don't involve food, but instead involve mooshy cute baby items. I think my mom is having sympathy cravings, because she pulled an early Santa Claus and delivered my Christmas presents in September...All the Graco Deco stuff we wanted!
Our High Chair:
The Travel System:
The Pack and Play:
The Bouncy Chair:
And since we snagged a great deal, we also got an early Christmas gift for ourselves!
Our Glider and Ottoman:
AND, since the big ultrasound is less than two weeks away, why don't you be darling and vote on my poll so that I can speculate pointlessly and obsess over something that doesn't really matter...mmmkay?
*One particularly troubling line: "It's kind of like another way to call a cat a kitten." If you have any suggestions, leave them in the comments.
**He has been elbowed in said abs for snoring, because OMFG stop breathing you inconsiderate prick! I'm trying to get my sleepz!
And in case you were wondering, as soon as this title occurred to me, I spent a solid 5 minutes trying to figure out how to change the lyrics of OPP to fit with RLP. Unsuccessfully, may I add.*
A rapper I will never be. I will leave the awesome tunes to Naughty By Nature.
Here's a (VERY ACCURATE) description of round ligament pain that I found on Baby Center :
You may feel round ligament pain as a short jabbing sensation if you suddenly change position, such as when you're getting out of bed or out of a chair or when you cough, roll over in bed, or get out of the bathtub. You may feel it as a dull ache after a particularly active day — when you've been walking a lot or doing some other physical activity.
But listen...there is a cure for RLP: Walk like an old lady! Hunch over, put a hand on your abdomen, and walk with shuffling feet whilst grunting and sighing as much as possible. (You may also shake your fists at the heavens.)
Everything is going well over here in uterus central, but the RLP is a little ouchy. I'm handling it well by making strange noises. Clearly, am pregnancy dynamo.
I haven't been having much in the way of cravings. Sure, there are things that sound good, but nothing that causes me to elbow Mark in his incredibly sculpted abs** in the middle of the night demanding that he acquire some ridiculous food or else suffer the consequences of pregnancy hunger NOM NOM NOM.
The things I have been craving don't involve food, but instead involve mooshy cute baby items. I think my mom is having sympathy cravings, because she pulled an early Santa Claus and delivered my Christmas presents in September...All the Graco Deco stuff we wanted!
Our High Chair:
The Travel System:
The Pack and Play:
The Bouncy Chair:
And since we snagged a great deal, we also got an early Christmas gift for ourselves!
Our Glider and Ottoman:
AND, since the big ultrasound is less than two weeks away, why don't you be darling and vote on my poll so that I can speculate pointlessly and obsess over something that doesn't really matter...mmmkay?
*One particularly troubling line: "It's kind of like another way to call a cat a kitten." If you have any suggestions, leave them in the comments.
**He has been elbowed in said abs for snoring, because OMFG stop breathing you inconsiderate prick! I'm trying to get my sleepz!
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
The Girl Who Cried Quickening! Or, 16 and 17 Weeks
I'm pretty sure I've been feeling the baby move since the end of 15 weeks.
At first, I thought it was gas. For like, 3 days, I kept thinking "My GOD I am filled to the brim with methane!" But then I thought about it, and I realized that I couldn't remember farting at all for the past week despite all the rumbling in my abdominal bulge area.
Hmmmm...
So I shut up and didn't tell anyone that I was feeling the baby, because I wasn't sure and I didn't want to be the girl who cried quickening when I really just needed a Gas-X and a lot of water. I didn't want to confuse the baby with the proverbial butt trumpet.
But it is definitely the baby, who loves when I drink pop and eat anything.
I think the main confusion was that I was waiting for "flutters." Like, butterflies. But the baby feels more like popcorn popping in my ute - like a fury of little tiny thumps. Like: thump, thump, thumpthumpthump gimme more caesar salad NOW NOW NOW KTHXBYE thump. (I have eaten caesar salads at lunch for three weeks straight. Yum.)
BUMPWATCH: like Baywatch, but less...stupid.
16 Weeks - still at 5 pound weight gain.
17 Weeks - also, still 5 pound weight gain.
Two people have been so bold as to look at my stomach and then ask me about my pregnancy.
The douche at GNC who tried to sell me sports vitamins after I repeatedly told him that, no my husband doesn't work out, lift weights, do cardio, and no he does not have a physically demanding job. Just ring up these Mega Mens for healthy sperm and shut your fucking YAPPER! But no - he went to another sales pitch - What kind of vitamins are you taking, prenatals?
I should've said no, I'm just chubby you bastard. Have any diet pills? Or maybe a side of beef?
A client at work looked at my belly, then said, "When are you due?" When I said February, she cocked her head and said, "Oh, congratulations!" The text bubble that appeared above her head said, "Jesus Christ! You look 8 months pregnant! Lay off the Hostess products!" In my mind, I popped the bubble with my hang nail and told her to kiss my lumpy ass. In reality, I said hey! Thanks!
I sort of wish I had some Hostess products right now...
Other ridiculous things happened this week - I am pretty sure I offended a blind man, my entire left side fell asleep after I slept in my car on my lunch break and a ball scratcher offered to help me inside, and I made a fertile pregnant lady think I was crazy with my attention to pregnancy detail. I also drooled chocolate pop tart all down the front of my white sweater as soon as I got to work. Maybe I'll update again this week - I'm sure you can't live without those details.
At first, I thought it was gas. For like, 3 days, I kept thinking "My GOD I am filled to the brim with methane!" But then I thought about it, and I realized that I couldn't remember farting at all for the past week despite all the rumbling in my abdominal bulge area.
Hmmmm...
So I shut up and didn't tell anyone that I was feeling the baby, because I wasn't sure and I didn't want to be the girl who cried quickening when I really just needed a Gas-X and a lot of water. I didn't want to confuse the baby with the proverbial butt trumpet.
But it is definitely the baby, who loves when I drink pop and eat anything.
I think the main confusion was that I was waiting for "flutters." Like, butterflies. But the baby feels more like popcorn popping in my ute - like a fury of little tiny thumps. Like: thump, thump, thumpthumpthump gimme more caesar salad NOW NOW NOW KTHXBYE thump. (I have eaten caesar salads at lunch for three weeks straight. Yum.)
BUMPWATCH: like Baywatch, but less...stupid.
16 Weeks - still at 5 pound weight gain.
17 Weeks - also, still 5 pound weight gain.
Two people have been so bold as to look at my stomach and then ask me about my pregnancy.
The douche at GNC who tried to sell me sports vitamins after I repeatedly told him that, no my husband doesn't work out, lift weights, do cardio, and no he does not have a physically demanding job. Just ring up these Mega Mens for healthy sperm and shut your fucking YAPPER! But no - he went to another sales pitch - What kind of vitamins are you taking, prenatals?
I should've said no, I'm just chubby you bastard. Have any diet pills? Or maybe a side of beef?
A client at work looked at my belly, then said, "When are you due?" When I said February, she cocked her head and said, "Oh, congratulations!" The text bubble that appeared above her head said, "Jesus Christ! You look 8 months pregnant! Lay off the Hostess products!" In my mind, I popped the bubble with my hang nail and told her to kiss my lumpy ass. In reality, I said hey! Thanks!
I sort of wish I had some Hostess products right now...
Other ridiculous things happened this week - I am pretty sure I offended a blind man, my entire left side fell asleep after I slept in my car on my lunch break and a ball scratcher offered to help me inside, and I made a fertile pregnant lady think I was crazy with my attention to pregnancy detail. I also drooled chocolate pop tart all down the front of my white sweater as soon as I got to work. Maybe I'll update again this week - I'm sure you can't live without those details.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
15 Weeks Pregnant! But Only One Week Late!
Oh, this blogging business...
Tis hard while I am going to school to update, because I only think of funny things to say while I am in class and should be listening. And then by the time I get home, I'm all what? Blog? Bah.
Anyway, project cupcake is going along swimmingly. 15 week expansion is as follows:
The big ultrasound is scheduled for October 3, which is only because I LIED and said I couldn't come at 20 weeks, so that I could come 5 days earlier. Don't judge me (or do, because let's face it - I'd probably judge you).
I think I am looking bigger these days, but still holding strong at 5 pound gain. I see much belly explosion in my future. And much ass mushyness. It should be fun to look at!
You will also notice that my skirt is trying to run for dear life after being tugged up over my hips. Banana Republic is probably filing suit as we speak because they are really against chub a lubs trying to wear their skirts when they are too damned pregnant! (You will be happy to know that I changed after I saw the picture)
I bought some maternity clothes (at Motherhood, who probably is waiting for my apology for this post) and they? ARE FABULOUS! Like pajamas, but you can wear them all day! In public! And not look like one of those hillbillies who goes out in public in their pajamas because why not? Like, professional work pants that feel like flannel! LOVE. LUST. COMMMMFFFYY...
I have really high hopes of doing my 16 week post this weekend (preview: FLUTTERS!), but we all know that I am a lying, lazy, fat ass (<----sarcasm, folks! drink it up!) whore who will probably just sleep and eat all weekend.
Tis hard while I am going to school to update, because I only think of funny things to say while I am in class and should be listening. And then by the time I get home, I'm all what? Blog? Bah.
Anyway, project cupcake is going along swimmingly. 15 week expansion is as follows:
The big ultrasound is scheduled for October 3, which is only because I LIED and said I couldn't come at 20 weeks, so that I could come 5 days earlier. Don't judge me (or do, because let's face it - I'd probably judge you).
I think I am looking bigger these days, but still holding strong at 5 pound gain. I see much belly explosion in my future. And much ass mushyness. It should be fun to look at!
You will also notice that my skirt is trying to run for dear life after being tugged up over my hips. Banana Republic is probably filing suit as we speak because they are really against chub a lubs trying to wear their skirts when they are too damned pregnant! (You will be happy to know that I changed after I saw the picture)
I bought some maternity clothes (at Motherhood, who probably is waiting for my apology for this post) and they? ARE FABULOUS! Like pajamas, but you can wear them all day! In public! And not look like one of those hillbillies who goes out in public in their pajamas because why not? Like, professional work pants that feel like flannel! LOVE. LUST. COMMMMFFFYY...
I have really high hopes of doing my 16 week post this weekend (preview: FLUTTERS!), but we all know that I am a lying, lazy, fat ass (<----sarcasm, folks! drink it up!) whore who will probably just sleep and eat all weekend.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
You May Call Me Snotty McBloody-Boogerson
It appears that I have developed a bit of a problem with snot and phlegm. A problem, as in, I have both and can’t get rid of them, and sound like a disgusting germbot.
To make matters worse, I am afraid to ever blow my nose, because every once in a while I will get a raging nose bleed. And since I spend most of my time away from home these days, I am a bit hesitant to blow my nose seeing as I may create a faux murder scene.
With my luck, my nose blood would land right beside an actual murder victim’s blood at an actual crime scene, and I will go to jail for a murder that I didn’t commit because of the advances in DNA technology. I’m sure the victim would end up being fertile, then my blog would just end up being proof of my rage and indecency at trial.
You see, it’s best if I keep my snot in my nose, where it can form bloody crust boogers and make me sound like one of those annoying nasal talkers. Or a person with a cold who refuses to blow her nose, but instead sniffs snot all day long and drives you CRAZY.
To make matters worse, I am afraid to ever blow my nose, because every once in a while I will get a raging nose bleed. And since I spend most of my time away from home these days, I am a bit hesitant to blow my nose seeing as I may create a faux murder scene.
With my luck, my nose blood would land right beside an actual murder victim’s blood at an actual crime scene, and I will go to jail for a murder that I didn’t commit because of the advances in DNA technology. I’m sure the victim would end up being fertile, then my blog would just end up being proof of my rage and indecency at trial.
You see, it’s best if I keep my snot in my nose, where it can form bloody crust boogers and make me sound like one of those annoying nasal talkers. Or a person with a cold who refuses to blow her nose, but instead sniffs snot all day long and drives you CRAZY.
Monday, September 1, 2008
14 Weeks, Plus! A Bonus Freak Out
First things first, and mostly for my edification, my 14 week belly shot:
I have a bit of a confession, too. Based on my measurement at my first ultrasound, a start a new week each Tuesday. So tomorrow I will be 15 (!) weeks. BUT, based on our exact day of scientifically fueled conception, I would start a new week the Thursday before. So based on that date, I'd be 15 weeks 5 days tomorrow.
Usually I split the difference. On Saturday each week, I start saying that I am whatever the next week is. Mostly because I feel the need to rationalize the size of my ass and stomach by being as far along as possible...especially around late afternoon, when all of the food I ate for breakfast and lunch are sitting in my stomach, undigested, and making me look huge.
Kind of like shoving waffles, a sandwich, and apple, some crackers, a yogurt, and maybe a string cheese, directly down my pants. I look like the old lady who swallowed a fly, except I don't want to die so I won't swallow a horse (of course).
Weight gain shot up a little, now at +6 pounds. This could be attributed to the increased holiday weekend eating combined with the lack of holiday pooping. (You're welcome for that.)
According to all the books/websites, I should be able to feel the baby move in the next few weeks. And I can't stop trying to be an overachiever by laying still in bed at night and focusing on my abdomen. So far, nothing. Stubborn ass fetus...
Moving on to other ridiculous things, I am freaking the hell out about money.
Maybe you've heard? Or maybe not? But daycare is EXPENSIVE. Like, $750/month is sort of a deal, expensive. It seems like everyone I know has free daycare from someone they know, or is able to stay home, and so I've never heard any complaints about the cost of daycare.
Oh, how ignorance was bliss. Sweet, sweet, moronic ignorance.
Let me just say that I have a major money freak out before any major financial decision. Like, when we were in the process of buying our house, I couldn't sleep for a week, had raging heartburn, and kept adding figures and running scenarios over and over and over because I kept worrying that I forgot some major bill and then poof! We'd be bankrupt and living in a Toyota down by the river, because hell, we wouldn't even be able to afford a van and AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH FAIL.
So the whole baby/daycare/higher medical insurance/diapers/Excedrin Migraine pending financial responsibility is making me all cuckoo. It's not an issue of being able to afford it, but it is an issue of having to adhere to a budget, and quit living like DINKs (*insert projectile vomit at use of the phrase DINK here*).
The financial freak outs probably really help me make better decisions, but DAYAM!
So we have found a daycare center we like, but we're going to look into some people who do in-home care. We're also looking at some scheduling options, since Mark can do flex time.
My last semester of grad school started last week, so I'm starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Just wait till you see my picture - you won't recognize me because of all of my new smartz.
I have a bit of a confession, too. Based on my measurement at my first ultrasound, a start a new week each Tuesday. So tomorrow I will be 15 (!) weeks. BUT, based on our exact day of scientifically fueled conception, I would start a new week the Thursday before. So based on that date, I'd be 15 weeks 5 days tomorrow.
Usually I split the difference. On Saturday each week, I start saying that I am whatever the next week is. Mostly because I feel the need to rationalize the size of my ass and stomach by being as far along as possible...especially around late afternoon, when all of the food I ate for breakfast and lunch are sitting in my stomach, undigested, and making me look huge.
Kind of like shoving waffles, a sandwich, and apple, some crackers, a yogurt, and maybe a string cheese, directly down my pants. I look like the old lady who swallowed a fly, except I don't want to die so I won't swallow a horse (of course).
Weight gain shot up a little, now at +6 pounds. This could be attributed to the increased holiday weekend eating combined with the lack of holiday pooping. (You're welcome for that.)
According to all the books/websites, I should be able to feel the baby move in the next few weeks. And I can't stop trying to be an overachiever by laying still in bed at night and focusing on my abdomen. So far, nothing. Stubborn ass fetus...
Moving on to other ridiculous things, I am freaking the hell out about money.
Maybe you've heard? Or maybe not? But daycare is EXPENSIVE. Like, $750/month is sort of a deal, expensive. It seems like everyone I know has free daycare from someone they know, or is able to stay home, and so I've never heard any complaints about the cost of daycare.
Oh, how ignorance was bliss. Sweet, sweet, moronic ignorance.
Let me just say that I have a major money freak out before any major financial decision. Like, when we were in the process of buying our house, I couldn't sleep for a week, had raging heartburn, and kept adding figures and running scenarios over and over and over because I kept worrying that I forgot some major bill and then poof! We'd be bankrupt and living in a Toyota down by the river, because hell, we wouldn't even be able to afford a van and AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH FAIL.
So the whole baby/daycare/higher medical insurance/diapers/Excedrin Migraine pending financial responsibility is making me all cuckoo. It's not an issue of being able to afford it, but it is an issue of having to adhere to a budget, and quit living like DINKs (*insert projectile vomit at use of the phrase DINK here*).
The financial freak outs probably really help me make better decisions, but DAYAM!
So we have found a daycare center we like, but we're going to look into some people who do in-home care. We're also looking at some scheduling options, since Mark can do flex time.
My last semester of grad school started last week, so I'm starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Just wait till you see my picture - you won't recognize me because of all of my new smartz.
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