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!

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.

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)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.