She makes this face...

When I take her picture:

The guy at Portrait Innovations called it a Stinkface, just before I punched him in the wiener*. Would you believe me if I told you that I can't write a real post because I am in jail for punching a Portrait Innovations "photographer" in the wiener?

I'm slacking. Like, a lot. I have stuff I want to write, but it's all jumbled in my brain. I blame it on Turkey and Starbucks. Our Thanksgiving weekend could not have been better - it was relaxing, Olivia was adorable, lots of good eats and visiting, some Black Friday deals. My brain is protesting the return to normal life.

I hope everyone had a filling Thanksgiving. Feel free to tell me about it in the comments. Or tell me a joke. Or give me a diet tip.

*I wrote all the Wieners in this post as Weiner and had to fix them all in the spell check. "I before E except after C and in words like Weird, Neighbor and Weiner." But don't call your neighbor's weiner weird, because that would be impolite.

A Great Blog? Definitely!

Another guest post by another of my favorite bloggers: Beverley.

I can't even remember how I found Bev's blog, A Baby? Maybe... Most likely some lucky Googling about Infertility. But I've been a big big fan of hers for a few years now. Her posts are always clever, and she always closes with the very best quotes.

I love Bev. I love her style, her sense of humor, and her honest yet polite way of writing. If we lived near each other, I'd beg her to be my real life friend. But since we live far far away, we are stuck being Internet friends. Her adorable little Lucy is a month older than Olivia, and OHMAHGAH is she just so freaking cute you won't be able to stand it!

(I'm not going to post for Thanksgiving - I think we all know what I am thankful for this year. So make sure you enjoy this post from Bev before you pass out from your Turkey coma, and have a fantastic Thanksgiving!)

-------------------

Oh man, I’m so excited to be here. It’s like a birthday present in itself because I luuuurrrve me some Jennepper. Truly. She’s amazing, and she didn’t even pay me (very much ) to write that. Anyhoo…

Well, here I am. I had the big 2-9er yesterday and I am now officially in the final year of my twenties. Do I think that 30 is old? Absolutely not, but the recent streak of gray hairs on the top of my head and the wrinkles on either side of my eyes say differently.

It feels like it was just yesterday that I was graduating college, soon to turn 23. I was going to be big time. A big time journalist. Traveling all over the world. No settling down for me, no way. Husband? No thanks. Kids? Absolutely not.

Then I met Rob. Freshly single and looking for a summer fling. He was visiting Oregon for the summer. He would be gone by September. It was perfect. We’d have fun, he’d go home and I’d get my big time job and start living my glamorous life.

Fast forward to the end of that summer, I was not letting that boy go anywhere without me. We were madly in love and that was it. I picked up and moved thousands of miles across the country to a city where I knew no one. All alone in New York City living above Wall Street with two complete strangers, a curtain as a wall and a low paying job at a crazy animal magazine that I hated. All for him.

We married the next September, just before I turned 24, barely over a year from when we first laid eyes on one another. In a vineyard in the breezy late Oregon summer. There was dancing, laughing, so much happiness. The thought of needing anything else, anyone else, in our lives, far from our minds.

All that no husband stuff that I thought before. Silly! Ridiculous! At 25, when he jokingly asked about having a baby, I did a double take. A baby? No thanks, I told him. I’m not the motherly type. I’m not good with babies. Children don’t like me. I’m not silly enough. I don’t like cartoons. Hate them actually. I haven’t changed a diaper since I was 13, and even then I doubt I did it right (and now that I think about it, who the hell leaves a baby with the 13 year old? Really?) I’m never the one who “wants to hold the baby”. Besides, I would go nuts if I had to stay at home with some sticky child all day long. I don’t even know how to do art projects or whatever else you do with small children. No thanks! He laughed and told me he’d gladly be a stay at home dad, think about it Bev.

I did. The more I thought, the more I liked the idea. Maybe I could do this. I could be a mother. Hell, why not?

So we tried. This is exciting. And fun! We’re going to be parents. What should our baby’s name be? Do you think its going to be a boy or a girl? I’m certain it worked this month. Maybe next month. I so don’t want to have a baby in January. I’d prefer a spring birthday. Maybe next month. And then we tried some more. Why hello there 26th birthday. And tried some more. Hmmm. Turns out they lied in high school. It isn’t that easy to get knocked up.

See you later 26, here comes 27. Damnit, I want that baby. I don’t care what month. I don’t care if she’s a girl or he’s a boy. I don’t care. How can I want to be something so badly, something that I never thought I wanted in the first place? But I did, more than anything. Then it happened. We were pregnant.

28th birthday I’m huge. I’m ecstatic. We’re waiting. It’s almost been 9 months. I get a girdle-like belly contraption to hold my enormous girth that is hurting my back and a pregnancy massage for my birthday. So glamorous! My feet look like sausages in my too small shoes. I waddle around at work, need help getting up from the couch at home. Hey, 23 year old self, look at me now? Betcha never would have guessed it. Ultra glam job? Nope. Married? Yes! Baby on the way? Yes! Happier than I’ve ever been? Absolutely.

29th birthday. Yesterday. My last year in my twenties and how I have changed. What I wanted for my birthday at 23… probably a pair of designer jeans and that chunky Tiffany necklaces that EVERYONE wore back then. What I wanted for my birthday at 29? A maid, because damn it’s hard to keep a house clean these days, and my post-pregnancy OCD has kicked in to high gear so much so that a maid is my ultimate dream. A not very feasible one, but a little wishful thinking never hurt anyone.

What I got? A husband who stayed home from work in order to clean the house top to bottom, cooked a traditional English dinner for my birthday. A beautiful baby, who is the light of my life, that went to bed without so much as a peep last night so that Mama could watch So You Think You Can Dance and read her new book in absolute peace.

No maid? No problem. I couldn’t want for more (ok, maybe I still want the maid a wee bit). I’m living my last year of my twenties with all the things I thought I didn’t want, but in the end have made my life complete. A very Happy Birthday to me indeed!

Thank you Mrs.Jennepper for having me!



“Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be.”
- Robert Browning

My body is a wonderland. Ish.

Oh, post pregnant body is surely what inspired John Mayer.

(Speaking of: I say you can't get stoned, John Mayer. ME! That's who.)

Right after I had Olivia, I felt SO SKINNY. My stomach looked so flat on the top, and huge on the bottom. Like a big human butternut squash.



That looks awfully phallic, doesn't it? My abdomen looked like a giant flesh colored penis squash. Definitely inspirational. My uterus was huge and it was pulling everything down and making it appear that I was the Ohio version of Heidi Klum, except at least a foot shorter and with bigger thighs (ESPECIALLY when my milk came in...because RAWR).

Eventually my uterus got way smaller, and I was left with a belly full o'pizza dough. And somehow my thigh cellulite made its way up to my stomach. At around 8 months post partum, the doughyness started to disappear. But now my hips are moving back in and it is causing my belly to pop out in the most Three Months Pregnant fashion.

So, yeah. I look ridiculous. I don't really care that much because I am ridiculous. And every time I type ridiculous, I think of Balki Bartokomous.

Exhibit A: Don't be ridikalas, Cousin Larry.


Most disturbing, in my most humble and worthless opinion? Hair loss. When Olivia was three months old, I started losing hair. And for me to say that I was losing hair is serious, because I am basically a human Golden Retriever. But only in the hair loss department, not in any of the good desirable ways like loyal or friendly.

I really started going bald at my temples and my hair line went back about half an inch. So my movie theatre-sized forehead went to drive-in movie theatre-sized in the span of a month. This is the best picture I can find.


Title: In Which I Sport A Combover and A Bald Temple. (But Look At That BAYBEE! With Two Bald Parents, Bless Her Heart.)


And now all my hair is growing back, and I look like a chia pet. Here is a pretty good view of my itty bitty short hairs...


Today, my hair is really dry and so all the short hairs are sticking straight up on one side like some demented version of the Kate Gosselin haircut on the front of my head. It's really inconvenient because all of these men are swarming me and OH GOD I'M MARRIED (unless you are Robert Pattinson then YUM).

(Or Taylor Lautner)

(I'm seeing New Moon tonight.)

(I'm just gonna end this awkward post right here, mkay? Bai.)

Not the kind of baby weight I wanted to lose.

This may surprise you, but sometimes I make a big deal out of things that are totally not a big deal. I know. It's a very shocking revelation. I'm sorry if I sprung this on you at a bad time. I hope that you did not fall and hit your head or puncture your scrotum or twist an ovary.

Right.

Olivia had her 9 month well visit today. And she is well. Oh yes she is!

Howevever, she did lose weight. Which the pediatrician thought was totally uncool, especially since she is an itty bitty pretty one to begin with. Which prompted all sorts of questions about why I'm such a shitty mom, like do I feed her healthy foods? Does she eat enough formula? Does she seem happy? Does she poop and pee? Do I steal her food from her hand right before it gets to her mouth because I want to eat it because I am a total hoss?

OH MY GOD.

The problem is that Olivia was up with a runny nose until 2 last night. And I get up at 5. So I had three hours of sleep, a full work day, and then less than desirable news at the pediatrician. I'm using this as a free pass to be dramatic.

Woe is my skinny baybee! WOE! I feel like a bad mom, and other really ridiculous feeeeeeeelings! DRAMA! Want candy! Someone needs to gain weight around here, might as well be meeeeeeee!

So, the plan is to come back in a month for a weight check. This month, I need to do three of these four things:

1. Add an extra scoop of formula to her bottle.
2. Scoop some Crisco into her mouth before bed.
3. Add olive oil or butter to all her veggies, potatoes, anything I can lube up.
4. Try full fat yogurt and cheese.



Dear Internets...do you have any experience with this? Do you have any suggestions for fattening up my itty bitty baybee?

All the cool kids know Murgdan!

A while back, I asked you about your favorite blogs. A while back, like, the beginning of September. And some of you asked about my favorite blogs.

Look, I meant to get on this, like, three months ago, but then all kinds of stuff happened (no it didn't) and I got really bizzy (not really) and then I forgot (sort of a half truth here) and I've been up all night for weeks trying to make this happen (nope).

BUT, what I'm trying to say is that I'm going to try to show you my favorite blogs by bringing them to you via guest post. I'm going to try to do this once a week, but I make no promises since I am a lazy ass whore.

First up: Murgdan at Conceive This! If you don't read her blog, you should. She is funny and adorable and well-spoken and I've loved her blog for a long long time.

(Murgdan: Me love you long time.)

Jennepper Readers, Meet Murgdan.

-------------------------------------


I have arrived.

I have arrived because this guest post will appear on the first infertility blog I ever read. I didn’t find it by searching for things like “oh-my-GAWD-my-husband-has-wonky-sperm” or “we-need-IVF-so-I’m-drinking-alcohol”. I didn’t even google, “maybe if you just relax”. I actually searched for “Infertilty Humor” and ended up here. And I’m still here. So. That being said. The mere fact that I was even asked to guest post here means that I have arrived.

Most importantly, I have arrived pregnant. And needing clothes.

As an on-the-plus-side-but-hiding-it-well woman, I could have comfortably garbed myself in elastic waist pants since my last year of college. But, thanks to my official yet still unbelievable state of expectedness, I now have the official green light go ahead and purchase maternity wear, you know, legally.

I wouldn’t fit my belly into the ‘baby bump’ category just yet. While I don’t yet have a perfectly rounded bit of cuteness, my lower bit of what used to be squishy is slowly becoming more firm—which is awesome because I have always wanted rock hard abs. I’ll take what I can get. I love that for the first time in my life I don’t feel the need to ‘hold it in’, ‘suck it in’, or ‘tuck it in with an old lady girdle.’ I finally feel comfortable in this pregnancy and in my own skin.

Clothing-wise, I am frugal—and not too picky. I first made an attempt to purchase a lot of maternity clothes from a greedy maternity snob on Craig’s List. Craig needs a new list though—because this lady thought there was a difference between ‘used clothes’ and ‘only worn 3 or 4 times clothes’. I offered one hundred dollars for 20 items of used, as in previously worn, clothes, and she turned me down. “But I only wore some of this stuff a few times…I won’t take less than $150. I mean, it’s name brand stuff.” Name brand? It’s from Motherhood, bitch. I’m not trying to steal a deal on your Prada Armani Gucci Secret Belly Cashmere. You can drop that shit off at Goodwill, because for $150 I’ll buy my own new clothes and wear them 3 or 4 times and then sell them for 100 bucks myself.

I was off to the pregnant lady store--which was not an easy step. How intimidating is it to actually step foot inside a shop you’ve been rolling your eyes at for two years? Enough that I sat outside in my car for at least 5 minutes debating if I could put this shopping extravaganza off for just one more week. My bladder made the decision for me. I had to go in—now.

And there she was. Pregnancy Store Sales-Ho. Hunting me down faster than a used car salesman. Stop right there. “I just need one pair of jeans and a pair of work pants. That’s all.” Pregnancy Store Sales-Ho proceeded to show me at least 5 styles of pants, and introduce me to all my waist options. Over a pair of cords she exclaimed, “Oh my GAWD, and these are SO comfortable. I’m wearing a pair right now.” I gaze down at her belly. There’s not one. “Oh, I’m not pregnant. I just love the pants here.” What a strange perfect-bodied woman…who admits to wearing maternity clothes though she is not with child. Freak.

I picked out my pair of jeans and black work pants, and then headed to the restroom prior to trying on my long-awaited purchases. I am not quite sure what happened during my minute long trip, but I returned to a dressing room chock full of maternity pants, maternity t-shirts, and maternity sweaters. I was also given some type of strange fake pillow-belly that made me look like I was gestating an elephant—so I just trashed that under the chair. All I had to do to look 8 months along was stop sucking in—duh.

I was momentarily pissed off at perfect-bodied-maternity-wearing-sales-ho for putting so many things in my dressing room in an obvious attempt to trick me into buying a million dollars worth of stuff. Until I tried the stuff. And I liked the stuff. I was the best maternity customer ever. I bought every item she originally stuffed into the little curtained dressing room. Every item.

I love that these maternity clothes aren’t the flower-print empire-waist muumuus I imagined they would be. I am better dressed now than I have been in the last 3 years. Mostly, more than anything, I’m happy I have a perfectly good reason to wear clothes designed for pregnancy. I’m thrilled that I had a motive to even try them on. I’m ecstatic that I have cause to know the difference between a mid-belly an under-belly and a three-way belly.

Sometimes I don’t think this can get any better, but I have a feeling it will. Still, I’m not selling you my used name-brand clothes for anything less than $150, Craigslist. So don’t even try it.

38 Weeks, 6 Days

Mark posted this picture of us on Facebook. After I recovered from the brief horror of my unrecognizable ankles, I felt all nostalgic. It was about three weeks before we had Olivia. We were so excited! We had no idea what we were in for!

I loved being pregnant. I thought pregnant was the beez kneez.
Pregnant thought I was an asshole.

But I didn't care. Cankles, Gestational Diabetes, Preeclampsia, Second degree tear and all - I still loved it. I loved feeling her move all around. I loved watching her teeny little ass move along the top of my belly every night at 7. She was all mine then. Sure, other people could put a hand on my gigantor belleh and feel her, but I was the only one that knew her then.

I always thought I would be one of those people who went two weeks past her due date. I obviously thought very highly of my uterus, and assumed that I was running a Ritz-Carlton type of operation down there. Nobody would think of removing my baybee from my four star uterus! It's like a world class vacation resort in there!

As it turns out, I was running more of a Motel 6 operation. And the general idea was to get her out in one piece without giving her a wicked case of bed bugs or Hep C.

And so at 38 weeks, 5 days, I gave birth to Olivia. And now she is HUGE and about to take over the world.
But she would rather not be fully clothed, thank you very much.


Do not worry. She has not let her power go to her head - she's got a great sense of humor about things.
RUGS! LOLZ!


Today is 38 weeks, 6 days.
Who needs two more weeks of pregnant when we got to have two more weeks of you?
Happy Out Longer Than In Day, Olivia!
Pregnant was great, but it was nothing compared to Parent.
We are so glad you are here.

FET: makes me feel all stabby

I'm not sure if I ever mentioned to you how much I love Dunkin Donuts coffee.

But I love it, like, a lot. If it had a leg, it is possible that I would hump it. Or I would have to try really hard to refrain from humping it. Or I would only refrain from humping it because I wouldn't want to burn my Lady Business or waste the delicious coffee that would surely spill from the gyration of my lumpy body against that sexy styrofoam cup.

It's pretty much the Bon to my Jovi, is what I'm trying to say.

But I've been making monthly goals, and my goal since September was to stop getting Dunkin Donuts Coffee every morning because it costs $2/day.

I would share my other goals with you, but,
a.) I don't want everyone to know the asinine things for which I strive, like my number one November goal to Be Nice, OH MAH HELL WHO HAS TO RESOLVE TO BE NICE, and,

b.) because I don't really succeed every month (like, November. Because AM NOT NICE, like, at all, must aim lower in December - perhaps just be tolerable? Or just accept failure, which would be easier and markedly more enjoyable).

Anyway, I was telling someone the other day, "It's been a long time since I got a coffee from Dunkin Donuts. I just got one yesterday." And, don't worry, she did point out that I am possibly (definitely) the victim of a mental defect.

I was thinking today that it has been a really long time since I had an Infertility Bitterness Episode! Except, it hasn't been a long time at all really.

Since it's open enrollment time, I have to start making the big decision about doing a Frozen Embryo Transfer. And the prospect of it all just makes me a whole lot STABBY.

(I'm sure that if you read this blog, you know what STABBY means, but if not, see #1 here.)

I feel like I've done a pretty good job of suppressing The Bitter. I can handle pregnancy announcements pretty gracefully (like, no crying or shaking of fists at the heavens). Baby showers are not a problem. Accidental pregnancies make me roll my eyes, but do not cause days of insanity. It's just not really in the front of my mind. I'm more worried now about people whose asses fit in their jeans two weeks post partum when I can barely button my work pants.

(WHORES, you skinny people! All of you! Dirty whores!)

So I was kind of surprised when I got my Open Enrollment memo and was totally pissed off because I realized that we would have to decide on baybee #2 now for next year so that we can contribute to our medical reimbursement account.

Why do I so desperately want to be the person who can make fertility decisions at the drop of a hat? I've had plenty of time to realize that this isn't a reality for us. Why must there be so much turmoil and hand wringing and FIST SHAKING?!

I'm like a bad after school special, except instead of being jealous of the popular girls, I'm jealous of the fertile ones.

I'm pissed that I have to decide a year in advance, and I have to call doctors and rearrange my work schedule and communicate with my insurance and my doctors and I have to be really nice to people in November so that they will be more tolerable of me next spring when I am shooting up Lupron and shooting off The Angry.

It annoys me that people can decide one month to try to have a baby, then have sex, then find out the next month that they are pregnant. FOR FREE. WITHOUT DRUGS (well, I hear that crack really helps with fertility)! WITHOUT STIRRUPS! WITHOUT MEDICAL BILLING CODES!

God, I want to punch myself in the ovary over the whole ordeal, but there it is.
I'm sexual over Dunkin Donuts, and I'm angry about misshapen sperm.

My name is Jennepper, and I am full of The Giddy over New Moon

Random Thoughts:
What is the drawing in the classroom that has an ovary in its head?
I'm going to start choking people. By accident.
Anyone else think that Taylor Swift should be a brunette?
I want to molest Robert Pattinson.
Three weeks until I see New Moon.
I miss Will Ferrell.

Jennepper's Must Have Baybee Gifts for 2009

There are 8 weeks left before Christmas.

Listen, I know how hard it is to think of gifts for your preshus baybee - especially those pesky little 6-12 month-ers. Sure, they won't remember their first Christmas, and will be more interested in the paper and packaging and OHHHH LIGHTS than anything you actually buy.

But! We have an economy to stimulate here, people! And plus, you've got to spend more than the other mommies and then take a lot of pictures or else your preshus baybee will know that you do not love her/him. You're really just saving yourself the cost of much mommyhate therapy down the road. This is money that you can use for a tummy tuck or liposuction!

(Or, maybe just some tall brown boots?)

I've been diligent in my research, and am confident that I have come up with the Must Have Baybee Gifts for 2009.

Are you ready?
I don't think you are.
Sit down.
Prepare.
The greatness-ish of this list will be mind numbing.
Soul crushing, even.
Here we go...

Jennepper's Must Have Baybee Gifts for 2009:

Electrical Outlets and Cable Cords Fisher Price cannot create enough Colorful Baybee Junk to distract your preshus from outlets and cords. As soon as I sit Olivia down in a room? She crawls straight toward the cords.

This is a picture of her in her playroom, and if I had a wider lens, you would be able to see that Santa barfed all over the place and Olivia couldn't care less because ELECTRICITY! And RUBBER! And CHOKING HAZARDS ZOMG!

And lest you think that you will go all Scrooge McDuck and spoil Christmas by covering up the electrical outlets? HA.HA.HA. Because your preshus will LOVE fondling those plastic outlet covers. And you know what else? There is no childproofing solution that you can buy at Target to cover up the awkward cords sticking out of your wall.

(Dear Internet/Better Moms Than Me: is there a childproofing solution that I can buy at Target to cover up the awkward cords sticking out of the wall? Kthxbai.)

Dog Bowl

Nothing screams !!!Put Me In Your Mouth!!! like a bowl full of dog food laying on the floor. I think all babies love the petri dish appeal of the dirty dog bowl, but my daughter does especially since she grew up (for three days) in a petri dish at the Cleveland Clinic.

And really. We should have named her Typhoid Mary for the speed with which she infected our entire family with the Snot of the Century cold that lasts for three weeks. It is only fitting that she contract some sort of disgusting intestinal parasite from the dog dish and spread it to everyone.

My only hope is that I can maybe catch something that will help me lose 5 pounds. Illness is useless to me if I don't lose a little weight.

Blinds
Anything that hangs down is just generally fun to play with. Olivia loves the vertical blinds at our house, and at my mom's. Not limited to blinds, Olivia also loves to go after the dog's balls. Not the balls in the toy bin, either. I'm talking about testicles. Did you catch that? No? I'm talking about Dog Testicles. Testies, testies, one...two...three? Like that.

Yet another reason to neuter your dogs instead of buying more clothes for your baybee? I think so. But GAHD it is so much more tempting to shop Baby Gap.

Crib Bumper
Great for tossing around instead of taking A Lame Ass Nap, but also for completing the look of Bitch, Come And Get Meh NOW angst.
"I will cut you. Seriously. My fingernailz is longz."

Olivia has mastered the Big Girl Crawl. I'm thinking of putting her up for hire on Craigs List - you can pay me $100, and I will bring her over and let her find all of the horrible, rotten, no good, downright dangerous shit in your house.

"Am Comin ta getcha RAWR! Hide ur doggiez!"


What's on your Top Baybee Gift List of Death and Destruction for 2009?