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!

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.

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."

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.)

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.

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.