On one hand, he can be so sweet. On the other, he's such a guy...

Last night I was having an Episode that comes from being on maternity leave and taking care of two small children who have no concept of anyone's needs but their own and the house is in shambles and every time I turn around there's a sink full of dirty dishes to be washed and my hair is disgusting because I can't remember the last time I took a shower and the baby needs a bottle and Zeke is crying because I won't let him play in the cupboard where we keep the cleaning supplies and I feel fat and disgusting and ugly and washed up.

And truthfully, I love my daughter (and my son, for that matter) to pieces, but I find taking care of a newborn, and being home all day with children with little adult interaction (particularly during a wicked flu season -- seriously, there are entire school districts in my area that are closed because over half the student body has flu -- so I'm housebound for health reasons), to be kind of soul-crushingly tedious. Particularly when I'm getting little to no sleep because Josie is still so little that she can't eat very much at a time, so she's up every couple of hours to eat, and then maybe she doesn't feel like going back to sleep right away. And of course Zeke decides to wake up and wants to basically lie on top of me in my bed, because the more real estate on my body he occupies, the less that's available for The Little Pink Monster. So I end up yelling at everyone to go to sleep, which causes one party to start crying, which causes another party to start crying, and then I start crying because I'm so fucking exhausted because the thought of being able to sleep for more than two hours at a time is so tempting that at that point, I would sell both of my children to the first bidder to achieve it.

Anyway.

So last night, I'm sitting at the kitchen table, all weepy, and Jason says, "I've got something for you."

And he goes out to the car and ladies, he went to Jared! (And seriously, how cheesy am I for breaking out the slogan? Jared, call me. I can make you a deal).

At first I'm just looking at the pretty bag with the pretty box and I can't even stop crying enough to open it, because I'm so touched.

I finally open it, and it's a pretty gold locket, and I cry even harder because it's so sweet. And my sweet husband gives me a big hug, and my sweet son gives me another hug ("Luboo ["love you"], mama!"), and I feel loved and appreciated and all is right with the world again.


I spend the rest of the evening picking out pictures to put inside the locket and cutting them into little heart shapes. And I feel fine.

This morning, everyone is all happy and loving and sweet. Jason lets me sleep in a little while, and I get up and start to fix myself some oatmeal. It's the steel cut kind that takes approximately 7 hours to cook.

At one point, Jason says, "is your porridge OK?" because it's been cooking for awhile.

I explain that it's special oatmeal and that it takes a long time to cook because it hasn't been processed.

"But it's got alot of fiber as a result," I say.

"So does that mean you're trying to shit yourself? Is that the goal here?"

*Sigh.*

Baby steps

Hi, everyone! I've missed you. Been kinda busy, you know how it is.

The Joey says "hi." She may look small, but she consumes an enormous amount of my time and attention.

Things have been good. Zeke is adjusting pretty well to having a baby in the house. I'm adjusting to having Jason back at work and taking care of two small children by myself during the week.

I've discovered that a second child is akin to looking at real estate - it's a "location, location, location" thing. Meaning I spend alot of time figuring out when and where I can stash the baby while attending to Zeke. Can I time Zeke's bath to coincide with Josie's need for a bottle, so I can sit and feed her while watching Zeke in the tub at the same time? Is her diaper changed and she's settling down in time for me to put her somewhere while I get Zeke up and dressed?

Turns out she's not a big fan of the swing, but seems to like the car seat OK. She used to like the bassinet, but lately not so much.

Sleeping in the carseat while Mama blogs.

Mostly she likes to sleep on me. Even at night. So I sit up in bed with her sleeping on my shoulder, and I catch a nap here and there when I can.

I'm kinda tired.

But that doesn't mean I'm not determined to get back to living life like a grown-up, non-pregnant person.

When my mom was here, among the many wonderful things she did to make my life easier -- other than the laundry, the dishes, take Zeke to the park, take Josie for a night or two so I could sleep, and generally just be great company -- was to give Jason and me a night of babysitting so we could go out on a date. So a week and a half after giving birth, I squeezed my ass into a pair of jeans and put on a nice jacket and my favorite pair of high-heeled boots and some lipstick, and we went out on the town. Dinner and a play at a local theater. Fun.

But I think I need some practice in the "going out and acting like a grownup at a place that doesn't serve kids' meals" department.

Because I googled the wrong address (I typed in 17th "Street" instead of "Avenue"), so instead of having a block and a half to walk in my high heels from the restaurant to the theater, it was 8 blocks, including up a big hill. And it's been a long time since I wore heels, and the boots were tighter than I remembered, so by the time I hobbled my way up the hill to the theater, my feet were in agony and I was sweating.

And the play was really funny and we had a great time, but it was really hot in the theater and of course the lightest thing I had on was a turtleneck, because that was one of the few shirts I owned that fit loosely enough for me to not look like I was stuffing my still poofy abdomen into a sausage casing.

And then walking back to the car was so painful that I finally stopped on a street corner in the middle of downtown Denver and made Jason help me take off my boots, because I was too stuffed into my jeans to bend over comfortably to get them off myself.

And then I walked the remaining 4 blocks to the parking deck in my socks. We passed a bunch of police chiefs in town for a big convention, and I just told myself that while I may look like a dork walking around the streets of Denver in my stocking feet, at least I'm not walking around wearing my convention badge/nametag outside of the convention itself. Losers.

And then when we got to the parking deck, we needed our ticket to even get access to the elevator after hours, but my purse is such a mess that I ended up sitting on the sidewalk, in my socks, with the contents of my purse dumped out on the ground, to try to find the ticket.

And once I found it, Jason needed to help me up because my jeans were so tight that I couldn't do it on my own.

Basically, I looked and acted like a drunken idiot, without the fun of actually being drunk. Meaning that next time, I either need to drink more to justify my ridiculous behavior, or I need to relearn how to go out in public and be cool.

I'll work on the latter, but don't hold your breath.

Dealing with both the expected and unexpected surges of love

I was only in the hospital for a day. Everyone expressed either shock or amazement that I was out that quickly, but the labor was so easy that I didn't feel too awful afterwards, and the healing that I needed to do I could just as easily do at home without having nurses and other hospital staff coming in at 2 or 3 in the morning to check my vitals or whatever. And Josie got a clean bill of health, so when they told us on Friday that we could go home, my response was, "right on. Let's blow this bitch."

The transition with the baby at home has been very smooth. Josie is seriously the easiest baby I have ever encountered -- certainly much easier than Zeke was. She's still sleeping a ton, and when she's awake, she just hangs out and looks around.

She never cries unless she's hungry or pissed off, like when I'm changing her diaper. And even then, as soon as she's fed, she immediately calms down. As soon as she's dressed and diapered, I pick her up and put her on my shoulder, and she snuggles into me and mellows out.

The hardest transition has been for Zeke. He wavers between being very excited about the baby and having a hard time dealing with the attention she's getting. The good news is, except for the first day home, when he threw toys at her, he hasn't been aggressive toward her at all. He just gets pissed off at Jason or me (me in particular, since I hold Josie the most) and either refuses to talk to us or is a tad more defiant and emotionally sensitive than usual.

But he's dealing. Both my parents are here, so he's getting lots of attention from his Mimi and Papa, and Jason and I are making an effort to spend time with him every day playing or reading books or going to the park. And since Josie is so easy, we can stick her in her bassinet or in the bouncy seat and she chills out, and we can have time with Zeke.

I also try to include him in taking care of her. I'll give him little jobs like getting Josie's pacifier and "helping" to give it to her, or helping to give her a bath (his job was to take the washcloth and wipe off her feet and then rinse them off).

But even though I know that what he's going through is normal -- hell, anyone with a younger brother or sister went through it, and most of us made it just fine -- my heart feels like it's bursting when I look at him. He's such a sweet boy, and such a joy in our lives, so affectionate and enthusiastic about everything. And when I see him struggling to figure out his place in this new world order that has sprung up in our household, it makes me cry.

Of course I'm crazy in love with my new daughter. That, I expected. But what has blown me away by the last few days is how this whole process has made me even crazier in love with my son. I want to just gather him in my arms and provide him with every reassurance, to ease the difficulty of the transition, but I know he just needs to work it out. Other than just be there for him, and continue to include him in everything and let him know I love him, there isn't much I can do.

But I can certainly ease the pain by buying him a new firetruck bed. Love and nurturing go a long way, but so does bribery.

Meet The Joey, or, Look What We Made! v. 2.0

Josephine Ruby Lee, 9.24.09, 1:30 p.m., 7 lbs. 7 oz., 19.5 inches

Everyone in the know, i.e., my OB and my friend Michele, who is also an OB, told me that labor the second time around would be nothing like the first. That the monstrous labor I went through with Zeke -- 25 hours of labor to get to 10 centimeters dilated, followed by 4 brutal hours of pushing out a 8 lb. 9 oz. baby with a 14 inch head -- would no way repeat itself.

And I had reason to believe them. We caught the gestational diabetes this time around and I stuck to my diet and took my medication religiously, with the result being that I basically gained no weight the last 12 weeks of the pregnancy and kept the baby's size in check, plus I was being induced a week early. I also was 3 1/2 cm. dilated before I even checked into the hospital this morning -- it took me 15 hours of hard labor, plus pitocin, to get to that point with Zeke.

So any optimism I might have had was not misplaced.

But still. When you have nothing but the experience at one end of the spectrum to compare it to, it's incredibly difficult to imagine an easy, quick, painless delivery of a reasonably-sized baby, no matter how much I was assured that this time around, I would have one of those ridiculously awesome experiences involving super-fast dilation followed by pushing the baby out in 20 minutes.

But they were right. It's still kind of surreal to me how incredible today was, how peaceful and simple and joyous having a baby can be.

We checked into the hospital at 5 in the morning. I was in my Taj Mahal of a room by 5:20.

Taking some time to catch up on blogs and read the news before getting started.

Yes, in my enormous private room I had a bathroom with a jacuzzi tub nicer than the bathrooms in most hotels I've stayed in.

It took awhile to get through the paperwork, filling in questionnaires with medical histories, signing releases, going over security procedures, etc. The nurses, who were unbelievably wonderful, started my pitocin drip at about 8:20 in the morning.

Unbeknownst to me, I had already been having contractions. I just thought the baby was kicking me really hard, but apparently a number of those jabs to the ribs were actually contractions. And they didn't really hurt much at all. So for a long time, I was feeling great, with only minor instances of contractions that, if I had to label them on a pain scale of 1 to 10, were no more than a 1.5. I knew that it would get worse -- as Doris, my main RN said, "no pain, no gain" -- but so far, so good.

Chilling out, dealing with regular but not particularly painful contractions, waiting for the fireworks to begin in earnest. Mom keeps me company and sews for the baby.

At around 11 or so, my doctor came in to check my cervix and break my water. I was still only about 3 1/2 to 4 cm dilated, but she assured me that things would start moving along after my water was broken.

And boy, was she right. Within about 1/2 an hour, the contractions went from, "hey, no big deal" to "SWEET BABY JESUS, THIS HURTS LIKE A MOTHERFUCKER!" And they were coming in rapid succession, fast and furious. My mom and Jason took turns holding my hand, and Doris and Lupe, the student nurse assisting her, helped me breathe through the contractions. I told Doris, "um, yeah, I'd like that epidural now," and she said, "no problem," and within 15 minutes the anesthesiologist was in the room hooking me up with pain meds. And 20 minutes later, I was free of pain, though still feeling the pressure of the contractions, which were continuing unabated.

The doctors and nurses told me to be sure to tell them if the pressure -- the feeling of needing to push -- started to increase, because that meant that the baby was coming soon. And I started to feel that pressure (but not pain) at around noon, so Doris checked my cervix but couldn't feel it. So an OB resident was called in, and she said, "I don't feel cervix. I feel baby hair. I think you're ready to go."

So my OB was called (her office is about 3 blocks from the hospital), and the nurses prepped me while we waited for the doctor to show up. And all this time, I was feeling fine, and kept saying, "really?? are you sure I'm ready? I'm already at 10 centimeters??"

It just didn't seem possible that it could happen that quickly, and without me being in excruciating pain.

But sure enough, Dr. Ann, my OB, arrived, and they finished prepping me and got my feet in the stirrups. I was told to push. I pushed hard.

It took 9 minutes of pushing, and a total of 5 big pushes altogether, to get the baby out. And it didn't hurt, and nobody was yelling, and it all felt very calm and easy. Dr. Ann had to give me a small episiotomy, but she warned me in advance and was very gentle and quick (unlike my OB with Zeke, who just seemed to hack at me indiscriminately while I was in agony), and then I just needed one more small push and Josephine Ruby Lee came into our lives.* And because I wasn't completely exhausted and strung out and in pain, and was gently breathing as the baby came out, I got to watch my daughter slowly emerge from my body. It was magical.

Seconds after being born, Josie was placed on my chest.

Jason is totally in love with his little girl.

The J-Team: Dr. Ann, Jason, me, Josie, Doris and Lupe

Josie squawked a little after being born and getting cleaned up, so I offered her a bottle. She scarfed down the whole thing, had a nice burp, and promptly fell asleep for 2 1/2 hours.

Jason got a nap in. Apparently, watching me give birth is exhausting.

After her snooze, Josie got a bath from the nurses, discovering the joys of having your head gently scrubbed and washed. She sighed deeply while getting a scalp massage, and was as mellow as could be. After her bath, I fed her and she passed out again.

At around 6, we were moved from the labor and delivery room to a regular mom/baby room. Just in time for Kathleen to pick Zeke up from school and bring him to meet his little sister. I think he likes her.

He kept pointing at her and saying, "baby! BABY!"

Our family unit.

Jason and my mom went home with Zeke. I indulged in some Pad Thai -- fuck you, gestational diabetes! Josie and I hung out for awhile, but now she's in the nursery so that I can have one night of decent sleep before the craziness begins. This song kind of sums it up. Cheesy, perhaps, but it touches me right now.

It's a new dawn

It's a new day

It's a new life

For me

And I'm feeling good.

And now I'm going to bed. I'm a little tired.

___________________________________________________
*Regarding her name, "Josephine" came from "The Joey" -- it just kind of grew on us. It's a pretty, sweet name, a little old-fashioned without being overly precious, and it's not like "Madison" or "Ashley" or one of those names where it seems like you can't swing a dead cat without hitting 6 of them in your average daycare facility. If it had been a boy, I don't know what we would have done, because while we loved "Josephine," we didn't really like "Joseph" for a boy -- too many shitty Josephs in history (Stalin, Mengele, Kennedy, McCarthy -- you get the idea). "Ruby Lee" is a nod to my maternal grandparents, Ruth and Leo, both of whom died in the last year.

"Tell me about the day before I was born..."

I've written before about the tradition that my mother and I have every year on my birthday, when she calls me to wish me "happy birthday" and tells me about the day I was born.

So if I have a similar tradition with The Joey, I probably won't tell her about checking into the hospital at 5 in the morning to be administered a dose of pitocin. I'll tell her about today. About having weird anxiety dreams about going to the hospital and having the nurses all be incompetent, half naked and incapable of answering my most basic questions. About spending the morning in a frenzy of cleaning and packing and laundry. Of going to Target to stock up on diapers and other stuff, only to have one of the fuel lines in my car split and gush gas all over the road, so that Jason and I broke down on the way to the mechanic.

My mechanic is an angel, and he drove over to pick me up so I wouldn't have to sit in the rain in a car filled with petroleum fumes the day before giving birth. He also called in a favor to get the tow truck guy to pick us up quickly and charge us a bare minimum for the tow. And he gave me a loaner so I'd be able to go get Zeke and still malke it to the airport on time to pick up my mom.

And we had a nice dinner of beef stew, and played with Zeke and looked at the enormous pile of baby clothes that my mom brought.

I hadn't been nervous all day. But as it got later and later, and I was going through piles of pink onesies and washcloths and little newborn caps, I started to get this tight feeling in my chest. Anxiety.

Knowing that The Joey is coming tomorrow, I've been very aware of everything that's been happening and everything I'm feeling. It's actually very strange to have known in advance when she was going to come, because every day has felt more and more imbued with importance and significance. And today is the last day in my life that I will ever be pregnant.

The last belly shot of my life

Which is fine with me. Jason and I have talked about it and are happy with having two kids. Maybe if I had started having children earlier, I would have maybe had another, being able to space them out more. But I'm going to be 40 on my next birthday, and if I wait the amount of time to have another I'd want to wait, I'd be having my next kid at 43 or 44, and I just don't want to do that. I'm too tired.

But it's still strange to know that I'm done reproducing. It's such a basic, elemental part of being human, and now I'm done with it.

And in addition to feeling like this massive existential milestone is passing, I'm so aware of this huge change in my life and in my relationship with Zeke in particular. He's not going to be my only baby and I'm not going to be all his anymore, and it's made me emotional and weepy.

It won't be just us anymore

Since I go into the hospital so early, when I put Zeke to bed tonight, it was the last time I'll see him before giving birth. For some reason, it made my cry and cry. Everything is making me weep. What if I'm no good at parenting two kids? What if Zeke freaks out and resents us for giving him a sibling? What if I can't handle any of it?

I'm so excited to meet my daughter. But I'm also terrified.

Though I guess when I tell The Joey about the day before she was born, I'll leave that part out. Because I imagine by then, the feeling will have passed.

Do we need to sue for copyright infringement?

I think this guy may be trying to co-opt Kathleen's "dog fucking" motif.  In any event, this is my new favorite thing ever, particularly the look on the female co-anchor's face afterwards.

Stay classy, San Diego!

Reality

Tomorrow is my last day at work before I go on maternity leave.  And seriously, thank God, because I'm so fucking tired I can barely function.  I need some time to rest and finish getting organized.  I don't feel too awful, but it's very difficult to sleep comfortably, and when I'm awake, The Joey either has the hiccups (so my belly has this rhythmic pulse to it), or she's kicking the crap out of me.  I constantly have little lumps of foot or knee or butt poking out of the sides of my torso.  

And then one week from today (assuming I don't go into labor before then), I will have a new baby.

It's a very exciting but also very strange feeling.

Even as I look at the new little girl clothes and pink blankets and stuff that I've been accumulating in anticipation of The Joey's arrival, it still feels like this surreal event that "out there" in the ether somewhere.  Reality won't really set in until she actually arrives.

With Zeke, it hit me the first night after he was born.  I was asleep in my hospital bed, and he was asleep in his little bassinet next to my bed.  He woke up and started to cry, and as the noise roused me from my slumber, I thought, "what the hell is that??"  And then it dawned on me:  "oh, yeah, I have a kid.  Huh."  

When we took him home from the hospital a few days later, we walked in the house, put the baby in the Pack n' Play, and then looked at each other and though, "what on earth are we supposed to do now?"

It took almost a month for that feeling to wear off.

Soon we settled into a routine and became used to having a baby to take care of, and took great pleasure in getting to know him.  And now Zeke is such an indisputably wonderful part of my life -- such a part of me, of us, of our family -- I can't even imagine not having him around.  

But even knowing what it's like to have one child, the concept of having two is still very odd to me.  Maybe other women can wrap their heads around it more easily, but I'm very weirded out by the fact that in a week, I will meet this tiny little person who will become my complete and utter responsibility, and who will move into my house and become a permanent part of my existence.

That's just trippy.

Excuse me, sweet thing, may I offer you a sippy cup of Courvoisier?

It's been apparent for awhile that Zeke is quite the social butterfly.  He smiles and says hi to everyone on the street ("Hi, Man!  Hi, Lady!").  He knows the names of all the teachers and kids at his school, even the ones that aren't in his class.  He plays nicely with other children.  He's affectionate and sweet with the adults in his life, giving hugs and kisses freely.  

But I guess I didn't really dawn on me until last night how much he favors women and girls.  

Last night a group of my sorority sisters from UVa. (all of whom live in Denver - yet another reason I love living in this city) came over for a little get-together.  They were kind enough to come to me to accommodate my physical discomfort and my interest in not having to deal with child care and just being home so that I could just put Zeke to bed when it was time.

We had a lovely time catching up and it even turned into an impromptu baby-shower, as everyone turned up with baby presents, much to my surprise.

But the most remarkable thing about the night was what an outrageous little ladies' man Zeke is.  

He had been a little crusty before everyone arrived, largely because I wouldn't let him go to the park or take a bath (two of his favorite activities) when we were about to have guests.  But the minute the ladies arrived, it was like someone had flipped a switch, and he went into heavy flirt mode.

He showed off his Eric Carle animal flash cards, demonstrating his knowledge of the various animals and the sounds they make.  

He grinned and mugged, showing off his teeth and his dimples.  

The dimples are ridiculous

He named his various body parts and proudly displayed his belly and belly-button. He rolled around on the couch where everyone was sitting, cuddled up to Jen and Stacy, and give everyone a kiss goodnight.

He would give Leon Phelps a run for his money.  All he needs is a leisure suit and some toddler-sized gold chains.

Dear DirecTV

How much of a sucker do you think I am??

If you think you can lure me to buy a season package of NFL Sunday Ticket by dangling a free day of it in front of my nose today...

you're totally right.

You fucking evil genius bastards, you.

Love,

Wendy

Not today

This week has been rough for me, physically, and in ways that have made me think that labor is imminent. Not the tell-tale signs like water breaking or regularly spaced contractions -- the only sure things, really -- but other signs that mimicked the way I felt in the week leading up to Zeke's birth.

Then yesterday I found out that a number of my coworkers are essentially placing bets on my delivery date, with more than a few of them picking this weekend. One of them in particular, who claims to have a penchant for accurately picking the delivery dates of her friends and relatives, is convinced I will have the baby on Monday, September 14th.

Yesterday afternoon she was leaving the office and made a point of saying good-bye to me.

"I'm not going to see you," she said.

"Why, are you going on vacation?" I asked.

"No, but I'm not going to be here tomorrow."

"Well, then I'll see you Monday," I responded.

"I don't think so. If I see you at all, it will only be for half a day, but at around 11 or so you're going to be heading into the hospital to have your baby."

She was so matter-of-fact and certain about it.

"OK, you need to stop it, because you're seriously freaking me out," I scolded her.

But then I woke up this morning feeling very off. Sharp pains way down in my abdomen. Feelings of stretching and mild cramping. A couple of other signs that I won't go into because they're gross.

"Fuck," I thought.

Because as uncomfortable as I am, as difficult as it is to get any decent sleep, as hard as it is to chase Zeke around and get him up and dressed and off to school every morning, I really, really did not want to have a baby today. I don't want The Joey's birthday to be September 11.

The memories are still too raw and vivid.

I remember so distinctly everything about that day. I was driving to work in Atlanta, and waiting in the turn lane to go left onto Peachtree Road from Roxboro, when the second plane hit the tower, when it was obvious that this was a terrorist attack, not some weird accident as initially thought (or at least, as was being reported on the radio station I was listening to).

I got to the office and turned on the TV in our conference room. I stood there, sobbing, watching the towers burn and then crumble. Then the news and the rumors started flying. That all air traffic was being grounded. That there had been bomb threats on the State Department. That the Pentagon had been hit. That nobody knew where the President was because Air Force One was flying around avoiding attack.

At the time of the attacks, my mother, who was stationed in the U.S. Embassy in Papua New Guinea, was in the air on a flight from San Francisco to Sydney, travelling back from a visit home. I kept thinking, "what if American diplomats or diplomatic posts are being targeted?" And my dad was supposed to be in a meeting in the State Department in Washington, which as far as I knew, was under attack as well. I couldn't get through to anyone in my family. Then there was a bomb scare in my office building, so they sent everyone home. I spent the rest of the day in a daze, sitting on my couch watching the TV coverage, trying to get in touch with my brothers and my father and eventually my mother. And they were all fine, but until I knew for sure -- particularly about my mom and dad -- I was terrified.

That night I went over to Kathleen's. She and Rich were set to get married in 11 days. Mindy and Chris came over there as well, and we sat there eating pizza and talking and trying to make sense of the world. We were all shocked and horrified and saddened, but I think we all took some comfort in spending some time together.

So I didn't want to have any association between this day in history, and my daughter.

I had an appointment with my OB. Sitting there in the waiting room, there was a woman with a beautiful, tiny 2 1/2 week old baby girl. And I guess in addition to my physical discomfort, my hormones are raging, or maybe I was just nervous and more than a little tired, because I burst into tears at the sight of that baby. And then I was thinking about Zeke and how much I love him and how funny and sweet he is, and I started to cry again. And then I thought about what it would be like when I hold The Joey for the first time, and introduce her to her big brother, and I started to cry more.

But the good news is, I'm not in labor. I'm not having regular contractions, and while my cervix is certainly getting ready to open, it's not dilated to the point that I need to start heading into the hospital. After talking to my doctor, we decided to move the induction date up to September 24, so one way or another, I will be holding my new daughter 2 weeks from today. That's enough time to "respect her lung development" (as my OB put it), but also is an appropriate time to "kick her out" out respect to me and my physical needs (also as my OB put it -- have I mentioned I love her?).

So it might be Monday, as my coworker predicted. It might be next week. It might be on the 24th.

But it won't be today. Thank God.

A post that is sure to disappoint people googling "doggie porn" or "bestiality"

As I've discussed a number of times here, I love my friend Kathleen. There are a million reasons, not the least of which is that she's big-hearted and an incredibly loyal friend and so funny, while having just about the foulest mouth of anyone I've ever met. Her use of the word "motherfucker" is sheer artistry. She is astoundingly creative in her profanity.

Particularly when it involves animals.

Years ago she was lamenting the state of her lawn, and how the grass was reaching epic lengths from not being mowed.

And rather than say, "my grass is getting way too long," she observed, "the grass is so long that I could fuck a goat on the front lawn and no one would notice."

At some point over the years, she and her husband developed a particularly awesome phrase to denote when something is someone else's problem to deal with. When you have a task, particularly an unpleasant one, and it's yours and yours alone to work out, it's your dog to fuck.

I don't remember how the expression evolved, but it requires no explanation anymore.

"The water heater needs to be fixed, but I just don't have time to deal with finding a repairman or setting up an appointment. That's his dog to fuck."

"I've explained to her 27 million times how to set up those files. I'm out of it now. She's fucking that dog as far as I'm concerned."

You get the idea.

This past weekend, we decided to have a last hurrah grown-up's night out before The Joey is born. We got a babysitter for the children and, when we discovered the Rockies were in town, decided to go to the baseball game.

There was some back and forth over whether one of our clients could get discounted tickets for us, but with all the craziness of finishing up our big project and everything else going on, I offered to just find tickets online.

Kathleen started to explain something about a way to get tickets at some website, but then stopped herself and said, "you know what? You're a smart girl. You can fuck that dog."

So I did.

The view from our mezzanine level seats.

A gorgeous Denver evening

And a last hurrah it definitely was. I'm getting to the point where I'm uncomfortable all the time. It hurts to roll over in bed, it hurts to stand up from a sitting position, the pressure on my lower abdomen is brutal, and my stomach and intestines are so squished up somewhere behind my boobs that I constantly have heartburn and nausea.

So another outing involving lots of walking around and climbing stadium stairs and the like is not looking like a possibility anymore. All that's left is to have this baby.

Definitely my dog to fuck as well.

Womb With A View 2.0

Jason and I went in for the 36 week ultrasound today. It's the last one before giving birth, the one that sort of lets you know how big the baby is and to do one last check to make sure all is well. For me, it was a way of ascertaining whether this insanely restricted diet I'm on -- I've basically been living on eggs, veggie sausage patties, veggie burgers, chicken, carrots and sugar snap peas, with the occasional bit of steak or salad thrown in for good measure -- has worked and kept The Joey's size in check.

Once or twice I've cheated. I had some of Rich's outrageously good peach cobbler, and have eaten a bite of canteloupe from time to time while fixing Zeke's lunch, but for the most part I've been really good.*

The good news -- and there was only good news -- is that The Joey is smack-dab in the 50th percentile for size, meaning she's exactly where she should be. She's about 6 1/2 pounds right now, so assuming she holds out on making her appearance until my induction date (September 29), she could still be a solid 8 pounds. But my efforts appear to have paid off and she doesn't have any indicia of being too big as a result of the gestational diabetes.

The ultrasound itself was, as ever, totally trippy. I never get over the miracle of being able to see inside my own body to look at the development of my unborn child.

Usually at this point in the pregnancy, when the baby is firmly head-down and dropping, which she is, it's very difficult to get a face shot because in order to position the ultrasound scanner thingy to see the face, you'd basically have to have it lodged in your vajayjay.

But I guess Joey has her head slightly turned to the side or something, because as the ultrasound tech was doing her thing and measuring various parts and looking at how much amniotic fluid I've got going on, all of a sudden an astoundingly clear shot of The Joey's face popped up. I was so stunned that I blurted out, "HI SWEETIE!!" Then I burst into tears.

She looks just like Zeke, but slightly more girly (or maybe I'm projecting). Pouty lips. Pretty little bone structure. Hands by her chin.

Above and below are the same shot. I've labelled parts of her face below, because I recognize that sometimes it takes a little bit of orientation to figure out what's going on in an ultrasound photo. Also, don't ask me why they have my name on the printout as "Amy Armstrong." I have no idea.

I also found out yesterday that I'm starting to dilate. I know that this can mean anything and nothing. I know so many women who were 1 or 2 centimeters dilated for weeks before going into labor. But I never dilated with Zeke in advance, so maybe it's a sign that she's coming a little early. Who knows. Again, maybe I'm projecting.

But it's all very exciting. Kathleen and I finished our massive project at work, the one that is going to help us rule the special education world in Colorado. It was a bitch to finish - I joked that The Joey is the second baby I'm giving birth to in September, but it's done and the client is happy. My dad came out this week to help out with Zeke-care, which was so incredible. He took care of pick-up and drop-off for daycare, took Zeke to the park, to the zoo, to the ice cream store, for walks. Zeke was in heaven hanging out with his Papa, and I was able to get my work done and know that things on the home front were taken care of. Jason had a chance to study for his big licensing exam (which he should be finishing up as I type this).

I love my parents. I can't say it enough.

So now I've got 3 weeks to go (at the most). I'm trying to get organized, take care of myself physically, and enjoy these last few weeks of Zeke as an only child. And then everything changes.

So scary, but so wonderful.

_______________________________
*And I've lost about 7 or 8 pounds, which doesn't suck for purposes of dealing with the baby weight, post-partem.

Ostentatious Spazziosity. But I'll take it.

The belly is obviously impossible to hide. It's out there in a big way.

And the resulting waddle is unavoidable. I can't help having to slightly lean back when I walk, with my toes turned out and my steps wider than normal.

The boobs, never for the faint of heart, are reaching ridiculous proportions. When Elizabeth was visiting a few weeks ago, upon seeing me for the first time she observed, "your ass hasn't gained any weight at all, but your boobs are massive."

Yup.

And there is nothing I can do about any of these things, and they don't impede my ability to be productive at work or to interact relatively normally with the people in my life, so other than feeling a bit bulky, and not being as nimble as my non-pregnant self, I don't feel particularly self-conscious about my physical state.

But while I absolutely love feeling The Joey kick, she does it so relentlessly and so powerfully that it causes me to jump and squirm and gasp in a way that makes me feel like a complete spazz.*

I'll be sitting in a meeting with coworkers and suddenly the baby, who has been relatively still for a minute or two, throws her legs out, catches me in the ribs, and then keeps pushing so that her foot will cause my belly to visibly jump and undulate. And I'll gasp and sort of sit up suddenly, and the people I'm meeting with will get these concerned looks and be all, "OH MY GOD ARE YOU OK????"

And I'll explain that it's just the baby kicking and I was a little startled and sorry let's get back to what we were talking about.

It happens A LOT. And it makes me feel really self-conscious and stupid. Like people will be annoyed because I'm drawing attention to myself, even though I try not to as much as possible. It's so silly, because I know nobody cares, but I still feel weird about it.

It's better than the alternative, though.

Last week when I was in my doctor's office for my weekly appointment, I had to wait a really long time. And when the doctor finally came into the exam room, she was unusually subdued. She explained that the patient she had seen before me was also 34 weeks pregnant and came in for a routine exam, but when they went to listen to the baby's heartbeat, there wasn't one. The baby was dead. And this poor woman would have to be induced to go into labor, so she could deliver a dead fucking baby.

As the doctor was telling me this, I started to cry. The doctor said, "I don't want to alarm you by telling you this."

And I said, "no, I'm not upset for myself. Believe me, if this baby doesn't have a heartbeat, there is something really strange going on, because she never stops moving. I'm not worried."

So I guess feeling like a goober at work for the next few weeks isn't such a big deal after all.

_____________________________________________
*And yes, I know that word is politically incorrect and inappropriate. Don't email me.

Reaching rock bottom, but hey, at least we have a date certain!

I read somewhere about a recent study concluding that the myth of pregnancy brain, i.e., that pregnancy makes you stupid, is just that -- a myth.  That there is no evidence that the phenomenon actually exists.

Au contraire, bitches.

Because I know I'm a smart girl.  Not a genius, maybe, but certainly smarter than your average bear.  My major accomplishments in life have largely been based on brain-power.*  

But I am certifiably stupid these days, and the only thing I can surmise is that The Joey is just sucking all of the brain cells right out of my head.  I get things in my hand and then lose them immediately.  I can't remember basic words.  I'll go to work having only remembered to put one earring on, or with socks that don't match.

This morning I reached into the fridge to get some cream for my coffee, and even though I could clearly see that the lid on the little carton wasn't on (God knows what I did with it), I grabbed it and tilted it waaaay over to the side so that it would fit over whatever was in front of it on the shelf .... and proceeded to spill cream all over the inside of the fridge and the floor.   Later when I went to take a sip of the coffee, I forgot that I had only gently placed the lid on the cup, but hadn't firmly affixed it onto the cup, so I spilled coffee all over myself.  

Then I couldn't find my glucose monitoring kit, which was really frustrating because I always put it in the exact same place in my briefcase.  I found it 10 minutes later stuck in a cupboard in the kitchen.  I have no recollection of putting it there.

Jason could only gape at me in astonishment.

The other day I was driving home from the grocery store.  I missed one turn that I was supposed to make, and didn't realize it for at least 3/4 of a mile.  So I wound my way back through the neighborhood (much winding is required because there are many one-way streets, so I couldn't just turn around), and then missed another turn-off.  And I wasn't talking on the phone or even listening to the radio or anything.  I was just completely spaced out.

I have at least three or four incidents like this a day.

At least it provides a good excuse.  I was talking to a guy at our health insurance company about getting replacement cards set out, because even though they just send new ones out to us, of course I immediately lost them and have no idea where they are.

"I know we just got them, but you have to understand, I'm 7 1/2 months pregnant and my brain doesn't work right now."

He laughed and said, "I completely understand.  I'll send new ones out today, don't worry about it."

Standards seem to be slipping in other areas as well.  

I went to wash my face this morning and couldn't find my headband that I use to keep my hair from getting wet.  So I used a pair of thong underwear from the back of my undies drawer -- hell, they're not getting any other use these days.

My sex life consists of having hot dreams about my husband and then telling him about them when I wake up, because God knows I couldn't be bothered to muster up the energy to actually have sex with him.  Poor bastard.

I'm constantly a mess, with crumbs and stains on my clothes, things stuck in my hair, stray pen marks on my skin.

But there is a light at the end of the tunnel.  

Technically, my due date was October 2.  But because of the gestational diabetes and my difficulty delivering Zeke, my OB has talked about inducing after I hit 39 weeks, just to make sure the baby doesn't get too big (though I delivered Zeke at 39 weeks and 3 days, so I might be in for a rough ride nonetheless).  

At my appointment yesterday, we were talking about scheduling, and I said, "my last day of work is September 25, which is a Friday.  Why don't I take the weekend to get organized and we can induce that following Monday or Tuesday."

"That Monday is Yom Kippur," she remarked after looking at the calendar.

"Hmm," I said.  "I don't know why, but it feels weird to plan to induce labor on Yom Kippur.  Let's do it Tuesday."

So, assuming I haven't already gone into labor by then, The Joey will make her appearance on September 29, 2009.  Only 5 1/2 more weeks of The Stupid.

______________

*OK, the tits haven't hurt, but they didn't write the briefs that won me cases at the court of appeals.  Not all of them, anyway. 

Apparently, the traditional 3-year gift is leather. Rraawr.

Happy blog-iversary to me, happy blog-iversary to me...

I just realized today that a couple of weeks ago was my 3-year blog-iversary. I started this little piece of the internet in Hawaii, when I was there looking for a place to live. It was my way of keeping a journal and keeping up with family and friends who wanted to know about the details of the impending move and my life as a newlywed.

Over the years, it has chronicled both the mundane details of daily life and the emotional highs and lows of going through life -- my relationships with my friends and family, births and illnesses and deaths and triumphs and sadnesses. Struggling with depression. Life in Hawaii. The birth of my child, and the joy and hilarity he has brought into my life. Moving to Denver. The impending birth of The Joey. Trying to be a good mom. Learning how to speak "Aussie."

In the process, this blog has brought me new friends and reconnected me with old ones. I went to high school with Lisa, and we found each other on Facebook before finding each other's blogs. And it turns out that her husband, Nick, is law partners with a good friend of mine from college, who is married to one of my sorority sisters. And by clicking on links on Lisa's blogroll, I became friends with DCup aka The Other Lisa, through whom I "met" Dawn, through whom I "met" Suz. I was friends with Elizabeth before she started blogging, but through her I became friends with Anne (whom I've actually met in person -- she's awesome) and her husband Fred.

Not to mention the regular readers, some of whom I know from my non-internet life, and some of whom I know only through this blog, who regularly comment or send emails.

Even just tonight, I got an email from a woman who was a couple of years behind me in school in India. Apparently she has been reading the blog for awhile (after finding it through Lisa's blog), but only recently did she realize who I am --the older sister of her first boyfriend.

I love shit like that.

Particularly when I was in Hawaii and feeling so isolated, this blog was something of a lifeline. A way of feeling like I had a posse, even if I had never met most of them and they were thousands of miles away. And now it's just a regular, wonderful part of my life.

As a blog-iversary present, I'd love to hear from you (you don't need to send me something leather). Share a crazy small-world internet or blogging story, or just leave a comment and say "hello." You all make my life richer, and I appreciate it more than I can say.

It helps to have had a great role model

He's still a few months away from the official start date, but I do believe that Zeke has entered the Terrible Twos. 

All of a sudden, every source of frustration that might have been cause for some mild fussing is now the impetus for despondent, arching-the-back, throwing-himself-on-the-floor, hard crying. Not being allowed to jump up and down on his booster seat when he's supposed to be sitting at the table to eat.  Not being given a cup of water without a sippy-cup top, when, if I give him a regular cup, he takes a sip, pours it out on the floor, and then says, "more water?" as if the disappearance of the water from his cup were some big mystery.  Having to come in from playing outside because it's getting dark and starting to rain.  

He'll stand at the door and plead, "outside?"

"No.  It's time to get ready for bath.  Plus it's raining."

"Outside?"

"No."

"Outside?"

"No."

"Outside?"

"No.  Stop asking."

"Outside?"  The lower lip is quivering and he's starting to whine.

"No.  It's late and time to start getting ready for bed."

And this will go on until he hurls himself, crying, onto the floor.  

"Well, that's an unfortunate reaction.  That floor is hard.  Seems kind of dumb to be throwing yourself down on it."  And I'll walk into the other room.

When he follows me into the other room so that he can once again throw himself down, quite dramatically, I'll hold a magazine in front of my face and pretend to read so that, a) he sees that I'm ignoring the behavior, and, b) he can't see me laughing.

But there are times when I don't find it funny, and it takes all of my will power to not yell, "Jesus CHRIST, Zeke, it's enough!"

In the end, though, he'll calm down, and I'll give him a hug and wipe his tears and tell him I love him, and we'll snuggle up and read a book or play with trucks or something.

Maintaining that balance between calm, tough love and nurturing is hard.  I'm not always as successful at it as I'd like to be.  And I wonder how parents do it when they grew up in households in which annoying behavior was met with screaming or even violence.  When they never saw conflict that was dealt with constructively.

Jason grew up like that, and I think it's a testament to his incredibly even temperament that he's such a wonderful, patient dad.  

I'm not quite as blessed.  I don't have a bad temper (a sharp tongue, yes, but I'm not a hot-head), but I do find myself having to take deep breaths to calm myself down when Zeke is being particularly trying.  

But I also had a great role model in my own mother.  Who also was able to combine unconditional love and nurturing with a certain "no bullshit" attitude.  

It sometimes resulted in her challenging us on things we didn't need to be challenged on.

The winter break of my first year in college, when my folks were still stationed in India, we went to Thailand for Christmas vacation.  We were on the island of Phuket, and my mom and I were in the hotel gift shop looking for a bathing suit for me because I had left mine hanging on the back of the bathroom door in the hotel in Bangkok.  My brother Sam, who was 10 at the time, was with us.

"I don't feel good," he said.

"Mmmm-hmmm," my mother replied.

"My stomach hurts."

"Wendy, what do you think of this suit?  It looks like it will fit you."

"I have to throw up."

"Then go outside."  I guess she thought he was just being whiny because he was bored of shopping with us.

He went outside and puked on the sidewalk in front of the store.

Oops.

Chagrined, she went outside and tended to him.

When I was five, I started first grade.  I knew my letters and some short sight words, but it hadn't really progressed into full-on reading yet.  Then I went to my first day of first grade, and something clicked.

When I came home, I told my mother, "I know how to read."

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I do!"

"You do not."

"Do too!!"

"Prove it."

"Fine!  I will!"

And I sat down and read her a book.  Much chastened, she congratulated me and showered me with kudos.

I find myself making similarly argumentative pronouncements at my own child.  For example, I'll take a book away from Zeke because he's ripped one of the pages (which drives me INSANE).

"Mine!" he yells.

"No, actually, it's mine.  I paid for it."

This is an absurd thing to say to a 22-month-old.  But hell, I come by it honestly.

Thanks, Mom.  

Another victory for the single-slice toaster

I am not a cuddler in bed.  I don't mind brief periods of cuddling, but for the most part, I don't like being touched in my sleep.  

I have so many friends who talk about how hard it is for them to sleep when their husbands are out of town and they're all alone in the bed.  I can't relate at all.  To me, having the bed to myself -- as well as all the pillows, particularly at this point, when I arrange about 4 them, plus my Snoogle, around me to get even remotely comfortable -- is the picture of bliss.  It's the one positive aspect of Jason being out of town during the week.

Some of it is that it's hard for me to get settled in bed.  I need to be physically arranged just-so, with pillows strategically placed to alleviate pressure on my back (which is a little twinge-y), and if someone is trying to arrange their body around me, the weight of a leg or an arm can throw everything off.  

Much of it is that I am an incredibly warm sleeper.  I generate enormous amounts of heat.  When I was growing up, my mother used to crawl into bed with me on cold winter mornings and stick her cold feet on me to warm up.  Whereas many women perpetually suffer from having cold feet, I always have warm feet.  Unless it's below 40 degrees in the room, my feet will be sticking out from under the blankets.

So adding someone else's body heat to my own can make things stifling for both parties.  I once dated a guy who would put a king-sized pillow length-wise between us as a heat shield.  

"Nothing personal, sweetie," he'd say.

"It's OK.  I understand," I'd respond.

Jason is a cuddler.  And a bit of an overwhelming one.  He'll settle himself in against my back and throw a leg over me.  He has big, strong, muscular legs, and they're heavy.

It's not terribly comfortable.  "Honey, this isn't working for me."

"That's a shame, baby, because it's working great for me."

I don't put up much of a fuss, though, because I know he won't be able to take the heat for long. After a few minutes, he'll scoot back over to his side of the bed.

"Jesus, your ass is like a single-slice toaster.  I'm roasting."

"Mmm-hmmm," I'll reply.  "'Night, babe."

Some nights -- OK, many nights, because I'm a pussy and I'd rather get back to sleep quickly than listen to him cry -- I'll let Zeke come into bed with me at around 3 in the morning.  Sometimes he'll sprawl and move around, the way little kids do, but most nights he settles in and sleeps relatively unobtrusively.

But the other night, just like his father, he nestled himself up against my back, with his face pressed up against my shoulder blades.

"Cute," I thought to myself.  

Then, just like his father, he threw a leg over me.  Which, given that my body is obviously much wider than his, took some effort on his part, because it meant having to reach his leg up high to get it settled.

"Mmm-hmmm," I thought.  "He'll learn."

And just like his daddy, he did.  He returned to his spot in the bed within 5 minutes.

It's the little things

As with anything else, being a parent has its ups and downs.  But just as the downs can come out of nowhere -- a tantrum mysteriously erupting with no apparent cause, a sudden scream because a corner was taken too tightly and somebody hit some body part on some immovable object, like a wall or a table -- the ups can take you by surprise as well.

Yesterday afternoon was a perfectly average day.  I picked Zeke up from school at about 5:05 in the afternoon.  He was outside on the playground, but when he saw me walk into his classroom to pick up his lunchbox, he sprinted toward me with a huge grin on his face and gave me a hug.  I handed him a water bottle, because he was hot from playing, and he grabbed my hand with his free hand as we made our way down the hall and out to the car.  

The trek down the hallway is often a lengthy ordeal, because there are a million distractions for an almost 2-year-old.  

• Windows that look into other classrooms with fish tanks right on the other side of the window, so Zeke has to stop and a) observe that there are fish there ("fish!  FISH!!"); b) describe the fish ("orange!" - or more accurately, as Zeke pronounces it "arzhh!"); c) say hello to the fish ("Hi, fish!"), including waving at the fish; and then d) say goodbye to the fish, again with a wave ("Bye, fish!") 
  
• indoor play areas with little slides that must be jumped off of at least 3 times, soft structures that must be climbed in and out of multiple times, baskets of toy farm animals that must each be individually named along with an explanation of the sound they make ("cow!  cow!  Mooooo!")
• windows that look into the infant rooms, so Zeke has to stop and a) observe that there are babies ("beebees!"); b) say "hi" and "bye" to the babies, and c) count the babies ("waaaaan, choooooo, eight!")
• Every adult we pass must be identified as either a "man" or a "lady," and then he either says "hi" to them, or just says "wow!" (which is actually pretty freaking funny)

And all of these things are adorable and cute in their own right.  I know that he's not trying to stall or annoy me -- it's just that the world is so damned interesting to him, and he wants to tell me about it, which is awesome.  But some days I'm tired and the daycare only validates my parking in the garage downstairs for a certain amount of time and I'm all "come on, sweetie, mommy's on the clock downstairs" and he just won't move it along and so I end up having to pick him up and he gets mad and starts to fuss and then we're both grumpy for a little while.

At least until I let him push the buttons on the elevator.

But yesterday, he held onto my hand and walked, saying hello to the fish and the babies without stopping for long, saying hello to everyone without turning around and following them, and we made it to the elevator in record time.  He pushed the button and giggled, jumped up and down in the elevator and giggled, got into his car seat without a fuss and proceeded to settle in to read a board book.  

Bliss.

We then had the greatest trip to the grocery store in the history of trips to the grocery store.

Because for the first time, we used one of these:

It seems like such a simple concept, such a little thing, but really, the car-cart is a work of genius.  I want to thank whomever thought of it.  I want to thank Safeway for stocking them.  

Because Zeke climbed in, a HUGE smile on his face, and then sat there for 25 minutes saying "vroom vroom" and turning the steering wheel as I shopped.  When I stopped from time to time to take things from the shelves and put them in the cart, he would look out the window back at me, grin and laugh, and then sit down again to resume "driving."  I never had to rush, I never had to admonish him to sit down.  We just went through the store, chatting and smiling, and clearly enjoying ourselves so much that everyone we encountered smiled at us.

It was nothing but a run-of-the-mill trip to the store, but it made for a lovely, lovely afternoon.

The Pregnancy Skinny

Who knew that it would take getting pregnant to hit on the surest, fastest weight-loss regimen I've ever used?  Not that the whole low-carb/high protein diet is a mystery to anyone, but even when I've done it in the past (with some success), I've never had an incentive quite as powerful as "no, you can't eat that or YOU'LL HURT THE BABY, YOU IRRESPONSIBLE HAG!!!"

So in the past week, since seeing the doctor and going on medication, I've been super, super vigilant (except for the ice cream cone I ate when Elizabeth and her family were in town, and we went with Kathleen and Rich and their monkeys up to Boulder to hang out for the day -- and believe me, I was shamed straight by my sky-rocketing glucose levels afterwards).  My breakfasts have consisted of either EggBeaters omelettes or protein shakes (made with water rather than milk).  I've snacked on protein bars and diabetes-friendly shakes.  My lunches and dinners are meat or fish with veggies.  I eat alot of Cobb salads.  I haven't had a piece of fruit or bread in what feels like dog years.

In the process, I've lost 4 pounds in a week.  And while it's not great to lose weight while you're pregnant, apparently it's not unusual for women monitoring their glucose intake to have some incidental weight loss in the process.  I'm still in the normal range as far as weight gain, so my doctor wasn't too worried.

And hell, it's nice to know what works, for purposes of losing baby weight.  I figure at that point I'll be so used the regimen that it won't be too difficult to continue it, assuming I can resist the urge to have Philly cheesesteak subs and strawberry rhubarb pies delivered to my hospital room the minute The Joey is out of my body.

In any event, I got my reward (or at least, some of it -- the true reward will be a reasonably-sized baby that I can deliver with 1 or 2 pushes).  I went in for an ultrasound this morning to check The Joey's growth, and she is perfect.  Like, exactly the size she should be, to the day.  And her brain is forming properly and her spine looks beautiful and all four chambers of her heart are doing what they should be doing and her little bones are the right size.  Her girl parts are still girl parts.*  Just like her older brother, she likes to hang out with her hands up by her face.  She's already head down and the placenta is up at the top of my uterus (and thus not blocking the cervix).   Perfect perfect perfect.

When you're pregnant, and particularly when you're pregnant and you've practiced special education law for 10 years, you become hyper-aware of all the things that can go wrong. Genetic abormalities.  Down Syndrome.  Malformed limbs.  Spina bifida.  The list goes on and on.  And even though the odds of everything going just fine are overwhelmingly high, it seems miraculous to me when the wonders of modern medicine allow me to go into a doctor's office and have the nice ultrasound technician show me my perfectly formed, perfectly developing little girl.  

_____________________________

*Apparently, when they determine the sex at 16 weeks, they make no guarantees, though with The Joey it was unlikely that the "it's a girl" verdict was going to turn out wrong.

Must. Purchase. Pink. Crib. Bumper.

So far during this pregnancy, I've been pretty sane about the shopping thing. And I mean specifically, shopping for The Joey.

Some of it is superstition. In Judaism, it's considered bad luck to buy things for the baby before it's born. Even thinking about such things would have caused my ancestors back in the old country to spit "ptoo! ptoo! ptoo!" and throw salt over their shoulder, in an effort to ward off the evil eye or whatever. So it's cool to buy things for the mom, but it's tempting fate to load the baby up with too much stuff before it's born.

Because this isn't entirely practical -- I wasn't going to wait to shop for a crib until I was on my way home from the hospital with Zeke -- I try to appease the superstitious side of me by limiting purchases to the barest of necessities before the baby is born. (Unless the opportunity presents itself to load up on tons of baby gear for an insanely low price, of course. My mother gets around the problem by just buying the stuff but not giving it to the baby until after it's born.)

And plus, this time around, I already have tons of shit. Even after culling out the stuff that has spit-up stains or that was overtly boys' stuff -- onesies covered with "Daddy's Little Quarterback" or similar -- I have mountains and mountains of clothes, blankets, crib sheets and towels. Not to mention a crib, a little infant bathtub, rattles, teething rings, etc. etc.

My mother, who loves shopping for baby stuff, kept insisting that The Joey needed new stuff that was just for her.

"All babies like having new things!"

But I maintained that babies don't care. They just want to be held and to be warm and fed. They don't give a shit if the PJs they're sleeping in are 5-year-old hand-me-downs purchased from the the "irregulars" bin at the Carter's outlet.

I wasn't trying to be churlish or to kill anyone's buzz. I said, "if you want to buy her new things, I think that's lovely. Get her anything you'd like to see her in. But she doesn't really need anything new."

But with less than 8 weeks to go,* the hormones are taking over. All of a sudden I have overwhelming urges to buy cutesy, girly stuff.

This past weekend, my friend Elizabeth was visiting with her husband and her 5-month-old baby, Elliot. Kathleen and I went to Target before their arrival because I wanted to get some new pillows to put on the guest bed.

As I walked past the baby supply section, I grabbed a really cute little bouncy seat. It was beyond my control.

"It's for Elliot," I thought. "They're probably not traveling with one, and it will be useful if they want to put him down someplace other than the floor."

Riiiiiight.

The fact that a bouncy seat is the one piece of gear I don't have had nothing to do with it.

And then I thought, "Zeke's crib sheets are getting a little tired. I'll get a new one for Elliot to sleep on."

What color did I pick out?

Pink, of course.

Today I started fixating on other bedding. Now mind you, the crib stuff I have that Zeke used is in perfectly good condition. It's not particularly masculine. It would look just fine in a baby girl's bed.

But I've got the sickness.

I e-mailed my mother. "I want to buy some crib bedding for [The Joey], but I don't want to duplicate your efforts, so I wanted to make sure you haven't gotten her any bedding."

She called within 5.7 seconds. "Let's look at some websites."

So we went online and found some really cute stuff that isn't even particularly girly. It's just new. It's all quilt-y and soft and covered with elephants and lions and sweet-looking jungle animals. When I think about having a new little peanut and putting her in her crib with her soft new pink sheets and her new little soft blankie, I just about melt.

Oh, I've drunk the Kool-Aid, I have.

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*Technically, it's almost 9 weeks, but with the gestational diabetes diagnosis, my doctor is likely to induce me if I haven't given birth by 39 weeks.