Derp! Derp! Derp!

And . . . We're back.

While I am not currently carrying the world's next spitfire, the Hub and I are "trying."

Some of you may wonder just how hard people have to try to have a baby.  Let me put it to you this way . . .  If you are suffocating and are trying to breathe, something that is usually so easy to do can become a real struggle.

It is the holiday season and around us it seems that EVERYONE is having babies.  We miss our daughter fiercely and still take everything day by day.

Fear kicks in as it is apt to do.  Right now, I have fear that I'm not pregnant.  I also have fear of what will happen if I am or do get pregnant.  Pregnancy and trying to conceive after a loss are not easy.

I have been going batshit insane wondering if we did it this time.  Or, if we will wait another month to do it.  Did I mention that even when all conditions are optimum, there is still only a 25% success rate?  Makes you wonder just how all of those teenagers do it!

For now, we wait. And try to fill in time.  And feel crazy.  And scared.

Stand-by, people.  No one here plans to fail.

LIFE ON PAUSE

On the morning of September 15, I awoke to a gush of fluid.  I had been having Braxton Hicks contractions for the better part of a week.  I knew that any gush of fluid wasn't good, so I dedicated 20 minutes of searching online for ONE explanation that might eliminate the fear that was building.

I never found it.

At the hospital, I was told that my cervix was 4cm dilated and that I had a bulging bag - which means that I was dilated enough and having strong enough contractions that my membrane was pushed down into my vagina.

Soon, I was started on Magnesium which was meant to stave off contractions but also had some endearing side-effects such as making it so that my muscles didn't work, slurring my words and erasing my vocabulary, double and sometimes triple vision, and a severe case of projectile vomiting.

Tuesday, September 18 at 405am, my water broke.  10 minutes later, I was in hard labor.  At 439am, our daughter, Mira was born.

Two hours later, she died.  It is our hope that she is with my Da, who died in 2006.  If anyone, he will know best how to raise a Spitfire Baby.

Pre Term Labor affects many women every year.  In 70% of the cases, there is no noted reason for it.  Thus is ours.

The Hub and I have struggled this past four weeks to once again stand up, regain our balance and begin to step forward.  It is possible we will try to conceive again.  The numbers regarding Pre Term Labor in our future are not good.  But, if we do head down that path, you can bet that our adventures will be told here.

The only thing that is certain is that for now, this part of our lives is on pause.

PIT STOP REVIEW!

First off, please let me apologize for the lack of picture on this one.  I don't really talk about my professional life and prefer to keep it under wraps.  Therefore, if you do not already know me and where I work, I would like to keep it that way.  I'm sure you understand. . . being the capable and empathetic people that you are. . .

So, without further rambling, I bring you the latest PIT STOP REVIEW!

RESTROOM LOCATION:  The Closest Ladies Restroom to my office
# of VISITS:  Seriously?  I'm beyond counting at this time.  Make that 3 in the past two hours.  I'm living in the mother-fucker.
RESTROOM STYLE:  Several stalls.  Standard partial wall and door.
DECOR:  Standard business style.  "Get your business done and get out!"
REVIEW:  Despite being cleaned two times a day (these cleaning ladies can only do so much!), this bathroom always manages to remain questionable.  Whether it be a mass of wet toilet paper clogging up a whole basin or the invisible stanky remains of some one's most recent meal. . . it's GROSS.  Who are these dirty women?

To help identify the skanks, I have put together a little quiz.  It will, without a doubt identify a person as a nasty hose-beast.  Let's do it!

1.  Have you ever, in an attempt to shield your bottom from someone else's bottom crud, used a toilet seat cover (Made from tissue?  Not really protecting you from anything?) and then LEFT it on the seat rather than flushing it down?

2.  Have you ever manually manipulated your waste product and left evidence of such on a privacy structure?  For you slow folks, have you ever handled your own poop and then smeared it on the wall?

3.  Have you ever attempted to discard of your menstrual accessories and failed?  Let me reword that, too. . . have you ever dropped your used tampon or pad on the floor?  And left it or evidence of its presence there?

4.  When you leave a stall, does it smell rosy fresh like the air freshener in the bathroom?  Or, do you leave it smelling acrid and rotten?

5.  Do you leave the restroom without washing your hands?  Keep in mind, ladies, washing your hands does NOT simply entail running your hands under the sprinkle of water.  You need soap.  And copious scrubbing.  Don't just rinse off the chunks.  Go ahead and lather off a few layers of skin.  Really.

If you answered "YES" to any of the above - even just ONE, you are a dirty skank.  Change your evil skankstress ways!!

REVIEW:  I use the restroom at work sparingly.  If it weren't imperative, I wouldn't go.  But, for fear of bladder infections, I suffer the stank and outright disgusting environment.

PITFALLS OF PREGNANCY

Of the many dangers associated with but never discussed about pregnancy is the sudden appearance of a large but invisible HOLE in the bottom of one's lower lip.  It is through this new orifice that many drinks of water and delicious nibblies and morsels come tumbling out.

Be forewarned, oh those with empty uterus!  The sloppy hole in the lip has many nasty side-effects in and of itself! 

BEWARE!  the stains where no stains lived before!  Like new clothing will suddenly be acursed with chili spills and apple juice remains!

BEWARE!  the desk top at work sprinkled with miniature puddles of iced water!  Careful where you set your papers - you risk turning them into translucent sheets muddled with rainbows of gel ink!

**Brought to you today by a concerned pregnant citizen and "Shit They Don't Talk About"

THE UN-POSSIBLE

In the past week, I have finally given in and accepted that I am simply not a giant ball of methane and otherwise putrid gas.  Instead, I am opening my arms and saying "YES" to the fact that all of the motion I have been detecting in my abdomen has not been waste product - but rather, THE BABY.

There has been so much movement that I have been able to track my future daughter's awake hours.  And let me tell you. . . she keeps my insane hours.  Crazy?  Crazy, indeed.

Of course, I have taken great strides to ensure that the Hub doesn't feel left out.  Every time the Spitfire stirs, I make a point of letting him know.  Some times, I even force his hand against my belly and hold it firmly until he feels the movement.  That's gratuitous, but I'm pretty sure that mowing the lawn isn't that important!
What?  You're eating?  Our child is dancing on my bladder!  Come feel this!??!%*(^@#!

All of this time, the Hub has been so quiet and confused every time he felt the movement.  "Clearly that can't be a real kick?"  I assured him that it was and that I was assured several times over by the ladies at work that farts don't kick back.

So, I let it go thinking that he was basking in the surrealism of becoming a father. .  or feeling over-joyed with first contact. .  or waltzing blindly through wonderment.

No.  This was not the case.  As we were reading our weekly pregnancy guide last night, as we do every Sunday before sleep, I think it finally sunk in.  Our baby, measuring 7.75". . . from crown to rump.  I have read something similar to the Hub every Sunday night for nearly 20 weeks.  And last night, it finally sunk in.  All of this time, my Hub has been mystified that something measuring only 7.75" could be making such significant knocks from the inside of my belly.

I love my Hub.  He's so damned attentive.  ;)

TCH TCH TCH.

In the beginning, my nipples felt like they were rubbing off with every step I took.  I learned to soothe them with really soft materials stuffed just inside my bra cups.

Things have changed.  A lot.

The typical areola darkening that many pregnancy books bullet point?  I've got that.

Growing Montgomery's Tubercules?  Yeah.  Bigger and brighter.  Check.  Check.

Now that I have gone 21 weeks, another change has surfaced. . . . SCRITCHY-SCRATCHY-HELL!

I'm pretty sure I was scratching my nipples in my sleep.  I was dreaming of it.  Hot, right?

As to why I'm playing Tune in Tokyo all by myself?  All signs point to the continued growth/expansion of the areolas.  But, I'm not so concerned with the cause as I am with the solution. . 

Which happens to be cocoa butter and shea lotion.

You are welcome.

WHAT IS IT?

My stock answer?  "I'm hoping for a Newfoundland Puppy - you know, webbed paws and all."

But, since we found out last Monday, the Hub and I really kept the gender as secret as possible.  READ:  My Mum doesn't even know because she has been busy all day and unable to make our "gender reveal party"

So, the Hub and I used our future child for an excuse to eat, drink and make merry.  There were Tequila-Lime Chicken Wings, Deer Brats, Kosher Dogs, Pulled Pork, Salami Sammies, Taco Layer Dip, Dessert Dip, Veggie Salad, Cookies, Chips. . . NOM!

Then, we had cupcakes.  15 chocolate and 15 white cake.  Each topped with white frosting, sprinkles and a question mark.  (FYI,  sprinkles are really pointless.  They don't have taste and are actually really gross if you eat them alone!)

. . . Let's see the results, shall we?

So many questions. . . so little time.  They were absolutely delicious - from what I hear - as they came from Lubely's Bakery.  This is the same bakery that did my wedding cake.  They are fresh baked and never frozen.  If you are in Saint Louis, make sure to check them out!!

. . . The chosen victim

The decorations were simple today.  Other than Pink and Blue napkins and plates, everything was normal.  In fact, the house is so clean still!  Thank goodness for grown-ass friends! 

. . . And the verdict?

I'm carrying a little girl.  This was a surprise last Monday during the ultrasound.  I was pretty sure we were going to have a boy.  I should have known that I'd get what I want.  ;)

Meanwhile. . . now that everyone has cleared the house, I need to go bleach the bathroom and get cleaned up for bed.  Life is good.

BADA-BING! BABY-BOOM!

Starting around 2pm yesterday, I began drinking.  Heavily.

Two glasses of grape juice, two 20oz bottles of water and some random coconut water.  I was trying to fill my bladder so that the view of the Spitfire would be clearer.

Based on the positioning of the uterus and baby, some women need not torture themselves for an ultra sound.  I am not one of them.

So, having filled my proverbial tank, I parked (for the first time!) in Expectant Mother Parking at the hospital and (as smoothly as possible) walked to my appointment.

My Observations
1.  Ultra sound gel is gross.  It's like having a large man sneeze on your belly.  Over and over.
2.  The pressure exerted on a full bladder for prolonged measurements and viewing must rank up there with water boarding or skin removal with a carrot peeler.
3.  If you are having a spitfire, your measurements will take considerably longer than most because the baby will NOT stay still enough.  This baby was NOT having any of that shit.  It refused to give a profile look - instead looking angrily into the source of the pressure.  Smart.  And scary.
4.  When you are finally allowed to evacuate your bladder, you can't because you've been holding it back so long that your muscles are frozen with a mixture of fear and loathing.  Right.

Everything is where it should be.  The gender is known.  You get to know.  Eventually.
Did I mention the gender reveal party this Sunday (the 2nd) at 4pm?  I didn't?
Now you know.  Bring a dish and your own booze.  It'll be fun.  But, only if you RSVP.
. . . trust me.  It's not really baby-centric.  I just want an excuse to get together - eat, drink and jaw-jack.

OH WHAT A FEELING. . . WHAT FEELING?

Into the 20th week, I have arrived.  And, I'm still hoping for a regular reminder that there is something in what appears to be a large sack of heavy air in my belly.  A couple times this past weekend, I was able to put a little pressure on certain places and feel something move.  One moment in particular, I felt something push back against my fingers.  Does gas do that?  How about a stubborn turd?  No?

I have also noted in the past week or so that the swell in my loins (really??) tends to move about.  For about four days last week, the swell leaned to the right.  Then, Saturday night, I noted that it had shifted and was leaning to the left.  Some of my well informed already-parent friends informed me that it could be a butt.  It was comforting.  Kind of.

This afternoon, the Hub and I are driving to the OB.  Again.  This time, we will be meeting with the Ultrasound folks and watching on an over-sized screen as they measure, photo and predict our Spitfire's future. 

Yes.  If it is doable, we will be finding out what we are having.  I'm personally hoping for a puppy.  Maggie needs a playmate.

Seriously.  Look a her face.  She's lonely.  She needs a cohort to help her chew up plastic water bottles that have been stuffed into giraffe puppets.  Yeah.

Sunday the 2nd at 4pm will play host to a very laid-back gender reveal party.  It is really just an elaborate excuse for people to potluck and drink.  I'm pretty sure we didn't did an excuse for that in the past.  Perhaps this Spitfire really is changing us!

DRANK LIST

At almost the half-way point, I can tell you that the thing I miss most of all is not cold-cut sandwiches, not whitewater rafting and most certainly not seafood.  I miss THE DRINK.

How many of you have a long day at work and come home to immediately crack open a beautifully ice cold can of beer?  How about celebrations?  A nice glass of wine or champagne?  Or dessert?  A warming miniature glass of Port?

These past five months (Yeah.  That's 20 weeks, people.  We'll talk about how Pregnancy is really 10 months at some point.) I have been dry.  Drier than the campus of Bringham Young University.  DRIER THAN A MUMMY'S MOUTH.  DRIER THAN . . . WHATEVER IS REALLY DRY.

I haven't been dry this long since. . prior to March 26, 1999.  Yeah. 

In honor of my 5 month dryness and subsequent sobriety, I give you the DRANK LIST.  A wonderfully comprised group of the first drinks I will have upon releasing my uterine hold on this new life. . . (These are in no specific order)

1.  Bud Select.  In a Can.  Cold.  I want to crack it open myself.

2.  Jameson.  Chilled.  I would go "straight outta the bottle" but I fear that my toothbrush gag-reflexes might reject it.  I have to ease my way back into this life.

3.  Port.  After an enormous steak dinner with all of the accoutrement, I want a 20 year Port.  Seriously.  You want it, too.

4.  Mojito.  I mean a real mojito.  Not some mix crap you get from the grocery.  I want Luis from San Juan to fly in and muddle my mint.  I want to feel the buzz begin when I inhale over the glass.

5.  Dessert Wine.  I have two VERY GOOD Moscatos in my collection.  They are both begging to be opened and served with a glazed fruit tart.

6.  Bailey's on ice.  Seriously.  I drank a large bottle one night last winter and had the best cry of my life.  Sweet soul release!

. . . I am sure I will think of more.  For now, I'll leave you with a challenge:

DRINK THESE FOR ME!

COUNTING

How many children do you have?  Do you plan to have more?  Why?

No, really.  WHY?

When told that I only plan to have this child, I get some pretty specific responses.  The most popular of which is:  "But, you have to have more than one.  Your child needs a brother or sister."

Tell me, How do they know that??  Is my child going to need a transplant that will only come with the existence of a sibling?  If my child doesn't get a brother, will it be a bully?  If my child doesn't get a sister, will it be a socio-pathic rapist?

I am sure these friends are not telling me that I should replenish the Earth with my kind.  But, what in the world is wrong with just one?

I don't think that "only" children are lacking in any other way than having an actual sibling.  Believe me when I say that this child will be socialized.  There is no way it won't be.  There are plenty of friends with children and even a cousin or two to help out.  I firmly believe that a child learns what you are willing to teach.  If you don't take the time to teach them to share, the child will NOT share.  If you don't take the time to explore and exemplify compassion, the child will NOT have any.

If you think that I will spoil my child, you have another thing coming.  Just because I can doesn't mean that I will.  I heard "no" as a child.  I was aware when there were financial constraints.  Eventually, I was even privy to the decision making process.  This was developmentally important for my parents to give me.  I will not spoil my child.

In my life, my friends are my family.  I have sisters and brothers and more sisters and brothers.  I see no reason that my child needs to have things differently.  Keep in mind that I do have a younger brother.

Barring the extremes, I think that the Hub and I will be perfectly capable and successful in raising a congenial only child.  I'm not just for Zero Population Growth.  I like to negatively affect the growth.  And, I don't want 18 kids I cannot afford to raise well.  Note that I said "well" - not "comfortably" 

But, am I missing something?  Perhaps I haven't thought this all of the way through?

SHARP LIKE A KNIFE

I'm not stupid.  Neither are you.  But everyone else most definitely is.

In honor of our not-to-be-found stupidity, I have created a list of T-Shirt designs that I must create for myself.

1.  NAH.  I'M JUST FAT.

2.  DON'T TOUCH MY BELLY.  REALLY.
     Also available in the "Wish Creed Motif":  I WISH YOU *WOULD* TOUCH MY BELLY.
     Or, the minimalist design which features a crossed-out hand outline and the words:  I WILL CUT YOU.

3.  FIRST ONE WHO SMELLED IT - DEALT IT.

4.  MOO.

5.  WHERE'S THE BATHROOM?
     Available in several languages!

6.  A FACEHUGGER GOT ME.

In only have 20 more weeks to enjoy my own snark before I have to put a limit on it for child safety. . .

BREATHING THROUGH THE PAIN

This morning, I got up when the dog was running circles on the bed - as per usual - trying to wake-up the Hub.  Usually, I sleep through this knowing that I have another hour to luxuriate in my nest of pillows and memory foam.  Today, however, I was on a mission.

In the past three days, the Gestational Carpal Tunnel has gotten worse.  In the mornings, it is PAINFUL to hold my toothbrush.  I can't seem to extend my fingers past the Quasimodo position. . .

So, rather than sacrifice my usually beautiful dental devices, I visited my friendly, albeit quirky Ortho Guy.

The Carpal Tunnel Syndrome in my right hand (also my dominant hand) is so much worse than my left that the doctor commented that I have near zero strength.  I suppose this helps explain the difficulties gripping lately.  He prescribed some exercises and two GIANT SHOTS OF CORTISONE.

Yes.  One in each wrist.  Holy Moly, Roly Poly.  I don't know if you have ever had Cortisone shots (anywhere) but they HURT!  I'll be honest here.  My eyes misted up.  It feels like dying, stabbing, burning.  BREATHE, SUPID!!!  OMGWTFBBQ!?!??!!?  But, it's worth it.  Really.  Like the baby.  Cortisone shots make the bad stuff go away - whether it be hives, inflammation, hurtiness. .

After the doctor and his assistant finished, I was left with two DOT band-aids (one on each wrist) and a small risk of infection.  Yes.  I look like the victim of the world's tiniest suicide attempt.  Times two.

I am happy, however, to say that there is only slight numbness left in my right fingertips.  The pain seems to have melted away. . through the pain.  I can almost make a fist again.  Almost.  I hope this lasts the 2 to 3 months as expected.  I can't see doing this every month.

A IS FOR ANSWERS

After a long day at work, I met the Hub at our 18 week OB appointment.  As mentioned on Friday, I had a boatload of questions that desperately needed answers. . . we'll get to that in a moment.

Right now, I need to make a statement for the betterment of public safety.  Today, this second Monday in August turned out to be "take your whole fucking family to the OB GYN" day.  Upon arrival, I found my Hub surrounded in the waiting area by seeming hoards of people.  There were even a couple MMs (Moron Mothers) who parked their brats in front of the doors.  Seriously.  Leave your family at home.  Or, set them in the hallway until you get your name called.  The chairs are for the actual clients - not their entire extended family.  Remember, I'm not above opening the door a little too fast, people.  You have been warned.
Okay.  Back to the answers. . .

1.  Inversion positions in yoga, handstands and inversion tables are acceptable.  Thankfully, back pain has not been my main complaint as of late.

2.  Chances are one of the reasons I am waking up is because I am on my back.  No worries.  Better news?  I am allowed a WHOLE Unisom for insomnia.  Sweet sleepy pills of joy!  I'm on it.

3.  There isn't a whole lot to be done for the round ligament pain.  But, it was gently suggested that I stop moving so fast. . . Right.

4.  The bad news was concentrated.  I have gestational carpal tunnel syndrome.  This accounts for the swelling, the pins and needles, the numbness, the pain and the ARRGH! I feel in the morning.  I have a referral to "a hand guy" who happens to be an ortho guy who specializes in hands.  My Doc thinks that since I am already having such a shitty time, I am going to get worse.  I think we all see the Cortisone shots in my future.  I'll gladly suffer the burning Hell that is Cortisone if it will do away with my hurty hands.

So. . . as per usual, I got to pee in a cup and write my name on said cup with my own Sharpie.  (It cuts down on user germs.)  Then, there was the life-affirming Doppler check.  The Spitfire's heart rate is around 155.  Good stuff.

I'll get back to my typical complaining later.  Check!

PENDING

Monday will bring about the 18 week check-in.  It will consist of the same treatment I received the previous several times:  First I'll pee in a cup and deposit it into what looks like a secret wall safe.  Then, I'll be dopplered to make sure that everyone is still alive in there.  Finally, we'll have a Q&A session for any of those ridiculous things I come up with between sessions.

This week, I am coming armed with a list of questions - not unlike the very first appointment.  I hope to bring all of the glorious answers back in a nice, neat report.

1.  Are inverted yoga positions okay?  How about doing handstands or using an inversion table?  Sometimes, I just feel the need to stretch myself out, momentarily, like a cat before and after a nap.  I feel like my lacking in the upside-down department has caused serious droopages.

2.  Holy 80 year old woman syndrome!  When I wake up, my hands feel like they have been cramped all night - gripping my pillow a little too tightly (Enter Sandman, Wha?)  If I try too early in the day, I can't even grip a pen without feeling hurty.  Popping my knuckles seems to alleviate some of the pain but it just turns it down to a dull roar throughout the day.  What can I do?  Continue to ice my hands when they feel like little blood sausages?  Is this doing damage?

3.  Sleeping is horrendous.  And, don't give me some shit about "your body is preparing you for the lack of sleep you will get when the baby arrives"  It is a popular line of thinking but I think that whomever thought up that shit is a sadist.  My list of safe medications says that I can take 1/2 a pill of Unisom for morning sickness.  So, my intent is to take 1/2 a pill of Unisom for its real purpose.  Is this okay?  How often can I do this?

4.  I can't sleep on my back worth a shit.  I saw once that sharks will go into some kind of peristalsis if flipped onto their backs.  Maybe I share more than just my predatory nature with them.  The Snoogle makes me feel really crowded right now, so I have decided to shelve it until I need more body support.  In the meantime, I suppose I will keep waking up every few hours to find that I am slowly killing my baby by sleeping on my back?  What are my other options?  Sleeping upright with pillows?  At what angle is safe?

5.  Round ligament pain makes me want to stab myself in my abdomen with some shears and snip the ligament in half.  Anyone?  So, what are some other things I can do to help with this?

6.  Last night, I woke up sleeping on my right side.  Everything was alright.  I'm pretty sure I didn't even need to pee - which is a miracle in and of itself.  BUT. . my left hand was asleep and totally hurty.  Some of the crazies online suggest that this is because I was laying on my liver and major circulatory business.  Others think it is because of where the baby is pressing against my spinal column.  I'm not sure I believe either entirely.  If I am sleeping on my right side, why is my LEFT hand going all crazy?  Right.

Early next week, I should have some answers.

NOT A GUMBY GIRL

Recently, I have started to experience some discomfort.  It feels like there is a string that runs from my pubic bone to behind my bellybutton.  And, some asshole is plucking it like a sad, loud acoustic version of Comfortably Numb.  And, OH!, how I wish I was.

That little bastard in the red circle is what is causing all of the horror.  It's just another part of this process that doesn't get talked about enough.  THIS SHIT HURTS.

So, what is there to do about it?

Some suggest resting when the pain is felt.  Other suggest "flexing your knees towards your abdomen to get some relief". . . Umm, doesn't that found like the fetal position?  What if I'm already there?

Is there any stretching that will help lengthen this ligament?  I feel like that would be the proactive way to help myself.

Anyone?

MOOOOO.

Contrary to popular belief, being 100% Korean does in fact have a few draw-backs.  I know.  But, some of us can't drink alcohol.  My brother's ears and puff up and his face turns bright red after a few sips of a Captain and Coke.  More of us, however, are Lactose Intolerant.  Think about it.  Other than Yak milk, just how many dairy cows are there in Asia?  (This is not based on any fact.  Only funny.  So, yuk it up, punk.)

Knowing that the monster in my belly needs Calcium, I have kicked my intake into high gear.  Despite the gassy effects, I have been eating Broccoli by the barrel.  I am a huge Soy fan, so that has been easy.  But, imagine - to my surprise, I have been craving dairy.

Dairy products are foods and drinks comprised of the baby food produced by and meant for another SPECIES, people.  Consuming them is like feeding your breast milk to your cat.  Or, worse, feeding cheese made from your breast milk to your dog to assist with its daily allergy medications.  Yuck!

Regardless, I have been craving them.  Being Lactose Intolerant is not helpful.  Today, I ate a 1/4 of a block of Colby.  It was delicious and went well with my fiber select crackers. 

And now, I have heartburn.  And I feel like someone cut me open and put a small boulder in my stomach before sewing me back up. 

I think I'll stick to my special yogurts and flatulence producing veggies.  Moo.

REVIEW:  Dairy products.  Heartburn.  Boulder.

GOING ON A BEAR HUNT

The Hub and I went out today.  We had a mission.  A fact finding mission.

Despite having what seem like 800 friends with some 17,000 children who can offer advice, we wanted to find the products and answers that fit our lifestyle and our needs.

First off.  This shit is expensive.  Looking at all of the crap that people buy for their kids, I found myself saying aloud that there were plenty of items that our child would be doing without.  Cheap?  No.  I'm practical.  No two month old needs 180 different kinds of baby toys.  No yearling child needs that much shit.  Yearling.  Because my baby is going to be a horse.

Speaking of cost, I am just hoping that all of the baby gifts the Hub and I have purchased through the years are going to pay off.  Seriously.  We bought crazy baby supplies for friends when we were young and didn't have the scratch.  I think we should be rewarded for waiting until our people could afford such ridiculousness.  Right.

We have narrowed the new furniture down to a few items.  There's the convertible crib (crib-toddler-full size bed), 

the dresser/changing table combo



and the bassinet.  They are simple and classic.  The bassinet will only be used for a few months - and really, only because it will be easier to step across my own bedroom for those middle of the night feedings.  I hope I can sell that bad boy soon after.  Knowing that we will be moving into a bigger home in a couple years, we can use the crib converted to a full size bed for a guest room if the kid doesn't want it.  Pragmatic.

Baby car seats are crazy.  You have the first drop in carrier (which with the extra base will run you around $250) that lasts maybe a year. 

Then, you move up to a convertible seat that will run you 2 to 3 times the cost of the infant seat - but will last you several years.  I think we found the ones we are interested in. . . primarily because the infant seat is highly rated in safety and satisfaction but also because. . .

. . . it is one of the brands that can be dropped into the BOB strollers.  These things are redonkulous but impressive at the same time. 

The $450 average price brings you some serious perks for something you will get a few years use from.  (I think there is a young age at which a kid should be expected to walk.  Please ask me about the 5 year old I saw stuffed into a stroller at the Missouri Botanical Gardens)  That being said, you have a seriously tight turning radius, plenty of available and included accessories and a really cushy ride.

Other shit that is going to leave your family and friends - AND YOUR - bank accounts empty?

Breast Pumps.  Really?  $300?  Yeah.  This is something you shouldn't get cheap on.  These things get attached to your NIPPLES.  A LOT.  Keep that in mind when you think about buying the cheap ones.  Or, worse - the manual one.  Cows don't milk themselves and neither should you.

High Chairs.  It seems like the smaller the area that it takes up - the more moolah is necessary.  I'm contemplating strapping a contraption to a dining room chair and calling it a day.  I think it's unfair that I have to pay a gillion dollars for another THING that get used for a very finite amount of time - all the while taking up room in the corner of my dining room.  Boo!

We still have a bit of research to do as I think we have only touched the tip of the iceberg.  Some of these items can be found on Amazon for cheaper than their list price at the other places.  However, with the right coupons, they are nearly the same.

When we finally get around to registering, I'll post an extensive list.  (Not really.  We don't plan to be filling our home with baby.)
Big THANK YOU to the folks at Buy Buy Baby who are informed and very friendly.

SLEEP UPDATE

So, the Snoogle arrived on Wednesday, in a box that must have been a challenge for the packers.  Freed from the plastic wrap, the Snoogle leaped into shape.  A big C.  (I know there's a wildly inappropriate joke in there somewhere.)

The Hub and I have a queen sized bed.  We both know that due to my obnoxious sleeping maneuvers, we will likely adopt a king sized bed when we eventually move into a bigger home.  For now, he has his 1/3 and I have the rest.

When I put the Snoogle on the bed, I noted that if not careful, it would take up the whole bed.  I think we already have a 14 pound Miniature Schnauzer that does that particular job.

Anyway. . . Wednesday night, I tried it out.  I slipped one curved end over my right shoulder and under my head.  The other curved end, I ran between my knees.  This left the long part to fit snug against my back.

Here are a few things I noted:

1.  Yes.  It keeps me from rolling over onto my back.  (Did you know that if you are sufficiently stuffy with hormones, you can indeed snore while sleeping on your side?  I'm still in denial.)

2.  When I woke up a few times during the night, I found that my right arm was asleep.  And throbbing.  This is not the way I like to wake up.  But, for now, it is better than waking up because my bladder is about to explode onto the duvet.

3.  If you really try. . . and I mean, put some serious gut-busting effort into moving, you can, in fact, roll up and over the edge of the Snoogle to some glorious back-sleeping comfort.  Of course, then you feel guilty and settle back into the nest you have purchased for yourself.

I have used the Snoogle two nights now.  I dislike sleeping on my side, so I have to remind myself that it's not the Snoogle's fault.  It does make comfy the horrible new sleeping position.  Even if it's just for a little while.

The Verdict?:  Yes.  Go get one.  If for no other purpose than to make awesome nestling caverns for your puppy.

TAKING THIS SHIT LYING DOWN

Since I can remember, I have always fallen asleep on my back and woken up on my back.  What I do in between is up for argument.  Typically, it includes tossing and turning, some nightmares and off the chart dreams.  Lately, it includes waking up to use the bathroom and drinking more water to soothe my Gobi-dry throat.  (Let's just say that last night was a 2.5 water bottle night.)

Per one of my pregnancy books, now that I have progressed to the 16th week, the time for back sleeping is done.  I'm no slacker, though.  I have been trying for a few weeks to learn to sleep on my side.  As it turns out, this is like learning to breath underwater.  Through gills I don't have.

I have found that I can sleep on a 45 degree angle.  It's somewhere between sleeping on my side and sleeping on my back.  With the aid of enough pillows, I can ensure that I don't cut off necessary blood flow to the Spitfire.  Right.

Thankfully, the Hub ordered one of these bad boys for me . . .

In theory, it will make all of my sleeping woes go away.  It provides a long support beam that will prohibit me from rolling onto my back.  It is cushy for my ever-growing belly.  And. . That's really all I've got.

Who wants to bet that I'll end up chucking it across the room in the middle of the night?  I'm sure the dog will be happy to re purpose it.  She seems to like stealing pillows for her own comfort.

Either way, I'm happy to try if one of the outcomes is better sleep.

CHOO-CHOO!!!!

I lost my gallbladder, shortly after my final and worst gallbladder attack, on Easter Sunday, 2011.
Aftermath included scarring, hossing through the pain with no pain meds and shitting uncontrollably as a result of eating anything containing a little fat.

Yes.  The train was truly rolling down the tracks.

Now that I'm four months pregnant, I can tell you that progress has definitely slowed.  My body is slowing digestion to enable my parasite to get every bit of nutrition from the foods I intake.  Because of this, my train stalls.  Frequently.

Not one to be hindered by such . . . dearth in movement (just how many euphemisms can I come up with for clogged-up shitter?), I have devised a list of catalysts to help get my doggies a movin' (do I get points for the cowboy reference?)

1.  Pizza Rolls.  Sweet baby Moses in the reeds!  One box of Pizza Rolls (either Combination or Cheese) will get it going.  Folks, let's talk methodology here:  On a plate, place 1 paper towel.  Place each pizza roll on the towel.  Microwave for 2 minutes.  Then, flip the rolls and microwave 1 more minute.  Trust me.  This is the best way to get you to the church.

2.  Indian Food.  Specifically Chicken Tikka Masala and ANY korma.  Sure, if your pregnant nose can't handle the spice, this isn't for you.  Seriously.  It lingers.

3.  Taco Bell.  Isn't this true for everyone, though? 

Note that these are NOT healthy alternatives to Metamucil or whatever else your OB suggests.  These are for special moments.  When you are absolutely cranked and need a little something to get you through your day. 

Yes.  I just gave you permission to eat something horrendous.  It's for a good cause.  I can't help but think of the alternative when you become impacted and they have to send an intern on a stool fishing mission.  ;)

SIDE NOTE

I drove a friend to the airport a few moments ago.  I explained that I have been congested for the better part of two months and that it has to do with hormones.

I snored my way through last night because of the congestion - so loud that our 14 pound Miniature Schnauzer switched sides and pushed her way onto my Hub's pillow.  It was so loud that I woke myself up.  That's *fucking* loud.

But, the point of this mini-post is not my fourteen cords of sawed logs.

Hormones.  I think we should call them HERmones.

These little buggers turn women bat shit insane. 

Also.  I am not a "hor"

That is all.

IT'S *THAT* SOUND

It's getting harder and harder to maintain my dental health.  Every night, after I finish my shower (because I don't like sleeping in the day's filth!) I put on my robe and I begin my final decent to sleepyville.

In addition to applying astringent to ward off the slick from the ever growing oil field on my nose, I frost my ADA selected toothbrush with some cavity and plaque reducing paste and GET READY FOR THE RIDE!

As opposed to the my usual 2 1/2 minutes of brushing, I can only make it a minute to a minute and a half before I feel like I'm about to suffocate.  If I'm lucky, I'll be standing directly over the sink when I make the sound. . .

It's like a guttural noise that comes from the diaphragm.  It forces all of the air out of my lungs at a warp speed and flexes every abdominal muscle I have.  I have yet to figure out if the muscles clench because they are necessary to force out the sound. . or if they are in action because they are trying to prevent me from expelling all of my hard-eaten sustenance for the day.  Either way. . . I usually manage to spit the excess toothpaste foam from my mouth before . . . "Wuuuuuughhhhh!"

Typically, there is no actual harvest to my heave. . . just *that* sound.  It's unmistakable.  If you hear it, you know what is going on.  This isn't a constipated pooper noise, folks.  It's the "holy shit fuck ass puke" sound.  Really.

Usually, it is followed by a good 2 minutes of panting as I try to catch my breath and assess the probability of actual horking.

Don't get me wrong - It isn't just during tooth brushing.  I was sitting in a meeting with give guys at work.  At the corporate headquarters.  Some one's cologne was just a little too musky and I was forced to turn my head and "Wuuuuuuuughhhh!"  No one looked directly at me, but the guy next to me reached over and grandma patted my hand and said "It will get better soon"

*blink*

At some point, I will have to either man-up and brush my teeth after the sound OR I'll just adjust to having bleeding gums and gnarly breath.  You know me.  The latter isn't going to happen.

MUST NOM IT NOW.

Thus far, I have had a textbook pregnancy.  If I have been experiencing a symptom, chances are, I can also find it in one of my books.  So, it is with no surprise that I find that I have developed the dreaded cravings.

To clarify, I'm not feeling compelled to nom fistfuls of dirt.  Nor am I desperate to shovel in any non-food articles such as paste, hair. . or anything of the like.  Ew.  Hair??

Instead, I have had the most intense cravings in my life for random foods.

For example, even though I have been off the meat-eaters' wagon for a while, I still get a hankering for a gyro once a week.  The word craving really doesn't do the monster justice.

When I say craving, I am referring to a moment of utter desperation for a food.  I smell the roasted lamb and beef.  I can taste the tangy tzatziki.  I can feel the perfect bite through pillowy pita and succulent slices of goodness. . . all the way to crisp onions and lettuce. 

OH SWEET, GREEK GOODNESS!!  GET IN MY BELLY!!

Right.  Okay. . cravings.

This overwhelming, taste bud tantalizing, tacitly torturous craving will not subside until I have indulged in the real thing.  Who ever know that cravings were so strong?

My advice on cravings?  Give in.  Just do it.  I do.  Just because I am having ridiculously strong impulses to eat something doesn't mean that it ups the quantity. 

Mmmmm.  Do it.

FACEBOOK OFFICIAL

When the Hub and I were first engaged, I called a total of 10 people.  Over two weeks.  I figured that the news would spread like wildfire.  When it did, I started to get phone calls from people who were all ass-hurt because they didn't get a personal call.  Guess what, folks. . . I don't have the time or energy these days to be calling what seems like a quadrillion people I consider to be "pregnancy news worthy"

I will admit that while I find it alarming that many pregnancy chat boards have entire discussions dedicated to telling friends on Facebook, it is the easiest way to do it.  Because there have already been a few "leaks"  (which were cauterized quickly), the Hub and I have decided to go completely public.

So. . . to all of you who are finding this for the first time today with the help of either Twitter or Facebook: 

WELCOME!

For the best reading experience, please start at the beginning (it's a very good place to start!)  Note that there has been a very nice sized parcel of readership of this blog from all over the world - without you.  Now that you are here, please feel free to share the wealth of my insanely judgey remarks and startling disclosures!

GREASED LIGHTNING

One of my favorite side effects of the increased pregnancy hormones has got to be the amped up production of grease by my face.  Sink an oil well, here, fellas, and we'll make millions!

Just because I didn't suffer teenage acne doesn't mean I don't know how to take care of the situation:

I shower every night. 
I wash my face with facial cleanser to help dry out some of the oil producers. 
After my shower, I find that applying a bit of astringent helps to keep the flood of goo at bay just a little while longer.

Fast forward to the morning when I crankily wake up with the alarm. . .
Surprise, surprise!  My face is laden with all kinds of grossity. 
For heaven's sake.  I wash and apply astringent.  Again.

By 10am, I am oily. 
Again. 
This time, I'm just going to have to deal with it until I get home from work. 
I find that I am washing and applying astringent three times a day. 
I'm sure that is more than indicated.

Even my faithful aesthetician, Bonnie has noticed.  During my last facial, she spent a copious amount of time digging out my severely clogged pores.  Yes.  I have pimples.  Because I'm 14.

Several women have already told me that this will pass.  But, I'm not prepared for another 6 months of puss and oil filled behemoths popping up to say "hello!"

For now, the best I can do it continue washing my face like it's prom season and visiting Bonnie on a monthly basis. 

SWEET MOSES! I AM PROLIFIC TODAY!

On a side note, when I arrived at the mall, I quickly found a spot and as I began to steer into it, I noticed the sign. . .

Apparently, in my own mind, I am not pregnant enough to necessitate special parking.  So, I backed-up and pulled into the spot next to it.

Perhaps it was the thought of walking out to my car after shopping only to be confronted by someone who didn't believe my status.  Or, maybe I'm still a little in denial. 

Right.

SWEET SUCCESS

I have never been a good shopper.  I save up my shopping tolerance for Black Friday - when I take my eldest niece shopping all day for holiday goodies.  Sporadic shopping during the non-holidays is never good and I usually come away with plenty of stuff for other people.

Today, I managed to actually buy things.  For myself.  This is a massive upgrade from the last four trips out with the Hub.  On those sad days, I drove 30 minutes to a local mall.  I then spent 20 minutes walking in circles before I was fucking finished and drove the next 30 minutes home - empty handed.  Four times, people.  My Hub is a saint.

So, I need to thank the following folks for their unlimited help today. . .

- The girls at Claire's who helped me pick out two of the most perfect fake wedding rings.  It's hard when your already chubby fingers turn into little Korean sausages and your normal band no longer fits.

- The sweet ladies at Loft who knew that I really meant light knit summer dresses when I said stretchy fat girl wear.  I bought two really cute knee length dresses that are work appropriate with a shrug (that I also bought) and transition easily into evening wear.  I will also admit that one of the dresses has pockets.  Because I am four.  And I need somewhere to keep my gum.

- The knowledgeable gals (I'm running out of euphamisms for chicks) at Destination Maternity for helping me find appropriate work and casual attire that will last me through the next 6 months.  Nothing perturbs me more than buying clothes that will only do me good for 6 months.  Except maybe the fact that I can no longer suck in the chub.  Seriously.  Ew.  I am now the proud owner of two skirts with goofy panels sewn into them.  I also procurred several new tops to go with said skirts and to go with . . . the period shorts that temporarily still fit.

- The kind woman at Bath and Body Works who tried to help me when the smell became overwhelming and I thought I might hork picking through the antibacterial hand soaps.

- And. . . to my Sister In Law who suffered through it all with me.  You managed to make a tomboy look all cutesy.  Impressive, Madame.

Thank you!

PIT STOP REVIEW!

RESTROOM LOCATION:  Kohl's Department Store on Manchester
# of VISITS:  1
RESTROOM STYLE:  Several stalls.  Standard partial wall and door.
DECOR:  Standard.  Nothing special. 
REVIEW:  It was clean.  I was happy for an open stall.  Then I saw that I wasn't alone.  He was big.  I had to convince my 5 year old niece not to kill him.  She likes killing.  (I think she takes after me.)  We washed our hands and headed back out to leave him in peace.  We are good people.

NEW GOALS

At just 12 weeks, I am finding that all but a few of my clothing selection are so uncomfortable that I seriously considered wearing a nightshirt (with just a little bit of strawberry jelly and peanutbutter on it!) and a pair of sandals out to a birthday dinner the other night.  Those things that still fit me were XL and items that fell into that funny little category of:  Period Clothes.

So, after work today, my loving Sister in Law and I are heading out to the mall to see if I can hunt down, trap and buy the ever elusive pregnancy comfortable clothing.

In my mind, I see flowy summer dresses that can easily switch to work appropriate with a shrug or sweater.

I will update my success or lack thereof when I get home.

NOT QUITE RIGHT.

Little kids go through it.  They are big enough to use the big kid potty.  But, they still aren't big enough ride a tricycle to the park by themselves.

That's where I am.  At 11 weeks, I am fluffy enough to feel a bit snug in my own pants.  But, I'm not big enough to necessitate maternity clothes.

How can you tell that your pants are a little too tight?  Other than the obvious pinchy feeling, here are a few clues:

1.  Your pockets have more flare than usual.  This goes for the men, too.  If you are getting a little thick 'round the middle, your pockets strain to supply a little more material.  Then, your hips seem to be trying to take flight with their newly found pocket wings.

2.  Certain parts of your pants start to rise to the occasion.  I was disturbed, too.  Trust me.  I am a firm believer that no one should sport "toes" above the knees.  Seriously.

So, where does this leave me?

Oh, THIS. Definitely THIS.

As long as you can get past feeling that you didn't buckle your pants (which you didn't!) you can use this band with success.

So far, I have used the band primarily with work pants.  They are the most unforgiving - other than jeans.  As long as I wear it with a slightly longer shirt, noone even knows it's there.  And, as long as I tuck that pesky little button behind some material, I forget it's there.

REVIEW:  Fluffy?  Use a Band.  Maintain pre-pregnancy clothing use for longer.  Deny the ever-growing waistline for another day.

TIPS FOR YOUR PUBLIC

No.  This is still not the post about the Chernobyl level of angry that is currently rushing through my veins.  Patience.  It's coming.

Latley, I have been torturing myself by reading pregnancy bulletin boards.  Primarily, I just want to see what everyone else is going through.  What I have found are hundreds of pregnant women who are surrounding themselves with people who don't support them and their pregnancies with their words.  Quite the contrary!  Most of these women seem to be surrounded by negative and caustic assholes.

Assuming that these women are not just big balls of raging hormones. . . I have written this post as a cheatsheet to help those people in your life acclimate to your pregnancy.  Because everything in this world revolves around them.

1.  It is none of your business.  Why, when, how, if. . . none of it.  You get the information that the future parents decide to give you.  You are not entitled to every bit of information available.  When our forefathers mentioned "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness," they were not giving you auto-entitlement.  Read #3 for more on that.

2.  It is none of your business.  If you have been trusted with details regarding someone's pregnancy, you can rest assured it is for two reasons.  Either you are an important part of the couple's life or you are a perceived threat to their peace of mind.  If you are the former, make sure to keep confidences and keep your mouth shut.  If the couple wants everyone to know about their pregnancy, they will tell them.  If you are the latter, this post is not for you.  You are a lost cause.  Die in a fire.  (More with the burning?!$@)(*&#@)()

3.  It is none of your business.  To elaborate on #1. .  So, the girl who sits across the aisle from you at work is clearly pregnant.  Guess what.  She never has to confirm that for you.  You can bet that if she hasn't already said something to you, you don't rank high enough in her life to warrant tidings of the good news.  If you are at all intelligent, you should be able to surmise that if you weren't privvy to her pending baby, you certainly are not entitled to know if she will have the epidural, if she intends to breastfeed, if she will cosleep, how long it took her to get pregnant, if she has had miscarriages in the past.  Nothing.  YOU.  GET.  NOTHING.

4.  It is none of your business. 

5.  It is none of your business. 

. . . Need I say more?

P.S.  Eventually, I'll give you a list of snarky responses to help whip these offenders back to their own lives.  For now, stand-up and let them know that you are displeased.  We cannot correct behavior by assuming that the offenders know their offenses.

DRAWING LINES

We all have people in our lives who are nosey as fuck and regularly cross into what normal folk would recognize as dangerous territory.  Most of these people are in our lives still because for one reason or another, we cannot get rid of them.  Read:  Family.

Navigating the tips of their olfactory units can be tricky - especially when they seem to poke, swing and careen in and out of view while trying to get information (ironically, these are the same people who can't keep their mouths closed to begin with.)

Don't let this seemingly uphill battle discourage you from nipping the problem in the bud, however.  This is practice for your future parenting - learning to shut down the outside noise.

Here are some of the rules I am slowly developing to help my Hub and I soar through this pregnancy without crashing and burning (some one's house down). . .

1.  You reign in your people and your partner reign in theirs.  In our house, the rule goes on to state that "there is always a choice.  You can handle it, or I will."  This rule goes back to two days before our wedding.  It is a good story.

2.  Be a united front.  If the front cracks, the enemy infiltrates and the town burns.  (There's a lot of burning in this post, eh?)

3.  Set expectations.  This goes for your partner, yourself and the people with whom you surround yourself.  People are not mind readers.  (We have now reached the relationship speech part of the post.)  You cannot hold a person accountable for being unable to reach your expectations if they cannot even see the bar that you have set.  I try to remind myself of this every day when my hormones make me crazy.  (REMINDER:  I must dedicate an entire post to the Pregnancy Angries.)

I think these three rules are integral to pregnancy and the future child rearing years.  I'm sure there are other fine jewels in the crowns of husbandry and parenting.  And that brings me to the newest rule:

4.  If you aren't ready for or open to advice, make sure to politely forewarn the know-it-alls so that you have a foothold when you have to melt their faces off.  (NOTE:  that was "melt" and not really "burn")

When all else fails, I know that I am the pregnant one.  I need to retain composure and I need to remain relaxed for my health.  That is a good gauge for decision making right now.

WEEK TEN UPDATE

The Hub and I had another visit with the professional today.

As it turns out, I will be peeing in a cup every visit.  Oh goody!  I am pretty good at hitting my targets but I have to tell you that when the target is tiny, there is a really good chance that I'm going to piss on my hands.  This time, however, I managed to keep my digits clean.  Hooray.

For about a week, I have been miserable believing that I had gained 16 pounds in the last three weeks.  Despite the fact that my pants are *just* a bit tight, I was sure that I was in the early throes of gestational diabetes or some strange thyroid problem.  Or, some new gestational disease that no one had ever experienced before.

Sure, I would have had to taken in 56,000 extra calories in three weeks.  But, I'm knocked-up and it's impairing my logic.  A lot.

I was delighted to find that I had gained 4 pounds since the start of this madness.  And dismayed that I believed the rickety scale that lives in the back of the bathroom closet.  Idiot.

The two cysts in my breasts and the one that has forever called my right ovary "home" are all fine.  In fact, the ovarian cyst is smaller than it has ever been.  Thank goodness for the (stratospheric) spike in progesterone.  Really.  NOT the acne.  NOT the dangerous level of angry.  NOT the constant sick.  This is the only good thing about this overload of hormones.  ONLY.  THING.

I have bad veins.  Before my gallbladder surgery, five different professionals tried multiple times to stick me.  It was torture.  Today, it took only two nurses with three sticks to hit red liquid gold.  I'm thanking the powers that be that I don't need to donate again for several months.  Today, the attempts made the room very hot and very dizzy.  Boo.

Those of you who know me are aware that I am seldom insecure.  But, these last three weeks, I have been growing concerned.  This early in the game, there is no telling if all is well until you hear or see the goodness.  Today, I got a little relief.

I watched as the Hub's eyes beam when he heard the heartbeat.  I felt a thrill when I saw the legs and arms kicking out.  Reassurance.

Despite being a few weeks further along, the baby still feels as though it is growing in my back.  It has yet to fill up enough to flip forwards like a normal uterus.  The Doc estimates another four or five weeks will rectify this.

It was really nice to see the heart pumping like mad and how active the Spitfire is.  The head still makes it look a little alien like, but less like it's going to claw its way out of my stomach.

REVIEW:  Peeing in cups.  Good appointment.  Proof of life. 



LET'S GET TO THE POINT

So, there have been more changes.  The most prolific has to do with my nipples.
(Laugh.  You know you want to.)

Lately, they have turned into monstrous, rigid sentinels that bring forth pain.  For you, dear readers, I journeyed for answers so that not another one of us would stand helpless at the top of a staircase and tearfully wish there was an elevator available.

Let me explain the issue:  More turbidity = More friction.

Here are some of cures I discovered:

1.  Most maternity shops sell little plastic hats for your nipples.  These "nipple shields" are designed to protect you between feedings.  To me, they looked like little plastic Dog Igloos.  No thank you.

2.  One of my close friends suggested lubricating lotion and nursing pads.  This is a more acceptable plan of action.  But, it leaves me thinking:  "Aren't I going to be using enough nursing pads in the future?  Should I really have to sport them NOW??  Aren't these going to make me even BIGGER?"

3.  Duct Tape and gauze.  Seriously.  Don't forget the gauze.

4.  Pasties.  They come in assorted colors, sizes and shapes!  As your quarters grow to the size of a personal pan pizza, you will be happy for the assortment.

At this time, I am opting for super soft fabric tucked discreetly inside my bra cup.  No fuss, no muss.
(Flannel or super soft fleece seems to work best because it clings to the bra fabric.)

You're welcome.

SEA COWS AND OTHER WONDEROUS THINGS.

With the sudden halt in certain activities, I have had to find new (or recycled) ways of preventing myself from becoming the shape and size of the chicken heart that ate New York City.

Shooting trap really doesn't work much but my arms and about half of my chest.  Curling isn't starting up until September and even that only works one leg and only once a week.  What I really need (other than preventing an oddly in shape body) is some good aerobic exercise!

Because of just a few of the really bad choices I made as a youngster, I am missing large pieces of pretty important cartilage.  This makes any impact exercise really hurty.  Because of this (and the fact that they are boring as Hell), running or walking long distances is OUT.

Instead. . . I have reverted to the days of old.  I am swimming laps and treading water.  I have been swimming since I was 6 months old.  Whether it be recreational, professional (Life Guard) or on a swim team, I spent the majority of my childhood in a large body of water. 

Water exercise is one of the most popular ways to work your entire musculo-skeletal systems.  If you can get over being slightly misshapen in your swimming suit (with a hot-air balloon-sized suit in your future), you can use swimming as your primary form of exercise.

So, the clingy outfit is a downer, I'll admit. . but there are perks!

1.  All of the pressure you feel in your legs and feet is instantly GONE.  You are nearly weightless and in some senses, you ARE weightless!  Manatees aren't made for the fields and neither am I.  If it weren't for the pruney fingers and toes, I'd live in the giant chlorine and bromide bath at the YMCA.

2.  All of the days stresses seem to melt away.  Your body and your baby will both thank you.  Think of it as sync time.  Now, both of you are swimming in warm goo.  (Ew.  Stay out of the shallow end after a kiddie class!)

3.  An hour of swimming is stated to be so much better for you than an hour of walking.  So just imagine how much better 30 minutes of swimming will be for you than the 4 hours sitting on the couch!

If you can't swim, I suggest walking around the shallow end of the pool.  The resistence will still help you work your muscles.  If you're feeling ballsy, hold on the side and kick your legs for a while.  That will get your heartbeat up!

I find that after swimming, I sleep deeper and all around feel better.  Additionally, I am less prone to eviscerate my partner.  Now, that is a perk!

THIS POST IS NOT FOR YOU.

If you can't stand the honest truth about pregnancy, this post is likely not for you.
If fart and burp jokes are repugnant to you, this post is likely not for you.
If you are really close to me and there are things about me you just don't need to know, this post is likely not for you.

You have been sufficiently warned.

This past weekend was, by far, the worst time.  I'm not sure I'm going to live through this pregnancy and if I hear one more person tell me this is going to be worth it, they can carry this hormone-inducing flesh-bag the rest of the way. 

Here are a few udpates to how I'm feeling. . .

1.  Instead of jacks, my boobs are now filled with cement.  And, not the smooth kind.  But, the chunky kind that rips jeans and knee-skin when you fall on it.

2.  The nausea is so bad, I feel like someone should create a Sesame Street monster for it.  It will be cute and pink and run around barfing on everything.  All of the other characters on the show will want to shoot it but some helpful, well-meaning jerk will continue to point out that she is "worth it"

3.  Holy Crap!  Did I just crap for the first time in three days?  Yeah.  Constipation.  It makes everything so much harder.  That pun was meant.  Indeed.

4.  To reduce the nausea, I find myself eating small bits every two hours.  7-Up seems to be helpful, though, I have to say that carbonated drinks make things happen.  And, when I say "things" I mean, chunky burps.  Yeah.  I mean the sharts of burps.

At eight weeks, I look forward to one more month of this deplorable treatment by my leasee.  If someone treated my rental property like this, I would kick them out.  No. . I would beat the hell out of them and then kick them out.  Letting the perpetrators of such injustice get off scott-free would be. . . in the words of Vizzini, "INCONCEIVABLE!"

So. . I will wait and make sure to use this wretched time as the lecture most children hear at least once from their disappointed/irate parent.

PIT STOP REVIEW!

RESTROOM LOCATION:  Cheesecake Factory at St. Louis Galleria
# of VISITS:  2 (though I wish I would have gone for #3 before I went to Macy's)
RESTROOM STYLE:  Several stalls.  Standard partial wall and door.
DECOR:  Very dark.  Modern tiles.  LOUD MUSIC.  WTFOMGBBQ?!?!
REVIEW:  I expected goodness in this restaurant despite some of the sleezy looking clientel.  The picture above is my view from the pot.  The stall I chose was a baby-changing / handicap stall.  It had its own sink.  I just had to wonder if the other women in the restroom thought I neglected to wash my hands as I walked past the other sinks.  I would definitely use this in case of emergency.  If it weren't for the blaring music, I probably would make special trips here when I was out and about.  ;)

WILL THE REAL BABY BUMP PLEASE STAND UP?

As most of your baby books will tell you, your uterus and baby will not be large enough to "show through" until late in your first or early in your second trimester.  So, when I look down and see that my abdomen has grown exponentially rounder, I feel a little shitty.

Who am I kidding?  I feel a lot shitty.   Like Crappy McPooperson.  Like Tubby McBiggerson. 

Then, of course, the crazy sets in and I question everything I've done so far. . .  Did I really up my calorie intake inadvertently - already?  Am I not being as active as I usually am?  Is swimming laps not taking the place of three softball teams?  Is my baby really the Starman and it's just growing at an alien speed???

No.  No.  No.

In reality, that glorious little pooch. . . F.U.P. . . chub. . . gunt. . . bulbous growth is just a little bit o' bloat.  In fact, it feels so familiar, that I already know the cure!

If I could just start my period, I would be back to normal and the pooch would disappear.

*blink*

So, I wait.  With a mix of fear and excitement, I wait for a real bump to appear.

SO. TIRED.

It was a hellaciously long weekend and if I had it to do over, I would have spent the majority of it sleeping.  The exhaustion is kicking my ass.  Doesn't my baby deserve to have a well rested environment?

The best way to procure the rest my body seems to necessitate is to nap on the fly.  Here are a few examples from my weekend:

*  On the drive to Bloomington, Illinois from St. Louis, make sure to doze off between funny conversation with the Hub and a plethora of Rest Areas.

*  Between the dry wedding reception and the poolhall afterparty, stop in to the hotel room and catch a quick 5 minutes of drool-inducing coma.

*  After the Hub keeps you out two hours laters than bargained - forcing you to drink Sprite with a lime garnish that looks suspiciously like a Vodka Tonic, make sure to crap all over him and make him sleep in the other full sized bed in the hotel room.  Really, we both knew that we weren't sleeping in one.  Full sized beds are for children and anorexia-laden adults.

*  When the Cracker Barrel gives you the world's fastest service and you still have plenty of energy to visit Blain's Farm and Fleet, you might get stuck driving home.  To St. Louis.

*  Reward yourself with a visit to Joannie's Pizza for a Meat Pie and a double order of Spinach-Artichoke Toasted Ravioli.

*  After gorging, fall asleep on the couch with a Mini Schnauzer in your lap and the Hub face-planting into the adjacent cushion.

*  Skip the BBQ your friends have planned because all of the energy in the world is being forcibly sucked from your body and you don't want to battle the drinking issue.

Sunday was not as restful, but it was full of eating.  So, really, I consider it to have been a well-balanced weekend.  I am hopeful that in another 5 weeks, this part will be finished.

PIT STOP REVIEW!

RESTROOM LOCATION:  Hardee's on Gravois Road in Fenton
# of VISITS:  1
RESTROOM STYLE:  Two stalls.  Standard partial wall and door.
DECOR:  Typical bubble vinyl walls and large tile floor.  Nothing special.
REVIEW:  I have seen worse in fast food restaurants.  It actually smelled like antiseptic.  The floor, however, was a bit suspect.  Strange dichotomy.  I would use this one again in an emergency.

THAT'S OBG - NOT GYN

Today was an exciting day.  The Hub and I packed it up early at work in order to get to the first pre-natal appointment.

Thanks to some vicious morning sickness, the ride was so eventful that I begged the receptionist for crackers upon check-in.  Leave it to an OB-GYN office to have a pregnant nurse or two with plenty of crackers on stand-by!

While sitting under the sheet, the doctor, the Hub and I had a quick question and answer session where I learned some really important stuff:    

1.  Shooting trap is absolutely fine.  Even when the baby grows earbuds (later ears), there is enough amniotic fluid, uterus, belly body and clothes to be clear of damage.  It makes sense.  As far as lead - I'm not eating it.

2.  If the cheese is pasteurized, it's a "go"  In fact, I would be hard-pressed to find un-pasteurized cheese at a normal restaurant.  Beet and Goat Cheese salad at Lo Russo's Cucina?  OH.  YEAH.

3.  No to SCUBA, white water rafting, or horseback riding.

4.  Yes to curling, wearing spanx to a wedding this weekend and taking an occasional Zyrtec with my allergy shots.

5.  Low DEET bugspray is alright.  Skin So Soft is so much better.  I think I'll have to load up.

6.  Hard time with nausea and morning sickness?  Eat all day.  And, when that doesn't work, take a Zofran.  Sweet Moses.  It's safe.  It can be pricey.  But, if the choice is spending a little money OR dry heaving for seamingly no reason. . . 'Nuff said.

7.  I'll get the Pap and Breast Exam when I'm actually due.  I was relieved to hear this because I'm pretty sure my knockers wouldn't tolerate any contact.

If this was all I got, I would still think that it was a productive visit.  But, soon after the Q&A, we got down to business. . .

The Hub watched - wide-eyed-as-hell while the Doctor condomed (is that even a word?) and lubed up a vaginal probe.  I have a tilted uterus, so at such an early stage, the probe had to be pushed not only in, but down towards my butt.  Really, you can't apologize to me for that.

Despite the awkward discomfort, we saw it.  Heartbeat and all.

Apparently, the Hub and I are such overachievers that we not only set this in motion in one try. . but we also managed to implant as far as possible away from my cervix.  Genius, folks.  Seriously.

The next appointment is in three and a half weeks.  I hope to come up a whole new list of crazy shit to ask.

COMMON TATERS.

I see you.

I know you come and read my crazy.

Let's even the score.  I've enabled "anonymous" comments so that you don't even have to open a blogger account.

Become a commentator and let me know who you are!

REVIEW:  Bite me.  I am a huge Little House on the Prairie fan.  I laugh every time I read about Mr. Ingalls charading "Commentators on the Acts" with a pile of common potatoes piled on an axe.

AND IT TOOK MY BREATH AWAY. .

I have always had a tiny, yet powerful nose.  Think you keep your house spotless?  I can still smell last night's dinner and I know that the cat is hidden in the basement when company comes.

Now, I fear, that I am smelling for two.

Case #1
Small meeting in my boss' office.  I could smell the small, blue, rubber football he nervously tosses when in discussion.  In fact, it was so strong that I felt like I had just eaten an entire SET OF FOUR COOPER TIRES!

Case #2
The usual twenty minute trip to the grocery store felt more like a 4 hour crawl through your friendly neighborhood house of horrors.  Everytime I passed by one of the little old sample ladies, I just wanted to punch them in the face.  Yeah!  I got something for YOU to sample, LADY!  Did I mention the Hulk-like anger issue lately?

Case #3
Don't judge me.  I have always liked the smell of gasoline.  This afternoon, however, I got a whiff and nearly swooned into the island trash bin.    Times, they are a changin'.

Everything that I read and discussed with my Veteran-friend tells me that there is no medicine for this ill.  Hopefully, I'll grow through it sooner than later.  For, now, avoid, avoid, avoid!

REVIEW:  Everything stinks.  EveryONE stinks.  Awful smells exist as grotesque tastes in your mouth.  It's a lesson in control.  You have none.  Go get a PBJ Sandwich as a palate cleanser.