Reason #52 Why I'm a Bad Mommy. :)

Although this isn't a picture from today, it is one that will illustrate my point. This photo was taken about a month ago. He did not finish the giant-sugar-rush-pop then so I had it wrapped in plastic and hidden in the pie safe. Today, at my wits end - 2 and half hours into the combined cryfests of two children - I did the bad deed. I had Megan in her swing asleep for a short time. The day's history told me it wasn't going to last long. Logan sat on my lap looking at the pictures of the family scroll through the screensaver. This photo came up. He started talking about the lollipop. About wanting the lollipop. And she started stirring. . . so I did it.

I said "I know! Do you want your lollipop? I know where its hiding!" And plopped him in the highchair that he only now uses for arts and crafts and I need more space than my booster allows occasions. I found the giant-sugar-rush-swirly-gig and I unwrapped it. Handing it to him and then dashing quickly around the kitchen to toss something together that looked like dinner while I had a moment to do so. Threw the lame excuse of a meal into the oven and rushed to remove the little one from her swing before she had a complete meltdown. It was 5:45. Bruce would be home in just a half hour. Dinner would be in just a half hour and there my son sat sucking away on a giant lollipop Grandma once bought him as a joke (long story there!) I didn't even care that he might not eat a real dinner. I didn't even care that he might be a rapid mess at bedtime. He had stopped the on-again-off-again-but-mostly-on-again tantrum and the little one was resting semi-peacefully in my arms near the high-chair of doom eating and not fussing. I nearly passed out from emotional exhaustion right then and there.

For what its worth, Logan did eat a lame excuse for a dinner. He hardly ever eats well when he's sick so I'm essentially estatic that he ate what he did - two Yumsters Yogurt, three slices of cheese and a handful of Gramham Cracker sticks. Oh, and milk.  

S.O.S

I'm serious about the booze - send something very strong.

Ok, I'm not serious about the booze. I don't drink all that often. Hell, the amount of alcohol I've consumed in the last 8 years I'm sure a freakin' wine cooler would send me into loopyville.

Instead send a giant vat of something fattening. Really. I mean it.

Although I don't really mean it because that'll just make me more bummed out when I weighed in on Saturday at Weight Watchers (btw, I lost 1.6 pounds last week! Yay me! That's 33.6 since giving birth.)

No, send me the Wiggles. That might work. The Wiggles could entertain the 2 year old and then send me Mary Poppins or something to humor the 3 week old. Really. That might do it.

Really, this isn't supposed to be this stressful. I'm sick. They are sick. The two of them took turns crying for TWO AND A HALF FREAKIN' HOURS!!!!!!!!! Although it wouldn't really be fair to say the 2 year old took turns because he pretty much didn't really stop a whole lot during this jag. I mean he would if I managed to get his sister down into say a vibrating bouncey seat with music and lights...but the moment she started her turn on crying and he had to be put down he started his crying again. It was nice to see them collaborate - ha, not.

At the root of our problem is a simple fact of numbers. One Mommy. Two kids. The little one has no issue in sharing the one mommy as long as she's being held or included. As in, its ok with M if I hold both her and L at the same time. Its ok with her if I sit with her and read to him sitting next to me. The big one however is not so ok with sharing Mommy when he's sick. No.

Ok, so maybe skip the Wiggles and skip Mary Poppins - both of those options will just be way to sacchrine after a while and that will piss me off to no end quite frankly. Instead find that guy that cloned Dolly the Sheep and ask him to make another me - one that shows up already 31 years old and lactating.

Things that Suck

- Being sleep deprived and sick all at the same time.

- A newborn with a head cold that understandably gets pissed off at the bulb syringe.

But even worse than both of this what sucks is a "Mamma's boy" two-year old with a head cold that can't understand why Mom can't just toss the little sister in her crib 24/7 and hold him instead endlessly. Mind you we're not talking hold on my lap while we sit. Now we're talking stand in the center of the room and hold him.

Thankfully a little reasoning goes a long way sometimes. Even if it does end in a temporary meltdown of total two year old tantrum. It goes something like this:

"Mommy carry me! Put Megan in her crib! Carry!" shouted at me.

Me "Logan, we've talked about this. I can't do that. Megan is sick too and she's too tiny to understand what's going on or to take medicine to help her. She needs me too. I am one sick mommy taking care of two sick kids. Just chill out."

Scream scream scream, kick feet on floor like mad, scream, scream. . .lull in action followed by "Mommy, I want some milk. Can we watch Disney?"

Someone send me sedatives or booze - for me.

It'll melt your heart

I have so much more on this that I'd like to share now, but so very little time to do it. The littlest one is making enough noise to indicate she's either had enough of sitting with Dad and staring at patterns on the furniture and wall hangings or that she's getting hungry again.

The little man has adjusted fairly well to life as a sibling. He has his moments, though, where I think he'd rather she disappear. He's gotten better the last several days - aided in large part by the fact that we're all falling into habits and routines together. This settling in has allowed us some comfort in putting a sleeping infant in some contraption like a swing or vibrating seat and focusing sololy on the toddler. The bit of "just me" time has nearly eliminated any trace of jealously or hurt feelings the little guy ever had. In fact today, when he thought Grandma was taking littlest one away for eternity (see next paragraph for more details) he was devestated and said very seriously "No Grandma! No take her away! She live here with me!"

Today we took it one step further. Today Ms Little Thing went off with Grandma for a bit to make some very old ladies very happy. While they were off doing their visits, Little man and I had some much needed quality time. We hit the local landscaping joint for mums and free Halloween stuff (i.e. tiny pumpkin and cheapy trick or treat bag). We got lunch out. Then we headed over to a park in town and hiked out on a trail talking about everything from why the leaves are now red to how much we like throwing rocks in the marsh.

As we got down around the bend on the large open trail, Little Man stopped walking, placing himself directly in front of me instead of next to me as he had been. He turned and faced me, holding up his arms and said "Mommy, pick me up for a kiss please."

So I did. I mean really, who can turn that down?

Then he put his head down on my shoulder and said very matter of factly "Thanks Mommy. I having a really nice time." With that he wiggled himself down and hit the trail again, running to the nearby bench and announcing that it was time to take a break because he needed to rest.

I just stood there a bit stunned and thinking how wonderful that simple sentence was to hear...I also thought about how I'd better document it now so in 10 years when he is 12 and parents are akin to demons I can remember a time when he actually was glad to be with me. ;)

Two weeks of lessons learned

A few things I've learned in the last two weeks:

1. No matter what anyone tells you, it is completely and totally possible for an infant girl to pee ON you. The art of dousing is not a trick reserved for young males alone.

2. "Lady-like" decorum is not an innate trait. Not showing off your ability to release the loudest and most attention grabbing bursts of gas from (name your favorite orifice) is a learned behavior.

3. A two-year old can suddenly grow huge amounts overnight when you add an infant to your life. I'm not talking about maturity, I'm talking actual size. Yes, suddenly 27 pounds of young male is a hell of a lot heavier than it was two weeks ago. Instantaneously, 35 inches of boy seems towering. And for what its worth, size 5 diapers seem insanely huge - and make you shake your head thinking "Why in God's name is this child not potty trained yet?!" ;)

4. There is no such thing as good TV at 3am. I learned this two years ago and promptly forgot it post-sleep training.

5. The sleep you get laying in your own bed for 3 hours is of much higher quality than the sleep you get laying in the recliner for 3 hours.

6. Those stupid elastic bands with those bows on them can take your eye out if you play slingshot with them. No, I have not actually popped an eyeball out with one of them, but I did slingshot one into B's abs and I've been told it can hurt. ha! Little girl will not be wearing said bands.

7. There are stupid people in the world who will ask how 'He' is doing even if you have your daughter dressed in a PINK FLOWERED DRESS!

The binge before the end

I am eating everything in my path this week. And not good stuff. No. I am eating everything in that "junk" food category I can get my hands on. I know exactly why I am this insatiable - I'm going to start back up on Weight Watchers on Saturday. Counting points. Sacrificing over abundant portions of my favorites. Working out for real. Weekly weigh-ins where someone other than me can see the scale and so the ability to lie about it or say "Oh, well this scale is always a pound or 10 off." goes out the window. Yup, I'm climbing back up on the wagon.

About 10 years ago I lost 30 pounds this way. It wasn't hard at that time really. I worked out like a fitness freak. I ate well. I was happy with just a container of yogurt and a piece of fruit for lunch - yes, I was a freak. Then I started dating B - the man that could devour an entire pizza in one sitting left to his own devices. We ate out a lot. I stopped making it to the gym in order to squeeze in dates. I added a few pounds.

We got married and we kept up our bad habits - plus we added in snacking while watching tv at night. I added a few more pounds. I took fertility drugs and between the depression that often accompanies the process and what I swear is drug induced screwy metabolism I added on more pounds. When we ditched our attempts to achieve pregnancy I went back to WW and I lost a whole lot of weight once again although I never did reach my goal.

That attempt was short circuited by little man. Even before I knew I was pregnant I knew my body was up to something weird. No matter what I did I couldn't break through my weight plateau. My body was at a stand still. When I took the HPT it made sense. I was pregnant and my body was refusing to diet. Well I also figured that a little food for two wasn't a bad thing around that point and so I added on more pounds.

As an infant, L was not a child that believed Mommy needed to eat. No, as far as he was concerned HIS meals were all that mattered and I could drop pounds via the "No need food" diet. If it was meal time, he was crying and demanding to be held. Made meals tough. I fell into a habit of eating a lot of fast food because one could lull the child to sleep in the car and eat a burger while he slept in his car seat. Not the best weight loss plan. Somehow I managed to drop all but 15 pounds of the pregnancy gain that time around, despite my frequent flyer visits to the drive throughs.

Then came this pregnancy. I credit 20+ weeks of morning sickness with my luck this time through. I sit here a 11 days post-partum at the exact weight I started the pregnancy at. A good 40 lbs above where I want to be, sure, but hey, its not as bad as it could have been. I've lost 30 lbs in just over a week. I still have squishy jelly belly that makes my 'pre-pregnancy' clothes a bit snug around the abs, but I can wear them nonetheless. And this time I am also determined to be fit again.

That's what it is really - to be fit. Not to be skinny. Not to be able to slip into something form fitted and sexy. Just to be fit. I want to know that I can run through the yard after my children without getting winded. I want to know that I am in a better place in terms of my own health. I want to know that I am setting a good example for my children. I want to reduce my risk of hypertension.

The day I checked out of the hosptial last week I had a high blood pressure scare. Not once during the pregnancy did I hit levels considered "HIGH" on the old BP scale. I was creeping close to that 140/90 magic number, but I never hit it. Post-pregnancy however I did. Not only did I hit it, I surpassed it. The day I released from the hosptial I had a reading of 152/99. It was scary to see that number. Me, the same gal that normally had readings below the 120/80 average was almost breaking 100 on that lower digit. It freaked me out.

I had an appointment with the OB I love this week to check my pressure. The first read was high. Dr. L almost gave me a prescription to get my pressure under control. Before he wrote the script he checked me again - 110/80. . . no drugs for me. SO I asked the scary question. Does having the pre-eclampsia last pregnancy and coming close to it this time (and going high post-partum this time) put me at higher risk for hypertension as I grow older.

The answer was a resounding yes. Not only yes, but yes by a lot. I have a 30% chance of developing reoccuring hypertension once I hit 35. That's a high risk rate compared to the rest of the general population. Its a scary rate. All I can do now is get in shape and keep monitoring my blood pressure to stay one step ahead of it.

Welcome to the world Megan Rose! Here's our little girl at just 4 days old. This photo will find its way into our hallway across from her brother's gallery of annual black and whites taken around the birthday each year. This first entry to the "gallery" will be in a black frame with a white mat - two 4x6 space cut-outs. The top is the photo. The bottom will be a black stamped footprint from this gal (and I know she will HATE that part!) and her birth statistics. And yes, if you're wondering. . .I took the photo. I've not set foot in a studio for photos since my High School Senior photo. 

Brag and Post-partum fashion

I'm going to drop this here because I really feel compelled to pat myself on the back despite the fact I've done nothing really to get to this point. Well also because its not the kind of thing I'm about to walk around blabbing out in general so hey, what's blog for.

This pregnancy I gained rougly 30 lbs. (I was up over 50 with the last one. I had stopped counting when I started putting on massive amounts of water gain the last few weeks.) A decent amount of the gain this time also came in the waning days due in large part to water retention. Heck I gained 5 pounds in four days and then another 2 pounds in a day this last set of appointments.

The home scale and the office scales are close enough to say that what I see at home is about what I can expect in the office give or take a pound. That said, according to this scale in my little tiny bathroom, I've already (just 4 days post-partum) dropped 20 pounds. I'm so incredibly shocked and so very happy. ;)

What it means to me is that the vast majority of my weight gain was not 'personal gain' so to speak but baby related and water gain. Of course before you hate me totally keep in mind that I still have about 15 lbs of weight from my first pregnancy to drop and another 20-25 lbs of "I'd like to blame this on fertility drugs please but in fact its crap food and a sweet tooth" weight from the years leading up to my first.

On to fashion - when I left the hosptial the first time I spent a wee bit of time in a little horomonal pity-party of tears because I had to go home clad in maternity wear. I didn't expect to slip into the size 10 jeans I had been wearing prior to conceiving my son, but I also didn't expect to still be needing something stamped "MOTHERHOOD" on the tag either. This time I got to thinking - its all really just very much about that silly tag. If the tag isn't maternity - even if the outfit is big, huge, tent-ish thing - I'm ok.

I packed to outfits to come in and tought I'd wing it based on what fit me best. The first was a big, long, loose-fitting, empire-waisted dress. I knew it would fit me because if I could ignore the slight tight feeling across the back the last month and half of this pregnancy I could have worn it to work and church up until the end. BUT, it was not a maternity dress. No, it was a "gone are the bigger days" hand me down that came under the notion that I could wear it in those early transitional wardrop days.

The 2nd outfit was a pair of Old Navy Yoga pants and Motherhood t-shirt that was of the new (and not something I actually was thrilled with) spandex laden variety. It was meant to be tight and fitted around a bulbous preggo belly. I expected the pants to fit because I was wearing them to the gym and to walk into my 6th month. And they did - that's what I wore home. Yesterday was the same - Old Navy Yoga pants only this time paired with an Old Navy long sleeved t-shirt in an XL for the roominess. I prefer my shirts looser fitting that most Old Navy shirt cuts so I tend to buy them bigger. Today I've gotten myself into these cute low-waisted, half a band of belly panel, capris and a t-shirt B brought me back from Australia. I'm committed to have at least one non-maternity item on each day and I have to say, it does wonders for the self-esteem.

So there's my advice - if you're pregnant or planning on being pregnant, get thee to Old Navy and buy yourself their Yoga or Loungue pants. Oh, and big shirts. ;)

She's here. . .

Well we're home from the hosptial and I'm grabbing a quick minute to check in while both kids are napping. Logan should be up soon and Megan just settled in so the break is short. ;)

We're all doing well. Megan's arrival was much easier and faster than anyone - even the doctor - expected considering how much help it needed to jump start. The first induction drug (which started at about 8:30 Sat night and is a 12 hour adminstration) was actually enough to start labor. Around 4:30am Sunday morning I started having contractions and Megan was born just 6.5 hours later. I was about 2cms at 9am at which point the doctor broke my water. Just an hour later we were up to 6cms and thinking that we were going to miss the window of opportunity for the nice man with the drugs to come pay me a visit. Luckily he arrived just moments later with his cart full of fun. A half hour later Megan made her grand enterance after three good pushes. She weighed in at 7 pounds, 8 ounces and 20 3/4 inches tall.

The last ultrasound tech we saw nearly a week ago was off on her weight guesstimate just barely (only 4 ounces!) but on the hair estimate a whole lot. While not sporting a full mane of locks, Miss Megan is far from bald. The hair she has is fine and dare we say almost long for a newborn falling off the back of her head and on to her pudgy little neck. It curls slightly at the bottom most of the time or around her head in various places when its damp. And while you may need the right lighting or more grown-in head of hair to compare it too to be sure, she does in fact have the same shade of strawberry blonde as Mom and big brother. Still too early to be sure what color her eyes will remain - they are that dark steely blue newborns often arrive with for now. When she's awake she's incredibly alert and focuses in on the voices that she's heard most often from the womb. We've already read a few books starting with "My Big Brother" on her very first day - she stares at me intently as I read to her as if she knows its something special to share. When the book is done she averts her gaze to her exploring what's around me meandering.

Logan adores her and we're hoping its something he continues to do as the days go by. He came to visit us in the hosptial Sunday afternoon and without as much as a "Hi Mommy" to me he asked "Where baby Megan!?!" She had yet to be released from the nursery. Once her saw her in her bassinette he started chattering about "My sister Megan" and telling us how pretty she was. She's even cooler in his eyes because she brought him Annie and Clarabel for his Thomas set - something he thought Santa Claus could only bring ("Megan is Santa Claus?!" he asked me at one point.) She also brought him a set of tracks for his trains - which he's now up and playing with as we 'speak.' He's spent a good deal of time this afternoon standing next to the Pack-n-Play staring at her and admiring her hands and feet. He's tickled her and sung for her. He gave her his presents - a bear he picked out and a small soft cloth book he picked out. He showed her the bears nose and mouth after we explained that she couldn't hold the bear just yet only look at it. ("See, bear's nose, Megan. Its cute," he'd say) The biggest hit of his day yesterday was a chance to "hold" the baby. He climbed up on my lap and I helped him wrap his arm around under her just below my arm which supported her head and weight. He was so very proud of himself and gave up holding her only to 'pet' her - something much more fun than merely holding apparently.

One day to THE day

There is so much, understandably I suppose, swimming through my head tonight. So many things I wanted to sit down and write about - the growing nervous energy about facing induction again, the fear that I could face another 38 hours of labor, the abosolute realization that I have no freaking clue how to manage two children at one time, all that stuff. Then I read Moxie's blog entry today and I realized what I needed to write about most. I had to write *the* day.

I am not a New Yorker. I've never lived in the city or stayed there for more than a single night. I don't work in the city on a regular basis - although I have had many a business meeting there. Yet as a Jersey girl when someone says "the city" to me there is only one city I ever think of. New York.

The past two years when I turn my calender pages from August to September my memory starts to take me back to *the* day. I remember what an incredibly perfect, beautiful morning it was. I can see that crystal clear, bright, blue sky in my mind's eye. The drive up the parkway that morning was almost serene as if even New Jersey drivers managed to be courteous behind the wheel en masse because of the day's seemingly traquil beauty. I forced myself out of the car when I got to the office, squelching the urge to just keep driving a few miles more to the ocean. I settled into my desk and started my daily routine of drinking something hot while cleaning out both work and personal email inboxes.

And then the phone rang.

A simple phone call that changed everything. It was a coworker that sat a mere six desks outside the office I shared with the other 'half' of marketing. "Does Sam have on her radio?" she asked. "A plane just crashed into the Trade Center."

Every news site I tried led me to a message that there was too much traffic at that time. I finally found out the hell that was breaking loose just an hour up the turnpike through a group of guys watching cable news channels and posting updates to the baseball bulletin board I had been moderating in 2001. To this day, even though we have our sports related disagreements, there is this weird bond that exists between those of us that exchanged posts that morning. We were a life line to each other at a time when most of us were in a place devoid of informational outlets.

I stepped away from my desk when I heard a plane just crashed in DC. We have offices in that area and major clients. The closeness I had been feeling to it all being just outside the city got even closer suddenly. I felt like I was suffocating. What I will never forget - what will always stay with me and remind me exactly how horrific that day was - was the smell that hung in the air that day. I was standing out the back door of my office building just over an hour's drive outside the city, a train ride away, a distance that allowed me to see the skyline from the shore yet only on a clear day. I was that far away and yet I could smell it. I could see the sky to the Northeast blacken with sickening smoke. The billowing clouds of death rising up. I could smell the burning of jet fuel comingling with bodies and buildings. And it wasn't just there. When I eventually made my way home that afternoon - the parkway moving slower than I've ever seen it move on a day with good weather and no shore traffic - I still saw the smoke. Perhaps it was my mind playing tricks at me that moment but I could also still smell that hideous smell.

Its a day I wish I could forget, and yet I hope I never do.

Update on an update

Just got back from my follow up visit after yesterday's impromtu tour of the new L&D wing at the hosptial. This appointment was actually with Dr. Lopez - the one that delivered Logan and that tends to be laid back, easy going, all those nice things. My blood pressure is still no "high" but it is now borderline along with giant tree trunk ankles and more water weight gain. All of that combined with my pre-eclamptic history of the 1st time through this pregnancy ride indicated to Dr. L that it was just a matter of time before I was offically a Pre-eclamptic patient with high blood pressure. He said there was no way to know for sure, but he was fairly certain if I went another week, we'd be at the point we ended at last time.

So the resolution to this - I'm going in Saturday evening to begin the induction process. Still no real progress in terms of being dilated or the baby's head being low and in the "ready" however. This means the two drug combo for me again. We check into the hosptial Saturday at 6pm and start the first drug. Sunday morning when the doctor on call (this time Dr. L himself) makes his first rounds he'll see how the first drug worked. If it did its thing we'll start the Pictocin drip. If not, I'm guessing based on last time, we'd talk about a c-section. Either way, he thinks that we can expect Megan's arrival sometime on Sunday. I'm going to be cautious and say by Monday we'll have a 2nd child in our family.

I don't expect to be near a PC for a time either. Tomorrow, ahh, maybe. The weekend and shortly after - no way. So this could be the last blog post for a spell. I promise to put baby stats up here as soon as I can. ;)

More on yesterday's Great L&D Adventure

Since I was so focused last night on communicating the joy that was my field trip to L&D yesterday I forgot to jot down a few other things about the adventure that had been percolating in my head.

Perhaps it was the better quality machine, the advanced 'age' this time of the baby or the fact that the tech was so incredibly thorough and willing to talk us through everything - but this ultrasound was so much more wonderful than any other I've ever had. Don't get me wrong, I always love getting a peak at the baby. I find it rather fun to try to guess what body part I'm looking at and to decipher what it all means. Past techs have pointed to specific things and labeled them for us, but this was just different.

This seemed like a peak at not just the outside of this child-in-waiting, but also her personality. For example, in the tech's words, my girl is already talking a mile a minute. Not surprising if she takes after her brother who can literally talk himself out of napping by moving his mouth non-stop for an hour. The entire time we had her face on the screen her mouth was moving. Open, closed, open, closed. It was rhythmic and with the motion her lips would form shapes making you wonder if she was just sucking in and out fluid or was she toying with sounds. I have no idea if such a thing is even possible, but its fun to imagine.

We saw her stick her tongue out too. Something Grandma was quick to point out made her as, ahhh, expressive and possibly stubborn (since Ms thing was refusing to cooperate with the tech long enough to get a decent heartbeat read for a time there) as both her brother and her mother. I saw her sucking on her thumb. Clear as day - the shape of her finger finding her yet again open mouth. It lasted just a moment before we moved away to try to capture that heartbeat thinking perhaps now she'd be calmer and cooperate. I think that was, in fact, about the time the tech did get what she wanted.

It just amazes me to see these images though. I remember certain things pre-birth about the little man that seemed to hint at his personality. Even in the womb he loved music. He always responded to it. He'd kick and wiggle the moment a beat got going. He hated sharing his personal space. He was stubborn as anything and seemingly opinionated by the way he'd react to the ultrasounds, heart monitors and so on. These are all things that have come to full bloom in my two year old. He's got not problems, for example, telling a neighbor that she must go back in her house because Grandma has to take him to see trucks. He'll dance and sing his little heart out. He gets very upset if you invade his space uninvited. And he's among the stubborn folks I think I've ever run into.

SO I wonder what all that mouth motion and movement mean about my little girl. Will she prove to be stubborn like her mother and brother? Will she be another chatterbox or one that is just in constant motion - a ball of energy?

I guess one can't know until she's here and starting to exhibit her true self really. Speculating though is a whole lot of fun.

39 week excitement

It was a long day of baby stuff, but we're still here waiting for Megan's arrival. This afternoon at 3:30 I headed over for my 39 week check-up (for those that aren't keeping score as closely as we are, the baby is due exactly one week from today.) The appt was with the one we call "Dr. Panic." We expected some excitement today and we got it. Long story short, a quick conversation about the baby's movement patterns of late and I was upstairs in the hosptial for a non-stress test and a biophysical. A look at my poofy ankles and he also ordered a re-check of my blood pressure (which has been normal all along, thank you very much.)

One cup of apple juice and an hour later we had a very feisty baby and some nice tracking on the NST read-out. If you've never had one of these before its very simple. I get to lay on the nice hosptial bed with a big belt velcroed around my belly. Two small disks are held in place by the belt. One records contractions if any and the other the baby's heartbeat. For what its worth, her heartrate was a nice steady range right in the middle of what they look for. It would run up a bit when she was getting feisty and then settle back to its baseline afterwards. As this belt does its thing, I get to hold a small clicker and press a button each time I feel movement. At first, not so much movement...then apparently the apple juice woke her up and the constant sound waves emitted from the heartrate thingy bopper got her going. By the end she had taken to punching the monitor just enough to knock it off a good recording spot - not so that you'd see it move, but you knew because of the way accurate readings stopped occuring at the same time I felt a jab at the spot the big disk sat.

From there we took a ride with two of the most hyper-active and insane transport folks I think you'll ever find in a hospital. They wheeled me in a chair down to the ultrasound room. Grandma is very pleased that the nice tech "snuck" her in to watch the monitor. A check of amniotic fluid levels (another thing on Dr. P's check list today) showed that levels are nice and plentiful. IN fact the tech said I could loose half of what was there and still be ok. Between that and my ankles - no wonder I feel like part-camel. She also confirmed, yet again, that its still a girl - and a little girl that was in constant motion. Everything else looked great. We got a big old print-out of the scan We had some better pictures on screen that she didn't get to print out because of the way Megan kept putting her hands up near her face and creating shadows. We do know, according to the tech, that we've got a round-faced, chubby cheeked baby. ;) The last tech we saw at the OB's office said the same thing a month or so ago. Megan is also a baby girl that appears to be bald because the tech couldn't see much 'fuzz.' Actually it was a neat ultrasound to have because the tech - I'm guessing she was bored since we were the only ones there - took a lot of time showing us everything and was willing to look and point out whatever else we had questions about. Based on her measurements she gets a 'date' of Sept 18th -- three days off my due date. Whatever that will mean in the long run. And based on her measurements, she estimates the baby at 7lbs 12 ounces as of today. I keep reminding myself that the day Logan was induced he 'estimated" at 7 lbs 13 ounces...and was born a full pound less. Ack!

Advice

I've learned a lot of different things from my mother. I learned how to cook. I learned how to sew, to quilt, to garden, and this year how to can tomato sauce. I learned how to be a good friend and a good mother. Lately I'm realizing that I also learned how to give good advice.

Good advice is a tricky thing really because at the heart of it - the best advice to give comes by actually giving none at all even while it appears that you've given some. The difference is subtle really but simple. There are two kinds of advice people give: opinions and path indicators.

1. Most folks end up giving opinions and labeling it advice. "Well if I were you, here's what I would do." or sometimes digused as "The way I see it [insert opinion hear.] It may come in the "clearly there is no choice" type package or finally the blantant let me live your life for you variety of "You must do xyz."

2. Good advice, however, is a path indicator. Good advice does not say "Do this or do that." It reflects and reframes. It says "what I hear you saying is. . ." and "you are the only one that can make this choice. Just remember to consider these angles/answer these questions." Above all else it says "Know that I am here for you to support you in whichever path you decide to travel. Know that there is no right or wrong in terms of our friendship. We're kosher no matter what."

Don't be fooled, though, by opinions disguised as good advice. I'm not even sure the givers of this realize they do it. Its very subtle. They appear to help light a path by lighting markers in the form of thought provoking questions. . . and then they answer them for you. This doesn't let you do the work to discover your own truth. It just gives you their truth. It doesn't convey the message that "we're ok no matter what path you pick." It says "Hey, this is where I think you need to go" then leaves nagging doubts in your head as to what happens if I head off the other way.

There is a friend of mine in my local mom's group beginning the process of divorce. She's recently shared the news with our group and on occasion has lamented about a sense of total confusion as to where her path in life really lays. Several well meaners have offered her their version of a roadmap. They do have the best intentions but really, their advice is only *their* right path and it may or may not be the right one for her. Some told her their nightmares and horror stories of divorce. Others have told her their survival stories as children of divorce. To me, though, all she needed to know is that she will still be loved and adored no matter what path she ends up on. She needed to be reminded that things may be rough, but in the end ok. She also needed to know that it was ok to make a choice for her, no matter what that was, without feeling there was any right or wrong beyond *her* right and wrong choosen on the facts that only she and her spouse really know all of. She needed to be hugged not directed.

Another member of that group is going through a story that I'm sure Jerry Springer is drooling over. She came to the group with a new wrinkle and was looking for someone to make that choice for her. Its a dangerous thing really. What if you choose wrong - you risk ruining a friendship. You gamble when you advise through opinion because there are only two results available to you: hero or scapegoat.

Its one thing if someone approaches you as a pseudo expert based on your experience. Sort of a "Hey, look, you just had a run in with the airlines, what did you do to get your money back?" or "You're a mom, how do you get your kid to sleep at night?" Even then, you're best off couching replies with "Well, here's what worked for me. . ." TO me its another dangerous tightrope to respond to the "If we do A then we risk B. If we do C we risk D. What should I do?"

The last thing Mom taught me about advice is to never give it unsolicited. Never just start spewing forth street lights or opinions if you don't want to gamble a friendship. This is very hard really. I find myself sitting often listening to someone in pain and just wanting to fix it for them. I hear someone struggle with a choice they must make and I want to help hold their hands and find their way. Yet the truth is this doesn't do anyone any good. It doesn't serve the person and if anything it risk ruining your relationship. You risk offending and creating a wedge you never meant to craft.

In terms of the friend pursuing a divorce, this has meant resisting the urge to say "You picked this path for a reason, stick to your guns if the protests he offers have been wasted breath before." Its meant saying (and meaning) in its place "I'm sorry you're going through this. I'm here if you need anything. . .even just time out of the house, why don't you come over with the kids." Its meant not telling her war stories of other people. Its not meant not saying "Well when my brother-in-law though he could do this without a laywer he ended up getting screwed." Instead I said "Oh, honey, ignore that lady. You do what you think is right for yourself and your family - whatever that is because only you know."

Its hard sometimes, but its right. Its always right. The funny thing is when you are pathlighting advice giver people tend to reach out to you and ask you for your "2 cents." And you smile to yourself knowing that you've not got a penny to spare really, instead you'll just offer some reflection and reframing. You won't direct, you'll thought provoke. You won't answer questions you'll just ask. You won't advise really - you'll just light both paths.

Hope for an easy transition

We've done a lot of planning the last 7 or so months in terms of preparing the two year old little man for being part of a duo as opposed to the solo act he so loves. We've read "I'm a Big Brother" ad nauseum. We've talked about babies. We played with babies. We've looked at his baby pictures and talked about how much he's grown. He's helped us prepare the baby's room. He selected the color for her room (well I gave him a choice of two shades of lavender and he selected from that.) He helped put her dresser together - sort of, he held the knobs while Papa screwed them on and then he followed behind his grandfather with a toy hammer banging the backing in place. He's even picked out presents to give her when she arrives home (That would be a green soft bear and cloth teething book he wants to read to her. We've read it through a few times and he's got the basic "story" memorized when he sees the pictures on each page.) He's been working on learning songs to sing to her. He's got plans on how he's going to help take care of her. He's picked out an outfit for her which he conned his grandmother into buying, or as she puts it: she either paid for the "purple clowinsh outfit" or he was arrested for shoplifting.

He knows the baby is now in my belly and that we'll go to the hosptial sometime soon to get her. Of course he also thinks the really neat construction trucks working on the hosptial's new wing are there to 'build Megan.' Go figure. He knows from the babies we see that they cry. He knows they don't do much when they're real "teeny tiny." He gets the basic concepts but we still have no idea how he's going to handle the real thing. There is no way to know until its here. This child has been the center of the universe for so many folks that its sort of scary to think about how he's going to handle a split in attention. We've got our plans, of course, to still build in "solo" time for him. He and I will go to Gymboree at least once a week - just us. He'll get time alone with Dad. He'll get time alone with his grandparents. But its still going to be so very different. At times I worry about this more than I should. I know that as time passes he won't recall what it was like to be an only. I know that he'll forget life without his sister around. Its just getting him and us to that point that is starting to feel a bit itimidating.

There is some hope though. As I just posted in Logan's blog, we recently told him that when we're in the car with the baby, he can help entertain her since he'll be the big kid in the back seat with her. He thought this over a bit but didn't respond. You can sing to her, we told him, knowing how much he likes to sing everything and anything. He's got big plans of the songs he's going to perform for his kid sister already. He thought this one over a bit too.

"I sing ABC song to Megan because she need to learn it," he said finally.

Technology Hates Me

It does. Technology hates me. Or at least it loathes me enough to want to toy with my sanity. Yesterday it was a problem with burning CDs that gave me fits - today it was installing my new combo 3-in-1 printer. I've needed a new printer for a very long time; we finally broke down and bought one yesterday.

I get this thing home - now the last time I bought anything mildly technical was about 3 years ago back when everything you needed for the hardware to work came in the box. Apparently this is no longer true. No, apparently now you need to buy your USB cables separately. So the new nifty printer sat on my desk next to my PC and waited for a cable.

We bought the cable today. I came home and while boy napped I followed the directions to the letter. . .yet the printer would not work. I tried to find the printer - no printer existed as far as my PC was concerned. I uninstalled the software. I reinstalled the software. And again - we had problems. Of the five icons in the printer's management interface I had two. Try to print a document and the printer wasn't even showing up as an option. This DESPITE the fact that the installation program had actually acknowledged looking for and finding the drivers. I'm telling you, the folks on my IM list must have thought my PC was possessed today with all the opening and slamming of virtual doors. I must have rebooted a zillion times - each time closing out of all programs including AIM that had auto-launched when the computer started up.

Well what does a girl do when these problems arise? Call customer service? No. In my house we call Dad. . . and Dad comes to give it a whirl. If he can't fix it, then you call Customer Service. So Dad comes over this evening. He looks at the computer for a moment. He reads some of the manual. He uninstalls. He reboots (slam that AIM door again.) He reinstalls the software. . . The screen shows the little box that says its looking for and then locating the drivers.

"Yeah, that's what it said when I did it too. And then I clicked there." I said gesturing to the big green check mark saying "Click me."

But Dad clicks it anyway in defiance - as if this time it'll work just because he clicked it. The computer pops up a new window, one to register with HP. One, my friends, I had never seen before.

"Huh, that's new" I said as I took Dad's place at the computer to register myself. "Hey, look it already filled in the serial number."

Dad, trying hard not to gloat behind me said "Guess it recognizes the printer now."

We register. We click open the management program and what do you know - all five icons are there. I open a press release I had been working on and I click the little print icon. It prints. Yes, it works.

"But I didn't do anything different than what you just did!" I protested.

"Guess computers just like me," Dad said.

Like him? I guess so. And hate me. . .

Zero progress

Today was my 38 week check-up. I've decided that I'm particularly fond of the scale in the particular exam room I ended up in because it always has me weighing less than the scale I was on a week prior. :) One of my favorite doctors was in today. My appointment, if you recall, had been originally with Dr. Panic as the other guys were supposedly off. But, Dr. Panic must have paniced about beind all alone or something because yesterday I got a call to move my appointment to an early time with Dr. N who would be in and "helping out" in the morning only. Yipee!

Dr N is a really nice, happy guy. He reads your chart thoroughly as you talk things through with him. He pats you on the back and tells you to hang in there the end is near. He's got cute little alumnium can airplanes that dangle from the ceiling over the exam table that say "Relax and scoot down."

He poked at me. He listened to the baby's heartbeat (just perfect is that little beating heart.) Then he did *the* exam. . . and produced news I wanted to sock him for. No change.

Nope.

Zero.

I didn't actually ask about effacement. . .but what I do know is that I have a completely locked tight cervix. Not even a smidgen dilated.

"And the baby's head still a bit high," he added for good measure.

"High?" I said. "But...high? Really? I mean my big ole belly is lower. I can't sit upright. . .high? Are you sure?"

He smiled and nodded. "Well, she's lower. . .but not low enough."

"Crap." I said. Then I reminded him how L had to be forced out -- of course, that was forced out early but we didn't get into that today.

He laughed gently and told me to relax, it was still 12 days to my due date.

"So those darn crampy Braxton Hicks are doing nothing." I said with all the *please pity me* tone I could muster up for my voice.

"They will. I promise. They will. That kid can't stay in there forever." he said.

Ugh.

Then I call B and I tell him this. He says I sound disappointed and asks if I'm sad that she's not coming this weekend or something. That's not it at all. I want the baby to come when its time for her to come. . . but I also don't want to feel like all the crampy aches and tight belly feelings are just pain for pain's sake with no progress. That's the part that sucks. That's what's got me bummed. Is 1 little old centimeter too much for a girl to ask?

A bit of this and a bit of that

Too much swirling in my head tonight to keep to one topic. Something not unusual for me and if I bought into things like horoscopes I'd blame it on the fact I was a Gemini.

Swing low. . .
It may have seemed to me (and apparently "You're Flatter" neighbor lady) that this baby of mine moved lower last week, but if she did it was merely inching down. Yes, because last night she truly took a huge lunge towards her exit. I woke up this morning, went about our routine, pulled on a newly ironed stained (gotta love toddlers and their sticky hands) maternity t-shirt only to realize that the view looking down wasn't what it used to be. Nope. There was most certainly a gap now between chest and belly. Not only that but there are only two ways for me to sit tonight. I need to either be partially reclined OR I need to sit with man legs. Yes, I said man legs. Which is essentially sitting with my legs as far as apart as I can get them in order to make room for the giant medicine ball that used to be my abdomen.

Speaking of signs
The other pregnancy related development has been the increase in frequency and discomfort level (well ok, let's just be honest and call it mild pain) of the Braxton Hicks. Yup. They hurt now. Not horrible bad, but they are no longer those pesky "Oh, my belly is just hard" variety. No, these suckers cause you to stop and take notice. Its just one notch about mild cramps. Nothing regular yet. Nothing predictable. Nothing that says "Pick up the phone and call your OB" but I must admit that at one point today I did glance at the clock wandering if it *was* something I should bother timing. I ended up foregoing the clock watch when a moment to sit still and drink a giant cup of water helped stop the crampy feeling.

Bite your tongue
Lest you feel the urge to shout hurrah, this is it, the end is near! Let me be the first to pop my own bubble. A woman in my mom's group had effacement, 1 cm dilation, low baby AND irregular Braxton Hicks contractions for the last 3 weeks. She was induced today. Yes, this, is enough to make me stare at the end of the month on the calendar and plead with my stomach to not torture me so.

So this is a job
Today B's department threw him a surprise baby shower. He had cake. Got to be the center of attention and open presents. Brought us home a 1/4 of a sheet cake (anyone want a piece?!), a few cute outfits and a Babies R Us gift certificate.

In my work world, I got. . .well nothing.

Speaking of work
Still no word from either my immediate boss or his boss on what projects on my big full plate are to be approved as "work from home" projects. Almost makes you wish the lower babe and Braxton Hicks really really do mean something because it'd be fun to call and say "Oh, yeah, that list you were supposed to chip away, prioritize and get back to me on two weeks ago - yeah, ok. . .well its all got to sit now for 8 weeks. So very sorry."

That's not to say I've not been working. No, in fact, I almost think bossman (big one) is testing things. He likes to send me emails to my work account despite the fact he has my home account and knows its easier to reach me at it since it pulls mail constantly and not just the few times a day I log into the office. These emails have resulted in three mini-projects. Great stuff, really, getting work. . . I just wish he'd also let us tackle the to-do list.

Taking Bets

My ankles have this problem. Not all the time, but by days end on those days I tend to forget I actually have an excuse to sit with my feet up for a spell. My ankles, you see, become rather tree trunk like. Almost non-existent. My calves just sort of melt off into giant, poofy, Hobbit feet without the excess hair. This is a mild cause for concern only because the only clue last time that I had developed pre-eclampsia at 37 weeks (other than the OB visit with the higher blood pressure reading) was tree trunk ankles. I feel fine outside of that - well not "fine" but fine in that I have no other noticeable, worrisome symptoms. No blinding headaches, no blurred vision, nothing like that. I am just retaining water like a camel only instead of my back it goes to my feet and ankles. Not all the time, typically just starting say around mid-afternoon into evening at which point I'm lying on my left side, feet up between regular bathroom breaks.

So that brings us to my next appointment and The Bet. My appointment is on Friday in the afternoon. Its with Dr. Panic. The one that rushes you to the ER when you have a sinus infection and strep throat - ordering an emergency room ultrasound despite the fact baby's heartrate is good and you feel oodles of movement. He's the one the orders lots of test because you gained 4 pounds in 3 weeks.

Yesterday B asks who the appointment is with this week. I tell him Dr. P.

B - Oh, so then you will probably have the baby this weekend, huh?

Me - Huh?

B - Well its an afternoon appointment, right?

Me - Well yeah.

B - And you're 38 weeks by then, right?

Me - Right, 38 weeks on Wednesday or something like that.

B - So I figure your ankles will be swollen by the appointment on Friday because they do that now and Dr. Panic will freak out thinking you're about to repeat your history.

Me - Ahhh....well...umm. . .

B - And since you're full term at 38 weeks, right? Well I'm just saying I won't be surprised if you're calling me at 3:30 saying "Take Logan to stay with Grandpa and head over to the hospital with Grandma."

Me - Oh. . my... ugh. Darn that Dr L and his vacation! Can't the man go away when I'm not pregnant?!

Of course, those that have played along for a while know that I am more than ready for this baby to arrive. I'm not totally freaked out by the notion that B could be right. I am not totally happy that it would mean Dr. P would be around for delivery. In fact, I'd almost be willing to keep lowering my own Pictocin drip if we're talking induction until I knew the practice's third doctor was on call. Almost, not quite. However, if this girl decides to take after her brother in the slightest, the idea of her peeing on Dr. P is kind of fun. (Yes, the VERY first thing my son did with his life was pee on my OB.)

Its offical

Well it must be offical - the baby must have dropped. ha! Wife of nosey neighbor yelled her hellos over the fence this evening. "Did you have the baby?" she asked amazed.

Me - Ummm, no, not yet.

Edie - Oh. Wow. Well its just that you look flatter or something.

Me thinking - What the hell does "look flatter" mean? Does she mean "fatter"?

Me saying - Oh, yeah? Well maybe its because she dropped a little? I guess. I don't know. Maybe being a bit lower would give that illusion.

Edie tossed in that her three all went that way too - so I guess she took a turn at being flatter.

So its either Person A in the previously written entry is correct and the baby is lower OR I should just give up my 2 year old loose-flowing preggo shirts for those like what I have on today - the new fangled "have spandex will stretch and fit like a glove" variety they've got out this year. Here I thought the fact that I had to wear this shirt with my black shorts because the spandex shirt was so 'fitted' it didn't hide the entire belly panel meant I looked bigger. But according to Edie, its just making me flatter.

And hey, if that meant something was going to happen sooner rather than later in terms of having this kid - well that'd be grand. Today my ankles are the size of small children, my back hurts like the dickens and morning sickness returned with a vengence.

19

The little due date calculator thingy says there are 19 days left to the baby's due date. 19. Just those two little numbers. One. Nine. That seems alternately a very long time or a blink of an eye to get to a date that most likely means nothing. I really don't put much stock in due dates actually meaning much of anything in terms of "arrival times." Its like that range those pesky contractors and repairmen like to give us around here. "Sometime between 8 am and noon we'll be out to see you." And they stroll in at 12:15pm all proud that they've not been more late than that despite the fact you actually made the effort to have non-PJ, clean clothes on your body by 7:30 am that morning.

19 days.

I've taken to using the easy way out when people ask me 'how much longer.' I just smile and reply "Oh, any day now." Its true really - at just over 37 weeks we're a whisper away from full-term (being completion of 37 weeks) and so this chid could in theory arrive any time between now and September 30th. The end of Sept being when the doctor would induce me as overdue. I just like to ignore the fact that I could be pregnant for another month+.

19 days.

What I find remarkable is the range of comments a pregnant body can render. Within an hour of each other one person that sees me often looked at me and said "You dropped a bit didn't you?" and another person that rarely sees me said "Oh, you've got plenty of time, you're still carrying high." The high thing I find amusing actually since this child has been carried much lower than her brother from the get go of those "showing" days. I mentioned this to person #2 and she said "Yeah, but you're not real low yet." To which I wanted to protest (but didn't) "Well, maybe but your mother dresses you funny."

19 days.

I am a little birdie, tweet, tweet, tweet

True story, I swear. My "office" is in our sunroom. Lots of windows. Lots of light. Some bookshelves, some files. Its also got seating to just "hang out" in and a train table plus more toys than any child really needs to have. Birds, lord knows why because the windows aren't *that* clean, have this thing about bashing their feathery heads into the sunroom windows. Its nothing new. I should be used to the banging sounds as I work by now.

But yesterday the bang wasn't on the window. It came on my door. At first I thought it was my stupid dog (yeah, she's on my list too). This is the way Tasha tells you its time to let her in. She does not bark. She does not whine. No. She body slams the backdoor. And she will continue to do so at various intervals until you open it. I got up, sighing because she has this knack of wanting in or out the moment I get comfy. It was not, however, my dog. It was nothing as far as I can tell.

I settle back in and moments later I hear it again. Several times in a row. A dull thud. I get up and yank the door open, now aggravated and ready to blame the dog or my goofy neighbor. It was neither of them. At first I see nothing. I glanced around - right, left, high, low. And I see it. A small female gold finch standing near the door under a folded up camp chair. It appears to be staring at me in the partially open door. I can't tell if its stunned or dead but either way I'm not ready to deal with it. I quickly close the door out of some fear the thing is about to rise up and dive bomb my head.

I checked back a bit later and the bird was exactly where it had been. Same spot. Not moved. I think its dead. I check back about an hour later. It has moved. Its now facing away from my door under yet another chair on the opposite side of the small concrete square just outside our door - not even big enough to call a small patio. I figure its still dead and just got blown around in wind or something wild like that. Either that, or it was stunned from all its hang banging before and has since started to come out of it. By the time I'm ready to leave for my doctor's appointment - a good two hours from the time it first crashed into my door - the bird is gone. My dog, by the way, in case you're worried, was inside the house the entire time. So I know the bird did not become dinner.

Then I got all sorts of "deep." That bird, you see, is like me and that damn job. Banging my head on a door repeatedly because its there. Thing is, a year ago I was ready to find new work. I was looking for new work. I was sending out resumes to places that had part-time listings when it seemed something I really would be happy doing. (Which meant I didn't send that many out because I felt I could afford to be picky.) Then the positive HPT came around and that whole search went on hold. I didn't feel right about taking a new job knowing I'd be on extended leave.

My plan has always been to take some of my leave - the end of it - and start looking seriously for new work. In my wild fantasies I find a new job with a human being for a boss and I get to call the current guy at last minute to give my notice. I want nothing more than to find my next career home. Its just not ever an easy move to make, is it. To leave what is known for what is unknown - no matter how crappy the known is. And more than that, its not fun to be fired. To be let go.

It reminds me of my high school boyfriend. I had plans on how to break up with him just before starting my final year. I had no desire to spend that year tied down to this person in terms of my social life. I even had gotten brazen enough to flirt madly with this guy at a week-long journalism workshop held at a local college. Daring this guy in my head only to go ahead and kiss me or something even though I had this boyfriend back at home. I had figured out what I'd say. When I'd say it. How I'd pat his back and say "Its ok. Its not you. Its just this. This doesn't work." Thing is I never got to do it because he got to it first. Over the phone, late one night at the end of an hour long phone call about nothingness. It just fell from the sky like that gross block of airplane toilet ice - if you know what I mean. It devastated me at the time, which is funny when you realize that its what I wanted. Its just that *he* got to dump me. *He* got to reject me. And THAT is the part that hurt. That's what sucked. I wanted to be the one in control of that situation. I wanted to be the one that sat there calmly as he looked confused. I wanted to push the buttons.

This job is no different. I *want* a new option, but I want to find it on *my* terms. Its the part of loosing control of the when and not having the "what's next" ready that freaks me out. Or at least it was. I'm better about it today. That bird, maybe she didn't knock much more into herself than a nice break under my camp chair, but she knocked some reality back into me.

Return to normal

Our house has returned to normal. Dad's back. Boy is happy about it. And Mom can stop worrying that she'll go into premature labor with a spouse on the other side of the world. In fact things felt so normal yesterday that I got ambitious and today I pay for it with a stiff, sore back. Stupid me.

It wasn't like I was carting bushels of produce up and down the hill that is our front yard. I wasn't lugging lumber or heck, even carrying Little Man. No, I decided to locate whatever red tomatoes still existed in my garden that weren't split open with over watering (not me, the rain) or bug attacked. I decided to take the new additions and the ones I've had in a basket next to my stove and turn them into one more giant vat of sauce. See, I've already canned 23 quarts of the stuff. . . what's one giant pot more?

For those reading that have never made tomato sauce from homegrown tomatoes, you have to peel those suckers first. Yes. Peel them. SO you blanch them and then you peel. Then stick them in God's gift to cooks (aka the food processor. I used to swear I'd never move out of my parents house until I had my own.) and puree 'em all. Commense with sauce making. I've got a good 20 cups worth of tomato sauce now in my fridge. I'm not canning another jar since that'd require me to buy more jars since the one remaining jar I have isn't nearly worth the effort of boiling the water in the canning pot.

Nope. Instead I'm going to be even MORE ambitious - except not today. Today I'm going to whine about my stiff, sore back and give up this notion that I can function like a normal person. Tomorrow I will be ambitious again and I will make two big pans of food up with my currently tupperware contained sauce. I will make lasagna in one disposal pan with cute little lid and a pan of stuffed shells. Then I will freeze them so that when baby is here finally here and we're in the reality that Mommy only has so many hands and hours in a day - we can still eat like normal human beings. Whew!

But like I said, not today. Today I am content to sit on my butt and whimper.

blogger ate my homework

I had this nice update all typed out yesterday. I even spellchecked and read it for obvious gross grammatical mistakes. Then I hit "Publish Post" and it disappeared into oblivion. In the past when I get the adorable error screen about not finding the web page my post is still magically saved somewhere on blogger even though you can't read it. Not this time - this time my words are in a black hole somwhere.

Ahhh, but oh well. To be honest its probably for the best as I wasn't all too keen on that old post anyway. Gives me a blank slate without having to delete the last one personally.

The news - I'm not offically out sort of out of work on leave - kind of. Sort of. I'm self-employed, more or less. I have one client, my former employer who I never actually fully returned to after my last maternity leave. I work in their office two days a week and then complete other tasks as needed from home. The job itself is good - the boss is, well anyway. I go into my 36 week check-up and all is well. I bring up work planning on asking how long I should do the 40 or more minute commute each way twice a week and all that glorious stuff that goes with my office environment. Long story short, I shouldn't do it past this past Tuesday. I got the OB to ok me working from home, but no more into the office for me. Whopee!!! I have to call on Monday to set up a time to speak with immediate supervisor about projects I should be doing now. At least working from home means less time interacting with the big boss - the...ahh, well never mind.

There is so much more twirling through my head right now, but I'm getting tired. Perhaps I'll write more later - I'll be up late waiting for B's plane to land and the limo to bring him home anyway. I'll need a good time waster and as far as I can tell I don't even have Law and Order reruns tonight. Drat!

Fear of the quasi-known

Today I am offically 36 weeks. At least according to some calenders. (I've yet to figure out how I can plug the very same due date into different 'pregnancy calenders' and get different days marking a new week out of 40. Go figure.) Yes, I'm now standing here within a week-ish of being considered full term. I'm within two weeks of when the doctor's would induce me should my blood pressure perform a command performance of rising late term like last time. I am four weeks from my due date and 6 weeks - which seems like YEARS - from when I'd be in for an 'overdue induction.' And with those timelines, I realize that I'm getting scared.

Not so scared that I'd not be thrilled to find myself in active labor, say the end of next week. No, not that scared. But scared in that I still wonder how I'll know "its time." Sure, its my second child. Yes I was induced and delivered vaginally and so yes I had contractions and I'm sure push come to shove (bad pun actually not intended) I'd figure out I was having one should I have to. The thing is, I didn't have to figure it out last time and so I worry about whether or not I'll know in time. I always hear how my mother had just some minor back pains one morning in May of 1973. My Dad felt it best he stay home from work that day, despite the fact that my mother thought him nuts for it. He also thought it good that they go see the doctor. Said doctor thought it even better, upon examination, that they rush to the hosptial and prepare to deliver the baby. I, being stubbornly breech, was born via C-section and so the contractions Mom felt never really reached that "Oh My God, Someone is tearing out my insides!!" stage. I worry that her experience is an indication of what I can expect left on my own. Will I know?

When they started the Cervidil suppository last time I had contractions start within the hour. I remember thinking at the time that it wasn't a whole lot worse than menstrual cramps and in fact that I had a few times in my past where the cramps were actually worse than what I felt at that moment. Even when they started the Pictocin. I kept thinking "This is it? This is the bad part?" At first anyway. And so I worry - will it be that way on my own. Will it be so "huh, that all?" that I don't react and respond.

Of course, then my water broke and the other part responsible for my fear kicks in. Holy cow did that hurt like hell. I can't even count how many times I heard it prior to even trying to get pregnant and then througout pregnancy - "Oh, yeah, labor hurts, but you forget all about it when the baby comes. I mean you remember it hurt, but you can't remember how much exacty." Well I have one thing to say to that - B. S. This load of crap experienced moms feed you about 'forgetting' is just something that comes falling out of mouths as a way to preserve the species. At least it seems that way to me.

It hurt. It hurt a whole lot. I can't even begin to pick words that would describe it. The moment the doctor broke my water I felt such incredible rolling waves of pain I couldn't even suck air in without feeling as if I was being torn to pieces. He asked me if I was ready for the nice man with the drugs to come for a visit and I couldn't even verbalize the thought struggling to form in my brain between blinding cuts that started in my abdomen and radiated outward. Instead of saying "OMG you fool. SEND THAT MAN NOW!" I simply nodded. I wanted to yell "Why didn't you just bring him here when you showed up with that crochet hook of evil?!" But instead I just noisly sucked air in doubled over in overwhelming pain. That part scares the living daylights out of me too. I know its going to hurt like hell at some point and it scares me to think of it.

And then there's the epidural impact. With L I went from having high blood pressure necessitating induction to low pressure necessitating an oxygen mask. I had a nurse freak me out about why the mask - oh, just your and the baby's heart rate slow down a bit more than we'd like to see with contractions. Oh, gee is that all. I was scared then. I begged for the doctor to come and just end it. To just wheel me into surgery and take that baby out before it was too late. And he was wonderful. He was reassuring. He told me we really weren't as dire as bad-bedside made it sound. So we waited for 10 cms. I fear that fear though as well. I worry about finding myself in that spot. Of feeling so out of control of a situtation - of believing your child is in danger and wanting so desperately to save him. Of course, should the aforementioned pain make a 2nd appearance I will not hesitate nodding my desire for the nice man with the drugs.

Finally there was the pushing. I was so exhausted, and frankly famished, after 30+ hours of induction drugs and contractions with no food and no real sleep that I struggled to push effectively. The moment I hit the appropriate number of centimeters the epidural was turned off. By 10 centimeters it had started to wear off considerably. I could feel everything I needed to feel. I had the urge to push. I could feel my body leading me to do so. It simply hurt too badly to ignore it. The only thing that made the pain stop was to work with it. So I did. I worked with it for two hours. And at the end of it, as I winced and cried through an incredible overwhelming pressure mounting between my legs as the baby's head sat just at the edge without emerging, the doctor made his cut. I fear that weariness taking hold again.

And the recovery. You know, there is something to be said for those nice little inflated donuts they give you at the hospital. The episotmy had so many stitches the doctor asked me to come in 2 weeks post-partum to check on me instead of waiting the six. I never asked how many it took because frankly it was better not to know. What I do know is those suckers hurt like hell for weeks on end. I remember crying when I peed because it stung so badly. I remember gingerly sitting and rising as to not irritate the site. I fear that.

When I look back I realize that my fear the first time was of the unknown and as such, honestly, not quite as bad as it is this time. The first time I always had that thought - the "It can't be *that* bad." This time I have my truth and I know the path that may await. I also know that as each pregnancy is different, each delivery is different; I hold onto a hope that maybe this one will be gentler and kinder.

Obviously there is nothing to do now but wait and go through it to the other side. I can't quit. I can't toss in the cards and walk away. . . and I wouldn't want to. The truth is that crap about "forgetting the pain" isn't totally crap, just misworded. You don't forget that it hurt, you just look at your child in your arms and you don't care that it did.

Yes, I fear what I know may await me. I worry about what I didn't get to experience last time and I worry about what did. Yet more than that, I'm anxious to get it started. Its not just that I'm big, sore and miserable so I want to 'get it over with.' Its much more than that. I've planned. I've nested. I've prepared. I've shopped. And now I'm ready. Now I want to meet my child. I want to see the doctor holding her yet-to-be-cleaned body in his hands as she takes her first breath. I want to hold her wrapped in cloth and not be able to do anything more than inhale sharply in awe of this tiny person that just made her grand enterance. I want to see the color her hair seems to be when its still wet with amniotic fluid. I want to hear her first cries and see her gaze at me when I finally manage to utter a word - realizing that she really does indeed recognize my voice after hearing it all these months from 'inside.' I want to meet my child. I want to be able to tell her that I love her and show her by holding her close to me and kissing her soft skin.

I'm ready. . .I'm just impatiently waiting until she is too.

Tug at those heartstrings

When I first met my husband the biggest "business trip" he took was from his basement level office to the basement level cafeteria. About 3.5 years ago he took a new job with a great company, pregnant with opportunity. Among the various things awaiting him came international oversight. Yup. No longer was the extent of his responsibility a single office location in Jersey. Now he'd have multiple offices in the U.S. to oversee, as well as Britain. His first business trip with this new company was to be the very weekend following September 11th. Obviously with airports closed and the country spinning in turmoil the trip was delayed. He instead went a week or so later - flying out of Newark he could still see the World Trade Center ruins smoldering on the ground.

Since then he's returned to the London office twice. Once when our son was about two months old and then again this Spring. The latest trip included an add-on visit to one of his newest areas of responsibility - France. Yup, he got to go to Paris and spend a weekend being a tourist. Why, I ask you, could he not have these trips at a time in our lives when I could have tagged along? Ahh, but once again I digress.

Shortly after returning from the his grand European tour, he picked up three more tasks. The first was to oversee the negotiation of new rental property in DC. He's spent two days down there so far working on this task - just day trips though so we've not noticed the fact that he was out of state. The 2nd was a similar task for Chicago. Another day trip but one so late in his return it seemed as if he was gone a day. The third was taking over the purchasing oversight for AsiaPac. Now that means a trip to Sydney, Australia - which is where he is right now.

This marks the fourth "away from us for a night" trip this year for B. Three business and one to visit his ailing mother. Little guy has always done well in the past, but this time seems a bit different. He's not by any means difficult or acting out because of it. But its clear he misses Daddy. In fact, its so clear to me that he does because he tells me often.

B left on Thursday afternoon for his trip. The three mornings since, the little man has woken up and called out for Dad before Mom. In our house, this is rare. It happens once in a while, but typically we've got a Mama's boy on our hands and the first words out of his mouth each day are predictably "Moooommmmyyy! Come get me!" (This despite the fact that he knows darn well how to get out of his "big boy bed" without needing help.) Yet the last three its been a call for Daddy and so before I go in (which would get my head bit off being the wrong person and all that.) I call back "Honey, Daddy is away, remember."

And each morning he says quietly "I miss Daddy."

Well Daddy had a rather 'plan ruining' run in with weather Thursday night. A line of storms in PA kept the plane from taking off on time and therefore he missed a connecting flight. He had to spend Thursday night in Los Angeles...and all day Friday since the next flight out to Australia wasn't until 11 pm PST. We got a call on Friday from B and as soon as the little man figured out who was on the phone he ran and procured himself a telephone - yes he did.

"Daddy!" he yelled. "Daddy! Daddy! You in Australia now?"

Daddy said "No, honey, not yet."

Boy said "Daddy in airport? Limousine take you airport. You there?" And so Daddy explained "sort of" to L. "I miss Daddy." L said softly. "I love you." And Daddy got sad.

Then, as if the "I miss Daddy" declarations weren't enough to hear a few times each day, Little man pokes at my over-hormonal heart this morning with the type of pure belief in anything only a two-year-old can muster.

See, he has a globe - a Leap Frog globe that is actually geared towards ages 8 and up. It was a gift last year at Christmas from his grandparents and he adores it. He pokes at the colorful countries with the little stylus and he listens intently as the recorded man's voice tells him which country he's selected. He's gotten quite good it actually. He can consistantly locate where he lives and about five or six other places. Each time Daddy travels now we take some time before and during the trip to show Little man where we are on the globe and then where Daddy is going/is working. This time was no different - mostly.

This time we added a few features. Being two, Little man is a Wiggles fan. Sure, not all tots are, but it seems more often than not that group of four is addictive. Not only that, but L enjoys watching the Koala Brothers on the Disney Channel once and while. SO this time we showed him Australia on the globe and then we told him that its were Wiggle Bay is AND where Frank and Buster (the koalas) live. Little guy couldn't believe how lucky Daddy was to go to Wiggle Bay. I mean really, its like heaven isn't it?!

But back to this morning - I come down from getting dressed to go to church and I find my little guy laying on his back in the middle of our living room transfixed by the TV. Its rare that he pays this much attention to anything outside of a Thomas and Friends tape/DVD, but here he was focused hard on those Wiggles. He saw me come in from the corner of his eye and without blinking or budging he said "Daddy be on Wiggles."

Me - Well Daddy is in Australia now where the Wiggles are, yes.

L - No. I watch Wiggles to see Daddy. Greg Wiggle put Daddy on TV for me. Daddy sing "Head, Shoulder, Knee, Toes."

I nearly cried. I mean I knew this child missed his father, but I hadn't really understood HOW much he missed Daddy. He's always enjoyed his Dad time, but this was new. This complete 'loss' without Dad wasn't something I'd seen before. Last trip of substantial length he started asking for Daddy the day before he was due to come home. I don't know if its just a new change in their relationship or that we've had a lot of travel this year (or so it seems) and L is just starting to feel it pile up. Either way, its heartbreaking really.

The Miracle of Motherhood

There's a lot of chatter tonight in World of Blogs about the desire to experience a full-term pregnancy resulting in a live birth vs the inability to do so. Both the always poignant Getupgrrl and the Leery Polyp have written moving posts from the heart. Both women are coping with a sense of loss, both mourning a dream, a desire they'll never fulfill. And both have me pondering tonight.

A few things strike me actually. One is this 'meaning well' syndrome that some folks seem destined to inflict on others isn't just limited to the world of fertility or the lack thereof. No, not at all. Its all around us actually. Just today, for example, I read an email directed to a woman that was facing the potential loss of her great-grandmother. The reply was heartfelt, I'd assume, and said simply "Well at least she'd have lived to a good old age." Yeah, but that doesn't make the hurt hurt any less. People say dumb things all the time. In the end, I really think that's a matter of needing to say something so badly that we'll say anything without really thinking it through.

The other thing I keep coming back to -- where is the miracle really when it comes to offspring? The thing is bringing a child to the world and raising the child is a series of miracles. Its not one thing. Its not one continuous big fat miracle. No, its not that simple.

It was a miracle to conceive both my children. Had we had success with fertility treatments, it'd have been one kind of miracle. Had we had L easily, the first time we tried or the first *year* we tried, his creation would have been a miracle just the same. Struggling as we did, giving in and then finding ourselves awaiting his arrival is its own miraculous event. None of these three scenarios is truly more wondrous than the other, quite frankly. Each one is spectacular and should be celebrated.

Being pregnant - no matter how bad it sucks sometimes - is yet another miracle. I think I've said it before, but if not I'll say it again - I'm not one that relishes feeling my child move inside me. Yeah, before being pregnant I couldn't wait. I longed for those kicks & pokes. I mourned the idea that I'd never know what it felt like to feel a baby wiggle as it grew to term. Having been there, done that, though, I have to be honest. I find it a bit creepy. I find it disconcerting. I really don't enjoy not being able to find a truly comfortable way to sit or lay because the ones that I personally like, seem to piss off my daughter to no end. I honestly get a bit freaked out to feel her elbow or knee roll by my hand or arm if I'm resting either on my bulging belly. Its just weird. . . and yet its a miracle that I'm glad I've had the chance to be freaked out by. It makes me sad to think that someone that wants to know that same sensation so badly can't. Women like Grrl and Jo may never know if they're really a Mom that finds every poke and jab adorable or one that realizes it gives her the willies. To me that not knowing is so incredibly sad.

Pregnancy hopefully (because too many women suffer unbelievable pain & loss to say it's a given) ends in a live birth. For me, its honestly never mattered how my child came into the world at the end of 40 weeks (give or take a few) just that he/she did. To others, pushing that child out is important and when the ability to do is taken from them for one reason or another its another loss to mourn. Although I don't identify with this regret, I don't diminish it either. I sometimes read the lamentations and think that in weeping for their lost birth plan some woman (not all) have a romanticized view of vaginal delivery. Its that sense of the 'real' or "natural" or even "perfect" that will invoke a response out of me, because I don't actually think there is such a thing. . . and even so, I try to remember that the ability to feel your child slip from you IS a gift. It is a miracle and to not have that on your list of life experiences is sad in its own way.

Yet child rearing in and of itself is its own miracle. . . its own *set* of miracles really. Each day that dawns brings a new set of wondrous moments. Each little smile and even every tear is a gift that every parent has been given - and it makes no difference who's genes that child supports or how they came to be. Its that very understanding, that simple truth, I wish I could share with those that ache so badly sometimes. Those that mourn their losses of the other miraculous stages of entering parenthood have their right to weep. They should release their anger and their loss. But I so wish I could hug them tight as their shoulders shake and then celebrate as they see that having a child anyway they can - through their own bodies, through a surrogate, through adoption - is really and truly the most wonderful gift of all.

I hear a lot lately about the terrible twos because we've recently entered into that time with our son. And so very many people are wonderfully supportive enough to point out that "three" is just worse. ;) The thing about it, though, is that as a mother, raising a child can at times be the most challenging, aggravating, maddening experience I'll ever face. There are moments when I stare at my child in the midst of a fit over something that is to me ridiculously inconsequential and I think "What the hell? Whoever thought *I* could handle this type of stress needs to stop laughing now and give me either more patience or really good drugs." Yet EVEN with those moments, being somebody's Mother is simply the most amazing, indescribable thing there is.

At the end of the day, when my son is past whatever fits he had tossed and he's beyond the giggles we shared, when he's laying angelically asleep, I can watch him and feel a peace I never knew existed. When its all over I can reflect and realize that even our most frustrating struggles are miracles because every little tantrum and demand is just a manifestation of this child's growth. The fact that this little blob can enter the world with nothing of interest outside of eating, sleeping and expelling waste and then move into a human being with actual wants, desires and needs is mind blowing. The notion that the person that could only once cry because he needed 'something' can now define exactly what it is he wants and how badly he wants it is truly amazing to me. And even more so, the fact that I, little ole average me, has had a hand in helping this small boy realize he had these abilities is just more impressive than anything I've ever accomplished. The fact that I've been given the opportunity to help mold the future, to help grow a person who will touch so many lives as he moves ahead with his own, is just more than I ever dreamed possible. It, in and of itself, is the most amazing thing I've ever experienced. Its a gift I wish could find everyone that is seeking it. *It*, Motherhood itself, is the true miracle.

But wait, there's more to the story.

Today the governor of my state dropped two bombshells.

1. He's gay.

2. He's resigning.

Reaction from the uninformed is exactly what you'd expect - what kind of state is New Jersey where a gay man must resign his office. Isn't that just horrid. To those outside the borders of our small but crowded home, the reaction is expected -- especially when national news organizations cover the recently concluded press conference with highlights of just the announcement itself giving a mere flip of the hand "oh yeah and also . . ." to the rest of the story.

What is scary is that there exist a block of New Jerseyans who take this conference at face value as well. Who shake their heads and look down on their neighbors for being so very close minded as to force this poor man out of office for his sexual orientation.

In the interest of full disclosure I must admit that I am far from a fan of Governor McGreevey's. I didn't vote for him. I wouldn't even consider voting for him when he ran for re-election next November. Its got nothing to do with his party affiliation or his preference for men. My issue with him has always been his record. I could go on for virtual page after page on his tenure as Mayor of Woodbridge, but I won't. Suffice it to say that those in this state shocked that the man wanted to raise taxes almost immediately after removing his hand from the Bible during his swearing in obviously ignored his track record.

In truth today's first bombshell means nothing to me. I hardly think a person's sexual orientation impacts his/her ability to carry out their job responsibilities. When coupled with that, I find his 2nd bombshell incredibly irritating. His resignation with this as his excuse is a disservice to the residents of NJ, as well as homosexuals across the nation. Why this harsh stand - because there's more to the story than just this. . .

Rumors have been swirling all day that a former member of staff is about to file charges of sexual harassment against McGreevey - now the assumption is that this former affliate is the man he's had his admitted affair with. Some will write this off as easily as they did Jones vs Clinton - but the idea of my leader being served with a harassment suit is always mildly unsettling to me.

Still though, there's more. Scandal surrounds Jim McGreevey. Aids and advisors. Fund raisers. People throughout the executive branch of state government are dropping like flies amid charges of fraud or bribe taking. The man himself has been under investigation for both. This is the same man who has had to pay back the taxpayer coffers after being discovered taking the Governor's jet to Ireland for vacation on our dime. Its the same man who's popularity nose dives with each scandalous hit falling throughout the executive branch. To many in our state that actually watch and read the news, his career has been a ticking time bomb waiting to implode.

And so the resignation comes a top a hill of disgrace. It comes at what could likely be come known to be the 'tip of the iceberg.' Or not. We may never know now. The disservice is that he finds a reason to walk out that garners sympathetic head shakes and tsks of the tongue at those that bid him "farewell" with more of a "good riddance" type approach. And in doing so it becomes easy to pull the blinds down over the rest - the mess, the dirt. It shoves a skeleton in the closet - making it easy to ignore the blemish.

Do I think he'd have HAD to resign if this was the only mountain he faced? No. Hardly. I think this was just his last straw. . .

To make me feel better or worse

A friend of mine sent me a link to this little pregnancy counter. She's newly pregnant and not yet weighed down by seeing "243 days left" as I am about seeing the days that still lay before me. ha!

But hey, maybe, sometimes, seeing it tick slowly below a month, then three weeks, two weeks, and so on to the due date I'll feel more "relieved." Then again, if it gets past-due I may have to throw things at my monitor.

Here's the little trinket she sent:

Offenders

Since my last post there have been two notable offenders to the 'rules' as outlined -

1. My father's cousin is the first. Upon asking me when the due date was (Sept 15th if you're not watching the calendar as closely as I am.) announced "Oh, wow, you've still got a long way to go."

I did not withhold my glare, although my mother spoke up before I could say "Bite me bitch." :) Good old Mom just smiled nicely and said to cousin "Oh, its not that long really. I mean really, in the grand scheme of things she's in the home stretch."

2. My very own, innocent, loving 2 year old broke a rule. Yes he did...and I forgave him only because he is my own child and he's 2. I think the two part did more to save him than anything else, quite frankly. I fought to remember that at this age he has no concept of body image and proper etiquette.

So yes, my child idled up to me, patted my stomach that conveniently hides my toes from my sight, and said "Wow. Mommy got big belly!"

Nice, eh?

At least he followed it up by patting his own stomach and saying "My sister in Mommy belly. I got baby in my belly too." Its hard to shoot eye daggers at someone that can be that cute and naive. Of course we've also told him that the Mommy and Daddy will some day soon (but not soon enough) go to the hosptial to get baby. So now, according to my truck loving tot, the crane currently building a new wing to said hosptial is in fact building my 2nd born.

Oh Shut Up!

I've come to believe that there are certain things a pregnant woman should be able to beat the tar out of another person for without penalty. What are folks thinking when they open their mouth and fail to insert their foot in time. The closer I get to full-term and the more unwieldy my body becomes, the less patience I have for these fools. I'm looking for a license to kick butt, is what it really comes down to - if I could actually get my leg high enough off the ground to do so that is. So what are these gross offenses you ask?

1. Any statement containing the words "HUGE" and referring to the pregnant woman. I mean really, does anyone appreciate another staring at them, mouth gaping open, and the words "Oh. My. God. You got HUGE!" spilling from their lips? After complaining about this to some, I've actually been told "Well, but its different, you're pregnant, you're supposed to be gigantic. You have an excuse." Yeah, well, you scarf down a ton of junk food, you have an excuse for your huge ass too, that doesn't mean I need to point it out to you.

Ok, the pregnant body is a beautiful thing. Blah blah blah. Its a wonderful miracle. My bulbous belly is a sign of life growing in all its splendor. I get that. Yet I didn't start this pregnant journey as a size 6. My size isn't totally baby, its got a lot of ice cream and other garbage glued to my hips and girth. I don't like being "huge." I don't appreciate having trouble navigating tight aisles in a department store or squeezing my way past the door of a poorly designed public restroom stall. And I really don't need to be reminded of it with startled, wide-eyed utterances.

Variations on this theme include using the words: gigantic, house-like, enormous, behemothic, big mother, Brobdingnagian, bulky, colossal, cyclopean, elephantine, gargantuan, humongous, jumbo, leviathan, mammoth, massive, mungo, planetary, prodigious, super-colossal, titanic, tremendous, vast, walloping, whopping

2. Any statement that sounds like "Oh, you must just love this heat and humidty" snicker, snicker
Ok, call me naive, but frankly, I think any day where its hot and humid enough to produce a heat index of 98 degrees just sucks whether you're pregnant or not. I mean really, does anyone out there actually enjoy 88% humidity? Does anyone really get excited to feel their clothes sticking to their backs when they merely walk out to get their mail. No. I seriously doubt it. Hot, humid, summer days where the air feels heavy just suck. It sucked last summer when I wasn't pregnant and it sucks now that I am. My "huge" baby-carrying induced girth does not make it much worse than it already is.

3. Encouraging words such as "Man, you've still got a long way to go!"
Personally I hear this a lot less now that I'm in single digit count down of weeks until D-day (aka due date). I do, however, think that pregnant women everywhere hear this idiotic statement all to often. "Oh, when are you due?" [insert response here.] "Oh, wow, you've got a long way to go, huh." Yeah, that's just what I want to hear. My back hurts, my legs hurt and I have three months (or whatever the duration) left to go. Thanks for pointing that out.

Variances to this theme include:
- "Haven't you had that baby yet?" (Appropriate responses to this include, "Does it look like it?" and "Baby? Oh, I had that weeks ago. Now I'm just fat."
- "Really? That long? You look like you're about ready to pop that kid out any day now." (which is also a variance of beatable offense #1)
- "Oh, wow, you're nearly at the end. That's going to go so fast." (Yes, I know a bit contradictory of me, but honestly, let's use now for example. Six weeks in normal time may not be a whole lot, but when you're 'huge' and feel like every joint hurts from the added duty of carrying another person 24/7 six weeks is a long time. When you can't sleep at night because you can't find way to lay that doesn't put make something hurt - six weeks is an eternity.)

4. The act of reaching out and touching someone.
There are pregnant women that don't mind being a touchstone for everyone and their brother, but personally, I think people need to keep their grubby fingers off my stomach. What is it about the pregnant belly that shouts "Reach out and grope me?"

Here's what gets me. Were I not with child, folks wouldn't even consider walking up to me and placing their hand on my body uninvited. Hell, if I were to do so to them, they'd stare at me in horror. Yet the mere fact that I get kicked from the inside out and have lost visual contact with my feet, seems to be a blanket statement of approval to anyone that gets within 2 feet of me.

The ones that really goad me are those that touch first ask later. Their hand firmly attached to my belly, they look up and say "Oh, is this ok? Can I touch you?" I've been very good about ignoring the urge to respond "Only if I can pinch your ass."