Weighing In

So, I've gained 20 pounds. TWENTY.

I'm not sad about it, 20 is a fine number for having a baby, but it's just a little shocking. I mean, I know that I have a basketball sticking out of my belly, and that I ate three bagels and cream cheese yesterday but still - they were very light bagels.

And I was very hungry.

(What am I supposed to do, deny the child her cream cheese wishes? I'm not a monster. It's not like she was asking me to smoke crack and do intravenous drugs, so as long as it's legal and it seems like the baby really wants it, I'm probably going to do it. I call it "trusting". You may call it "eating my weight in Laffy Taffy Friday night". Tomato. Tomahto.) (Never in the history of the world has Laffy Taffy been so good.)

The father of my child keeps saying we're going to be like ships passing in the night. That our weights are getting so close together I'm going to surpass him, and he's going to try to slim down and weigh less than me. And in response I keep telling him to shut it.

I'm the girl! I'm supposed to be dainty. Which trust me at six-foot-awkward, never really happens, but I still like to pretend. So, I'm going to start slipping butter into everything he eats so its impossible for him to get slimmer. Smoothie for breakfast? Add butter. Bean burrito? Why not just moisten that up with a few pats of butter. Buttered toast? How about extra butter!

I'll show him.

Anyway, I'm showing. Which should seem obvious to anyone who looks at me, but apparently in Vegas it wasn't because on one of the trips Gige and I made around the lazy river these two (very hairy) guys latched onto out inner tubes and followed us around the river. Even after I pointed out I was in fact pregnant, and Gige mentioned her daughter and husband they still kept on keeping on. So either our powers of sexual magnetesim are so great guys still want to hit on us pregnant and familied, or they were just really drunk. (I'm guessing it was the latter due to the beer in each hand, though I'd like to believe there's a very strange group of men out there who want to date only pregnant women. Pregnant women they themselves did not get pregnant. Not because I want to date them, but because it would be sooooooo weird if they actually did exist. Weird and creepy.) Or maybe they just didn't believe us.

But I mean, c'mon, how can this NOT look pregnant to you:

Either pregnant or like I've suddenly discovered the way women can get a beer belly. (Hint: drink lots of beer)

Ships in the night. For his safety he better hope not.

Baby's Room

So, we've got about three months left before the baby arrives, which sounds like a long time until you realize February was three months ago and that feels LIKE YESTERDAY.

Three months! That's it?! I'm not even prepared. The baby's room has two rocking chairs, and two vacuum cleaners in it and THAT'S IT. (I like to vacuum with both hands.)

So she won't have anywhere to sleep, but at least the room will be very, very clean and very, very rocky.

Because I realized in the last three months the only progress I've made on getting her room ready is by imagining how cute it will look, I've decided to kick it into serious planning mode which means I've entered a phase I like to call, "Obsessively looking at pictures of nurseries on the internet." This was mistake #1. There's like four million options and every single one is adorable beyond belief, so now I go around all day doing the dishes, or working, and then suddenly rushing back to my laptop and screaming, "Where's the Cha Cha Cha crib bedding again?!?! I need to see it right now or my baby will have an ugly room and will be really bad at math!"

Which is crazy, because it's not as if the baby is going to care what her room looks like. It's not as if I even really care. If it's for a baby it's probably going to be just fine. My own bedroom decor was not picked by me and I'm fine with it. It's very boy. Boy. Boy. Boy. Light blues and browns and no pictures anywhere. There's nothing girly about my bedroom except for the fact that me and my vagina sleep there. Sometimes when I look around and realized what a Den of Man it is I take out all my bras and sprinkle them around the room to add a little flavor. (Then I pick them up immediately because anytime I accidentally leave a bra out Partner's dad stops by and we both see it at the same time and are totally embarrassed by my pink A cups starring at us from the refrigerator handle.) (My sprinkling gets out of control sometimes)

So anyway, this week is Operation: Put More Than Just Cleaning Devices and Chairs That Move In The Baby's Room. Because this just looks like I'm getting prepped for my very own episode of Hoarding in a few years.

26 weeks!

So I'm 26 weeks preggers now, which means I look like this:

Very white, and very round.

And the baby is now the size of and English hothouse cucumber. They're getting very specific these comparisons. And very weird. An envelope two weeks ago, and now a cucumber? But no ordinary cucumber, an English hothouse cucumber. Because that's what you want, a sort of British-whore-house-sounding-garden-vegetable growing in your womb.

Hothouse is the right word though because this little girl loooooooves her some action. I went home last week:

(Mmmmm, home.) (Can you tell it's rainy and cold again in Montana?)('Cause it is.)

And then from there I went to Las Vegas. Because you know what everyone wants? A pregnant girl in Vegas! Whoooooooooo! PArtY TiMe! (Where 'party' means I'm in bed by 10:30, and while everyone else is ordering mojitos I'm kindly asking for some hot water with lemon.)(Because being pregnant also means I order things like hot water with lemon. Like a grandma. I also have taken to wearing knee high stockings that roll down to mid-calf, and always vaguely smell of butterscotch candies.)

Vegas was a lot of fun, and I'll have a whole special separate post for it later, but the short story is we all went because one of my best friends is getting married!

Awww isn't she pretty? Who wouldn't want to marry that? And I can't really talk about it here because I'll just break out into hysterical sobs like I usually do when I think too hard about it, but I HAD to go to Vegas because I'm not (oh no) going to (see now I'm tearing up big time) be able (can't. see. keyboard.) to go (boooooooooo) to her wedding (*sob*) in July because I'll be too pregnant to fly. (deep breath)

Honestly, it just devastates every part of me. She's like family. Not only is she one of my best friends but she also spent decades of holidays with my family, came on almost all of our family vacations, and had embarrassing informational talks about safe sex with my mom in High School. (Embarrassing only to me. To them it was perfectly normal. To me it was mortifying.) So missing her wedding is sort of like cutting off my arm and telling me I can't ever see it again.

Sort of.

That's not the best analogy, but you know what I mean. It sucks!

Anyway, moving on.

Hothouse. So, we pretty much spent the entire weekend parked by the lazy river at the MGM Grand hotel which was so amazingly relaxing and fun. And because it's Vegas they pump dance music out through the palm tree speakers from about 9am on, and little Jack Bauer just LOVED it. She was kicking and dancing around and moving to the beat pretty much anytime I was sitting still. I didn't even have to point it out to some of the other girls before they were like, "Whoa! Your stomach just jumped out at me!" It's so crazy that not only can I feel it, but now other people can actually SEE her moving around in there. If I wasn't so in love with it all (or if I didn't know I was pregnant) it would probably be very crazy and alien-like and I'd start crying and locking myself in an isolation chamber because I'd be sure my food had somehow been laced with LSD, because bodies just don't do the things that pregnant ones do. (How do those women on that show NOT know they're pregnant? If little elbow and knee-like things coming out of their belly at all times of the day is normal when they're not pregnant, I don't want to know what's going on inside there.)

I kept making my sister feel my belly when she was kicking really hard but she would get freaked out and pull her hand away really fast every time she felt it, screaming, "Ahhhhh! What if her little hand reaches out and grabs me!?!?!" Which is totally crazy. That's not going to happen. IS IT?

Just kidding. But it is understandable, her caution. I mean, there's a human in there. Moving around. Kicking and yawning and punching and practicing her breathing with amniotic fluid. It does sound like something from a Stephen King novel. But that doesn't mean I'm going to stop forcing her to feel my stomach. Because she's my sister and I want her to feel the joy I'm feeling - even if it creeps her out.

On Being A Mom

I wrote this a few months ago and didn't post it because I didn't have anywhere to post it. And now I do! See what happens when you do something even though you have nowhere to do it! Nothing really, but still, it seemed like this could have been an opportunity for some sort of lesson to myself. I still think it could be. Sort of. Like, maybe all that Desperate Housewives watching I've been doing will come in handy one day when I'm on Jeopardy and there's a category labeled "Easy and Bree-zy" and I'll be able to question every single answer about Bree Van de Kamp, will get double Jeopardy, will be the all time winner, and will buy all my friends and family vacation homes in the south of France!

It could happen!

Maybe?

While I'm figuring out how to get to meet Alex, here's the post from a few months ago:

Sometimes I'm really Jewish. I mean, not really-really Jewish, my mom is Catholic which makes my brother, sister and I not Jewish at all according to Jewish law (because apparently fathers have nothing to do with the gene pool?) (Oh my god if that were true I wouldn't have this nose, or this bangs issue. My mom has beautiful wavy blonde hair and I got my dad's crazy curly Jew-fro. On the upside I also got his tendency to feel tragic on a whim, which is helpful when you're in art school.) And we were baptized and went to Catholic Sunday school for a bit, I've probably only been in a synagogue like a dozen times, so despite the last name, technically we're only half Jewish.

Buuuuuuuuuut . . . my Bauba always said being a Jew doesn't mean you have to have had a batmitzvah, it means you inflict guilt upon your children and are stingy with money.

Just kidding she didn't say that.

But she was super worried and anxious all the time. Like, ALL THE TIME. She wouldn't use the VCR because she was afraid it was going to suck her in. She wouldn't sit upright in a car, she would lay down in the back because was too afraid the cars were going to come careening into her. Anytime my sister or I took a vacation without our parents, she would call them three times a day to ask if they'd heard from us, and if they hadn't she'd start crying because she was certain it meant we had been robbed, stabbed, and were lying in a distant gutter somewhere mumbling through gurgled blood, "Ba-u-ba. . . heeeeelp."

I could go on and on, but basically she was a worrier. I'm told this is a traditional Jewish Grandma trait, and that not only was I going to be one, but from the time I was about four years old I've been told I already was one.

I worry.

Most of the time needlessly, but try convincing me of that at the time.

Once at a friend's fifth birthday party I gathered all the balloons that the other kids had been holding, and all of the ones out for decoration and held them captive in the corner of the room, while I sobbed, clutching the balloon strings for dear life, because I was afraid if anyone else got near them they would pop and I would be scared.

I was such a joy in my parents life!

I'm sure it's awful for my friends who patiently sit by while I wring a subject to absolute death because my mind is spinning and my stomach is twisted into a knot. They are saints and I don't thank them enough. My mom and my sister have lived with it for thirty years so they are less inclined to be patient. Most of the time Becky just says, "Oh my god you're fine. Stop being crazy and go get me a Dr. Pepper." Because she's tender.

And as I get older I find ways to calm myself. I've found how to be more in control of myself, even though I didn't know I wasn't. I'm able to stop obsessing and worrying before it gets out of control, which is huge progress from my fifteen year old self. I've grown up I guess. A little. Enough that I recognize when I'm being crazy. "No, Amy. Just because you were talking about Mrs. Blah-Blah doesn't mean she magically got connected to your phone call and heard every word you said about her, so stop worrying!"

(I also stopped talking about people. Unless it's really good gossip. Then I let the flood gates open! Because I don't care what you say - yes, I agree it's not good for you to talk about people, but also that's how people communicate, so sometimes when it's necessary you should talk, just don't be mean-spirited. Mean-spirited is bad for you. Sound good? Ok, moving on.)

I'm sounding like I have some crippling anxiety disease. I don't really. I've never needed meds or court ordered therapy or any of that. I can leave my house and I shower everyday, I just mean that I worry more than the average person. Like maybe, five percent more. Not enough that it shows on the outside, but just enough that it gives me the occasional year or two of insomnia. No big deal. Wine helped me through that.

But something recently has happened in my life that has made me simultaneously overjoyed and gut-wrenchingly worried. I'm more than grateful to have the worry though. That's the difference. That's how I'm coping. The happiness outweighs the anxiety (most days) and I've taken hundreds of deep breaths and repeated that to myself over and over again. The worry is nothing. The worry is worth it. The worry won't actually help anything you know that. DON'T worry.

And it's working.

Because I'm a thousand times more happy than I am worried, and that is new. And shocking. And great. And wonderful.

When I can keep it up.

A few days ago my mom found me in a state of un-calm, and tried to talk me through it. When she realized that wasn't going to work she came up and sat in the chair opposite of me, took my hands in her and said, deep from her motherly tie to me, penetrating my insides only the way she can, "Amy. You. Are. Ok. And this - everything is going to be ok." And then she squeezed my hands tighter, tight as she could until she squeezed the tears to a dead halt. And she said, "Now, this is something I know to be true. Repeat after me. . . "

And she made me repeat that something until I believed it. Until I could say it to myself with each inhale and exhale. And she told me to repeat it everyday until I didn't need to repeat it anymore, because it was just what was true.

I'm not going to tell you what it was she said because it was between her and me. It was hers, and then she made it mine. But it was something comforting, and loving, and from my mom, and something probably every mother has ever said in one way or another to their daughter - and it filled my heart to the absolute brim until I couldn't breathe because suddenly I was crying again. But not because I was worried anymore. Because I wasn't. Because my mom was there.

It sounds silly, but my god is it true. I don't ever give my mom enough credit for her ability to solve . . . everything. But she does.

At least to me it seems like she does. And that's enough, you know? Sometimes even if something just seems like it's something, it's enough.

For now.

I Still Love It

Actual conversation:

(With life-like drawings because my secret surveillance cameras have not been installed yet)




































That's right a really cute teapot! Man who made me this way!

To be fair it is a very teapot-y shaped dress. Unless I turn sideways and hold it down to show that I am not in fact brewing some Earl Grey under my billows, but there's actually a baby in there. Unfortunately (though I've tried) I can't really go around holding my dress down and turning sideways all day. This causes people to stare more than if I was just teapotting.





But I don't care. I'm going to wear it every time the weather looks like this - glorious, sunny, this:









The pictures don't do it justice. I'll use a real camera next time. One that can actually make you feel the warmth and the happiness that is no more snow storms in May! I think those cars are even smiling.

Lost

I'm not sure what happened but somehow the last post I had up is totally gone. It vanished, and I have NO IDEA why. (Ghost logged on and deleted it?) (Does anyone have any idea how this could happen?)

And because I don't save things in another spot I don't have a backup copy. The only thing I have is that it started like this:

I've noticed my posts are getting a little sappy, so I'd like to change it up a little bit.

And now, I'd like to tell you the story of how I got pregnant . . .

Just kidding!

Like anyone really wants to know that. Like I'd really tell you even if you did. Like my partner would totally leave me if I even thought about telling you.

All I can tell you is there was snow shoveling involved, and not in a sexy way.

I bet that's a nice thing to know though, as a couple, how you made your baby. The people who were trying to get pregnant can try to control the situation and hope it turns out and it's a romantic story they can tell their kids one day to totally mortify the crap out of them. Me? I'll just say, "You were made because Mommy and Daddy love each other." ("and also love a little daytime cocktails to set the mood") And when they say, "What was that thing you just said under your breath?" I'll say, "You're not allowed to drink until you're married." End of story.



And that's all I got. I went on to babble about how snowy it's been, but then how the sun came out and how my cat is killing mice and eating them in my bedroom - all complete with pictures. It wasn't an amazing post, but I liked it and I want it back Mr. Ghost deleter thing!

Anyway, I'll have a real post later. Right now I have to go back up my entire life.

24 Weeks!

So, I'm 24 weeks pregnant now which means the little girl kicking my vital organs is about the size of an ear of corn. Or an standard envelope. Depending on where you read it. I like to think of her as an ear of corn inside an envelope. Like something crazy you'd try to mail your aunt when you were like five years old because you once heard her say she loves corn. All buttered and salted and seeping through the envelope you stole from your dad's office that says:

on it.

She's been kicking and moving around for weeks, but for the first time I finally got her father to feel it! After weeks of, "Honey put your hand here. Feel that?"

"No."

"What about that?"

"Nope."

"Now?"

"My arm hurts."

"Ooh that was a big one."

"Like really hurts."

"That right there! Did you feel it?"

"This isn't comfortable."

"Neither is slowing watching your lady parts disappear before your very eyes."

"Oh kay I don't-"

"I won't be able to see it soon."

"Ok listen-"

"What about that one?"

"Nope."

"Ah! You had to feel that?"

"I'm twisted in a very weird way. Maybe we should try this in a few weeks."

"No. You're going to feel it! Just wait."

"I don't-"

"That, there!"

"I can't feel anything but a searing pain in my shoulder now."

"Suck it up and feel for your baby!"

I just want him to enjoy the whole experience, even if it hurts.

Anyway, after my weeks of prodding and hand placing the little girl is kicking hard enough that he finally felt it! And even though he's usually very put together and calm, the smile and light in his eyes the moment he felt his daughter moving was instantaneous was so totally amazing I couldn't help but start to cry a little (to be fair, I cry at everything right now, including a moving hand in the World Series of Poker, and one time last week when I ran out of beans for my nachos).

Sitting there with his hand on my belly, and mine on his back, while we both felt our little baby moving around like she knew we were there waiting for her made me feel so amazingly grateful and joyous about this little family we've created. It's not traditional. It's not always organized or planned out. It's not how everyone else would do it. But it's ours. And it's full. And it's loving. And it makes me laugh, and cry, and smile, and feel safe, and scared, and happy, and nervous, and overwhelmed with how lucky I am. And I am. I am really lucky to be a part of this little family. Even if love is shown through kicks and arms falling asleep.

No, especially if love is shown through kicks and arms falling asleep. Because how else would you do it? I mean, really.

Perks of Pregnancy #2

I've discovered a new perk of pregnancy:

Straining things you didn't think were strainable in the first place. I mean, unless you have very athletic ears, or have been extremely active in the porn industry for most of your career.

So, yesterday I threw out my vagene. Like throwing out my back, but more vaginal.

Ok, technically I think it's that I pulled my groin muscle, or the lowest abdominal muscle known to man, since it isn't actually my lady parts that are strained, but when I hold onto what hurts (because I think that helps?) it doesn't look appropriate at all.

I've heard about people doing this, but it's always like NFL players, or Olympic gymnasts - you know what I was doing? Nothing. Nothing at all. I was at a tennis lesson (oh, more to come on the pregnant girl who decides to learn tennis when she's pregnant and has no control of her body. Actual conversation with my instructor - Me: "I feel like I don't have any control when I try to hit the ball." Him: "You don't. You have no control at all." Me: "I'm the worst in the class." Him: "Yes. . . But you try hard!") and I was just standing there working on my golf swing (I'm better at golf) when I was told to go to the other side of the court and try to hit something, and walking over there I thought, "Oh my bladder hurts super bad. I must have to pee really bad." But it wasn't that.

Somehow in between working on my golf at my tennis lesson and walking twenty feet to the net I managed to hurt my crotch. That is some powerful walking!

Since I have this new belly:

that I'm not used to, it tends to get me in trouble. I bump into water coolers because I didn't give myself enough room to get around them, I try to shave my legs and end up only getting my upper thighs because the mango in my belly (the mango the size of a pumpkin) won't let me bend any farther than that, and apparently trying to cozy up to my partner doesn't work when all I'm really doing is pressing my outstretched belly button into his normal innie belly button, and suddenly we're having some weird switchy-roo situation of parts that shouldn't intertwine and then we can't even look each other in the eye anymore.

So, being pregnant right now is like re-learning how to do everything with my body. How to walk, how to sit, how to hug someone without first punching them in the stomach with my stomach. It's fun, and weird all at the same time. And for the first time in years and years, I'm remembering that I can control how my body moves and stretches and works, it's like discovering a whole new person. A wobbly, clumsy, Reese's peanut butter cup devouring person. But I like this one. She's rounder and hungrier, and about to ice down her pelvis.

Next week I'm just bringing the ice pack right to the courts. You never know what will happen.

Baby Naming

Is it wrong that I sort of want to name my daughter Jack Bauer?

I know I'm years behind everyone with the whole 24 thing, but my God he's amazing. Once every few years, he stays awake for 24 hours and doesn't ever pee or eat. But does manage to stop a nuclear attack by disarming a nuke with his bare hands. (The things in italics I like to say in the movie phone guy voice. You know, the "In a world. . . " voice.)

He's honest, strong, mentally sharp as a nuclear physicist and a Navy Seal combined, and always looks good when he's killing bad guys. If my daughter doesn't want to be named after someone like that then I don't know what to do.

I'm not saying that's what we're going to do. I'm just saying we're thinking about it.

And by "we" I mean the father of my baby in response to my suggestion just said, "Do we have any cream cheese?" But his eyes said, "Over my dead body."

Oh that can be arranged Captain Cream Cheese. I've watched 7 seasons. I've seen Jack put people in a sleeper hold at least 16 times. You won't actually be dead, but you'll look it until the exact moment I'm out of the building and out of the line of danger, at which point you'll regain consciousness discover I'm gone, and shake your fist in fury! But don't worry, me and pretty little Jack Bauer will come back for you. Someone's got to teacher her how to throw a baseball. (And kill someone while doing it.)

Needless to say, we are having some naming issues. How does anyone pick a name? When I was in High School I wanted to name my daughter Diagony. Dia-go-ny. THAT'S NOT EVEN A WORD.

My friend Kevin has started calling her Kevina, which is now kinda growing on me.

The unfortunate thing is the only names I love are boys names. And for some reason, tv boy's names. Like Jack Bauer, or David Brent, or Alec Baldwin.

So don't be surprised if four months from now you get an announcement with a picture of a chubby little girl with the caption, "Introducing our little bundle of joy! Baby girl Conan!"

Sure it'll cause some problems in the classroom, but no one is ever going to forget her name that's for sure.