a day in the life...

The girls lost TV privileges last night for not listening.  For three days, because that's the number that came out of my mouth with exactly zero forethought or consideration when I was doling out their punishment.  They're actually being punished because they poked a hole in Daddy's air mattress, by jumping around on it when they'd been told over and over not to do that, to lie down and watch their movie or we'd put it up.  It was patched easily, but still, when you don't listen and you break things that belong to other people, there needs to be repercussions.  Television and candy are the only currencies my children recognize and in my efforts not to give them food issues I'm trying really hard not to give them candy and treats as a reward for good behavior and, as such, I don't withhold those things when they've been naughty, either.  But TV, that magical rabbit hole, I can take it away and they feel it to their core.  They're like little junkies, and those first few hours without are always rough, but even more so if you don't have something else planned, which, of course, I did not last night as I capriciously bellowed out their sentence.  But whatever.  It's not like I planned the second kid, either - living life by the seat of my pants over here.

Cora is in a phase.  She'll be 3 in two short days, so I'm going to rely on the old fall back and straight up blame her wild behavior lately on her tender age.  She is wild, though.  WILD.  If you're reading this, maybe you've noticed the Instagram feed over there on the right - did you catch the picture of her covered in enamel model paint?  She'd been upstairs for a few minutes.  Geneva was up there too, but it's a large space for two little girls, and it's not unusual for them to play separately.  I don't know what I was doing downstairs - laundry, dinner, cleaning, drinking - but I realized I hadn't heard from her in a few full minutes.  I started up the stairs as I called her name, and I smelled it immediately - you know the smell, that fumey paint smell.  Oh shit was my only thought, and then she came around the corner and I said it out loud, "Oh shit."  Her right arm was a swirl of sticky purple and red and white and black enamel paint, the sort that comes in tiny glass jars to be applied to miniature figurines with tiny little brushes; her left hand was the same, up past her wrist, and her chin and cheeks were similarly styled.  Cora had found these 10 year old glass bottles on a shelf in a closet, unscrewed the lids, and had, I can only imagine, poured the paint into her hands and rubbed it onto her face and arms as if it were lotion.

In a blur, I checked her over with my hands and eyes the way a mom will, making sure she didn't have it in her eyes, her nose, her mouth - somehow, she didn't. I was yelling for Jimi at the same time, thinking in the back of my head, "He'll know what to do, he'll know an easy way to fix this, he knows something about everything."  When he put his head into the stairwell and saw us there, saw colorful Cora, I saw the oh shit in his eyes, and his words only backed that up - he had no idea was to do, and he sounded a little higher pitched than normal.  I don't want to say he was panicking, but he was close - he was scared, and that scared me too, but also, strangely, it made me calm down nearly immediately.  I used my calm serious voice, the one that is very matter-of-fact, and as he stripped her down in the bathroom, I walked into the kitchen, grabbed the Dawn dish soap and my phone and delivered the Dawn to the bathroom as I googled "how to remove testors model paint from skin".  The answer, if you're not interested in googling, is vegetable oil and glycerin soap.  We had vegetable oil, and the CVS up the road had glycerin soap I figured, so I left Jimi and the paint-covered child in the bathtub with a gallon-bottle of Crisco Vegetable Oil and headed to the CVS.  They had glycerin - not soap, but in a little squeeze bottle.  I figured it would work well enough, and it did, with the Dawn, and with poor Jimi rubbing and sudsing for nearly an hour.  He even got it out of her hair.

That's sort of the way it is with her right now.  The Friday before the paint incident, thirty minutes after I'd left to head over to visit a friend, she apparently decided to try to change her own poopy pull-up and covered the bathroom in shit.  I missed that completely, thank goodness.  Poor Jimi.

But yeah, 2 days before 3. She's sunshine and rainbows and silver linings - she wakes up happy every single morning; she's quick to tell me she loves me and that I'm her favorite and that I'm beautiful; when she gets in trouble she says "I'm so sorry, Mommy.  I'm so so sorry." But she's also into everything, like a little tornado.  She bounces from one thing to the next without a break in between.  I'm regularly surprised to find myself cleaning one mess while she makes another mess, again, for the 4th time, and we've only been home for an hour.  I should stop being surprised, probably, but how realistic is that?  I'm still ever the optimist, thinking all day at work about how much I miss my precious little angels and how they are going to be so sweet and loving and well behaved once I pick them up from daycare and we head home to a fabulous evening of family dinner, a game or two, maybe a walk around the block, then bath, story, bed...and then I actually pick them up and one of them is in a shitty mood and the other just wants to play but it's at the absolute most inopportune time because we're in a parking lot and there are cars and also other parents but I don't give much of a fuck about what they think but I do still care a little because i'm not going to yell "get the fuck over here right now!" the way I'd really like to do.  And then the pouty one pouts her way into her carseat as I wrestle the playful-turned-screaming-banshee one into hers and by the time I'm buckling myself into my seat I'm angry and my heart is racing and what the fuck I looked forward to THIS all day?!

But I am still an optimist, because some nights are nights like tonight, when Geneva had a good report from her teacher and was giddy with the praise, and Cora ran into my arms and hugged me and said "I missed you so much!"  We laughed our way to the car, the three of us, and got buckled without any breakdowns. Cora is newly forward-facing, so she can talk and interact in a brand new way.  We talked and sang the new Taylor Swift song on the drive home, then we danced to Katy Perry and Psy in the dining room until it was dinnertime, when we changed the playlist to The Avett Brothers.  Dinner was delicious, and so was the piece of Halloween candy they each got to choose from their stashes after dinner. 

They wanted to paint, so we made it happen.  Cora had a shower, then we played Baby Store.  We can't watch the store being built, aka them getting naked down to their underwear/pull-up (presumably because new babies are naked under their blankets?)  and into their blankets, so if we don't hear them the first time they call us to come shopping, or if we don't come to the store quickly enough, Geneva - who up to this point has given instructions to us in her lilting sweet voice "Pretend you wanted two little girls who were perfect for you but you had to go to the baby store to buy them and me and cora were the babies you buyed" - will break character and scream out in her angry voice "Mom!! You have to come buy us!"  When we go into the store (usually the living room), they'll be laying on the floor or on the couch in pretend baby beds, wrapped in bedsheets or quilts that have probably been found in the basket of clean blankets and sheets I've just carried up from the laundry room, where said blankets and sheets were just as likely to have been washed because they'd been drug across the floor by these two versus having actually been used as bedding on a bed.  They'll be goo-ing and ga-ing and making little baby-like noises, and my job as the mom is to walk up to each one of them, fawn over how precious they are, and then ask them if they want to come home with me and be my new baby girl.  They always say yes, and I never have to actually pay anyone - I just pick them up and carry them to whatever part of the house Geneva has designated our pretend home, and then we either play kitchen or start all over.  Sometimes Cora is already my baby and she and I go to the store together to buy her a sister.  Tonight the game was Jimi didn't want any babies, but said I could have some if I wanted them. I went to the store, picked out each baby individually, then carried her to her daddy, who cooed and gooed over each girl in turn. 

They were both thrilled with their game of make-believe, and didn't argue a bit when I announced bedtime/story time.  We read a PeppaPig story about George and his dinosaur balloon.  I held Cora a moment and snuggled her, but she wanted down - and promptly climbed over the rail and into her crib, where she covered herself up and said, "Goodnight, Mommy, I love you."  Jimi came in to pat her as he sang to us all. Geneva was mad when I said I was going to sit with her rather than lie down in her bed - I've slept in there a lot the last few nights at her request and my back is a wreck because of it.  She pouted, but I held her until she was over it and she let me tuck her back in without argument.  She told me she loved me, I fluffed her blanket three times, and the night, that part of my night, the awake electric bright white part of my evening, was over.

And here I sit with the dregs of hot tea turned cold, surprised at how long it took to tell you those things and at how good it felt.  At how good it feels.  These are the days I want to remember.  These are the stories I want to tell. 

Also:  Last night, Cora fell asleep early, so we sat at the table and ate dinner as a family of three.  We were probably 2 hours in to our television moratorium.  Geneva loved the mashed potatoes and asked for seconds.  She loved her family.  She was so happy to be eating dinner as a family.  She liked the green beans a little.  (These are all things she told us, verbatim.)  She and I played Go Fish after dinner until bedtime - we tied once and I won once.  She didn't even pout - she kept proclaiming how much fun she was having.  There's seriously something to this no TV thing.  I think our Netflix is suddenly broken...

We all have those days

I'm in a weird place in my head these days. I feel anxious, unsettled.  Like I should be doing something else, career-wise.

I'm so tempted to delete that, because I'm not sure how much time i want to spend fleshing out those thoughts, but it's been on my mind for a long time now - most of last year, and again since I've returned from maternity leave. I have a pretty good thing going where i am now - my situation is pretty ideal and sweet, to be honest.  I can wear what i want, including jeans and tennis shoes.  I can take my dog to work (not every day, but most days lately).  When my kids are sick or my sitter has a migraine, i can bring the girls to work with me (because they'd rather have me and my girls than no me).  I'm paid a good salary; a damn fine salary, even, if you consider that i have only a high school education.  

Here's the thing, though:  I don't give a fuck about drums.  I don't care.  I just don't care. My efforts feel so pointless and stupid and small.   My company is owned by a private equity firm.  The work I do, ultimately, goes toward making rich people richer.  Maybe I'm helping put a Keurig on the counter of some bigwig's 3rd vacation home.  What the fuck?  Why?  What's the point?  I mean, beyond the fact that I have to work to make sure our mortgage is paid and we can go to the doctor when we're sick, of course.  I know why i have to work.  I think that I'm not happy with the sort of work I'm doing, for the sort of company I'm doing it for.  Not that there's anything inherently wrong with my company, But it feels unimportant.  I need to do something more; something that gives back and helps people and makes the world a happier place. 

If only i could figure out what that should be.  

Ideally?  I'd be at home every day, raising my daughters.  We'd go to the zoo and the science center and to toddler story hour at the library.  There would be tumbling classes and music classes and play groups.  My house would be clean and organized and my yard would be planted with beautiful flowers and we'd eat healthy meals each night sitting around the table and telling stories about our days in 3 languages we all spoke fluently....

I've wondered:  Is this how a midlife crisis starts? Because that scenario I just laid out there?  i know, rationally, that that shit wouldn't happen, even if I wasn't working and Jimi wasn't working and we had a full time nanny.  Let's just be honest.  But the longing I have to spend my waking hours doing something productive - actually productive, not just shuffling papers to make imaginary money for some imaginary executive - is so strong I almost turned my car around one day last week when I was heading back to the office after lunch.  I was going to turn around and pick up the girls and take them to the park.  I could almost feel the rush of fear and adrenaline when I called Jimi to tell him I was quitting my job, but that we'd figure it all out.  I didn't turn around, of course.  I went back to my desk like a good little girl and shuffled my papers and stomped down the ache in my heart when I thought of Cora's smile and Geneva's hug.  

I just re-read that paragraph.  I said I want to do something productive, and then said I almost quit my job to take the girls to the park.  Are my priorities totally fucked up?  Making Money < Taking Children To The Park.  Growing young minds?  Shaping the way my girls will approach the world?  Way more productive than customer service at the drum plant, I assure you.  I've been given this amazing task and responsibility, and it's supposed to be my number one priority, but it can't be my full time job because it literally does not pay the bills.  It breaks my heart.

No one's going to pay me to stay home and raise babies, so my next logical solution was to win the lottery.  I only matched two numbers on a $10 quick pick.  Of all the fucking luck. Then I decided I'm either going to have to start my own business (but who has money, or time, or ideas, or the balls to do something like that?), have a post go viral and land a book deal (3 posts in 7 months, that shit's gonna happen any moment), or start looking for a job in a more charitable organization.  

I think I need to be helping people in some way, and making small talk over the sound of the credit card machine processing their purchase just isn't cutting it.  But gosh, the idea of leaving a job where I've been so comfortable for so long - it's terrifying.  Starting something new?  Something unknown?  What if I fail?  Sometimes I think I'm so afraid of failing that I'm afraid to even try.  One of my first thoughts: No charity will pay me what I'm making when I don't have a college degree or any experience.  It's probably the truth, but I haven't looked yet.  The likelihood that it is true may be scary enough to keep me from looking at all.  If I look, and find something I'm qualified for that will pay me enough - what if I sent them my resume and they didn't even call?  I'm only just starting to realize that these crazy "what if" things I make up in my head are all coming from a place of fear and anxiety and I don't know when I started being so fucking afraid.  I don't want to be afraid.  I don't want to teach my girls to be afraid.  

My girls.  I want to tell them they can be anything they want, and I want them to chase their dreams.  How can I show them how to follow their passions if I don't follow mine?  Then again, maybe I should keep my passions on hold until after 6 and on weekends - and keep my ass in my desk chair from 8-5 bringing in that steady cash every week.  

See?  The crazy, it is strong.  Jimi says, "You want all of these impossible things.  You don't even waste your time with something realistic - you go right for the stuff that can't happen."  You gotta dream big, baby.  You don't get anything if you don't ask for it.  May as well ask for the impossible, right?  Maybe you'll get something awesome in return.  

I'm going to get up and go to work tomorrow.  I'll keep my eye out for some awesome, though.  Just in case.

41.5 - Happy Birthday Geneva!

Our beautiful daughter, Geneva Aibhilin, was welcomed into the world on Monday March 4, 2013, at 11:34 p.m..  She weighed in at 7 pound 8.7 ounces, measured 20 inches long, and is absolutely the most beautiful thing I've ever laid eyes on. 

I was 41 weeks, 5 days, and had been at 3 cm, 60% effaced for the previous two weeks and was frustrated and facing a very-much-not-wanted induction on 3/5.  I was scared of pitocin - I was afraid it would make the contractions more than I could stand, and scared it would lead to an epidural or c-section.  Fortunately, Geneva decided to arrive on her own terms, and I felt my first contraction around 2:30 in the morning.  I remember thinking "that's probably what a contraction feels like" - I'd been wondering how I'd know, but what other women had told me held true - you can tell.  To me, it felt like a strong, though brief, menstrual cramp.  I made note of the time, and then went back to sleep.  I felt several more as the time passed, and when my husband got up for a restroom visit at 4:30, I mentioned to him how I'd been contracting for a couple hours.  That was all she wrote for our sleep for the night - I'd spoken the magic words, and they officially woke us up.  I started timing - we stayed in bed until around 6, and with the contractions around 7 minutes apart, I realized this was probably the real thing, so I got up and took a shower.  Jimi made us oatmeal for breakfast, and I made a pan of brownies for the nursing staff.  When my midwife's office opened at 8 a.m., I called and gave them the scoop - because I'm group b strep positive, they told me to head on to the hospital.  This was it! 

Check-in went quickly, and because I was so overdue already, I was put directly into a room - they reassured me that I wouldn't be leaving the hospital without my baby.  I was told to change into a hospital gown, was strapped to the monitors, and an IV for antibiotics was started.  In other words - things were starting off in exactly the way I hadn't wanted to labor.  I felt like a sick person, but I wasn't sick!  I was just in labor!    When the nurse checked me, I was still only at a 3 - I assured her I hadn't been making up the contractions.  She smiled at me and told me she knew, and not to worry because if things didn't speed up on their own, there were things that could be done to make things happen.  That was the closest anyone came to offering me medications, and it wasn't an explicit offer by any means. 

After my first round of antibiotics was complete, my midwife came in and unhooked the monitors and IV so I could change into my own clothes rather than the gown - I felt much more human and less sick wearing my black maternity dress.  When they checked me again and still there'd been no progress, they brought me a breast pump to use to try to stimulate more contractions, and boy did it work.  When we started, I was able to breathe easily through each wave, rocking on the birth ball or leaning over the side of the bed.  After one 15-minute session with the pump, I was needing to get down on all fours to rock myself through the waves.  I spent the next 3 to 4 hours pacing my room and and getting down on the floor or up into the bed onto my hands and knees each time a wave hit.  I did manage to lie down and nap briefly in that time, maybe for 30 minutes. 

My midwife came in after office hours and we discussed my options - did I want to be checked?  What were my options if I hadn't progressed?  She mentioned a balloon catheter, maybe more pumping...I decided I wanted to be checked - i needed to know if things were moving along.  She did, and they were - now I was between 5 and 6 cm.  Thank goodness!  I was so relieved to know things were happening, that the last few hours hadn't been for naught.  I continued my rocking for another hour or so, then asked to move to the tub.  Jimi ran me a warm bath, and I climbed in.  The water didn't offer the complete pain relief for which I'd been hoping, but it did make the waves more tolerable, more bearable. 

I'm not sure of the timeline that followed after - at one point, I felt what was almost a pop inside my belly, followed by a whoosh between my legs.  I was pretty sure that was my water breaking, but I was submerged in water, so I couldn't be sure.  Jimi was sitting on the edge of the tub, reminding me with each wave to breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, to "Relax" (a cue from Hypnobabies reminding me to let my body go limp).  At one point I asked him to sing to me; he sang "Sweet Baby James" and "Raspberry Beret".  He also called me "Momma Manatee" as I flopped from side to belly to side in the water - in another time and place I would've laughed, but in the moment I could only think incredulously, "He just called me a fucking manatee."  I was starting to get vocal, too,  Ooohing and Aaahing through each wave, remembering what I'd read, that relaxing the jaw and vocalizing can help with pain control.  I don't know if it made anything feel better, but it did make me feel better to let out some sign of what I was feeling.  The waves started at the middle of my belly and radiated out across my waist and around to my back, almost like a wide belt of strong menstrual cramps, but much deeper and more intense and stronger than anything I'd ever felt before.  I began to lose myself - I didn't have much interest or concern for anything outside of my body, I was just following the cues, doing what felt right and offered the most relief. 

This will have to be a Part 1 - there's so much more to tell, and my sleeping baby time is so short...

But here's a hint - the story ends with a beautiful little girl safely in my arms.  It's the most beautiful ending beginning. 

39.6 - The end is near...

Tomorrow.  February 20, 2013.  I've been anxiously awaiting this day since June 13, 2012 - since that second pink line appeared as an answer to years of hoping and dreaming and wishing and wanting. 

Baby Girl is going to be here any day.  Probably not tomorrow, but tomorrow feels like the finish line. 

I can't believe we're here.  I have a house full of baby things -  I'm sitting next to a box of a dozen new cloth diapers, with my hypnobabies book in front of me, my arm resting across my swollen belly that shifts and moves every few minutes - I still can't believe this is my life, my reality, that I'm going to be a mom any day now.  Some time within the next 2 weeks, Jimi and I will be parents to a real live baby that is going to sleep in the bassinet that's currently positioned next to our bed. 

I just can't believe this dream is coming true.  I'm so happy, I'm so excited, I'm so scared.

At my appointment yesterday, the nurse asked if I wanted to be checked.  I'd previously said I wasn't going to do that - I know it's no guarantee of anything - but when the option presented itself, I answered with a sheepish "Yeah, kinda".  I wanted to know if there's any progress, if my body is doing anything to get ready to get this baby out of me.  When the midwife announced I was 2.5 - 3 cm, I was over the moon with excitement - my cervix works!  It's doing what it's supposed to do!  Hurray! 

So of course now, I'm horribly impatient and I just want her to show up NOW.  I'm ready.  Well, as ready as I can be, having never done this before and having no real idea of what in the fuck I'm actually in for. 

I'm scared.  I'm afraid of the pain that I'll be in after I come home.  I'm afraid that something may go wrong with all my best-laid plans - for a natural birth, for breastfeeding, for not being a horrible mother.  I'm afraid of the lack of sleep, and the demands of a newborn.  I'm afraid there's something we've not done, that something will come up we're not prepared for.  I'm afraid my hormones will take over and change the person I am.  I'm afraid that I'll be mean to Jimi.  I'm afraid the stress of having a new baby will change US.  I'm afraid my daughter won't be perfect, that something will have been missed, that something will be wrong.  I'm afraid that feeling that last part makes me a horrible person.  I'm afraid of how I'll react if that fear became reality.  I'm afraid of something terrible happening, some freak horrible thing that hurts my daughter. 

I tell myself over and over that these fears are all normal, and nothing to actually worry about, because everything is going to be perfect and fine and nothing will go wrong and she IS perfect and every little thing is gonna be alright so I shouldn't worry about a thing.  It's all going to be wonderful. 

I think it'd be really neat if she was born tomorrow.  Right on time.  Very punctual. 

I just want her to be here.  I'm ready for her.  I'm ready to start the next stage in our journey as a family - a family of three.  Three is a magic number.

33.1 - My little pineapple

- Touch up paint in nursery
- Paint trim in nursery
- finish sanding dresser/changing table
- Paint dresser/changing table
- Paint drawer pulls for dresser/changing table
- Install ceiling light in nursery
- Clean carpet in nursery
- Order crib and crib mattress; assemble crib
- Make and hang curtains in nursery
- Make crib skirt
- Wash diapers and newborn clothes
- Complete birth plan
- Order breast pump
- Attend breastfeeding class
- Tour hospital
- Pack hospital bag
- Buy postpartum supplies (pads, etc.)
- Stock up on daily necessities (soap/TP/etc.)
- Make freezer meals

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I'm starting to freak the fuck out.  Less than seven weeks to go and that list is just the stuff I can remember at this moment that we need to do.  I nearly had a panic attack last night, lying in bed making that list in my head. 

Oh my goodness, there is so much to do.  SO MUCH.

 

Jimi reminds me that all she needs is a clean butt, a warm bed, and a full belly.  The rest is just details.  Of course, he's right.  But oh goodness, I want everything to be perfect and just right for her when she arrives.  I want to bring her into a home that's perfectly prepared and ready for her.  I want to feel calm and collected when I go to the hospital, not panicked and stressed. 

 

And then I worry, what if no one gets us anything from our registries?  What if we end up with none of the stuff we need for her, and we have to buy it all ourselves?  How will we afford all of it?  This is the problem with waiting until 6 weeks before your due date to have a baby shower, I suppose.  And then I feel like an entitled asshole for feeling like other people should buy us anything at all - of course no one has to buy us anything and it's shitty of me to expect them to.  But I think in the back of my mind I've just assumed that the people who know what babies need would hook us up, and that our sad lack of knowledge would be covered up by their generosity, because I'll be honest, I don't have a clue what babies need.  I've never done this before.  It's all new to me, and more than a little terrifying.  Who decided to let me be a mom?  I have no idea what I'm doing. 

 

We'll figure it all out, of course.  And Jimi's doing a good job talking me off my ledge, believe it or not.  I'm much calmer now than I was last night or this morning.  This is just the residual.

 

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Work has exploded in a bit of crazy, too, and that's not helping my stress.  Our administrative assistant is leaving in two weeks.  Did I mention my baby is due in seven weeks?  That means I've got next to no time to hire and train a replacement, in addition to training our salesman to take my place while I'm out.  Oh boy! 

 

 

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And our shower has been draining slow for the last few weeks, so I finally browbeat Jimi into fixing it tonight.  Now it doesn't drain at all.  It's 10:30 at night, and it needs to be taken apart completely so he can find the clog and get things moving.  Fuck.

 

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But baby girl is doing well.  She measures perfectly, her heart rate is in the 150s, her head is still down, and she moves all the time.  She's over 4 pounds now and 17 inches long.  I love her more every day, and despite the crazy surrounding her impending arrival, I'm so looking forward to meeting her. 

 





32.3 - Still in awe, and now also a little embarrassed

Less than 8 weeks before baby girl's estimated arrival date.  Wow.  Every milestone we've reached has been amazing to me, and now that we're in the home stretch, I'm no less awed or shocked by this miracle that is happening inside my body.  I can feel her little feet and knees, her little back and butt, just by touching my belly.  There's a baby inside me!  Eight months I've been growing her, and I still can't get over the fact that this is finally happening to me, to us, that we've made a whole new human. 

I'm just starting to daydream about how she'll look - I'm convinced she'll have red hair, but I wonder if it'll be curly like her daddy's or straight like mine?  We saw her profile on ultrasound at 18 weeks, and she's got the cutest little nose; I can't wait to kiss it.  I want to hold her little feet in my hands, and stroke her little arms and legs.  I want to rub her sweet little back and smell her head.  Just two months to go, and I'll get to hold her close and snuggle her all I want - it seems like a dream.

Maggie mailed baby shower invitations two days ago - the shower is two weeks from today.  Time is flying. 

The nursery will be painted this weekend.  Come hell or high water, the nursery will be painted this weekend.  There's no time left for procrastination.  None.  It has to happen, and it has to happen now.

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A few hours later, and Jimi's working on the nursery.  I've got dinner in the crock pot and I'm trying to get my arms around our laundry situation.  I'd love to have everything organized and sorted and folded and hung and put away before baby girl shows up.  I'd love to have our house in perfect order before she arrives.  Time to get on the ball, I guess. 

 

My hips hurt.  The yoga still really really helps, and I've been back on the almost-daily wagon in an effort to make the pain go away.  The fingers on my right hand have been numb for weeks and now there's never any change, they're just always numb.  I finally bought a wrist brace and it helps for a few hours, but it's not a solution for complete relief.  I guess I need to resign myself to the fact that this is the way it's going to be until she's born - but I think I'm going to check out an acupuncturist, just in case there is relief to be found.  My fingers on both hands are getting puffy - not that I've ever had slender fingers (I wear a size 8 ring), but I can feel and see the change and it annoys me.  The ridges on my ankles at the end of the day, left by the bands of my socks as my lower legs swell, those annoy me too. 

 

Want to hear a great story?  Baby girl is doing her best to slow my bodily processes down, and my normally-like-clockwork system hasn't been so regular these days.  The juice we've been making is supposed to help with that, but after two days of no results, I was beginning to doubt all the stories I'd heard.  Yesterday, though, Kim and Jordan had to leave the office for a couple hours, leaving me alone with our salesman to catch the phones and help customers.  Of course, juice kicked in.  After a brief "Can I hold it?" hesitation, I decided the answer was no, and told Jeff he'd have to fend for himself for a few minutes, but that I'd hurry back.  Everything went swimmingly...until I flushed.  Everything went down, except the water level - it just kept creeping higher and higher.  Shit.  This has never happened to me before; at least, never at work.  I grabbed the plunger and worked it a few times, and heard what I thought was the sound of clear pipes.  Thinking I'd fixed the problem, I flushed again, and that was my downfall - instead of going down, the water rose dangerously, and then, to my horror, spilled over the edge of the toilet.  I watched helplessly, urging it to stop flowing up and over, but it ignored my pleas and continued its journey to the floor.  By the time it stopped, half the bathroom floor was flooded, and all I could do was stare at it incredulously, cursing loudly in my head, wondering how in the fuck I was going to fix this problem without announcing to our salesman that I had just flooded the damned bathroom. 

 

I looked at the roll of paper towels and considered them for a moment before deciding this job was much bigger than some cheap roll of generic paper could handle.  I sighed, resigned myself to the inevitable, left the bathroom and walked the few feet to the closet where the industrial-sized mop and bucket live.  Fate was smiling on me, Jeff was on the phone.  I rolled the loud-ass bucket out of the closet, down the hall, and into the bathroom and began the tedious process of trying to sop up the toilet water covering the floor.  It took forever.  I stopped two or three times to come out and check on Jeff, even taking the time to show him how to set up a price matrix for a new customer, and then going back to my task.  I'm sure he was wondering what in the fuck was going on, or knew very well what in the fuck was going on, but he was too much of a gentleman to ask any questions, thank goodness.  To save myself some dignity, I left the bucket in the bathroom, planning to roll the loud contraption back to the closet later, when no one was around to hear it and ask questions about why it'd been in the bathroom.  When Kimmie and Jordan returned from their errand, Jeff was out of the office on an errand of his own, so I brought the girls up to speed on my tale - because now it was funny, and these are girls I consider friends, so I wasn't embarrassed to tell them what had happened.  They laughed at me good-naturedly, and we continued on with our day.  Why I didn't move the bucket to the closet then is beyond me - I guess I just didn't think about it. 

 

I'd planned to work only until noon, but status quo dictates that if I plan to leave at noon, I may get out by 2.  At 2:30, Kimmie said she couldn't wait for me to leave so she could tell my story to Jeff and our boss - I threatened her with bodily harm.  At 3, Jordan's day was ending, and she made a trip to the potty before heading out - when she was finished, she rolled the bucket out of the bathroom and down the hall to it's closet home.  My boss was at his desk at the end of the hall - "What's that doing in there?"  He wasn't in the best of moods - it was year-end inventory and nothing was going his way.  "Natalie had it in there," was Jordan's non-committal reply.  "Why?"  He wasn't going to let it go!  Kimmie came out of her office, laughing her ass off, "I was going to wait until she left before I told you the story!"  Fuck.  Some friend she is.  I tucked my tail, went to the end of the hall, and told my tale to my boss, expecting a hearty laugh.  He wasn't nearly as amused as Kim and Jordan - I didn't even get a smirk!  I blame inventory. 

 

So yeah.  There you have it.  Proof that pregnancy eliminates all pride. 

Happily Ever After...

I have a new last name.  I'm still getting used to it - Jimi asked me if I'd been practicing my new signature, and surprisingly, no, I haven't.  I was just as shocked as you are.  Sure, I've scrawled my new name on a notebook cover or two in the last few years, but leading up to the actual gettin'-married day, I didn't.  Not even once.  I haven't had a chance to sign it yet, or been called "Mrs. Fowler" by anyone other than teasing family/friends.  It'll hit me eventually. 

I've been waiting for days now to feel different, to feel some shift in this dynamic between myself and my new husband.  (I do love using that word.)  It's all the same.  Everything feels just as it did this time last week.  I guess that's how it goes when you "date" your intended for nearly 6 years.  We've spent years building this love, this safe place for our hearts - of course a legal document won't change that.   

I love watching Jimi play with his wedding band.  I catch him twisting it on his finger, or just looking at it and smiling.  He's never worn a ring - I'm glad that mine is the one that finally found a home on his hand. 

Vacation/Honeymoon was fantabulous and wonderful and peaceful and centering and gave us a chance to focus on each other without the distractions of the rest of the world.  (I get lost in the internet, he gets lost in the television - it was nice to spend a week mostly without those time-suckers.)

I've got every intention of writing a more-detailed post about our trip...for now I just wanted to record my happy.  I love that man with every fiber of my being, and becoming his wife has made me the happiest girl in the whole wide world.  How fucking lucky am I?!

12 - Limey!

8 weeks ago today, the focal point of my world shifted.  Against all odds, a second line appeared and told us that our lives were about to change.  I went to my calendar that evening, and counted out the days - "August 8th, Jimi, that's when we can start to breathe."  12 weeks. Of course, I didn't realize yet that they don't actually consider your first trimester over and the second begun until week 13, but still - it's a milestone I set in my mind, and so it must be acknowledged now that it's arrived.  "If I can just get to twelve weeks," I told myself regularly thereafter, "I'll feel much better and know that everything's going to be okay." 

I'm here!  12 weeks today, and Baby Trogdor is over two inches long, or about the size of a lime, according to Baby Center.  Did you hear that woosh of air this morning, about 7 a.m.?  I was waking up and realizing the day, the date, and that was my huge sigh of relief.

Of course I know there are still threats and troubles we could face.  There are no guarantees here.  I'm going to pretend, though, okay?  I'm going to just go with the assumption that everything is perfect and life is awesome and this little miracle is the awesomest part ever.  I spent the first month or so convinced this was temporary, so let me enjoy the flip side, please.

I've been sick, like morning-throw-up sick, for the past two days.  It almost caught me last night too, but I was able to thwart it with cake and red raspberry leaf tea.  Mmm, cake. 

I'm hungry all the time, but my appetite really seems to take off right when I'm home from work.  The letting-go of the workday stresses seems to signal game-on to my belly.  In fact, I asked Jimi to start dinner like thirty minutes ago and he's still sitting here...

Okay, now he's on his way to the kitchen, like the good man he is.  ;)  (Sometimes I'm glad he doesn't read my blog.) 

I feel good.  I'm so fucking happy.  I can't imagine life getting any better, but it will.  It's going to get better, and that woosh right there was the sound of my mind being blown. 

11.3 - God loves Figs

Eleven weeks, three days.  I'm feeling settled and confident. 

The last week's been sort of emotional.  There was a huge brewhaha over some chicken and civil rights, and people came out in droves to declare their support for either side.  I was heartbroken to see the numbers that represented the other side, the dark side, the people whose opinions are wrong.  I don't say that to start a fight - I say it because that's how I see it and this is my blog and I can say what I want.  If you don't believe in equal civil rights for all Americans, you're wrong.  It's really that simple, in my world.  Anyhow, I spent a good part of the week trying to avoid reading too much about the controversy that shouldn't be, because it makes me so fucking sad to consider how many people still want to limit the rights of others.  Life just shouldn't be so damned unfair. 

There was happy this week too, though, and plenty of it.  Jimi's reading his "Daddy Books", and is monitoring my diet even more closely, making sure that I'm eating the right foods and getting plenty of the good stuff.  Maggie made me cry yesterday when she told me she'd like to throw a baby shower for me - it's the first time anyone's mentioned it, and it feels surreal that there would be a party organized to give me baby stuff.  Crazy!  I can't wait.  I bought a cross-stitch kit today, so I can make a little something to hang in the baby's room. 

My pants are getting tight.  My belly pooch is much more noticeable (to me, at least), and is firmer now, rather than squishy.  I look like I never went to boot camp, and then maybe ate some ice cream to celebrate.  I'm still 2 pounds lighter than I was 7 weeks, though, despite my much-increased appetite.  I'm proud of myself for getting so far into the first trimester without gaining weight - and I'm probably patting myself on the back way too early. 

My dreams are crazy and cool and weird and awesome, and I really should start recording them.  I always heard you dream more during pregnancy, and I'm so glad I get to experience that part.  I love dreaming, I love watching/participating in the stories my unconscious mind creates. 

Pregnancy is a-okay in my book so far.  I feel mostly normal, just with bigger/sorer boobs and an ability to better-metabolize all the food.  I do feel a little sick to my stomach most nights, especially after eating.  It's like I can't decide if I'm hungry again, or if I shouldn't have eaten in the first place. 

Work was hard this week, as usual, but it was much more tolerable and pleasant than it has been in months.  I blame my readjusted attitude, and I'm thankful for it.  I didn't need the extra stress my frustration was creating, and I don't like living that way.  I like my life happy-go-lucky, thank you very much, and I prefer to keep it that way.  I'm incredibly grateful for my fortunate circumstances, and I'm reminding myself of that regularly. 

I've decided against the NT scan.  I don't want the extra stress.  I'm operating under the assumption that everything is going to be just fine, and God help me if I'm making the wrong choice.  I'm going to think this baby here, healthy and whole, with my good vibes and positive attitude.  If it's meant to be it will be.  I feel like this is meant to be. 

I think it's a boy.  Everyone says girl, I feel boy.  Time will tell.  We'll love either with equal fervor. 

I keep meaning to start a letter to this little one.  I started to type "I don't know why i haven't yet...", but I do know.  I think I'm nearly past that, though.  Almost. 

I can't believe that we made a whole another person.  I can't believe my body is doing this.  What a miraculous thing. 

Puppies and skittles and unicorns and glitter.

Life feels like sunshine and kittens right now. 


Jimi is everything I could have ever dreamed up, but so much better than what my limited imagination could've come up with.  He asked me a few days ago to find him a few dad-to-be books, and when I placed the order tonight and told him they'll be here Wednesday, he exclaimed, "Daddy books?!  Yay!" with genuine glee in his voice.  He's pampering me in just the right ways, and forgiving with extra swiftness my crazy mood shifts.  He laughs at my cravings as he goes along with my every meal suggestion.  He tells me even more than usual how much he loves me, and how special I am in his heart.  I feel so fucking safe.  I feel so incredibly loved. 

Daily, a moment will flick a switch in my mind, and I'm instantly reminded of how amazingly fortunate I am to be right here, at this exact place in time, with this exact set of circumstances.  I don't know why I get to be the recipient of all of this, why I am wallowing in plenty when so many struggle just to have enough. 

My life is a dream I couldn't have dreamed better if I'd dreamed it myself.  If I'm sleeping, never wake me. 

I had another baby dream Friday night.  A fussy little boy wrapped up in yellow and bright blue, trying to suckle at my breast, being passed from my Mom to my Aunts and back around again.  I still didn't get a good look at his face, but I could tell he was way cute. 

Momma brought us our first baby gift today - a book to record milestones, from pregnancy through 5 years.  "You probably won't fill it out, but maybe you will," she said as she handed it to me.  (Neither Brother nor I has a baby book from our formative years - she started one for each of us, but didn't get far.)  I'm going to make an effort.  We'll see how far I get.

I did not mean to stay up this late.  Time for sleeps.  Sweet dreams!

10.3 - What's a kumquat? (and other blah blah blah)

"Did you poop?"  "Yep!"  "Oh, good!"
These are the conversations pregnancy brings to our lives.  I've heard that modesty goes out the window, I just didn't realize it would begin so soon.

We're 10 weeks and 3 days along, and life is good.  I told some of my extended family on Tuesday, after Grandma's funeral.  My Aunt Cill passed my cell phone ultrasound photo around to anyone she could get to stand still - she was so in awe of our little gummy bear.  Jimi broke the news on Facebook Wednesday, and we were overwhelmed by all the love and well-wishes that poured in.  People love babies, I guess.  And us too, it would appear. 

I have some nausea in the mornings, usually right after I get out of the shower, and again in the evenings starting around 8 p.m.  It's not bad at all, though - more of a discomfort, maybe the way you feel an hour after a meal where you probably should've stopped before dessert but didn't.  I can't believe I'm so lucky - I figured I'd for sure be puking my guts out for the first three months.

*****************

I wrote that yesterday before work.  I don't feel like starting a new post, so I'm just adding on.

I got a raise yesterday.  The one I asked for 5 months ago.  I asked for 50%, then 25% - I got 12%.  I decided on my way home last night, and again this morning, that this means I need to spend the weekend readjusting my attitude toward my job.  I'm damn lucky to be where I am.  I have a job, that pays me a good wage, where I have a very promising future ahead of me.  I've more than doubled my salary in five years.  Holy fuckballs, I've fucking doubled my salary in five years, during which time the country has suffered one financial crisis after another and unemployment has almost hit 10%, and I, without a college education, have doubled my salary in five years.  Yeah.  I need to get my head in the right place and be glad to have what I've got and not take the work so damn personally.  

After breakfast today, we pulled up the carpet in the living room, pulled tacks out of the hardwood underneath, vacuumed a million times, washed it down with Murphy's Oil Soap - and now we have a hardwood floor in our living room.  YAY!  This is the first of many pre-baby projects we've got planned - all of which need to happen sooner rather than later.  I'm very much encouraged by our success today - i was terrified of this project being more than we'd planned for.  I was afraid I'd have an unusable living room for weeks and weeks.  It's not perfect, but it's perfectly livable, and now I'm really looking forward to tackling the carpet-pulling in other rooms, along with the painting that's scheduled to follow.  And the decorating, of course.  I'm shopping for a rug and a couch - watch out world when i start shopping for the nursery.  Oh, I just can't wait!  

I'm tired and I wish we had some ice cream.    

 

They say this happiness is just the beginning...

Oh my goodness.  That was breath-taking. 

There's a heartbeat!  and little legs and little arms and a funny-looking head and a heart that beats and beats and beats!  One hundred and sixty-seven times a minute, that little heart was beating!  Baby Trogdor (that's what we're calling him for now, Trogdor the Burninator - don't ask why because i don't know the answer, it's just what we've claimed for four years that we're naming our first born) is measuring exactly on target, at 9 weeks and 1 day, with a due date of February 20, 2013.  

I'm so overwhelmed.  I'm so full of love and happy that I feel like I'm going to explode.  I can't stop tearing up.  I'm so relieved.

I took the day off work, but Bossman changed the game plan last night and asked me to come in for 2 hours, because he and our Ops manager were going to be offsite - he gets nervous about leaving the place "unattended".  So I worked for two hours this morning, which was probably a blessing in disguise, because I was an absolute nervous wreck, and can't imagine the shape I would've worked myself into had I not had other things to focus on.  (I didn't sleep well at all last night, and was so nervous this morning that my stomach and chest were both hurting.)  Ten o'clock finally came, and off to the doctor I headed.  I had just enough time to get to the office and be maybe 10 minutes early for my appointment - so of course I drove past my exit.  And of course, because I was panicked about missing my exit, I chose to take the next one, which was another highway, which meant I had to drive an extra 2 miles before I came to the first exit where I could turn around - and of course that exit was one of the busiest in the city, so of course it took all of my wiggle-room time to get turned around and back on target.  But I got to the hospital, and I got into the parking garage, and the little old lady in front of me, of course, came to a complete stop at every turn in the garage.  And of course, she also took the last available spot in the entire garage.  So I made my own parking place, on the roof, in front of two other people who'd had the same desperate idea.  I was pissed off and fuming and frankly didn't give a flying fuck if they towed my car - I had to get into that office for my appointment!

I was right on time.  Well, if on time means walking into the lobby at the time my appointment was scheduled.  Close enough, right?

Jimi was already there, and we didn't have to wait long before they called us back.  Thank goodness, they did the ultrasound first - she explained, "I'm going to take some measurements and then I'll turn the screen so you can see, but first I'll tell you what you're waiting to know - there's only one baby in there and it has a strong heartbeat."  Whooosh! - There went all my pent up fears and worry and nervousness I've been harboring for the last 5 weeks.  Those few words took the scared away.  And then she turned the screen, and I saw my baby wiggle.  She hit a button, and suddenly the room was filled with the sound of my baby's heartbeat, and then came the tears.  I gasped - I'd been imagining this moment for weeks, when I'd let my mind go down that path - but it was really happening.  I'm growing a whole another person, and he has a heartbeat! 

The rest of the almost-3-hour visit is a blur of questions and congratulations and tests and blood draws.  My doctor has prescribed progesterone suppositories and a daily baby aspirin for the next four weeks to further reduce any risk of miscarriage.  I would've submitted to anything, I already had all the information I came to get.  I was walking on air, and they could've forgotten me in the lobby between call-backs and I wouldn't have cared because I'm growing a baby and he has a heartbeat. 

They gave us three ultrasound photos to take home - I texted one to family and a few friends and my phone proceeded to blow up.  My Daddy - I think maybe he's more excited than Jimi and I are.  When Momma learned she was pregnant with Brother, I remember listening to Daddy call everyone in our phone book to share the news.  He did a repeat of that today, I think.  He loves babies, and he's so excited for his first grandbaby to finally be on the way. 

I guess I can start to think of this all as being really real, huh?  I guess now I can start to get excited? 

This is one of the happiest days of my life.  It feels surreal.  I'm so fucking happy, I could just pee. 

Wanna see a picture?  Baby Trogdor's first close-up:

Ain't that just the cutest little baby-to-be you ever did see?

Gosh, my heart is just so full. 

Just another record of my crazy.

**Disclaimer:  This shit is TOP SECRET, yo.  Well, as Top Secret as it can be when it's posted on the internet.  I can't not blog about this life-changer, but if you know me in real life, please don't share the news - I can't bear to have to make those phone calls or announcements again if things don't end well.

I started this post yesterday morning, then got side-tracked by shiny things and didn't finish it.  But what I was trying to say, it's sort of a big part of where my head is right now, so even if it's a day late, here ya go:

I should be doing laundry, but we've got all day for that, right?  It's Sunday, there's plenty of time for chores later.

We're in the middle of a record-setting heat-wave here in Kentucky.  We've passed hot and reached "Just don't go outside" temperatures.  I took Finn for a walk in the park this morning at 8, early enough to beat the heat, I thought, but I still found myself sweaty and tired by the time we reached our half-way mark.  Of course, I'm extra sweaty these days anyhow, and I'm always tired it seems, so maybe that had more to do with me than the weather.  Either way, I think now I'm in for the day.  I'm not a fan of hot.

I don't want to talk to anyone or see anyone or do anything.  I want to sit in my house and be safe until I know that everything's going to be okay, and then maybe I'll come out to play.  I sat in the living room Tuesday night and talked baby talk all night long...and the next morning, our friend went for a checkup and they couldn't find her baby's heartbeat.  I'm so fucking sad for her, for them.  And not that it has anything to do with me, cause I know it doesn't, but I can't help but go right back to that place where she is now, and it reminds me of how fragile and unguaranteed this whole deal is.  I've made it further than last time, but she was even further than me, and look.  See?  Anything can happen.  You just never know.  And every time I say the words out loud, or talk about the future, I'm that much more emotionally invested, and I'm just so scared to be too emotionally invested right now.

I want to say that this feels different, that it feels right.  I imagine, though, that every expectant mother feels that way.  I don't think anyone says, "Oh, this one probably isn't going to work out.  It just feels like it's probably going to end."  I think every miscarriage is a surprise of the worst sort, so I can't even follow my instinctual feeling of "every little thing, gonna be alright". 

6, or My Little Lentil

**Disclaimer:  This shit is TOP SECRET, yo.  Well, as Top Secret as it can be when it's posted on the internet.  I can't not blog about this life-changer, but if you know me in real life, please don't share the news - I can't bear to have to make those phone calls or announcements again if things don't end well.

Hey there good buddies.  I wanted to write this, or something like it, yesterday, but yesterday was kind of a bad day.  I worked 10.5 hours and then sobbed the whole way home, then got home and sobbed for the next hour.  It's possible I'm a little over-emotional, but it's just as likely that my job is a soul-sucking whore that's trying to break my spirit.  Maybe a little of both? 

I made it to six weeks, folks!  Can I get an "atta girl"?  Yesterday was a line of demarcation I'd set in my head - will I make it that far? - and next week will be even bigger.  Fingers crossed we get there. 

We had dinner Tuesday with also-newly-pregnant friends, and talking pregnancy talk live and in person with another first timer was surreal and wonderful and made my heart so happy.  Comparing symptoms, joys, fears - the same stuff all the women do on Baby Center, but this felt real, if that makes any sense.  It's one thing to type it all out and commiserate with strangers, but to say actual out-loud words...it brought this thing to a whole new level of reality. I've been reticent to talk too much about it with anyone, because of my fear of it ending, but Tuesday gave me new hope and encouragement. 

The sore boobs come and go, and I much prefer it when they're around because then I don't worry so much that something may be wrong.  I haven't had any more episodes of nausea since the one last Friday.  I still have some occasional cramps, but they're becoming more infrequent.  My appetite is good.  I love sleep and had to take a nap after work on Monday just to get through the evening - sometimes the tired comes over me and it feels like a weighted blanket.  The mood swings, though - I'm over them.  I've broken down at work a dozen times in the last two weeks, and while I'm naturally a crier, this is a new level of distraught that renders me incapable of holding back the tears.  I've fantasized in the heat of the moment about walking out of my job and never going back...the thing that makes me think crazy thoughts like that, though, is the same reason I can't act on them.  I'm going to have to work harder to find a way to keep my emotions in check. 

During after-dinner conversation with our guests Tuesday night, Jimi broke my heart a little.  Lisa asked him, "So, now that you've got a baby on the way, are you guys going to be making with the marrying?"  He told her yes as I was saying "we haven't even talked about it yet" - we hadn't talked about it.  Last time, the day I took the test he said, "Natalie, I will marry you", but then the baby wasn't and we never did.  It became pretty fucking important to me about a year ago, to the point where I went into a pretty dark place this past winter when no proposal came.  I've said my piece on the matter, though, made my feelings known, and let it go, figuring it'll happen eventually, hopefully.  A few weeks back, I asked Jimi what he sees in his mind, immediately, when someone says the word "marriage".  "Failure" was his response.  Okay.  If that's a word he connects with marriage, no wonder he's not in any hurry to do it.  Tuesday, though, he told Lisa that he'd been afraid to marry me, because he knows I want children, and he was afraid that maybe he couldn't give them to me.  Maybe he wasn't physically able to make a baby with me.  His biggest fear is that we'll marry and not have babies and one day I'll come to him and tell him I have to divorce him because I need to have children.  This is why you should talk about your feelings, people, so that your SO doesn't find out about your deepest darkest most heartbreaking fears while in a social setting where it's inappropriate to cry and delve into an in-depth discussion. 

Obviously, there's more to that story, but that's going to have to be for another time.  I have to go take a nap now. 

Happy Thursday!

My new favorite topic of conversation...

**Disclaimer:  This shit is TOP SECRET, yo.  Well, as Top Secret as it can be when it's posted on the internet.  I can't not blog about this life-changer, but if you know me in real life, please don't share the news - I can't bear to have to make those phone calls or announcements again if things don't end well.   

Being sick is never fun, but being sick while knocked up is a special form of suck.  I usually take respiratory illness in stride, throwing at it various remedies like extra Vitamin C tablets, nasal spray, over-the-counter cold and flu pills, hot toddies.  I'm trying so fucking hard to not have a miscarriage, though, my only defense against this nastiness that came on Thursday night has been water, orange juice, hot steamy showers (I had to debate with myself over that one for a while), a Neti Pot, and Vick's Vapor Rub.  Oh, and I've taken a total of two Tylenol to combat my low-grade fever.  Friday night's sleep attempt was a joke, and yesterday was the worst, I hope - one nostril completely blocked all day, the other one working at about 70%, zero sense of taste or smell, which of course I didn't realize until AFTER I ordered half the menu at the BBQ joint.  My left ear started hurting yesterday evening, but that seems to have cleared up, and today I only have left a little congestion and the occasional body-rattling cough.  (The cough just showed up late last night, I hope it's not planning to stay long.  Have I mentioned how glad I am that I quit smoking a week and a half ago?)  I'm really hopeful that if I spend the day resting and being good to myself, my rockstar immune system will finally lick this bullshit and I can get on with my makin'-a-baby bad self.  (I have some of my sense of taste back this morning - yay!  Do you know how confusing it is to be hungry and have a house full of great food and not want to eat any of it because what's the point of eating stuff you love if you can't taste it?  Jimi made some pork/rice/bean thing for dinner last night, and I have a feeling I wouldn't have liked it if I could've tasted it, but I couldn't, so I ate the shit out of it.  Winning.) 

Thursday evening, my breasts weren't as sore as they'd been, and in my over-reacting head, of course that meant that the baby was gone and I was going to start miscarrying any second.  Friday morning, I drank my raspberry leaf tea on my way to work...and within three minutes of walking into the office, I was bolting for the bathroom to throw it all up.  That wasn't sinus-infection-induced, and it certainly wasn't thanks to all the booze I'd downed the night before.  Thanks for the reminder that you're still around, kid - 'preciate ya.  And maybe you don't care, but in case you do, my boobs are back to being way sore again.  Symptoms come and go, ebb and flow, just like everything else in life.  I really need to chill the fuck out and just take things as they come.  I certainly don't need to make up any extra drama in my head. 

We've had so many beans for dinner in the last two weeks, it's amazing our house hasn't floated away with all the extra gas.  Beans are so damn good, though.  And cheap!  And nutritious!  And easy!  They're like the perfect food, and I guess I'm just going to have to get used to my house smelling like this.  (I'm kidding.  My house doesn't smell funny.  No more than normal.  I don't have the pregnancy gas thing yet that everyone keeps telling me is coming.  Lucky for Jimi.  I can't wait 'til HE is the one awakened in the middle of the night by the smell of death and sulfur - payback's a bitch.) 

I was supposed to go today with Melinda and Ruth to King's Island - an awesome amusement park in Cincinnati, OH.  I've not been since a few weeks after high school graduation, and Melinda and I have talked about taking a day-trip up there for probably 3 years.  We finally planned it...and I went and got myself knocked up.  I probably still could've gone...I mean, I'm only 5 weeks...but I wasn't willing to risk it.  I can wait until next summer for roller coasters.  (Yeah, right.  Like I'll leave a new baby next summer to go ride roller coasters.  Maybe in a couple of summers?) 

Another plan that's been changed, maybe - we were planning a vacation with my parents in late summer/early fall to Washington, D.C.  My Daddy's never been, and it's real important to me that he gets out there to see the sites - he'll love it so much!  Now, though, I'm wondering if it'd be wise to take a vacation and spend the time and money when we've got a baby coming.  You know what, though?  I can't wait until the end of February 2013 to take a vacation.  I'm ready for some time off right fucking now, and I'll end up going crazy if I have to wait 8 more months to get a break.  Besides, I should have somewhere between 3 and 4 weeks of vacation left in February, even if I take a week off in the fall, and I've got short-term disability that will partially cover the weeks that aren't fully paid...fuck it.  It'll all work out. 

All I have to talk about is pregnancy-related.  I can't help it.  It's sort of the biggest thing that's ever happened to me, and it's more than a little all-encompassing.  Jimi tries to have a normal conversation with me, and somehow my brain always steers back to "OMG CAN YOU BELIEVE WE'RE GOING TO HAVE A BABY?!"  And it's still so early, and I'm still so scared, and I want to just KNOW that everything is going to be okay so I can get excited already without feeling like the rug will be pulled from under me at any moment. 

So yeah.  Not a mommy blog, but this is the total beginning stages. 

I don't think I've ever been more scared.

**Disclaimer:  This shit is TOP SECRET, yo.  Well, as Top Secret as it can be when it's posted on the internet.  I can't not blog about this life-changer, but if you know me in real life, please don't share the news.  I can't bear to have to make those phone calls or announcements again if things don't end well. 

I always thought it would be cool, on Father's Day, to present a father-to-be with a wrapped box containing a SURPRISE! positive pregnancy test.  How is it that I forgot completely that Father's Day is this weekend? Of course, giving Jimi a Father's Day gift at all would've garnered a "WTF?" look - we're pretty sensitive around these parts about days made specifically for parents; his are gone, and well, we don't own those titles.  Yet.  So my cool plan, that I've thought for decades would be cool, has been completely blown.  The fact that I was even in a position where I could've made it happen seems wild to me - that I forgot is completely typical.

He's started looking at strollers and carriers and child care options.  So much for not getting ahead of ourselves.

My brain is here:  A lot of women have miscarriages.  I know several who miscarried their first pregnancy and then went on to have a couple of happy healthy babies.  Statistics say that most likely, this pregnancy will result in a real live baby of our very own.  Because the statistics say that, I want to feel comforted and relaxed.  Because the statistics say that, and because I knew everything would be fine the first time, of course the statistics are probably wrong and I'll probably have another miscarriage so I shouldn't get too attached or excited about this pregnancy.  If I get my hopes up, I'm setting myself up for heartbreak.  If I just expect to see blood every time I go to the bathroom, I won't be as surprised or hurt when it actually happens. I've read those blogs written by all those women who have miscarriage after miscarriage - how could I be so naive as to think that wouldn't happen to me too?  I know these thoughts are foolish and probably not normal (whateverinthefuck normal is).  I'm scared to even try to find the right balance of hope vs. caution.  Logically, I know I'm probably going to have a baby some time next February.  Emotionally, I can't let myself picture it because it hurt so fucking bad to be wrong the last time.

The fact that I added that "probably" in there ("I'm probably going to have a baby next February") is indicative of my state of mind.  "When we know for sure", "if we really are pregnant", "if things go as planned", "we might be pregnant".  Statements we've made in the last few days.  I understand that I've got those hormones movin' through me, that I'm pregnant according to medical science and human biology.  I'm pregnant.  I'm not "a little" or "maybe" or "possibly" pregnant.  Right now, at this moment, I'm pregnant.  My next immediate thought is "for now" or "but I don't know how long that'll last".  I'm protecting myself the best way I know how, I guess.

My fear of enthusiasm doesn't mean it's not there lurking right under the surface, though.  I want so badly for this to be real.

Here we go again.

Last time, I came here and poured it all out.  All of it.  Every excitement, joy, selfish fear. 
This time, I'm scared to say anything.  What if it ends?  again

For me, though.  This is for me.  This is not for you, or for him, or for them.  This is for me.

I'm terrified.  I'm so fucking happy.  I'm crying but I don't know where to place the blame for the tears.

In only the teeniest, tiniest part of my hopeful heart did I think that second line was going to show, but it turns out, that teeny tiny hope was enough.

In only the teeniest, tiniest part of my hopeful heart do I let myself hope that this time will be different.  Because what if it's not?  Oh, please, let that teeny tiny hope be enough.

If you know me in real life, this is between us for now, okay?  In fact, if you mentioned it to me in a room full of people I would pretend I didn't know what in the hell you were talking about, call you crazy, and then rush to delete this post.

Here we go again, yo.  Let's do this thing.

Boot Camp is the new Blogging

Melinda got on me again tonight for not posting.  "I'm sorry," I said. "I just don't have anything good to say."

We're in our last week of boot camp, and that means I've got to make a plan quick for something to pick up next week.  She's got a gym membership and an unlimited guest pass, so I imagine we'll be heading that way.  I missed the window to no-join-fee membership at the YMCA, but I may suck it up and pay it and join anyhow.  It's the closest gym to our house, and there's a pool that's open from 5 a.m. 'til 10 p.m. each night.  It's not exactly cheap, but it's certainly not more than my health and fitness is worth.

Tonight, at boot camp, I flipped a 280 pound tractor tire, by myself.  I feel like the Queen of the Fucking World.  I'm Strong.  I can do things that I dread right up until the second I'm doing them, and then, once I'm in the thick of it, I'm just focused on getting it done.  I'm so fucking AWESOME!  At least, that's how I feel during each 10 second break, after 30 seconds of pushing myself as hard as I can.  When I've had too much, and I feel like I just can't do any more, I stop, and let myself take a break, and I immediately hear a voice in the back of my head saying, "Stop it, get going, get back in it, you can do this, don't be a pussy, you can do this, do one more rep, two more..."  and I get back in there and do another.  I make myself finish the set if they call time when I'm in the middle.

My body is changing.  I met my collar bones tonight for the first time in years.  I have muscles in my arms, and that fleshy part that hangs underneath is smaller and gets firmer when I flex.  My legs are more toned.  I bought dresses two weeks ago and the larges were too large - I bought mediums for the first time in I-can't-remember-when.  I still have a gut, and that'll only disappear with more work and time, but I can see the changes.  I'm still getting on the scale nearly every morning, but I've not lost a pound in weeks.  This is okay with me.  I've not changed my diet at all, unless we count moving in the wrong direction - pizza twice a week, ice cream in the freezer, cookies in the pantry - so the fact that I'm maintaining and still noticing positive changes makes me exceedingly happy. 

Jimi's been amazingly supportive of my new regiment.  The day I bought my dresses, Jimi bought me four new workout tanks, and some desperately-needed workout shorts and capris.  (I'd been working out the last few weeks wearing the same pair of yoga pants - I just washed them every other day.  Even Melinda noticed.)  I'm much cooler in my new gear, and the clingy tops really emphasize my hard-earned boob- and back-sweat marks, showing the world just how hard I've worked.  (And warning people not to stand down-wind.)

Melinda has been an amazing workout partner, and I'm so so SO glad she agreed to do this with me.  If it weren't for my obligation to her, I would've stopped going weeks ago - that's just how I am.  Even now, as much as I love it, I come up with a hundred excuses every boot-camp-day for why I shouldn't have to go that night - I always need to stay late at work, I would rather just go home and drink beer, I just don't want to because it's hard - but because Melinda is going to be there, and because she's counting on my ass to show up, I do everything I can to make it to class.  I WANT to do it, and I feel awesome after it's over, but 78% of the reason I sit through that traffic and force myself to show up is because I don't want to let Melinda down.  She's the best cheerleader, too - she high-fives and encourages our classmates, and jokes with the instructors, and tells me that I'm awesome when I'm ready to throw in the fucking towel.  She makes me want to try harder.  She works her ass off, too.  She pushes when she's had enough.  She always picks the heavier barbells and kettle bells and medicine balls, and when she can't do the assigned exercise any longer, she does squats or jumping jacks or whatever alternate she comes up with to keep her heart rate up and keep moving.  When we have a water break, she always hands me my bottle if she reached it first.  She's offered to share her towel when I've forgotten mine.  She always hugs me and tells me she loves me before we split off to our individual cars at the end of the night.  I love her too, and I'm so glad she's my friend.

There ya go, Disney.  I wrote the SHIT out of this blog.  It's because I'm strong.  ;)