She Likes Purple

Life is too short to ...

... finish reading that critically acclaimed novel if it's boring the hell out of you.

... pass on birthday cake because you're afraid it'll go straight to your thighs.

... refer to an etiquette book instead of your gut.

... let any of your vacation days go unused.

... spend any considerable amount of time worrying: about the dishes, the bills, the laundry or what someone may or may not be thinking about you.

... hide your true self from the people you love.

... forgo the wind in your hair, the ocean under foot or the rain on your skin because you're afraid you don't have the time to waste.

... bite your tongue on issues that really matter to you. (So: I think every woman has the right to choose what is best for her own body and soul, and I don't think any single other person has the right to judge her for it.)

... lie about your love for horrible television that is marketed to an age bracket beneath yours. (I skipped out on watching some of the Democratic National Convention so I could catch the season premiere of Greek.)

... be embarrassed about how big your nose is or how small your boobs are or how short your legs are.

... distrust the people in your life. If you don't have faith in them, let them go.

... listen to music you think will make you look cooler to other people.

... never run anywhere.

... leave the really important questions unasked and unanswered (Am I happy? Do I believe in this? Who do I want my children to know me as?)

... not shout out, "I love you" to the people you truly and wholly love.

... betray confidences because of instant and fleeting gratification.

... sit out on your chance to vote.

... never learn how to independently take care of yourself. (Pay your own bills, change your own tire, schedule your own appointments.)

... be wrong and refuse to admit it.

... decline an invitation because you have nothing to wear.

... be unhappy in your own skin.

... let fear stop you from taking the job, moving, asking him out, wearing that dress you love so much that is just a little shorter than you're used to.

... start arguments because you don't know how to say what's really bothering you.

... miss the sunrises and sunsets because you have better places to be.

... sleep on cheap sheets.

... let someone else define what happiness means to you.

... stop yourself from splurging: on the good champagne, the perfect lip gloss, shoes that go with exactly one thing you own or that last extra star in your hotel rating.

... complain more than you celebrate.

... prolong dinner parties or inviting company over because the house isn't as clean as you'd like.

... never learn how to unapologetically and confidently say "no, thanks" without a single word of explanation.

... never have your soul moved: by a movie, a book, a song, a touch or a look.

... settle.

... lose touch with the people who make you endlessly laugh, recklessly love and spill with joy.

... overvalue intelligence and undervalue kindness.

... wait for the other shoe to drop.

... foolishly think that the best days of your life are all behind you.

... stop holding hands.

What is your life too short for?

Getting Bigger, Topics Of Interest Getting Fewer

First things first, a LOT of people think we're having a girl, which I meant to comment on before now because it seriously stunned me, but, wow, there are either a lot of people who are right or a lot of people who, well, aren't right at all.

I'm convinced this baby is a boy. I have caught myself TELLING STRANGERS it's a boy, and then awkwardly laughing because, "Oh, wait. That's right. We don't know yet." I don't know if my strong boy premonitions are because I don't really like pink or because the Bratz dolls terrify me or because I really don't want to raise myself or if I actually, in-my-gut, think we're having a boy. I can't really say. I'd be surprised if we have a girl, but not like fall-on-the-floor surprised because it can only be one or the other, right? (Or, after watching a few Oprah segments, a combo of both.) Now tell me I'm having a kangaroo or a Republican and THAT would stun me.

What is funny—since declaring to the Internet that I had actually shed ten pounds since getting knocked up—is how much better I've been feeling this week and how my appetite seems to be back after a very long (and miserable) hiatus. Crazy enough, with the return of my appetite has come a morphing of my body from average to bison. My mom came over on Sunday to take me shopping (for sexy maternity clothes, yo), and when she walked in she said, "Jennie, you're adorable." HA! "No, mom, I'm actually a bison. Close though."

The bump is, well, it's definitely a bump. The size is still a little awkward. If you saw me (and didn't know about my current state) you'd probably hesitate to ask because nothing says uncomfortable like asking the non-pregnant woman who has momentarily forgotten to suck some things in when she's due. Funny though: I was asked by one person in my building and I scolded him for five minutes because it's risky to ask a woman that, especially at 13 weeks, and you could get yourself into trouble, seriously. He managed, "Your boss told me today" before running off to hug his wife for not being a demon. I will say that fifteen weeks feels a little early to be sporting a bump, but if you have any respect for Mike, you will not comment on fifteen weeks actually being too early to be sporting a bump because I guarantee telling me that will NOT make his life better come tonight.

Something else everyone surprised me with on that post: the baby's sex can be accurately guessed with the heartbeat and the mother's cravings. Um, this is embarrassing, but I seriously HAD NO IDEA. If sweet cravings mean boy then all that Baskin Robbins Gold Medal Ribbon isn't my fault. IT'S HIS. IT'S THE BOY'S FAULT. JUDGE HIM. (Reminds me: I have to take my ALREADY-BROKEN, ONLY-A-MONTH-OLD BLACKBERRY to the T-Mobile shop tonight, which happens to be right next to a Baskin Robbins. SILVER EFFING LINING.)

What did you crave if you've been pregnant? And what did you end up having?

I think it should be said, though, that regardless of all this obsessive WHAT-IS-IT-BOY-OR-GIRL? talk, whatever we have is going to be just right. It's exciting to guess and to wonder and to envision a mop of hair on a little boy or girl before we actually meet the little boy or girl, but when I was thinking about a baby for all those months, I never wanted a boy or a girl or a soccer player or a musician or even an Aggie. I didn't want him/her to be anything except mine. Now that that wish is granted, the rest is just extra. Something to keep me occupied while I toss and turn each night because apparently with your dignity and a defined waist, pregnancy also steals your ability to sleep comfortably.

Everything Changes

I've been thinking a lot about Mike and me lately, and come February how so much will change for us. Mike's not worried, he never is, but long before I ever thought of being a mother, my own mother's ability to worry constantly coursed through me. I worry about burglars and credit scores and traffic and change among nine million other things.

Mike and I fell in love late in college, and I would have had it no other way. I was single for a long time before him, and I had finally reached the point where I could envision a life beyond the cheap beer and 8am English seminars. I began independently planning my future. I wasn't looking for him when I walked into a small college bar and found him.

There's no way to give justice to the year and a half we spent together in that tiny Texas town, where we were content and young and our biggest concern was where to eat a cheap and greasy dinner at. I wouldn't go back if given the choice between then and now, no. As beautiful as that life was, it was sprinkled with uncertainties and insecurities and fights over things we'd never consider fighting over now. We went back and forth between resisting merging our lives together and rushing to give each other keys and drawers and our free time. It was perfect, in hindsight, but living through it was scary and new and terrifying and confusing. There were a lot of late-night talks (good, bad, messy) fueled by Budweiser and jealousy. But as we drove out of town together in August of 2005, in a jam-packed U-Haul on our way to the real world and full-time jobs, I couldn't stop sobbing. I loved our life. I loved every minute of every day with Mike in College Station, and I was scared that the future wouldn't hold any fun or love or happiness.

We'll never get that life back, not even when we visit for football games or weddings or reunions. It will never be the same. The town has changed, updated itself, and so have we. That life lives in our memories (and fuzzy pictures) alone. Sometimes we'll sit around and talk about those early days, and we'll both smile and laugh and remember Thursday poker nights and football games and eating lunch together on campus, sharing a sandwich at the underground cafeteria we both loved. We would walk around that campus hand-in-hand, and I would incessantly worry about our future together and he would incessantly worry that the DVR wouldn't record Family Guy, but there we'd be, beside each other, together.

When we moved to Dallas-Fort Worth, we moved in with Mike's parents and although we were crippled by unemployment and rising gas prices (if we only fucking knew then) and looming student loan payments, we managed to carve out a life together, crammed into the bedroom Mike grew up in. We'd watch The Office on his computer, and we had so much stuff in that little space, my shoes would routinely fall on Molly's head. When we moved out seven months later, into an apartment with two roommates, I sobbed because his mother would never again be just down the hall from me in the mornings, to hug me goodbye and remind me not to work so hard. I was afraid our own place would separate us, as odd as that sounds, because we'd never be forced to share a 10x10 room again. We spent so much time together, some of it by default, that I wasn't ready for the change even though the new apartment came with a walk-in closet and a huge garden tub.

You see where this is all going, don't you? I get paralyzed by change and then the change comes and it's never, never like I feared. It's hard, sure, and it's different, always, but it ends up being my life, and I love it in all its million different forms.

We'll never get the past back. Come February we'll look back on the lazy Sundays of today, how we argue about who should get up first and let the dog out and how we play odds-evens for the DVR remote. One day we'll reminisce on all we do so naturally today. We'll miss these days, of course, and we'll have so much to add from this time to our long list of sweet yesterdays. Many times a day I'm gripped with panic at all that's changing, even though we worked so damn hard to get to the point where the changes would be just a short six months away and even though these changes are answered prayers of two people who don't pray very often.

No matter how excited we are (and we are), change is what it is: scary, impossible to really prepare for, new, unknown. We can try as hard as we can to imagine what it'll be like, but as we're told 5,000 times a day: you'll never know until you know.

I do know, though, that no matter how much does indeed change, how much we change, there we'll be, beside one another, together. Just with an extra set of hands to hold.

It's not that simple, of course. But in so many ways, it is. It's exactly why we've allowed all the change that has come before, to get us to the point where we're together, forever. All four of us.

(I'm not yet ready to stop counting Molly.)

Fourteen

Fourteen Weeks

Baby's heartbeat: strong (144 bpm)

Total weight gain thus far: -10 pounds (doctor isn't thrilled; I was actually told to drink a milkshake)

Flutters: getting just a tad stronger. I would describe the feeling as an odd buzzing, but since I've never heard it described this way, I wonder if I swallowed a wasp or something else buzzy.

Feeling: Gross, still, but never (not for a split second) have I been happier.

We don't find out the sex for another 6-8 weeks. The lessons in patience apparently never end. But to humor me, what do you think it will be?

All those who guess right will be tossed into a hat where one winner will be chosen for an as-yet-to-be-determined prize.

Some Things

Remember a week or so ago when I broke up with Google Reader and asked for your blog links, so I could update my link list? Yeah, well, first, HTML is an asshole and, next, editing a links list is one time-consuming project, especially when HTML is being such a crazy asshole. I'm hoping to be done this week, along with some other updates that are needed around here like UPLOADING MY BLOGHER PICTURES TO FLICKR. (Any chance you'd like to do that for me?)

While we all wait for SOMEONE to step up, some other things:

1) I'm going to Toronto next month with Mike and my mom. We're visiting my sister, brother-in-law and nephew. We're there for a very short time (sadly), but while there, I'd like to pick up some Canadian chocolate. Canadians, what must I add to the to-buy list?

2) Did you watch The Hills premiere Monday night? DID MTV RUN AN ALMOST TEN-MINUTE LONG COMMERCIAL DURING IT OR WAS THAT JUST ME? Regardless, Spencer Pratt's middle name is "nice" like mine is "Republican."

3) I'm now writing for MamaPop once a week. Some of you have noticed and sent such nice e-mails, and thank you for them. It's an honor like you wouldn't believe since the talent over there is unreal. Come over and leave nice comments if you have the time. Some of those readers don't hold back, and, sure toughening up isn't a bad thing but I CANNOT DRINK THE COMMENTS AWAY, NOW CAN I?

4) Foods I have craved, at least once this pregnancy (no comment on if they've all stayed down or not): Hershey's chocolate lathered in peanut butter, Rice Krispies, Chipotle burrito bowls, lemon wedges, Orangina, pineapple, mashed potatoes, McDonald's cheeseburgers and sundaes (only together), apples, Taco Bell soft taco supremes (no tomatoes and slathered in hot sauce). The funny thing about my cravings is they last all of fifteen minutes. If I don't eat within those fifteen minutes, I'm over the craving and back to hating food altogether.

5) I began reading Breaking Dawn a couple weeks ago and got two chapters in before I was over it all. HOW DID THIS HAPPEN TO ME? I can't even find the motivation to skip ahead to the vampire sex.

6) I have decided to start reading to the baby, though, after someone else mentioned they read Charlotte's Web to their fetus, and I fell so in love with the idea, I think I may have cried. (I also cry at the Visa commercials airing during the Olympics, so give that whatever weight it deserves.) What great book should I start with?

7) I love this nursery bedding.

8) After reading Linda's post earlier this week about Geocaching and remembering that Mike came home months ago wanting to try it out, I think we actually might. When Texas is officially out of summer. So mid-December then?

9) A blog I cannot love more, just in case you need to update your links list this week, as well: Better Now.

A Pregnant Rant (Because THOSE Are Never Obnoxious)

I hate summer. Now, this is a drastically different sentiment then I was offering up just a short five months ago when I was driving home in the SNOW in MARCH in TEXAS, but I now officially, whole-heartedly and passionately hate summer. Oh, and we're currently having a cold front! High of 86 today!

Totally don't care. Still hate summer.

I went to the movies last weekend to see The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants with Lauren. Now, I do have some questions about the movie, mainly where exactly can I find someone who will just toss up frequent flier miles like they're peanuts, so I too can travel to Greece without having to spend a cent of my own money, but the entire, completely unrealistic movie (that, granted, did deepen my love for Alexis Bledel and her gorgeous hair) was overshadowed by the sweltering walk from the car to the theater, the theater to Papyrus, Papyrus back to the car.

When we stepped into Papyrus, we were met with a display table of Christmas cards. I don't know what time zone YOU'RE in, but where I live it's still August. (Miserable, hot August.)

Instead of rolling my eyes and lamenting about our society's need to rush life and shove holiday-related products down our throats before fall has even thought of beginning blah blah commercialism blah, I got all giddy BECAUSE CHRISTMAS CARDS ALLOW ME TO REMEMBER A TIME WHEN IT WAS NOT FUCK-ME-IN-THE-ASS HOT OUTSIDE.

(Hi, Mom!)

I have lived in Texas for sixteen years. I have driven around a non-air-conditioned car in the Texas summer heat. I have danced outside for twelve straight hours in the Texas summer heat. I have walked to college classes in the Texas summer heat.

I never remember hating summer as much as I do now.

I think it may be because I'm getting fat (you say pregnant, and I appreciate you, but the woman who judgmentally eyed my protruding belly in the grocery store yesterday while I was holding an Entenmann's raspberry crumb cake said otherwise). Along with fat, I'm also still exhausted and grouchy and, yes, you should still pity Mike with all the might you have. (Although I'm happy to report I have not yelled at him about houseplants since the one and only time I yelled at him about houseplants.)

I'm in that awkward, is-she-pregnant-or-just-a-big-fan-of-keg-stands? phase, where my clothes still technically fit but I feel gross in EACH AND EVERY PIECE. I have begun waddling and rolling over in bed is, well, it's interesting. I have felt very slight, very odd flutterings but in no way am I going to declare that I've felt the baby move because I'm pretty sure I've felt stronger things for the cast of The Hills.

And all of the uncomfortable end-of-first-trimester/beginning-of-second-trimester feelings are only heightened by my inability to check the mail without wanting to rest halfway because OH MY LORD, THE SUN IS KILLING ME.

All in all, I'm ready for the weather to cool, my belly to scream Cute Pregnant Woman and not Woman Who May or May Not Be Addicted to Carbs. I'm ready for this month to be behind me and for college football, pumpkin recipes, long-sleeved shirts and fall TV to begin.

I know it's wrong, to wish time away, yada yada, but I am ready to be slapped in the face with Christmas decorations everywhere I turn and to clutch my steering wheel on the way to work because not a single person in the state of Texas knows how to drive in inclement weather (unless they're visiting from Chicago).

I am over you summer. Move along.

Because Other Topics Are SO MUCH HARDER To Focus On

I don't know what this means, exactly, but there are very few things I want to talk about more these days (on this blog or otherwise) than the Olympic men's swimmers'. And their bodies. And their bodies in those very tight-fitting swim pants with some of that pool water glistening off them. I've always loved the Olympics, but this year is different. The athletes were never quite so ... delicious ... before, were they? To be fair to Mike, who doesn't really deserve to be subjected, in detail, to what I would do to Ryan Lochte* if given the chance, we also tune in for women's beach volleyball as often as possible.

(Oh, and the divers! We watched men's synchro last night and the first thing that popped out of my mouth was, "Well those are some tight little things they've got on there, aren't they?" Mike began fast-forwarding fairly soon after that.)

Needless to say, someone's freebie list has been dusted off and updated this week. And considerably lengthened.

So, are you watching the Olympics? All events or are you just playing it in slow motion every time you see that big, fancy Water Cube pop up on the screen?

I actually love most events. I even enjoyed fencing the other day, partly because it reminded me of this one Gilmore Girls' episode and partly because I'm pretty sure their matches are called battles and how cool is that? The only thing cooler being the "swim off" that happened the other day between two female swimmers. A swim off! How often do THOSE break out at your local pool?

The only thing I don't love (other than staying awake WAY past my 8pm bedtime) is the stomach tightening, heart palpitating, full body sweats that I break out in EVERY SINGLE TIME I watch gymnastics. It's impossibly stressful FOR ME, so I can only imagine what kind of pressure those young (really young in some cases) women and men are under. I'm not sure what, in addition to flat-out cheating, the Chinese women's gymnasts are doing in order to be so damn mistake-free, but it sure isn't good for my blood pressure. And, I know what you're thinking, don't I feel bad for Alicia Sacramone. Sure, I do. Poor thing. Okay, wait, no I don't. I feel bad for the other women on the team who didn't fall ON THE FLOOR but whose silver medal sort of still screams, "YOU LADIES MESSED UP!" Sure, they should have been competing against athletes their own age, and if they had been, perhaps things would have worked out differently, but if you're at the OLYMPICS and you're WORLD CHAMPIONS and you're VYING FOR GOLD, I don't know how many times we can forgive you for blatantly ignoring those very clear white lines put down on the mat.

Also, I still don't get the scoring. Or the scrunchies. OR THE GLITTER ON EVERY INCH OF YOUR FACE?

What are your thoughts on the Olympics? Don't get the hype, can't resist Googling certain athletes every fifteen minutes? Somewhere in between?

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*Although, TWENTY-FOUR, Ryan? Really? That's it? Three weeks ago you were 23, even. That brings the lusting to new, inappropriate (albeit fun) levels.

Before And Now

Before I got pregnant, I had grand visions of being The Cool Pregnant Girl, the one who still worked her ass off at her full-time job only to perkily come home to cook dinner, fold laundry and rub her guy's shoulders. Can I just say? HA! HAAAA! You should see our house. No, really, you should. It would serve as some kind of visual warning of what can happen when two hard-working but inherently lazy people decide to go and get knocked up. THINK YOUR CHOICES THROUGH, our house would say to you.

Before I got pregnant, I wanted to continue cooking, continue exercising, continue doing the dishes in a timely fashion so things wouldn't sprout legs in our sink (something in our sink actually made me throw up the other day).

Basically I wanted to do it all.

(I was an idiot.)

I'm lucky if I find enough energy or motivation to question the ages of the Chinese women's gymnastics team. (I'm sorry, but there is no way some of those girls are sixteen.)

Mike does so much for me these days. When I'm hormonally lashing out at him for moving the houseplants back into the house (no, really, I yelled at him for that) he sits there and listens. When I'm moaning under the weight of job obligations, he rubs my belly. When I'm craving fudgsicles, he goes to the store and buys fudgsicles and then says to me once he's back, "I almost got the low-calorie ones, but you don't need low-calorie fudgsicles." When I'm being a giant, whiny, pain-in-his-ass who reminds him once an hour how haaaard being pregnant is, he says, "I know, baby, I wish I could do it for you." When he borrows my car, he returns it with a full tank. He fixes me water with lemon juice in it every night and he asks, each time, "Scale of 1-10, how much lemon this time?"

I knew it before, obviously, but if there is only one thing this pregnancy has brought into focus for me, it's that my husband loves me. And I'm unbelievably, how-did-this-happen? lucky. (Fine, then, two things.)

I wanted to be a cooler, more together, less insane pregnant woman for him.

I want to be a lot of things for him.

Not many of you know Mike, even though he's been so kind as to let me share stores and sides of him that he probably didn't ever expect the Internet to be privy to. (And I think he's going to guest post soon!) Even if you know him, it probably took you a while to like him, to respect him, the way he deserves. So few people get the chance to know the funny, determined, stubborn man he is at his core. He would hate to read all of this, and if he does, he'll probably stop mid-way and go back to whatever he was doing before. He doesn't like the sappy things I get the urge to say about him every five minutes. We're very different people, he and I.

You never know what you're going to get when life turns upside down on you. When you fall into financial hard times, when you lose or get a job, when you move or make big purchases, when you try to have a baby and are met with a longer journey than expected, when you finally get pregnant and you begin throwing up things you didn't think you could actually throw up (like water), you just don't know how you're going to handle it all and how the people standing beside you will handle it either. You hope for the best, try to prepare for the worst and hang on.

Nothing could have prepared me for more than I had hoped for.

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(NOW IF HE WOULD JUST LET ME NAME THE BABY, I'D HAVE NO COMPLAINTS.) 

Shaking Things Up

I'm doing something kind of crazy later this week. I'm going to delete my Google Reader account, the account that mocks me on a daily basis with its ridiculously high number of unread items. For those who don't know, Google Reader is a type of feed organizing program where you can keep all of your regularly read Web sites/blogs in one location. You can also tell when new content is posted on any of these sites, making it sort of like an inbox for your blogs. I currently have just over 100 subscriptions. ONE HUNDRED. That's kind of a lot, right? But in a Loralee-inspired quest to get back to authentic blogging I'm going to do away with it altogether. I will only access blogs from my personal list of links.

(Do you want to be on my personal list of links? Leave a comment.)

Here's why I'm doing this: When I sign into my Google Reader account, my stomach immediately tightens because I'm not sure how many new items I'll find and HOW WILL I FIND THE TIME TO READ/COMMENT WHEN I HAVE TO NAP AND WATCH MICHAEL PHELPS IN HIS VERY LOW-RIDING SWIM PANTS? Then, if I don't comment, I fear the blog author will stop commenting on my site and my poor little blog will eventually be read by only my mother. (Who is a great reader, don't get me wrong.)

Except? Well? Isn't that kind of ridiculous?

It's just so ... forced and ... silly and ... not worth my precious could-be-lusting-after-Olympianssleeping time.

I remember reading Dooce years ago, years before I was blogging myself. I read this one particular post and printed it out, I couldn't believe how much I loved it. I laughed and teared up all in one paragraph. I think about that sometimes and how those moments—those magical "wow, this is incredibly good writing" moments—are now outweighed by the obligation I feel to be a constant presence in the blogging community.

So, come Thursday, I'm done with the obsessive stomach tightening when I see how many posts I just can't get to. Again, I'd love to add you to my link list, so leave me a comment with your blog address somewhere in the fields or the body of the comment.

Susan Wagner, someone I admire and respect a whole lot, once said to me, "It's a good thing when life gets in the way of your plans." I don't know if she'll even remember telling me that—it was regarding being pregnant and dropping some blogging balls—and I've repeated that to myself a lot. It's okay when you're too busy living, getting ready for a baby, curling up on the couch with your husband and yelling with him at stupid Andrea Parker and her stupid questions, eating two donuts in fifteen seconds, watching The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants with a girlfriend to be on the computer.

It's okay when life gets in the way.

Early Lessons In Parenting A Teenager

The other night Mike and I were on the couch, watching a World Series of Poker tournament, when Molly decided to go outside. She does this a lot these days, especially at night when the sun has gone down and going outside doesn't hold the same risks as it does when the sun is up, mainly the risk of killing oneself because it is so insufferably hot outside that all quality of life has left for Alaska. Since we taught her how to go in and out without our help, aiding in our goal of never having to actually get off the couch while we're home, Molly utilizes this skill and goes in and out roughly 56 times a night. She goes out, comes in panting and tired, takes a gulp of water and goes back out. Over and over and over.

It's hot out, have I mentioned that?, so even before you add the pregnancy exhaustion to our house, we're slow and sluggish these days and Molly is no exception. Yes she gets her skinny ass off the couch to play outside but "playing" consists of slowly walking around the yard, hoping a squirrel will die of heat exhaustion, fall out of the tree above her and into her open, panting mouth.

You can imagine our surprise, then, when after 46 times of going in and out like a normal, exhausted dog the other night, Molly came HAULING ASS into the house, ran around every piece of furniture we own (granted, not a lot of pieces) and then went batshit insane, pulling leaves off household plants and making odd, wild noises.

Mike turned to me, after we both watched her with mouths wide open, and said, "Babe, I think she's high."

Now, I don't know if we have mushrooms in our yard or if we have some other type of mood-altering plant growing, and I'll even admit I don't know much about being high, but I do know something about handling crises poorly and that's this: WHEN IN DOUBT, FREAK THE HELL OUT.

Instead of giving her a big bowl of food and water (like Mike did) and locking the back door to keep her inside the rest of the night (like Mike did) and watching her carefully while not seeming too concerned (again, Mike), I gathered her into my lap and forced her to snuggle with me for much longer than the high-as-a-kite vizsla would have liked. But I'll be damed if I was going to allow that dog to die without knowing how much I adore her. Oh, and then I got up every hour that night to make sure she was still alive.

Scene:

Molly, laying very still and peaceful on her bed, covered with a blanket.

Me: MOLLY! MOLLY! GET UP!

Molly, raising her head to look at me with deep annoyance.

Me: Oh good, you're alive. Go back to sleep.

Repeat twenty times.

Something tells me we'll get to recreate this night the first time our kid comes home from a party thrown by some kid whose parents left town and trusted him with the house and the liquor cabinet. Can't wait.

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In other news, Mike and I had come fairly close to choosing a boy's name: Parker. Mike loved it, I was definitely coming around. Then I saw this. There is no way in hell I am naming my child the same name CLAY AIKEN decided on for his cover-up baby. Back to the drawing board.

Well That Wasn't So Bad

Even though I created the prompt for last week's Writing Wednesday, I skipped it like the lazy pregnant woman I am. But this week I'm feeling better—well-rested and with an extra dose of Zofran coursing through me—so I'm going to tackle the prompt Slynnro offered (a day late).

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Prompt: "Tell a story of a time that something that you were dreading turned out to be something fantastic."

There are so many times I've walked into a situation with a stomach full of dread and a feeling that can only be described as What The Fuck Was I Thinking. One such experience was my decision to join a sorority.

I have talked about sororities (very badly and with poor punctuation) before, but it's been long enough to revisit, I think.

I went to a very large, state school in Texas, and although Texas has a certain Greek stigma (among other stigmas) my particular school didn't center around the Greek system. I'm not sure what the stats are now, but back when I rushed, the campus was about 12% Greek. In the grand scheme of things, that's not very many letter-clad kids running around. I didn't feel pressure, as I know some do, to join a sorority lest I be outcast on campus. I wanted to join because I was leaving a very tight-knit drill-team in high school, and I wanted to recreate that circle of friends in college. I was also lucky enough to go to a school where the spirit for the actual university took precedence over any activity you could potentially join. People who didn't go there find that odd, cult-like even. I found home there.

When I signed up for rush, I had no idea what to expect. I was sent a packet of what to wear each day and which houses were on my particular campus with accompanying pictures, but other than that, I was clueless. I didn't know to be terrified, so I wasn't, not until I showed up on campus that first hot day and was bused to the row of sorority houses where rush would take place.

That day was one of the worst days of my life. Interesting, absolutely. But out of my element? THERE ARE NO WORDS SO PLEASE KNOW I AM NODDING EMPHATICALLY. It was just so ... overwhelming. There are some seriously warranted stereotypes about sororities and the kind of girl you think would join one. There were girls who could have majored in Rushing a Sorority. There are girls who were going through the motions merely as a formality as they knew exactly where they'd end up. THEY ALREADY ATTENDED THE DATE PARTIES. I was asked what kind of car I drove. I was asked where I bought the outfit I was wearing. I was looked up and down at. I left that first day wondering what I was thinking, WHAT I WAS DOING.

I can't tell you why I decided to go back the next day and the day after that. It's a bit out of character for me to do something so unbelievably uncomfortable, but I kept at it. I forced a smile through the parties, and I pretended I was having the time of my life.

I wasn't.

When it came down to it, and I was chosen by a house, I wasn't excited. I was honestly just relieved the whole process was over, and I could go back to my dorm.

The entire first year in my sorority was more of the same. I attended meetings, I bought T-shirts, I paid dues, and I didn't enjoy a moment of it. You could (and should) ask why I stayed, and I have no real answer for you. I'm sure my 18-19-year-old self would offer you reasons that wouldn't make any sense to the 26-year-old me: I was scared of quitting, I didn't want anyone to know how much I hated it, etc. But I think, and I could be wrong, that I just kept hoping it would get better. People all around me were enjoying themselves. I was missing something, I knew it. I was sure I would be let in on the secret eventually, if I just waited it out. (And I should say that no-one in my house was unkind or mean or spiteful. They were all very warm. I just didn't feel like I belonged.)

The feeling that it would get better is why I moved into my sorority house, with 48 other members of my pledge class, the fall of my sophomore year. The day I physically moved into the house, I stayed up all night settling in and ignoring that same feeling of dread in my stomach. The doubts, the insecurities, they all tried to creep in that night. I was scared.

I was randomly paired to live in a four-person room with three girls I hardly knew. We had literally no space with which to have any privacy. I had to get along with these girls. One of them was Lauren.

She and I became almost instantly close. Meeting her was like releasing a very long-held breath. And Lauren could break every negative sorority stereotype you may have. She broke all of mine.

Lauren was the friend I had hoped to meet when I first joined, the reason I stood out in the blazing sun during rush, in expensive clothes my mother couldn't afford. She was why I was drawn to the community in the first place, the promise of deep friendships and sisterhood. She and I ran around that sorority house laughing more than I had laughed my entire freshman year. She was fun and funny and kind and she was the secret I had desperately hoped to be let in on.

Together Lauren and I joined our sorority's council and we spent the next few years devoting our time and energy to the sorority I had spent my entire first year being completely indifferent towards. I made other close friends and out of six bridesmaids, three were Kappa Deltas.

On the final day of BlogHer, I took my three roommates around San Francisco. I showed them some popular spots and where I grew up and went to school, and then I took them to my favorite gelato place. As we sat around, eating the most delicious Italian ice cream I have ever had, I was asked about sororities, and what they were like. I didn't (and don't) seem like someone who would naturally fit into a group of stereotypical singing, clapping, letter-wearing, perky girls. I told them, as best I could, about my experience and how much I grew from it. How much I learned about myself and about other women. How I walked away with invaluable friendships and memories and a better sense of the world. How I met my husband through that group of women, a man who sat across the table from me at a sorority formal we both attended separately, how I inadvertently asked him if he wanted me to get him something to drink at that formal, how we both didn't know then what was in store for us, but how cool it is to look back in hindsight and see what that experience ultimately afforded me.

As a member of my sorority council, I was able to attend an annual conference in Memphis one year, where our national headquarters are located. I attended panels and break-out sessions and mixers and it was a very cool, lovely experience. One such session was led by two women, coauthors of the book The Art and Power of Being a Lady. I was riveted by their talk and by how their definition of "lady" applied to the sea of college-aged women before them. I was reminded that by being authentic and kind I could make great changes in my life and in the lives of my sisters. I was given a hope of what I could become with a little grace and confidence.

I didn't expect to leave my sorority, four years after joining it, with such a deep love for the women and the ritual and the memories, especially not after that first day of rush. I could never have known what that experience would ultimately come to mean to me. I thought I would leave hating it as much as I hated it when I joined.

I was wrong.

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When I was in college, and sharing a room with Lauren, we used to lay in our respective beds and talk about what was on our minds. Lauren and I were very different in many ways but one thing that bonded us as roommates and friends was our ability to worry about the smallest of things. We'd stay awake for hours after we climbed into bed, worrying aloud (and also internally) about test scores and sorority reports and boys and the weather and everything in between. I don't know if Lauren still does this, this late-night act of mulling over the good and the bad of life, but I know I do. Although it's no longer limited to nighttime. I worry too much, too often. In the car, at my desk, on the couch, washing the dishes, over the small and the big.

I'm on bed rest for a very small pregnancy-related issue. It seems the baby is fine. The doctor isn't concerned, and other than a very strong (albeit brief!) episode of hysterical sobbing yesterday afternoon, I'm fine, too. I'm actually rather calm today, and I'm not worrying and THIS IS NOT NORMAL. Just this weekend I worried about Molly dying of heat stroke in our very centrally air-conditioned house. WHAT IF THE HEAT SCORCHES HER THROUGH THE WINDOWS?

After spending the first month or so of this pregnancy wound up so tightly—so sure we were going to have this gift snatched from our hands that I couldn't even journal about it, afraid that simple act would jinx it—I've decided that what I can control, I will and what I can't, I have to let go of.

Worrying comes naturally to me, yes, but I've wanted this too badly to worry it away. I'm going to act unnaturally and just breathe.

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When Mike and I began dating, I remember tightly grabbing hold of all the sweet things he would say to me because each one was so new and unexpected. I remember those early sweet moments so vividly, each one saturated in emotion and excitement. One night, very early on, he called me about twenty minutes after he had gotten off work to invite me over to watch a movie. As we sat on his couch he turned to me, out of nowhere, and said, "Every day when I get off work, I try to see how long I can wait before I call you, before I have to talk to you. I never make it more than a half hour." Then he turned back and continued watching whatever it was we were watching. I didn't dare say a word. I didn't want to ruin the perfect, butterflies-slamming-around-my-stomach moment.

Another time, early on, he told me he thought I was strong and I impressed him with what I could handle. I thought he was nuts and wrong. Although it took a while, I finally began to see myself the way Mike saw me in those early days.

Even though it's nice to come home when I'm terrified about the ins and outs of pregnancy with Mike here, waiting for me with reassuring research and water and a blanket and soft eyes, reminding me we're fine, we'll be fine. We'll handle this, he says.

But unlike before, I believe him. I know what we are—what I am—capable of.

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My blog posting has been sporadic the last few weeks. I hope to be back to cluttering your feed readers soon enough. Thanks for bearing with me until then.

For now, I'm lounging on the couch, watching back seasons of Veronica Mars and new All my Children episodes (Annie, you're really starting to annoy me). And promising Mike that McDonald's cheeseburgers ARE HEALTHY FOR THE BABY, BABY!

I'll also be journaling. Jinxing be damned.