She Likes Purple

So, I Have This Idea

Since Kyle turned 8 weeks old and my own clouds lifted, I've felt a need to do something for new moms, especially for those moms who are feeling crazed, anxious, and exhausted with the beautiful (but oh-so overwhelming) responsibility of being a parent. Kyle had colic, and that contributed to those first two months being so hard, and I also had anxiety-induced insomnia, so he screamed during the day and I was awake all night, and I felt like I lost my mind a little bit.

What was harder than all that, though, was the feeling that no one really understood. No one looked at me and said, "I get it, and you're doing great," and when I sum up that time I can think of only one word: lonely. I'd walk around my house, even when it was filled with people, and I'd just feel alone. I'd look at Mike from across the room and ache. I'd scream and cry and break down and instead of feeling cared for, I'd feel judged.

Because of those two, hard months, my advice to any parent would be to find a community, find a group of people you click and connect with and trust and just talk to them, often and honestly. Find a church, a mom's group, a book club filled with other parents, a blog community that you can take offline, anything at all that will let you feel part of a group. And to the women out there whose friends are having babies, take them food, a bottle of wine, a DVD, look them in the eyes and tell them they are rockstars and that if it sucks, you get it, and it won't suck forever.

With all that said, I've still felt this need to do something to help new moms. I feel it's my cause, as kind of cheesy as that sounds, but beyond that feeling, I've been completely at a loss as to what to do.

I wanted to raise money for new moms for my upcoming half-marathon, but how? Who do I decide to give the money to? Do I just take donations and then choose where it goes? That felt shady.

I've thought about organizing a site of resources for friends and family of new moms to more easily provide food and house cleaning and restaurant gift cards for the new moms in their lives, but that felt vague and weird and who do you specifically market to? And it's not brand new information, it'd just be consolidating information already out there, so that's not exactly a new service.

Then, over the weekend, I was reading a running magazine and there was an article on starting your own race. I thought, okay, yeah, this could be awesome. Picking a cause (post-partum depression, single mothers, or something like that), and then trying to organize a race to raise money for that cause.

That sounds like kind of an insane amount of work, yes it does, and I do have a job and a family and a very full DVR queue, but how incredible would it be to pull off? It combines something I've had a longing to do (provide support for new moms) and something I credit with helping me become the mother I am today (running) into one cool event.

Still, this could takes years and years and then not happen anyway. This could be a really stupid undertaking, in hindsight. But, if someone told me today that it would happen one day, I'd start working, so I figure that's a sign to start working anyway.

My dad was a race director for years, so I'll be picking his brain when he comes to town for a visit this week, but you're the smartest people on the internet, so I'd love to know what you think. Do you have any thoughts or advice or resources you could share? People you know who I could talk with? Maybe you could pass this link around to other smart people? I wouldn't ask if I didn't think we could make a really cool thing happen here. So thank you.

I truly believe it takes a village to raise a happy child, but more than that, it takes the right village. I want to organize the right group and the right event for the moms out there who don't yet have that village.

I hope you'll help me.

What Thanksgiving means to me

I remember wanting a baby so badly -- almost irrationally -- and the absent second line blankly mocking me. I remember feeling a twinge in Target or at work or in bed and thinking, Oh, what if I'm pregnant! I wasn't. I wrote a post in my head about getting knocked up on our honeymoon. I wouldn't get pregnant for another 11 months. I remember being sick in October 2007, really, nauseously sick, and thinking, I'm pregnant, I have to be. Although I can't be BECAUSE IT IS PHYSICALLY IMPOSSIBLE but I MUST be. I must be. I remember the first negative test* and the first Clomid prescription (and the second and third) and all the friends who called with their own good news and the juxtaposition between, Oh god, you're going to be a good mom and Oh god, I want to be a mom, too. I remember secretly smiling one day in a staff meeting because I was oh so sure I was knocked up and we were going to have a Christmas baby and WHAT FUN, ANOTHER CAPRICORN! We have an Aquarius.

It took us one solid year from the time we tossed the birth control pills out the window and giggled over our decision to become parents to the time the second line finally, finally, finally appeared.

One year.

I consider us lucky.

For others it takes many years. It takes thousands of dollars. It takes their sense of optimism and chunks of their soul and their relationships, too. We have a baby. We got our dream. We're one of the lucky couples who got through the tough stuff relatively unscathed and were handed a healthy, baby boy. (Damn, boys are fun.)

But I still remember. I remember how hard it is to walk around with your hand on your belly, wishing, praying, hoping there's something beneath that hand. I remember the silly, crazy fears that the Coke I drank or the brisk walk I took or the belly-sleeping the night before would hurt my mom chances. I remember all the wild, unreasonable thoughts. I remember drowning the pain and writing love letters to a baby who didn't exist. I remember name hunting and rhetorical-question asking and seething envy when a pregnant woman walked by. 

I promised myself I'd never forget, and I haven't.

If you are standing now where I was standing then, I have this to say:

You have every right to be irrational. You have every right to glare at the people who tell you to take naps! and vacation! and just enjoy your time together! because it's not as if you aren't doing all that, but wanting to be a mother trumps all that, it just does. It's OK to get drunk off cheap champagne because you can and you hate that you can and you want to smack that choice in the face. It's OK to look at sex as a means to an end. It won't always be but it's OK that for now, it is. (Oh man, the stories I could tell.) It's OK that you buy baby clothes and shove them into the back of your closet. It's OK to overcompensate with friends because it's either that or scream and sometimes screaming doesn't make your friends like you much. What I'm trying to say to you is that whatever you're doing or feeling is OK, no matter how uncomfortable those things make the people around you. You should feel whatever you're feeling. The women who went before you remember, and we're here if you need to talk. We think you'll be a fantastic, beautiful, just-perfect mother. We can't wait to see you fill that role.

We also know that saying "just you wait!" and "it'll happen when you least expect it!" is hurtful and sometimes good intentions don't feel good.

We remember, and sometimes the only thing real and honest to say is this:

It sucks, it really, really sucks.

It won't always.

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

*Two years ago, on Thanksgiving, I took my first pregnancy test, certain it'd be positive. It wasn't. I remember swallowing the turkey-and-cranberry ravioli I made later that day (surprisingly tasty!), thinking, "I guess I can have wine, too." Then I cried. Thanksgiving will always remind me of our journey to meet Kyle, and no matter how beautiful motherhood is, I still remember the difficult journey to get here. I've always been disappointed with women who disregard the trying-to-conceive community once they're no longer a part of it.

My girl

Many of you have asked me, through comments or emails, how Molly has handled the transition from only child to OH MY GOD, DOG, IF YOU BARK ONE MORE TIME AND WAKE THE BABY, SO HELP ME, I WILL GIVE YOU AWAY ON THE CORNER. Truthfully, she's handled the transition well. She's handled it so well, in fact, it makes my guilt reach new levels. She has never once growled or shown any hostility toward Kyle. She creeps up to him, daily, so she can steal a quick lick on his hand or sniff his sweet head and then she trots off to remember the good ole days. She listened to him scream as Mike and I did, from day one, and it never made her anxious or crazy, and she has never -- not once! -- acted out through chewing or having accidents or doing anything but being the well-behaved, smart and sweet dog we've always known her to be.

In our old house -- as I shared with you here via poorly-shot video -- we taught Molly how to go in and out of the house by herself. As long as we were home and the back door was unlocked, she could come and go as she pleased, and during Kyle's first couple months, that came to be the one freedom we gave her that she'll always be eternally grateful for. When Kyle would scream (and scream AND SCREAM SOME MORE, OH MY LORD) she'd slowly walk, with her head down, outside and stayed there until everyone's skin stopped melting off.

I mention above that talking about how good Molly has been makes me feel guilty, and that doesn't even scratch the surface. When I was in the throes of what I can now identify as a very normal yet still very hard couple months of post-partum depression, I used to yell at Molly a lot. I didn't want to yell at Kyle, although sometimes I did. I didn't want to yell at Mike, although sometimes I did, so I tried to direct all my anger and frustration and raw emotions at Molly. For one, she listened so well. And when I would scream at her to JUST STOP BARKING, she would. Kyle didn't respond as well when I would beg him to sleep. Ungrateful child. Anyway, she would run off to her bed and wish for a new mom, but she'd do it in silence. I couldn't control very much back then, including my own emotions, so I controlled my poor dog.

I know that every mother has a very different post-birth experience, and when I talk (a bit too openly, perhaps?) about my own, my goal is not to make other moms feel guilty for having a better one. My goal is to tell my story, the way I remember it. Not the entire story, not even half the story, but an honest part. It's the only way I know how to tell it at all. So, when I look back on that time now, I'm finally able (thank god) to see the beautiful parts, the sweet parts, the parts I completely disregarded and ignored at the time, because I was too exhausted and immersed in a vat of STRESS to see clearly at all.

I still can't forgive myself for how I treated Molly those two months, though. All I wanted was for the baby to sleep, and even though my kid can sleep through fireworks and Mama dropping things and both his parents LOSING THEIR SHIT while watching Wipeout, he cannot sleep through Molly barking. He's been woken more times by her than by anything else, and I can only equate how I responded to him crying moments after she starts barking AT THE DAMN DOORBELL ON TV is the scene in "Marley and Me" when Jennifer Aniston finally collapses onto the bed after getting her kids to nap and right then is when the trash guy decides to drive up to the house. You can see her praying for the dog to just NOT BARK, JUST THIS ONCE, but the dog freaks right the hell out and Jennifer's character goes one step further and LOSES HER MIND COMPLETELY. For the most part, that's what I did with Molly every day for two straight months.

So, many of you have asked how Molly has handled the transition from family of three to family of four, and I've been hesitant to answer because answering that question includes also saying this: she's not only handled her new little brother's existence perfectly, she's handled her mom's meltdowns pretty perfectly, too.

When I was pregnant, I threw up a lot. If you're new here, let me say what I've said so many times before, I THREW UP ON MYSELF WHEN I WAS PREGNANT. That's honest-to-god, losing-your-dignity sick. Mike was as supportive as he could be, but when women talk about how often their husbands would hold their hair back as they lost their lunch EVERY DAMN DAY, I can't help but wonder ... why, exactly? I mean, I love my husband's support, don't get me wrong, but I wouldn't let him in that bathroom with me very often. Did our marriage really need to be put through the will-you-still-love-me-as-I-throw-up-my-pizza test? But Molly would sit in the bathroom with me every single time I'd get sick. She'd sit quietly and close and she'd only start wagging her tail as I'd splash water on my face.

Someone once said that Molly is not my baby, she's my dog. I'm not her mom, I'm her master. We talked it over, the commenter and I, and agreed to disagree. See, I pieced something together a couple months back, and it's one of the reasons my guilt wraps itself around me every now and then and squeezes. Molly doesn't bark when I come home from work or when I come home from dinner with a friend and Mike is home with Kyle. She only barks when I am home alone. She may love her father more -- um, who could blame her -- but she's protective of me. She knows I need more than he does. She knows I'm scared of more than he is. She gets me, completely, and she loves me all the same. She's not just my dog. No way, no how.

While we're gone this week, my girl will turn six. She'll be with her grandparents, and she'll be spoiled rotten, just as she'd prefer it. On her birthday, on every day, I hope she knows I love her, even though I don't always act like it, even though most days she deserves a mama who treats her like the perfect sidekick she is.

A year makes all the difference

I often look back at where I was a year ago in my life and then allow myself to be downright stunned by how much has changed in a year's time, how much hasn't and how quickly time really does pass. I do this with so many days, some ordinary, some not. None quite like today.

One year ago I was picking up a pregnancy test as a precaution, as a way of assuring myself I could enjoy a beer later that night. It had been a year of trying. After awhile, you stop expecting to see the second line. You stop taking tests as precautions because you know what every twinge or cramp or bad mood means and it usually means you can enjoy that beer. I stopped and bought a test anyway.

I hurried into the house, hurried to take the test before having to leave for Mike's hockey practice and then watched as my life changed, right there, in that instant, irrevocably, permanently, forever and ever and ever in the dirty bathroom of our rental house on a Tuesday afternoon.

Time stands still a lot for me, and that's because I have one of the best memories of anyone you'll ever meet and also because I make a point to stop and remember moments as they pass. I have vivid memories of the walk down the aisle and of the delivery room and of that Tuesday, standing in the bathroom. The second line showed up before I could even set the thing down on the counter to wait the allotted couple minutes. It showed up instantly. It showed up without confusion although I took eight more tests to be sure. That year had made me unsure of dreams coming true.

But sometimes they come true whether or not you expect them to.

This morning I sat with Kyle on the couch while watching an episode of "True Blood" (I shielded his eyes from the scary parts) and paused it often to listen to him talk to me. He tells the best stories, that boy of mine, and then we got up, got ready, got out the door late like always. Although not like always. I have to remember it hasn't always been like this, we haven't always had our little, tiny storyteller to welcome the sun with. A year ago I only had myself to get ready in the morning, and I was still always late getting out the door. One year ago there were no bottles to wash, no diapers to change, no middle of the night parties to attend, no baby weight to lose, no day care drop-off and pick-up to schedule into our busy days.

It's only been a year. It's been a whole damn year.

I walked out of that bathroom a year ago and into the kitchen to change Mike's life right after mine was changed. I can still remember the walk to the kitchen, where he was standing, how he was standing. I didn't have a beer that night. Instead I had a cookie and a dream-come-true in the palm of my hand, in my soul, inside me.

I kissed Kyle as I dropped him off this morning, as I always do. Although not like always. It hasn't always been like this. Hard to believe there was a time I didn't kiss him, didn't stop to watch him through his classroom window.

I have a dream come true, in the other room, in my arms, still in my soul. 

It's only been a year. It's been a whole damn year.

The best year of my life.

Things I am enjoying about not being pregnant

I walked around in such a haze for the last six weeks or so that I'm just now realizing I'm no longer pregnant (news flash!) and I'm just now enjoying all that not being pregnant means. Such as:

1. I can sleep on my stomach! Granted, that may be the only enviable aspect of my sleep habits these days. (I was awakened at 6 a.m. today by a crying baby, but I was awakened in a very comfortable position!)

2. I can stand in front of a microwave without worrying I've just given my child eight extra appendages.

3. I can eat as much shellfish as I choose. Bring on the mercury!

4. I stop tasting my pizza as soon as I'm done eating my pizza. Acid-reflux may single-handedly keep Kyle an only child.

5. Popping the cork off a bottle of champagne and relishing in the fact that I'm not limited to one teensy-tiny sip.

6. Reuniting with all 70+ pairs of my shoes since my feet are no longer swollen, sweaty stumps.

7. It's no longer uncomfortable to sit or stand or walk or BREATHE for prolonged periods of time.

8. I can walk into a smoky bar with only the concern of my lungs crossing my mind and not the underdeveloped lungs of my fetus.

9. Labor no longer scares me. Been there, done that. You'd like to talk about the water-breaking knitting needle? Go for it. In fact, I'll contribute to the conversation instead of shaking in fear in the corner.

10. I can actually walk into a store to shop without thinking, If this only came in size Bison.

11. I can go to a movie without worrying I'll go into labor and have to leave before seeing the credits roll.

12. People no longer say inappropriate things such as "You look like you're going to EXPLODE!" Or, "Wow, are you as uncomfortable as you seem to be?" Of course they're still saying inappropriate tings. They're just saying different inappropriate things.

13. My bladder has returned to a nice, normal shape and it no longer interrupts car trips or naps or half-hour episodes of "The Office."

14. I no longer throw up every morning in the shower. (I NO LONGER THROW UP ANYWHERE.) (But, I am still dealing with throw-up. Ahem, Kyle. I'm looking at you.)

15. I don't have to frantically worry about loving my child even if he's not cute. Because, come on, he's cuuuuuute?

 

Progress update by Mr. She Likes Purple

We got here at 5:00am and the first 3 hours the contractions were drug free and no fun. For some proof, just ask my left hand. Then, busting through the doors like an EMT coming to rescue me, the anesthesiologist came in with the goods. And to add to all his glory, his name......Dr. Needleman (you can't make this stuff up). Since then, Jennie has felt 1000% better. She took a quick snooze and is currently licking her lips, watching the Food Network and dreaming of things she can't have.

I'll keep y'all posted on our progress.

On a side note, my wife is amazing! She's been a trouper since we got here and I have no doubt that she's going to power through this delivery without a hitch. What a fantastic woman!

~Mr. She Likes Purple

First letter

Son,

I'm days away from seeing your face, and soon enough I won't remember life without that face in it, so I'm writing this for the both of us -- so you will know what your mother was thinking the days leading up to your arrival and so I will never forget.

I used to talk to you, before you ever existed, when you were just a hope. I used to tell you how much I wanted you, how I would try forever to get you, and how I would love you even if you wanted to vote Republican one day. Then, when we got the news you were growing inside me, I held my breath, desperately hopeful nothing would take you away from us. I'm sorry if I wished away those first few weeks of pregnancy, always wanting to get a few more days under my belt, convinced you'd be safer tomorrow. Your mama is working really hard to stop wishing the days away, to stop holding her breath so much, certain the good is reserved for tomorrow. I know the good is right now, and I'm going to do my damnedest to stay in each moment with you.

I didn't love being pregnant every moment of every day, and I'm not going to lie to you and say I did. In fact, there will be days when you're a crabby and moody teenager when I will remind you -- in great detail -- just how sick you made me. I love you, baby boy, but using that against you one day is what we call a perk of this job. But, I must say, life doesn't get more beautiful than feeling your child move within you. People said it would make all the other symptoms bearable and they were unequivocally right. Even though I still have two precious days to feel those movements, I guarantee I have missed them every day since.

I like to think that because of these last nine months, you and I will always have a secret between us. Although I don't know what the future holds or if you'll ever have a little sister or brother, this inside secret is one of the main reasons I hesitate to ever do this again -- not because pregnancy royally kicked my ass but because I like that it's just us in this club, that, for now, no one else is a member. I would put my hand on my stomach during my pregnancy and you'd never stop moving, sometimes you'd even kick a little harder. But when anyone else would come near me, you'd freeze, as if you knew it was a different hand. I could be making that up, but I like to believe you already know me and that you'll recognize me for the rest of your life. Even if you don't tell me about the girl (or boy!) you have a crush on or the parties you're sneaking out of the house to go to or the light pole you ran your dad's Mustang into, I hope you'll always recognize me, that you'll always know my hand from another's. (But you can tell me about the light pole. We'll figure it out together.)

Speaking of your dad, I did good, didn't I? You can thank me by not rolling your eyes at me 9 million times a day in about 13 years. Although I am a lot of really cool things your dad is infinitely cooler. I think you're really going to enjoy life with him on your team. It softens all the falls, multiplies all the joys and makes everything that much sweeter. I am sorry about what he fills our DVR with, though. Unless you enjoy those same shows, and if you do, I have failed as a mother. It's official.

I want a lot for you, as I think all moms do. I want you to have more than I have, I want you to be smarter and kinder and funnier. I want you to find something you're passionate about and go after it. I want you to feel great love and great hope. I want you to be grounded and self-assured. I want you to read more than I have made the time to. But, mostly, I want you to follow your heart and be true to yourself above all other things. I want you to know that I will never waver in my support of you, and I will stand up beside you endlessly, but, baby, if you want to try out for American Idol and you cannot sing, I am going to try and prepare you for what may happen. Nothing breaks my heart more than those poor, awful singers standing in front of the judges, CRYING ON NATIONAL TELEVISION and managing to say, "But my mom says I'm a great singer." I will go with you to the auditions. I will bedazzle signs. I will also pull you aside and talk about a little thing we call a back-up plan. I love you enough to be honest with you, and I hope that in being honest with you, you'll be honest with me right back and let me know when I'm wearing mom jeans.

I'm not sure what our life is like in the future. I don't know if I get my act together to cook us all dinner more regularly or if I tackle the laundry before the laundry, literally, tackles me. I do know that our life before you was sweet and simple and beautiful in all the most important ways, and it's because of how happy we were before you that we wanted you so badly. You weren't a solution or a Band-aid or a quick fix. You were something we prayed for and tried for and even though I am just terrified about Thursday and how exactly getting you out is going to go down, there has never been a day that I haven't thought adding you to our family was one of the best ideas your dad and I ever came up with together.

We had this slight little scare halfway through my pregnancy, and because your mother is CRAZY, I spent a good few days unsure of what was really going on with you and instead of just relaxing and breathing and watching reality television, I Googled every possible outcome. I had myself so scared and worked up, I was positive we'd never see your birthday, and I began doing what I imagine all mothers do at some point: bargaining. I don't really care how religious you are or aren't, I think there comes a time in everyone's life when they say, "Screw it, I'll give praying a try," because they are so desperate to avoid a certain outcome. You can't really appreciate that yet, I know, and it'll be years before you do, but halfway through my pregnancy, when I thought you weren't entirely safe inside me, I began offering myself up in order to assure you'd be just fine. I haven't held you yet, seen your eyes, heard your cry, but, baby, my life already seems like a small price to pay for yours. Yes, yes, your mother is so dramatic, but, love, it's true. I'd do it all for you and then some. And, really, I think all that alcohol I avoided over the last almost year does more than prove that.

I can't wait to meet you.

Love,

Your Mama

A mix of you and me

I've been looking at old pictures of Mike and me over the last few days and wondering just what this boy of ours will look like with our combined genes. I guess we'll see soon enough, but here are a few pictures to glance at, so you can guess along with us. 

Me:

 

Mike:

(Mike & his dad.)

As ready as we're going to get

Last night our glider was delivered and it was the last of the Big Nursery Items we were waiting on in order to finally put that room of his together. While Mike tackled the dresser, I assembled the glider and I think that feat -- assembling a piece of bulky furniture a week before my due date -- should buy me at least one pair of shoes after our boy's arrival next week.

So, his room is just about done. (Full set at flickr.)

This is the view from the door, and I think it can be said no glider has ever been assembled so well, don't you agree?

His dresser. The walls are especially blinding in these photos, I know, but we have a few more pieces of art to add to them along with some shelves and hanging photos that I think will break up the white fairly well. We also have to replace the light bulbs in the room, and I think that'll dull the brightness a bit. Finally, we have this rug coming and that's a very good thing as Molly has nowhere to lie down in his room as of now and that's just not acceptable. She needs a napping place in each room of the house or we all suffer.

Community for all seasons

I have never really had a trollish comment on this site. I've never honestly expressed myself without being met -- 99% of the time -- by words of support and encouragement. Sure, some words irk me every now and again, but those words are never blatantly rude or posted for the sheer purpose of insulting me. I get as nervous as the next person to post about gay marriage, for example, because it's a controversial, highly emotional topic. I don't get nervous because I think you'll attack me. I find myself incredibly lucky for that. The trolls perhaps haven't found me yet or perhaps they just find me as dull as I absolutely am, but when I read other posts (and other comments sections) I want to come back over here and make out with each one of you for the maturity and grace you each possess. Perhaps you don't agree with everything I've ever said, but you disagree like rational, knowledgeable adults. If I were posting elsewhere, I may hesitate to talk about circumcision or epidurals or going back to work or breastfeeding because the sound of so many heads exploding would be fairly deafening. But here? I don't worry. I choose my words carefully, always, but I'm never scared to speak up in the first place. 

I was reading Alice's comments section this evening, and I wanted to buy her a very stiff drink after I finished. Circumcision is personal, it's controversial, it's a topic with many very strong opinions, but her choice had already been made -- her son is six -- and she was honestly and eloquently sharing her experience as a way, I believe, to have an intelligent conversation with other parents. Why attack this woman about a decision she made with her husband years ago after much thought? She said, at the end of her post, Why do we feel that in order for our opinion to be right, we have to make sure that everyone who feels differently is wrong? (Amen.)

I have heard quite a few opinions and view points over the course of this pregnancy. I've been told many things that have boggled my own mind. I was told I was drugging my baby because of my Zofran prescription. I was told only having one child (something I mentioned casually, in passing) is a form of child abuse. I've been eyed, judged, looked over and, funny enough, I've had fewer doors held open for me since becoming knocked up than ever before. (I also had a man step off the elevator because he didn't want to risk me "having the baby in the elevator." I KID YOU NOT.) But never here. Here I received an outpouring of love and support before I got pregnant, when I announced I was pregnant, when I became slightly blue because throwing up on oneself is about as much fun as you can imagine it would be, when we found out this little rascal sucking up all my energy is a boy and when we faced a semi-scary issue with my placenta. You've been a lifeline, a rock, an anchor for me, and although I do believe I've said it before, I want to say it again: thank you. Thank you for taking the time to listen to what I have to say and telling me, even if you don't agree, that you have my back. 

Over the last nine months I have felt fat, gross, lazy, totally unattractive, sad, achy, frustrated, confused, scared, crazy, insecure and a million other things, but I have never felt alone. I can thank my husband for that, yes, and also Molly who is as needy as she's ever been, but I can also thank you. 

I know I need to pack the hospital bag (I KNOW) and sweep the floors and finish the laundry and finish the birth announcement address list, but I think all of that will work itself out. What I would regret not doing before my son arrives is thanking you for sharing this journey with me. You believed I'd get this boy before I believed it myself. I'm this close to having him, and even though so many of you have never met me, I know you are sharing in this joy with me, without judgment. That's such a beautiful gift, even better than all those baby jeans I cannot stop aww-ing over. 

38 weeks

 

Yes, I'm quite large and, now that you mention it, yes that sweater does seem to be working much harder than a sweater really should. I wish I could tell you I've said screw it and am blissfully reveling in these last couple of weeks of diet-free living, but acid reflux has made enjoying even a glass of water a near impossibility. So, when I say I couldn't be more excited about meeting my boy in less than two weeks, please know it's 90% because meeting him will undoubtedly be the most beautiful moment of my life and 10% because I'd really love to eat a piece of pizza like a normal human being again. Fine, there's also about 5% of me that cannot wait to sleep on my stomach, but other than that 15%, all I can really think about these days is meeting him.

Babies and movies and Baracks

Apparently the first thing to go when you're trying to pack in as much fun and movie watching and quality time with your husband and inauguration watching is blog upkeep. I haven't posted in a while and I assure you that's not because I've had this baby as that would certainly give me something to post about, wouldn't it? It's because I'm trying my very hardest to maintain something that resembles a social life these last twenty-odd days of life PRE-BABY. Over the last few days I've seen "Revolutionary Road" and "Yes Man," went to the Dallas World Aquarium, had a lovely book shower thrown for me, shopped and ate with a dear friend and have taken about 35 baths while reading all my favorite magazines. Oh, and I've actually started thinking about packing a hospital bag. I know what you're thinking: PACK THE BAG ALREADY, CRAZY WOMAN. And you'd be very right to think so loudly and harshly like that, but, see, I can't decide WHAT bag to pack. As in, I think I need to buy a new bag and it's hard to pack a bag I don't actually own yet. This is a very silly problem to create for myself, I know, but if it calms you down any, I do have his going-home outfit all picked out and purchased and (fine, soon-to-be) washed. 

When he does come, though, someone will definitely post here to let you know (not that you're going to be constantly hitting refresh, refresh, refresh ... I don't presume to think my son's arrival is that interesting for you) and I'll also do my best to update Twitter (so, are you following me?) and will also text/call those of you who have foolishly given me your number at some point in the past. (If the text is very poorly composed, don't blame the labor pains, it's probably just Mike standing in for me. He is very cute and can fix a broken dishwasher like you wouldn't believe, but let's just say he will not be the one to teach our boy how to properly put together a sentence.) And, just in case you are interested, our son will definitely be here by February 10 as that's when we're evicting him. 

Let's jump back for a moment, though, and talk about "Revolutionary Road" since I am still thinking about it nearly a week after seeing it. Metalia wrote a much better review than I ever could, so go read her's first, but please know I didn't want to agree with a single word she wrote. I am Kate Winslet's biggest fan, and, really, the more gut-wrenching/dark/depressing a movie, the more I usually love it. (See: Million Dollar Baby, Gone Baby Gone, Dead Man Walking.) I like looking into the soul of a character and seeing an empty void or shattered remains because I find real truth in that. Also, I spend much of my free time invested in the lives of Lauren Conrad and Heidi Montag, so when I go to the movies I like to be moved and not in the way I'm moved to take Spencer Pratt into a dark alley and club him repeatedly. But ... this movie ... oh my ... it wasn't good. There was something about Leo that seemed off to me from the first scene and not just the character but his portrayal of the character. (Something about his wild hand gestures and very loud delivery of lines I don't think needed to be delivered loudly.) I had a hard time buying him for a moment of the movie and, really, if I had been April (Kate's character) I would kind of hate him too and roll my eyes and feel constantly beat down by his presence. Also ... watching an entire movie about a miserable marriage isn't awful in theory but it is especially painful when they seem to be miserable from the word go. I'm sorry, but one scene where April tells Frank he's interesting does not really translate into "used to be happy and in love." I also had a huge, throbbing problem with the end, a problem I can't talk about without ruining the movie for you, so I'll just end with this: Kate, you should win an Academy Award for just about everything you've ever done EXCEPT FOR THIS, I'M SORRY, BUT IT'S TRUE.

On the other hand, I actually enjoyed "Yes Man" much more than I thought I would. 

So, there you have it, a brief update on how life is going while we anxiously count down the days until we're parents (whoa) and also the fact that Jim Carrey made my movie-viewing experience more enjoyable than Kate Winslet this past weekend. I DON'T KNOW HOW THAT'S POSSIBLE EITHER.

Finally, we have a new president! It's been a long time coming for a lot of us, hasn't it? January seemed so far away in early November and it seemed really far away in January of 2001. I could throw out a million cliches and sappy sentiments, but all I keep thinking is how excited I am for my son to be born during the "Obama years." 

36.5 weeks

 

My BlackBerry comes with a camera, which makes it easy to document day-to-day things and, yet, makes it easy to document day-to-day things very poorly and fuzzy. We have other cameras, rest assured, they're just always on the other side of the house or not charged or did I mention all the way in the LIVING ROOM? So ... these are the belly pictures I'm offering: embarrassingly fuzzy, blurry belly pictures. 

My expression here seems to scream "I hate pregnancy" but really I hate early mornings and my long commute. And, fine, I'm kind of over pregnancy too, but I'm not looking longingly towards any bottles of Castor oil (yet). I'm actually nostalgic for it all, even though it's not over yet, if that makes any sense. See, it's a very real possibility that this boy of ours will be an only child. We're not willing to make any declarations or so-help-me promises, but we're both kind of OK with just one. (And, in case you were wondering, no, I don't need to hear your opinion on only children; big thanks anyway.) We're of the opinion that we're not going to make that decision -- one way or the other -- any time soon, but where some people are absolutely adamant about providing a sibling for their child, we sort of like the idea of a smaller family unit. With that idea comes these last few weeks potentially being the last few weeks period. 

I'm ready to meet him -- we're all so ready to meet him -- and I'm ready to begin my journey towards a thinner, less bison-esque me and I'm insanely ready to see what color hair our collective gene pool has granted him and I'm ready to sleep on my stomach and indulge in a glass OR TWO of something adult and I'm ready for some grilled shrimp and a Diet Coke and I don't think I could ever be more ready to say goodbye to acid reflux ONCE AND FOR ALL, YOU STUPID ACID-Y BASTARD. But, all those things means the kicks and rolls and movements will be gone, too. I know what's to come is a million times cooler. I know I'm going to love having him beside me so much more than inside me, but those kicks, man, they never got old. I heard they would, I prepared for them to. I even joked a time or two that he was playing soccer with my bladder and it was just so annoying. But, you know, it wasn't. There is not much of pregnancy I'd readily endorse. There was so much that put me through the wringer. There were actual times I didn't know I'd make it this far. There were times Mike was fairly certain he wouldn't make it this far. But last night we were laying on the couch together -- with Molly at our feet -- and watching a surprisingly interesting "Million 2 One" and our boy was going nuts, kicking and punching and I had my hand on the belly, feeling it all from both inside and out and Mike had his hand on top of mine, feeling it all too, and we were laughing at the thought of what he was doing in there (working on his "jazz hands," trying to get comfortable before going to sleep, dancing to his iPod). It was one of those perfect, beautiful moments. My boy, my guy, my girl, our DVR. All the most important things in life.

If you've never been pregnant and you ask me one day what to expect, I'm going to go ahead and bypass all the other stuff, I'm just going to let that stuff all slide. I'm instead going to tell you there will be moments of sheer perfection you didn't know could exist in life. I'm going to tell you I miss it. And, believe me, won't you, because I won't be lying, not even a little bit.

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Housekeeping note: Comments seem to be a bit off today. I'm receiving notifications when you comment, but they're not showing up. I assume Typepad is pissed off at something this afternoon, but who knows what. Go ahead and comment anyway and let's just assume they'll show up eventually!

Getting my act together, with your help

I worked out the details of my maternity leave with my boss the other day and I'm only in the office for another three weeks and some change before I begin working from home. My delivery hospital is just a short drive from our house, but it's nearly an hour from my office, and it just seems better to wait out the boy's arrival in the comfort of some yoga pants a short distance from where the drugs are. That brings up two points: (1) I will absolutely be opting for an epidural-assisted birth and not because I don't have great admiration and respect for any woman who opted differently because of course I do but simply because I already admire myself plenty and (2) I am returning to work after our son is born. I don't imagine it's going to be easy and although we have worked out a very ideal day-care situation, I also don't imagine everything will go as planned. But, regardless, I know that returning to work is both right for our family and for our financial responsibilities at this time. 

So, working out those maternity leave details was one thing I needed to do before our baby arrives and now that it's done, I am looking to the other things I need to do on the list. I need to pack the hospital bag and put away all his clothes in the dresser that won't be delivered for another week. I also need to finish all my thank-you notes (if I owe you one, it's coming) and sleep as much as I possibly can, too, of course. I need to make a peditrician appointment and send off some gifts that will do nothing but collect dust if I wait until after the boy is born to send them. (Angella, to you, mainly!) I need to pick up a few odds and ends to have stocked around the house and do a few (dozen) loads of laundry. 

But ... what else? What did you do -- or wish you had done -- the last month of your pregnancy? I know he could come at any point and if he were to come tonight, we'd be just fine. We have everything we absolutely need, I'm fairly sure, but if we are granted this last full month, I'd love some helpful suggestions on how to productively fill the time. (Note: Remember, sleeping is already on the list. In pen Sharpie.)

Finally, I'd like to pick up a baby sign language book or DVD, and I was hoping you may have a suggestion for the best the market has to offer. 

One month from today. That's not really that far off at all, oh my hell, but all I really want to say about it is, have the champagne iced, please.

34 weeks and then some

I had an appointment this morning and had an impromtu ultrasound to check the boy's stats. He is measuring a few days ahead (but is also damn adorable), causing me to fly right past most of the 34th week and offering us a new due date of 2/8. This means, come Sunday, I have five weeks left of this pregnancy (give or take). That's ... well, that's not much time, is it? On the one hand, thank god. I am ready to meet him, ready to start raising him and brainswashing him against such things as the Republican party and the Longhorn football team, ready to finally have an answer to the what-color-is-his-hair-going-to-be question I ask myself daily, but on the other hand FIVE WEEKS, ARE YOU SHITTING ME? 

Unfortunately, I have other things preoccupying my head today, things like a sinus and upper respiratory infection, both of which have made my head fuzzy and heavy, my ears throb, my throat scratch and my nose continually run. It's actually the first non-pregnancy-related sickness of the last eight months, which I can handle, sure, but my birthday is tomorrow so can I get a pass to whine about being sick on my last without-child birthday? I'm still determined to get out of the house tonight for a birthday steak, even if I sneeze all over it first.

On that appetizing note, here are a few belly pictures from the last few days:

  

From New Year's Eve.

New Year's Day. Still in pre-pregnancy jeans.

The belly.

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In other news, I guest posted for Kristie over at Momma K yesterday. I talk about my 2009 resolutions and resolutions in general. Enjoy!

Happy (two days after) Christmas!

Remember when I promised an obnoxious number of posts and pictures and at least a solid week of not shutting down my laptop because my Christmas plans included going absolutely nowhere? Yeah ... well ... that didn't exactly work out the way I planned, now did it?

Early this week I cleaned my house in a way I have not cleaned it since moving in and that included scrubbing areas of the bathroom I'd rather not revisit anytime soon. I also hosted Christmas Eve dinner on Wednesday night and that included cooking a handful of dishes I hadn't cooked before, and you know what's insanely irritating about cooking? Timing! How do you make sure everything is served hot when you have just one oven to cook everything in and each dish calls for a different cooking temperature? I'm sure you figured this out ages ago, when you reached adulthood and began cooking regularly, but I stood in my kitchen Christmas Eve just stumped about when to start making the sweet potato casserole if the ham needed to be cooked for over an hour and all my guests were showing up at 6 p.m. It all worked out, thankfully, and it was a really lovely dinner with family and friends and then a Top Chef marathon.

Christmas Day was just as lovely and our baby boy cleaned up rather nicely without having to do anything other than flip around inside his mama for a little while. Must be hard to be so adored without doing a damn thing to warrant it, right? I have plenty of pictures to share with you and those will go up ... tomorrow ... ish. I still need a wee bit of time to recover from all the food and fun. Recovery in the form of chronic napping and not, say, chronic drinking, which was always my recovery tool of choice before. Ah, how things have changed. (I did enjoy a very nice glass of wine late Christmas Eve night, though. I'm out of control.)

Needless to say, even though I haven't technically left town, I also haven't found the time to sign on and check in with the Internet as often as I planned or at all for that matter. So, fill me in, was Santa good to you? Did you serve all of your holiday dishes warm and on time? Did you enjoy your family and friends and the after-Christmas sales? I truly hope so. Funny how most of us lament about this time of year and how giant retail stores shove Christmas ornaments down our throats before August has even wrapped up and we refuse to put our lights on our house until after we've gorged ourself on Thanksgiving turkey and then all of a sudden, Christmas is over and how did that happen? We aren't ready for its arrival and yet it's gone before we' know it.

This Christmas was different for me than any other because I am just about eight-months pregnant and every time I would consider being eight-months pregnant over the last eight months, I would always say to myself, "But first comes Christmas, so let's focus on that." I'm not sure if you do this with big, monumental dates, but many of them (my wedding, my honeymoon, big trips, etc) just don't feel completely real for me while there are other important things popping up on the calendar first. This year there was always Christmas standing between me meeting my boy and, funny enough, Christmas is now behind me and now there's just some time for me to count away. Seven weeks, give or take.

From my family to yours, I hope your holidays were relaxing and peaceful and wonderful for you and yours. I also hope your New Years is soaked in champagne. But, most of all, I hope 2009 holds as much excitement and joy and wonder as you can possibly want for.

Thanks

After posting my rant yesterday morning, I immediately panicked and wondered if I had come across more "whiny" than "vent-y" but as the comments started rolling in, I exhaled. You are just the loveliest and most supportive group of people, did you know that? Thank you for the pat on the back and all of the compliments, the compliments that led me to mentally tell that woman to suck it and then put the whole unfortunate night behind me.

The rational truth is that pregnancy is the only time gaining weight is universally encouraged or accepted and a big baby does not necessarily mean an unhealthy baby or a baby whose mother did something wrong or a baby who will turn into a toddler or child or adult with weight problems, but there are also so few ways to comment on a woman's weight -- pregnant or otherwise -- without judgment seeping in, regardless if that was the intention.  It's hard to hear "you're huge!" or "you're too tiny!" without taking that comment, turning it over and over in your head and coming to the (sometimes totally wrong) conclusion that you've done something wrong and that's why you are the way you are. And, hey, it doesn't help that I spent the better part of my late-teens and early-twenties dealing with an eating disorder that royally screwed up my view of weight gain and healthy curves and how to let "you were too big to miss!" comments roll off my back without panic and self-loathing kicking in for just a wee moment. I also know how much weight I've gained and that it's a totally normal amount, but, unfortunately, my doctor charges extra for traveling alongside me with my medical records to correct everyone's misconceptions, so I have to default to politely smiling and developing a tougher skin than I was born with. Daunting, you know? All of this is to say, she probably didn't mean to ruin my weekend, and if I were a normal person without a predisposition to sensitivity and overreacting and being kind of nutty, the chances are she wouldn't have ruined my weekend. But, thanks to you, my weekend was turned right around, and I just couldn't be more thankful to have you.

A few specific thanks: to Elizabeth for the unexpected holiday package and for being just an overall incredible person; to Jodi for the unexpected and thoughtful baby gift; to Kristie for being the kind of unexpected friend everyone should be so lucky to have. To Rhiannon and Moose and Jemima and Bethany and Kerrianne and Raven for your thoughtful gifts and cards. You have restored my faith in unconditional kindness, and you mean more to me than any stupid stranger's comment. Thank you.

Now ... moving on. Phew. I'm off work this week and with an entire week off, I plan to clean my house from top to bottom, put the nursery as together as possible, wash and organize all of our boy's clothes and host Christmas Eve dinner at our house. Expect pictures as this is the most I've done in the last seven months and documentation -- albeit boring documentation -- is absolutely necessary.

While everyone else is apologizing to the Internet about light posting this week, I will most likely be bombarding you with boring drivel as I am not traveling anywhere (except to the grocery store and to my hair salon), and I won't be taking an Internet hiatus or a computer break whatsoever. I do, however, hope that your holiday plans are plentiful and exciting and that you will take a break from the Internet if you need one. I hope you wrap up 2008 however you most want to, especially with liquor if you're not in the state I'm in. I will wrap my year up at home, with my family, my giant belly and my girl. No matter what, my friends, life is good.

So, tell me, what are your holiday plans?

Sunday vent

Friday night I got all fancied up for Mike's holiday office party. It was the first time I donned heels in over a month and I didn't even peel the heels off twenty minutes into the night, so I was feeling pretty proud of myself. It was actually a really nice night, and Mike had fun with all his work buddies. Then, last night Mike had a playoff hockey game (they won!) and since he plays on an all-work league, a lot of the wives cheer on their men upstairs. As soon as I sat down last night, a woman walked over to me and invited me to sit with her instead. Nice offer, so I moved over to her table. About ten minutes later I said something about being seven-and-a-half months pregnant and she responded with, "Your baby is going to be huge, you know. I thought you were surely due tomorrow." Now, fine, think that if you must but why ... WHY ... say it to me? She went on to say, "Yeah, I saw you last night at the Christmas party ... although you were kind of hard to miss." I finally said something along the lines of, "it never gets old hearing strangers tell you how big you are. Please go on."

People, I know I shouldn't let this shit bother me. I know my baby is measuring just normally and my DOCTOR has no concerns, not a one, about my weight or his weight. I know these women aren't seeking out ways to ruin my day, but do me a favor? If you ever see a pregnant woman, don't comment on her weight or how surprisingly large/small she is. It could potentially destroy her in seconds, and why do that? Wait until you're home and talk about her to your husband or your girlfriend or on your blog, even.

It's just ... it sucks. I'd take all the other less-than-desirable pregnancy side effects (including the acid reflux that caused me to throw up all night long after the Christmas party) if I didn't have to deal with one more minute of other people's insensitivity.

32 Weeks

I hit my weekly pregnancy milestones every Saturday, when I'm usually laid up on the couch, scarfing down bowls of cereal and whining about how it's too cold, now it's too hot, wait ... cold ... HOT ... ahhhh, so the blog title is a slight lie (I'm really 31 weeks and five days) but let's all roll with it, OK? OK!

Some fun news: I lost a pound since my last appointment two weeks ago! Now, weight loss was not my goal, and I'm absolutely not advocating some type of pregnancy diet for any of you who are knocked up out there, but this was quite the relief for me as the scale portion of my appointments are always the most anxiety-filled and self-esteem killing. I think I'll remedy this weight loss next week or today, even, since clients have begun filling our work kitchen with chocolates and baked goods, but for now I'm just happy the weight gain seems to be slowing down right at the number it's supposed to. 

Baby is measuring well and with a perfect heartbeat. My blood pressure is great. There have been a few contractions but nothing regular and no annoying or pesky pain accompanying them, so no one is overly concerned. Overall, the appointment was short and sweet and all is swell. 

I'm not sure if this is altogether normal -- let's say for argument's sake it absolutely is -- but I've reached the part of this pregnancy where I want to be around babies all the time. I want to talk about babies and baby things and look at baby clothes and hold babies, and I think it's because I've moved slowly from holy-shit-what-was-I-thinking to holy-shit-this-is-pretty-exciting. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm still rightly terrified about many things -- many of those things involving the labor itself because for someone on this side of the process, there are a few things that just don't compute, one of which being the baby is supposed to come out ... where, you say? -- but in a completely different way than I was mere weeks ago. Weeks ago I would find myself thinking about the sweet relief I'd have once he was here and done stretching out my body to record-breaking proportions and then I'd stop and think, But then he'll be here, and I'll be responsible for him and ... oh ... my ... hell I'd rather have the back pain. These days the feeling is similar to the feeling you get as you inch up the steep hill of a roller coaster. You almost hope you never reach the top because you know your stomach is going to drop to the floor and you're going to be thrown all over the place and you may even feel like throwing up a little bit but you also know that as soon as you curve down and start to gain speed, it's going to be the most thrilling, coolest moment, and even more than you wanted to keep ascending forever, you'll never want the ride to stop. It's a good place to be, where I am right now, and for that I absolutely prefer week 32 to week 7 or 12 or 24. 

Mike and I were in bed the other night, talking about all the stupid things people say to pregnant women, laughing about how some people are irritatingly clueless when it comes to what is appropriate and what is not appropriate, no way, no how, and he said, "When I see a pregnant woman these days, I always congratulate her. Not just because that's better than 'WHOA THERE,' but because it really is an accomplishment. It didn't come easy for us, so it's something to be proud of when you get it." I know it's not like this for everyone and I know it came easy to some and came as a complete and utter shock to others and not everyone had to work a little harder -- as we did -- to get to this point and even more had to work very, very hard and they'll never really forget the long, mine-filled road they trekked down to get to their eighth month of pregnancy, but regardless of how we got here, we all deserve a little congratulatory pat on the back if we ended up here, the final stretch of a very hard, very beautiful journey.

My boy, although I haven't seen your face, your eyes, your smile, you're the best prize I've ever been granted. Congratulations are most definitely fitting.

Friday night Mike and I went for a quick tour of the hospital where -- if all things go well and as planned -- 'll give birth. Now, this tour was important to me, and I'm so glad we did it, but it lasted, quite honestly, a minute and a half. The nurses were nothing but lovely, but I guess I imagined there would be more to see than just the room, the nursery and the hallways, and I'm here to tell you it does not take long to look at a room, a nursery and a few hallways. Thankfully we now know where the entrance is and also the elevators, so that will save us a few seconds in a couple months. 

We also found, purchased and assembled a bassinet this weekend, which brings us one small step closer to being ready for this boy's arrival. We still have so much to do, it would blow your mind, but he has multiple places to sleep, and I find those to be very important check-off items, don't you agree? He also has these jeans and matching socks, courtesy of his Aunt Crystal, and no matter what we fail in assembling/organizing, just knowing he'll be clad in dinosaur jeans at some point makes me a little less stressed out. 

We ended our weekend watching the Survivor finale and reunion show, making us part of the very small group of Americans who still watch this show, I know, but it's somewhat of a tradition we've created with Mike's parents. Believe it or not, we get sucked into the drama each and every season. What I love most about this show is how after 17 seasons, voted-off contestants are still disgusted and feel betrayed by those who lied to and blindsided them. You can bet that at least once during the finale someone will stand up to ask the finalists, "Why did you liiiiie to me? How could you have stabbbbbed me in the back? I thought we were friiiiiends." And I wish just once someone would answer with, "Do you have Netflix? Go rent the back seasons of this show, would ya?" OUTWIT IS IN THE SHOW'S SUBTITLE, FOLKS. But, no, people are still shocked that a practical stranger lied to their face in order to win a million dollars. I'm sorry, but there are few people I wouldn't lie to for a million dollars. If someone offered me the chance to win that much money, and all it would take was to tell a very convincing set of lies then count me in, even if I'm lying to my mother. I could never actually go on Survivor, though, and not because of the lack of food or the dirt or the loss of my blog for 30+ days but because of the bugs. I can handle a lot, and I bet it would even stun you how long I could go without food and bathing but make me sleep next to things with more appendages than I have and I will become as girlie and prissy and high-effing-maintenance as they come. I'm not proud of this, no, but I recently spent THREE DAYS checking myself for ticks when I thought I had spotted one in my car and then lost sight of it. I was convinced it had found its way to my leg, crawled its creepy way up and had slowly begun killing me. I don't know where this phobia comes from -- sharks don't even scare me -- but I know that if I were to go on Survivor, I'd quickly become the girl who annoyed the shit out of everyone else with my persistent asking of "IS THERE SOMETHING ON MY BACK? IS SOMETHING CRAWLING ON ME?"  

A couple of final, random, all-over-the-place things:

1. Thank you for all the kind words and warm wishes on this post. I am lucky to have Elece, and I wish you could all know her. But, I'm also lucky to have each of you.
2. I finally posted pictures of our shower from last weekend. I've blurred a few things to protect his name, and I've also included a shot of what we ate, so you will be jealous you weren't there and how many times can THAT be said of a baby shower?
3. My diaper bag is in and adorable. I don't know if I've ever typed a more thrilling sentence but go have a look.  
4. Latest (and most shocking) belly shot from just about 31 weeks: 

 

Excuse the bare belly -- I know seeing pregnant flesh alarms some -- but when I get home at the end of each day, I throw on the most comfortable clothes I can find and sometimes the most comfortable T-shirts are from my previous life. Mike doesn't seem bothered by this, thankfully, but Molly keeps eyeing me suspiciously. I can tell she's wondering just how many of those Milano cookies I've been inhaling when her head is turned. Lord, mama, I love you and all but you're getting a little out of hand, don't you think? She's going to wish it were just a cookie addiction once he's here. She'd take me fat any day of the week if it ensured I'd forever pay attention to only her.