The Gene Pool

Dear @#%^! Baby,

A day shy of 35 weeks and you’ve already been showing off your inherited traits. That’s impressive, since I can’t #%!^ing see you. You are most definitely our spawn.

How you take after your father:

THE LUCK. Big A has ridiculously good luck. Irritatingly good luck, I may add, since I have terrible luck. Since you have been leeching off of me, you’ve shared the good fortune of the Big A luck gene with me. Proof? I won $500 at Bingo, after a little trade-in drama I ended up with my dream car and the house has yet to implode. OK, so I’ve had minor issues with the household – a $100 emergency vet visit for basically a dog wart, the water dispenser in the fridge not working and last nights basement window waterfall – but that is NOTHING compared to what I dealt with on past deployments. And we’re on the home stretch…so fingers crossed. I credit your lucky streak in (hopefully) breaking the curse.

CEREAL. Holy crap, the cereal. Big A will go through at least two boxes a week. In general, I have maybe a bowl a month from the stash. I have had more cereal in the past three months than I have in the past three years. I cannot get enough. Not to mention they are Big A-sized bowls (i.e. obnoxiously huge) and usually followed by a second helping. I’m buying Costco sized boxes and inhaling them. THEY WERE ON SALE.

RAP MUSIC. Granted, Big A and I both listen to it, but pre-Big A I leaned more toward Portishead and Tool and *gasp* N’Sync. So, I say this is a Big A gene. And you seem to love the angry bass on the car rides. I can’t wait until I can teach you the lyrics to “Regulators”.

How you take after me:

CHEESECAKE: I learned this weekend that you love this stuff. One bite would send you into tummy turmoil. I thought you were going to shove a hand out, grab the fork and just start chowing down yourself.

AVENGED SEVENFOLD: Also a Big A and I shared love, but I want the credit for this one. A7X in the car and you’ve started your own uterine Headbanger’s Ball. NICE.

CURLY HAIR: I’m just assuming from the wicked heartburn that you’ll have a ton of hair, since that is one wives tale that is actually (supposedly) true. Something about enzymes or whatnot, I don’t know, that’s science. I wasn’t good at science. But I’ve had a shitton of heartburn and my hair doesn’t curl like it used to so I’m calling this one early.

You’ve certainly inherited the night owl gene from both of us, though Big A has learned to suppress that in recent years. But your mom and dad used to hang out all night at Steak and Shake and you seem to enjoy your little dance parties at midnight.  That’s one trait I wish you hadn’t picked up from us. I hope you like napping like we do.

Oh, lord, please, like napping.

Sugar Me Timbers

For those of you not in the know, I took the one hour glucose screening last week. And failed. The cut off is generally between 130 and 140 depending on doctor and I got a dang nabbit 141. So, I got to participate in the torture that so many pregnant women get to experience.


It goes like this: Pregnant woman can’t eat for 12 hours. AND THAT’S JUST THE BEGINNING. Then, she gets to sit in the doctors office and/or lab waiting room for three hours, have blood drawn four separate times and drink the sweetest drink known to man. A fab way to spend a morning.

Sadly, my plans to live-tweet the whole shebang went out the window because the dungeon of the lab receives no 3G or cell service. Talk about kicking someone when they’re down. But, never fear because I still captured everything for you. Because I know you’re dying to know every crazy thought that was going through my head as the morning progressed.

8.40am – Blood draw #1. Thankfully it’s the phlebotomist that doesn’t bruise the crap out of me. And that’s actually nice and just chatty enough to distract me. BECAUSE I HATE HAVING MY BLOOD DRAWN OMG. She gives me my “breakfast” of fruit punch laced with like 7,215 grams of glucose. Yum.

8.45 –  Last time I had fruit punch that burned this much I was in college and there was Everclear involved. The amount of sugar it must take for that burning sensation must be fricking crazy.

8.50 – Alright. Drink is done. Time for crossword puzzles!

9.01 – Wow. A lot of people are coming in to get fasting blood draws done. And then this douchebag mentions food?! Who DOES that?

9.05 – Is it warm in here?

9.15  – Oh. Oh no. This is not a good feeling.

9.20 – The guy that mentioned food is wearing nice shoes. I hope he doesn’t get pissed when I spew fruit punch on them.

9.24 – Little A is going banana sandwich. NO SUGAR FOR THIS KID EVERRRRR.

9.30 –  I wonder if anyone notices I am sweating profusely.

9.35 – Good god and butterfingers can any more people cram into this room??



9.45 – Deep breaths. No vomit, no vomit, no whammies…STOP

9.50 – Blood draw #2. She says I am free to leave the lab now and to come back in 40 minutes.

9.55 – I escape the waiting room and seek the sanctity of fresh air and my car. The McDonalds next to the parking lot taunts me. I feel hungover and dizzy and I just know that McRegret’s Breakfast and a giant fountain Coke would save the day. Plus, when am I ever up early enough to GET McD’s breakfast.

9.56 – I gently weep. OK, not really. I bust out the tablet and start writing this shit down.

10.12 – I want to meet the woman who pissed off her doctor so much that he invented this test to shut her piehole. And then I want to punch her. And the doctor.

10.20  – Dude it’s fricking cold outside. I should have gotten in the front seat. But if I move I may hurl. Does remote start work from inside the car?

10.30 – Kid has not stopped squirming since I chugged that %^@!. You know what, tiny douchebag, that is not helping with the nausea issue.

10.36 – For the love of all things, don’t belch. So nasty. Why do they make these things in terrible flavors? Can’t they just make it like sugar water so you aren’t repeatedly tasting this crap for hours?

10.50  – Blood draw #3, one to go. I am running out of veins.

11.00 – This is worse than the time I had to get ten vaccinations at once.

11.10 – OMG SO HUNGRY. Lolololol, I know, let’s prank the pregnant women and not let them eat for 16 hours. That’ll learn ’em.

11.12 – Holy fucking crap will the fruit punch burps from the River Styx ever go away???


11.46 – Wake up with wicked fruit punch coughs and almost vom. That would decreased the value of the car.

11.50 – Blood draw #4. And of course, she had to botch one of the draws so, um, ow. Give her credit for 75% success though. My arms hurt when I bend them.

12 noon – Hungry, dizzy, headachey. Should I go to work for a half day? Hmmm.

12.01 –  NOPE.

12.10 – Get home. Give me something to &/#$! eat.


3.36  – FEED ME. AGAIN.

4.00 – ….That wasn’t so bad.

I can’t even include battle wound pictures. Even with the botched draw I have nothing to show for it. Not a bruise, not a spot, nothing.

Now, we await the results. So far (as of 1:30 Tuesday) not a peep so I am taking that as a good sign and that I should find and eat one of those giant chocolate muffins. Because that sounds %$#! delicious.

Pajama Jam

So I promised pictures and I would hate to go back on that. I know you’re all dying for more glimpses of my crazy mug. Was I smart enough to have my mom take some while she was here? Of course not. We were too busy eating frosting and playing with power tools and paint brushes. So, back to the bathroom we go.

Week 29

Still rocking the innie – not yet a turkey timer. The belly is hard as a rock. I poked it while on Skype with Big A last weekend and he made the comment that my stomach as never been larger…or firmer. I’m pretty sure that was a sly way of telling me that I’ve always had a beer belly, even while I claimed to be a runner. Jackass was lucky to be half a world away. So I stole his favorite pajama pants. They belong to me now.

Nothing comes between me and my Calvins. Except a !@$%# baby.

These little piggies felt ignored.

Why are 70% of maternity shirts horizontally striped?

The End. OR IS IT JUST THE BEGINNING? Nope. It’s the end. FOR NOW.

The Third Trimester. The Final Frontier.

Dear @%^! Baby,

Well. Our darling little shithead. Yesterday, we entered the closing stage of your leeching. The third trimester. The final three months. The last 12-ish weeks. The culminating 84-ish days.

Don’t try to do the math. Pregnancy dating is dumber than a box of rocks and makes zero sense. If you ask Arizona, now women are pregnant for two weeks prior to conception. FEMALE BODIES ARE MAGICAL! Anyway, some say the 3rd tri starts at week 27, others says it’s 27 and a few days, others think it’s week 28. I chose to go along with the 28 weekers because, frankly, the longer I could stay in the 2nd trimester, the better I felt.


Let’s do a little round-up, eh?

Fruit Salad: The National Fruit and Fetus Comparison Board tells me you are roughly the size of a rutabaga. That is extremely unhelpful. I don’t really even know what that IS, much less how big it should be. I definitely don’t want to eat it.

Flavor Enhancers: Still can’t get enough fresh pineapple (so much so that I sent an angry tweet at Baja Fresh begging them to bring back their pineapple salsa. And then threatened to burn it down via my Facebook status), Mexican food or Jimmy Johns. I even reclaimed my Foursquare mayoral seat at  JJ’s which I am pretty damn proud of. I know that ham is supposed to be verboten, but dang nabbit, it’s all I want. ALL HAM ALL THE TIME.

Growing Pains: Holy man, the back pain after a weekend of house cleaning. I waddled for the first time after getting out  of bed with the stiffest back I’ve ever experienced. I waddled. I was not happy.

The Weight is On: I feel huge, but apparently my 11 pound gain has not been enough to appease my doctor. Lord knows I’ve been stuffing my $#^! face whenever the mood strikes. I was given instructions to “indulge more” once again. If she saw what I actually ate in the course of a day, she may change her tune. But, Doctor’s Orders! Pass the cupcakes. And milkshakes. And chocolate chip cookie ice cream sandwiches.

(Sweet) Relief: The bathroom trips are getting annoying, especially when it’s four times during the night. WHEN THERE IS NOTHING IN THE BLADDER. Maybe if you would cease being a little shithead and stop kicking me in said bladder I wouldn’t have to roll out of bed to tinkle. And I mean literally. It’s just a %^#1&@! tinkle. NOT WORTH THE WADDLE.

I’ve also come to the point in the journey which requires doctor appointments every two weeks. I can tell you how they go. Check-in. Wait. Pee in cup. Get weighed. Check blood pressure. Wait. Doctor enters.

“Any pain?” Nope.

“Any problems?” Nope.

“Any questions?” Nope.

Get belly measured. Listen to heartbeat. Get information on what the next appointment will entail, if it is going to require a special test of some sort. Get the peace out, see ya later.

So mundane. Not that I want them to be anything different, but it kills my productivity if I have to go back to work afterwards. #justjokes #iamalwaysunproductive

I meant to take a picture yesterday to include here because apparently people are angry at the lack of bump, but I looked like hell and then just plain forgot. So suck it up for a few days, I’ll take some pictures this weekend. In the meantime, here’s how I played the system in the worst parking lot ever because my mom had just gotten off her flight and we were both starving. Even though I look visibly pregnant, I felt pretty %$@&~ shady walking away from the car in 4 inch heels. BUT I AM, IN FACT, PREGNANT SO NEENER NEENER. I didn’t see any further stipulations for space usage.

So, little rutabaga, hang tight a few more months. Or longer, it’s totally up to you. You are much safer in there than out here where I can drop you, scald you, bang your head against doorjambs, under nourish you, nick your fingers with fingernail clippers, forget to bathe you, over nourish you, yell at you, stare at you, poke you, scratch you, drop you again, break you, forget you in the car, leave you outside in the rain, forget to change your litterbox, etc. Stay here. Stay here as long as you can. 

99 days…OF FEAR

Dear ^@$~ Baby,

I was informed by The Bump yesterday that you only have 100 days left to incubate. Which means today, if my math is correct, you have 99. NINETY NINE. NINETY-FU@%$^G-NINE. That’s double digits, man. DOUBLE FU%&@!G DIGITS!

That’s double f^#&!$g terrifying is what that is.

How has this possibly gone that fast already? That I have less than 100 days to go? Apparently this 100 day thing is an actual “thing” now and kids even celebrate it at school. But that’s days accomplished not days to go and quite frankly, I don’t get it. We never celebrated being in school for 100 days. All we celebrated in grade school: the bell signaling Christmas Vacation, Valentine’s Day, Field Day and the one day a year we got to walk to Silver Lake and go down that stinky rusty metal swirly slide. Oh, and one year they celebrated birthdays by the month and you got to leave class to enjoy a bag of popcorn in the music room. And you got a pencil. A PENCIL. Not even a mechanical one. So get ready kid, apparently you get to celebrate a lot more in school than we ever did.

Anyway. I digress.

I feel like I should have an advent calendar for this shit now. Each day would provide me with a piece of candy and a childcare tip. Because I don’t know any of those tips. And I like candy. And I should probably learn something before you arrive. Because, while I may curse at you, Little 2$%#! Baby, I don’t want to damage you.

I’ve got 99 days to learn some baby things. AAAAAAND BREAK!




Endnote: I tried really hard to make a Jay-Z “99 Problems” reference but I just wasn’t feeling it. I am disappointed in myself enough for all of us.