Coming to Terms

I’ll be honest here. With Big A back home my blogging motivation has plummeted – hate to see what it’ll be like when Little A arrives! I am also trying not to freak out about the amount of things that need to be purchased, built, arranged, washed, cleaned, organized, prepped, made, packed, installed, hung, mowed, read, polished, kicked, pwned, sterilized, bleached, moved, etc before said arrival.

Speaking of the little parasite (EPIC SEGUE), he is full term today at 37 weeks! So, that’s neat. But keep that on the down low, because I don’t want him to know that he is technically able to make his move – I ain’t ready for that yet. I’m still hoping he’ll pop on the 4th…but I was pretty much told at my appointment on Tuesday to expect to go late. I THOUGHT THAT WAS A WIVES TALE. Which meant I had to change my submitted last day of work from “set in stone” to “tentative”. Not cool, man.

Here’s a terrible picture from this morning, with bonus cat.

Yes, even with someone in the house to take pictures now I still have to resort to mirror cell phone captures.

Fetal Fruit Comparison: Winter Melon. Again, much like the durian comparison, unhelpful. I only know winter melons exist because of my time with Farmville a long time ago, but that doesn’t help me with the size visual. All I see is a cartoon farmer and a field full of pixels.

Feeling…Large: This little bastard’s getting heavy. He’s starting to drop so the pressure is increasing in the front and I don’t like it. No, sir. I don’t like it. I’ve gained about 22 pounds overall which is good (really good, considering the amount of junk food I’ve had a penchant for), but man, that creeping scale is a scary thing sometimes.

Rude Awakenings: Lesson learned and then forgotten until learned again the next day – one should not, in my condition, wake up, stretch and flex ones feet. HOLY MOTHER OF CHARLIE HORSES DON’T F’IN DO THAT. But every morning, I do it. #%^@fw!

LIKE A CHAMP: I only woke up to pee once last night (my current standard is three) and I felt like Rocky. The boxer, not the squirrel.

Jagged Little Pills: My nightly medicinal cocktail is wondrous. Metamucil, Tylenol PM, pre-natal vitamin, DHA and Zantac. I may continue while beyond pregnancy with this one. Healthy, regular AND drowsy? SOLD.

Speaking of cocktails: I could really use one.

Booty Popper: Much like his mom, Little A apparently has a giant rear and knows how to use it. Often. He’s booty poppin’ and droppin’ it like it’s hot all the time.

At least he’ll have one of my assets.


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. 

The Pregnancy Halftime Show

Dear @%^! Baby,

Well. Little Guy. As of today, you and I have made it to the halfway mark without significant damage to each other. We deserve ice cream! And presents! And accolades!

I really cannot believe this crazy thing is at the 20 week mark. I still forget I’m pregnant most of the time, I’m not the size of a U-Haul yet and I can still rock my non-maternity clothes 71% of the time (with a little assistance, at least). I did, though, discover the joys of maternity pants this week and their kick-ass elastic waists, so my normal clothes, while they fit, are going to be taking a back seat to that awesome.

Let’s fill everyone else in on your progress and how you’re messing with my body, shall we?

Fruit Salad: According to the National Fruit and Fetus Comparison Board, you are roughly the size of a cantaloupe. That’s actually pretty sizable, considering you’re still in semi-hiding. Keep growing into bigger fruits, champ.

Flavor Enhancers: You have taste buds now. Hope you like cheese, spicy stuff, Jimmy Johns, chocolate protein shakes, Cherry Coke and strawberry smoothies.

Growing Pains: I have been having a little back pain, enough that I have to ask myself if I’ve had any Hot Pockets recently. The headaches only come on if I leave out the morning coffee. So I just don’t leave out my morning coffee. The heartburn, well, I can see why people would complain about this, but I’ve had old man heartburn since college. Keep the Tums on the nightstand and we’re good to go.

Sleep is for the Awesome: Sleep is not (yet) an issue. I’ve been sleeping better than ever, which is sort of awesome because I am usually a terrible sleeper. It used to take me forever to fall asleep (once asleep I am out like Rip van Winkle. Not to be confused with Robert van Winkle) but now I fall asleep before the episode of American Dad is over.

The Weight is On: Well, maybe not “on”. Total poundage for this whole thing so far is only about 5 lbs. Which is low, but nothing alarmingly low. I also don’t know HOW it’s only that much. I just got further orders to “indulge”. I can handle that.

The Graze Method: Since you’re all nestled up and snuggling with my internal organs, I was informed that you’re basically giving me a gastric bypass and squashing my stomach. So I can only eat a little bit at a time. And eat often. So somehow, now all I do is eat.

5, 6, 7, 8: Ever since Superbowl Sunday, I can feel your wicked dance moves more frequently. Mostly at night when I’m not focused on much else. But you’re definitely pop lockin’ up a storm and you let me know when I’m not in a position you like. Bossy little fetus.

You're like a Bump-It. For my belly.

Alright, I take shitty pictures of myself and there is no good spot in the house to do it. I either need to figure out the timer setting on my other camera or someone needs to come hang out with me once a week. THIS IS IMPORTANT, PEOPLE. These are memories. MEMORIES, DAMMIT.

Anyway. Halfway done, halfway to go! Keep up the good work, little fella, I guess? Good game?