I’m thinking about screenprinting it onto a t-shirt

In the immortal words of the fast-talking ultrasound tech:  “Well, she’s definitely above average, but she’s not massive.”

Isn’t that just what you want to hear about your little girl?  “She’s not massive.”

But she is, indeed, above average.

Here’s the hard data:

On the day of the ultrasound (yesterday), I was 33 weeks, 6 days along.  Every measurement they took put the baby at 35 weeks, 1 day.  But they aren’t changing my due date.  She’s just a little over a week bigger than the average fetus.

She weighs approximately 5.6 pounds.

She’s (sit down for this one) around 18.5 inches long.

As the tech said, “Heck, you could have this baby tomorrow and be just fine.” 

Other things we learned:

Yep, definitely a girl.

She’s currently head down with her spine against my left side and her legs stretched across me.  This is explains why I’ve been feeling like I’m getting punched in the bladder while being kicked in the right ribs.  That’s because I actually am, in fact, being punched in the bladder and kicked in the right ribs.  (Another tech quote: “Woah.  Those are some long legs.”  See?  I told you that it wasn’t normal for her to be kicking my side waist like that.) 

From the profile shot, it appears that she has my husband’s nose.  Which isn’t a bad nose, it’s just a, um, distinctive one.  It’s a nose that looks great on a 6′5″ man.  I’m just concerned that it might not quite fit on a little girl face.  But who knows?  Could be cute.

From the 3D construction, we can see that she has fat cheeks.  Really fat, pinchable baby cheeks.  Those come from me.  I think I carried half my weight in my cheeks until age 4 or so and my face was continually bruised from overenthusiastic grandmother-types.

The tech claims he saw a cleft chin.  I couldn’t see it.  Also, there are no cleft chins on either side of our family.  Whatever.  Maybe it was just a shadow cast by the gigantic schnozz.

My low-lying placenta has cooperatively moved up and out of the way, so I should be good to go with a natural birth.  If I can manage to push out this little mutant.

Sigh.  “Not massive.”  That’s encouraging, right?  At least a little encouraging?

PS- She is totally the cutest child ever.  Even with the nose.

Apparently, Thursday is for grumpiness

Oh, wow, am I a piece of work today. 

I just did a little check of this site and discovered that, yes indeed, my last little venture into crankiness was also on a Thursday.  Apparently, Thursdays are trouble.  Perhaps because I’m feeling the effects of the work week, but it’s not over yet.  Maybe this is when the sleep deprivation that starts on Monday begins to catch up with me.  Whatever the reason…wow.  Just wow.  I’m even amazing myself today.

Let’s do the list format again, shall we?

1) It took me 25 minutes to get dressed this morning because nothing that I own fits me.  All of the pants are too tight in the butt (I’m hoping that’s because my hips are spreading from the relaxin and not because of even more weight gain).  All of the skirts are too tight in the belly or, because I must hike them up so far, are totally too short for work.  Shirts, in their desperate attempts to fit over the belly, no longer cover up the elastic waists of the bottoms.  My closet looks like it was attacked by rabid wolves.  I finally ended up wearing the itchiest pair of pants I own and a shirt I already wore this week.  I had to iron the pants and swab chocolate off the shirt first.  Of course I did.

2) This state of wardrobe affairs has convinced me that I am not going to make it another six weeks on the clothing that I have.  Especially because I have big meetings coming up in October.  Which means I need to buy more.  Think about that: I need to spend money on clothes that I am going to wear for SIX WEEKS.  I am so bitter about this. 

3) The Kid has been kicking my ribs almost nonstop for three days.  Not cute anymore, kid.  Last night she ceased doing that for a little bit only to stretch her (apparently long) legs out and kick me in the side of my waist.  I didn’t even know the uterus went that far around.  I briefly pondered whether she had broken out of the uterus and was now just drifting freely through my body, but I finally decided that I probably would have felt that.

4)  I think I have finally gotten some stretch marks.  On my boobs.  Which haven’t grown significantly for three months.  What the…?

5) My belly button, after several weeks of playing peek-a-boo, is now definitely on its way to becoming an outie.  It’s totally flat and the top part is bumping out.  So sad.

6) I had to take my wedding and engagement rings off last night to let my fingers reast.  I put them back on this morning, but they are already indented again.  I’m hoping it’s just retained water or the result of the recent heat wave.  My ankles are permanently puffy at this point, too.  Grrr.  Aarrgh.  Like I need anything else to make me feel uncomfortable and unattractive at this point.

7) I used to think I understood what they meant by “shortness of breath.”  I didn’t.  Now I understand.  Until you discover, while sitting passively on the couch, that you are gasping for air because The Kid is wedged up under your ribs and has reduced your lung capacity to that of a two-week old kitten, you have not experienced “shortness of breath.”

Time to leave for an ultrasound.  Expect reportage tomorrow on whether this baby is as big as she feels.

How you know we’re ready to become parents

We used to get excited when we had a special event to go to.  Concerts got us all wound up.  Film festivals would have us chatting for days.  We’d obsessively plan travel to new places for weeks.  We’d save up our pennies in order to try out a new, expensive restaurant.  Heck, even a dinner party with friends was a welcome reprieve from hanging out at home.

This morning I turned to Alias Father and said, “Oh my god!  I just remembered that Bones and House premiere tonight!”

And he said, “Woohoo!”

And then we high-fived.  Because we are old and lame and no longer have anything resembling a life.

Seems like as good a time as any to have a kid!

Gimme an Oy! Now gimme a Vey!

I was going to write a post today about how I may have done myself a disservice.  Because I really did feel fine for the vast majority of this pregnancy, I never asked Alias Father for more help with housework or carrying heavy things or any of that.  But, as I get bigger, it is becoming harder and harder to do basic life maintenance stuff.  Carrying a full laundry basket down the stairs now feels treacherous.  Standing in the kitchen and cooking for an hour makes my back ache.  Hefting full grocery bags out of the trunk requires the kind of motivational talk that one frequently hears beefy, veiny, red-faced men yelling at each other in the gym (”Come on, man!  You can lift that!  Push harder!  GogoGOGOGO!”)(Those men scare me, by the way).

Anyway,  this weekend I found myself sitting on the floor in our entryway replacing a broken tile.  As I chipped away at old mortar with my back aching, trying to not hit myself in the belly with every backswing of the hammer and wondering if I’d even be able to get up off the floor when I needed to go get the new tile, I realized that I probably repeated the “I can do it myself” line a few too many times.

So I was going to write about that.

Then I got a phone call from the Alias Father, who was letting me know that he was at the hospital.

You see, I am married to a man who works in one of the professions that routinely turns up on the “America’s Most Dangerous Jobs” list.  No, he’s not an Alaskan crab fisherman, which would admittedly be worse.  He’s a carpenter.  Which doesn’t sound all that bad, right?  How bad can that be?

There’s a scene in Disney’s Beauty and the Beast (which I can barely believe I’m admitting that I’ve seen, let alone referencing) where some bad guys get chased into the kitchen.  Until then, the kitchen had been a warm, comforting place but suddenly the kitchen is a place of terror, with drawers full of knives, a stove belching fire, and cast iron pots just waiting to cause physical harm.

That is how I feel about job sites.  Do you know how many ways there are to die on a construction site?  Forget the obvious, like ladders and table saws.  There’s nail guns just waiting to misfire, crowbars perched precariously on the edge of roofs, distracted, testosterone-filled men driving around tight spaces in large vehicles.  It’s a bloody nightmare for a worrywart.

We have been lucky.  Alias Father has never been seriously hurt on the job.  He’s had a couple of stitches here and there, some pulled muscles, a twisted ankle.  Nothing to keep him off work for more than a few days. 

But we know people who’ve been seriously hurt.  One guy has fallen off a high ladder twice, once resulting in a broken wrist and once a serious concussion.  That same guy also shot himself in the ankle with a nail gun.  Another gentleman fell of a roof, broke his back, and spent a year in a back brace.  Then there was the fingertip incident, which resulted in AF driving a co-worker to the ER with part of the guy’s finger packed in the cooler between AF’s ham sandwich and Dr. Pepper.  Nobody has ever died on one of his crews.  But we hear of it happening often.  A construction site is a dangerous place to have an “off” day.

We were lucky again this time.  AF sliced open the back of his wrist on a piece of metal.  It just missed being deep enough to sever the tendon.  All he needed was some stitches and two days of an immobilized hand.

I always worry about him.  But now I’m worried in a whole new way.  This is my child’s father.  I’m suddenly seeing what he does everyday in a new, clear light.  The stakes have been raised.  A serious injury or worse (cross fingers, knock on wood, salt over my shoulder, make sign against the evil eye) would bring about a whole new level of devastation.

Do you think I can ask him to perhaps take up a job in a pillow shop instead?

Plus, I guess this means I don’t get beg off cooking dinner tonight.

Things that were not a good idea

Standing for five hours last night at a schmoozy work event.

On hardwood floors.

While wearing tights.

And high heels.

While nearly 8 months pregnant.

Sweet mercy.  My feet, ankles, calves, quads, hips, and back may never be the same.

Do not do as I do.  Save yourselves.

Just when I was starting to feel well-adjusted

Alias Father and I have been taking the childbirth class at our local hospital, mostly so that we can get to know the facility and the staff. 

(Our local hospital is so small that they only rarely–very rarely–have more than one mother in at a time.  They only have one delivery room, as a matter of fact.  The birthing classes are taught by all the nurses, so you can get to know them before you go into labor.  Also, my doctor lives a block from the hospital so she never hands patients off to the on-call doctor.  She’s always on-call.)(See? There are benefits to small town care.)

These classes have been pretty unremarkable so far.  They are exactly what you would expect, which means that there isn’t very much blogging material to be found there.  With the notable exception of one of the dads, who is a used car salesman (seriously!) and cannot stop himself from making constant jokes about watching baseball playoffs during labor and how he’s going to pass out in the delivery room.  He makes my husband, a man who has been known to burp out full sentences and fart in his brother’s face, look like the embodiment of dignity and restraint.

In fact, there is only one thing worth noting about the class.  One of the other women, who is an acquaintance of Alias Father and seems like a lovely person, is so tiny that I can’t even believe it.  She’s only three weeks behind me, which would put her at about 29-30 weeks, but she looks like I did when I was 15 weeks pregnant.

I know this is a really bad thing to compare.  All women are built differently and show differently.  She is tall, but with a very small frame, and her husband is only about 5′7″, which means that she is likely not carrying the Mutant Child of Doom as I am.*  But is it really fair that some women get to wander through pregnancy with a teensy, cute little belly while other women (read: me) look like a snake that has eaten a water buffalo and also packed on about 15 pounds in the tail section.

Dear Mother Nature: bite me.

*I have my second ultrasound next week to see if my low-lying placenta has moved.  Anyone want to take bets on how big this kid is? 

Things I have learned about maternity clothes

Forget comfort.  There is no comfort.  You will be uncomfortable from the first bloat on.  Your pants will either fall down all the time or threaten to crawl their way up to your armpits.  Your shirts will encase you like sausage or threaten to throttle you with their excessive, tent-like fabric.  Your underwear will bunch in back, fold over in front, or just leave big welts in your legs all over.  If something feels comfortable, don’t celebrate, just wait two days and you will outgrow it.

Prints seem like a good idea, but they are a mistake.  Do not be fooled by the prints.  They will make you look like an oncoming floral bus.  Solids are your friend.

If you didn’t look good in that style before you were pregnant, you will not look good in it now.  It’s still your body, it’s just your body maximized.

Beware the sneaky take-over attempts of pregnancy cleavage.  You must remain alert at all times for sudden boob changes or that work-appropriate shirt you put on at 7 AM may be pornographic by 3 PM.

Don’t become too attached to any piece of clothing.  You may love it now, but soon it won’t fit, or it will get a stain, or you will just be so damn sick of wearing it three times a week that you burn it in a fury one day.  Then you will weep because it was the only piece you had that went with those blue pants/that green shirt.

There are really nice maternity clothes out there.  They cost $180 a piece.  They will still only fit for a month.  Do the math.

The answer to the question “Does this make me look fat?” is “Yes.”  There is no escaping this truth.  You are fat.  Embrace it.

Two words: necklaces and shoes.  Big, bold necklaces and bright, eyecatching shoes.  Neutral everywhere else.  People are like magpies and will gravitate to the colorful and shiny.  Use this to your advantage.

Never, ever, ever compare your wardrobe now with your pre-pregnancy wardrobe.  It will just make you flail around despairing that you have lost your sense of self.  In the future, you can deny that this phase of your fashion life ever existed.

How many babies can I carry at one time?

I know that you never really know how you are going to want to handle a baby until one arrives, but I strongly suspect that I will be the kind of mom that uses a sling or other carrier.  I think the attachment parenting people are lovely (if a tad idealistic), but that’s not really why I think it will work for me.

Here’s the thing: I hate carrying and pushing things.  I refuse to carry any purse that doesn’t either strap across my body or sit closely under my arm.  I don’t want purse straps sliding down my arm or little clutch purses that require me to hold them all day.  If I can get away with it, I don’t carry a purse at all.  When I travel, I use either a carry-on with a shoulder strap or a backpack.  I refuse to haul around a suitcase.  Especially the wheeled ones.  Just the sight of a wheeled suitcase gives me the willies.  Why would you want a suitcase bumping you in the ankles and tipping over every time you turn a corner (not to mention running over the toes of innocent travelers who are just trying to find their departure gate, not that that has ever happened to me, oh no) when you could have a perfectly nice backpack strapped on that is totally out of your way?

In other words, I like to have my hands free.  When I see people hauling their babies around in infant car seat, all I can think is that they are biggest, heaviest, most awkward and annoying purses ever (plus, they look like they’d be hell on your back.  I’m pretty sure that’s not the best way to haul around 30 pounds).  I can see a use for strollers, but if I’m just going shopping or to eat, I’d rather not be pushing around a giant four-wheeled object that must then be stashed in corner of a restaurant or store for people to trip over.

Have I made it clear enough that I am anti-fuss?  Anti-muss?  Anti-excess baggage that must be hauled around from place to place?

Given my strong opinions on this matter, it makes a lot of sense to me to just strap the kid on and go.  When putting together a registry, I decided on a Moby Wrap for around the house and walks of any distance and a Peanut Shell for quick errands and times when I don’t want to walk around looking like a linebacker.  I think these look soft, easy to use, and soothing and can totally see why a baby might dig being all cuddled up like that.  Plus, to my mind they are the most attractive options out there.  I shy away from that “sporty” look and tend towards minimalism, and I think these options hit the right note.

The problem?  People keep giving me other carriers.  I have become a magnet for every baby carrier used by friends, family, and co-workers.  They are all cleaning out their houses and want to give me the carriers.

I have at my house right now:

–some generic, really bulky sling with clasps and pockets and who knows what;

–a Baby Bjorn;

–a Snugli; and

–a frame backpack.

So I feel a bit silly registering for yet two more baby-carrying devices, but the ones that people keep giving me are just not what I want.  They all look awkward and ”sporty” and huge, which are the very things I am trying to avoid.  But shouldn’t I just take what I get?  Am I really so fussy that the FOUR carriers that I have been given are not good enough?

You know that I am going to feel compelled to use them all so that the people who gave them to me won’t feel bad.  Which means that I will need to borrow babies from friends and neighbors and strap them on every which way until I look like one of those crazy American tourists that French people laugh at, only with babies instead of fanny packs.

If I do it, I promise to take a picture.

Okay, I’m happy, dammit

Alrighty.  I’ve tried to maintain my grumpiness of last week, but the truth is that it is a gorgeous September day, the sun is shining, the air is just slightly cool, and the leaves are tinged with red.  So, fine.  You win.  I’m, if not happy, then at least vaguely pleasant to be around.  So here’s the “Things About Pregnancy That Make Me Happy (Or At Least Vaguely Pleasant)” post.

Things I have not yet experienced, cross fingers, knock on wood:  Serious constipation; hemorrhoids; stretch marks; heartburn; really bad back aches; growing feet; skin problems; truly weird cravings.

Things that are not nearly as bad as I was lead to believe: back/feet/joint aches; having to pee all the time; emotional imbalance; dry skin; being kicked in the internal organs; tiredness.

Things that no one told me about, but I love: lack of hair growth (people, I haven’t shaved my legs in a month-and-a-half, and you can’t tell.  It’s like the hair just stopped growing); the excessive laughter thing; people telling me that I look great all the time just because they are scared of me.

Things I thought I would mind but, as it turns out, I kind of enjoy because I am disturbed: waddling; being really hungry and eating a lot of food; being told to slow down and rest; excessive periodic grumpiness for no reason whatsoever.

There you go.  See, I’m not always bitter and swearing about ill-fitting maternity pants.  Now, I’m going to leave work early and go for a waddle because someone told me that I look great and I want to maintain my plumber’s figure through the giant dinner that I have planned.

Cheers!

Friday Terror Watch: Choosing the Wrong Name

Suddenly, everyone I meet is all about The Name.

It used to be that someone would ask, “Have you started thinking of names yet?” And I’d say, “We’re working on it!” And they’d go away happy.

But apparently I’ve now reached the point in pregnancy where the general belief is not only that we should have picked a name, but that we should happily be sharing it with everyone up to and including the woman picking out peppers next to me in the grocery.  And they won’t accept “We’re working on it” anymore.  They want to know what we are thinking of.  Can we give some examples? Are we going with a family name?  Oh, come on.  Give a little hint.  I won’t tell anyone.

I know that some people pick a name early and tell everyone.  That’s fine and dandy and bully for you.  I personally don’t feel comfortable naming another human being until they make their appearance in the world.  I believe in a little bit of ritual now and then, and what ritual could be sweeter or more timeless than parents looking at their new child and deciding how the world will know that new human.

Do we have a name picked out?  Yes.  We have three, actually.  One preferred and two back-ups, in case the first one just doesn’t feel right.  We also have a boy name, just in case. 

But then I started thinking, what if I choose a name I’ll regret?  If you never have before, I highly recommend checking out Baby’s Got a Bad, Bad Name for a fascinating look at some of the truly horrifying names some folks are considering giving their children.  Every once in a while there will be a note of regret after-the-fact.  And that got me worried.  What if the names that sound so good now seem stupid once all the hormones wear off?  Because you know that is going to happen to a good chunk of these people. 

Not that the names Kellyna or Zannia are on my list, but still.  How do you get this right?

Maybe I should start polling everyone after all.