Do you know what ten pounds of water weight looks like?

Unfortunately, I do.

My feet swell if I don’t keep them elevated constantly. This is hard to do what with the working and the needing to walk around. It is truly amazing how quickly they swell. On Sunday I took a (glorious) nap and propped my feet up on some pillows. When I woke up I was shocked and thrilled to be able to see my ankle bones. I actually spent several moments twisting my feet around, admiring those ankle bones. Which I could see! Because they were not covered in swollen flesh! Then I got up, walked downstairs, put some water in the teakettle, looked down and…the ankle bones were gone.

There is water everywhere. I’m surprised that I’m not sloshing as I walk around. My wedding ring is sunk into my finger. Everything that touches my body leaves a mark. My forearms are bloated, for heavens sake. How do you get bloated forearms?

But the worst was yet to come. I just walked into the bathroom at work and took a gander at my reflection and was truly, truly frightened at what I saw. I look like Senator Kelly from the X-Men. Remember him? He was turned into a mutant by the evil side except that the cells of normal human beings can’t handle the pressure and so he gradually became more and more watery until he finally turned into a giant puddle and oh wow I sound like such a geek. Anyway, that’s what I look like. My face is broad and swollen and the bags under my eyes are substantial. I look waterlogged. I feel waterlogged.

I was almost hoping that my doctor would tell me that I was developing complications just so I could have an excuse for looking like this. But, no. I am still as healthy as can be. She just thinks it is plain ol’ late pregnancy water retention.

She did offer a little piece of hope. “Just wait,” she said. “After you give birth, you are going to be peeing gallons.”

I can’t wait.

I am increasingly concerned with his inability to face reality

Me: Do my boobs look like they’ve gotten even bigger?

Him: No.  They look like they’ve changed shape a little, maybe.

Me: You mean they’re saggier.

Him: No.  Just…lower.

Me: I’ll never have my old boobs back.  They are gone forever. I’ll miss them.

Him: I don’t know why you keep saying that.  They’ll come right back afterwards.

Me: *blinkblinkblink*

Him: What?

Work issues, continued

I’m panicking because it’s 5:15, I haven’t finished my Must Do Today list, and I can’t stay late because I have dinner plans.

What happens if I give birth this weekend?  Huh? Huh?  Who is going to do my “Must Do”s?  They Must Be Done!  They are labeled as such!

THIS IS A NIGHTMARE.

Aw, to hell with it.  I’m going to dinner.

We’d all get along if you’d just stop asking me to do stuff

All around the office there’s been constant discussion of when I’m leaving.  I never really picked an end date.  I just assumed that I’d keep working until I went into labor and then I’d wave bye-bye suckers and clear out.  To prepare for that uncertain moment, I’ve been working my way down the to-do list from “Most critical things. Do now. Immediately. No kidding” to “Make a rubber band ball.”  I’m somewhere in the middle right now, in the “Be nice to have that done” section.

And…I’m running out of steam.  People keep talking to me.  They keep wanting ”input” and “ideas” out of me before I leave, when all I want is “a nap.”  And I am kind of regretting that I haven’t picked an end date.  I need something to focus on, something beyond “early November, unless the kid is late, then mid-November, but definitely before Thanksgiving.”

I just want people to stop needing things from me.  And, yes, I know that parenthood is all about people needing things from me, which is why I want a break now.  I want to not be needed for the last time in my life, to just sit on the couch and read my novel.  But I’m needed at work and then I get home and Alias Father asks, “What are we having for dinner?”  And then next thing I know I am simultaneously doing laundry and cooking dinner while taking time out to help build the #)?&*% changing table. I try to relax after dinner but shoot I forgot to put that laundry in the dryer and oh damn I still have to finish thank-you notes from the baby shower.

So it really shouldn’t be a surprise that I’m rethinking the wisdom of working to the end, because if I weren’t here then I could sit quietly at home for an hour and read with my feet up and thus prepare for the fact that I will never be able to do that again.  At least not for the next eighteen years.

Oh.  Oh my.  What have I done?

Breaking my own record

Two weeks ago, I gained five pounds in a week. I was stunned, but assumed it was mostly water.

Then last week I only gained half a pound.  I figured had turned the corner.

Today, I found out that I’d gained SEVEN pounds this week.

How does that happen, even assuming it’s water weight?

Which it must be, right? Water weight? It’s not humanly possible to eat enough to gain seven pounds in a week, right?

Right?

Um, right?

Enough about sex. How do I feel about football?

I started this blog as a way to track my feelings about pregnancy and parenthood and all that.  And, for good or evil, I’ve stayed pretty close to topic.  But I’ve been feeling pretty one-note about the pregnancy thing lately, which is funny because in real life I try really hard to not be that woman that talks about being pregnant all the time.

So today I thought I would break from form and do a little “About Me” post.  Here is where I stand on certain critical matters, compiled completely randomly as they pop into my brain:

Political affiliation: not registered to any party.  I don’t like commitment.  However, I have voted in every possible election since I was 18.  I think that if you don’t vote, you are failing as an American.

Sense of humor: darker than most and exercised at every possible opportunity.

College major: English literature with a minor in Women’s Studies.  I am not ashamed of the liberal arts degree.  I consider myself a generalist.

Sports I like to watch on TV, but not live: American football, swimming, track and field.

Sports I like to watch live, but not on TV: Hockey, soccer, basketball, volleyball.

Sports I don’t like to watch at all: baseball (mind-bogglingly boring and ew, the spitting) and boxing (I’m squeamish about violence).

But what do I like best: Football.  Perferably on Sunday afternoon with beer and pizza.

Football teams I like: Broncos, Packers, Patriots, Steelers, Raiders.

Football teams I don’t like: Colts, Cowboys, Ravens, Redskins.

Logic for any of these choices: gut reaction, except for the Colts.  I find Peyton Manning to be whiny on-field.  He does good commercials, though.

Biggest faults: procrastination and a tendency towards paranoia.

Biggest strength: ability to find almost anyone entertaining at some level. 

Beer or wine: both.  Not usually at the same occasion, however.

Dog or cat: both.  Both have their individual snuggling uses.  No birds, though.  Or fish.  Or turtles.  If it can’t keep my feet warm, I’m not interested.

Guilty pleasures:  Anything with Sandra Bullock.  I can’t explain it.   And bad home improvement TV.

Favorite book/movie/author: Damned if I know.  I like a wide variety in all these things so picking a favorite is just impossible.  Plus, I am fickle so it changes frequently.

Anything else?  Just ask.

I would like to say this to my husband but I suspect it needs more refining

Stop looking at my boobs.  Seriously.  I’m not kidding.

No, you are not getting sex.  I apologize for that, because I know it’s been a while, but you are looking at probably another six months minimum before you get laid again.  I’m sorry, but thems the facts.  I suggest you get used to it.

Don’t worry.  It’s not because I no longer think that you are the sexiest guy around.  You clearly are sexier than any other guy out there, with the possible exception of David Boreanaz and no I don’t know what my obsession is with him.  Swarthy isn’t usually my type, but between the sexy vampire thing and the funny FBI agent thing thing I’m hooked.  Don’t look at me like that.  You have Kate Winslet.

Where was I?  Oh, right.   Your sexless existence.

See, this is definitely one of those cases where it is clearly not you, it’s me.  I don’t think I could feel less sexy these days if I were a turnip.  A rotting turnip.  A rotting turnip that is sitting on top of a overflowing compost heap.  You getting the picture or should I keep going?

Sometimes I think about sex.  I really do.  Then I realize that I’ve got an abdomen so distended that I can’t put shoes on without grunting.  I’ve got veins popping out every where and weird splotches all over my legs.  Those boobs you like so much, while ample, seem to be developing stretch marks.  And do you know what I saw when I took off my boots the other day?  Do you?  Swollen grandma ankles.  Who wants to have sex with someone with grandma ankles?  And all this repulsiveness just kills the mood for me.

So, I’m sorry.  My body issues are taking priority right now and you are just going to have to accept that as part of the deal. 

Now, once more.  Quit looking at my boobs.  No, seriously.

Dear Target: Kiss my confused, considerable ass

I know that there are a lot of dedicated Target devotees out there who claim that “Tar-jay” is their most favoritist store ever.  I’m not one of them.  I don’t see how one giant corporation selling cheap plastic stuff is tremendously superior to or hipper than any other giant corporation selling cheap plastic stuff, but this is America and god bless those with the good marketing people.  More power to ‘em.

However, I needed a place to register for baby essentials that our strung-around-the-U.S. family could easily navigate either online or i-person.  I chose Target.  I was pretty disappointed in their selection from the beginning, but stuck with it because I was too lazy to find another place for items like bottle warmers, car seats, and other things that I wanted to look at in person.  (I also opened up a registry at Amazon, where I was able to get, like, totally hippy and alternative things like a Moby Wrap, cloth diapers, and crib sheets in colors other than pink and blue.  Not that I’m bitter, Target.)

There is a point to this diatribe, I swear.

This weekend I went to do some final shopping for baby items, including a contoured changing pad for the top of the changing table being built by Alias Father (which he is actually building!  It’s not done yet, but there is something changing-table-like sitting in the middle of our dining room with glue and clamps and mortised joints).  We had registered for a changing pad at Target and changing pad covers at Amazon, but hadn’t received either yet.  So I decided to cut those items off the registries and just buy them ourselves because time was getting short.

When designing the changing table, AF had been thinking the changing pad was 36 inches long and was building accordingly.  When wandering around a non-Target store looking at covers, I discovered that the standard size for pads is apparently 32 inches.  I called the husband to inform him of this.  He double-checked what I wrote down the other day off the Target website, which was 34 inches.  I assumed that I had written it down wrong, much as he had been remembering it wrong, but told him that I would call back from Target with confirmation.

I purchased a 32 inch (non-pink, non-blue) pad cover before I left the store, figuring that standard size is standard size, right?  Our pad must be 32 inches.  Clearly, the 34 inches was a product of hormonal delusion.

I get to Target.  I head to the changing pad section.  I pick up the pad.  (Are you on the edge of your seat yet?)  34 inches.  In puzzlement, I look at the changing pad covers displayed directly over the 34 inch pad.  They are all 32 inches. 

Not only is Target selling a changing pad that is a non-standard size–with no clues to tell you that this is the case (“Now a bigger size!  For those really tall babies!”), but their own covers don’t even fit the bloody thing.

Clearly, this is some kind of plot to drive pregnant woman absolutely round the bend.  Because after being ruthlessly assaulted by the endless pink and giraffes and gingham and the rest of the baby store crapola, who would even notice this until they got home and spent hours trying to wedge a 34 inch pad into a 32 inch cover?  And I’m willing to bet that Target would give you a hard time about returning the pad after it was removed from its protective plastic bag, too.

I said screw Target, went back to the other store, purchased a standard size changing pad, took the bizarro changing pad off the registry, and renewed my vow to hate Target for the rest of my days, no matter how much all the hipsters love it.

Why must it all be so annoying?

Things I learned from child birth class

Last night was our last child birth class.  Here’s a summary of the important points from this 6-week commitment.

1) Breathe.

2) Breastfeeding is a glorious and womanly art that will fulfill your every dream, once you get past the part where your nipples feel like they’ve been gnawed upon by giant rats.

3) Five breaths and thirty pushes to the chest in CPR.  AND NO CHEATING!  The American Red Cross is watching!

4) Don’t shake the baby.

I’m ready for parenthood!  Bring it on!

I am now entering the surreal part

I will be the first to admit that as pregnancies go, this has been easy so far.  My morning sickness was merely a bit of nausea.  I’ve had some leg cramps and back aches, but nothing major.  Except for the minor placenta previa and gestational diabetes alerts, I’ve had no scares whatsoever.  Overall, I feel pretty damn good considering I’ve gained *mumblemumble* pounds and have had another human being living off me for the last nine months.

But things are starting to get a bit wacky around the edges.

The belly has begun growing at an alarming rate.  People used to tell me that I looked great for being X number of months along.  This is no longer the case.  People are actually visibly staring at me in public, as though they expect me to squat down and pop the baby out any second.  Or perhaps they are wondering how I am still standing upright.  I’m not sure.  Either way, I am beginning to feel like a freak of naturesurreal.

To add to this, I’ve also got a total body dysmorphia thing going on.  My image of what I look like to the outside, based on years and years of looking pretty much the same, is now totally out of touch with reality.  Thus, whenever I walk by a mirror or window, I nearly jump out of my skin.

Speaking of jumpy, I have developed restless leg syndrome.  I don’t know about you, but I always thought this was kind of a faker’s disease.  I mean, what kind of self-respecting person complains about an overwhelming desire to move their legs?  Apparently, I do.  In the evenings, I can no longer just sit back and relax without the compulsion to move my legs around.  It’s irritating, frustrating, and not just a little weird.  And, according to my doctor, not uncommon.

And finally, we have the great baby switcheroo.  For the last four weeks or so, The Kid has been lodged in there head down with her spine curling along my left side and her (long) legs stretched out across me and kicking me in the right ribs.  I got pretty used to this, so it was understandably disconcerting when I woke up the other morning to find her on my right side and kicking me in the left ribs.  Okay, fine, she got bored and mixed things up a bit.  Then I woke up this morning and it’s back to the left, kicking on the right.  She’s just flipping around in there during the night, purely to mess with my head.  I’m convinced.  And while I do find it reassuring that she has my sense of humor, I wish she’d quit it.  Not least because I think I am developing internal bruising from all that flipping.

So there you have it, I’m fat, paranoid, jumpy, and bruised.

Welcome to week 37.  Any questions?