Snowing again...not like that's news

Dear winter storm Titan,
Let me start by saying I'm sorry that we're just not as excited about you as we might have been in December. It's been a busy season. If you want to get our attention you will have to give wedgies to puppies or learn to tap dance. It's not your fault, but you are really late to the party. So move along now, honey. That's quite enough.
Sincerely,
Me

Today we are actively being snowed in. Again. Again again. Last I checked they expect us to get 8-12 inches and not climb out of the 20s. I have a little activity planned for the morning. Mo and I are slathering some pine cones with peanut butter and rolling them in bird seed. Please note we collected the pine cones Saturday morning when it was 50 degrees and sunny. We are going to hang all the pine cones from a stick and then suspend the stick from the big hook outside the kitchen window. Then we can watch the little birds feast. And we'll watch to see how long it takes our friendly neighborhood squirrels rip the whole thing down. Usually quite acrobatic and providing at least several minutes of entertainment. They are efficient little rascals. Then maybe we'll bake cookies and watch movies and shovel as little as humanly possible. I mean, it's supposed to be 80 by Thursday, right?

First day of winter and it's 70 degrees here

In no particular order:

The Rainbow Loom is not the season's hottest gift; marketers at craft retailers are trying to trick you. [I stand corrected.] Children really like stickers and chap stick and glitter.

The motherboard in our desktop decided to retire for a long winter's nap. Sad face exclamation mark. As it was home to the downloaded music, the mix cds will all have to wait until we've moved the hard drive into a new host.

Robb was in the right place at the right time this morning. He found an extension ladder at a yard sale for $25. /Score! It looks like our gutters might get cleaned before the new year after all.

We've had a problem with aggressive teens using our side yard as a short cut into the neighborhood behind our house. They stole some things from Robb's truck. And dropped an f-bomb on him one day when he caught a dozen of them walking casually around our house. While he was holding Mo. Not cool. Robb said, "Excuse me? And the kid said, "You heard me, OLD MAN, f*ck you." Grr. That was a couple months ago. Today I saw two of them carrying skateboards cut around the truck, so I said, "What are you doing in my yard?" They looked at each other and laughed, so I shouted, "HEY A**HOLES!" out the front window. They continued on their merry way, a little faster but undeterred. I forgot to shake my fist. Next time...

I was feeling pretty festive and generous of spirit until then. Hmmpf.

Mo is a terrible eater right now. She demands processed meat (bacon, pepperoni, sausage) and uncooked noodles (spaghetti, ramen) all the time. How do you get through these phases of lousy toddler eating habits?

Robb's giant kidney stone will live to fight another day. It was so fearsome that the lithotripter broke on Thursday. We'll try it again in January.

I wore flip flops to walk the dog just now. Happy first day of winter!

Roid rage

This just in: The Sky Is Not Falling.

In other news: Scientists Make Amazing Discoveries About the Power of Hormones Over Perception.

Most of my recent doom and gloom was due to my thyroid being out of balance. That's not to say that the past year hasn't been chock full of bad news and challenges, but I think most years are full of bad news and challenges. It's just when my thyroid dips it feels like all the disappointments are closing in on me. So when Sukey went in for surgery I convinced myself that she was going to die on the operating table (even though I know how extremely rare that is because I work at the vet's office). And when I went to the dermatologist to get treatment for what turned out to be eczema, I convinced myself that it was most likely cancer and imagined Robb raising Mo as a single parent.

I'm not usually an "assume the worst" kind of person. I should have known that it was my thyroid knocking me for a loop this summer. And why, pray tell, was my thyroid messed up? For that answer I turn to Martha Stewart.

Seriously.

I picked up the September issue of Martha Stewart Living because it was the home edition. Well, the home featured was totally underwhelming. It was clinical and cold like a hospital waiting room. If that's what counts for luxury and good design these days, no thanks. I would choose my own yardsale-Ikea-antique chic any day. But near the back of the magazine was an article about thyroid disease by Francesca Castagnoli. Basic info until I hit this passage:  

"While the U.S. Food and Drug Administration is trying to enforce stricter guidelines, hormone levels fluctuate from drug to drug, and switching can have dramatic results. 'If you're stable on one brand and change to another, even at the same dose, they're not exactly compatible, and you'll feel the difference,' [endocrinologist Dr. Betul] Hatipoglu says."

Wait a minute... When I had my prescription filled in June the pills were an oblong shape, but every other time they have been round. I spoke to my pharmacist, and we discovered that the problem was a change in manufacturer. Same generic drug, same dose, different maker = crazytown.

Inconsistency in medications was not an issue that my doctor was aware of--or at least it's not something he asked me about. In fact he didn't ask me much of anything. He told me that all of the symptoms I've been having are "normal" and not to worry about it. My hair falling out by the handful, my consumption of a half a pot (or more) of coffee a day, my weight gain, my knee pain, my sensitivity to cold in the middle of a heatwave, my feeling like Eeyore...I disagree. That is not a quality of life I'm prepared to describe as "normal."

Breaking news: Barb Looks for New Doctor!

Bleh

The past 12 months have been hard. Like really hard. There have been disappointments and illnesses and deaths and setbacks and financial messes and so much teething. It's been so crappy even the dog got cancer. And every time I sit down to write a blog update all I can think to write is: poop! This week I was advised that a whole new can of bleh is going to open up on me in the next month. Seriously? It's like getting surprised at milepost 23 with news that the rest of the marathon will be uphill. If banging my head on this desk would make things better, then I'd be golden. As it is I'm not sure what we're going to do next in life. But I do know what I'm going to do next in blog, and that is post some recent photos of Mo. I took these Monday night right before my old camera bit the dust. RIP Olympus FE-230. You served us well, old friend.

Computers are disposable or News from wastelandia

Also during the hurricane the video card in our desktop computer went up. It is unfortunately an integrated system (meaning, built into the motherboard) rather than constructed Lego-style. We just replaced this tower a year-and-a-half ago around the time of the blizzard. Robb hauled it over to Best Buy to have the geeks take a look. The diagnostic alone costs $70 and takes several days. The geek he spoke to suggested it might be the power supply which would be another $40 to fix. If it is indeed the video card that is fried they could plug in a separate video card if they are able to track down that part. The geek didn't think they would find one, in which case they would have to replace the whole motherboard. Or $400. That's $100 more than we spent on the tower to begin with.

Robb asked him how is it possible that an 18 month old computer is already so obsolete that replacement parts are unavailable? Apparently the technology was "on it way out" when we purchased it. The geek wouldn't recommend plugging in a separate video card--if one could be found--anyway because in these integrated systems, once one part dies the others pieces tend to start dropping like flies in a terrible rapid cascade. "So what you're telling me is that computers are disposable now too?" "Exactly," replied the geek.

Now I know what you're thinking. "Who wants a desktop anyway?" Well, me. I do. I really hate laptops. I'm pecking away on Robb's laptop right now, and I'm not happy about it. This poor thing has such a puny processor that I can't plug my camera into it without causing an event not unlike Chernobyl. And it's only maybe four years old. If our desktop was "obsolete" this thing is practically prehistoric. Welcome to the land of waste where you have to replace your computers twice a year to keep up, and on the first of every month a new smarter phone is waiting for you.

There is something deeply wrong with our tech culture. I wasn't raised like that, and I don't want Maureen to develop a permanent case of the I-want-gimme-gimme's. We have a cabinet of VHS tapes and two large binders of DVDs. These dusty stacks represent hundreds of dollars invested in obsolete media. Video tapes were around for about 20 years and DVDs for maybe 10. How long do you really think the Blu-Ray fad will last? It is already a flash in the home theater pan. I urge to save your money and ignore Blu-Ray entirely. Anything you want to watch can be streaming to your tv or computer instantly.

Streaming media worries me. It's not so much that I miss having my large cassette collection prominently displayed in my home. It's 1984. It's the worry that without media artifacts--books, sheet music, handwritten letters--that our history can be edited, skewed, and deleted. Already music and books you have downloaded can magically disappear from your electronic library when the service provider has a dispute with a publisher. But an executive from Amazon will never walk into my home and physically remove a book from the shelf in my living room.

Anywho. We're not sure what we're going to do about the computer yet. We did not leave it for the $70 diagnostic. And Robb is going to have a friend move all the files to our backup drive this week. If it wasn't full of toxic metals and stuff, I would really like to bury the tower in the back yard. Have a little funeral for the old gal. Only the good die young, eh?

Cranky

I've been a little off for the past, oh, six to eight weeks. My new prescription has my thyroid balanced beautifully. But my hair is falling out. And I am very short tempered and irritable. My doctor said, "Your labs look great, but I don't like the hair loss or mood thing." I told him, "Me neither." So we're changing things up in hopes I stop feeling like the Incredible Hulk with male pattern baldness. No change yet.

As an illustration right this moment I am cranked up angry and can't get myself settled down. I've been pissed off more or less since 1:30pm. Maureen had just fallen asleep in the car. I needed her to take a nap, but I also needed to run in to the natural food store in Prince Frederick to pick up some vitamins the doctor wants me to start taking.

I had my fingers crossed that it would be quiet in the store. I forgot about their obnoxious door chimes when you walk in. DING DONG DING DONG! Luckily Mo slept through them. But some jerk in a Yosemite Sam costume was having a really loud conversation with the clerk at the checkout counter. I quickly rolled Mo to the back of the store and skulked there like a shoplifter muttering, "Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up." The loudmouth showed no signs of leaving. "Shut up, shut up, shut up." I peeked at Mo, still miraculously asleep and tried to peruse vitamin labels. Yee-haw! "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph." (It's a Catholic thing, even for lapsed Catholics.)

I finally got the attention of one of the employees. I told her what I was looking for and added that my daughter was sleeping. She said she remembered those days and helped me look around. Meanwhile the guy finally left. I was the only customer in the shop. The clerk asked the owner about one of the supplements. I repeated to the owner that my baby was sleeping, but she ignored me and proceeded to help me at full volume. She found my vitamins, but wanted to know why I was taking them and who was my doctor and isn't he great. By this time another woman walked through the door. DING DONG DING DONG! The owner scurried off to talk to her about natural hair dyes.

And Maureen woke up.

The clerk looked up the price of a vitamin bottle that would not scan. It was $22.95. "Oh? How much is the other one?" $54.99. "Fifty-five dollars? There is NO WAY. I'm really sorry, and I appreciate your help, but that's more than I expected to pay."

I left the vitamins on the counter and pushed the stroller out to the car where I nearly started crying in frustration with myself because there was no reason for Mo's nap to be interrupted because I was never going to pay eighty dollars for vitamins. I buckled her into the car seat, "I'm sorry, baby. Mommy's sorry." I was drenched in sweat and called Robb to vent about the loud-talking jackwagons and overpriced vitamins.

Fast forward several hours. The baby is taking her nap and Robb is home from work, so I make a quick run to Walgreens. The first vitamin I was looking for is not something they stock, but the second one was on the shelf for $6.99 for 100 tablets. Are the ones at the nature store gold plated? Are they made by magical fairies? I get furious all over again about the price discrepancy.

Stopped at a red light on the drive home, I read over the label. Take once a day with a full meal. Caution: Do not take this product if you are pregnant or nursing a baby.

Un-flippin'-believable. I squeezed the plastic bottle in my hand and fantasized about crushing it in my fist. When I get home I am going to stand in the driveway and throw it over the house into the back yard. I will pitch that piece of garbage vitamin bottle into a tree. Maybe into the river. I will stomp every single pill into dust on the car port.

Stupid wasted seven dollars.

Doctor knows I'm nursing.

Charlatan store owner.

Loudmouth jerks.

Stinking.

...

I got home and found out that Robb has to travel to Norfolk tomorrow morning as part of the emergency response to Hurricane Irene and will be there for a week, which means I can't go to work this week. Add a jigger of bile and stir. End of illustration.

I have been having days like this for the past two months. I stew about silly things and work myself into a frenzy. Thus far I have resisted the urge to smash the portable phone and baby monitor into millions of pieces. But if I snap before my new new thyroid prescription kicks in, those two items are at the top of my list.

Here I come to save the day

Yesterday this man said to Mo, "What a big boy!" She was wearing her Mighty Mo onesie outfit. But I guess that male superheros are partial to spandex, so I corrected him. Whatever, no big deal. I'm not uptight about people mistaking her gender.

"Oh, a girl." He smiled at her and then to me, "And you're the grandmother." Not in the form of a question.

Are you kidding me? Clearly this guy was smoking crack.

This reminds me of the childbirth class we took. It was an all day Saturday affair in a classroom in the basement of the hospital. As a warmup we had to get to know the couple next to us and then introduce them to the class. The kids next to us--and I say "kids" because they were 20 and 21--were very nice. The girl looked just like Luna Lovegood from the HP movies.

We chatted with them for a few minutes about the usual stuff. How far along are you? Boy or girl? Have you thought of names? But when Robb mentioned that this was our first child, you should have seen the shock on their doughy little faces. To them we looked like Old Mother Hubbard and Father Time. Definitely too old to be giving a dog a bone, if you know what I mean.

Biologically speaking yes, I could have grandchildren at 33, and Robb's grandchildren could have drivers licenses. But I don't, and Robb's grandchildren are still in elementary school. This is our baby. We took our sweet time. Tomorrow is the 10th anniversary of our first date. And maybe that means I get called granny once in a while.

But it was probably my fault for taking a shower and changing out of my spit up shirt. I lost my new-mama-street-cred.

The shutdown cometh

I blame every single politician in Washington, DC, for this debacle. But I am really frustrated with the Republicans for allowing a small radical minority to hold them (and by extension all of us) hostage, and by that I mean the Tea Party. Apparently they are chanting, "Shut it down!" as if the federal budget is an enormous game of chicken.

Here's an oxymoron: federal worker.

The overwhelming majority of federal employees are not fat leaches who chuckle amongst themselves about how they are really screwing the American taxpayer. My great-grandfather worked for the Department of Agriculture. My grandfather worked for the Department of Labor. My father worked for the Department of Veterans Affairs. My husband works for the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration which is part of the Department of Commerce. I have family and friends at the National Institute of Health, Department of Justice, Social Security, Census, Department of Defense, Army, Navy, defense contractors... Overpaid? Hardly. The lawyers and doctors and scientists and executives could all do much better if they went over to the private sector. Instead they choose to spend their careers dedicated to serving their country.

And when the government shuts down, they will all be furloughed. No work and no pay in the middle of an economic crisis. In Maryland alone that's 250,000 people. As the President stated last night:

"800,000 federal workers and their families impacted; millions of people who are reliant on government services not getting those services -- businesses, farmers, veterans; and finally, overall impact on the economy that could end up severely hampering our recovery and our ability to put people back to work."

Also government agency websites will be unavailable. The national parks, Smithsonian museums, and the National Zoo will shut their doors. Tax returns will not be processed. Pay to our servicemen and women will be delayed. The list goes on and on.

Robb and I are nervous about what's going to happen. We were told that his department will be made "essential personnel" for two weeks, but it hasn't gone through yet. If they remain non-essential, then they begin the cumbersome and expensive process of pulling all of their survey teams and equipment out of the field. Let's hope there's no shutdown.

In which I opine some more

I have been brewing up strong opinions again. Remember this post? As usual I'm taking a stand on topics with which I have very little real world experience. So let's begin the new year with a bang! Let me entertain you for a few minutes with my ranting. And then feel free to knock me off my high horse and set me straight in the comments because vigorous debate is my idea of a good time. Happy New Year!

1. Cloth diapers. We were surprised to meet a lot of resistance on this front. Even from crunchy granola folk who wear dreads and hemp clothing and rub crystals under their armpits because deodorant is made by "the man." They tell us that cloth diapering is a less ecologically responsible choice than disposable diapers because cloth requires us to use electricity running the washing machine and to use water flushing away solid waste. Holy carbon footprint, Batman! I would counter that choosing to procreate at all is ecologically irresponsible because a new human being will consume resources, create garbage, and generally wreak havoc on good old planet Earth. Hmmm. Sorry kids, I'm not buying it. In Barb-calculus the water treatment plant trumps non-biodegradable landfill bombs any day of the week. We plan to use cloth diapers, at least at home, and are all set to go with the Bambino Mio nappy system. (Thank you again, Chere!)

2. Weight gain. I done good on this one. I maxed out at 29 pounds but recently lost a few due to the pressure on my stomach that's causing a lot of heartburn. Regardless of what the scale reads, I have been asked on more than one occasion if I am absolutely sure I'm not carrying twins. At the other end of the spectrum I have been scolded for not looking pregnant enough. Both camps are pretty brave to comment on a preggo's weight--we are notoriously fierce on the defensive.

3. Surprise baby gender. Even with the extra sonogram last week, we still don't know. It is simultaneously cool and killing me not to know. We are glad that we decided to be surprised. And nope, we're not interested in receiving heaps of gender-specific clothing after the baby is born. Some day we might decide to have another child, and I want to reuse as much clothing from baby #1 as possible. And honestly, is a child's gender of any significance before puberty?

4. Maternity clothes. One of the benefits of a carrying breech--perhaps the only benefit--is that the baby's head is not in my pelvis. Therefore I'm not waddling yet, and I haven't had to buy any maternity pants. I am wearing a (large) pair of regular jeans as I type this. I mostly wear yoga pants and leggings. However, I have been wearing maternity tops scored off of clearance racks at Target and Kohl's. If I wasn't so lazy I would have visited consignment stores, too. Thus far not a single stranger has attempted to touch my belly. Knock wood. They must have noticed the barbed wire tattooed around my neck.

5. Stuff. Stuffed animals, that is. I hereby place a moratorium on stuffed animals entering our household in the year 2011. This ban shall include plush toys of every size, gender, and species, musical or non, new or used, intended for vigorous use or for strictly decorative purposes, stuffed items that hang from stroller handles, huggables, comfort toys, dolls, Disney characters, action figures, etc. intended for our baby. We bought a toy box for baby's room, and it is full--completely full--of stuffed animals. Wow, thank you so much for your generosity, but now we have plenty to keep the little rugrat entertained. Should you choose to ignore this warning, please kindly include a gift receipt as any and all stuffed critters we receive during the calendar year 2011* shall be returned. (*Exception: anything postmarked in 2010 we will keep as you were given insufficient notice). Stuffies arriving without receipts shall be immediately donated to a local thrift store. This ban is also directed at grandparents and immediate family.

I mean it.

Robb read this and asked my permission to excavate a childhood toy from his parents' basement. I am reviewing his request.

Yes, I am doing this because I am a selfish, hurtful person who wants my child to feel deprived. Wait, no. It's because there are better ways to show your enthusiasm for our offspring. Examples include phoning to ask us how we're doing, video chatting if you live far away, offering to babysit, making a freezable casserole, scheduling a play date for us with your child, cleaning my refrigerator...heh. (Thought I could slip that last one in without you noticing.)

6. Vaccines, an open letter:
Dear Jenny McCarthy,
There is no evidence that vaccines cause autism. I wish we knew what did. I'm sorry you are leading a personal crusade against medical science. Refusing to vaccinate your baby is like refusing to buckle them into a car seat or smoking crack while you're pregnant or leaving the kid tethered to a tree in the front yard in lieu of hiring a baby sitter. All tempting options but not so smart. I'm with Amanda Peet on this one. Yes, it's partly because I have never seen her vag in a magazine.
Sincerely,
Barb

7. Fruit. When people asked what pregnancy food cravings I had, I told them I wanted fresh fruit all the time. And many replied, "Oh, but you're not eating fruit all the time because that would be really bad for you. So much sugar!" Wha? The sugars that occur naturally in fresh fruit are not the same as the refined sugar in everything else we eat. This is what happens when people read a headline but fail to read the last sentence in a news article. I wanted to eat fruit, so I did eat fruit at nearly every meal since May. In fact I ate two clementines while I was typing this, and I might go back to the kitchen and get two more. Not diabetic yet, haters.

8. Pro-choice. I thought that the pregnancy journey might change how I feel about the legal status of abortion, but it didn't. In fact it really clarified my thoughts and made them firmer. No government should be able to force a woman to carry a pregnancy to term. No pharmacist should be allowed to refuse to supply a customer with contraceptives, routine or emergency. No woman should be made to prove that she was a victim of rape, incest, or life-threatening medical condition in order to make a personal family planning decision. Maternal mortality rates may be improving worldwide, but the health risks involved in pregnancy are no joke. Carrying a baby to term is a serious commitment, and it's only the beginning of a lifelong commitment to that child's welfare. I find it ironic that many people opposed to abortion are also remarkably stingy with social services, as though their responsibility to protect their fellow man ends at the end of the birth canal.

9. Current events. Each year the American Academy of Pediatrics refines their recommendations for baby care. Their advice is based on continuing research and is not meant to undermine the way our parents raised us. For example, babies used to sleep on their tummies. Somehow we lived to tell the tale. But pediatricians have been recommending that babies sleep on their backs since 1992. And for good reason--the Back to Sleep Campaign reduced the incidence of SIDS by 50%.  (What does a safe sleep environment look like?) Notice how many more little ones seem to have food allergies nowadays? Well, the peds have come up with guidelines about introducing cow's milk and solid foods to try to bring down these risks. Old people, we understand that baby care recommendations are a moving target, and we're not judging you for doing things a little differently back in the day. We only ask that you respect the guidelines we've been given. We are happy to explain them and fully blame our pediatrician for any inconvenience they might cause.

10. OB bashing. Why do the natural childbirth folks scorn medical professionals? We love our OB and her staff. Dr. A has been practicing for about 30 years and has delivered thousands of babies--compared to me and Robb who have delivered zero babies between the two of us in that same time period. We trust her experience and education to help us make the safest choices for me and the baby. I also have room in my heart to respect the experience of midwives, doulas, and birth coaches. A few months ago I picked up two Bradley books and found them to be surprisingly adamant that medical doctors have no business being involved with labor and delivery. Recently when I turned to their info on breech babies, though, the Bradley camp lost me altogether. The authors wrote essentially that doctors only recommend c-sections for breech babies because they don't know any better. I actually know that Dr. A's training as an OB included delivering breech babies. And if this wasn't our first child she would have offered vaginal birth as an option, but she said my "pelvis is untested," so (unless baby turns) c-section is the safest route. For some reason I trust her more than someone trying to sell me books and classes.

11. Alcohol. Everyone wants me to drink this month. Merry Christmas--have a glass of wine! I know it's safe, blah blah blah. But I haven't had a single drink since I found out I was pregnant. Why would I suddenly need one with only a week left to go? I also have not had any unpasteurized cheese, runny eggs, raw seafood, cigarettes, green tea, Tylenol, or extremely acrobatic sex. God, I miss runny eggs! My one vice has been caffeine, but I've limited myself to two caffeinated beverages a day. Baby might pop out as a jittery bundle of nerves, but mama never would have survived summer without iced tea.

Okay, let me have it.

Update

I must begin with an open letter.

Dear whiny pregnant ladies on YouTube,
This morning I pinched my finger in the hair gel lid, and THAT was more painful than ECV. If you thought you were going to die to death when your doctor tried to turn your baby around, I wonder how you survived childbirth.
Seriously,
Barb

If you've been wondering how things went yesterday, well, no dice. This baby is wedged. But I'll get to that in a minute. We went to the radiology department at the hospital where I was liberally doused with sonogram gel. Probably half a tube. Our doctor was finishing up a morning surgery, so the sonogram tech got started taking measurements and readings and figuring out the baby's position. What I thought was baby's head is baby's head. But what I thought was baby's rump, is baby's shoulder. Thus endeth my fantasy of delivering a 6 pound baby. The little one is not transverse as we suspected--the baby is oblique breech (that means slanted or diagonal), which looks like this:

Baby's head is in the right side of my ribcage, while baby's butt is parked in my pelvis, legs crossed like Buddha, rear aimed at my left hip. When our doctor arrived, she squeezed out the other half a tube of sonogram gel on me and went to work. There was no local anesthesia or injections to relax the uterus. Just my doctor manually encouraging our baby to do a somersault. The procedure looks like kneading bread dough. Yes, a day at the beach would have been more fun. And I was glad that I didn't stop at Denny's for the Grand Slam Breakfast on the way to the hospital, but overall the procedure wasn't a big deal. I would 100% recommend trying external version to any woman carrying a breech baby. Oh, and buy stock in sonogram gel.

And yesterday was more definitive than any paternity test in proving that Robb is the baby's father because the stubborn little rascal refused to budge, just ducked its furry head further under my ribs to evade capture. The baby's butt wouldn't move at all. Our doctor checked the sonogram imaging out again to see if there had been progress, and this is what she saw.

Tomorrow at our weekly appointment we will schedule a planned c-section. As our doctor said, it is easier to reserve a spot in the surgery suite early and cancel later if we don't need it than it is to schedule something at the last minute. If baby turns on his/her own, great; but if not, we'll be prepared.

Dear future self

The one who is thinking about getting pregnant again. The one whose memories of the first pregnancy are a little muzzy and distant and rosy:

Girl, I am in it. And I want to get some of this down in keystrokes for you, so you cannot pretend not to remember what all went on. These women with grown children keep telling me how much they LOVED being pregnant. Um, I don't hate it, but I certainly don't love it. So in the interest of full disclosure and science, I will document the current conditions for you.

You should know that I am writing this in the middle of the night. Robb and Sukey are snoozing comfortably, but I had to get up because once again I am itchy. The backs of my fingers, the soles of my feet, my neck, my belly, everywhere. This happens several times a week. Sometimes I cannot fall asleep because of the itchiness; other times I wake in the middle of the night scratching. Whichever scenario I have to get up until it passes. Then I make some tea or watch a movie or balance the checkbook. This is my body's sneaky way of training me to be awakened several times a night. As if the frequent trips to the bathroom weren't already taking care of that. And the fact that I can't roll over in bed without being awake because I'm a huge turtle.

Also I have never before expended so much energy thinking about my intestines as I have this past year. I am hopeful that I will be able to put this symptom behind me once the baby is born. But just in case it continues indefinitely I have contacted De Beers about getting on their payroll. We have worked out an arrangement: I will consume large quantities of carbon and excrete diamonds. De Beers in turn can jump on the green bandwagon and market them as "organic gemstones." Hey, while it isn't the most comfortable situation, it might at least be profitable. In the end. (Agreed, that was a terrible pun.)

The baby has spent the past month or so lodged in my ribcage, way up high. The top of my belly is frequently numb because baby's head putting the squeeze on some nerves or blood vessels there. And when his/her head is in my ribs, his/her feet are riverdancing on my bladder.

And sometimes I pee my pants.

Perfume is not a viable solution. My body chemistry has changed so that none of my favorite fragrances smell right anymore. This makes it sound like I wear a lot of perfume ordinarily. Not the case. But I do use body lotion, and lotions smell funny. There is one hippie perfume I love that smells like firewood, and I can't get anywhere near it. It smells wrong on me now. Since the beginning of the pregnancy Robb has insisted that I smell different. That's probably because I peed my pants. And four weeks from my due date the indignities are not over. No no no. They are just about to reach a major crescendo.

Remember if you will the sex ed class we had back in fourth grade. Ms. Williams wrapped shoebox on her desk for us to submit anonymous questions. After learning that menstruation was in my future, I recognized that this division of labor among the sexes was patently unfair. And when Ms. Williams informed us ladies that we'd be leaking bodily fluids for a week every month for years and years to come, I was pretty much mortified. I don't remember how I phrased my anonymous question for the shoebox, but it something along the lines of, "Is it possible for all this gross nonsense to skip me?--please say yes." I wanted a loophole. But Ms. Williams interpreted my question to mean something more like, "What if my period never starts?!?" And so she told us girls not to worry: we would all get our periods. No exceptions.

Great.

Other minor annoyances include the following: My left ankle swells and deflates intermittently like the tides. My insoles look (but don't feel) bruised. My boobs are large and very National Geographic. I want desperately to sleep on my stomach. I cannot tolerate long car rides. My chin is a sea of acne.

Well, I'm still itchy but starting to feel a little sleepy, so I think I'll give bed another try tonight. Future self, I hope this has refreshed your memory as to what you're in for should you decide to give it another go. Good night and good luck with that.

With love,
Present self