patience and optimism . . .

This is a very recent photo of Suki, who was given the command "wait". She is the most optimistic creature I have ever had the pleasure of spending time with; in Suki's world, "wait" usually means something good will happen if she'll just settle down and be patient for a little while.

That said/typed, still no significant progress on the labor front. My right hip feels like it doesn't fit my hip socket properly, but don't think that's a particularly useful trait at this point. I can't walk on un-carpeted surfaces barefoot without my feet absolutely killing me, although this suggests that my ligaments are loosening up, it gets me no closer to having anything vaguely resembling regularly occurring contractions. Also? I had a crazy-ass dream a few nights ago where I realized that getting a baby out of your body is like pulling a cash drawer out of a register - you can yank and yank, but if you don't pull at the correct angle, nothing useful happens. (If only childbirth were so easy!!!)

I'm trying my damndest to stay in a positive frame of mind, and am happy that I didn't go into labor last night: my parents spent the night at my house, and my midwife was out of town. I'm sure I would have gotten along just fine with the OB on call, and would have found an advantage to having my parents present for early labor, but I can't help but to be relieved that nothing happened. I would prefer to moan around my house for a while before getting my parents involved with labor - it could take a looooooong time, and I really don't want them to have to endure false starts, or sitting/pacing for a hoursandhoursandhours while my body figures out what to do.

Since that scheduling hurdle has been jumped, I'm having trouble trying to find an advantage to not being in labor RIGHT NOW. I suppose I could try to get excited about having more time to get more housework done, or figure out my Christmas card list, but I'm having a hard time feelin' it.

Days like this, I wish I were more like my dog.

40 weeks pregnant: the waiting game

What better distraction than to get a new digital camera??

It has been the best/worst timing ever that my old digital camera died; I really don't have the "play" money for a non-necessity, but a camera becomes a necessity when there is a baby on the way! I purchased a Canon PowerShot SD1000 yesterday, and so far have been very pleased - it has far more bells and whistles than I probably need, but takes much better indoor shots than my previous camera ever could.

Zachary has laid claim to the baby's Moses basket, it is going to be very interesting to see his reaction when there is finally an infant sleeping in it! Although Suki-pup is younger than Zachary by several years, Zachary has always been my baby - he weighed less than a pound when he found me, and I got to bottle feed him for a few fantastic weeks before he was mature enough for kitten chow. I take it as a very good omen that he is so happy to spend time in the nursery; I like to think I did a good job caring for him as a infant. When he was a few months old and looking much studier, several friends of mine admitted to me that doubted that he would survive - it seemed that most of his weight was parasites. Even in his weak state, he earned nicknames like "Beam of Sunshine" and "PencilNeckMcPooperDoo" by oozing happiness, thankfulness, and stubbornness from every tiny ounce of himself.

I've been told that my baby is going to be on the small side, and rather than wonder if small = unhealthy, I'm feeling just fine about it, with many thanks to Zachary.

* ~ * ~ * ~ *
Addendum: In response to Alie's comment
I had forgotton about Zachary's little "kiss kiss SMACK" incident! In his defense, he -was- provoked!! Alie loves the squeaky sounds that Zach makes when he's good and ticked off, so she had been taunting him for a while. She thought she'd try to make up with him by picking him up like an infant (which he generally likes) and offering up her face for some licking (yes, he likes to lick/groom faces, especially if you have facial hair). Zach gave her two feeble licks on the mouth then stopped - Alison raised her head to say "oh, is that all?" and Zach punched her face (claws not out, he's a gentleman) as hard as a 13-ish pound cat possibly could.

haiku and hostility

First, I must tip my hat to Chris of Rude Cactus who has graced the blogosphere with 191 Monday morning haiku. His was the first blog I read regularly, and I quickly became hooked on his wife's blog also. By providing examples of how well-written blogs can be, I was ultimately inspired to start my own blog. Blame them for this blasphemy!

So, on to blah blah greatest compliment is imitation, blah blah, I'm compelled to share:

Director Spielberg
creative genius my ass
my pregnant dreams trump

Shortest version possible: I was hired on by a crazy Mr. Burns-esque art collector for a high-pay job with super benefits and permission to bring my (yet unborn) baby to work. Fast forward to me realizing that the reason I was hired is that my crazy-boss-to-be is actually some sort of cult leader who is after my unborn baby, because he somehow knows that my baby will be the ideal combination of perfect flaws. (Made sense in dreamland anyway . . .) I could bore you for hours by describing the office/compound and the works of art it contained - weird shit, my friends . . .

When I woke up, I felt how Rambo looks. Lord help any prowler dumb enough to enter my home, there would be nothing left but a pile of hamburger-esque goo, and me calmly picking my fingernails clean - I've had my share of hissy fits, but nothing compares to the outraged/angry/focused/deadly mindset I was in.

I wandered around the house, cuddled the dog and all three cats, ate cereal, and talked with Mr.Hubby (who was thankfully awake at the same time) for nearly an hour before I could even attempt sleep. The dreams that followed were about overthrowing the evil art collector/cult leader while trying not to give away that I had figured him out.

SO, apparently my brain is effectively getting into "protect the baby" mode?

now we're getting somewhere . . . .

Guess who gained two pounds within 7 days - again! The victory dances I boogied over gaining 3 pounds in four weeks seem so silly now . . . and to all the schmucks who previously told me how *tiny* I seemed - BITE ME.

And for the discusto report: 75% effaced, but still at 0cm (shut tight).

As to the baby? Just like Mama, still partying like it's 1999: no shortage of hiccuping and squirming.

I'm thrilled to report that the head is . . . engaged.

Oh I crack me up . . .

my first wimpy Halloween - 38 weeks pregnant

Normally, I'm a big fan of Halloween, but I'm not really feelin' it this year.

Too warm out? Too pregnant? Too tired? Who knows.

I dashed home over my lunch hour today to feed my critters and managed to carve a pumpkin without carving myself. I will offer this warning: ALWAYS WEAR SHOES WHILE CARVING A PUMPKIN. I accidentally dropped a very sharp knife on my foot, and was very happy to be wearing fuddy leather shoes.

I am going to hand out Halloween goodies (fancy pencils, stencils, and stickers - childhood obesity is becoming an epidemic, people!) but may lame out on the costume front. I look like a fashion-sense-less geriatric today in my black humpty-dumpty pants (that are are tight at the ankles and are oh-so-slightly too short), shapeless size XL orange t-shirt and black cardigan - did I mention fuddy black leather shoes? Making things more fashion-tragic, I desperately need a haircut, need to tend to my eyebrows, and I put on navy blue socks instead of black this morning. I should be happy that my hairy legs are covered up, but instead I feel like a bloated, cranky eyesore.

Let's move on to happier days, shall we?

As a child, when I returned home from trick-or-treating, my sister and I had to turn our candy in to the family stash if we wanted to collect our "Great Pumpkin" presents. The Great Pumpkin visits while you are out treating, and puts a small-but-cool present on your pillow - like a big box of crayons, lip gloss, a new hairbrush/comb set, a sticker book etc. Mysteriously, the Great Pumpkin present was ALWAYS wrapped in white tissue paper and orange yarn, and had handwriting -just- like Mom's.

Pretty sweet deal once you figure out there was no way in hell Mom was going to let you keep your candy anyway! She had a knack for doling out the candy generously enough that you never felt short-changed, and yet there were many Christmas where Halloween-harvested candy found it's way into the celebrations.

Anywho, Happy Halloween all!

blips and bloopers: 37 weeks pregnant

Long time no type, eh?

All's well here; (at the extreme risk of grossing you out) my cervix is still in lock-down mode. Gozer isn't going anywhere anytime soon, which is good because both my doula and my mother are going to be out of town this weekend!

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

Two weeks ago, my family hosted a couples baby shower, where most everyone wore a Halloween costume of some sort. Hours before Mr. Hubby and I were going to leave our house, we told our dog Suki "car ride to Grandma and Grandpa's house for party".

BIG MISTAKE

Suki immediately trotted over to her collar and leash, and upon, hearing "no, wait" she went to her window perch and looked outside, presumably to see if Grandma and Grandpa were in the driveway. Fast forward half an hour to Mr. Hubby being in one bathtub and me in the other - Suki barged in each bathroom multiple times to give us exasperated sighs, and ultimately settled on wandering the hallway whimpering and crying. As cruel as this may seem, listening to a beagle/Japanese chin pout is actually very funny. Perhaps we could have gotten away with not immediately delivering on the promise of a car ride, or a party, but adding Grandma and Grandpa was going too far.

When we arrived, we decorated the house in black, orange, pink, and light blue, which may sound hideous but is fantastic for a Halloween-themed shower. True to family form, it was a fantastic party; a fire pit in the backyard complete with hot dogs and marshmallows, beer and wine for the guests (I rocked the root beer), an ecstatic Suki-pup wandering around off leash (we were confident she wouldn't wander far from a party involving food-mooching opportunities), and relaxed conversation.
My smartie-pants brother-in-law modified the "guess the baby food" game by adding copious amounts of food coloring to the jars - purple infant mac&cheese is more disgusting than words can describe.

Absolutely everyone we invited at least stopped by for as long as their schedule (or tired toddler) would allow. None of the men present (other than Mr. Hubby) had ever attended a baby shower before, and I was especially glad to demonstrate that there is no need for baby showers to be stuffy, boring-as-hell affairs.

That evening, Mr. Hubby returned home so he could get to work early the next morning. My sister, brother-in-law, Suki, and I decided to spend the night at my parent's house - all of us were too tired to consider driving over an hour to get back to my house. Given the hissy-fit that Suki threw earlier, I should not have been surprised that I was rejected at bedtime; she chose to sleep between my parents - diagonally, because they were either too naive or too charmed to stop her from hogging the bed.

The best part of the past two weeks is that I was able to spend two days with my sister Alie and my brother-in-law. As if throwing a shower wasn't enough, the woman helped me clean my fish tank! And it was her idea! Talk about love.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Last Friday, a friend of mine from work hosted an office baby shower for me (yes I've had _three_ total). It was sparsely attended, but I had a very good time regardless. I think/hope the problem was that we gave people paper invitations in their mailboxes, rather than emailing them. I knew that a few people had schedule conflicts that afternoon, but did expect more than three people (out of 12 invited) to show (6 attendees total, counting me, the hostess and her adorable 3 year old son). I did receive a very apologetic email and gift from a gal who thought the party was this Friday, a explanation and gift from a gal who had an appointment at the same time, and a apologetic explanation from a friend of mine who has a very young child (she's completely not allowed to gift anything to me since I've already received an absolute glut of gently-used baby supplies from her).

I'm not writing about this to pout, but rather to point out how fantastic pregnancy hormones have been to me lately: under normal circumstances, I would probably feel stood up, unliked, ignored, whatever - but instead, I simply don't give a crap. I do feel bad for the hostess who put time, money, and effort into throwing a party for a bigger group, but as it turned out, I got to really visit with everyone there and had fantastic leftovers to take home that evening.

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

On Saturday, Mr. Hubby and I go to be stats-takers for my derby girls. This was the first home bout I have attended without being the volunteer coordinator. I thought that I would feel disconnected, or less "important" to the bout production, but I *loved* every minute of it. Three 20 minute periods go by in a blink when you're keeping track of who is on the floor and what they're doing at any moment. My teammates played a phenomenal game, and lost by two points, which is a ridiculously close margin for roller derby. I'm convinced that they would have won if there were a few more minutes left on the clock.

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

These days, besides continuing to work full-time, I've been keeping myself very busy getting ready for the baby to arrive. I visited a lactation consultant today and bought new parts for a gifted (used) breast pump. Yesterday, I started packing my hospital bags, and my project for this weekend is to make sure I've got all the baby toiletries/medicines/gear I need so I don't have to send people out on errands once we're home from the hospital. (Okay, slightly fewer errands . . .)

And, I kid you not, at this moment I'm getting fantastic mommy practice:
as I type this, my friend's 5.5 month old is draped over me, fast asleep. What particularly cracks me up, is that she has to straddle my belly in such a way that her foot visibly moves when my baby delivers a good kick.

We must prepare for the coming of Gozer

My unborn child has a derby name already: "Gozer the Destructor".

I actually chose that name for myself, and was briefly registered under that name, but later decided that the reference was a bit too obsuse for the general public, and I wasn't sure how I felt about being called "Gozer" on a regular basis.

For anyone still not in on the joke:

"Gozer the Traveller; he will come in one of the pre-chosen forms. During the rectification of the Vuldronaii, the Traveller came as a large and moving Torb. Then, during the third reconciliation of the last of the Meketrex Supplicants, they chose a new form for him -- that of a Giant Sloar! Many Shubs and Zuuls knew what it was to be roasted in the depths of the Sloar that day I can tell you!"

In my warped little mind, I thought it would be very funny for Gozer to take on the form of a badass roller derby girl.

Just a few weeks after taking on a new name, I found myself several weeks pregnant, and it was decided that this upcoming baby indeed WAS "Gozer the Destructor", in that he/she destroyed my derby season.

Anyway, Gozer attended his/her third in-utero bout this weekend, and is making quite the bulgy appearance as I do my damnest to get one of my gals ready to get back out onto the floor and knock some bitches down.

Compare that to how I looked on March 24th, the day I found out about Gozer's imminent arrival. (I'm in the red shirt, showing off a flat belly).

ANYWAY - only 7 weeks to go! I am (sadly) done volunteering for my derby league's bout production committee so I can concentrate on getting things squared away at home and at work before baby arrives. So much to do, so little time . . . but I keep reminding myself that I'm a box of preemie diapers away from "just fine" if baby decides to make an early appearance.

horomonal much?

Saturday afternoon - I was happily chatting away while on a van ride, describing my relationship with my dog Suki: "I think one of the reasons [Mr. Hubby] and I are so crazy about Suki is that she seems to be a good representation of our collective personality: slightly spazzy, incredibly optimistic, moderately well behaved, and fun to be around".

I still consider that to be true, but the flip side is that I can nosedive into anxious funks then have trouble climbing back up. I get frustrated, impatient, demanding, and am likely to hand out pot-meets-kettle criticism, then follow that up by feeling rotten for handing out criticism.

Sunday afternoon - I got pretty snitty with some of my roller derby bout production committee pals via email; it was simply a matter of me being out of an information loop, but since I was missing that particular bit of information (no Betti, the sky is NOT falling) things got mighty ugly in the land-o-Betti.

Since I can't skate, I take my role in derby production (perhaps too) seriously. I thought that my lack of action/attention had allowed for a big problem to develop, and since I had previously failed at my feeble attempt to drop out of my production position, I rapidly fell into "Crap! I KNEW this was going to happen, I can't keep up with everything!!" mode. That turned into "the bout will suck and it's my fault" which turned into blind panic, (oh so not fun, especially while 7 months pregnant) which turned into anger, which turned in nervous exhasuted wreck who sleeps badly and dreams of spreadsheets and pre-bout setup gone wrong.

Mr. Hubby has seen me fall into this mode many times before, and responded by turning off a football game and fixing me meatloaf - I've known for him 8 years now, and he still makes me swoon. Without Mr. Hubby's intervention, I'm sure I would have been much more anxious for a longer period of time.

Lucky for me I don't have the attention span (or energy) to stay angry about anything for very long. Especially because there is no problem to solve, I'm feeling much better. I kind of feel like a little kid who has become completely exhasuted by throwing a temper tantrum. I think I'm a nap away from just fine, and when this upcoming derby bout turns out to be a raging success I'll be back to Suki mode.

Derby Fever!

So I'm supposed to be working on my birth plan right now, my "Childbirth and Parenting Education" binder is across my lap, I've got food and water within arms reach, and all I can think about is DERBY. I have not been on wheels since FEBRUARY, people!

My gals' second home bout is next Saturday, and I did a piss-poor job of stepping down as volunteer coordinator, so I've been busy busy busy - I'm also studying for my childbirth class, overhauling my neglected home filing system, altering the space-time continuum, and doing massive amounts of data (re)entry thanks-very-little, stupid hard drive crash!

Peh . . . . I'll quit whining . . .

THE POINT of this post is to direct you to this website, which currently boasts some photos of my beee-yuuu-ti-ful teammates.

I can't believe how far we've come since the beginning of 2007!

Whoa . . . resuming whining - I don't know that "teammate" is the proper noun to use since I have not been a skating member of the team for quite some time now. Gah! Identity crisis!! To be made much worse by the fact that I certainly CAN NOT fit into my old derby clothes; what the hell will I wear to next Saturday's bout?

drafting up a "birth plan"

My birth plan at 3 months pregnant:


By 5 months pregnant, I decided that I would require minions.


With only 11 weeks to go before my due date, I'm taking things a bit more seriously and am feeling a little more selective as to how my "ideal birth experience" would go:
it involves bringing James Doohan back to life.


My "Actually takes place on planet earth in the year 2007" plan isn't going as well, but Mr. Hubby and I have come to a few conclusions:

Professionals can take care of the damn cord - neither of us particularly like cutting raw meat, much less pulsating meat attached to me.

Along those lines, they can keep the placenta. It never occurred to me to throw a meatloaf against the wall to see what pattern it would make, so placenta-prints are not for me. Also? I've participated in enough culinary disasters that I'm not going near that thing with a fork.

Since I deprived Mr. Hubby of finding out if we're having a boy or girl, he will be the first person to tell me the baby's gender, even if it involves putting muzzles on everyone else who is present.

The post-birth eye drops can wait an hour - not that I think my kid will have any trouble seeing my (newly) ginormous dark nipples, but I imagine I wouldn't appreciate a bunch of blur-inducing crap in my eyes after a journey that rough.

Unless my kid is in obvious need, no snot sucker will be used, a little hacking and some time at tit central station will sort things out just fine. Most videos I've seen, professionals swoop in as soon a the nose and mouth are visible: "Welcome to the world sweetie, lemme jam a rubber nozzle up your nose and down your throat"

So, I know I've got lots of work to do . . . and yet I'm still stuck on the idea of just beaming the kid out.

Early Nursery Pics . . .

At long last, I'm happy to show off a mostly empty, finally painted nursery!



This is the fantastico star blanket that Madame DeBarge made.
It is by far the coolest thing the kid has received; I'm grateful to have a car seat/stroller, a crib, and a metric ton of baby clothes - but this is the kind of thing you try to keep forever!

I have been hiding this blanket from all my pets, who have a knack for trying to take ownership of my favorite items (or anything I pay too much attention to, possibly depriving them of attention for more than three minutes). To their credit, I have purchased used knit baby blankets from garage sales for them to nap/shed on in the hopes that they spend a little less time shedding on my furniture. As you can see, Suki wasted no time whatsoever in trying to lay claim to the forbidden baby blankie - other than moving the frog hamper over to conceal my painting error, this photo was not staged, no cookie bribery was involved.



Note to self: paint chips lie. Yellow paint is always much more vibrant and bright on walls than you can possibly imagine. I was actually considering getting an even more intense color of yellow - thank goodness I opted for the slightly more subdued color! In person, the color resembles watered-down orange juice, and the dresser is the color of butter. Given that the wine-red carpet was not going anywhere, I'm quite pleased with how this turned out. All the same, I hope the yellow seems less intense once I've got more baby stuff moved into the room.

I had goldenrod/yellow shag carpet in my room when I was little, and one of the walls had fantastic gaudy yellow/gold/orange/brown flowers and vines on a white background. I can only guess that's why I'm inflicting this color scheme on my future baby?

Do you remember how your room was decorated when you were a tiny kid?

. . . and some coffee for my pregnant homies . . .

If you're able and inclined, drink some coffee on my behalf; _fresh coffee_, no fake creamer (eeeew, I swear that stuff is made of plastic), with a couple heaping spoonfuls of hot cocoa mix, and a little bit of vanilla soy milk -or- regular milk if you're feelin' drastic. Drink LOTS of this coffee for me - hell, go to Starbucks and see if they'll sell you a gallon at a time.

I'm still holding tightly to my "no caffeinated beverages while pregnant" rule, for reasons even I don't understand . . . wait, perhaps it's because my baby already kicks like a squirrel trapped in a sock? I don't want to accidentally trigger seismic activity in the Midwest? I'm already a bundle of nerves? I might fall off the wagon big-time and find myself throwing back multiple shots of espresso?

(That said - I'm still enjoying the occasional tiny serving of chocolate, blissful, sanity-granting chocolate . . .)

Why the fiending for caffeine?
My to-do list rivals the King James Bible in both length and complexity.

I may go into more ranting detail at a later date, but I'll try to summarize: I'm fighting multiple fronts:
WORK - multiple deadlines, far too many irons in the fire, not enough energy (still!) to put in full 40-hour weeks.
HOME - I need Mary Poppins, Martha Stewart, and a carpenter, STAT.
DERBY - "Volunteer Coordinator" is taking up waaaaaaaay more time and energy than I anticipated, but damn I love being involved with bout production.
FRIENDS - Some people need me more than before, some people are offering less support than before, and others are showing interest in becoming more involved, and I just don't have as much spare time as I'd like to invest in them.
FAMILY - Love 'em dearly, I'm getting tons of emotional support, I wish they were more physically present to do my evil bidding -I mean- help around the house.
BABY SHOWERS - I love parties, but don't like being the center of attention. That means I have to be on my best behavior, stay polite in the face of stupid comments, stupid circumstances, stupid people . . . blah blah.
ETC ETC ETC

In short (too late!) I need a couple days off just to putz around my house, sort stuff, pitch stuff, and re-set my brain. Unfortunately, those couple days just aren't available. Bleh.

IN OTHER NEWS: My blog-photo is no longer inaccurate; I've gone back to my old haircut! Until yesterday, I had enough hair to put in a twist, french braid, or ponytail, and my bangs were long enough to be tamed by a well-placed barette - it was low-maintenece and cost nothing to keep up, but I was starting to get ponytail-induced headaches nearly every day. I've found pregnancy to be heavily spiced with aches and pains I can't do a thing about - so I consider a drastic haircut to be a minor sacrifice.

Less bitching and moaning in my next post folks, thanks for enduring!

20 weeks to go

junglebetti-trivia-buffs already know of my photo-posting-paranoia; I admire people who are comfortable with posting photos of themselves and their families on the internet, but I'm still convinced that the boogieman/stalk-o-monster will find me if I do so myself. Or maybe I'm just too damn vain for my own good.

In any case, I've come to a compromise that was inspired by how bad my hair has been looking lately, how kind my coworker was to take the time to coax data off of my digital camera then copy it for me, and the chaos involved in getting Mr. Hubby to snap these photos before dashing off to work.

With no further fanfare, I present you:





Sexy, no?

yo-GAAAAH!

How's this for a sentence I never thought I'd type?

Yoga completely kicked my ass yesterday.

I made a point not to over-exert or over-stretch myself, but I became overheated and lightheaded to the point that I sat like a lump on my mat and watched other (bigger) pregnant ladies assume various poses. PeacefulMama usually only teaches on Saturdays, so I was being taught by SilverMama, a middle-aged woman so calm and nurturing she could surely talk the craziest cat out of the tallest tree -or- assist a laboring mother through a drug-free birth.

True to my spazzy form, the first time I took a yoga class from SilverMama I did a klunky job and referred to sciatic pain as "that pain in my ass" and followed up that impressive display of tact by not being able to stop myself from grabbing the foot of the woman in front of me. We were balancing with one knee on the ground, the other leg stretched out straight behind with either both hands on the mat or one hand (opposite of stretched leg) reaching out. Her foot was right there! My hand was right there! I (accurately) judged that the gal wouldn't mind; she chirped at me in a friendly sarcastic voice "I'm trying to concentrate on yoga" and I panted back "I'm helping you concentrate!"

SilverMama seemed less than thrilled with my clowning around but continued to be patient with me. I was relieved when she actually seemed happy to see me return to her class yesterday.

But back to whining.

Although my midsection doesn't look very big, I feel immobilized by it; I can only guess that my ligaments have lots of stretching to do still. The best I can describe, it is like being Thanksgiving-afternoon level stuffed full of food, but add a horribly hollow hungry feeling with a dash of heartburn AND random stabby pains most likely to be triggered by *daring to* twist one's torso or sneeze without lifting up one or both of your knees first.

I know that stretching will help in the long run, but in the short term, I think I'd be more comfortable couch-surfing with my pets.

When I returned home, I ate some leftover pasta, had a bowl of cereal for dessert then flopped in my recliner for a while in the hopes I could avoid slamming myself with heartburn by going to bed at the rock-n-roll hour of 8pm. Taking into account several bathroom breaks, a few snack breaks, and gathering my thunderstorm-paralyzed cat to hide under the covers with me, I didn't get out of bed until 8:15 this morning - and I STILL think a nap would be fantastic.

Over 20 weeks to go folks - I don't think I'm going to become more graceful (physically, mentally -or- socially) any time soon. This is gonna get interesting.

19 weeks

Not understanding the true sucky qualities of early pregnancy, I formulated a plan 13 weeks ago:

1) I honestly thought I'd have the kid's room cleaned out, repainted, and ready to fill with baby schtuff by the time I was half through my pregnancy.

2) I would have money saved up by now to pay all my hospital (birthing) bills so I'd have one less thing to be concerned about while recovering from the birthing process.

HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.

Instead, the computer room remains a computer room, although much of the contents have been dispersed all over the rest of the house in a random manner. The bookshelves I planned on building by now haven't even been drafted up - I do know I'm using knotty pine with a linseed oil finish, that counts for something, except that mental plans don't hold physical stuff. Although I've hauled a few carloads of crap out of the house, it seems that the house is more cluttered than ever.

Peh. Money? It seems that soon as we tightened the 'ol budget belt we had more repairs than usual to make and new expenses began cropping up, drastically slowing the saving process. My most recent bitch is needing to spend $$$ on the crawlspace of my house, apparently they built 'em dumb in '78. Good news is that we don't have a mold problem yet, bad news is that the situation won't fix itself. If we knew for a fact that we were going to move away from this house in the next 5 years (not likely) and would definately find starry-eyed-newbie-dumbass-first-time-homebuyers (like we were) to purchase our house, we could let the situation fester. I guess it is important to focus on the positive; at least when we DO sell the house someday, we can say "crawlspace renovated in 2008". Sexy selling point, eh?

I highly doubt that I'm going to accomplish my stated goals within the next seven days, so I'm recalibrating my goals instead. Any suggestions??

"Average" never sounded so fantastic

A normal fetal heart rate usually is between 120 and 160 beats per minute, the average rate is 140 beats per minute.

At 18 weeks gestation, I don't know much about my baby, but I DO know that (at least this afternoon) the kid has an average heart rate. I'm surprised at my reaction: I'm PROUD - as if the kid is accomplishing something by not having a fast or slow heartrate.

Perhaps I'm well on my way to developing a snobby "my baby is supreme" attitude, or more likely, I'm very relieved to know that things seem to be going well in uterus-land.

In other news,
When I asked my midwife how busy she was in the middle of November, a flash of panic crossed her face. So I got more direct "What's the likelyhood that you'll be there when I give birth?" From her answer, I got the impression that she will be there, but she may be running between many rooms at the hospital. Eeeep!

I nearly spiraled into pout-mode to think I might be sharing my midwife and won't get all her attention, but instead I came to a solid decision that I'm going to hire a doula to take care of me during birth.

A qualified person will:
help me feel safe
boss me around if neccessary
not mind if I scream at her
be great at massage
have a sense of humor
and not mind if I accidently puke on her

ultra$ound

Today I found out that my health insurance will not cover the cost of an ultrasound - and that an ultrasound costs more than $300.00.

Craaap - this whole "saving money for baby" gig is turning out to be tougher than I anticipated.

I'm going to discuss the *possibility* of not having an ultrasound with my medical professionals; I need more information before I can make a solid decision. I have friendly aquaintences with women who did not have ultrasounds while pregnant, and they didn't regret it - but I don't know what criteria they based their decision on.

I decided to cut all caffiene out of my diet when I found out I was pregnant because, although small amounts of caffiene don't *seem* to hurt the unborn, no doctor or nurse is going to tell me "Miss, you really MUST consume some caffiene!"

Since there are suggested limits to the number of ultrasounds you expose your unborn child to, does that imply that the are possibly damaging, or at minimum disturbing the unborn? Would a medical professional tell a pregnant woman who was not experiencing any suggestive symptoms that she MUST have an ultrasound?

Guess I'm going to find out on Thursday.

P.S. I was already "iffy" on non-necessary ultrasounds before finding out about the $$$ involved. I'm more interested giving my kid a healthy start, and I'm all too aware that the accepted norm is frequently not the healtiest option.

pink or blue . . . pink or blue?

I'm really not sure I want to know the sex of my unborn child. I've heard so many "they thought they were having a girl and then their baby boy was surrounded by pink for months" stories, that I have to wonder if it is worthwhile to try to find out. I also cringe when I hear people speak of unborn babies as if they know what their personality traits will be; "My feisty little guy . . ." "My stubborn little girl . . ." What the hell? Can in-utero kicks be translated like Morse code?

Also? I like magenta (duh), but I'm not a big fan of pink.
As a tiny tot, my *favorite* outfit was colorful sneakers, blue jeans and a red turtleneck. My favorite dress was grey with horizontal red stripes, and I threw my first prissy hissy fit in kindergarten when (during a birthday party) someone accidentally spilled my raspberry sorbet punch all over it: my dress is soggy and perhaps ruined, AND there is no extra punch to refill my cup?! I think I was given a cup of orange juice as a consolation prize. But I digress.

I'd like to avoid pink frilly presents. I've been told I should just state my preference to anyone who might buy presents for the baby, but I'm not sure that would be effective, and I'm not so bold (or wealthy) that I could reject presents for the baby.

On to "boy" stuff. It seems to me that tiny boys are doomed to look like little sportsnuts, little hunters, or little business men. Projecting a "manly man" image onto a non-verbal, diaper-bound, breast (or bottle) feeding individual is a very very strange concept indeed. What's next, little toupees and bibs that read "future Viagra user"?

So I've sorted all the baby clothes that have already been gifted to me: the "neutral" stuff is already in a dresser, and I have separate bags of "boy" and "girl" stuff.

I guess that means, at the moment, I'm choosing yellow and green.

a day of extremes

I may be developing an addiction to yoga - yesterday at 10am I found myself at back on the mat, listening to PeacefulMama's instructions as her baby boy (YogaBaby) happily gurgled at us from his pillow perch nearby. You'd think it'd be disrupting to have a three month old in class, but so far he's been nothing but a happy focal point that occasionally needs to be fed. I stayed nearly an hour after class, enjoying not being surrounded by projects I should be working on at home (nursery? what nursery?). PeacefulMama, YogaBaby and I just lounged around and swapped stories. Since she usually only teaches on Saturday, I'm feeling really good about the classes I took with her earlier this week, and looking back am glad I had a stumbly start: to know me is to endure my often-stumbly social skills, I am a foot-in-mouth guru.

I then drove to the location my rollergirl friends were preparing themselves for a photo shoot; they've got bouts coming up soon and need to look sassy in the programs. I was happily greeted by many people I've slammed into and been slammed by, and was laughed at for my baggy pregnancy shorts since I still look like a kid playing dress-up when I wear maternity clothes. I intended on taking a quick "what do you need me to pick up for you" order then return in my old derby shirt so I could sneak into a group photo, as "support staff" on home bout days.

My day took a nosedive and didn't get back to "good" until much later in the evening.

To summarize,
I was stranded at the mall for hours becuase my ginormous light blue 1990 model land-yacht of a car needed a new battery installed, which turned into also needing a new starting mechanism, which means I've now spent over $600 on my vehicle while I'm supposed to be saving up baby money.
I arrived to the group photo incredibly late; I also had aspirations to have makeup on and my hair fixed, especially because everyone else was looking freaking fantastico, but I looked about as sexy as a pork chop since there was no time for me to slap on any eyeliner, much less actually do my hair. I did manage to get some lipstick on between photo 1 and photo 2, but it was of little consolation to me.
Two friends of mine (one I've become very attached to over the years, one I hope to get closer too soon) have been in really poor health lately, and are not getting better yet. I want to DO something about it, I want to fix their problems, and I can't. I'm encouraged that yet other friend of mine is on a steady path to recovery from her own health issues, but I won't be a completely happy camper 'till everyone has the energy to make it through a gentle day.

Then my day returned back to happy; I spent the evening at a pitch-in barbeque with Mr. Hubby, my dawg, friends I hadn't seen in many months, and friends-of-friends who were fantastic company. The neighborhood cats were very entertaining, the weather was gorgeous, the bugs weren't biting, and I ate and ate and ate and ate . . . . I hope that I'm actually on my way to gaining some weight on the kid's behalf - if I get another "you lost weight?!" speach from my midwife I'll be disappointed.

Mr. Hubby headed off to a birthday party and I headed to bed with the dog and a "so you've got a baby on the way" book - before falling asleep, I *think* I felt the kid move, but it may have been food gurgling around?

are you calling me an elephant? / return to yoga class

On Wednesday morning, I reminded Mr. Hubby that he needed to tell his supervisor at work that he'd be taking a half-day's vacation next Thursday so he could go to my 18-week prenatal appointment with me.

"Oh, she's at home on bed rest, problems with blood-pressure I think".

I know that his supervisor is pregnant, but don't know how soon she's due: "That bites - how far along is she?"

"Um . . . I dunno . . . like 45 to 48 weeks?"

I grabbed the nearest door frame for support - my sweet, good-natured, talks-to-my-belly Mr. Hubby doesn't know how long human gestation takes? "Honey, that's impossible - most people give birth by 40 or 41 weeks . . . do you know how far along I am?

"15 weeks?"

I was relieved that he was close, but a little ticked off that he didn't know: "Nooooo, that was two weeks ago - besides, I have week numbers written on our dry-erase calender!"

"I wondered what that was all about . . ."

* ~ * ~ * (Elephant gestation takes 22 months) * ~ * ~ *

I planned on attending a water-aerobics class after work yesterday but left my towel and bathing suit on a table in my garage . . . oh garage, I used to sit in you all the time drinking vodka-ed generic lemon-lime soda and playing cards or darts . . . but I digress.

I mustered up the nutz to go back to prenatal yoga, and got there early enough to talk to a childbirth educator about the best way to bring Mr. Hubby up to speed; she had a good-natured laugh about it and reminded me how abstract all of this is for someone who isn't experiencing any symptoms, and that between watching me change shape and taking the childbirth class with me he'd be in great shape by "birth" day.

1) Thank goodness Mr. Hubby isn't the only pre-daddy goober on the block.

2) Hey waitaminute . . . I have changed shape already . . . these inflata-boobies and pooch belly are new - do I need to carry a "before" picture?

While I was gently mocking my husband, the yoga instructor arrived with her three-month-old boy - and she seemed genuinely amused with my ranting request for emotional support. . . did I detect a spark of snark in her also?? I told her that I enjoyed my first class, was surprised at how inflexible I was, and that my previous forms of exercise have been roller derby, water aerobics, and (years ago) martial arts - so I was having a little trouble getting use to being quiet and still as a form of exercise. Then I bit the bullet: "And I wanted to apologize for acting like a smart ass, I shouldn't have been disruptive like that".

Her face went blank.
Crap.
"Wha . . . OH - you were fine, I encourage a sense of humor in class".

The heavens opened and it became clear that I was going to get along with this dreadlocked peacefulmama after all.

Perhaps to humor me, I did not hear the phrase "heart light" during yesterday's class, instead she said "let your chest shine out" during an appropriate pose. Also? No "I'm surrounded by strong women" affirmations - in fact the talkey-break in class was about making me sit down for a while 'cause I looked (and felt) like I was going to faint. Followed by a speech (directed at me) about yoga not being a competitive sport, and that especially while pregnant it is important to respect your body's boundaries.

Normally? I would have been sad or ticked off to be singled out.
Perhaps it was the light-headedness, perhaps it was the endorphins, but I didn't care. I sat there like a bewildered child and just took it in.

After the rest of class had cleared out, she apologized to me for singling me out like that, and said that another new participant also needed to hear that information, but she didn't want to potentially embarrass her by getting direct with her. AND she went on to say that she had fallen victim to her own stubborn over-achiever streak and injured herself while pregnant because she didn't honor her own limitations. As if I wasn't already feeling 100% better about everything, she timidly asked me to keep an eye on her baby for a while so she could use the bathroom before driving home.

And now to convince you that I haven't already morphed into a kumbaya-singing mess-o-horomones, I'd like to call attention to a fantastic comment I received from Min yesterday:

I think the next time your Yoga instructor says "I am surrounded by strong women" you should respond with "knock the b*tch down". I would think that would be very therapeutic.

I think I've found my birthing phrase folks - most people choose something along the lines of "ohm", "peace", or "I trust my body".
My most likely candidate at this point is.
"knock the bitch down"

Thank you, Min!

I hope my doula understands.