Third Trimester!

25 weeks!
Totally cheating with this fitted, black dress.  But that's how I work.

28 weeks!  Beginning of "big mamma".  Sob!
(This dress REALLY accentuates the belly...I swear I don't look exactly this big in person.  Now, not small, mind you, but this is some 36 week shiznizzle right here!)

Who doesn't take self-portraits in the work bathroom?

Today I chose a dress I only sometimes wear because it makes me look pregnant.  “Well now’s as good time as any,” I said as I examined my sloped mid-section in the morning mirror.  Thing looked PLUMP!  It’s amazing how clothes can accentuate or minimize a baby bump (I swear: on Saturday I wore a peasant top that made me look Kathryn circa 2010).  Today I’m full-on baby mama.  Case in my point from my co-worker this morning: “Kathryn – you POPPED!  You looked different last week!”  There’s something liberating about no longer being able to suck in a burgeoning gut. 

This week I am 28 weeks pregnant, which is the beginning of both the third trimester and the seventh month of pregnancy.  I am ecstatic and giddy.  Matt is panic-stricken and looking a bit nauseous. 

“You had a while to get used to this, you know,” I deadpanned last night as I showed him a changing table I was contemplating.  “I don’t think you can ever get used to this,” he replied, glassy-eyed.  He reassured me on how excited he is, but I also know, as my internal clock can’t go fast enough, his is ticking with a thud. 

On the weekends he is a flurry of activity as he looks at wood finishes in preparation to re-sanding the nursery’s shoddy hardwood floors.  On Saturday night, when I was out with friends, he painted the nursery a bright yellow appropriately called Sunbeam.  He put the last coat on after I returned home, ten minutes to midnight, in his underwear with classical music echoing throughout the house.  We discovered mold creeping across our basement yesterday, and I think the boy was positively going to cry at the thought of another house project. 

Not to say I feel sorry for him.  The way he thinks about housework is the way I think about work.  Period.  My last work trip is to Michigan and Colorado the first full week of October, and it can’t get here quickly enough.  After that it’s local events, but even that (Three hours at an evening networking event?  Five hours at a job fair?) still doesn’t pacify the alarmist in me.  Luckily, I feel great and I’m hedging my bets I’m going to have a seamless, uneventful last trimester.  Or at least willing the fact that it will easy.

Now, look – carrying this baby should be easier on me.  I’m big: 5’10”.  I’m no skinny ninny but thick and (I’d like to think), strong.  If I was waddling at this point there would be a problem.  A woman I know, pregnant as well and three weeks behind me in gestation, said, “Are you still fitting into your maternity clothes?  I had to go buy all new ones!”  This comment made my day because 1) I’m hardly wearing any maternity clothes as most of my wardrobe is already fashioned for a generous bajunk-a-junk stomach, and 2) of those I do wear they’re only starting to look appropriate, and 3) I’m really quite smug.  While my baby can grow up and down, hers (she stands about 5’3” or so) can only jut out.  I finally feel my height is to some advantage (other than intimidating people of course).

I still don’t identify fully with my pregnant peers.  I visit two “November 2011” baby forums.  Last night many of them were talking about their baby’s current position.  “Oh, he’s transverse” and “My little bugger keeps flipping around!” to “Mine’s been head-up since the beginning.”  This intrigues me because I cannot possibly induce how they know this because all I can tell is that it feels like I’ve got some heavy-duty gas in there.  The woman who is three weeks behind me in pregnancy?  She said her kid wakes her up in the middle of the night with their kicking.  Really?  Because I just feel like I ate a burrito that didn’t agree with me.

Now, I’ve got some cushioning if ya know what I mean, and apparently an anterior placenta, meaning that squishy blob is on top of the baby and softening his/her karate kicks, but lord almighty!  I’ve finally just come to the conclusion that these women are crazy and they gotta calm the heck down because they have a few more months of cookin’ to do (and uncomfortable incubating it sounds like to me).  They also post things like, “I feel so guilty; I had a Diet Coke today,” or “How long do I need to heat my cold cuts so they’re safe?”  I’m seriously reading this half the time with a soda in one hand and a turkey sandwich in the other, chompin’ and snortin’ (chompin’ and snortin’ is my most natural, relaxed – and common – state).

Then there is the ubiquitous post about the “coming home outfit”.  This is the outfit mothers spend no less than 22.6 hours choosing and what their new bundle of joy will be wearing when he or she is brought home from the hospital.  Other commenters “ooo” and “awww” over these get-ups, resplendent with frogs and ducks, princesses or monkeys.  I momentarily took a break from chompin’ and snortin’ to ruminate if I should buy a special outfit for this occasion.  The answer: no.  Back to the turkey sandwich.

This is not to say I’m not spectacularly excited, and often times, my snide commentary takes a back-seat to the belly pics, the “Is this safe?” questions, and even the posts about awful things their “DH” says.  For those not in the know, “DH” stands for “Dear Husband”.  These are sometimes my favorite posts, for DHs can say supremely clueless and tactless things, and it’s my job to read them all and sort out which of these Neanderthals are huge dicks.  From what I can tell there’s a lot of whale and “big as a house” commentary, frightened pointing at burgeoning stretch marks while DHs crinkle their eyes in horror and say, “What ARE those?!” (good thing I was practically born with the things) and not-so-gentle jabs at the quantity of food these soon-to-be mothers are consuming.  This all plays into my smugness really well, because Matt is a nice and quiet guy and wouldn’t dare utter these things.  He’s also scared of me, and I feel like I have to teach my preggo compatriots on how to put the fear of their wives (much worse than the fear of God) into their husbands. 

Last but not least on our baby odyssey are the baby classes!  Our first class was this past week on breastfeeding.  We were told to bring a baby doll for positioning and holding, but we brought a tie-dyed frog.  I surely thought we were already the class delinquents but I was happy to spot a teddy bear in the audience as well.  Most women in the class were eight months along and their husbands were dutiful (this is the Main Line, after all).  I thought I’d surely leave the class with some good commentary but there wasn’t much to work with in this Ann Taylor-clad crowd.  I was also hoping to the very end the free-spirited instructor would whip out her boob for a life-like reenactment, but no such luck.  I’m hoping the class we take in a few weeks brings me more fodder: it’s for clueless first-time parents so my hopes are high.

But somewhere in between all my inappropriate wisecracks, I’ve found myself crying for no inexplicable reason other than the fact that I’m going to HAVE A BABY.  That Matt and I are going to be responsible for this life that we’ve created (horribly cliched, I know, and the creation was in a lab, but still!).  This morning, on the train “Our House” by Crosby, Stills, and Nash came on and with my headphones on, and with Bryn Mawr and Ardmore flashing by, I cried out of total and complete happiness at the thought of the life Matt and I had built.  I thought of Matt painting late at night in his underwear to Chopin, our Saturday trips the last two weeks to the vet for Penny’s stubborn ear infection, and of all the baby furniture propped up in our living room waiting to be assembled.  I thought of early-morning weekend trips to the practice in New Jersey, our recent date nights to the city to enjoy each other before the baby, us cooking in the kitchen together (roasted chicken last night and Greek pitas today) or watching bad TV in bed and late-night back rubs.  I thought of him lounging on my hospital bed during my Crohn’s flare a couple years back and us watching movies with the volume low, or how he told me, “If this is as bad as it gets, then I have it pretty good” when we ran to the pharmacy late at night for medication our first year together.  I thought about the most mundane things: arguing over what brownie mix to buy in the grocery aisle or about what evening newscast to watch, what actor was in so-and-so movie and how no, he’s not going to go out there and attack the hornet nest nestled in our garage.

I thought about how much I love this man, and how I wouldn’t trade this life for any other.  And then I thought there’s nothing sweeter than being gifted with something you thought you may never have, and how so very good we have it.

25 Weeks

At 25 weeks pregnant I’m starting to definitely look a bit knocked up – particularly in some outfits and always in the afternoon.  I figure I must be 50% bloat if much of my girth presents itself from 3 pm on.  Or maybe it’s the fact that I dubbed my afternoon snack “second lunch” given my veracious eating habits (Do you know anyone who eats three bananas in one day?  Well now you do.).  By evening my gut feels full and hard – literally stuffed, and I look in the mirror, sideways, in a “Really? REALLY?” sort of way.  I guess this was to be expected.

Because of my hectic fall work schedule, Matt and I scheduled our first baby class in two weeks.  It’s on breastfeeding.  They said to bring a life-size baby doll, and I’ve deduced no one in my social sphere has such a thing.  (If they did, I suppose it would be creepy, come to think of it.)  Right now I’m eyeing a stuffed frog to bring, but I fear I’ll be chastised for its anatomical incorrectness (and also its lack of being even remotely a mammal).  It looks better than the other stuff animal we own, though – a dragon complete with a spliced tongue and spiky tail (all dubious prizes from amusement parks from Matt).  You girls may get jewelry or a night out, but I get a tie-dyed frog.  Two of them, actually.  Control your jealousy.

The other two baby classes we signed-up for are “Preparing for Baby!” and a one-day child birth workshop.  “Preparing for Baby!” is a nice way of saying, “Hey you!  First time parents!  Yeah, you two clueless nitwits!  This one’s for you.”  It will teach us about newborns and car seats, about pediatricians and vaccinations, and about feeding and burping.  I figure this has to be useful, because I’m not even sure if Matt and I know how to hold a baby properly.  (All I know is that Matt constantly refers to the “soft spot” on the babies head and how he’s going to “poke it”.  I don’t know what to make of this.)

In other news we have begun to prepare the nursery.  I don’t do cutesy, I don’t do cutesy themes, and I sure as hell don’t do cartoons. This is not in line with Matt who said he first wanted to do a robot theme, then maybe Mario Brothers, then maybe space.  Even if we don’t have a boy, I think he’s determined to make our child a tom boy, which is fine, unless they play copious amounts of sports, which (and Matt and I agree on this together) is not fine.  I will steer him or her to music and books, and he will steer them to science and code.  Look, there are parents who go to each and every little league game.  Then there will be us.

For the room we settled on pale yellow walls with sage curtains and a large tree vinyl decal and I’m relieved that Matt likes it.  In fact, when looking at tree decals, he has chosen the more modern, wind-swept ones that look adult-like and blustery, and are more suitable for a loft than a nursery.  I said that’s not very warm and kid-like and he pretended he doesn’t hear me.  His decals have dark silhouettes of birds heading south.  Mine have blue birds dancing around the tree, their feathers plump and their cadence merry.  I’m not sure how Matt got to this from robots, but sometimes I just have to keep my mouth shut and go with it.  I often get my way by virtue of being a loud-mouth, so the boy can get whatever the heck tree he wants.

Matt has also begun using the baby to get out of things.  Twice the Obama campaign called asking for volunteer time, and twice he has said, “I’m sorry; I’ve got a baby on the way!”  No matter he took these calls in June and the baby is due in November. 

I’m curious what I’ll be able to get away with when I become clearly pregnant.  Will the MLDs let me board the train first?  Will I get out of cleaning?  (Last week – I’m not sure what got into me as I’m the furthest thing from a neat freak – I began scrubbing our bathroom tile with a hardcore disinfectant from Lowe’s.  Matt burst in and took over, but subsequently I now have a mellow, non-toxic pink grapefruit scented cleaner so the battle hasn’t truly been won.)

For now, though, everything is the same except for the daily “Cletus” references that sprinkle our conversations.  My friend Danita recommended we use the term “Sprout”, which Matt and I both adored, but it was too late: Cletus the Fetus had already taken hold and was already a part of our household vernacular. 

And I suppose that’s just fine.

Charming Charities

Every day, immediately after getting out of the car from work, I head to the mailbox.  Getting mail excites me, which is odd, considering it’s mainly bills or credit card solicitations (or god forbid, my 401(k) statement which I refuse to open), but nevertheless, my daily ritual never wavers.  I love picking through the mail and thumbing through catalogs (I still have no idea how I got on the Restoration Hardware mailing list since I will never, ever spend $48 on a bathroom knob). 

This week I received a Pepto pink envelope hand-addressed to me.  I couldn’t place the sender until I saw their address: one number off ours, on our street.  It was from our neighbors, a friendly couple we barely see in their sixties who chat about their past dogs and grandchildren on the rare instance our paths cross when we’re out walking Penny.  They were soliciting donations for a cancer society I never heard of, touting the benefits of healthy eating to cure and prevent cancer.  (Which is insulting enough: sure, I bet environment may have a bit to do with it, but it just reeked of misinformation).  The letter, typed from the charity, exclaimed even ten dollars would help (but thirty would be much better) and in our neighbor’s scroll, he (or she) wrote, “Anything would help!  Thank you so much!”  Thank you, indeed.

I thrust the letter into Matt’s hand and said, “You gotta see this!”  Since Matt is ever the diplomat, he simply arched his eyebrow and said, “Yeah, that’s odd.”  First off, we have spoken to this neighbor maybe five times since we moved to the neighborhood over four years ago.  I’m baffled how they even remembered my name (first and last), and how they knew how to spell it.  Katherine.  Catherine.  See?  It’s a moniker that goes by several spellings (“Kathryn” being the best obviously).   They don’t attend the neighborhood get-togethers but I’m suspecting they got their mitts on the list, which details the names and addresses of those who attend.

Here is my problem with this: we do not know them and they are soliciting money from neighbors (whom they do not speak to) for a questionable organization.  This is the kicker: You are not asked to return your check to the organization themselves, but to the neighbors.  You know, just so they can see how worthy you are.    Give $10 and you’re cheap and obviously care not one iota about cancer research.  Give $50 and you’re worthy (and a sucker in my book).  Obviously, $10 is nominal (even though they should think we’re cash-strapped given the state of our yard).  I just found the whole scenario obnoxious: this charity relies on the societal pressures of neighborly relations to get their dough, and pries on the trust of those neighbors: “Well, if Susie is collecting money, it must be for a good cause.” 

Since I like to make a big deal out of everything, I decided to Google the organization.  They take in about 33 million a year, and after mailings and executive salaries they donate (drum role please) less than 2 million annually.  They have the lowest score on several business bureau websites and rely on robo-calls and neighborhood mailing kits.  They do not perform any research themselves, and do not disclose exactly what happens to the cash they do give away.  Their CEO makes just south of $500,000 as does their executive board.  Simply put, this is no American Cancer Society.

Since I’m not one to shy away from voicing my opinion (see: me giving the asshole who went through our neighborhood at 60 mph the middle finger yesterday) I thought I’d write the neighbors a letter.  A really nice letter.  Really.  If Matt saw this he’d be horrified.

I already imagined this letter.  It would be something along the lines of, “Dear Dick and Mary: I hope you are well! I had the pleasure of receiving your donation form for (insert scumbag faux-charity) last week.  Although Matt and I full-heartedly support funding for cancer research, we donate to a select handful of charities per year that are close to our hearts (this is pretty true although there is no fund for poor game developers I’m aware of on Matt’s behalf).  To learn more about the scumbag faux-charity I did do some research to be better informed.  I was a bit concerned that they received several low ratings on philanthropy watch-dog groups and much of their revenue doesn’t go to research.  At this time we’ll have to decline.  (Now I would add a sweet send-off.)  Thank you again and I hope you’re enjoying the summer with your grandchildren and the memory of those dead dogs you always talk about!  Warm Regards, Kathryn and Matt”

I think that about says it.

I am not truly a charity curmudgeon.  Each month a donation is charged automatically to my credit card from the ASPCA.  I give yearly to Philabundance, a Philadelphia-based non-profit to eradicate hunger.  I donate to the CCFA (of course) and Planned Parenthood.  Oh, which brings up something else.  Shall we?

I love Planned Parenthood.  Who isn’t for women’s health?  (Well, except male Republicans.)  But I’m come to an impasse with them.  Planned Parenthood plants workers on street corners in Center City, Philadelphia soliciting donations.  There are a lot of organizations that do this.  I find this sort of guerilla donation-seeking jarring, but nonetheless, I stopped to chat with one of their people.  I am always cornered on the street.  I feel it’s because of my size.  I’m like a buck to your doe.  They see me from afar, big and somewhat friendly looking.  Fresh meat!  I’m also a woman, and how many men do you see stop?  Also, because I’m not a total scmuck, I often make eye contact when spoken to.  Because of this, I’m an idiot.

This guy told me about the state of women’s rights in this country (dire) and how Congress is stripping away rights (duh) and how abortions aren’t even funded with federal money (duh part deux).  He was preachy and snide so I replied with, “Yeah; I have a modicum of intelligence and read the news.”  I’m a peach.  This is when it went all downhill.  He pressured me into signing up for a repeat donation deducted from my credit card each month.  I told him I already donate (true; on a much less generous basis though) and I do not sign-up for things on the street.  He said I didn’t care about women’s health.  I told him what does he know, it’s not like he has access to my financials and he sure as hell doesn’t have a vagina.  Okay, that’s a lie.  I just told him I already donate but I appreciated the information he provided.  I really wish I said the vagina thing, though.  I told him I’d look into it more at home.  He said 99% of people who say that never follow through.  I told him I’m sure that’s the case, but I’m not 99% of people (lies: I was totally not going to look anything up, but I had to keep up appearances).  He snorted.  He said a few snide remarks.  I told him he just lowered my impression of Planned Parenthood and wasn’t that a pity.  Then I walked away as he shouted something, but my earphones were already back on at that point. 

Today Amnesty International was canvassing Chestnut Street.  Several of their people were stationed outside of Sephora, the luxe make-up and fragrance emporium.  I thought it was a smart move.  I mean, only women visit Sephora and perhaps Amnesty International feels these girls will want to make amends for the $25 mascara and $80 face cream they just purchased.  It’s like those carbon neutral thingamabobs a la Al Gore.  Sure he jets around the world and lives in a mansion, but he OFF-SETS it, darn it!  (I mean this in half-jest: I like Al, even though he has the worst teeth imaginable.  Have you seen them?!) 

I know these are tough times for charities, but there has to be a more charitable way of doing things. 

So, that brings us round-circle to Dick and Mary and the American Institute for Cancer Research (aka scumbag faux-charity).  I don’t think I’ll really write a letter seeing as we’re not moving anytime soon and I don’t want to horrify poor Matt, who often has to deal with my ranting and raving.  I’m much more prone to take the cowardly way out: pretend I never received anything.  Never mention it.  And, like a seasoned woman of the streets, never look them in the eye again.

Beachy Keen

I got a new camera for my birthday.  I had asked for a fancy SLR since the baby was coming (what better time to uncharacteristically splurge?!), but Matt - knowing me a little too well and knowing there was no way in hell-el I was going to learn how to use that thing (and because he's cheap) - got me a new point-and-shoot.  Whaaa!  Fine!  I decided to use it on our mini-vacay to the beach the weekend before I started work, and then again during July 4th weekend.  Here is a pictorial of our trips.

Well; this was before we left.  I had to test the darn thing!
It has a pet mode.  I don't know what that means.  My favorite mode is "automatic".
Here is Penny-dog not in pet mode.  Poor thing.
(Maybe it's a good thing he didn't get the SLR afterall...)

It also has a panoramic mode that even I can do!  This is our front porch.

On the way to Chincoteague we stopped at Hardee's because Matt annually INSISTS on it.  Pennsylvania doesn't have Hardee's.  It's like McDonald's on steroids (I admit, the burgers are bigger and better).  Here is Matt in a near-comatose state after his meal.  Thank goodness I was there to finish his fries; we women have to do all the work!

Very GQ - Furball style.  Now imagine shaking the excess water off his hair - no, not like a supermodel.  More like a drenched dog.

He only looks this intense because we're on our way to the coffee shop in town for a morning jolt and pastries.
Nothing gets in our way when it comes to food.

See; I told you so.

Bridge to get onto the Island.  Signs for a mile welcome you touting "fudge!" and "clams!" as you drive in.

Matt looks like a grizzly, sunburned sailor, and I look like a washed-out potato, but we seem to make it work regardless.
Here we are on the pier in the back of the house, looking onto the bay.

Matt bought these swim trunks for $2 - it's like he has a cheap beckon always on, always blinking.  Ever since the trip he's chastised me for not letting him get 10 more pairs (what am I, his mother?!).  He's so much of a fan I caught him wearing them to play BASKETBALL the other day.  Oye vey.

Chowing down on beach BBQ; my sister, Kristen, and her boyfriend, Chris.

No beach adventure is complete without a round of mini-golf!  I'd also like to take this time to say I was the only one of the group who won a free round of golf at the last hole.  Talent like that can't be taught.

Chris and Kris.

Now we're on the Jersey Shore; this was our second beach jaunt of the season.  Here are the boys playing football on the beach.  From L to R: Scott (Matt's cousin), Dave (Matt's uncle), Matt's brother Joe, his father David, Matt, and his sister's friend, Steve.

I asked Matt if he made me proud with his athletic prowess afterwards.  His response: "Not really."

He is one with the beach hat.

I watched from the sidelines because I'm less foolish than the rest of them.

Here we are back in Chincoteague, VA, waiting in line for ice cream...what else?! This is my sister's boyfriend trying to master my trademark thumb's down. The boy's got potential, I give him that. 

Enjoy your summer!

Beach Bunny

A ravishing photo of my beloved on the beach:

If this doesn't get you all hot and bothered, I don't know what will!  (And I'm only half joking.)


And thank you Matt, for never minding that I post this stuff.  And that DOES really get my blood boiling!

The Light At the End of the Tunnel

I was never a person who played with dolls and dreamed of having children.  I had a headless Barbie who dated the family dog (there was no Ken, you see) - she didn’t have time for children (or the right species to procreate with, frankly).  I never went gaga over other people’s children, and have only recently admitted that yes, they’re cute, but let’s talk about something else – perhaps the latest episode of True Blood?  I don’t think kids always say the darndest things, and their watchful, curious eyes sometimes just creep me out (future “mother of the year” here!).  Moms hold their babies on the train with the babies facing behind and their offspring proceed to stare, stick their tongue out, or make faces the whole time.  Since I am usually 15x their age you’d think I wouldn’t find this unnerving, but I always walk off the train unhinged.  Like I said, I’m not what you’d call a kid person.

But something strange has been happening recently.  About a month ago Matt and I spent a quick beach weekend in Virginia and saw a dad helping his toddler build a sand castle, misshapen and perfect in that charmingly imperfect way.  And then a mom was playing with her baby girl in the surf, foamy waves ebbing and flowing with their laughter. And with my sunglasses on and my palm pressing against Matt’s, I finally felt free to cry out of happiness.  The same thing happened this weekend, but this time in a quiet hamlet amidst the Jersey shore: watching 4th of July fireworks from an upstairs balcony I turned to Matt and said we’ll have a 7-month-old at this time next year.  He squeezed my hand and we both remarked how far we’ve come as purple and gold sparks danced above the shoreline.

Matt and I have been closer because, well, we’re having a child together, but also because we’re both completely out of her element in having this child together.  (I suppose nothing brings two people together more than shared fear.)  After work we sit on our couch, a laptop on each of our laps, each monitor glowing with lightweight strollers and convertible car seats and anything else a baby may – or may not - need.  We send one another links of possible products, email each other what this or that co-worker recommended, and invariably say we give up after the back-and-forth but begin the next day.  “Babies are like a whole other species,” Matt said, fretfully staring at the list of things that need to be bought.

Between the two of us childless dodos, we know basically…nothing.  We don’t know what children wear, what their cries mean, how exactly this breastfeeding thing works (well, that’s more me) and have you seen all the car seats and strollers on the market?!?!  Last night, in total exasperation, I told Matt he was in charge of “baby transportation”, meaning he was to choose our car seats and strollers.  (Notice the plural.)  I gave him this task out of total dumbfoundedness but put it under the guise of “more parental involvement”.  I don’t think he was fooled.

There are hundreds of car seats and strollers on the market.  There are infant car seats and convertible car seats.  There are strollers where you can snap an infant car seat in to form a makeshift stroller.  There are lightweight strollers, traveling system strollers, all terrain strollers, jogging strollers, umbrella strollers, and dog strollers (the last one we mistakenly stumbled upon during a Google search).  We want a hardy stroller for the trails in Valley Forge but half of those won’t fit into our compact car trunks.  Every stroller has half good reviews, and the other half poo-poo the item, making us scratch our heads and Google some more.  There are $500 strollers that often have uniformly good reviews, but you know, that’s a $500 stroller!  I’d like to say we’re more “reasonable” than “cheap”.  And then what about baby-wearing?  Do we purchase a wrap, the $15 Target carrier that causes backache, the ubiquitous BabyBjorn at $90 a pop, or god forbid, an eye-popping $150 for the organic Ergo Baby (you see, Ergo Baby is the only carrier on the market that puts the baby’s weight on both your shoulders and hips so you can carry baby in comfort AND style).  Gag me.

Then there’s cribs (how many people have told me I have to get a GOOD crib and don’t I dare order one online?!) and gliders.  Diaper Genies and swings.  Pack ‘n’ Plays and don’t think of getting bumpers for your crib because they cause SIDS!  So, I give up.  I throw my hands up in the air to the baby gods.  So, here’s the deal: I will pay someone to shift through all this nonsense that preys on helpless and clueless soon-to-be-parents (e.g. Matt and me) and choose the pick of the litter (you know, of the cheaper stuff). Since I’m spending the better part of our salaries on baby accouterments, you’ll have to take the assignment pro bono.  Think of it as helping the needy.  And clueless.  And, excuse the language, the scared shitless. 

Half Way There!

I love this graph because her 22 weeks was my, eh, 0.  

Today I was so hungry I had to go and buy a second lunch.  I ate the lunch I brought, and then in a meeting from 1 to 2:30 pm all I could thing about was dinner, then maybe picking up a small snack in the cafeteria, and then it came down to it I bought whole second lunch.  And guess what?  I’m still hungry. 

These days I’m downright beastly: I swear I may have even growled at Matt as he tried to eat my trail mix last night.  I realize my, “I have no pregnancy symptoms!” shtick may be up. 

Case in point: I’m utterly, completely exhausted half the time.  Of course, I working now and sitting at home with Ellen and Oprah, but I’m also sleeping much worse (which really is a feat for a girl who never slept well).  I wake throughout the night to either pee (which is puzzling as there’s no baby on my bladder as far as I can tell) or just stare at the clock in aggravation. Even on Saturday I woke up at 5 am, a day I was hoping I could “catch up”.  Poor Matt is lobbying for his own bedroom (complete with a “race car bed” to boot).

I’ve also been experiencing “round ligament pain” which is really no big deal (just the stretching and contracting of the ligament that supports your growing uterus) but it often catches me off-guard.  My lower abdomen is growing harder (well, underneath the fat) and I was told my boobs are bigger so last night I felt myself up in the shower and lo and behold they DID feel denser (and they certainly are pointing due south so something’s goin’ on in there).

So, really, things aren’t too shabby…or at least it’s nothing a long nap, a five-course dinner, and a Miracle Bra can’t solve.

Train Tantrums

I’m a bonafide commuter and take the train to work, and (so far) I love it.  I love unwinding, listening to music, staring out the window, dog-earing my book, and thinking about dinnertime and Penny and Matthew and all those precious little things.  I’m on my daily migration to what’s important.

But there’s a dark underbelly to the train, too; one that centers on a pervasive lack of manners and general etiquette.  I do enjoy myself some Miss Manners, I must say.  You will receive a thank you note from me, and niceties will be met with a “my pleasure”.  So it shouldn’t be a surprise that I’m going to write about the train douches (yes, I said it) on the R5 line.  Really – they need to be exposed.  So hitch a ride, darlin’, because here we go!:

Septa (Southeastern Pennsylvania Transit Authority) regional rail trains are invariably set up in the following format: a set of two seats on one side, and three on the other.  Meaning, if there is a full train, someone will have to sit in the middle.  I often take a train called “The Great Valley Flyer”.  Doesn’t that just scream turn-of-the-century railroad romanticism to you?  The Great Valley Flyer stops at all the outermost stops on the line, and then continues into Center City Philadelphia non-stop.  I live a good 2/3 out on the line, so I pick-up the train on its last stop before it choo-choos into the city for a 7:51 am arrival.  Because of this, the train is always very crowded with tired commuters and there are almost always only middle seats left.  Do not, I repeat, DO NOT pretend to be asleep so a new passenger will forgo asking you to slide over.  These dufuses are almost always male, because, and this is very scientific, here: I believe males have a bigger allotment of asshole-y genes.  I can SEE YOU peaking out at me through your half-closed eyes, sir!  And spreading your legs in the biggest, most obnoxious and grotesque “V” isn’t going to stop me.  And YES, my big booty will take a seat.  Also, putting your briefcase, laptop bag, and newspaper all in a row to take up the middle seat will not deter me.  I see others look at your seat, look at the crowded train, then look back at the seat in that sad, timid way my dog looks at leftover food on my plate: they would rather stand the whole trip than bother with the likes of you.  Well, they’re obviously nicer than me, so scoot over!

On most trains there is an overhead rack, number one, and number two, why don’t you try a little consolidation?  Women are particularly guilty of this: oftentimes a woman will carry 1) a purse of smallish stature, 2) a tote bag of largish stature, and 3) a lunch in a thermal container.  Sometimes a laptop bag is thrown in there, too.  I’m particularly baffled at these gals: whatever happened to one large work bag?  I carry a large leather tote a la L.L.Bean (stylin’, I know): it can fit a laptop, a pair of shoes (and these are some pretty damn big size 11’s), my wallet and mp3 player, and a lunch.  However, I’m not mad at them because they aren’t spreading their baggage all around like a petulant fifth grader. 

Now let’s touch on the cattle call that is the train station during the evening commute.  When our train pulls in I have never witnessed such base behavior.  This is no Titanic, folks, with women and children first.  I’ve seen feeble old ladies cut off by a Main Line douche.  This is a good time to say I find people who live on the Main Line particularly loathsome, and it’s really my problem.  I’m sure most are hard-working good people who aren’t on their second marriage to someone half their age, and they all don’t drive Mercedes convertibles and have live-in help.  But I don’t care: that’s how I see them all (I know, I know: I’m awful).  For non-locals, the Main Line is a supremely tony area of suburban Philadelphia.  My train runs through this area as Matt and I live about 15-20 minutes north of this tax bracket (and thus three tax brackets south).  Now don’t get me wrong: I’d love to be rich and not work, but I’m not, so my only option is to seethe at them and be a jealous ol’ curmudgeon.  And write pithy blog posts.

My distaste for this suburban breed began when I was cut off again, and again, and again by clueless moms in Land Rovers chirping away on their Blackberries.  This happens daily.  She’s often pulling into Whole Foods with three children in the back and wearing Lululemon yoga pants.  Now that I take the train with their husbands, I’m even more incensed because (and I swear to you on this) they are always the ones who would rather give up their nanny than move over a seat or let you slide in.  If you are dressed in something from Target or Macy’s, or, jeez, even Banana Republic, you’re downright jolly in the morning.  Brooks Brothers and reading the WSJ?  Keep a’walkin’. 

But even I am shocked when I see good ol’ elderly folks trampled in the commuting rush.  I have literally put my arm out to stop the masses as the woman in question gathered herself and slowly boarded the train.  I am also known to give dirty looks at these offenders, and I swear I can be all sorts of intimidating given by 5’10” stature (5’11” in the orthopedic flip-flops my mom insists I wear).  They’re probably scared I’ll key their X Series. 

Finally, there are the individuals (read: men) who insist on getting up and positioning themselves in the aisle a good stop before their designated stop.  The other day a MLD (Mainline Douche), who occupied the window seat, said to me, who occupied the aisle seat, “The next stop is mine.”  I replied it was also mine, thinking we were good to go, when he said, “Well then can you please move?”  We were still at

30^th Street

Station, which is a few minutes before our Suburban Station stop.  The train was idling.  I got up and MLD took his position in the aisle.  Now this is the kicker: I finished my book chapter and got up when the train actually pulled into Suburban Station and LO AND BEHOLD, stepping into the aisle directly behind me.  I figure he saved two seconds off his commuting time by doing this, so good going MLD!  You win!

I know I sound like a bitter Betty, but I can assure you I love the train!  I love feeling like a part of the masses – there’s just something so intrinsically welcoming about it.  Like, we’re all doing this less-than-ideal commute together.  We’re all waiting for this delayed train, together.  And sometimes I’m even tickled by my well-off seatmates (my JC Penney-clad self often guesses if their cuff-links are real gold, or, god forbid, platinum). 

So, there you have it: scoot in or let your fellow passenger take that middle seat without grunting, quit the farm animal shoving, calm the heck down, and I swear, I’ll quit bitching. 

Probably.

Cletus Carries On

So many people have told me I look happier and I have a glow. Now, I think this is what you're supposed to tell a pregnant woman, but I eat it up anyway. I'm in my 18th week and because of my height and build am not particularly showing, although my sister saw me in a bathing suit a few weeks ago and said, "Woah, preggars!!!" I had to correct her and tell her that was my everyday fat - doi. My stomach has always stuck out; now I just monitor how much further it sticks past my boobs. I'm thinking it may be a good idea to get a push-up bra to even out the heft on the top and the bottom.

I see women on the train platform or the grocery store and I desperately to want saddle up to them and spout, "I'm pregnant too! I'm part of the club! Let's compare notes!" even though they're obviously much further along than me, and could really give a damn about this half-baked floozy. The strange thing is that I have no notes: I would not know I was pregnant. Only on two occasions early on did I experience any stomach upset, and it was simply, "I need to eat that bagel because I'm feeling a bit woozy." That's it. I was tired, but home at the time, so it was tolerable (and nicely filled the gap between the end of The View at Noon and the beginning of Ellen at three). I eat things and then realize maybe I shouldn't have (a turkey sandwich - god, it was good: grilled pear, cheddar, turkey on a baguette - two days ago, a big, sugary Coke yesterday). Even when you tell me I'm pregnant I'm skeptical. At my monthly doctor's appointment this week the ob/gyn put the doppler to my belly and said, "There's the heartbeat! 156 beats per minute!" I didn't hear a thing except some watery swooshing.

That's not to say I don't worry incessantly that something is wrong. I told my work last Friday only because my team brings up babies often. Our manager is currently out on maternity leave and we're all approaching 30, and I guess that's just what barely-30-year-old girls talk about in their cubicles. After a few days of feeling duplicitous ("Babies?! Eh. I dunno." was a memorable quote of mine after they mentioned they were nowhere near ready to rear a child) I came clean. They were phenomenal, but ever since then, however morose this sounds, I thought, "What is something happens?! I should have kept my trap shut!" Yesterday's heartbeat "confirmation" has made me feel more relaxed.

The good thing about being pregnant is that I can get away with almost anything since I can just blame it on Cletus the Fetus. This has included taking the dog out, making my own dinner, or, allowing myself to huge second portions. "Cletus is hungry! Cletus is tired!" when really Kathryn just wants to watch The Bachelorette (which isn't to say I don't do my fair share of housework, but this little trick has really come in handy of late).

A friend told me that dogs know when a woman is pregnant, but Penny has been ignoring me just as much lately, so who knows. At least I still have her to keep me grounded.

Workin' 9 to 5

This is the story of how Kathryn – sorta – got her groove back.  I’ve never worked for a company that had much more than 1,000 employees, so imagine my cultural shock working at an organization that has just shy of 30,000.  There is a cafeteria!  Omlettes and pancakes to order after the morning commute!  A gym!  (With laundry service no less!)  I work in a skyscraper!  (Well – a Philly skyscraper so let’s not get too excited.)  My cube has tons of space and even a visitor’s chair and a coat closet.  A coat closet in a cubicle, I say!  I have a window view (never mind my view is directly into another skyscraper and I have to turn around to see it, but I get to control the window blinds!)

 

Look, I went to school in Manhattan, had internships in Manhattan, and am not some Podunk hillbilly (well - not fully), but this girl has been living the suburban life a little too long.  There is nothing more exhilarating than the crush of the morning commute as I get off the train with headphones on: warm bodies rushing every which way, coffee in hand, street lights to be abided.  Now, I know the novelty of my commute will wear off.  Like, probably by tomorrow.  But right now, when I shut down for the night, turn up my music, and hop on that elevator, I am elated.  I am buoyant.  There is no better feeling to know I am making my way in the world – I am earning a living and standing on my own two feet – and I don’t need anyone’s support (unless it’s killing spiders).

 

And it’s not about being a bigwig with a bloated salary (both of which I am exceedingly far from), but it’s about buying the aged cheese, or the fancy lipstick (or at least having the option to).  It’s about saying, hey, I can afford to increase my 401(k) contribution and maybe we can pay this mortgage off in fifteen years in lieu of thirty.

 

Perhaps with a child my priorities will change, and we’ll decide on cutbacks so I can stay home or work closer to home.  A commute into the city with a job that requires extended travel is a lot, but it’s not worth thinking about now.  So this past week – as overwhelmed as I am – I just turn my headphones up as I push through the building’s revolving doors, face up, sun shining.