Three bowls of soup and a baby (well, not yet)

"The only way to expedite things is to have sex.  Oh, and nipple stimulation," my doctor said.  This is possibly the least sexy thing you can hear in an examination room with your doctor rummaging around your cervix.  (And a great opener to a simple soup blog post!)

For the past three weeks I've been dilated at a measly 2 cm, which means...nothing.  For the past two weeks I have been 70% effaced (effacement measures the thinning and softening of the cervix), which means...nothing (but you gives you a freaky mental image).  For the last four weeks the baby has been "fully engaged", meaning it's at 0 station, or as far down in the birth canal he or she may go, and is "lock and loaded".  Apparently this doesn't mean too much either.  The baby can come today, or weeks from now.  I am due in four days.  

Now, first babies being late is normal, but let's get something straight, here: exactly one week after my due date is Thanksgiving.  This bambino will NOT mess with my turkey dinner.  Nothing keeps me from my stuffing, damnit.  


Speaking of food, I've been doing less cooking but whipped up a simple Moroccan stew tonight.  I love soups and stews because they are 1) healthy, 2) inexpensive, and 3) yield enough for at least 2-3 dinners (aka cater to my lazy-ass-ness).  Of course, I make any stew less healthy serving it with baguettes (or tortilla chips if it's any sort of chili).  It's just the Kathryn way.


Moroccan Stew


Recipe courtesy of Allrecipes.com
****I doubled the spices, and didn't really measure anything.  But I guess that's the beauty of stews.  The original recipe is below.

INGREDIENTS:

1 cup French green lentils 3 bay leaves 2 whole garlic cloves 3 tablespoons olive oil 1 teaspoon chopped fresh thyme leaves 1 tablespoon minced garlic   1 tablespoon olive oil 1 teaspoon crushed hot chile flakes 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon 1 teaspoon ground cumin 1 teaspoon ground coriander 1 tablespoon minced garlic 1 cup chopped onions

1 cup chopped celery 1 cup chopped zucchini 1 red bell pepper, diced 1 yellow bell pepper, diced 1 butternut squash - peeled, seeded, and cut into 1-inch cubes 1 (8 ounce) can crushed tomatoes 1 (15 ounce) can chickpeas, drained 4 cups vegetable stock 1 cup chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley 1/2 cup plain yogurt (optional) 2 tablespoons chopped fresh mint (optional) 1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper (optional)

DIRECTIONS:

1.	Fill a large pot with water and bring to a boil over high heat. Stir in the lentils, bay leaves, and whole garlic cloves. Return to a boil, then reduce heat to low and simmer lentils until they are cooked but still firm, about 10 minutes. Drain well. Place lentils in a bowl; toss with olive oil, thyme, and 1 tablespoon chopped garlic. Remove bay leaves and whole garlic cloves; set aside.
2.	Heat 1 tablespoon olive in a large pot over medium heat. Stir in chili flakes, cinnamon, cumin, and coriander and cook until fragrant. Add garlic, onion, celery, zucchini, red and yellow peppers, and squash; cook 3 or 4 minutes.
3.	Mix in the lentils, tomatoes, chickpeas, and vegetable stock. Raise heat to medium-high until stew just begins to boil; reduce heat to low and cover. Simmer until squash is tender, about 20 minutes, stirring once or twice. Add the chopped parsley. Ladle into serving bowls and garnish with a dollop of yogurt, some chopped mint, and a pinch of cayenne pepper.

This stew is easy and inexpensive; lovely meatless wonder with the addition of the chickpeas!

I can't begin to describe the warm aromas when you add the spices (particularly the cinnamon).  Such a great one-pot Sunday supper.

Take me to Marrakesh, baby!

My Matt

If there's one thing I'll miss about my pregnancy it's how it brought Matt and me closer together.  I've heard from so many people that you only have your first once, how exciting the time is, to enjoy every moment of it, but I never was able to appreciate that until now, in the sunset of my pregnancy.


Seeing Matt download audio books on happy babies, or practicing swaddling on that damn stuffed frog, or take my hand protectively as we cross the street, have made my heart swell: I have never been so in love.  He will be a soothing source to our (probable) Scorpio baby: his calming demeanor coupled with his/her passionate intensity.  That's what I like to think anyway.  Two nights ago he told me he hopes our child is feisty like his/her mother, and I know I couldn't be with anyone better: someone who actually appreciates I go from tears to snark in twenty seconds flat.  Someone who enjoys putting up with me.  Someone who never makes me feel "less than" for my shortcomings.  


I know he will be an amazing father, and I cannot wait for the ride of our lives to begin. 

Matt figuring out the infant car seat and the car seat base.
 (I still don't know how they snap apart.)

With disrupted sleep and a long commute, I'm lazier than ever.
Matt has been doing much of the cooking and I just had to snap a photo of this:
toothpicks in my chicken sandwich.  

Using the last of our summer basil he mad a rustic bruschetta.
Lounging on the couch in dirty sweats I hardly thought I was worthy.
And again, a "10" for presentation!

Leech Baby!

I cannot tell you how many times I’ve been asked about my butt boil.  I’m truly touched.  My gluteus maximus is truly touched.  You have been so kind to us both!

So my butt boil (coded “boil of the buttocks” on my office visit receipt – I can’t make this stuff up) is a measly nothing compared to its former self.  My GI does not think I have a fistula and it was a freak occurrence.  I pray and shimmy my behind to the butt gods!  She warned me repeatedly about flare-ups post-birth, however, which is very common, and ordered some blood work.  Today she called me with the results, and I can only say the following: I have a leech baby.

“Your albumin levels are exceedingly low,” she said.  “My what?” I said.  “Your albumin levels.  And protein.  Basically your general nutrition.  Since you refused to get on the scale at your office visit, can you tell me how much weight you gained during the pregnancy?”  My response: “I’m not sure; I stopped looking about 1.5 months ago.”  (Hells no I wasn’t going to burden myself with that information!)  Her response: sighing (although I really do believe she was sort of tickled at my idiocy).  “Well,” she continued, “with Crohn’s and your surgery you’re already not absorbing enough nutrients, but now the baby is sucking everything else.  I’m sure the baby is fine, but I wanted to ask how you’re feeling.  It’s rare to see numbers this low.  I’m going to fax them to your ob/gyn.  It’s nothing to be terribly concerned about; basically, the baby is like a parasite, getting all the nutrients it can.  I’m very glad you got pregnant at a time you were feeling well; this is why you have to start off on the best possible footing.” 

My response?  “I have a leech baby!” 

I wrote this to Matt saying to feed me a Cornish game hen tonight with a side of steak.  His response: “With the baby coming we cannot afford that but I’m sure Penny will let you have some of her special lamb dog food.”  No one takes me seriously!

Now, I’ve been pretty tired the last couple weeks (this week it’s hit pretty hard), but that’s normal, and sleep is starting to be disrupted, and I’m busy at work.  I told Matt that I am surely the world’s most amazing pregnant lady since I’m not only pregnant, but pregnant with a leech baby, and still am out and about.  (He has yet to email me back after that one.)

Speaking of leech babies, our child has had many nicknames throughout the pregnancy.  There was “monster baby” when we thought he or she was going to be a ten pounder.  There is “alien baby” because we believe all newborns look like extraterrestrials.  Of course, “Cletus the Fetus” was a popular one.  The other day, after getting a higher heartbeat for the baby, I asked my ob/gyn if there was a cause.  “Did you just eat breakfast?” she said.  I said I had a banana and she said, “Oh, you must have a monkey baby!”  She then got terribly flustered and apologized about five times for calling the kid a monkey baby, and all I could think was, “Look, lady, monkey baby is probably the best thing it’s been called this whole time.”

Today our baby is considered full-term.  And I just can’t wait to meet that little sucker.

(Get it?!?!)

One month left!

35 weeks!  (In the work bathroom..what else?!)

A somewhat Crohn’s related post!  I know, I know – what’s Crohn’s again?  First, let’s get to the good stuff (because Crohn’s, any way you slice and dice it, is never the good stuff). 

I’ve been measuring three weeks large (now I’m not sure how they can ascertain that with a tape measure of my jelly belly, but alas…) so Matt and I paid the ob/gyn a visit this past Monday for a measurement ultrasound.  Matt, who has been downloading audio books purporting to make your baby smarter (and who knows what else) said he wants a child no less than nine pounds (as nine pounds is the optimal weight for a smart baby…obviously).  Now, that skinny monkey isn’t birthing anything, so I’m not sure where he gets off.  And lord knows I’ve got some bajunk-a-junk hips, but let’s not get excessive.  On Monday, slightly before I hit the 35 week mark, the baby was measuring at 5.5 pounds, with an estimated birth weight of upwards of 8.5 pounds.  I can handle that.

On another positive note, the nursery is completed!  We went as clichéd as one can go when a baby’s gender is a mystery and did the room up in yellow and green.  Here are some photos!:

Matt chose and applied the decals.  Half because he should have some say, and half because I'm lazy.

And here he is holding a swaddled frog.  He loves that frog.  First it went with us to the breastfeeding class, and now he practices his swaddling on it.  Look how he cradles it.

Well...at least he's getting into it and all...

Today we had our first run to the hospital.  I hadn’t felt the baby move since yesterday (sorry, Mom, whom I spoke to on the phone this morning and didn’t want to alarm) and as the Eagles game started I told Matt we needed to call the doctor.  (Perfect timing on my part, if I do say so myself.)  Now, I’m not a hypochondriac or an alarmist, but every appointment they’re dishing advice about “kick counts” and it’s hard to count how many kicks you’re feeling when you feel, well, nothing.  The baby’s movements have been getting less frequent and more subtle due to the lack of space to move around in, but they just gosh darn fizzled out.  I tried everything: ice cold water, lying on my left side, half a box of Joe-Joe’s (Trader Joe’s version of Oreos – the sugar was to kick-start the baby, I swear!).  After a good 12 hours of lazy baby we made our way to the hospital where everything was absolutely hunky dory.  “It seems you have a happy baby,” said the doctor.  Oops.  “Better safe that sorry!” she said and then exclaimed, “Wow; you’re having a lot of contractions; did you just feel that?”  Lordy I am not in tune with my body (or apparently baby) at all; what contraction?!  Although contractions at 35.5 weeks are completely normal, that’s what made Matt and I hightail it home to finish the nursery.  Up went a mirror, and I washed all the baby’s clothes and bedding. 

Now, no Crohn’s post is without the icky, so let’s get started: a couple weeks ago I thought I had finally entered the holy grail of expectant motherhood: I thought I had myself a big ol’ hemorrhoid.  The first thing I did was thrust my butt into my beloved’s face for a look-see.  This happens more than you know.  He diagnosed an “internal hemorrhoid” after some Googling.  Two days later the thing started (bear with me here; this is educational!) seeping.  Oh lord no.  With a maxi pad on my butt I called the doctor who said to come in. 

“It’s like…a boil.  An abscess.”  We obviously immediately dubbed the affliction “Kathryn’s butt boil”.  She said it could be nothing; an aftereffect from an ingrown hair (no Brazilian waxes here).  So she took a sample, and off I went.

Now, earlier this week I have been feeling a fair amount of discomfort: my jelly belly is now rock hard (the only time in my life I’ll have hard abs), cramps are frequent, insomnia, and my stomach is a mess.  Being 35 weeks pregnant I think this is somewhat normal, and I’ve been traveling and eating out (restaurant food and stress) so of course things are a bit off.  But on Wednesday the practice called and said the culture was odd in that it showed bacteria that is only found within the GI track.  “You need to call your GI; this could be a fistula.”  Well, smack my hiney, the Crohn’s is back!

As I write this (Sunday) I’m feeling better and carefully monitoring the butt boil (it’s the same if you cared to know, and of course you cared to know).  I have a GI appointment this week so we’ll see; I was a woe-is-me sob fest mid-week but now feel defiant, or at least adopted an eye-rolling, “Well, isn’t this lovely” sort of attitude.  This pregnancy was a proverbial piece of cake; minimal fatigue, no morning sickness, little swelling, and I frankly don’t get what all the fuss is about (I’d like to think I’m pretty hardcore, but Matt obnoxiously reminds me because of my size carrying a baby is easier than my petite counterparts, which I feel is absolutely true, but gosh darnit, give me some credit here!).  So if my body is going to poop out in the home stretch, so be it: I think I’ve been pretty lucky so far.


Here's to the next month!

33 Weeks

I’ve come to the conclusion that people who fly must decide that airport bathrooms are entirely inferior to those on the plane, because nary three minutes into our flight (three!) a stream of pea-sized bladder passengers were making their way to the lavatory in the back of the Airbus-whatever-whatever.  I surely thought the flight attendants would say, “Get back in your seat and use Depends next time!” but no.  We had JUST TAKEN OFF and were rapidly ascending. 

I am a fearful flyer, particularly during take-off.  Once we reach cruising altitude color comes back in my face, I unclench my palms from the arm rests, and I get with the program.  I know it was early in the flight because immediately during and after take-off I put my fingers to my ears so I can only hear the low rumble of the engines (I don’t need to hear the wings moving, the landing gear retracting or any of that nonsense).  My fingers were still at my ears when these people started the trek to the restroom, totally oblivious Philadelphia was still below us.  I say this irked because I sit in the aisle seat, and their rumps are constantly butting into my face.  I also say this as a 33-week pregnant woman: if I can hold it, so can you.

So here I am, jetting from Philadelphia to Charlotte to Tallahassee for work.  The leg from Charlotte to Tallahassee is on a tiny plane, and by tiny, I mean medium-sized.  I mean, the thing’s no Cessna or anything, but ten rows doesn’t quite work for me.  My fear of flying has gradually increased with each passing year.  As a kid you’re too dumb to know any better, and as an adult I’m too dumb to understand the physics of how a plane can stay airborne.  Doesn’t it need to flap its wings or something?

Nearing the end of my pregnancy, I perhaps have a deeper sense of what can be lost in a tragedy.  As in, when did we start discussing how much life insurance we’ll need?  When did we hit the cusp of thirty years old?  And how the heck are the two of us dunces going to care for a newborn in less than two months?!

Everything is coming to a happy head: I feel overwhelmed and positively giddy, and dare I say, ready.  Last night Matt felt the baby for the first time: hard, seemingly petulant thumps on my left side. 

It was magic.

White Chocolate Raspberry Cheesecake

I love my husband dearly.  But not enough to spend forty bucks on an ice cream cake for his 29th birthday in late July.  $40 ice cream cake?!  That is some ardent, first-year-together love right there!  (Or something to save for the much lauded 30th!)  Since we're more of the "Is this a pimple or a tick on my scalp?" type of couple (I seriously ask this at least 2x a week), boy was getting something else.  So I made his other favorite dessert: a cheesecake.  Matt adores cheesecake.  That doesn't make him a sophisticate, because he equally adores pudding (even more so if they come in those little cups).  He is a complicated creature.

I never made a cheesecake because, although supremely simple, they intimidated me (I mean, they crack!).  Also because I know I cannot be trusted near a cheesecake.  After reading a quickie primer on cheesecake perfection (bake with a hot water bath to reduce cracking) I made this super simple white chocolate raspberry ditty that is highly rated on All Recipes.  Many readers suggested to just nuke the white chocolate chips instead of utilizing a double broiler (who DOES that anyway?) so I did.  They also said seedless raspberry jam or preserves are just as good as cooking down the whole fruit, so I did that too.  With those modifications this recipe is simple and fool-proof, and perfect piled high with summer fruit for a deceptively impressive meal closer.

***The recipe, in the original form, appears below.  Again, I used raspberry preserves, microwaved the 1/2 and 1/2 with the white chocolate chips, and did not add additional sugar to the crust (like Oreos don't have enough sugar?! Pah-lease.)

Ingredients

• 1 cup chocolate cookie crumbs
• 3 tablespoons white sugar
• 1/4 cup butter, melted
• 1 (10 ounce) package frozen raspberries
• 2 tablespoons white sugar
• 2 teaspoons cornstarch
• 1/2 cup water
• 2 cups white chocolate chips
• 1/2 cup half-and-half cream
• 3 (8 ounce) packages cream cheese, softened
• 1/2 cup white sugar
• 3 eggs
• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Directions

1. In a medium bowl, mix together cookie crumbs, 3 tablespoons sugar, and melted butter. Press mixture into the bottom of a 9 inch spring form pan.
2. In a saucepan, combine raspberries, 2 tablespoons sugar, cornstarch, and water. Bring to boil, and continue boiling 5 minutes, or until sauce is thick. Strain sauce through a mesh strainer to remove seeds.
3. Preheat oven to 325 degrees F (165 degrees C). In a metal bowl over a pan of simmering water, melt white chocolate chips with half-and-half, stirring occasionally until smooth.
4. In a large bowl, mix together cream cheese and 1/2 cup sugar until smooth. Beat in eggs one at a time. Blend in vanilla and melted white chocolate.  Pour half of batter over crust. Spoon 3 tablespoons raspberry sauce over batter. Pour remaining cheesecake batter into pan, and again spoon 3 tablespoons raspberry sauce over the top. Swirl batter with the tip of a knife to create a marbled effect.
5. Bake for 55 to 60 minutes, or until filling is set. Cool, cover with plastic wrap, and refrigerate for 8 hours before removing from pan. Serve with remaining raspberry sauce.

This cheesecake should be called "Pseudo White Chocolate Cheesecake" because I ate half of these suckers before they got nuked.

Same thing with the Oreos.  You know a sleeve of those things was gone before baking began.  Duh.

For water bath (to prevent drying): Wrap spring form pan in foil and place in a jelly roll pan with about a 1/2" of hot water.  Bake.  Eat.

Tip: Arrange copious amounts of berries to hide any imperfections.

Poor Matt looks like he's enjoying his birthday treats alone.  I swear: there were folks on the other side of the table.  (Maybe.)

Happy Super Duper Belated Birthday, Matt!

Oh, Jersey...

This week was stressful and we had some time off to burn.  So to the shore we went!

We spent a quickie overnight in Cape May this week in an effort to burn some PTO days I thought I could add to my maternity leave (no just luck - fail!).  Anyway, I did win REPEATEDLY at skeeball  on the beach so at least I have that (and yes, we are 12 years old).  Notice my row of tickets on the bottom of the photo.  Yeah; that's right.

Poor Matt just doesn't get a break when it comes to my renegade camera tactics.  Although he's getting panic-stricken over the baby timeline, I'm sure he's giddy he won't be the subject of every single darn photo from now on.  We spent a good hour or so snoozing on the beach after a relaxing afternoon swim.

Matt said all we do is eat on vacation.  My response: "And the problem with that is what?..."
We had a fantastic, romantic (SO NEEDED!) dinner the night prior - one of those several course shindigs that lasts for hours.  A definite worthy splurge after a couple days of bickering and baby crunch time approaching.
Here we are the morning after carbing it up at breakfast.

I included this photo because of Matt's expression - doi.  He said I was poking his ear with my sunglasses; boy needs to get a grip!  Look, I love Matt, but that god awful beard and those sunglasses make him look like he should be on Sons of Anarchy or American Chopper or something.  He promised me he was going to trim it today (still waiting...).
Here we are walking on the beach after breakfast.

A bit better I suppose.  

So when we checked out of the hotel in Cape May we drove north to Margate (next to Atlantic City) where Lucy the Elephant was waiting.  Lucy was built was a tacky tourist attraction in the late 1800's.  Obviously, this was right up our alley.  You can climb up Lucy but that cost $7, so we weren't buying into that charade!  (Sorry Lucy.)

We spent a few hours in Atlantic City walking the boardwalk, dodging in and out of casinos, and spending some time on the beach.  I've never been but it was as I expected: kitschy and sort of sad (please put me out of my misery if you catch me in old age, wearing a kitty cat sweatshirt, smoking Virginia Slims and playing penny slots for hours on end).  I know, I know: I didn't get the whole effect (we were there in the day after all), but the whole operation just didn't sit right with me.  At least Vegas has enough splash to offset the sad!  I was pleased, however,  I made 80 cents on one of the slots.  That's going to the baby fund, obviously.

With hundreds of slots in each casino, Matt zeroed in on this one: Kitty Glitter.  It spoke to him.

It was getting late and I was getting ornery, so Matt bought me a bag of roasted and candied nuts to shut me up (works every time!).  Then we saw this huge Monopoly game board, so everything was right again.

The Calm After the Storm

The Schuylkill (only spelled that correctly because it's on the barrier there) River snakes throughout our town in suburban Philadelphia.  While "Hurricane" Irene did little damage to our neighborhood, the river flooded throughout our pretty untouched hamlet.  We live about 1/4 of a mile from the river so took a stroll down to see "the devastation".  (We're all about the hyperbole in this family!)  This is where Penny takes her river walks, so you can bet she's NONE TOO PLEASED.  Oh well.

The river did not meet the bridge (as it did in many other parts of the Schuylkill, particularly in Philly) but it was churning and swiftly moving.  Regardless, "churning and swiftly moving" doesn't really make for a  crazy photo op.

To the right is the parking lot for the Valley Forge river trail, all under water.  Here's Penny looking at me like, "Dawg!  Where the trail at?!?!  You expect me to walk in the neighborhood like some lame HOUSE DOG?!?!"  Or, she's wondering if I have any treats in my pocket.

When the river overflows the area smells foul and fishy after it recedes.  Just a fact there, folks.

Penny surveying the damage and wondering where her treat is.

All joking aside, I hope everyone on the East Coast is safe and dry with power!  We had a near travesty today when Matt and I stocked up at the grocery store and came to a house with no power (yes, spoiled food is a travesty in my book).  Go figure as we didn't lose power throughout the entire storm.  Luckily it's back on so my Greek Yogurt is safe.  Sigh of relief, sigh of relief.

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.