33 Weeks, Stuff & Nonsense

At this week's OB appointment, my doctor announced that the baby is starting to measure...and hold the fuck on to your fucking hats..."a tad big." While I've always known that another big baby was likely, I was a little surprised to hear this. (Although really, with my half-assed approach to nutrition, my European approach to a glass of wine with dinner, and the many many voicemails from Target Pharmacy's auto-fill program reminding me AGAIN to come pick up my damn prenatal vitamins, I'm not sure what else I could do recklessly wrong to keep the baby at a manageable size. Smoking, maybe. Some hardcore drugs. Cutting back on the 1,500-calorie burritos. You know, INSANE AWFUL THINGS.)

I just remembered being much BIGGER last time, so I went through my archives in search of a 33-week belly photo.

33 weeks then:

33 weeks now:

So...not so much of a difference as I thought. Bring on the 3-6 month onesies!

While I was poking around those entries, three things occurred to me. 1) I was really very annoying back then and you should not ever read back that far, 2) in spite of that, I'd still say this blog has gone downhill in a big way, so you should probably not be reading now either, and 3) OH MY GOD I'VE NEVER FORCED YOU TO LOOK AT NURSERY PHOTOS YET.

I probably devoted three freaking months' worth of entries to Noah's nursery. The nursery we ended up leaving behind, the nursery that is now a plain white room that appears to be a very cluttered office of some kind, and what? Like it's MY FAULT that the new owners of our condo never pull the blinds down?

So. Uh. Look! We have room here that is slowly starting to look like something a baby might live in one day!

I waited until a nice dark rainy day to take pictures, lest you start thinking that I'm not still half-assing everything around here.

The theme is "The Green Paint That Was Here When We Moved In, A Bunch Of Yellow Stuff Leftover From Noah's Nursery, Plus Black & White Butterflies That My Mother-In-Law Painted, Because Black Makes It Like, Manly And Stuff."

There will eventually be dozens and dozens of butterflies, but my mother-in-law wanted to do more RESEARCH about different SPECIES first.

This is a rough mock-up of what the room would look like if I attempted to decorate it myself.

I'm hoping Noah gets his eye for detail and design from his father's side of the family.

(By the way, since so many people have asked about sending preemptive-strike sibling-rivalry gifts to Noah, rest assured that we're on it. That six-pack of FLOR carpet samples may very well be the GREATEST TOY WE HAVE EVER PURCHASED.)

The Bumbo chair (courtesy of the truly awesome Redneck Mommy) is also just a bottomless pit of entertainment options.

The sense of humor he clearly gets from me. God help us all.

(Also please note uncovered open electrical socket in the background. We're going for kind of an industrial look this time.)

Now please direct your attention to the HIGH-TECH DIAPER PAIL OF AWESOME from reader Sarah. It's fucking INFRARED, people. It opens and closes with a MOTION SENSOR. Is that not the most ridiculous, over-the-top thing you have ever heard of?

Needless to say, I'm so enchanted with it that I've been making a special trip from Noah's room into the nursery just to dispose of his mostly inoffensive night time Pull-Ups, and Jason rushes in to witness the process and then we stand there oohing and aahing for a good 10 minutes. And I wish I were exaggerating that in the slightest.

That concludes today's installment of Dr. Horrible's Snooze-Along Blog. Have a lovely long weekend, everybody. I will try to go out and injure myself in a not-harmful-to-baby but relatively-amusing way to make up for this crap.

Note To Self: Start Talking Up "State Schools" in a BIG WAY

Dear Noah,

Today was your second day of school. Guess what! You really, really love school.

And Noah, I'm so happy you're happy there, and that you enjoy all the activities and toys and play so well with the other children -- there are always a couple kids sobbing on the rug in the morning and still sobbing on the rug at lunchtime and oh dear heavens, I'm so relieved that you're so confident and comfortable there already --  but was the cheerful "BYE BYE! MORE SCHOOL! OKAY!" and the forceful and literal PUSHING OF MY BUTT out the door when I came to pick you up really necessary? And then the tantrum and the clinging to your teacher's leg? And the hurling of your body onto the floor and the hysterical weeping the entire way down the hallway and back to the car that I'm sure caused several people to wonder if they should intervene with the toddlernapping going down out in the parking lot? All of that? Necessary? Really?

I just think there may be a better way to express your love of school, is all.

Love,

Your Mother Who Is Having Another Baby And Totally DOESN'T NEED YOU ANYMORE EITHER

PS. That was a lie. Your dimples are practically oxygen.

With Friends Like These

Let me tell you something about Sweetney. Okay, a few things. You know how I am.

Internet friendships get a bad rap sometimes. They burn fast and bright, but are ultimately, kind of disposable, if you want them to be. Someone can be your bestest friend that you've ever bested one day -- and then suddenly it's been six months since you emailed them and Jesus, you can't just email them NOW because what are you going to say you've been DOING for the past six months? They read your blog. They know your email has probably been working at least 50% of that time and YOU SPECIFICALLY TWITTERED THAT YOU WERE DOING EXACTLY DIDDLY SQUAT ON MULTIPLE OCCASIONS so you can't even be like, "Oh, GEE, I've just been so busy! What with the...blog! And the...thing. With the place."

And it's not like you're mad at them or stopped caring or reading their blog or anything...it's just flat-out easier to neglect friendships based around the Verdana typeface. Particularly if you have the attention span of a gnat.

...look! I bought a new fruit basket at Target. It's just like the other fruit basket we have, except oval instead of round which will be better for bananas and...

Right. I may mostly only be talking about myself here, and my horrific flame-out track record with keeping in touch with Internet friends.

And then there's Sweetney. You know...we FIGHT. We've actually gotten FUCKING PISSED OFF AS ALL HELL at each other. We've both looked at the other person and informed her that dude, you are being a ridiculous jackass here, knock it off. And then the other person is like, yeah, you're right, I know.  And we never, ever fail to make up, hug it out, lay down some sappy sentences over email to thank the other person for both 100%  having our back and 100% not putting up with our shit.

And that's what makes it, honestly, one of the healthiest and most normal friendships I've made out here on the ol' series of tubes.

All this is to say, of course, that Sweetney scares the crap out of me and after trying to ignore her subtle and not-so-subtle hints about a baby shower ("A shower for a second baby?" I'd say, clutching my pearls and smoothing my gingham apron, "That's just NOT DONE, you know." And then she'd be all, "Fuck that! Fuck the rules! Let's have a baby shower and worship SATAN!"), she finally threatened to come to my house and yell at me in person if I didn't comply and offer up a registry.

And I don't want her to come to my house. The last time she was here we drank three bottles of wine and I fell off the couch.

So fine, she's throwing me a baby shower. For both Internet friends AND real-life friends AND really, anyone in the MD/DC/VA area who would like to come to the Sleep is for the Weak book signing on September 27th at Vinoteca in Washington, DC. She's hijacked the event for her own purpose. Which is: WITTLE ITTY BITTY CUTIE PRESHUS BAYBEEEE THINGS. She's got all the details on her site -- I'm posting about it here because she ordered me to, and again. The yelling. I fear it.

>>The Amalah Baby Shower Extravaganza 2008<<

(That would be the link, since I know my stylesheet doesn't underline links and make them super-prominent or anything. You don't have to click if you don't want to. I'm just like, you know, whatever, baby gifts, no baby gifts, totally not expecting anything from anyone, oh God, this is embarassing, I bet Tracey did this JUST TO WITNESS THE DELICIOUS AWKWARD on my part. That whore.)

(Also, because Miss Manners is indeed one of those Imaginary Authority Figures whose rebuke I also fear mightily, let me say that the "registry" is really an Amazon wish list that Jason and I were mostly using as a shopping list for our own purposes, and up until a week ago it contained exactly four items. Then Tracey was all, dude, come ON, so that's how it went from containing the Ergo carrier and a box of diaper sacks to "Well, GEE, if you're buying lunch, I'll have a double turkey sandwich on rye, a large knockwurt, three bags of potato chips, a chocolate milk and two beers. You want one? Three beers.")

(Are you getting the sense that I do pretty much whatever Tracey tells me to do? Hmm. Perhaps "healthiest" is not the word for this friendship. However, I really do want some extra-cute socks for the baby.)

(Anyway, if you are local and will be around on September 27th, we would totally love and appreciate it if you came to the little book event thing. [Click here for the eVite.] You SO. DO. NOT. need to bring a baby gift -- just your lovely, fabulous-smelling presence will be enough, since I have this image of Tracey, Rita and I sitting there with the books and sad little Sharpie pens all by ourselves, and THEY can at least drink wine to cope with the mortification.)

(I will also be as big as a motherfucking brick house by then. You should come see, just for the freak SPECTACLE of the thing. Behold! The world's rolliest pregnant woman! Who continues to walk upright! The human Jenga tower! Smelling salts will be provided for our sensitive patrons!)

It's Like Preschool In Real Life

Dear Noah,

This is what you looked like on your first day of school.

I had a different outfit picked out for you, but our dryer mysteriously broke in the night. So you wore this. Your school required closed-toe shoes, but I forgot to make sure your sneakers still fit. So they were a little tight. I'm sorry.

I combed your hair. You thought we were going to visit Nana and Pop Pop, probably because that's the only time I ever comb your hair.

You liked your Thomas the Tank Engine backpack but would not wear it. You asked to stay home. I wanted to let you stay home. I wanted to ask when you got so big, so smart, so preschooler. Then you asked to get in the green car and go to school. So we did.

You were a little nervous, but you did not cry. You left Pinky Dinky Doo and Baby Brother's Piano in the car -- they're in there now, waiting for you. You asked Daddy to carry you in, and he did. We forgot to bring the camera. There was a pretty little girl named Paige in your classroom when we got there, and when we said goodbye you were both exploring a little toy kitchen, preparing to make breakfast. You did not cry, but Mama did, a little.

It's different now. And it will be different all over again, once Baby Brother is born. I'm glad you'll have school and friends and things to do. But for now, as silly as it may be -- three hours! it's just three hours! -- I miss you, little man. I'll miss our days and mornings of Just Us, Just Doing Whatever We Want. It's been you and me, all day, every day, and it's hard to give that up. It's been a delight and a privilege to spend this time with you, Noah, and I'm proud of the boy I sent off to school this morning.

Love,

Your Ridiculous Mother Who Will Pick You Up In 20 Damn Minutes

PS. This is what you looked like when you came home from your first day of school.

About Last Night

Well, THAT WAS FUN!

The long version is...long. Yes. The short version: decreased fetal movement, spotting, back pain. Quick jaunt over to Labor & Delivery for diagnosis of Raging Hellfire UTI, Dehydration and One Perfectly Fine & Alive Baby.

Okay, one bit from the long version -- Jason was not at home when the bleeding started, but was stuck on the Metro so my frantic phone calls of TALK ME DOWN, BITCH, HOLY SHIT went directly to voicemail, which...did not talk-me-down so much as wind-me-the-fuck-up.

By the time he called back -- without actually listening to my voicemails (he later put them on speaker, right there in the hospital), but he gets points because he was calling to see if I wanted him to pick me up a burrito -- I was KIND OF SORT OF A COMPLETE WRECK, waiting for my doctor to call me back and grunting and groaning around on the floor of our bedroom, trying to find that goddamned doppler thing under the bed.

As we have already learned from yesterday's post, sometimes Jason is not exactly the Even-Keeled Rock of Common Sense EITHER around here, as he immediately started yelling at me for not immediately calling 911 and taking Noah and myself in an ambulance to the hospital over -- ahem -- four or five drops of blood on the toilet paper.

(Free Brilliant Product Idea: Some kind of cradle or holder for the iPhone that allows you to get that great SLAM! sort-of hanging up you get with a real phone. There's just something so unsatisfying about pulling your phone away from your ear, looking at it, and then....TAPPING THE SCREEN REALLY FORCEFULLY to hang up on someone.)

I did find our doppler and easily confirmed the presence of a heartbeat, and told my doctor that I was 99% sure it was a UTI (I had the exact same sort of spotting with Noah, only in the first trimester)  (and oh yeah, I tested positive for one about a month ago and have been admittedly a little lax about the cranberry juice) but...but...I trailed off, sniffling, because seriously, I'm a pregnant lady. My options are to sit up all night and chew on my hands and sob and watch whatever weird Olympic events get aired at four in the morning or go to Labor & Delivery and get checked out. I know this. He knew this. He told me to go get checked out.

Just like our emergency L&D visit from my first pregnancy, the baby woke up about 15 minutes after the monitoring started, showing off lots of rolls and kicks. I had one or two small tiny spikes on the monitor that MAY have been one or two small tiny contractions, but nothing else, and the bleeding stopped. I yelped when the nurse thumped on my back (kidneys, ahoy!) and drank a literal BUCKET of water in order to produce the smallest urine sample ever.

They sent us home after two hours or so, with instructions to drink plenty of fluids (and weirdly, a list of tips to prevent varicose veins? did that backless hospital gown reveal something that I don't know about?) and take it a wee bit easier. Ok, a lot bit easier.

No bedtime + public jammie wearing + free latex gloves = BEST FIELD TRIP EVER

Bait & Tackle

The other day, while getting Noah ready for his nap, I noticed something. Something...odd...and white? What is that? The odd-and-possibly-white thing was on a...how shall I say...very delicate and highly valuable part of his anatomy. A part that I have probably not been allowed contact with since he mastered his hand/eye coordination enough to meet every attempt to clean or examine said part with a tremendous thwack.

THAT'S MINE, LADY. BACK OFF.

So my attempts to determine the origins of the odd white-ish thing were rather futile. I assumed it was a bit of paper, and if you're wondering why "a bit of paper" was the obvious, most-likely answer I can guess right now that you have not changed many diapers in your life, my friend, because sooner or later you will come to expect stray Cheerios and Mr. Potato Head parts falling out all the time. It's not like they have POCKETS, or anything.

Eventually I realized that the...thing....appeared to actually be connected to his...thing. Like, possibly with skin. Like it possibly WAS skin.

I wasn't entirely sure that was possible, but...I DON'T KNOW. I DON'T UNDERSTAND THIS EQUIPMENT. So I opted to go with my default solution for All Things Involving That Thing, which is...Vaseline.

(Shut up. I learned that one from the hospital. It was the closest thing to an instruction manual as we got -- the nurse handed us a small tub of Vaseline and told us to use it "down there" with a super-scientific wave of her hand.)

So I dug out the Vaseline, wrastled the child to the floor and gooped the whole area up. Then I slapped a pull-up on him, sent him to bed and congratulated myself on a job half-assed.

I thought about calling Jason to describe the Odd White Thing -- perhaps, as the owner of a similar set of plumbing, he would know what to do? But then I pictured him sitting there, in a gorgeous pin-striped suit, around a gleaming conference table with a dozen Important Clients, who perhaps have briefcases full of money in front of them, and it's all up to Jason to nail the presentation when suddenly his phone rings and he explains that oh, sorry, he HAS to take this, because his dear sweet wife is pregnant, and instead I get on the phone and start asking him about whether guys occasionally, I don't know, gouge divots in themselves with their fingernails, or something?

(Jason wears flat-front khakis to work most days, and as far as I know he doesn't generally ever get paid in briefcases full of money.)

But I figured maybe I should try to solve this one on my own. Right! To Google! Except...hmm. I wasn't exactly sure how to phrase this one. I didn't want to see...like, PICTURES. Nor did I really want any information whatsoever about all the many OPTIONS for male anatomy injuries and I certainly didn't want to include the word "toddler" in there because that just opens up a whole new cache of worms.  It was just like the time I was convinced the FBI was going to storm my house and take my son away because I was the pervert on BabyCenter.com looking for What To Do When Your Child Seems To Maybe Enjoy A Bit Of Private Time With The Sofa Cushions If You Know What I Mean. I thought about maybe emailing some bloggers who had sons. Or calling my mom.

Mostly I just wanted to hear someone tell me to "Put a little Vaseline on it, he'll be fine."

I ended up going with option B: Doing Nothing At All. I waited until he woke up from his nap and tried to examine it again, with limited success. It LOOKED like it might be a little better. Sort of...pinkish and not so white? I tried to quiz him about the origins of the Thing, which was SO HELPFUL. Apparently, a dinosaur did it.

Noted. How about some more Vaseline?

My phone rang. It was Jason. He was on his way home. I blurted out the whole story, about the odd white thing that now looks kind of pink and I think it might be skin or maybe...a burn? Like...chafing? Shrinkage? Any of this sounding like something run-of-the-mill and normal from your childhood that your mom used to treat with Vaseline on a regular basis?

There was silence. I think he was pulling the car off the highway, just so he could fully wind up and let me have it.

"OH MY GOD DID YOU CALL THE DOCTOR WHY DIDN'T YOU CALL THE DOCTOR WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT PIECES OF FLESH ARE HANGING OFF OUR CHILD'S <REDACTED> AND YOU DIDN'T CALL THE DOCTOR OR TAKE HIM TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM LIKE HOW MUCH SKIN ARE WE TALKING ABOUT HERE CALL THE DOCTOR OH MY GOD."

"But...I put Vaseline on it? And I think it looks better?"

"YOU THINK."

"He won't really let me look at it. He gets mad."

"HE WEIGHS 31 POUNDS."

"But he's a...thrashy 31 pounds."

"WE ARE TALKING. ABOUT. A VERY IMPORTANT. THING. HERE. YOU DO NOT. FUCK. AROUND. WITH THIS."

"Fine. Hold on. I will go look at it again."

"...."

"Never mind."

"WHAT."

"Never mind. It's nothing."

"WHAT."

"It was part of a fruit sticker."

"..."

"It was white with red letters. The Vaseline must have turned it pink. Anyway, it's gone now."

"..."

"Are you okay?"

"...amen."

"Were you praying?"

"I just...I was just really scared there."

"Wow."

"I'll, uh, see you in a few minutes."

"Okay, I love you!"

"I love you too."

AND...FIN!

32 Weeks, Conveniently

Just sat down to type a really funny story and then Noah woke up and he recently figured out how to work doorknobs AND YES I know about the childproof doorknob covers but I haven't bought one yet and he is running around without pants on and look, here are some belly photos at least I put a damn bra on this time okay.

Fun fact! This is the first week my belly does not fully fit in the neat little squares of the "Crop Photo" grid.

My arms are beginning to resemble the Olympic shot-putters'. Except without all the "strength" and "muscle." Mine are more "jiggly" and "marshmallow fluff."

And here's some full frontal, just as a treat. Tell me, does my belly button remind you of anything?

PrePreschool

Ages and ages ago, I remember reading someone else's blog post about their child starting preschool. And it was boring! Preschool! It happens! Your kid is too big to cuddle now anyway! Send 'em off, ship 'em out, I have no time for your hand-wringing and hair-biting!

Noah starts preschool on Monday.

*shoves hair in mouth*

We went to drop off another stack of forms and oh, I don't even know how many dollars today and were told we could go meet his teacher.

Noah shyly walked around the room, played with a toy cash register and some puzzles, eagerly selected a moon-shaped sticker from a proffered baggie and recited a fairly impressive soliloquy from Blue's Clues while investigating a toy baby bassinet. ("Cinnamon! He looks like a Cinnamon. What a great name! Paprika, you just named your baby brother!") (We've been watching "The Baby's Here!" episode quite a bit, for obvious reasons.)

Then Noah spotted a pile of posters on the floor -- shapes, colors, numbers, all waiting to be be hung up. "An octagon!" he shouted. "Stop sign is octagon."

He moved on to the next poster, which was about counting to four. "Five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten!" he finished.

His teacher raised an eyebrow and looked at me. I jokingly thanked Noah for making me look good.

(Confidential to Steve from Blue's Clues: THANK YOU FOR MAKING ME LOOK GOOD.)

***
Just an hour or so before, we randomly bumped into one of the Early Intervention/Kids At Play moms at our pediatrician's office. We didn't have much time to talk -- she was there with her brand-new-as-of-THURSDAY baby, looking exhausted and overwhelmed. We promised to get back in touch and finally plan that playdate we've been talking about for months and months now. She headed off to meet with the lactation consultant, I went to go get my forms certifying that my child is not pulsing with lead and infectious diseases.

I'd dutifully filled out my required sections of the forms, occasionally stymied by the questions about Noah's development.

"THINGS I AM WORKING ON WITH MY CHILD."

"MY CHILD WILL NEED HELP WITH THE FOLLOWING ACTIVITIES."

I attended the panel at BlogHer for special-needs parents, although I almost skipped it, fearing that I would be viewed as some kind of tourist. Hadn't we gotten the all-clear from our EI program? Didn't I have a stack of test results proving that my child was speaking at a normal and age-appropriate level? Wasn't that chapter of our lives over and done with?

Well, yes. And no.

Noah graduated from EI on the basis of speech, and speech alone. I didn't realize that by dropping our (awful terrible grr hate smash) occupational therapist and opting to work on his sensory issues in a group setting only, I was essentially telling the county that I was no longer concerned with those "other" problems.

Noah still has a pretty pronounced oral aversion. He cannot use a fork or a spoon or drink from a cup. If he likes a food, he'll stuff his mouth until he chokes. If he dislikes something, he can't even bear to touch it to his lips. He is the most physically cautious almost-three-year-old boy you will ever meet. He will go down THAT kind of slide but not THAT kind. He hates messes and still lines up toys. The test scores indicate a child who is speaking and articulating appropriately. The average trip to the playground indicates the exact opposite. Sure, he's not silent. But his social language is still mostly roars and amusing sound effects. He's very, very hard to understand. Countless times people have looked to me for a translation and all I can offer is a shrug. Certain triggers send him into a frightened, overwhelmed state that I can only describe as a toddler-sized panic attack.

He is, to put it mildly and spare you a million other humdrum details, a quirky kid.

And I mentioned this to other bloggers who have kids in EI or on the spectrum or undergoing developmental assessments. And, bless them, they all GOT IT. The constant waffling between "he's fine, that's just who he is, embrace it already," and "will his life be made harder because of this, and should I be doing something about it?"  And that's where we are, muddling through. Thrilled to be officially past the label stage of speech delays and SID/SPD, but also at a loss, because now how do we explain Noah and his needs without falling back on labels that maybe don't apply?  "Child had speech delay, is all better now, hooray!"

I wrote a lot of neurotic-sounding nonsense on Noah's preschool forms. Overprotective and overused crap about "transitions" and "overwhelmed easily in noisy areas" and "dread fear of fingerpaints." I wrote it because I worried I'd be doing Noah a disservice to pretend that side of him didn't still exist.

His teacher will read all of that later this week, I guess.

But...I hope she mostly remembers that Noah is the kid who knew what an octagon was.

Noah and his very own photo of Baby Brother. He says he loves Baby Brother. He also says he loves windmills, chocolate, his SpongeBob soap dispenser, helichoppers and Olympic synchronized diving.

All This & More, Thanks to the Wonder of Technology

Some of the hideous post ideas I started and trashed yesterday:

"My kitchen sink is drip...drip...dripping and aaaaaahhhhhhhhhstopit!"

"Dear Dog and Cat: How do manage to time your vomiting TO THE EXACT MINUTE we run out of paper towels?"

"Yeah, so I WANT to write another installment in the Deodorant Wars, but I've been struggling to come up with a plot line for my new stick of Dove Clinical Protection. Who IS she, as a character? What's her MOTIVATION?"

Then I was all: cop-out time! Noah photo! Belly photo!  But then all the camera batteries were all simultaneously dead. Simultaneously and AT THE SAME TIME EVEN. Clearly, the blogging gods were against me, determined that I should keep at least a few damn thoughts to my own damn self. This was, judging by the above examples, probably for the best.

I don't really have much else to say today, other than to issue a warning to anyone in the DC area: hey! You know what's a bad idea? Like, a really, really bad idea? Blindly following your GPS, even when it's telling you to turn left onto a one-way, do-not-enter street that happens to be oh, directly in front of the PENTAGON.

Luckily, the cops let us off with a warning. "Try not to drive into any lakes next time, okay?"

Sigh. I've really got nothing today, except for the crushing need for my 27th burrito of the week. Take me to Chipotle, GPS!  I can no longer find my way out of a paper bag, thanks to you.

Here. This is video of my kid screeching into my laptop's built-in camera for five straight unbearable minutes. Special cameo by my chins and belly.

Hams from amalah on Vimeo.

Where the Sap Flows Like Wine

God. Am a walking, gestating rerun.

The same thing happened last time, but I cannot HELP IT. I am currently too distracted by my fat little stack of photos of my fat little orange ghost-fetus to write about anything except how much I looooooooooohhhhve him. Want to snuuuuuuggle him. To hug him and squeeze him and call him George.* Then I want to punch myself in the face a little bit, because DAMMIT WOMAN, STOP SPOONING THAT SHEET OF WALLET-SIZED PHOTOS AND GO REORGANIZE THE LINEN CLOSET.

But. Then. Those. Cheeks! Smooooooooosh.

*He will not be called George.

I wasn't really very gung-ho about the 3D ultrasound this time -- Jason actually ended up making the appointment, once it became clear that I was constantly "too busy" to call, what with the phone being alllll the way over there, and my butt being alllllll the way over here. (For those of you who asked -- this was an elective, non-medical ultrasound, paid for with cash money. To some teenager at the mall. At a combination sonogram/frozen yogurt kiosk. Free froyo with every 30 minute session!) (Not really.)

Anyway. I was...reserved, this time. Partially because I was terrified the ultrasound would reveal that we were actually having a girl and the rest of this pregnancy would be doomed to be wracked with anxiety and guilt because I didn't want a girl, I really really didn't want a girl, even though everybody assumed I wanted a girl after having a boy but no, no, no, I did not. If I was going to be surprised with a girl, I preferred it to happen on delivery day, once the baby was in my arms and I could hold her and let the schmoopy baby love clichés wash away my white-knuckled terror over OH CRAP A GIRL. Finding out nine weeks ahead of time? Oh man, I cannot even imagine the dark pit of crazy I'd dig for myself in that much time.

I've also recently been struggling with some...ambivalence? I guess? about this pregnancy. Yes. This longed-for, wanted and sobbed-on-the-bathroom-floor-for pregnancy. I didn't feel ready. Or like I even wanted to be ready. After spending the first 12 weeks clutching the general baby-housing area and begging it NOT TO DIE, PLEASE DON'T DIE, I spent another 12 weeks throwing up or feeling like throwing up, and then just when I finally felt better and nicely, comfortably pregnant...BOOM. Third trimester. Incoming baby. Wild wrastlin' bobcat thrashin' around your insides and holy shit, that's a full-sized FOOT right there. I have socks that would FIT that foot upstairs somewhere.

I feel like I just peed on the stick, and suddenly there's this thing with feet jabbing me in the ribs and it's going to want boob and constant attention and diaper changes and someone's hair to throw up on. And I haven't exactly felt very maternal about that thing.

I would cuddle with Noah and feel extremely maternal about him, oh, that boy, my boy, my heart. And then I'd think about what it will be like once the baby is here -- how thin I'll be spread, how tired, how impatient. And I'd just...dread it.

I would work, like I always do, with the din of cartoons in the background, stopping and starting my sentences over and over to accommodate Noah's interruptions, to assure him that I heard him, yes, that's a very good observation, to jump up when requested and dance to a song or draw him an octagon or make a g-clef out of a twist tie. I would work furiously during naptime, reveling when I could hit the publish button for the last time of the day and hear nothing but sleepy silence from upstairs. Free time! Oh, dear lord, the luxury. I'd lay down to read or nap but the thoughts would creep in. Enjoy this before that ticking timebomb of timesuck in your belly gets here, because this will never happen again, ha ha ha.

I would put Noah to bed, already feeling spread thin and tired and ashamed at how I lost my temper while trying to cram his uncooperating body into pajamas. And then I'd think about this times two -- another stack of bedtime stories, another war over the toothbrush, another noodlely set of limbs running buck-naked down the hallway, thinking it's a game while Mama has fucking had enough of this shit, GET IN BED.

And yeah, I'd dread it.

I mean, I still do, sometimes. I know it's not going to be easy. I have no idea what my days and nights will be like in October -- whether I'll find them surprisingly tolerable or absolutely miserable or something else.

But I know. I remember. I look at that face and find incredible peace because it will be so, so very much worth it.