Please Put On Your 3D Glasses Now

Hello, Internet! How's about some vaguely creepy photos of my orange ghost-fetus?

I think he's the sweetest little orange ghost-fetus in the world, but I could see how you might think I'm biased.

And yes, he is definitely a he. A he who is remarkably modest, but still, we got one good glimpse of the undeniably male goods before he crossed his legs up tight for the remainder of the session.

He is also a he who looks JUST LIKE HIS BIG BROTHER, holy crap, except possibly (God help me) a little chubbier.

He kept his hands in front of his face during most of the ultrasound, attempting at times to get as much of his thumb and hand and arm as possible into his mouth to suck on. I take this as a prenatal sign of his chompable deliciousness, and also: mah boobs are already a little scared.

He did all the typical fetus things. He opened his eyes, stuck out his tongue, gnawed on his fingers, kicked and rolled and smushed himself into the placenta when he'd had quite enough of me rolling from side to side and jostling my belly in hopes of getting a clearer look at his face. In other words: he's brilliant.

We brought Noah with us, although we were at a loss ahead of time on how to really explain what we were going to see. I guess we did an okay job, because the instant the ultrasound image showed up on the projector screen Noah immediately pointed and exclaimed, "Look! Baby brother!" He then asked, "Hey, what you DOING in there?"

What else is there to say? We're having another baby, another boy, another melon-headed chunker and oh my God, I cannot freaking wait to see this lovely little face in person.

 

08/08/08

We've outlasted the marriages of people who predicted the demise of ours. We've ended up a million years from where we started, and from where we probably expected to be. I tumble into tired clichés every time I try to come up with words worthy of this anniversary, this milestone, this day like any other day, really. We'll wake up on 08/09/08 and...keep at it, for another 10, 20, 60 years. If I get to be that lucky.

10 years, in two-and-a-half minutes. It feels like that, sometimes.

10 Years (Take Two) from amalah on Vimeo.

Music: Together Forever in Love by Go Sailor.

(EDIT: Sorry for the video glitch. I uploaded in the middle of major site maintenance at Vimeo and lo, there were Issues. I've reuploaded it and I think everything is working now.)

 

Preparation Stages

Stage One: The Welcome-to-the-Suck Practicalist

Stage Two: The Low-Supply Dreamer

Stage Three: The I-Can-Accessorize-ANYTHING Conspicuous Consumer

Stage Four: The Ain't-No-Fool Realist

30 Weeks, Thereabouts

BUT FIRST

Thank you for your very important feedback. I have compiled the results (you know, for WORK. and SCIENCE.) and it turns out most of you move the potty seat or would move the potty seat, were you to be confronted with the potty seat. Also, a surprisingly high percentage of you were slightly mortified by the mere suggestion of NOT moving the potty seat. With the window of innocence shrinking every day here on the Internet, I'm always pleased when I manage to lob something through and gross y'all out.

That said, I'd LOVE to cross-reference these results with what percentage of you dainty dainty princesses are also seat-hoverers and/or foot-flushers in public restrooms (and who then, of course, refuse to wipe up the seat afterwards lest your hand possibly come in contact -- even through seven feet of balled-up toilet paper -- with a single drop of urine that IS NOT YOURS OMG). Because...yeah, I don't move the seat most of the time.

We have two of them -- one in "Noah's" bathroom upstairs and then one in our sole community bathroom on the first floor, and I used to move it, but...eh. I keep disinfecting wipes handy and Noah knows how to -- ahem -- aim straight down. Although really, getting grossed out by my own toddler's pee seems like a luxury I gave up a long time ago, around the time I learned exactly why you should always change newborn boy diapers with YOUR MOUTH CLOSED. And don't even get me started about our couch. You probably don't ever want to sit on our couch.

(Apologies to anyone who has ever sat on our couch.)

For now, Noah refuses to pee standing up, or on a little potty on the floor, or on the big potty sans THAT PARTICULAR BRAND AND SHAPE OF SEAT. (Baby Bjorn. Incredibly sturdy and devoid of any pinchable areas, and the splash guard is not nearly as prominently pointy as the photo suggested.) His long and inflexible list of potty requirements have led to a quiet desperation on my part -- this feeling like SOMEONE in this house needs to not give so much of a shit (figuratively speaking) about the State of Their Porcelain Throne. Plus, I'm pregnant. I don't get much lead time, you know?

Plus plus, pregnancy is gross, and makes you do all kinds of gross things, be it putting your butt on a plastic toddler seat or eating black olive and peanut-butter-filled pretzel salad for lunch.

SPEAKING OF PREGNANCY, OH YES, THAT

Nesting! Jason refers to my nesting instinct to a full-on unhealthy complex, bordering on a disorder. Which is being so overly dramatic, really, even if I DID probably overdo my rapturous excitement this weekend over a new shower curtain and bathroom rug. (But OH THANK GOD. We can have a baby now.)

We've moved furniture, hung curtains, reorganized closets. We have new towel racks. The crib is set up. I bought new changing pad covers and found a second swing off Craigslist so I won't have to lug one up and down the million and two flights of stairs that are part of life out here in 70's-era suburban townhouse floorplan land. I still have to buy an Ergo carrier and a stroller (have reversed position completely, will likely be purchasing side-by-side Maclaren after all, turns out I cannot lift the Phil & Ted's stroller more than a foot off the ground for I am puny weakling) and we still don't really know where the baby will sleep at first -- turns out our plan to buy a king-sized bed and co-sleep was rooted in COMPLETE IGNORANCE as to how fucking expensive a king-sized mattress is, holy number-with-commas Batman. But at least I finally organized Noah's shoes and got rid of all his two-sizes-too-small socks.

So that's something.

Nine-ish weeks left to go. Hopefully enough time to redraft the will, set up college funds, rearrange the dining room furniture, wash 400 loads of baby clothes, and get a pedicure.

(Here are photos in the same outfit from two weeks ago for easy, jaw-dropping reference.)

Reader Survey, Part II

(Because I continue to be endlessly fascinated with other people's bathroom habits.)

This one's easy. Just one question.

The toddler potty seat. Move it or sit on it?

Personally, I've taken to calling it the iPhone Blocker 3000.

 

Now Imagine 10 Years of This, People

"So, I can't remember. Are we getting each other anniversary gifts next week or not?"

"Eh."

"Yeah, exactly."

"We'll do dinner, night in a hotel...that's probably all we can swing right now."

"Besides, I'd rather get a Push Present."

"Ha! Yes, that."

"Although...I won't technically be pushing."

"True! No gift for you!"

"What about a Slice-Me Dice-Me Present?"

"Hmm."

"A Major Abdominal Surgery Award?"

"I see what you did there."

"A Gutted-Like-A-Fish Gift?"

"Uh-huh."

"A Congratulations-On-Not-Bleeding-To-Death Present?"

"Okay, you're done now."