Back From the Wilderness

Whoa. 

I've been away so long that Typepad logged me out of my blog publishing-y thing. And I couldn't remember my password. Or the real, actual word I'm thinking of when I call it my "blog publishing-y thing." 

So we went to New York! It was fantastic. I think I finally succeeded in gaining a million pounds, thanks to Travelocity and Restaurant Week and Mario Batali's Eataly where I ate pasta and then had a cheese plate and more pasta for dessert. Or maybe that was considered pre-dessert. We were there for like, four hours and didn't stop eating once.

That was also where I spent a good 45 minutes staring at some poor random guy a few seats down from us at the crudo counter that I SWEAR was on an episode of Law & Order or something, only to realize once he got up and I was actually sitting directly next to Andrew Zimmern.

You will all be terribly proud of me, I think, for managing to NOT start pointing and shouting "BIZARRE FOODS! Hey! You're BIZARRE FOODS! What up, BIZARRE FOODS. I TOTALLY CAN'T THINK OF YOUR REAL NAME RIGHT NOW, BIZARRE FOODS."

Jason, always the bad influence, was all, "Do it. Go say hi. Buy him a glass of wine. Totally dork the hell out. It'll be funny. You can write about it on your blog."

You know, counter seating is totally underrated. It's really easy to kick people in the shins at that angle. 

Anyway. Bizarre Foods Andrew Zimmern remains blissfully ignorant of my entire existence, as God probably intended. We were supposed to come home on Thursday, but then it snowed, and we had to decide whether we felt like spending a million hours watching the lousy-with-delays departures board at Penn Station, or like staying in New York another night and eating some more instead. 

In summary: I am fat now. It feels real good.

Also: BAM. 22 weeks pregnant. 

I swear, five days ago everybody I met was like, "You're pregnant? What? And you're HOW far along? You're barely even showing!"

Behold, the power of cheese, you guys. 

We finally got home on Saturday, only to find that our house had no electricity. It went out sometime very early on Thursday morning, in basically a total repeat of the LAST time we took a vacation in the dead of winter and then returned to a Snowpaccalaccalypse and an extended power outage. This time, luckily, we missed most of it, as our power was restored after we left to go kill a couple hours at the mall, where it was warm and well-lit and not awful and we could at least surf the online real estate listings to see if we could afford to move someplace else that wasn't so prone losing electricity for days whenever like, a goddamn bird decides to nest in a load-bearing tree next to our power lines. (SPOILER ALERT: No, dammit.)

Anyway, I know I'm forgetting about a million things I wanted to tell you about, but I really need to get back into the flow of things and posting over at the still shiny and brand spanking new Moxiebird and Mamapop and Alphamom and do SOMETHING about the four frillion unread emails I let pile up last week -- though at this point, that "SOMETHING" is probably going to involve the "delete all unread emails" function and praying that I didn't miss anything too important. But then! Back to life and business and blogging as usual, with exciting kid-related photo essays and whining and probably more talk about cheese. God, cheese. It's just so awesome, you know?

Gnome Encounters, Part II

DORK ALERT. 

The Gnome recommended the cheese plate, but I wasn't convinced that would be cheesy enough. So...fake pose time!

Also, for the record: MoMA is at 11 West 53rd Street, in case you find yourself at the mercy of the one cab driver in Manhattan who has apparently never heard of the Museum of Modern Art and attempts to drop you off a couple blocks away instead.

"I'm pretty sure that's it," he said, pointing at a random storefront.

"I'm pretty sure that's a Duane Reade," I said. 

I was right, but we got out of the cab anyway, because after pulling up MoMA's website to track down the exact address, I learned that it was closed on Tuesdays, and thus, yesterday. Because we excel at planning. Or this was just another attempt by the universe to save us from our excruciating lameness, since we decided to go to the museum in the first place to specifically see an exhibition about kitchen cabinets. 

And today, provided we are not foiled by Snowmaicesleetcapocalyptico 2011 or whatever the weather is doing outside right now (I have not looked out the window yet, our hotel room is still a dark closed-up tomb of sleeping the hell in),  we're going to visit what is, essentially, an extra fancy food court. Bring your cameras! There's stuff to eat and stuff! Then we have one more Restaurant Week dinner with the Gnome tonight (but I'm no longer nervous, we go way back now) and an Upright Citizen's Brigade show. Oh, and probably another nap in there somewhere. I'd blame the nap on being five months pregnant but you'd all know I was lying.  

Gnome Encounters

Oh, hi there. 

FROM NEW YORK CITY!

*awkwardly makes some imprecise hand gesture that I'm not sure actually means anything*

Jason and I have escaped the clutches of our germ-encrusted children for a little getaway this week, where we can expose ourselves to culture and an entirely new city's worth of viruses and bacteria. Especially since it is, according to some very reputable cab drivers we've spoken to, approximately negative 57 degrees outside and you are risking iciclehood just by walking outside.

We arrived yesterday. So far we've:

1) Learned about the effect of cold weather on Amtrak trains, which seems to be similar to the effect of snow, ice, rain, electrical storms, wind, understaffing, overcrowding and/or cows standing around on the track. In other words: DELAYS. LOTS OF 'EM.

3) Checked into hotel.

4) Stripped hotel bed and inspected for bedbugs.

5) Found no bedbugs.

6) Ate $8 container of hotel Pringles.

7) Took a nap.

8) Had dinner with my sister and brother-in-law.

9) Bought $1.77 replacement for hotel Pringles at drugstore.

10) Slept some damn more.

Today should be every bit as exciting. And more! We're actually here with a little help from Travelocity for NYC Restaurant Week (and my buddy Holly). (Oh my God, do you see what I just did there? THAT WASN'T EVEN INTENTIONAL. I'm sure that doesn't make it any less tired and groanworthy for Holly, though.) This means -- and I am not lying -- I get to meet the Roaming Gnome today and talk to him before our meals.

I'm actually kind of stressing about this: What does one SAY to the Roaming Gnome? What are appropriate topics of conversation? What should I wear? What if I do that awful thing where I devolve into a giggly starstruck moron around anyone vaguely famous or who has ever appeared on television, finding out too late that my easily-impressed self also does that around wisecracking corporate mascots? 

Maybe I should start with a shower and some coffee. Will write more later, post-Gnome, provided my fingers don't just freeze the hell off or we get lost in an urban snowdrift or something. 

I Really Hate Coming Up With Titles Some Days. (There. Done!)

And two days later...it's still a boy!

What? Not quite as exciting anymore? Damn these follow-up posts. They're such a letdown.

I spent all day yesterday in rapid reverse-gear, solely fixated on my older existing-model child and visiting our kindergarten options for next year. A variety of special education flavors and regular strength. I started off the day with a pre-existing belief in one of them, only to end up with that belief shaken and stirred and coming home to wail that I DON'T LIKE ANY OF THEM, EVERYTHING IS WRONG. One option is too this and the other is too that. 

I still haven't come to any great revelations about the day and the experiences and what I saw, other than to randomly decide that I think I'm going to sign Noah up for a karate class. That will solve...none of the big issues at hand, but it's a DECISION. About SOMETHING. Everybody golf clap. DO IT. 

Oh, and I bought like, five boxes of chocolate truffles. They were on sale, because they're tied up with Christmas ribbons, and they're practically PRESCRIPTION truffles. Because once again, I showed up at my OB appointment having gained zero pounds. The baby is growing just fine -- super more than fine, if the ultrasound measurements are any indication. His (HIS!) size puts him (HIM!!) about a week and a half ahead of his gestational age. So that's good! He's big and breech. Fantastic. Meanwhile, I can't even keep pre-pregnancy jeans up over my newly bony ass because the baby is getting EVERYTHING while I'm just trying to stay upright in the face of the never-ending preschool germ onslaught. 

But this simply means 1) my pregnancy cravings have been booted to the very top of the priority list, so all I have to do is MENTION that hey, Indian food sounds kinda good to me right now, and BAM, I am stuffing my face with all the Indian food I want, and if I want Chipotle for dessert, my husband is like, legally required to not judge me, plus 2) truffles, and 3) milkshakes. 

In fact, right after the ultrasound, Jason and I went out for breakfast (sausage, egg and cheese sandwich with a full-fat grande Cafe Mocha) and then hit the grocery story to pick out a celebratory dinner (filet mignon, creamed spinach). He's getting kind of worried about how his cholesterol is going to survive this pregnancy, but I'm sorry, honey, it's OUR BABY. SACRIFICES ARE REQUIRED. 

Over breakfast, we agreed that despite having the baby's name about 99% decided for sure, we'll keep it a secret anyway. You know, in case we change our minds or a serial killer with that very name suddenly starts dominating the newspapers for the next four months or so, and besides, we're still currently going back and forth on a middle name.

AND there's the little detail that the name we love and really want is technically a nickname for another name that we're just so-so about. It's a nice name, but not one I really see us ever using. So do we give him the full name, just so he has the option of using something less casual-sounding someday (and weirdly, it's a MUCH easier name to pair middle names with), or just skip the whole "formal name we never actually intend to use that just complicates the birth announcements and school forms" thing and just...name him what we plan to actually call him. 

This is all bothering me much more than Jason. AS USUAL. This was evidenced by him just casually dropping the name out loud while talking to him mother no more than an hour after we agreed to keep it to ourselves. And of course his mom HAAAAAAAAAATES it and thought he was JOKING, like you can't honestly be SERIOUS, you're not really going to CALL HIM THAT. Which wigged me out even MORE, because I thought the conversation would mean Jason would say we had to start ALL OVER, but then he hung up the phone and was like, "Uh, you realize the simple fact that my mother hates it just makes me like the name even more. You should probably get used to this concept at some point, what with having three boys who are going to become teenagers and adults someday."

I told him he was a jerk who should respect his poor, long-suffering mother's opinion more. Except this time, because she's like, totally wrong and stuff. 

Anyway! One last order of business and I'll free you from this meandering mess of barely-connected ramblings: We launched a fun sister site to Mamapop this week, thus expanding that haphazard empire beyond TV/movies/gossip and into the "LIFESTYLE" realm of blogging, which I think mostly just means "interesting shopping/beauty/health/techie/nerd crap that is not about TV/movies/gossip but we still really want to talk about." I dunno. I didn't read that far down the memo. All I know is, IT'S FUN AND I LIKE IT. Also, it's called Moxiebird, and I hope you'll check it out. 

It's...

A blobby ghost baby! Congratulations, self. 

Oh. Right. One other little thing...

I Wrote This Because I Don't Know What Else To Do With Myself

First of all, thank you for everybody who commented yesterday with ideas and suggestions and just plain old-fashioned reassurances about Noah's non-hunger strike. At this point, it seems like the kid just isn't hungry yet, with no underlying secondary health issue lurking in the shadows, because he is otherwise completely symptomless.  He'll nibble on pizza crusts and Cheerios here and there, then STILL run around like he's been pumped full of pixie stix and caffeine. 

For the record, I dropped a full 10 pounds during my own flu tussle the weekend before last, just because I had no appetite and couldn't smell anything so food tasted like paste for multiple goddamn days. I eventually just forced myself to eat the paste-food, what with the GROWING AND SUSTAINING OF LIFE side gig I've got going on, but since Noah has no secondary higher purpose like that, I'm guessing he just needs a little more time for the congestion to fully clear and give him his taste buds back. 

What's been great this winter -- and here you will fully see the low, low depths a mother will sink to in search of something she can describe as "great" -- is that Noah is finally really and truly verbal enough to TELL US THAT HE IS NOT FEELING WELL. He can even tell us SPECIFICALLY what hurts, or feels funny, or when the medicine wore off or when he'd like another hot towel on his ear. I mean, don't get me wrong, we still get our fair share of unrelated whining about how Mom's choice of television programming is making everything SO MUCH WORSE, EH-HHH-EEHHHH, but damn, it's nice to have at least one child who can be trusted to accurately report on whether his throat is sore or not, unlike Ezra, the two-year-old walking medical mystery who simply asks for his nose wiped no matter what the real complaint is, be it snot or a cough or a fever or probably even appendicitis. "HALP ME NOSE" is toddler-code for "SHIT IS MESSED UP. FIGURE IT OUT, WOMAN." 

Of course, not that Noah still isn't capable of being a complete oddball or anything. Popsicles were a popular suggestion for at least keeping him hydrated, but...the child is scared of popsicles. Won't even touch them. One time we made some together, using some fruit-and-yogurt recipe from a Highlights magazine that he became inexplicably entranced with, only to have him run away LITERALLY SCREAMING when I popped the finished result out of the freezer and offered it to him. MELTY COLDNESS. ON A STICK. AAAHHHHH IT'S ALL SO TERRIBLE. 

Well. Fine. More popsicles for me, then. 

***

Anyway. Moving on! To the newest member of our family of TOTAL FUCKING WEIRDOS, the fetus currently known as the Parasite. Or sometimes Ikea. (Long story, though one that has nothing to do with the place of conception, I ASSURE YOU.)

Tomorrow morning is The Ultrasound. I am quite literally vibrating with excitement right now, and viewing every hour that stands between me and The Ultrasound as a giant cock-blocking pain in the ass. I need to knoooooow. I need to finalize the naaaaaame. I need to buyyyyyy stuff. 

Actually, I don't, really. We took a trip to the Big Box Baby Store yesterday just for the hell of it, and I was kind of stunned by just how PREPARED we already are. Imagine that! And it only took us three pregnancies! 

But really, we have just about everything we could possibly need or want, and I remained shockingly unmoved by all the NEW & IMPROVED TECHNO-GADGET-Y MARVELS that have hit the market since Ezra's babyhood. I want to get a couple new Miracle Blankets, some smaller sized cloth diapers, and...uh, a safety rail for our bed. I know, right? Hold your horses, Miss Consumption Junction. Let's not get greedy or anything. 

Okay, we do need clothes. Jason thinks we'll only need girl clothes, if that's what The Ultrasound reveals, because I haven't told him about the "I'M NOT HAVING ANY MORE BABIES EVER" breakdown I secretly had when Ezra was about 14 months old and fatally injuring himself on a daily basis, which prompted me to bag up and donate literally EVERY STITCH of 0-12 month clothing we owned, save for the boys' home-from-the-hospital outfits and maybe one or two onesies. This was...some really great planning on my part, I realize this now. 

I TOLD Jason that I gave some stuff away, I did. I just don't think he's clear on the EXTENT of the giving away, and the fact that it all went to a friend of a friend of the babysitter's, so it's not even someone I can call up and ask for stuff back. POOF. I did real good work there, yes. 

For the record, I did keep an entire drawer's worth of cheap burp rags. So. At least the kid can spend his/her days puking on those, instead of on actual clothing. By your third baby, this is simply known as Streamlining. 

So. Anyway. Today is the last day for daydreaming and gender predictions, I suppose, provided the baby cooperates tomorrow morning. I know no one else is as invested in this as me (AND WHY NOT, YOU INGRATES), but oh my God, I cannot wait to tell you the news, once we know.  

Brainfood

Hey! So who's sick of hearing about how sick everybody is? 

ME ME ME ME ME ME.

We celebrated the end of the flu onslaught this weekend with haircuts and grocery shopping. AS ONE DOES, when one is finally free to leave the house and attempt a couple much-delayed errands and the kids are walking into walls because their hair is long enough to French braid. NOT THAT I CHECKED OR ANYTHING. We went out for pizza. Some of us even ate some! We came home and put the kids to bed and a few hours later, as I mentally debated whether or not I could possibly tolerate the idea of my husband touching me without hacking up a lung all over him (sexily), Noah woke up screaming his head off in pain, because NOW he had an ear infection. 

HEADWALL HEADWALL HEADWALL.

I had this whole other tangent typed here, and then I read it. And...I'm not going to lie: I don't know what in sam hill I was talking about. It started off with something about ears and seemed to end up about two sentences shy of me lying face down on the floor, clutching the earth in terror and begging SOMEONE to assure me that this whole three-children thing wasn't that terrible of an idea, and that it was all going to be okay. Eventually. Once they hit college, maybe. 

It was a tad overly dramatic, is my point. Fueled solely by the power of hormones, sleep deprivation and some capsaicin-fueled mania from that spicy burrito I just ate.

Instead, let me ask those of you who Maybe Have Your Shit More Together Than I Do At This Particular Moment for some advice: Noah has basically been sick for a full seven days now. Seasonal flu, then a head cold, then an ear infection, with maybe one day of being "better" in between each onslaught. We did avoid both antibiotics AND any stomach-related illnesses, yet the child will not eat. At all. I mean, we're talking solid DAYS of him soundly refusing to eat ANYTHING, and even getting him to drink anything has been a challenge, thus thwarting my attempts to at least pump him full of smoothies or vitamin drinks masquerading as chocolate shakes. I think we've averaged one semi-decent meal every three days, while skipping the other two AND displaying total apathy towards his favorite foods and snacks. SNACKS! Who are you, child, and just how tight do you think those adjustable slim-fit pants GO, anyway? 

One night I got so desperate to see him consume ACTUAL CALORIES that I told him sure, he could TOTALLY have leftover Christmas cookies for dinner, TOTALLY...and he nibbled on one for a little while and then said Ezra* could have the rest.

Anyway, I don't even know what kind of advice I'm looking for -- I mean, I know all the sneaky ways to fortify and healthify junk food and all but I can't even get the kid to eat the junk food in the first place, sooooo...maybe someone could just offer an estimate from their experience as to just how long the post-illness food strike might last? Or at least assure me that there are more than enough calories in children's ibuprofen to sustain healthy organ function for another couple days? 

*Ezra's appetite is JUST FINE, in fact, do you have any meatballs? Like right now? How about some pancakes? How about some meatballs wrapped inside a pancake? 

Slow Burn

Noah's fever spiked last night -- not high enough to necessitate a trip to the ER or anything, just one of those HOT. DAMN. moments when you stare at the thermometer and struggle to hold on to everything you know about small children's resilient little bodies and their tendency to run 102+ degree fevers for no damn good reason.

We dosed him up with Tylenol and I hovered around his red-hot presence anxiously, obsessively rubbing his back and his hair, convinced that we were, in fact, going to end up at the ER later and that it was pneumonia or something equally horrible, and wondering who the HELL left me in charge of this small, helpless human being? And the one in the next room? And the one that's not even born yet?

Dear God, why didn't we just stop with the damn CAT while we were ahead? 

***

So I mentioned that kindergarten transition meeting thing yesterday. Kindergarten transitioning is a Big Honking Deal for the kids in the district's special education preschool program, obviously. It involves weeks of observations by a whole team of people, preliminary plans and pre-plans and planning to plan, then an initial "invitation" to the parents to go and observe a couple of the district's continuation-of-services options -- basically, whatever options the team is considering as appropriate for your specific child. 

We were invited to visit two different options: Our school's "regular" kindergarten classroom and...well, the other one. The speshul one. It's called LAD -- Learning & Academic Disabilities, though it's a far cry from the type of remedial special education classroom that you might be tempted to picture, a la Bart Simpson's "Leg Up Program" with the kids who start fires and fell off the jungle gym or just moved here from Can-ah-da, eh? 

Kids in LAD -- at our particular school, I've since found out that the program is different at pretty much every location across the county, like THAT'S not a crapshoot or anything -- spend 50% of their day with their LAD peers, usually the more academic parts of the day. Small class size, extra paraeducator support, any sensory accommodations they may need, transition help, and of course, time for any individual speech/language or occupational therapy services their IEP may include.

The other portion of the day is spent being co-taught with the "typical" kindergartners for stuff like PE and art and music and storytime, the "easier" blocks of the day, so they can get the critical social pieces of kindergarten without being impeded academically because they've just been tossed into a class of 25+ kids with one teacher and spend the entire day in an overwhelmed sensory fit, wandering around the room and singing the Star Wars theme over and over and over again while insisting that their handwriting practice sheet is "the yellow letters" and making it "crawl" in front of their face and wait...was I talking about the kids in general, or just mine?

(I should note, for the sake of UNFLAILINGLY BORING COMPLETENESS, that even if Noah was put in the typical classroom, he'd certainly still receive "resource services," like OT for handwriting help, but it sounds like there wouldn't really be any in-class support for him when it comes to his many, many other stubborn little quirks.)

(Oh! And if Noah WAS put in the LAD classroom, because it's at our home school [something that's actually on the usual side, since not every school has it and thus other kids must attend school further away], Noah could ride the "neighborhood" bus instead of the "special ed" bus. AND if, say, it was decided that by second grade or so, that he no longer needed to be in LAD, he'd still get to stay at the same school, with kids he knows and has spent time with. Other kids typically get booted back to their home school at that point to essentially start over. All in all, it looks like we really didn't do too shabbily when it came to buying this particular house in this particular neighborhood, even if the decision felt like we just panicked because our condo buyers wanted us OUT and we had no where to go so QUICK, THIS HOUSE IS FINE, WHATEVER, WE'LL TAKE IT, GAAAAAH.) 

So next week, we go and observe these two classrooms. And then we wait until APRIL for our IEP meeting, where the team will presumably make their recommendation, albeit with input from us (supposedly) and from Noah's private occupational therapist, who will also be attending the meeting on his behalf. 

A lot of the other parents are using all this hurry-up-and-wait time to tour and apply to private schools, just in case they are unhappy with the IEP team's recommendation. Hearing them discuss all the expensive private options in the area (and the multi-stage interview-and-IQ-test heavy application process) always makes me feel a bit panicky, because...well, we AREN'T considering any private schools. Are we...wrong? 

I LIKE our public school, and I LIKE the way they've provided for Noah so far. And more importantly, I BELIEVE they have the right kindergarten environment for him, and I BELIEVE that they will do the right thing for him and put him in it. And if not at first, then they will after I get done with my own personal 20-minute slide presentation on WHY YOU WILL LISTEN TO EVERY GODDAMN WORD I SAY, RAWR. 

But still, of course, I worry. I worry that our classroom observations will reveal some horrible unforeseen something-or-other that I never considered, or that our IEP meeting will go horribly awry, that I'm once again completely over- or underestimating the whole system and process and oh God, maybe even poor Noah himself, because he can't tell us what he'll really need for kindergarten next year. (Other than a Star Wars lunchbox, I'm guessing.)

Who the HELL left us in charge of this stuff, honestly? 

***

Last night, about an hour after the Tylenol, Noah's temperature was down to a cool and refreshing 98.3. And it stayed down. 

He's fine. We all are. 

Second Wave

We were all feeling better. We WERE. I swear I did not just imagine it.

Noah went to back school yesterday. Jason went to work. I went to "work." And even Ezra didn't demand constant nose-wiping by screaming HALP ME NOSE! every five minutes. (It was more like every 10.)

Jason and I attended a kindergarten transition meeting at Noah's school last night where we were mostly successful at NOT being Those Assholes Who Coughed The Whole Time, thus interfering with other parents' enjoyment of sitting through an hour meeting that consisted of someone reading a PowerPoint version of the school district's special education services website out loud to us, and then I came home and powercapped Top Chef All-Stars until the wee hours of the morning.

That was yesterday. 

This is today.

If anyone needs me, I'll be the other end of that couch. 

19 Weeks

Oh my hell, I am 19 weeks pregnant. 

And a half!

Pregnancy-wise, I am feeling...oddly great. A little tired, a little prone to lightheadedness or wooziness if I jump up off the couch too quickly (solution: don't ever bother getting off the couch), though probably a little MORE prone to snappishness and short-temperedness at my husband and children.

I have enough of that last thing sometimes that I have to occasionally ask myself "What the fuck is your problem, man?" And that's when I remember that oh my hell, I am 19 and a half weeks pregnant. That is my problem. LAY OFF ME, ASSHOLES, THIS IS ACTUALLY A LOT HARDER THAN I AM LETTING ON.

I was *thisclose* to five whole pounds gained after Christmas -- a job well done, and one that I was quite proud of, those pastry-wrapped sausages didn't just eat themselves, you know -- but then lost seven during the Extended Flu Remix of the past week, and am once again looking at the exact same number on the scale as the day I handed a positive pee stick in an envelope to my groggy, recently anesthetized husband and yelled SURPRISE! REAL GLAD TO HEAR YOU DON'T HAVE CANCER!

I have exactly one week before my next OB appointment to try to gain some weight back, and something tells me my current diet isn't going to cut it: Dry toast, orange juice and...honestly, everything still tastes like cardboard-y toast to me at this point anyway. 

It's alarming, looking in the mirror, and seeing 75% of your body looking borderline gross-level skinny, while your midsection is all distended, and not in a convincing knocked-up sort of way, thanks to how I'm carrying this pregnancy. (Much further back, it seems. I'm all satisfyingly round while sitting, but then everything sort of...settles somewhere deep in my torso once I stand up.)

Speaking of all this unbearable sexiness: My elbows -- I SHIT YOU NOT -- started developing the early beginnings of bed sores over the weekend, from all the hundreds of times I had to prop myself up in bed to cough while attempting to splint my poor belly and aching ab muscles. 

My boobs, at least, are totally fabulous. My best pregnancy showing yet, in that department. (Thus furthering the hypothesis that a lot of my supply problems with Noah were due to damaged tissue from cyst aspirations, and the theory that the tissue will repair and regenerate itself more and more with each pregnancy and lactation, and I just killed whatever nice visual y'all had going of me there, didn't I?)

My next OB appointment is -- IN CASE I HAVEN'T MENTIONED IT THREE DOZEN TIMES ALREADY -- the big 20-week ultrasound, and I've hit that fevered, frenzied point in the pregnancy where I MUST KNOW I MUST KNOW I MUST KNOOOOOOOW. Each day is becoming more and more of a blue-and-pink tinged form of torture, because if I just know we'd be able to tell if it's a boy or girl NOW, too, if I could just figure out a way to get my hands on an ultrasound machine already. 

Whenever I mention the boy/girl thing on Twitter (SPOILER: I MAY DO THIS A LOT), I invariably get a handful of confused replies, because didn't we already confirm that it's a boy? And you wrote that whole entire semi-pissy thing about it? 

And then I have to try to clarify that yeah, but...not really, because while it sure was convincingly-dangly looking at the 12-week ultrasound and the doctor even voted boy, there's absolutely no way we could take an early scan like that as for-sure confirmation, because you see, technically we could have very well have been looking at a clitoris at that stage and not a penis, but...you know, this isn't really good TWITTER TALK, if you know what I mean. I think my mentions column just exploded in a sea of spambots and pervs. 

Jason remains convinced that we are having a boy. I...am really not sure. I have vaguely girl-like hunches from time to time, but then I think it might just be my brain enjoying one last chance to indulge in the possibility of it being something "different" this time before the full reality of just how outnumbered I am going to be for the rest of my life is revealed. 

Noah changes his vote practically daily (boy! girl! dromaeosaurus!), the Old Wive's tales are divided straight down the middle (heart rate = girl, Chinese lunar calendar = boy, hair and skin changes = girl, food cravings = boy), and Ezra's only input to the discussion is to tap on my belly with his fist while saying KNOCK KNOCK BABY!

Not the world's foremost experts in the art of fetal gender prediction, then. Maybe there's hope for the next one.