February 18, 2011
You know? All things considered and ruthlessly mentally compartmentalized, we had a really lovely week around here.
Jason made me an amazing dinner for Valentine's Day. I opted for Just Buy Something Shiny route and picked out a Le Crueset tagine for him, thus ensuring that he would ALSO make me dinner for the rest of the week in his excitement to try it out. Our house smells like a Moroccan restaurant all the time now, and Noah thinks couscous is the best thing ever. Noah is not wrong.
On Wednesday, I had my 24-week OB visit, where I finally got to celebrate the packing on of FOUR WHOLE POUNDS. I know I sound like such a dick every time I bring this topic up, but holy hell, this pregnancy is so weird.
Me at 24 1/2 weeks (and looking so very terribly excited about it!). No, those are not maternity jeans. Yes, that is a belt. Because somebody ate my hips off.
I at least look pregnant from the side, right? The kid is big and strong enough to visibly jiggle a bowl of pudding balanced on my belly with the force of his kicks (what? it was a test for SCIENCE), so he finds other ways to make his presence known. Besides, obviously, being a voracious calorie-parasite sucking up everything I eat. And then apparently working it all off with a nightly gymnastics routine right when I'm trying to sleep.
I go back in two weeks for the glucose test and another ultrasound. (At the last one, the baby was breech, though I think he still is.) And then I keep going every two weeks after that, because we're officially At That Point Already Oh My God We Are Not Ready At All. We've nicknamed the baby IKEA, in part because we've put off several much-needed shopping trips to there for so long now that it's entirely likely that he'll just be born at the store, among the meatballs and closet organizers.
Yesterday, we emerged from our weather-and-illness-fueled hermitude and played outside in the neighborhood for the first time in months. And so many of our neighbors were shocked to see me out of a bulky winter coat and timidly hinted around that oh, hey! It's been awhile, WHAT'S NEW WITH YOU GUYS? And then they eyed my stomach with a mix of panic and confusion, locked in an internal struggle over whether to say something and risk the chance that I just got kind of fat in that one localized area. And also got a boob job. Because yeah. I've totally gained four pounds. IN MY BRA.
We rode bikes and scooters and other various things with wheels (of which I realized we own a frightening, military-sized fleet of, at this point), and Noah invented a game called Harry Potter Escapes From Voldemort, which mostly involved running along the path behind our house until you get to the woods, then turning around and running right back, screaming on the top of your lungs.
Ezra liked it because even he could understand the rules. Also because it involved screaming.
Ezra insists on wearing the bike helmet whenever we go outside, by the way. Even if we're just sitting on the front steps blowing bubbles. Considering he actively works to thwart my every effort to keep him safe 99.9% of the goddamn time, I'm guessing it's more of a fashion statement than anything else.
Safety is badass, man.
Noah, on the other hand, outgrew his bike helmet over the winter.
Along with his fear of the big-kid bike.
And any trace remainders of toddlerhood.
In exchange for full-on little boyhood.