Awful

Everyone -- okay, well, not EVERYONE, but enough people for it to feel that way -- keeps telling me how lucky I am to have the new baby to look forward to. How thankful I must be! What a wonderful thing! What timing, in the midst of so much sadness, to have something so purely joyful and happy to focus on.

The problem is: I don't feel any of those stupid things. 

The oh-shit moment of general pre-baby non-readiness has morphed into full-on crazy anxiety about the reality of what's coming. Three children. Three! As in, the two I already have, plus ONE MORE.

WHAT THE FUCK KIND OF MATH IS THAT.

Obviously, I'm feeling a bit over-pummeled in general right now. I'm trying to grieve for my father, support my mother, adjust to an entirely new diagnosis for my son, juggle a full work load and the four-frillion mundane details of everyday life that we all have going on a regular basis, plus, you know, GESTATE.

There are probably even more people than that phantom "everyone" I mentioned telling me to be gentle on myself, to cut myself some slack, that there is no right way to navigate losing a parent, especially just weeks away from becoming one yourself, either for the first or the third or the Duggareenth time.

However, for anyone thinking they might want to use me as a compass, I should admit that I'm operating at an emotional level just north of basketcase. 

I keep changing the text-message chime on my phone, hoping to find one that doesn't immediately cause an involuntary shudder of dread; then I go ahead and ignore the majority of messages I get anyway. Watching Noah's attentional difficulties interfere with karate class bring me to tears; I re-read his kindergarten IEP and evaluation results with a sense of relief and yet also know exactly what pages the worst parts are on; then Ezra keeps asking "Where's PopPop?" for some reason; no less than 15 minutes later I'm ready to abandon both of the little monsters in the produce aisle of the grocery store. 

I've typed out and deleted more paragraphs as part of this entry than I can count. The whining! Oh, it's not any more tolerable from myself than it is from my children, who seriously: going to be left to be raised by the organic mangoes if they don't knock it off, so help me God. 

The stress has -- unsurprisingly, I suppose -- taken a toll on my thus-far near-embarassingly "easy" pregnancy. I've lost weight, I'm back to my first-trimester habit of hovering over the toilet bowl shortly after dinner each night, I'm plagued by long and almost-daily stretches of false labor pains, I have a cold I cannot shake, I am constantly light-headed and tired and scatterbrained and sleeping poorly at night thanks to the baby's pointy, elbowriffic gymnastics. 

There's nothing wrong -- my blood pressure is fine, the contractions are meaningless, my doctor is completely unconcerned with barely 10 pounds net gained in 33 weeks and simply reminds me to drink more water and "take it easy," blissfully unaware with how close he comes to getting kicked in the shins whenever he says that.

And I know. Welcome to the third trimester of pregnancy, which is BY EVOLUTIONARY DESIGN, made to be deliberately miserable so you'll want the baby to come out at the end.

But. I don't. Not really. Not yet. 

I admitted this all to Jason yesterday, when we were out having lunch and I once again fretted about the logistics of LEAVING THE HOUSE OUTNUMBERED BY CHILDREN. I admitted that I think about the baby and only feel...dread. Fear. Not happy or grateful or joyful. More like...pangs of ohshitwhathaveIdonetomylife. Proactive disgust at all the messy postpartum business of lochia and leaky boobs and spit-up and all the sleep-deprived gruntwork involved in newborn care, and the fear that I have officially pushed myself past my mothering limit, and am doomed to lose my temper at SOMEBODY, ONE OF THEM, ALL OF THEM, every day for the next 20 years. 

"That's awful, isn't it?" I said.

Jason looked at me from across the table and frowned like a sad little Precious Moments figurine. "Yeah, it is." 

I thought about suggesting that this was not the most helpful reply he could have come up with (RESPOND TO MY HIDEOUS HONESTY WITH LIES NEXT TIME, OKAY?), but I noticed Noah was picking kind of roughly at a tiny little freckle that recently appeared near his thumb. 

"Stop that," I scolded. "You're going to hurt yourself. It's just a freckle. Look, I have them too."

"I don't like fuckles!" he wailed. "I don't want any fuckles!"

Ezra raised his hands over his head and joined in. "FUCKLES!"

I covered my face and tried to not laugh. At which point the waitress -- who had been standing there for God-knows-how long -- cleared her throat and awkwardly asked who got the pancakes with bacon and who got the pancakes with eggs.

Limbo

I wish I knew what to say. I don't know if I have anything to say. Let's just...see where this goes.

Things are moving quickly, in the downhill direction. He's in a hospital bed in the living room, unable to breathe unless he stays perfectly still and immobile, utterly wiped out from the fight of the past six months. There is talk of moving to morphine soon. Everyone is scrambling to visit, exchanging helpless text messages about how much this sucks and...and...yeah.

How are you doing?

I don't know. You?

Same.  

Frowny emoticon.

Word.

I'm going up to see him on Friday, maybe even Thursday night. I don't know whether to go by myself or try to bring the boys one last time -- if this is, indeed, the one last time -- I don't know how to help, what to do, how to feel except bone-blisteringly, overwhelmingly sad. But it's a sad mixed with happy while I fold onesies and count kicks and kiss my children good-night, like an umbrella I keep forgetting to hold onto. 

Is it okay to change the subject? To talk about OB appointments and weight gain and belly shots? How is one supposed to deal with a timeline of birth and death or whichever comes first when it's not part of a montage in a movie, set to music, that skips all the moments in between where you sit on your bed and stare at the wall, thinking about how much this sucks, but also that wow, you really need to put some laundry away?

Because that's where I'm at. And I don't feel like folding shirts.

'Emotional Etsy Rampage' is the Totally Name Of My New Emo Band

The first thing I did after getting the new-and-so-fucking-not-improved news on Friday was go on an Emotional Etsy Rampage, spilling out the contents of my PayPal account (and gnawing at the edges of Instant Bank Account Tranfers) in exchange for things for the new baby. Wall decals! A custom mobile! Upcycled vintage galvanized storage containers! Bibs! A necklace that I've had in my favorites list for a year but never bought and today is the day! That necklace is mine! Suck it, sadness! Suck on shiny things and die!

I stopped only after Noah brought me the Xbox remote and a long, involved (and HIGHLY EMOTIONAL) story about a giant snake level on the Harry Potter Lego game and he couldn't finish the potion and Hermione is stuck in a corner and keeps getting blowed up by the snake and you need to help me, and I was briefly consumed with resentment that really? Really, Noah? This is the biggest challenge in your little life right now? This is the crisis that's reduced you to tears? A video-game snake? MADE OUT OF VIDEO-GAME LEGOS?

Yes, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I Pain-Olympic'ed my own child. It was a really pround moment in my parenting history.

(I helped him. The snake level WAS pretty hard, and I felt much better after beating it. Haaa, stupid Lego snake.)

(And before anyone hassles me about letting a five-year-old play video games: He can only play after he earns a certain number of stickers on his behavior/chore chart. And also, I CANNOT EVEN REALLY PRETEND TO CARE RIGHT NOW.)

Over the weekend I took Noah to karate, then shared a bagel and orange juice with Ezra. I dragged everyone to IKEA. I assembled random shit from IKEA. I hung clothes and onesies and organized diapers and blankets and then tossed everything back into the center of the room to start over because I just didn't like how inaccessible that basket of baby hats was. Ezra spiked a fever for no real reason at all but I prescribed Motrin and cuddles with me, me, meeeee anyway. I comforted Noah when he left his beloved Actual Real-Life Harry Potter Lego figure at his friend's house, because that was, in fact, a pretty rough tragedy for him, no matter what you compare it to.

And then today I spent the morning in a child pyschologist's waiting room, filling out 400 behaviorial checklists while Noah went through day one of the three-day evaluation for ADD. Or whatever it is. Was. Will be. 

It still hasn't sunk in. It. You know. The news. The now, the what's next. I knew -- oh, I KNEW -- we'd reach this point, and for some reason I'd naively thought it would be a relief to put the chemo and the transfusions and the ER visits behind us. I mean, maybe it is. But not really. There's new grief and new mourning and yet he's still here and we're still here and there's karate and swimming lessons and bagels and fevers and evaluations and assessments and onesies to wash and things to hang on the nursery walls. There's life. Whatever it is. Was. And will be. 

Swimmingly

So I'm pretty sure I mentioned once or twice or fourteen frillion times that we signed up for a family membership at the YMCA, mostly so we would finally get off our butts and get the boys some swimming lessons. 

HOW'S THAT ALL GOING?, asks absolutely no one in the world.

GREAT! LET ME TREAT YOU TO A PAINFULLY DETAILED RUNDOWN, responds boring, self-centered mommyblogger.

Noah is doing well. I was nervous that we'd waited too long for swimming lessons, but now I'm glad we waited until he was past his fears of the water and a bit more coordinated with that whole vestibular system thing or whatever, because he LOVES swimming. He's much braver about getting water on his head and face and you know, not clinging to our necks in fight-or-flight terror. He can at least do a pretty decent dog-paddle on his own and do something vaguely approaching proper swimming form with a little assistance. Between swimming and karate, he's packed on a good two pounds of solid muscle in just two months.

Ezra is...well, EZRA. In what I'm beginning to sense is going to be the theme of this child's life, he has already -- in the span of three classes and a handful of recreational swims on the weekends -- completely leveled out of the under-three swimming class, skill-wise. He doesn't want to be bobbed around in the water by me while we squirt water on his head with bath toy froggies and sing the Wheels on the Bus, he wants to SWIM. He wants to do the arms-over-head "rocket ship" move that he sees Noah do before jumping in, he wants to use a kickboard and paddle the length of the pool, and dammit woman, I'm just going to climb out of the pool, walk around to the other side and jump the hell in, WHEREVER YOU ARE NOT, if you continue to thwart me with this baby-swim-class nonsense.

Last night we got out of the pool to dry off, and after I retrieved his towel I turned around and saw that he'd promptly dashed back, jumped in the pool and was about halfway down a lap lane while looking over his shoulder at me like, YEAH? AND? (He was still, thankfully, wearing his little float-y backpack.)

I see a lot of private lessons in our future. Either that, or a string of fake IDs. 

Meanwhile, I signed up for a prenatal water aerobics class. I am the only person currently signed up for this particular prenatal water aerobics class. Which...is weird. The instructor is a 65-year-old woman who has been teaching swimming at the Y for 30-plus years now, and the solo sessions just include SO MUCH SMALL TALK, and there's no buffer zone of other people, and so I feel expected to chat and be all perkily personable the whole time we're doing semi-ridiculous things involving pool noodles, and I'm not talking small talk like the weather. No more than 10 minutes into my very first class I learned all about the restraining order she currently has against her husband of 40+ plus years and how her current class schedule interferes with her domestic violence support group meetings, OH MY GOD WHAT DO YOU EVEN SAY TO THAT. 

Other things I've learned include:

1) Horseback riding gives you very strong inner thighs.

2) Her last baby was a surprise because she got drunk one Christmas.

3) But she has always suspected that her no-good husband liked to poke holes in the condoms or something, so WHO KNOWS.

Plus, you know, we're both in bathing suits. It just makes everything so much more awkward. One time I think she moved in like she was going to hug me before class and while I usually self-identify as a total hugger (just ask anyone who's met me at BlogHer), I learned that this is NOT THE CASE when we're talking poolside hugs and my winter-white thighs are hanging out, because I will kind of jump back and squeak helplessly at you instead. 

(I should also mention that there's a specific mix CD she brings for the prenatal class. The first song is the theme from Titantic.) 

But honestly, I'm about five minutes and one more anecdote about The Christmas She Got Drunk And Knocked Up away from declaring her the most awesome person on the entire planet. Plus it's a pretty decent workout. So. 

Let's wrap this up with some Friday Beefcake:

28 Weeks

Okay, okay, one last thing about the stupid belt test before I promise to shut up about it:

Instructor: Okay guys, this is your first belt test, so it's okay if you're feeling a little nervous about it. Does anyone here feel a little scared?

Amy: (to self) ME! MEEEE! MEEEEEEEOMG.

Noah: (out loud, to entire room of students and parents) I'm not scared! I'm Harry Potter, and I'm brave!

HEY LOOK WHAT I CAN DO THIS IS PRETTY COOL TOO RIGHT WHATEVER KARATE.

Noah very generously gave Ezra his white belt to wear around the house, and even pieced his broken board back together so his brother could pretend to kick and punch it in half to his little jealous heart's content. 

(Ezra would probably like me to document that 1) he already has near-perfect form on his front kick and is working very hard on the round house, 2) he only ever, ever kicks cookbooks. Which totally deserve it, frankly.)

***

My doctor's office called yesterday and left a message asking me to call them back, and I was seized with terror that oh shit, I probably failed my glucose test. Time for moar sugar drank partay! 

But no, that was all fine. Another damn UTI. And another vote of confidence in the medical establishment, since I had to call the office back two times to inform them that the doctor had prescribed an antibiotic that I am deathly allergic to. Nope, can't take that one. Try again please. Nope, not that one either. 

(Jeez, if only there was some kind of ACCESSIBLE RECORD OF MY ALLERGIES AND/OR OTHER PERTINENT HEALTH INFORMATION WRITTEN DOWN SOMEWHERE. Like on a health history form! On a chart! In a folder! Or hell, how about a fucking Post-It, maybe.)

(Prescription number three seems to be okay, since I've taken two pills and not yet died of hives. But you know I goddamn Googled that shit before I took any of it. What the HELL.)

I am 28 weeks along now. Third trimester. Things are getting real and slightly more uncomfortable and full of involuntary grunts and sighs and oh my God I can't get my shoes on oooffffs.

I have sorted through and organized three drawers, one closet and eaten an entire basketball:

(Don't laugh at my headscarf. That's my Organizin' Scarf, and it gets shit done, people.)

The Orange Drank Diaries

(AKA glucose tolerance testing, TAKE TWO)

7:59 am. Stumble downstairs, open fridge, confront today's nemesis: EASYDEX 50 Oral Glucose Tolerance Beverage, Orange Flavor. Ooh, variety! 

8:00 am. DRINK.

8:01 am. You know, the orange version isn't half bad. 

8:02 am. It tastes exactly like the orange drink McDonald's used to serve at birthday parties.

8:03 am. Does McDonald's still sell that orange drink?

8:04 am. Does McDonald's still do birthday parties?

8:05 am. Because hell, I feel guilty enough copping to the occasional drive-thru order of chicken nuggets and chocolate milk, I can't imagine sending out invites to a McDonald's-themed birthday party, which in this neck of the yuppie/hippie woods might as well read COME PARTY WITH SATAN! CELEBRATE CHILDHOOD OBESITY WITH THE SILENT TEARS OF UNETHICALLY RAISED BEEF. ALSO, THERE'S DIABETES IN THE GOODIE BAGS.

8:06 am. Aw, the drink's all gone. It was kind of yummy.

8:10 am. And I feel still feel fine, actually. 

8:11 am. Question: If I'm a yuppie and a hippie, would you call that yippie? Or a huppie? 

8:20 am. Still feel fine.

8:21 am. Clearly, I have developed immunity to the glucose drink. 

8:22 am. I EVEN FOUND MY SHOES IN THE VERY FIRST PLACE I LOOKED.

8:22.3439890 am. THEY WERE ALREADY ON MY FEET.

8:23 am. WHY AM I THINKING IN CAPS-LOCK?

8:27 am. Vaguest sense of intestinal foreboding. 

8:30 am. Side effect warning on bottle mentions possibility of "nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, fainting."

8:31 am. Just like McDonald's! RIMSHOT.

8:35 am. Digestive tract up and officially revokes glucose drink immunity status. Jesus Christ. 

8:40 am. Cat sympathy-vomits all over the bed. 

8:50 am. In car, driving under the influence of sugar, thanks to husband's job that wouldn't let him get the morning off and now he has to miss an ultrasound and that really sucks and

8:52 am. HEY SELF, SEE THAT CAR STOPPED AT THE RED LIGHT? THAT ALSO MEANS YOU SHOULD APPLY YOUR OWN BRAKES IN A TIMELY FASHION AND

8:53 am. Hey look! When I slammed on the brakes a lipgloss rolled out from under the seat! I've been looking for that one for ages!

8:57 am. Arrive at doctor's office. 

9:00 am. Two pregnancies ago, I took the glucose drink right here on this very couch for the first time and then passed out cold 20 minutes later. Jason said I even drooled a little bit.

9:02 am. Fucking Angry Birds, man.

9:04 am. Scale time. I've gained three pounds, for a measly total of seven.

9:05 am. Nurse marks my weight gain in my chart, scowls a little. "Bitch," she thinks, probably, as I have decided that the sugar pulsing through my system has made me telepathic.

9:06 am. I refrain from making a joke about managing to leave a good one or two pounds behind in my bathroom that morning, thanks to the glucose drink.

9:07 am. Good thing, because she's the one with the needle. 

9:15 am. Blood test complete. Am moved into ultrasound exam room, which is plastered top to bottom with Lady Period-Product-Centric Posters Featuring the Metaphorical Freedom of White Linen Pants.

9:23 am. The wallpaper in this room is so ugly that I think I might love it. 

9:25 am. Ultrasound reveals that everything is still fine. Baby has flipped over, is still in possession of the necessary parts and organs and boy genitalia, is measuring close to three pounds already and on-track to not fit into any of the newborn clothes I purchased this time because I DIDN'T PURCHASE ANY NEWBORN CLOTHES LAST TIME, what with Noah being 10 pounds and not fitting into any of the newborn clothes I had, and then Ezra was a smallish little peanut and now this one is going to be another giant and it's all because I dared to get attached to all those little stripe-y onesies with the squirrels on them, isn't it?

9:40 am. All done. Back in two weeks.

EPILOGUE

2:40 pm. Seriously, does McDonald's still sell that orange stuff? Because I feel like my blood sugar is dropping for the first time since Monday and I could really use a fix. I mean, just 'cause it's tasty. I don't have a problem or anything.

2:43 pm. I CAN STOP TAKING GLUCOSE TESTS WHENEVER I WANT, YOU GUYS. 

EPILOGUE, PART II

2:44 pm. No. McDonald's has replaced the original Orange Drink with "Hi-C Orange Lavaburst." which offers the lofty promise of "refreshingly delicious orange taste." Orange taste! The color, not the fruit, I imagine. Dream big, Hi-C!

EPILOGUE, PART III

2:48 pm. Orange Drink has a Facebook page. Just FYI. 

 

The Red Drank Diaries

7:43 am. Ezra appears at the side of my bed, just at eye level. "MOMMY! WAKE UP!"

7:44 am. When I fail to WAKE UP in an adequately enthusiastic fashion, he beans me in the head with a small rubber SPÖKA nightlight. "MOMMY! KITTY SAY WAKE UP!" 

7:45 am. I wake up. We bought two of those suckers at IKEA this weekend, and they make deceptively good weapons.

7:50 am. Both boys are in bed with me. Noah has brought along a ROTERA lantern that he's grown incredibly attached to and a blanket that is actually an Invibbability Cloak and is talking about Harry Potter, at least Harry Potter According To A Child Who Saw 20 Minutes Of The First Movie And Plays The LEGO Game Version On The Xbox And Thus Maybe Has Some Of His Facts Wrong. 

7:55 am. We all hide under the Invibbability Cloak from Lord Baltimort. Or a bear, depending on which kid is currently steering the narrative.

7:59 am. My brain joins the rest of my body in WAKE UP VILLE and I remember the bottle of awful sugary bright red liquid sitting in the fridge that I'm supposed to spend the next five minutes chugging for my glucose test.

8:00 am. Sitter arrives. I swap children for EASYDEX 50 Oral Glucose Tolerance Beverage, Fruit Punch Flavor.

8:01 am. DRINK.

8:02 am. Oh God, it's like medicinal Kool-Aid laced with reconstituted Pixie Stix.

8:03 am. DRINK.

8:03.38932730 am. I'm totally going to start an urban legend about someone mixing this stuff with Red Bull, then thinking she could fly off the roof, right before Satan appeared and told her to eat some Pop Rocks too.

8:04 am. DONE.

8:05 am. Brush teeth. Spend next four minutes spitting out bright pink saliva into sink.

8:09 am. Shower. Feel mostly kind of normal, surprisingly enou...

8:10 am. THERE IT IS, MOTHERFUCKERS.

8:11 am. SUGAR!!!!11!!!!!

8:15 am. I can see my heart beating in my chest.

8:20 am. The bone part of my skull feels itchy. 

8:30 am. WHERE ARE MY SHOES. 

8:33 am. WHO STOLE MY SHOES.

8:35 am. GOING TO MURDER WHOEVER TOOK MY SHOES WITH MY BARE HANDS.

8:36 am. *trips over shoes* 

8:37 am. Found them!

8:40 am. WHERE ARE MY CAR KEYS.

8:41 am. Phone rings. It's the OB office. Doctor was called to a delivery and needs to reschedule my appointment.

8:42 am. "Okay I understand but see the thing is I was supposed to have the glucose test today and I already drank the drink like 40 minutes ago and I can kind of see forever and it's full of stars and can someone please take my blood anyway before my heart stops beating or something and hey look I found my keys they were in my purse."

8:44 am. Am informed that only the receptionist is in the office. There's no one available to take my blood at that location and since I can't get to the other, farther-away office or get a referral to a lab within the next 15 minutes or so for accurate results, it's probably best if I just swing by later for another bottle of satan-sugar-water and try again on Wednesday morning. 

8:45 am. The kitchen countertop feels sooooooo nice on my temples, which are kind of maybe starting to throb.

8:50 am. I should probably make some coffee to counteract the whole. Thing. That happens. After I drink. The. Whattayacallit.

8:57 am. Do you know what's really heavy? Shoulder blades. Right? Lay off my back, you stupid bones.

8:59 am. I was supposed to get an ultrasound too. I'd probably be disappointed if someone hadn't come along and yanked my will to live and/or give a shit about anything out from under me about 11 minutes earlier. 

9:00 am. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

9:06 am. "MOMMY! KITTY SAY WAKE UP."

*fin*

26 Weeks

The theme song for weeks 25 and 26 of this pregnancy have been Lady Gaga's Poker Face, which I oh-so-super-cleverly renamed and reworked as Pizza Face:

Can't clear my, can't clear my,

No I can't clear up my pizza face.

(I have zits like no one's business.)

I am a regular goddamned Weird Al, right? I mean, I could be, once I figure out more lyrics than just those three lines. I sort-of came up with a verse about burritos and Indian food where I was able to swap "fart" for "heart" but then I stopped. Because of the DIGNITY. WHICH I TOTALLY STILL HAVE.

I also do totally have gas. And a bladder that wakes me up at least two times a night. And a slutbitch of a sciatic nerve. 

After a breakneck buying spree attack of the baby shopping, I'm feeling much more prepared than I was even just a week ago. Realizing that you somehow own 14 designer swaddling blankets will do the trick, apparently. As does discovering an entire forgotten stash of baby gifts you bought for friends' newborns but never managed to wrap up and send, and since said newborns are now toddlers, said gifts are ALL YOURS NOW YAY.

(Thus: the 14 designer swaddling blankets. Which means I am now all but guaranteed to give birth to a baby who hates, hates, hates being swaddled. Either way, I'm totes prepared!)

Oh, everything is still just piled up on the floor. But dammit, those are some well-stocked piles. I can rest easy with those piles. I could rest easy ON those piles, what with all the blankets and fluffy diapers in there. 

Lastly, the obligatory this:

Can't see my, can't see my,

No you can't see my pizza face.

(I will crop and you will like it.)

(Not Yet) Born This Way

Or, I Was In The Very Front Row At A Lady Gaga Concert While Six Months Pregnant And All I Got Were Some Crappy Camera Phone Photos

My ticket said NO CAMERAS, in very big capital letters. So I did not bring a camera, lest the Imaginary Authority Figures decided to yell at me.

They DID yell, kind of, but not about the camera thing. 

Jason bought me these tickets way, waaaaay back last summer for our anniversary, and included a upgrade to a special Little Monsters package, which meant we got to get in before anybody else and snag the primo floor real estate up front. At first, this did not seem to be much of an upgrade at all, since it ALSO meant my friend* and I got to start standing up a full FIVE FREAKING HOURS before Lady Gaga actually came on stage.

Five hours. Of non-stop standing up, minus exactly two incredibly hurried pee breaks. Not exaggerating. I can't even spend five hours SITTING down before I feel wiped out enough to move to full-on LYING down. 

Our spesul sort-of VIP status meant nothing to the event staff, however, who screamed at us repeatedly that if they saw ANY OF US not walking single-fucking-file, or cutting in front of people, or trying to run to our spots once we got inside, SWEARTOGOD, they would yank us out of the speshul line and toss us in the way back of the outside-round-the-block-general-admission line, IMEANITREALLYNORUNNING.

No one ran. I'm not sure any of us were even comfortable BREATHING DEEPLY until we made it to the stage barricades in the most orderly, kindergarten-line fashion possible.

*Jason bought the tickets, but SHOCKINGLY had absolutely no interest in attending the concert himself. I know, right! I think he totally would have rocked some caution tape and a tutu, but WHATEVER.

My place at the stage barricade, which completely blew my mind, being all of five puny feet from the stage.

(I do wish I'd managed to take a few more photos OF MY OWN STUPID ARM, though.)

Even though this backdrop was actually for Scissor Sisters, it set the mood for the evening nicely. Standing up, plus naked boobs.

The baby was relatively chill up until the opening act, when he woke up and started kicking like crazy, all WTF WAS THAT. Before that moment, I'd only really remembered that yes, I was indeed waddling around a Lady Gaga concert while pregnant when I saw everybody else's outfits and costumes. Twitter felt VERY STRONGLY that I should go using my belly as some sort of egg-related prop, perhaps with a side of bacon hotpants, but I didn't quite have the nerve to attend bare-bellied. At one point I was seriously considering a Naughty Pregnant Cop* outfit, but it wasn't as...ahem...STRETCHY in the abdomen area as I thought, and I couldn't get it zipped up. 

I went with a black lacy minidress that, if you squint, could POSSIBLY be interpreted as 80s-Madonna-ish-by-way-of-Target, bright purple tights, and a pair of over-the-knee black boots that I affectionately refer to as my Hooker Pirate Boots. Oh, and glow-in-the-dark Silly Bandz and a glittery purple headband that dug into my skull after an hour but bitch, I kept that sucker on all night like it was my own Alexander McQueen Lobster Shoe. I WILL SUFFER FOR MY HALF-ASSED FASHION. 

*If you have to ask why I had the resources on hand to even attempt a Naughty Pregnant Cop outfit, well, yeah. I...I'm sorry for this monumental bit of oversharing, but I did. 

For the record, you can absolutely bring a camera to a Lady Gaga concert. It's actually ENCOURAGED, to the point of being part of the show at least two times. Every single goddamn other person in the audience apparently knew this, meanwhile, I'm stuck with mementos of The Time I Was 10 Feet From Lady Gaga that all look like this:

And this:

And this:

Yeah, I was totally trying to get a picture of her ass. IF YOU'D SEEN IT IN REAL LIFE YOU'D KNOW WHY. 

Usually, I'm not a big fan of pop/dance music, and even less of a fan of giant, expensive stadium shows. But obviously -- thanks to all the guilty-pleasure confessing I do at Mamapop -- I've developed a very deep affection for Gaga and her craziness, in part because underneath it all I get the sense that she's just messing with us about 99% of the time. 

This show was like a big-budget rock opera: part Rocky Horror, part Andy-Warhol-art installation, part-self-mocking melodrama, part motivational Up With Tolerance & Self-Acceptance & Equal Rights seminar, and part cracked-out acid-fueled I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT. 

None of it was lip-synched, and goddamn, she can sing. 

(And performed live, Born This Way, weirdly, doesn't resemble Express Yourself nearly as much as the radio single does. Almost not at all. I mean, it helps that it started off as a near-acapella gospel choir song before morphing into a frenetic dance number with Very Hot Simulated Gay/Straight/Bi action by her Very Hot Back-Up Dancers, but still.)

I pulled the "I'M PREGNANT" card exactly twice:

Once while trying to navigate back to my spot before the show started after a bathroom break, and encountering a wave of assholes who were simply REFUSING to budge to let anyone through, refusing to believe or care that sorry, you WERE there first and had a spot being held by friends. I mean, I've held my ground to a point at shows too, especially when it's GROUPS of people obviously trying to push their way up front, but COME ON. It actually got the point where a grown man tried to body check me, with elbows out, and push me over into a group of other people. So I freaked the fuck out at him for being a fucking asshole to a SIX MONTHS PREGNANT WOMAN, LET ME THROUGH. Then I started screaming my friend's name so everyone turned to look at the stupid jerk getting physical with the little pregnant girl.

He then tried to lecture me about being at the concert in the crowd in the first place, since I was pregnant. I told him that he'd been the first and only thing to make me feel at all unsafe all day, so congratulations. Also: I've been holding my damn spot over there for FIVE HOURS ALREADY. You think you're gonna stop me, Gandalf? LEMME BY, YOU AMATEUR.

The second time was probably less noble. I yelled at a 16-year-old to stop crushing me against the barricade every time Gaga stepped close to us and shoving her camera directly in front of my face. I think my exact words were something like "YOU NEED TO CHILL THE FUCK OUT."

Or maybe "GET OFF MY LAWN."

Oh, and I saw Kathy Griffith, sitting in the seats right behind us, but did not get the opportunity to freak her out in the bathroom line or anything. Though I did strike up a conversation there with a nice grandmother who couldn't wait to see the crazy costumes, and hoped Gaga would sing Poker Face. (She did.) I also saw a lot of girls wearing just their bras and an even greater number of boys wearing...well, not very much clothing at all. 

And thus concludes my list of reasons why I think attending a Lady Gaga concert should definitely be on every woman's list of Top Five Things To Do While Six Months Pregnant, because I had an absolute fucking blast, and would do it again in a heartbeat.

The Oh Shit Moment

It's a pregnancy rite of passage. At least for me, anyway. That moment when it actually, finally dawns on you that you are going to have a baby. 

Like, a baby. Is going to come out of your body, one way or another, and then that baby is going to stay here. With you. In your house. And life. And you will be expected to do things with and for that baby. Fuck you, figurative state, shit just got literal up in this bitch. 

I've had this moment strike me right around this same point, bolt-of-lightning style, every single time so far. You would think I would start noticing the general pattern of pregnancy = ACTUAL BABY, but I seem to be able to gloss over that little detail for most of the first two trimesters, and then suddenly:

OHSHIT.

A bunch of baby-related purchases arrived over the weekend, and I realized my system of shoving them all in a far corner of the nursery is no longer working, because there's now enough crap in that pile (including a sub-pile of older-brother handmedowns and outgrown jackets with no place to go) that you have to walk around it almost as soon as you step into the room, and I can't NOT step into the room because I haven't moved Ezra's clothes out of the closet in there and now the simple act of fetching my toddler a fresh t-shirt is causing nesting-related hysteria and freakouts because I need to move Ezra's clothes out of the closet in there and do something with that pile of baby stuff and get the other pile of baby stuff out of the attic and check in the basement too and we haven't bought a new car or maybe just a very narrow car seat and THEY WON'T LET YOU BRING THE BABY HOME WITHOUT A CAR SEAT, YOU KNOW, GASP WHEEZE PANIC.

But hey! At least I bought some closet organizers. They are still in the box, in a pile by our front door. But, much like the boxes of diapers and onesies upstairs, they at least represent SOME form of half-assed progress. I'm not exactly nesting, I'm piling. 

I know we have time and all that. But then again, our to-do list looks pretty much exactly the same as it did back in October, when we sat down and wrote out everything we needed or wanted to buy and get done around the house "before the baby gets here." And look how great we did with all THAT time we had, back then, when it was a whole different calendar year and I was going to be pregnant for-evvvvv-errrrrr.

So far, we:

1) Purchased bunk beds, moved Noah and Ezra into the same room. Clothes, toys are yet to follow. 

2) Replaced the carpet in the basement with pet-pee-resistant laminate. Well, that's only happening RIGHT NOW, like TODAY, so not exactly past tense yet. Ceiba registered her protest over the proceedings by peeing on my sneakers.

3) Talked about getting hand-me-down baby gear and accessories out the attic, because I don't know what's up there and what's usuable or remember what size batteries everything takes. Did not do. 

4) Talked about purging basement of mountains of useless crap so we'd have space to keep all the not-useless hand-me-down clothing and baby accessories organized. Did not do.

5) Bought paint for both upstairs bathrooms. Did not paint.

6) Measured windows in children's rooms for new black-out blinds. Did not buy.

7) Talked about new bigger car vs. expensive narrower car seats approximately seven hundred million times. Did not decide.

8) Talked about how much that faulty toilet in the master bathroom bothers us when it randomly decides to start noisily filling up with water in the middle of the night. Did not fix, called it a shithole cocksucker.

9) Talked about turning small den off master bedroom into walk-in closet or grown-up office (instead of current Room Where Useless Crap Goes To Die Because The Basement Is Full) approximately eight hundred million times. Did not decide, bought an Xbox.

10) Played a lot of Xbox.

But beyond the semi-nesting bullshit, it really only just started to hit me that I am going to have three children. That I will be dealing with a high-maintenance newborn along with two existing high-maintenance small people, and whether or not I've purchased the exact recommended number of newborn-sized prefold diapers and covers won't make a lick of difference when it comes to the reality that I have no idea how to really make a family of that size work. 

We go out to eat and I mentally size up the four-top table they seat us at and try to picture another high chair tacked on the end, then a booster, then another chair. I try to picture myself getting three kids out the door on time, on escorting Noah to summer camp with Ezra and a baby in tow, on driving one kid to one class and another to the other activity and how not to shortchange the third one because everything he wants to do overlaps with something else. What if this one has special needs, or a health problem, or is just difficult and colicky and blah blah neurotic cakes.

We joined our local YMCA this weekend -- we were planning to sign the boys up for swim lessons anyway and decided to just take the plunge and get a family membership. It's a pretty bare bones facility in dire need of a makeover (several of the restroom stalls are perma-flooded with a good inch of run-off from the showers), but for a family "our size" there's honestly no better value anywhere close by. I signed up for a prenatal swim class and am looking SUPER FORWARD to using the free childcare center in exchange for some alone time on the treadmill. And of course, all the free swim time we want. On Sunday we all crammed in a family changing room and took the kids to the nice heated indoor pool -- Jason always with one, me with the other, my belly in the middle quietly reminding me that oh my hell, even THIS is going to get so much more difficult in just a couple months. 

The worst part of the Oh Shit Moment is that it makes it easy to focus on what you'll lose, and clouds your ability to see what you'll gain. 

"What were we THINKING?" is my now near-daily lament to Jason. I'm joking, of course.

(Most of the time.)

"I have no idea," he always answers. "But it's going to be fine."

"I know it will," I always say back. "We'll figure it out. It's going to be crazy fun."

I believe that, too.

(Most of the time.)