Coming clean on Journey...

Okay, I am a terrible liar, and I must set the record straight. Even if it is embarrassing for me to do so.

I’ve been a fan of Journey for years, and if Trevor and I had a soundtrack, it would an album of their greatest hits. In fact, I’ve always considered Don’t Stop Believin’ to be our song if for no other reason that it reminds me of long road trips with Trevor in our 9+ year history.

(OMG. Trevor and I have almost been together a decade now. Weird.)

While I’ve always enjoyed Journey, I’ve never been to one of their concerts nor have I done much accept buy their albums and download their music over the years.

Yes. I am one of those fans.

So, imagine my surprise this morning when I discovered that the lead singer was from Manila. I’d always imagined him more like a cross between John Mellencamp and David Coverdale. But then again, I thought The Ting Tings were a group comprised of three Asian girls in Catholic schoolgirl uniforms. My mental imagery has always been a little faulty.

Anyway, I got to work this morning and happened to mention all this to my coworker, Nora, who promptly informed me that the lead singer of Journey is someone called “Steve Perry”. And this Steve fellow is definitely not from the Philippines. In fact, he’s from California. And, in Nora’s opinion, has a big nose.

!!!

Arnel Pineda, who DOES hail from Manila, has only been with Journey since 2007.

So, basically, I am the worst Journey fan ever. I only dropped names like “Steve Perry” and “Arnel Pineda” in my last post because I was so embarrassed by the conversation with my coworker that I decided to do some much needed research on the subject so I could pretend to be a REAL Journey fan. As if acting like I knew better on the internet would make up for being a complete idiot.

Meanwhile, Nora has been making fun of me all day.

I totally deserve it.

Although, to be fair, Arnel Pineda did sound a lot like Steve Perry on the Today Show stage this morning. Not that I am a Journey connoisseur or anything. Because, well…obviously not.

Not a good reason to be late for work (but it totally should be)…

Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

Journey is one of my favorite bands EV-VER (RR’s, too), and they were on the Today Show this morning. It was fantastic, but I had to leave halfway through Don’t Stop Believin’ for work.

I know what you are thinking: Un-freakin-believable, right?!

Now, had Steve Perry been there, I totally would have taken my chances at the office (consequences be d@mned!). Because I clearly have priorities. As it was, Arnel Pineda was singing lead vocals, and – while he does a sufficient job to warrant being approximately four minutes late to the museum today – the end didn’t justify the means as far as the wrath of my boss was concerned.

Sigh. Sometimes I hate being an adult. Responsibilities can be so tedious.

I am already the most incompetent parent ever...

My coworker told me yesterday that she went to a bachelorette party over the weekend, and one of the other attendees was also first time pregnant and about a month ahead of me:

Me: "Oh, really? When is she due?"

Coworker: "I dunno. She's got a pretty big bump already, and she knows she's having a little girl. She said she's about sixteen weeks along."

Me: "Susan, I'm eighteen weeks along."

Coworker: "Seriously? You are ahead of her? But I don't understand! Where's your baby?"

Me: "..."

That's right, folks. I haven't even given birth yet, and I've already lost my unborn child.

Fantastic.

And I can’t shower for HOURS…

We have a communal staff bathroom at work. Normally, it is cleaner than the museum’s public facilities, so the four staff that office in this part of the building share it.

Despite the fact that we are a small staff, and everyone knows who uses the restroom when, there are still a lot of “issues” when it comes proper bathroom etiquette. I won’t go into details, but please use your imagination when I tell you that one out of the four regulars is a man and another is a walking staph infection that likes to potty barefoot.

In the past, issues like these have greatly influenced my decision to either use the museum’s public restrooms or take my chances with the other staff toilets that are normally utilized by the curatorial and janitorial staff (all men). But this afternoon I decided to use the bathroom closest to me for two very important reasons:

1. Today was the last day of the summer camp (fiasco), and I figured that there could be nothing nastier than sharing a bathroom with 1000 middle school females.


2. My bladder mandated that I use the closest facility possible.

Pregnancy has a way of limiting your options as far as bathroom breaks go. I no longer ever need to “sorta” go. It is an all or nothing kind of phenomenon. And, boy, when I need to go, I NEED to go. As in NOW.

Trying not to sprint, I made my way to the communal bathroom closest to my office. Normally, I check to make sure everything is *ahem* clear before sitting down, but the light over the commode is out and, well…my bladder didn’t have time for nonsense like that. So I just – without thinking - sat down.

And, well, use your imagination.

The worst part was having to pull up my pants long enough to leave the restroom and walk into the boardroom in order to fetch the Sam’s size container of hand sanitizer. And, yes, I used it liberally on my backside. I mean, wouldn’t you?

For the record, if you are a guy who has to share a toilet with a woman or group of women, shouldn’t you at least TRY to aim properly? Or make a mental note to wipe the seat afterwards? Because it isn’t like there are a lot of suspects in this here scenario.

Obviously, I would have been safer using the museum’s public restrooms with all the hormonal teenagers. At least then I would have known to hover.

I hate the world.

Reason No. 1 why my kid is going to need therapy...

Trevor has started talking to my stomach.

He has actually been trying to do this for weeks, but it creeps me out. So I told him he wasn't allowed to do it until I started showing. But now that he has decided that my recently developed baby beer gut qualifies as "showing", there is no stopping him.

Last night he spent ten minutes telling The Fetus about how excited he was that the NFL lockout was over, who got cut, who is a free agent, etc. And, of course, he had to start trying to brainwash The Fetus in utero by telling it how "great" the Cowboys are.

It was like Sports Center for the unborn. With a definite Dallas bias.

Lord, help me and my poor, innocent child.

I blog because I can, and for no other reason...

It recently came to my attention that some people do not like that I am chronicling my pregnancy on my blog.

Well, to be fair, only one person has complained that I know of. It was my brother, and technically I am getting his complaint second hand. He actually called my sister last night and told her to tell me that he would stop reading regularly if I didn’t cease with the pregnancy chatter.

My first thought: My brother READS my blog?!

My second thought: My brother reads my blog REGULARLY?

And, well, I didn’t have a third thought because I was so hung up on the first two.

Granted, there have been several posts dedicated to my boobs, and I’m sure those make him feel *ahem* a mite uncomfortable. But it honestly never occurred to me NOT to post about my pregnancy because I always post about what is happening to me, and well…PREGNANT.

(Oh, and by the way, HI WILLIAM!!!)

All this got me thinking about blogs I’ve read over the last six plus years since I started this little corner of the internet. For some reason, a lot of blogs seem to be ended or started because of spawning babies. I can’t tell you how many bloggers out there seem to get hung up with worry over going from a whatever-they-consider-themselves kind of writer to a pregnancy or mommy blogger.

I obviously can’t speak for them, but to blog or not to blog about my pregnancy never even crossed my mind. I have no idea why I started a blog in the first place. There never was defining moment or event that made me think, “You know what? I think I need an online journal.” This is clearly evident by my very first post way, way back in June of 2005. There is no direction there. I think I was only doing it because everyone else I knew had a blog, and I wanted to play with the cool kids.

There are always about a million things I *intend* to post about, and only a small amount of any of it ever actually makes it on here. I used to back post all the time, but now I am so behind with the current stuff it seems silly to worry about whatever I forgot about. As a result, time passes and I just never get around to posting those pictures from whatever vacation or typing up that story that was SO funny that happened last week. AND ALL THIS DRIVES ME CRAZY, because the only point this blog has ever had is to help me remember stories that I would otherwise forget (and even that was accidental).

Which leads me back to being all knocked up. Why wouldn’t I write about it? If I don’t I’ll just forget about all the little things that happened over the course of nine months. Time makes everything blend together, and I think it is fantastic that I will be able to look back in a year or two or ten and remember that my intern during the summer of 2011 told me I was finally beginning to show because my a$$ was getting bigger. Because, you know, why not?

Time gives you perspective. And the ability to laugh at minor personal disasters.

And once The Fetus goes all Alien on me makes its debut into the world, I’m sure I’ll post about that, too. Because it isn’t like I’ve ever raised or parented anything before and I’m sure I’ll need an outlet to vent. Plus, there could be some good stories in there that might be worth remembering. Or maybe just a lot of dirty diapers. Either way, I’m sure I’ll enjoy having the experience documented in some way or another at a later date.

And because I have no idea how to end this post, I am going to just tell you something randomly:

The original name of this blog was SUPPOSED to be Losing The Up-To-Up-To-Side-To-Side Ropes. But, for reasons I still don’t completely comprehend, it wouldn’t publish correctly. So, I scrapped it after much frustration and a whole lot of blinking at the computer screen, and – in a rush – started a second blog under the header Blinky Moments. I’ve wanted to change the title ever since, but that would take effort. And considering that I’ve never gotten around to doing one of those “about me” posts in over six years, things like changing the title or doing anything remotely creative with the blog template would fall under the category: Don’t Hold Your Breath.

My really bad, rotten day…

Today, my intern told me I was starting to show. Now, to be fair, I am. It just hasn’t been obvious to anyone but me. Hence the following conversation:

Me: “Oh, really? How so?”

Intern: “Your booty! You are finally starting to develop a backside!”

Me: “So…wait. What? My a$$ is getting bigger?”

Intern: “Don’t worry about it! It is just the baby finally starting to show itself!”

Me: “You do know where women carry babies don’t you?”

Intern: “Yeah. Why?”

Me: “There isn’t a baby in my a$$.”

Intern: “Oh. Well, maybe it just those jeans you are wearing today.”

Lesson I: My jeans make my a$$ look pregnant.

(Perspective for Lesson II: I’ve gained approximately six pounds in eighteen weeks.)

Then, at the gym this afternoon, I broke a weight milestone that I had been dreading since finding out I was pregnant. Granted, it was unavoidable, but that didn’t make it sting any less. Especially after the “fat a$$” morning I’d had.

This weight discovery was closely followed by my trainer thinking I was about to celebrate my 35th birthday.

I’m turning 31.

Lesson II: I am an old and heavy fat a$$.

(Fat a$$ or no, I was still able to burn over 1,300 calories during my 1.5 hour long workout. Which means that while my a$$ is all old and heavy, I can still whoop yours.)

(Not that I would. It is just the hormones talking.)




Finally, upon getting out of the shower last night, I happened to catch Trevor staring at my stomach with a boyish grin on his face while I was drying my hair.

Me: “What are you smiling about?”

Trevor: “Nothing. You are just finally starting to show, that’s all.

Lesson III: My a$$ isn’t the only thing getting bigger.

I’m pretty sure Trevor meant this as something to be excited about. Maybe even as a compliment. But, by this point, I was irrational and more than a little sensitive. So it should come as no surprise when I tell you that I flicked him off and stormed out of the room.

(Again. Unreasonable. Hormonal. Blah, blah, blah.)

The End

I to think I have 22 weeks of this nonsense left...

Today I made the mistake of jumping off the stage in the museum's auditorium in front of my intern. Normally, this wouldn’t be an issue except my intern is a double agent. She spies on me for two of my coworkers who, if it were up to them, would put me in a bubble for the remainder of my pregnancy and feed me protein shakes and broccoli every two to three hours until Christmas.

[Shudder]

See, this week has been hellish. There is this summer camp thingy that the museum is participating in that is more or less an outright fiasco. And it really isn't even a camp. It is summer school. For middle schoolers that are failing one or more subjects. I am just a partner in this disorganized hot mess. A partner that is apparently on a need to know basis, might I add. Not that I am bitter or anything [insert sarcasm here]. But that is another story for another day. All that is really important for this tale is that I've been more or less going NON stop since Monday, because there are only four of us and two THOUSAND of them (students). As a result, eating regularly (if at all) hasn't been my number one priority. Consider me in survival mode until 2:30 PM next Thursday.

Anyway, my intern started spying on me earlier in the week when she noticed that I didn't eat lunch until 3:30. I mean, hey - it isn't like I didn't get around to it. It was just postponed. The same thing happened on Tuesday, except I was able to eat closer to 3 PM (it is all about the small victories this week). But all hell broke loose today when my intern told my coworkers that all she had seen me eat on Wednesday was two protein bars and a handful of animal crackers.

And then I had to go and jump off the stage this afternoon.

Now, it isn't like the stage is all that high or anything. We are talking only three or three and a half feet here. I've jumped off of it a million times in my seven years at the museum. It really isn't a big deal. Except now I am pregnant and apparently pregnant women can't jump off of anything.

The next thing I knew, my intern had gone off and tattled on me, and there was a kind of impromptu intervention in my office. Coworker one was all over my diet and that I needed to eat for the baby, and that 2,000 kids wasn't an excuse why I couldn't at least stop long enough for a snack.

(Obviously coworker one hasn't ventured upstairs this week.)

Coworker two basically told me I was killing The Fetus by jumping or making sudden movements. Which makes me wonder how humans ever survived as a species if all the knocked up ones couldn't run, jump and climb trees to escape predators.

I tried to make the argument that I should avoid walking in general and taking the museum stairs - especially since we had several hundred teenagers squirting their water bottles at each other on the marble floor and staircase Tuesday afternoon. Coworker two seemed to agree, and also thought I should also consider sitting down more and ceasing to work out.

(Apparently coworker two is oblivious to sarcasm.)

Coworker two also can't wait for me to "balloon up" so I'll be too big to want to move far or fast.

I think that is just mean.

So, I retaliated by bunny hopping around the office just to spite coworker two and annoy coworker one.

At which point they threatened to call Trevor. Something about how it is "his baby too" and how he wouldn't stand for such nonsense.

We went back and forth until five, when I was *finally* able to get in my car and escape.

And that was pretty much the extent of my afternoon.

We always knew Haskell was a "special" dog...

What?

In case you were wondering, Haskell is officially not suited for life in the wild, life in the city or life anywhere except in our house on his bed.

Like there was any doubt, right?

Case in point: Let me tell you the latest "tail" of Haskell:

A couple of weeks ago, as in summers past, Haskell discovered the wonder and glory that is our fig tree. He is addicted to the sweet fruit and will gorge himself if left unattended. I think Haskell considers the fig to be his own personal "cookie" tree, and goes to great lengths to sneak a fig or two (or ten) when we aren't paying attention. And, just like whenever you get too much of a good thing, Haskell's sweet tooth resulted in a pretty bad case of doggie diarrhea. For two days we slept with the doggie door open, so Haskell could have round the clock access to the dog run. Not that this meant I was spared from Haskell coming to get me every two hours and waking me up. I'd like to think he just wanted his mommy. But there is the very real possibility that he never quite caught on to the fact that his doggie door was open all night.

Once I became aware of Haskell's intestinal distress, I made a concerted effort to KEEP him away from the fig tree for the foreseeable future. Which is quite the task considering how much mental and physical effort Haskell is willing to exert in order to obtain said figs.

(Haskell may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but that dog is surprising motivated when food is involved.)

Luckily, keeping Haskell away from the fig tree is normally as simple as closing and locking the dog run gate into the backyard.

Or so I thought.

Since Haskell's tummy was acting up, I wanted him to have access to the dog run during the day, so I left his doggie door open while I was at work. From the dog run, the closest Haskell can get to the fig tree is by looking longingly at it from the chain link dog run gate. That is unless the yard guys come for their weekly visit and forget to close and LOCK said dog run gate after they finish mowing. 99% of the time they remember, so it makes perfect sense that the one time they would forget would be a Wednesday that Haskell had abnormal daytime access to the dog run AND the fig tree was in full on fruit producing mode.

I don't even want to think about how many figs that little glutton consumed when no one was paying attention. You just know he couldn't believe his good fortune.

Of course, the unrestricted access to unlimited figs only served to exacerbate Haskell's diarrhea. Which, in turn, meant at least another night or two that I (not Trevor) would be woken up every so many hours by Haskell staring and squeaking at me. Not to mention all the fun I'd get to have cleaning up after a sick dog every morning. Luckily, we do have a hose in the dog run, but picking up after a dog (much less a SICK dog) is all the more difficult when you are pregnant and are hyper sensitive to smells (especially bad ones).

Good times, right?

(Groan)

About two or three hours after I returned home to discover the dog run gate unlocked and open, Haskell started to squeak from his doggie bed. I was sitting on the couch and assumed Haskell was telling me that his tummy was starting to act up. Except he acted like he didn't want to move when I encouraged him to head to the dog run. And when he finally did, he seemed a little stiff.

An hour later, the stiffness had turned into full on I've-fallen-and-I-can't-get-up doggie pain. Haskell literally couldn't seem to stand or move (much less walk), and I started to get worried. I Googled "dog + diarrhea + stiffness" and was met with a variety of websites encouraging me to drop everything and get Haskell to a vet. Pronto. Possible diagnoses ranged from pancreatitis to an intestinal obstruction to fecal impaction.

Not wanting to panic, I asked Trevor to call the emergency vet to see what they said about Haskell's symptoms. Unfortunately, the vet echoed Google's alarm.

So, at 10:30 PM we found ourselves on the way to the e-clinic across town. Haskell, by this time, had to be carried from his bed to the car.

It wasn't looking good.

The ride was made more or less in silence. I think Trevor and I were both considering what we were in for and fearing the worst. I, for one, was envisioning emergency surgery and weeks of recovery. Gypsy's ear had just been fixed after four months of surgery, vet visits and antibiotics, and here I was convinced that I was about to go through it all again with Haskell.

We arrived at the emergency vet and Trevor had to pick Haskell up to get him out of the car. Wanting to see if we could encourage him to walk, we put him down on the sidewalk and slowly managed to coax him into the clinic. It was a painfully slow process.

And this is where I would normally bore you with the details of the visit, but - really - I know you are on pins and needles with worry, right?

Sooooo long story short: Haskell's soreness and diarrhea were completely (and surprisingly) unrelated, and had nothing to do with an obstruction or kinked intestine.

You weren't expecting that were you? Neither were we.

Apparently, all the bending over and pooping took its toll on Haskell's back, and caused him to pinch a nerve.

That's right. My dog is so out of shape that excessive pooping lands him at the emergency vet.

So, basically, I lost an hour of precious sleep and paid for an $80 emergency vet visit on top of $60 tab for doggie narcotics because Haskell pinched a nerve taking a sh*t.

I swear, that dog never ceases to amaze me.

I am officially top heavy...

Trevor wouldn't let me take his picture, but he finally wore me down and got me to go to A Pea In A Pod. I went willingly enough. Mainly because I am nearly 17 weeks along and I figure I will start showing sooner rather than later. Plus, I've been inundated with stories of other pregnant women who didn't show and didn't show and then - literally - woke up one morning and their pants didn't fit. And as much as I would love an excuse to one day wear sweat pants to work, July didn't seem like the month to call that one in.

So, after church this morning, off to Trevor's own personal maternity store Mecca we went.

I only intended to buy one of those belly extenders (so you can keep wearing your pre-pregnancy pants for a while longer) and a bra or two. But, well...I ended up buying more. I blame the downward spiral that was caused by the mental trauma of trying on bras in sizes E and F, and watching them fit...perfectly. Seriously, when did THAT happen? It just isn't right. Boobs shouldn't be that big.

And in case any men are reading this and feeling envious of Trevor, bras in sizes E and F are decidedly not sexy. They are granny chic and sold under the Spanx label. Trash bags and empty laundry detergent bottles have more sex appeal. Seriously.

A Pea In A Pod was having a sale on jeans, so I went ahead and got two pairs. Jeans are standard dress for Colorado, and I started worrying about arriving in Durango and suddenly having no jeans that fit. I also got four tops to go along with two giganticly unsexy plus sized bras.

It was a hard and expensive afternoon.

In other news, my dislike for onions has officially become an aversion. Last night a tiny piece of onion found its way into my potato, egg and cheese burrito, and I GAGGED. Repeatedly. As in "I almost threw up". It was awful. I couldn't even bring myself to eat the guacamole (usually one of my favorite foods) because there was a risk that I might get a taste of another onion. Onions have never tasted good to me, but this is ridiculous. I'm not even sure I'll be able to stomach another Fuzzy burrito until after the baby arrives. That teeny tiny piece of onion was simply THAT bad.

So, in summary, I now own maternity clothes, I officially hate onions and my boobs are obscene.

Oh, and my sister is now obsessed with True Blood.

And that, my friends, was my weekend.

Grammy Pammy must have wished this on me somehow...

It makes perfect sense that since my mother was pregnant with me during the hottest summer on record, that my first pregnancy would coincide with the second hottest summer since they started keeping track 113 years ago.

Because, you know, why not?

Granted, I was born in August and I'm not due until December (when, hopefully, it will be much, much cooler), but I still find the whole thing to be rather annoying. It is like I am being punished by karma for something I had absolutely nothing to do with. But it seems silly to apologize for something like being born.

I guess I am just finding it difficult not to take all this heat personally somehow.

In happier news: 23 days until Colorado!

They say the mind is always the first thing to go…

I forgot to put deodorant on this morning.

Yet another episode of Overshare Theater...

Things I’ve noticed that may or may not be related to The Fetus:

1. I’ve always hated blackberries until I became pregnant. Now I crave them.



2. I seem to have developed an aversion to some of my favorite foods, including shrimp and peanut butter. But I dream about sushi and almond butter. Ohmygoodnesstheyaresogood! I’ve been fond of sushi for awhile now, but almond butter is something completely new.



3. I am myopic and wear glasses when I drive. Normally, I can’t see far away without them, and always put them on when I get into the car. Well, until recently. I suddenly noticed that I was doing an awful lot of driving without them – without even realizing it. Stranger still, my glasses don’t seem to be making nearly as much as a difference as they usually do. Almost as if my eyesight was partially corrected overnight a month or so ago. It is the strangest thing.



4. I am usually a night owl, but if I am in any way stationary at 10:30 PM, I will fall asleep. It is almost as if I suddenly have an off switch. On the flip side, I am finding it increasingly difficult to sleep past 9 AM on the weekends.



5. I am not sweating like I usually do, especially at the gym. Normally, I am completely saturated after an hour or so of cardio and heavy lifting. No longer the case. This isn’t to say that I am void of sweat at the end of a workout. There is just a significant difference, and I no longer have to change my shirt just to drive home.



6. Summer is usually my favorite season (yes, even in Texas). But this year, I am not tolerating the heat well at all. Maybe it is because I’m not allowed to have any frozen margaritas this year, or maybe it has more to do with the decrease in my ability to sweat like usual. All I know is that the heat makes me dizzy, and nothing will cure it except being completely still for an hour or more in a dark, cool room. Getting into a hot car at the end of the day exacerbates this to the nine millionth degree.



7. Pregnancy makes me long for other pregnant friends. Especially pregnant friends in Dallas that are due around the same time. And, again, I’m not above shenanigans like THIS.



8. Pregnancy also makes it pretty clear pretty fast who your real friends are. Nothing quite like finding out from three different friends on three completely unrelated and separate occasions about other “friends” who are talking behind your back. Seriously, people? If you are upset that we don’t hang out as much anymore, maybe it is because I need your negativity like I need a brick in the face. See if talking about me makes that any less true.



9. I seem…gassier. This is really helping my sex appeal. Last week I stepped out of the shower and farted. Trevor thought this was hysterical. I was MORTIFIED. Pregnancy should come with a warning label: “May pass gas involuntarily and without warning”. So. Not. Cool.



10. I get so thirsty. Especially in the evenings. Twice in the last week, I have consumed so much water that I felt physically ill. And, even then, I was still thirsty. Worst part about it is that the excess water either never leaves my body (and I am waddling around like a human water balloon) or it waits until the overnight hours to filter through. And as much as I enjoy peeing every twenty minutes, I’d rather be sleeping.



11. My skin seems greasier but clearer. I find myself washing my face more often to get rid of the glare. Normally, this would dry my face out, but my oil glands seem to be working on overtime lately. This would irritate me if it interfered with my complexion, but (so far) that isn’t the case. I keep reading about pregnant women whose skin reverts back to the teenage years, so I am counting my blessings.



12. Hair seems to be growing in places where no hair has grown before.



13. Nothing sounds more disgusting to me than broccoli. But, baby, bring ON the spinach.



14. Chicken tastes blah. I ordered a grilled chicken sandwich last week and ate less than half of the meat. Meanwhile, turkey is fantastic. Especially a turkey sandwich with tomatoes, extra pickles, Dijon mustard and avocado on rye-pumpernickel swirl bread. Be still my heart!



15. I still don’t like onions. This upsets Trevor. There isn’t a power in the world strong enough to make me like (much less crave) that kind of nastiness. And, if you ate onions in the last twenty four hours, don’t even TRY to pretend that you didn’t. I can tell. Same goes for garlic (shudder).

In other news, this morning I spied a white nose hair. WTF? I don’t think I would have noticed it except the light caught it just right and it shone like a flippin' beacon. Three minutes (and a lot of sneezing later) I had the little sucker yanked out by the root where I confirmed that, yes, it really was completely white.

What kind of stressed out do you have to be to develop WHITE nose hair? This seems like a whole new kind of low – even for me. Maybe this is a sign that I need to return to yoga or invest in a nice long massage? I feel like I need a plan. I intend to start dying my hair whenever the white hairs on my head begin to outnumber the number of brown ones. But can you dye your nose hair? Is that even possible? Because I see all those segments on the Today Show about how so-an-so’s face looks young, but his/her hands and/or neck reveal their true age. If that is the case, all anyone would have to do is look up my nose. Sounds ridiculous until you remember that I am tall, so looking up at me (and my nose) is a real possibility.

So, yeah. Basically, I’m screwed.

Congrats to first time homeowners, Amy and Adam...

I am not pretending that this photo makes sense.
At least not considering the announcement.
I've just been sitting on it for months
(it is a fabulous image, no?)
and today just felt like time.

Plus, sometimes homeownership is enough to make you want to drink until you pass out on the couch. It is all part of the fun.

A tale of two knockers...

With a friend on Martha's Vineyard about 2.5 weeks ago.
I am the wide one on the left.

I don’t know why I am telling the internet this story. Obviously, I’ve lost my mind.

(Or, maybe, I just want somebody to lie to me and tell me that is all going to be okay. I am not above asking for public sympathy from strangers.)

I am in a friend’s wedding in late January. For those keeping track, that is approximately a month after I am scheduled to give birth. The good news is that I am not at risk of going into labor at the altar. The bad news is that there is little to no hope for my body being back in any semblance of shape before then.

Since I’ve never spawned another human before, I have no idea how long it will take me to lose the baby weight. I’ve read that some people never lose it. All these unknowns make buying a bridesmaid dress very difficult. The consensus, however, is that I should buy the dress two sizes larger than the size I am now and hope for the best.

(I already get to order extra length because I am a jolly, green giant.)

Or, at least, that was my plan.

On Saturday morning, I went in to get measured. But in order for this story to make sense, you need to know the following:

TMI disclosure No. 1: I am a pant size twelve and have been for years. In dresses (depending on the cut, of course) I am usually a size ten.

TMI disclosure No. 2: I started this pregnancy journey with boobs that fluctuated between a 36D and a 36DD. No one else in my family is well endowed, so it makes perfect sense that they’d be wasted on the tomboy who has resented them since puberty.

TMI disclosure No. 3: I’ve gained three pounds since becoming knocked up. I am pretty sure it is all in my chest.

TMI disclosure No. 4: I was measured for another bridesmaid dress about a month ago (the January bride has changed her mind a couple of times), and I was what the lady referred to at the time as “a true size twelve”.

But back to Saturday:

I go in to get measured, tell them I am pregnant and that I expect to give birth about one month before the wedding. They happen to have a sample of the dress I will be wearing in a size twelve, and they ask me to try it on. It fit perfectly in the hips, was too big in the waist and was uncomfortably snug in the chest. So, I strip back down to my skivvies, and the lady comes in with the dreaded measuring tape.

I will spare you my actual measurements in inches, but this is how my body broke down by dress size:

Hips: Size Twelve

Waist: Size Eight

Bust: Size SIXTEEN

But that isn’t even the best part. Because my boobs are already so freaking huge coupled with the fact that I plan on breastfeeding, I had to order a size eighteen dress. That’s right: A FREAKING SIZE EIGHTEEN! TO ACCOMMODATE MY BOOBS!

They weren’t even concerned with my stomach. Most places apparently recommend going up two dress sizes if you are pregnant or due close to an event. Thanks to my chest, I’m already going up three.

And this would be the point in the story where I started to cry.

The ladies in the boutique tried to make me feeling better by saying things like:

“Oh, honey! It isn’t that bad! You are still a size twelve! And your waist is tiny! I’d kill for a size eight waist!”

…and…

“Women pay big bucks to have boobs your size! Just think how lucky you are!"

As if I am supposed to find comfort in being a naturally occurring Dolly Parton.

Of course, I got no sympathy from Trevor who just smiled, puffed up his chest and started to strut. He might as well have screamed, “My wife has giant knockers! Woo-Hoo!” from the nearest rooftop.

(That boy, I swear. He could have at least pretended better.)

And then I got to the gym only to discover that the scale had gone up another half a pound since Wednesday. This really sent me to the top of Mount Crazy in a hurry, and Trevor ended up on the elliptical next to me in an effort to talk me down slowly. Yes, I know I am supposed to be gaining weight. Yes, I know that weighing myself every two or three days is a bad idea because my weight is all over the place. Yes, I know I am retaining water like a sponge. Yes, I know the doctor told me that I would most likely gain 25-30 pounds during this pregnancy, and that I have to gain it sometime in the next five months. I know! I know! I know! But it doesn’t make it any easier when you have already been described as “wide” and have breasts that put Pamela Anderson to shame.

And, as a side note for anyone who thinks having giant knockers is all fun and rainbows, I’ve had to start seeing a chiropractor regularly because my upper back and neck aren’t taking the extra weight up top in stride. Oh, and one of my old lady bras had an over the shoulder strap that SNAPPED under pressure on Friday afternoon. Apparently, the weight of my dress size sixteen boobs was just too much for it to handle. Christmas cannot come soon enough!

Letting sleeping dogs lie (or something like that)...

According to one of Trevor's pregnancy books, The Fetus has been able to hear and detect light for a couple of weeks now. If you shine a line on my stomach, supposedly The Fetus will turn away from it. This begs the question: WHY? Why would you do that? Obviously, The Fetus does not enjoy having a light shined on it, so why would you go out of your way to piss it off?

I mean, seriously? Am I missing something here?

And why does my sister and husband think this little experiment is worth trying? It isn't like I can feel The Fetus move as it attempts to escape The Great Flashlight Beam Of Annoyance. You only get the benefit of knowing that there is a real possibility that The Fetus might have turned away from you when you shined light on it. Just like you might have just put a spotlight on The Fetus flicking you off in utero.

Not that you would have been able to see that either.

There are no winners in this scenario.

Got Figs?

Because we do. By the bucket load. We can't eat them fast enough, which is too bad since they are incredibly sweet this year.

Pregnancy means...not being too proud to do something like this:

From: Deals
Sent: Friday, July 08, 2011 3:52 PM
To: Megan
Subject: Random/Awkward Question...

Hi, Megan –

I ran this question by Beth first, and she promised it wasn’t too weird and that I should go ahead and ask you.

Ready? Okay:

Heard you are pregnant and due in December. I am pregnant and due in December. Want to be my friend?

[Insert big, non creepy smile here]

You can totally say no. Just thought I’d ask.

So…yeah. Hope that wasn’t too weird.

(Who am I kidding. That was totally weird.)

Ummmm, well…have a nice weekend!

Sincerely,
Deals

I don't want to be a mummy! I want to be a daddy!

Have I mentioned that Trevor is OVER the moon about this whole pregnancy thing? He has books, people. Several of them. And he knows more about what is going on with my body than I do. Trevor is a very happy boy.

I was about 8 weeks pregnant on Mother’s Day. That was actually when we told our mothers and Trevor’s grandmother that we were expecting. There is a video on my flip video of the whole thing. I don’t remember much about it other than the screams and tears of joy from Camilla and the soon to be REALLY Grammy Pammy.

As a surprise that day, Trevor also gave me a little silver cross from Tiffany’s to replace the cross that I lost about a year ago when the chain broke. So, needless to say, there was a lot of pressure to get Trevor something equally as special for Father’s Day in June.

But then the dizziness really set in thanks, in part, to the third hottest June in Dallas since records started being kept in 1899, and…well, I decided that physical misery in the name of our future spawn was enough of a present to the daddy-to-be. But so you don’t think I am completely heartless, I did get him several Father’s Day cards.

(Although, technically, one of them was from the dogs.)

In an effort to make up for my lack of a sentimental gift, I told Trevor that we could do whatever he wanted to do on Sunday, June 19th. So imagine my surprise when he drove straight to Babies-R-Us. Yes, that's right: Babies-R-Us. We spent nearly two hours in there while Trevor drooled over onesies, cribs, pack n plays and various other gadgets, swings and bouncers.

Life is good.

This was also the day that Trevor fell in love with a stroller. I think the brand name is BOB, but that might just be Trevor's pet name for it. We've since visited BOB at two different stores where Trevor has "test driven" each available model up and down the aisles. BOB has even starting to come up at dinner and randomly at the gym. As in: "I could run with the baby if we bought BOB"; "BOB has off-roading tires"; and "Look at BOB's shock absorption".

Trevor and BOB

Now that Trevor and BOB have found each other, I'm not sure that keeping them apart is possible. Although, I really thought my stroller decision would be based more heavily on research than shock absorption and off-roading capabilities.

But I digress...

You would think that two hours at Babies-R-Us would exhausted even the most excited fathers-to-be (I know I was tired, but then again I've never been much of a shopper). But, no-no. Not Trevor. He insisted on spending an additional hour at Pottery Barn Baby next, where he discovered what he now refers to as the "non negotiable chair" for the nursery and the "perfect" crib and dresser. He even went so far as to look at color swatches and baby bedding until I reminded him that we still didn't know the sex.

Speaking of: Trevor has been convinced that I am carrying a girl since the first time he saw the tiny spot on the first ultrasound back at 6.5 weeks. It has been just about all I can muster to keep him from purchasing a pink infant Cowboys cheerleading outfit. Seriously. He is just that kind of ridiculous.

Which, by the way, even if it is a girl, there is no way I am going to allow excessive amounts of pink into my house. I have limits. And, Amy, if you are reading this, FORGET about the bows. That is what you have Lola for.

Regardless of the sex, though, Trevor just can't wait for me to start showing so he can convince me to park in the Expectant Mothers parking spaces at places like Whole Foods and Tom Thumb. He has actually been trying to get me to do it for weeks, but I refuse. I just know that a cop will see me, question whether or not I am actually pregnant and I'll end up peeing on a stick behind a squad car in the parking lot to prove it. And that is not any way to spend a Tuesday evening if you ask me.

Same thing with maternity clothes. Trevor has actually looked up where to buy maternity clothes, and tricked me into going to see them. That is how we randomly ended up at Old Navy one evening. He lured me in there with some vague "I want to look at something real quick" kind of statement, and the next thing I knew, we were standing in front of pairs of blue jeans with spandex waists.

Trevor is also looking for any excuse to get me to go to A Pea In The Pod. Why he has focused so intently on this particular retailer, I don't know, but every weekend he asks me if this is the magic weekend that we get to go to A Pea In The Pod. It is almost like he is six and asking if this is the day I am going to take him to space mountain. It is all very bizarre, but then again this is the same individual that has already put some serious thought into the perfect age to take his kiddo to Disneyland.

So, yeah. Did I mention that Trevor is excited to be a daddy? I have no idea how that boy will be able to wait until December. He has wanted to be a daddy since he was little. Now only a few months separate him from poop, 2 am feedings and spit up. But, really, as long as Trevor has BOB, he is invincible. He can't wait!

The view from the Belmont...

Happy Birthday, Rachel!

Now for some GOOD news...

Guess who declared her independence yesterday from three months of antibiotics, ear surgeries, Elizabethan collars, head bandages and stitches?

Woo, that's who!

Yay!

Sorry the photo is not very good. I took several pictures of Gypsy last night and this morning but she REFUSED to look happy:






Apparently, she's grown accustom to looking pathetic. It gets her more sympathy.

To make up for it, though, Haskell is always ready with a smile. That dog LOVES the camera:

(Now give me cookie)

I might be surrounded by a$$holes...

This blog may be quickly on its way to becoming a place to post stories about what NOT to say to pregnant ladies.

It might be just me. Or maybe this is a phenomenon that all pregnant women have to deal with. Either way, it is frustrating and I would much rather spend my days not panicking and/or sobbing about things I cannot control. Especially when you consider that Trevor (endearingly? lovingly?) refers to me as a “catastrophist”. So, really? Why tell the person that consistently plans for the worst about all the horrible, little possibilities that she hadn’t even thought of? Obviously, you must hate me. Or I wronged you in another life. Either way, I am sorry. Now, please leave me alone.

Here are some of the “gems” from the last couple of weeks:

1. On Sushi: At my very first pregnancy confirmation appointment back in early April, Trevor and I asked about dietary restrictions. And, other than my doctor wanting to limit my caffeine intake, there were none. So, up until the beginning of May or so (when the news of my knocked up status first started to leak to close friends and family), I continued to eat things like sushi without batting an eyelash.
   
   That is, until I mentioned to a friend that I was seriously craving a spicy salmon roll and all hell broke loose.
   
   Friend: “You can’t eat sushi! Do you want to blind your baby?”
   
   Me: “!!!”
   
   OMG! I had no idea!
   
   I spent the next week CONVINCED that I had inadvertently blinded my unborn child and chastising myself for being so stupid. When my next doctor’s appointment finally rolled around, I almost started crying as I recounted the two or three times since conception that I had consumed raw salmon. And you know what my doctor did? He LAUGHED at me.
   
   Apparently, eating raw or undercooked fish can expose The Fetus to a specific kind of bacteria that may result in blindness. But the chances are very (very) small. And, as my doctor pointed out, the Japanese have been eating sushi for centuries and the prevalence of low vision and blindness in Japan is one of the lowest in the world.
   
   Because I am STILL a catastrophist, I am avoiding eating raw fish for the duration of my pregnancy. That said, I am still indulging in “sushi”. I am just opting for things like California or shrimp tempura rolls (which are cooked even if served cold) or veggie options like cucumber and avocado rolls. "Sushi" enough to satisfy my craving without the risk of rendering my child sightless.




2. On Unpasteurized Dairy: Again, my doctor gave me no food restrictions. And, just like with sushi, I had no idea that unpasteurized dairy was potentially risky until another friend spoke up:
   
   Me: “I am so craving some brie and crackers right now!”
   
   Friend: “NO! You can’t eat brie! It is unpasteurized! You will KILL your baby!”
   
   Don’t even get me started on the internal hysteria that THAT statement caused.
   
   My doctor’s response to unpasteurized dairy was similar to the sushi one. Mainly, pasteurized dairy wasn’t even available until the late 1800s. And, even then, it wasn’t a widely used or practiced. Yet, women (shocker!) still had healthy babies.
   
   Furthermore, the bacteria (Listeria) that you risk being exposed to if you consume unpasteurized dairy can also be found in a whole host of other foods including meats, veggies and berries. Quite frankly, to be completely safe, I should avoid eating (and drinking) almost everything. Nothing is 100% void of risk. And avoiding everything just doesn’t seem very practical.
   
   Since The Fetus really seems to WANT cheeses like brie and feta, I’ve decided to continue to indulge in them. Granted, when possible, I am checking to make sure they are pasteurized before consuming, but I am not worrying myself over it if I cannot confirm it one way or another. The cravings are just winning this round.




3. On Water: I don’t even know where to begin with this one. I’ve been told to avoid tap water at all costs, but also to steer clear of water stored/sold in plastic bottles, the chemicals found in water filtration systems (like Brita) and bottled water from naturally occurring streams or springs. I NEED WATER TO LIVE, PEOPLE! I HAVE TO GET IT FROM SOMEWHERE!




4. On Exercise: Up until my first prenatal visit, I was running five to seven miles three or four times a week. I was also lifting weights two or three a week (on average). Thanks to my history of bad veins, I am no longer allowed to run or do any high impact activity (Doctor’s orders!). I am also supposed to avoid free weights or anything that requires a spotter. I can still use weight machines and whatnot to keep up my strength.
   
   This, of course, does not mean I have ceased to be active. I am still doing cardio (elliptical, stair master, stationary bike, walking on the treadmill, etc.) and lifting weights. Granted the intensity has gone down, and I am only making it into the gym two or three times a week nowadays. This, however, has more to do with my inability to deal with the insane summer heat in Texas this year and my continued bouts with dizziness and vertigo than anything else.
   
   Shockingly, it is NOT helpful to hear about how my continued activity is harming the baby. I even had one person who suggested that doing cardio was equivalent to SHAKING the The Fetus.
   
   Then there are the people who have told me that lifting weights will cause irreparable damage or that exercising in the first place is interfering with my baby's ability to develop normally. I can't tell you the number of stories I've heard where people have surmised that because a pregnant mother worked out, ran, lifted weights, etc. her baby was born early, small, deformed, stillborn, etc.
   
   Then, on the flip side, I've been told that stopping running was the worst thing I could have done. Maybe if I had ceased to run gradually, but running one day and quitting the next will (apparently) cause my baby lifelong problems. Never mind, that I was following the advice of my doctor or that I have a well documented medical history of bad veins and incompetent values.
   
   Seriously. I can't win.




5. On Gestational Diabetes: I was told that I should look to my mother for a clue as to what my baby's birth weight might be. My mother (bless her) had large babies. I was the smallest at 7 pounds 13 ounces (and I was early!). My brother was nearly 10 pounds. Theoretically, this suggests that my children will also be on the bigger side as well.
   
   And, as a side note, neither my mother nor mother in law had difficult pregnancies, preeclampsia, gestational diabetes, etc. While this hardly means I am immune to having problems, it increases my chances of also having an relatively uneventful nine months. So, let me cling that that hope, because - again - I am a worrier. Do NOT say things like:
   
   "Well, if your mother had big babies, I bet she had gestational diabetes and just didn't know it. They didn't screen for it back then like they do nowadays. Which means you probably have it, too. In fact, you should start monitoring your diet and blood insulin levels now so you can do something about it when they start to snowball out of control."
   
   Why, why, why?!




6. On Working Before and After Baby: Yes, I plan to work up until the time I deliver. I also plan to return to work after twelve weeks of maternity leave.
   
   No, I do not need to hear all the reasons why you think this is selfish and/or how this will adversely effect my child's development. And, no, I see nothing wrong with hiring nannies or daycare.




7. On Artificial Sweeteners: I actually gave up soda (diet or otherwise) several years ago. And once I found out I was pregnant I stopped putting things like Splenda in my iced tea. I do, however, on occasion still take a sip or two of Trevor's Coke Zero and chew sugar free gum. PLEASE STOP JUDGING ME!




8. On "To Show or Not to Show": Shockingly, I have absolutely no control over this and I don't need to hear about how big YOU think I should be by now. I don't know why I'm not showing yet, but my doctor seems to think everything is going okay. Why do you think I need to hear about all the things that might be wrong because I am not yet showing? Why can't I just not be showing yet because I am torso tall? And Lord help me if anyone else suggests that the reason I'm not showing is because I'm too big, wide, fat or whatever.
   
   (So, yeah. This might be a touchy subject.)




9. On Boobs: Yes, my boobs are huge. Yes, I've noticed.
   
   Please note that I've always been...endowed. So, bigger boobs is more of an annoyance than anything else. It is like a completely unnecessary boob job. I am starting to feel like a porn star or something. And, for the record, my eyes are up here. Thanks.




10. On Genetic Screening: While I am all about a woman's right to choose, I do not think I could ever personally terminate a pregnancy unless I knew for sure that the baby would not survive the nine month gestational period. And, even then, it wouldn't be an easy decision for me to make.
    
    That said, I would like to know if there is anything wrong with the baby and I am not opposed to screening. This is mainly because certain genetic disorders may run in my family, and I think it would be beneficial for the doctor's to know about them ahead of time IF one of them happens to pop up. For example, my brother was born with kidney disease. It went undiagnosed for two years. By the time it was discovered, one kidney was beyond saving and the other was close to failing. Luckily, surgery to remove the bad kidney was successful, and his other kidney recovered. But imagine if they had caught it early? Maybe my brother would not have had to have major surgery at the tender age of two? Who knows.
    
    The only thing that gives me pause is that there can be a lot of false markers for problems. So you end up worrying needlessly for five months about something that isn't even an issue. And, again, I am a catastrophist.
    
    But one thing I never really thought of as being a problem was something like Down Syndrome. Maybe it is because I have a minor in Special Education. Maybe it is because I spent a lot of time working with children with Down. Or maybe it is because I've seen kids with Down go on to do amazing things despite their disability. I just don't see a diagnosis of Down Syndrome as devastating. Sure, it would be hard to know that your child would have a difficult road ahead of them. That nothing in life would be as easy for them as if they had been born without Down Syndrome. And, sure, you'd worry about all the people that would "other" your child, bully or ostracize them because they are different. But none of that would make me want to terminate a pregnancy, much less love the child any less.
    
    Again, the only thing that gives me pause when it comes to the screening is the risk of false markers. And because the risk of false markers is so high, I've been asking people's advice on whether or not it is even worth doing.
    
    This was the reaction of a family member:
    
    "Well, if the screening shows something like Down Syndrome, you should just get rid of it. You don't want to be the mother of 'the freaky kid'. And if you have other children, they will resent you for making them the siblings of 'the freaky kid'. And something like Down Syndrome will ruin your marriage, and completely drive a wedge between you and Trevor. You will end up getting divorced, and maybe committing suicide. Believe me. I've seen it happen. Plus, people will pity you if you have a kid like that. Do you really want to be pitied for the rest of your life?"
    
    Because nothing makes the notion of hypothetically bringing a child with a disability into the world easier than knowing that your own family might not accept or love it.
    
    Of course, I haven't had any screening done (yet), and there is no reason to believe that anything is wrong or even potentially wrong. But still. This might be number one on the list of things THIS pregnant woman does not need to hear.

I swear, it will be a miracle if I make it through this pregnancy without a head full of gray white hair.

Note: Trevor wants me to say something to let the internet world know that not everyone is against me. It is true. Most people are supportive and genuinely happy for us. I don't pretend to understand why 10% of negative comments can drown out 90% of the positive ones. Maybe all the hormones just have me a little more sensitive than usual? Or maybe my inner catastrophist just fixates on the bad instead of the good? Either way, I feel the need to document it so at some point I can try to gain some perspective from all of this.

Oh, and Trevor wanted me to make it absolutely clear that he finds nothing wrong with the whole boob thing. If you are him, life just keeps getting better.