Signs, Signs, Everywhere there's signs...

I find it increasingly difficult to know what to say these days. I feel any creativity I had was sapped when I got pregnant. Perhaps my uterus ate it. It ate everything else. Why not that, too?

Seriously. I don't think I could have gotten fatter with my pregnancy if I tried. I guess I DID try. Eating is one thing I'm really, really good at. I feel like I should make a list of the OTHER things I'm really good at. Or whatever. In the meantime, I'll just go ahead and work on getting rid of my baby weight.

The thing is, I'm actually quite good at losing weight. I have lost more weight than I currently weigh. Which, if you think about it, sounds really, really impressive. It would be even more impressive if I shared how much I weigh. I won't. So move on.

The problem isn't losing weight. The problem is that I've lost it, gained it, lost it, gained it, lost it, gained it....I don't do so well with the losing and not gaining. It's almost as though the weight loss must be accompanied by the weight gain. Otherwise the cycle is not complete.

Lately, however, there have been a few (few=3, right. Ok, there have been more than a few...) signs that it's time to start, but not complete, the cycle.

Sign number 1: my 10% weight loss key chain from Weight Watchers broke. For those of you who don't know, Weight Watchers gives you a key chain when you have lost the first 10% of your body weight. In all fairness, I should have a full gross of these key chains, rather than the one I have. Or had. Whatever. Anyway. The one I had, broke. And not only did it break, it broke as I attempted to avoid making multiple trips to my car by opening the door to my house while carrying my son, the biggest diaper bag known to man (hey, Mr. Spit Up King requires several outfit changes a day. And yes, it's the spit up that makes new outfits mandatory. It's not because he has so many adorable outfits. Not only because he has so many adorable outfits.), a large dunkin donuts ice coffee, AND dinner. Dinner, as usual, was something that came in a paper bag and was handed to me through the car window. Perhaps you can see the problem(s) here.

Signs number 2 and 3: AJ (also referred to as Bubba, the Bubs, or the little boy) and I recently
took a plane ride. If you know me at all, you know that flying is the absolute worst experience in my life. I liked labor more than I like flying. (That's really not a fair comparison...I actually did like labor. Not in a creepy orgasm kind of a way. More like a "yay I get to meet my son and stop being terrified constantly" kind of way. Also, in the "whoo hoo epidurals rock!" kind of way.) Despite my fear, my biggest concern while planning the trip was, "Will the Bubs be able to sit on my lap in the tiny airplane seat?" (Answer: yes).

Once that fear subsided, my normal fear of flying was back in full force. And I'm not only fearful, I'm crazy. So I play stupid games with the universe. Like, "If the HG texts me before we get on the plane, everything will be fine." or "If there is another baby on the plane, everything will be fine." or "If AJ cries after we're seated, it's a sign I should get off the plane." It's interesting to note that the HG did NOT text me. There was NOT another baby on the plane. And AJ screamed bloody murder till we pulled away from the gate. And I lived to tell about it. Which brings me to sign number three: in addition to looking for "signs" (which frankly, never turn out right), I also pray nonstop on the flight. The prayer always starts off as something terribly selfish (Please, Lord, don't let me die before I: get married, have kids, buy a house, fill in random goal here....) that I try to turn around into something for someone else (Dear Lord, please don't let the plane crash because my niece would be devastated, the HG's grandmother wont' get to meet AJ, the HG would never recover....) I do that because it seems less self serving and thus somehow more worthy of being answered. (I've mentioned I'm crazy, yes? Just checking.) On this flight my prayers were something like this: "Dear Lord, please don't let me die fat. Please don't let my last meal have been cold hash browns and an egg mcmuffin. Please don't let the last memory Scott has is me fat." Ok, see you might have been able to dispute the first two signs as evidence I need to lose weight, but it's really hard to argue with this third one.

There were more, I just can't remember them. But you get my point. It's clear that it's time for me to get off my fatass and do something about my weight. I'm not happy. And it's not healthy for my little boy to see, either. Yes, he might only be 4 months old, but how long do I let that be my excuse? Do I wait until he's a year old? Two years? Three? Do I use the baby weight as an excuse forever? I'm going to screw my kid up enough, I don't need to add the guilt of being the reason his mom is fat to the mix. Also, if I plan to screw him up right, I have to be around for a long time...which means I have to get healthy! (Let's ignore for the moment that my doctor says I'm the healthiest fat person she knows. I have the health of a 120 pound woman. I just don't have her jeans. I'd like her jeans.)

Ok, so the next question is, what do I do to find motivation? I want to BE skinny. I don't want to GET skinny. I suppose confronting the truth about why I'm fat would be a good place to start.

Truths:
I'm fat because I eat too much
I'm fat because I don't want to exercise
I'm fat because I choose to eat crap
I'm fat because I don't do anything about it
I'm NOT fat because I had a baby
I'm NOT fat because I have a slow metabolism (Which I do, but that's a poor excuse. Very poor.)
I'm NOT fat because I have a hormonal imbalance (also true, but once you know about it, you lose the right to use it as an excuse)
I'm NOT fat because I have to much extra skin (this is quite true, but it's not like it's the only thing I have to lose...)

Ok. Well, I got that out of the way.

Does this mean that now that I'm not in denial, I will magically wake up thin? Probably not. But at least it's a step in the right direction.

Now I have to go finish my ice cream before it melts.

Big Bang Theory breeds deep thoughts

So, I'm watching Big Bang Theory with the HG. Wolowitz says at one point, "I have a master's degree!". He says this in indignation when his boss very distinctly calls him "MR. Wolowitz", as opposed to "Dr.". To which his boss responds "Who doesn't?".

Yeah.
I don't.

I DO have a Bachelor's. From a New York state school that, at the time, had no admission requirements.

Here's the thing. I'm smart. I'm very smart. I'm Mensa smart. (Yeah, I'm bragging. Bite me. Don't worry, it's all downhill from here.) I'm too smart. I'm smart enough that I managed to graduate from college with a 3.something-or-other even though I never studied, turned in most of my projects late, did said projects as last minute as possible, and skipped more classes than I attended.

So, I'm smart. So? Whoopty do. Me and a million other people. Brains only matter if you're going to use them. Somehow I don't think singing the alphabet to my son while signing it counts as using my brain. It's good for him, but I have to be honest, I've known my alphabet for quite some time now.

Most of my friends have impressive jobs. Doctors. Engineers. CPAs. I have a friend who home schools her 2 boys and runs a business out of her home. I have very good friends who are not currently working out of the home but they all went to excellent colleges. My point is that I like to brag about my friends. I'm proud of them. They are all smart, accomplished women. The HG and I occasionally go out with a group of friends--all of whom have master's degrees or PhD's. They are all engineers. Of the people I spend the most time with, I am the only person I know who has only a bachelor's degree. I feel like a failure.

I am not disparaging anyone who didn't go to college, or didn't finish. I'm not disparaging anyone who "only" has a bachelor's degree.

I'm disparaging myself.

When I was little, I wanted to be a teacher. A writer. A lawyer. All three. I used to line my dolls and stuffed animals up and "teach" them to read. I wrote anything and everything I could think of--I even won some writing contests. I'd spend hours creating and arguing legal cases in my mind. Direct and cross examining witnesses. Objecting to imaginary offenses perpetrated by the opposing counsel. I often fell asleep at night giving closing arguments in my mind.

As I got older, I discovered a deep passion for cooking. Food is like art on a plate to me. It's a way to express myself without having the ability to draw, paint, or sculpt. As my love for food grew, so did my interest in the human body. I love watching surgery. Reading about and researching medical and health issues. I had surgery last year and I actually asked to be awake so I could watch. My doctor declined. Hmph. (I am, however, going to be awake for my hand surgery on Aug 6th. Woot!)

My point is, I have interests. But what have I done with them? What have I done that is brag worthy? When my friends want to introduce me, what do they say? "This is my friend Kate. She' works in insurance." "She went to a nothing college." "She hasn't done jack diddly squat of importance with her life"?

And yet, at the same time, I feel a little bad for feeling this way. I have a wonderful life. I have a fantastic son. A great husband. A cute house. A good job. I shouldn't want more. I shouldn't feel entitled to more.

And I also have equally wonderful friends who never went to college. Never worked an "impressive" job. Never did any of the things I silently yell at myself for not doing. And I love them as fiercely as I love my family. So, why do I beat myself up for something I wouldn't even think twice about in someone I love? Shouldn't I love myself as much as I love them?

Yes, I suppose I should. But I still can't help but want more. I want my son to be proud of me. I want him to someday say, "This is my mom and she xxx".

But perhaps more importantly, I want to be proud of me. Now, if only I could figure out what would make me proud of me. And damn it, I don't want to write any more of these boring, navel gazing blog entries. I'm boring myself...I can only imagine how you feel.

IDKMYBFFK8

Warning: Uncharacteristic deep thoughts ahead

That's my email address.
IDKMYBFFK8

As in: I don't know, my BFF Kate. It started as a joke based on a commercial for one of the cell phone companies (Dad asks who Grandma is texting, she says "IDK, my BFF, Rose"). My actual best friend's husband asked her who she was IMing, to which she responded "IDKMYBFFK8". I'm easily amused, so when I needed a new email address, one unassociated with my message board persona, I chose this.

But now I'm thinking about what it actually means. Is it "I don't know, my best friend Kate." or "I don't know my best friend Kate."

I'm starting to think it's the latter.
Because I don't really know "Kate" anymore.

For far too long I've focused on having a child. I don't even remember a time if my life when I didn't want a child, if a time even existed. Boyfriends were merely potential husbands (very BAD potential husbands. Yikes.). A husband being the first milestone to having a child. Don't get me wrong, I love my husband very much. And had we never had children, I would still be happily married to him. But a piece of me would still be missing.

And now AJ is here. And I love him. He is my heart and soul. The absolute love of my life.
But 3 months later and I'm starting to wonder: who am I?

I too often find myself describing myself as a wife and mother. I'm "Scott's wife". I'm "AJ's mom". When pressed to describe myself, I come up empty handed. Certainly I'm more than a wife and mother. Is that OK? Is it OK to finally have what I always wanted and find myself wanting more?

The thing is, I think I almost liked myself better when I was struggling with infertility. I was focused. I had a hobby of sorts. So pathetic. Now I spend my days wondering if I'm doing enough for AJ. For my husband. For my family. Did I do enough tummy time with AJ? Did I do enough around the house? Why didn't I cook dinner? What did I leave undone that I shouldn't have? What can I do tomorrow that is somehow better than what I did (or didn't) do today? I go to be unsatisfied with my accomplishments for the day.

But you know, I read though my posts from last year and I realize, I was unsatisfied then, too. Sure, I was focused, I had a goal. But it was a goal driven by my dissatisfaction with my life. And, frankly, I find that sad. I don't want to be unsatisfied. I don't want to be perpetually in the "pursuit" of happiness. I want to just plain BE happy.

So, I've decided that I'm just going to plain BE happy. I'm going to figure out who my BFF Kate is and love her the way she is. After all, that's how I love my kid and my husband--just as they are. And I'm at least as worth it as they are, right? (My kid is cuter, but I think I trump the husband).

As a result, I changed the name of my blog and I'm going to start "finding" me. Or at least talking a lot about it. Cuz, you know, I'm all talk most of the time....

Socks.

I have a problem. Hold me.

I am obsessed with baby socks. Not just any baby socks. Baby socks that apparently cannot be found in the United States. For real.

These socks are made in Canada and I cannot find them anywhere. I cannot find them to purchase online. You'd think there would be a Canadian company who would sell them online. You'd be wrong. I'm pissed at Canada. I hate an entire country over socks. This is a problem. Perhaps there is a support group I can attend. "Hi, my name is Kate and I'm obsessed with baby socks."

Ok, but here's the thing about baby socks. They don't stay on. Especially when your child has, sadly, inherited your tiny feet. My feet are so small, the HG teases me that I look like I should fall over. My feet don't look big enough to hold me up. Which explains why I fall so frequently. My feet are too small. Huh. I'm 34 and just now figured out why I'm not the picture of grace...it's my feet. Good to know.

I digress. Baby socks don't stay on. I have tired everything. I've pulled them up to his knees like a little poindexter (am I the only one with an 80's rap song running through my head now?). I've put him in tiny, little newborn size socks. I've put him in bigger socks (I'm not sure what my plan here was. Desperation.) No dice. Nothing works. With 2.6 seconds of having socks on his feet, he will remove them. I once thought about taping them to his feet. But people get all worked up when you tape things to your children (especially if it involves duct tape and pacifiers) and frankly, I think DSS wouldn't find my sense of humor amusing. I don't think they'd understand that asking them if it's OK to tape my child in his crib was a joke. They tend to be a humorless bunch. Not that I blame them. Must be a humorless job. One I could never, ever do. So really, I have nothing but respect for them. It's the idiots who call them on the tiniest of infractions, like, say taping socks to your child's feet, that get me all worked up. So, let's save the fine employees at DSS time and just all agree that it's OK tape the @$#&! baby socks to our children. (The HG has suggested glue. I think that's worse than tape. I would have suggested staples, but come on. Where would I find staples that match every outfit?)

But assuming I can't get the rest of the world on board with my master plan, I will settle for just more of the socks that actually stay on my son's feet.

I will pay just about anything for more of these socks. For one, I cannot count the number of socks I've lost in the past 2 1/2 months. I mean, I'm generally used to opening the dryer to only 1/2 the socks I put in. Like the rest of the world, I have no idea what happens to 1/2 my socks once they go in the dryer. 12 go in, 6 come out. Sometimes, with luck, 4 of the 6 match and I've come out ahead. It really sucks when 6 un-matching socks come out. I have a laundry basket full of unmatched socks. Once, when I was on bedrest, I got ambitious (read: bored) and decided to "match" them all. I came up with 3 pairs. And 147 unmatched socks. How I had enough socks to have 147 unmatched ones in the first place, I couldn't tell you. But I did. And, frankly, still do. I'm pretty sure that someday, all 147 socks will end up with their proper mates and all will be right with the world again.

But at least with the little man socks, I know where they go. They go on the ground on walks to Dunkin Donuts (hey, it's a mile away and they have ice coffee). They go on the floor of the mall. They go to the bottom of my diaper bag (which is a bottomless pit, so they will never be retrieved). They go under the seats of my car. They basically go wherever they land when my little man kicks them off. I can't tell you how many times an out of breath stranger has handed me random baby sock while gasping, "ma'am...you...dropped...this....4 miles back....". I suppose I should be grateful. And I am. But I also feel bad for them. It's always a guy. And he always thinks he's done a good thing. And he has. But sadly, what he doesn't know is that I lose approximately 6.2 pairs of socks a day and have a back stock of socks that will last through at least 17 more children (watch your back Michelle Duggar...I have socks to burn).

So, while I know where they go, I still don't like that they fall off all the time. My poor little guy has his mommy's feet. Small and cold. They're like ice cubes. Tiny little ice cubes with bad toes (hey, he got my feet, but his daddy's toes....). And tiny little ice cube feet need socks. So socks that fall off are useless. I have too many useless baby things as it is. I need socks to work.

And here's the thing. I HAVE socks that work. Not only do they work, they're really cute. I mean, really cute. So cute people stop me to ask where I got them. So cute they feed in to my cute sock obsession (huh, I think I just figured out how I managed to accrue 147 unmatched socks...). One pair has a little duckie and little yellow pom poms. And says "quack" on the bottom. Ok, not very masculine. But ever so adorable.

But I cannot, for the life of me, find more of these socks. I have stalked Babies R Us (which is where they were first purchased). I have scoured the Internet. I even went to the manufacturer's website (no small task since for weeks I couldn't remember the manufacturer's name. All I knew was it was 2 names and ended in .ca....but after weeks of effort, I found it!), thinking that, FOR SURE, they'd have them available for purchase. NO. They don't. I feel like a failure. I need these socks. I'm *this* close to pulling into a back alley in the middle of the night with a $20..."hey man, i just need one pair. Just one pair...." I'm a junkie.

So, in the interest of my sanity and keeping me out of jail (I'm pretty sure whoever I run in to in a dark alley will not understand that I really **am** just after socks...), could someone please tell me where the heck to buy more Gagou Tagou socks?

My secret hope is that someone from the company will stumble upon this post and send me baskets of the socks. Hey, it could happen. Especially if someone were to tell them about this post. I'm just sayin.

More AJ pics!

http://ajhenderson.shutterfly.com/

The birth story...

My short and sweet birth story can be found on AJ's site :)
Enjoy!

And then there was AJ

He's here! Our perfect little boy is here.

And in honor, I've created a new blog.

And Then There was AJ
I'll use that blog to post all about him. And this one will continue to be my place to vent about the world...many of which will involve my observations about how people are straight up crazy when babies are involved.

We're a bit crazy right now, but I will update soon!

Should not have done the math.

I'm watching Desperate Housewives. (for the record, this does not fall into the category of "bad TV". This is actually very GOOD TV. In case you were wondering.)

Susan works at a private school as a teacher's aid so she can afford to send her son to the school. That's great, I'd do the same. Props to her for being frugal. I mean, according to the show, this school costs nearly $22,000 a year. For elementary school. What is it? College? For real? Who does that???

Um. **blush**
Apparently the HG and I do.

After gasping LOUDLY at that number, I thought, "Hmmmm...how much are we ponying up for day care?" Honestly, I figured that since we pay through the nose for day care, the private school parents in question (ok, ok, I know they're fictional...NOT the point) must be just rolling in it. I mean, $22,000 a year? That's a car. College. The down payment for a house in a small town in upstate NY (VERY upstate). Hell, it's more than I have left on my student loans (I think. This is another number I don't look up....) Ok, so my point is it's a lot of money.

Yeah. We are said parents. Our annual day care bill? Nearly $21,000. No, it's not $22,000. But really, we're going to split hairs over $1,000? Let's just say I suddenly feel very poor. And a smidge stupid. How in the hell did I sign my (still unborn) kid up for a $21,000 day care? DAY CARE?? Not even kindergarten. $21,000 for someone to make sure my son, what, gets cleaned up after he spits up? Oy.

Ok, ok. That is simply not fair. I know that day care is more important than that. I know that it's worth any expense to have my son in a place where I feel comfortable. I would pay twice that to know he's getting as close to the quality of care I'd give him myself. Hey, day care, infant care, preschool, nursery (pick your preferred term and insert here) workers, for the most part, do a fantastic job. Every day millions of women leave their children in the care of these hard working women (yeah, yeah, and men. Whatevs. I'm fine with a stereotype here. Bite me.) and I am sure that, like me, many of them are not happy about having to do it. I'm his mother. I want to be the one to see his first steps. Hear his first words. Decide what his schedule should be. But, alas, I have to come to terms with the fact that this is not an option for us at this time. Even though I carried this little guy around for 9(ish) months. Even though the HG and I wanted this little guy more than anything. And even though we already love him more than anything I can even imagine. I will have to drop him off every morning to be cared for by someone else. So, yes, as hard as they work, as tirelessly as they care for my son, they will never, ever do as good a job as I would.

So, ok. $21,000. Yikes.
But I think it might be worth every penny.

This, however, does not make me feel any better about the cost.
He is SO going to public school after Kindergarten. Momma's gonna need a vacation eventually....

Well, it's offical.

I'm a cluttered mess.
Murpy says so.

And my mother emailed me and "suggested" I hire a maid before the little man arrives. I asked if that was her nice way of saying my house is a mess. She said no, just that I clearly have a lot to be before he gets here and I have a lot on my plate and since I'm so tired........
Hmmmmm...
Is it me or does that sound like mom-speak for you're a hot mess?

Ok, so I'm a hot mess. Fine. I will not go down like that. So I ran to The Walmart (for the record, you have to call it "the walmart". It's more fun. The HG and I actually call it the "W'art". There is a long, quite dull story behind this. But we find ourselves amusing. Nobody else ever really does. We're fine with that. I'm quite certain we'd both be single forever had we never met. We're also fine with that. I'm on quite the parenthetical tangent, aren't I? At some point I thought, "hey, I should just delete the parentheses and start a new paragraph." But I find this more amusing for some reason.) Any.way.

I ran to The Walmart (this is like having "the diabeetus") to get some plastic organizing type baskets for my linen closet. And I am now the proud owner of a very well organized linen closet. I organized all of our over the counter drugs by type: painkillers, tummy stuff, etc and put them all in one basket. Put all the first aid stuff in another. All the beauty supplies in a third. While I was at it, I tossed all the extra lotions, body sprays, and perfumes (um, do I smell? People seem to like to give me this stuff....are they trying to tell me something?) I had kicking around. I also tossed any expired medicines and all that jazz. Amazingly, after I did that, I had plenty of room to add 2 more baskets--one for baby wash clothes and towels, the other for baby bath supplies and lotions and such. This is fantastic because I was actually laying in bed last night tyring to figure out where to store all the baby bath supplies. Problem solved! Huh. It's funny what a little organization will do for you.

I also did all the laundry in the house, which included all the wet, cloth outdoor clothes the HG had to wear TWICE today to clear out all the snow. Yeah. Snow. It's March 2nd and we are once again buried in over a foot of snow. Sigh.

Well, this installment of my life will be cut short. I have to lay on my side. Thanks to too many contractions, I'm ordered to rest on my side after work from now on. And I can't type very well on my side. Good times.

So much for nesting.

Next month

Next month I'll be a mommy.
Unless you believe my friend Melissa. In which case I'll be a mother this month.

After everything, we're finally going to be parents. It's just amazing to me. I still worry constantly. I still pray daily for a healthy baby boy. But with each passing day, it becomes more and more obvious that in a few short weeks, we'll be changing diapers and trying to figure out how, exactly to make this little person stop crying. It's so exciting. And terrifying. And wonderful. Did I mention terrifying?

I'm quite honestly scared out of my mind. I'm not the most organized person. I'd LIKE to be. Disorganization frustrates me. And frankly, clutter makes me straight up angry. And yet, our little house is overwhelmed with disorganized clutter. At least to me it is. I'm sure other people don't always see what I see. We had a cleaning company come 2 weeks ago and they commented on how clean it was (um, yeah. If it WAS, I wouldn't have called YOU) and how well organized. Ok, clearly, I need to find a new cleaning company. Well, I DO need to find a new cleaning company (they used mops--don't get me started. Floors are to be cleaned on your hands and knees. I was clear when I hired them. Sigh. And they didn't move the furniture to clean under and behind it. I mean, really?) but that's a different story.

My problem is that I'm a perfectionist who recognizes that she is NO.WHERE NEAR perfect. So, since I can't make my house as perfect as my mommy's house (for the record, this is my goal. Someday, my house will rival my mom's....someday...), I don't bother doing things I know I should frequently enough. Like laundry. I do laundry like once a week. Which, for now, is just fine. The HG alerts me when he needs underoos and I do laundry. It's a great process. But, this laundry hating genius decided to cloth diaper. Why? What was I thinking? Cloth diapers are not for people who don't do laundry. But I feel so strongly about it, that I don't want to go to disposables. Besides, as I told the HG, this little guy is going to poop, pee, and puke (the 3 P's as I call it) on everything so I'll be doing tons of laundry anyway. What's a few more diapers in the mix? Ok, so perhaps the real question isn't why did I decide to cloth diaper, but why did I decide to have a child?

But beyond diapers and laundry, I hate hate hate being late. Obsessively hate being late. It, along with clutter, makes me angry. But I love love love sleeping. I'm not good at it, but I do enjoy sleeping. I mean, I wake up frequently and rarely sleep more than 2 or 3 hours in a stretch. (This is the one thing I have going for me in the baby arena....) As a result, though, I often sleep through my alarm clock in the morning and am perpetually running late for work. So I dash out the door, usually with wet hair and one arm in my coat. Toast hanging out of my mouth. Sometimes I don't even remember to lock the door behind me. And on cold mornings, I don't even bother letting the car warm up. How, please tell me, am I going to add a child the mix? I can't put a baby in a cold car. I can't take a shower and be out the door in 5 minutes after waking up. I'll have to feed him. Pack his diaper bag. Dress him. I don't even know what else.

Don't even get me started on cooking. I adore cooking. It's one of my most favorite things to do. But I rarely do it. It just seems so...pointless. I'm home alone most nights because the HG works late. So I grab take out. I can't grab take out once I'm a mom. For many reasons. Not the least of which is we won't be able to afford it if I ever want to be a stay at home mom (which will hopefully happen sometime next year). I also have decided to make my own baby food. Again, this is one of those things I feel strongly about, but fear I'm too lazy to follow through on.

Seriously. What was I thinking? How the hell am I going to do this?? How am I going to be the mom I want to be? The wife I want to be? The employee I need to be? A friend, sister, daughter? How does it all fit together? While I'm sure I'll figure it out and it's not like I'll be a single mom, I'm still terrified. I know I can't be perfect at any of it. But I so badly want to be.

And, as always, I worry about him. Will he be early? Late? And it he's either, will he be healthy? Is he kicking enough? Is he REALLY Ok in there? And once he's here, will he be healthy? Will he be HAPPY?

I don't really think I'm all that unusual. I mean, it's not like I sit her obsessing (really, I swear, I don't....no REALLY.). And I'm pretty sure this is how I'll feel for the rest of his life. I wonder if he'll like the bubble we're going to put him in.... (oh, alRIGHT...no bubble. I assume that would scar him for life, huh?)

Anyway, while I still have time, I'm going to have to work on figuring out this whole "mom" thing. I'm sure I'll figure it out. I mean, people have been having babies for thousands of years, right? It's not like I'm the first. If it sucked, people would stop, right?

Besides, even though Melissa thinks I'll be a mommy this month, I'm pretty sure this little guy will make his debut in May. He's just all about keep me on my toes. I'll prepare for him for this month, because that's how I roll. But, like his daddy, I'm sure he'll just show up when he feels like it. So you know, I will have an extra week or two to figure it out.

What a camara hog.

Seriously. Could my kid be ANY cuter? I think not.

What he could be is more cooperative. The only reason I have this lovely shot is because our stubborn little man refused to move for hours on end today, so I had to go in for some extra monitoring at Labor and Delivery.

I hadn’t felt him move in about 6 hours, which is highly unusual for him. Even on days I complain he’s having a slow day, I can generally get him going after an hour or two. And he’s really responsive to cold and sugar. But today, NOTHING worked. So finally after spending hours playing the clock game (“Ok, if he doesn’t move by 8:25, I’m calling….if he doesn’t move by 9:15, I’m calling….”) I finally called the OB. I was fully expecting her to tell me I was crazy and to relax. Because, really, who are we kidding? I AM crazy. And I DO need to relax.

But, alas, she had me head in for a non-stress test. It started off badly…took over 10 minutes to find his HB. In all honesty, though, I never panicked once. But we finally got the heartbeat on the monitor and it was nice and strong. I laid there for about an hour and they were ready to release me when the nurse noticed that I hadn’t had any movement during that time, so she brought out the buzzer to see if we could get him going. No dice. His heart rate perked up some w/ the buzzer, but still no movement. And then he started having some heart decals—it’s scary when you see the heart rate drop under 100. VERY scary. So with that, I was off to ultrasound.

I walked down to ultrasound and they hooked me right up. I had a nice conversation with the ultrasound tech and she spent just a minute or two watching him for movement. And she explained that they needed to get pictures of him moving for my OB to look at. Of course, right then he perked right up and started moving. His heart rate stayed steady at between 140 and 150. Naturally. He scored an 8 out 8 on the ultrasound so he was perfectly healthy and I was sent home. Since then, he’s been a bouncy little boy.

I swear, this little boy would do anything to be on camera. What a drama....king? I don't know, but this kid is killing me. But I was glad that the lack of movement was confirmed in L&D so at least I’m not the crazy mom. And I’m sooooooo happy he’s fine.

He may be a problem child, but at least he's a cute one!

Hello baby!

29 week shot:

Compare to 23 weeks:

Wow!

Also, isn't my hair much better? I like it!

Just a quick pointer

If you're not sure whether you should use "me" or "I", take out the other person and see what makes sense.
For example:
"Here is a picture of DH and I on our honeymoon." WRONG. Why? Because you wouldn't say "Here is a picture of I on our honeymoon."

And for the love of GOD, there is no such word as "I's". So, if you ever feel the need to use that word, try "mine" or "my" instead. I promise, it'll be the right choice. I promise.

And if you follow this simple rule, you keep a pregnant girl's blood pressure from mounting.
That is all.

Wife Swap

"I'm guessing no advanced degrees here."
"Paintball guns! A very primitive way to resolve disputes"
"These are humble houses."
and perhaps my favorite
"I guess they don't have a cleaning lady!"


Just some quotes from the worst offender on my snob-o-meter ever.

We all know I love really bad TV. Reality TV was created exclusively for me, I think. It's brainless and wonderful to have in the background while I'm blogging, emailing, IMing, chatting or otherwise playing on the Internet. Which, sadly, I'm sure I do faarrrr too much. However, I had a bad day and am now required to sit on my couch with my feet up. More on this in a moment.


But right now, I'm watching Wife Swap and one of the women quite honestly thinks she's better than, oh, everyone. I'm not even making this up. I'm pretty sure actually said she thinks she's better than everyone. Her husband said to the "swapping wife" when she accused him of thinking he was better than her: "I probably make more in a week than you make all year." Apparently money is the measure of a man. I actually know someone who truly believes that and lives his life that way. Very very sad.


Here's the thing, I'm a self-professed snob. I really am. I think there are some things that are just no brainers and not that hard to do. Like, clean your house. Have standards for behavior in public (for example, farting at the dinner table? Unacceptable.) Have respect for yourself and others. And if you're not going to do that, I mean, you're kind of asking to be judged.


That last one is key. Yes, oh, wife swap snotty wife, you have to have respect for OTHERS. As far as I'm concerned, your open disdain for this other family shows you have no respect for them. And that is T to the rashy: TRASHY. So there. Someday you'll fall off your high horse.


Also, can I point out that you're on a reality TV show? Not exactly the pinnacle of class. Just sayin.


(If you're interested, check out Long/Stephens-Fowler episode on the Wife Swap website http://abc.go.com/primetime/wifeswap/index?pn=index)


Anyway.
Why am I sitting on the couch with my feet up? I'll 'splain.


Today wasn't the best day ever. I woke up sick. Sore throat and congested chest. After not sleeping well because of the carpal tunnel and sickness, I had to go to a customer meeting. Now, in all fairness, I do happen to really like the customer I had to go visit, but the visits are exhausting. I have to get dressed up, fight traffic, find parking (which, is really quite difficult in the Boston area), navigate snow covered streets in heels while carrying a heavy laptop bag. You see where I'm going with this. After the visit, I had to go into the office where I was confronted with not one, not two, not three, but four, yes FOUR nasty emails. Four wouldn't seem terrible, but I had checked my email only 2 hours before. So that's 4 in 2 hours. Oh, and my blood sugar after lunch was well over the 120 limit. And I had a grilled chicken salad w/ low fat/carb dressing. If that's going to send by blood sugar soaring, why even bother? (I had ice cream for dinner.)


And then to top it all off, I started spotting again.
I don't need this.

I called the doctor and she said that since I have an ultrasound and appointment scheduled for Tuesday, she'd rather just have me keep my feet up and relax this weekend. Since little man is playing punching bags with my bladder and colon, there doesn't appear to be a reason to worry right now. Easier said than done, doc. But I'll give it a whirl. I'm to call if it gets worse or if I have more contractions than usual or any pain. And she'll see me on Tuesday.
Is it Tuesday yet?


I also turned off Wife Swap. I suspect it was going to start to raise my blood pressure.

What Not to Wear is a much happier show. I don't need negativity in my life. What I do need is a new wardrobe (pssst: Stacey, Clinton, call me!).

And in other news...

Double digits!
Only 95 days to go!! :)

Oh! I'm FAMOUS!

http://www.lowellsun.com/health

I'm not sure how long that link will last, so check it out while you can.

The story, I feel, was fair and the woman who wrote it, Christine, is such a sweethart (thank you SO much for the baby stuff--you rock!). However. Please note the third word in the third paragraph. Obese.

I hate that word. Yes, Ok, I'm fat. I know that. People who know me know that. Hell, people who don't know me know that. I mean, it's not like they're blind. But now it's in print. Published. Out there. So it must be true. Somehow truer (is that a word? For the record, according to the OED and my mother, stupider is not a word. My dad won a scrabble game with "stupider" but apparently it's not a word. I digress.) than it was before. And frankly, it's down right depressing.

I'm 3 months (almost exactly! AH!) from having my baby boy. I can't wait. But he's going to be born to a big fat momma. A big fat momma who can't seem to keep her blood sugar under control for him. I'm just setting him up for a lifetime of weight concerns. So what, he'll be a big fat boy, too? So not fair. Why didn't I think about that before I got pregnant? Why didn't I watch my weight more carefully? And more importantly, why, oh why can't I seem to do anything about it now?

My sister is having gastric bypass. I might not be the biggest advocate of this surgery, but it's her choice not mine. But you know, even though it's not something I'd do, I'm somewhat jealous. I'll officially be the only fat one left in my family. Oh joy.

Yeah, I know. The answer is to lose weight, I get it. But hi, if it was that easy in the first place, I WOULDN'T BE FAT NOW. So let's not pretend that it is. Losing weight is hard. Damn hard. And my body doesn't like to give it up very easily. I have to work out--hard and a lot--to lose significant amounts of weight. I am terrified of how I'm going to do that with a newborn. And my hormones (Let's not split hairs. Vegas is currently running odds of 100 to 1 that I'll get postpartum depression. I'm not known for my stable hormones....). And my job, which exhausts me lately (don't even get me started. People from work read this. Hi!). And keeping up on the house. And cooking. And, oh yeah, the whole marriage thing.

Just thinking about it makes me want to cry. Ok, I lied.

It doesn't make me WANT to cry. It actually makes me cry. Of course, The Office makes me cry these days, so I'm pretty sure we can't use my tears as a benchmark of anything.

I don't know. I'm just so mad at myself for not taking better care of myself while pregnant. For not taking better care of myself before getting pregnant. I'm worried about what my poor son is going to think of his big fat momma. And I don't want him to ever know me like this. But I don't know how to fix it.

I've had good intentions in the past. Very good intentions. I've proven to myself time and time again that I can do it. And that I have amazing will power. And that I'm stronger than I give myself credit for. But it never lasts long enough. I always get frustrated and stop. I just want to look good. Be happy. Stay healthy. And wear a size 10. And not in that order. Frankly, I'd almost rather be a size 10 than healthy. Oh, come on. Like I'm alone in that! At least I'm honest! And frankly, with the exception of this current blood sugar issue, I am quite healthy. My doctor says I have the health of a 130 pound woman. Now all I have to do is somehow become that 130 pound woman...

And don't even get me started on that stupid picture. Hormonal women should NOT be photographed. I have customers who saw that. Sigh.

Is it OK to drown my sorrows in a bowl of no sugar added ice cream? No?

Where'd it go?

Please note, the name poll has been removed.
Why?

Drumroll please....
WE HAVE A NAME!

Andrew James H will be making his appearance sometime this spring. We'll call him AJ.

Please don't send monogrammed sheets, though. I reserve the right to decide in the delivery room that he's really a Tom. Or a Josh. Or a Ben. Or one of a thousand other names we haven't even considered.

But for right now, we love his name. And I think so does he. I was actually worried he was going to try to come out and use it last night. Yikes! I had multiple contractions in a row and we were on standby to head to labor and delivery. I had 4 in about 20 minutes. One more and I'd be off. Thank goodness the little man decided to settle down and I made it through the night uneventfully. But that was scary!

Little AJ needs to stay put for at least another 10 weeks. I'd be scared if he makes his debut at 34 weeks, but I know he'd be OK. So let's keep it to a dull roar in there, OK little man?

Happy New Year!

Wow! What a crazy year it has been.

If, at this time last year, you had told me that that in a year I'd be pregnant and a homeowner, I'd have laughed in your face. Then burst into tears.

As many of you know, last December, we did our first (and thus far, only) round of IVF. It was a miserable failure. I POAS on Christmas Eve and got a BFN. But I tried to hold out hope, even though deep down I knew there was none. Then my period started on Christmas. I cried for hours, even as the HG tried to help me remain positive. We knew of lots of women who had similar experiences but were still pregnant. I tried to believe that it could all still be OK. Even to the point where I flew home unmediated again. Nonetheless, I called my RE and insisted on getting a blood test a few days early so I could stop my PIO (Progesterone in Oil shots...they are administered in an unpleasantly large needle....). So, on my 33rd birthday (December 30th), I went in, and received, confirmation that we would not be having a 2008 baby. As prepared as I thought I was for that news, I was devastated.

So, I decided that we needed to start up the process of buying a house again. We had already offered on a house in November and decided to back out of the deal after the worst inspection on record. Seriously. Once the inspector started using words like "Structural engineer" and "move that chimney", we decided to cut our losses. And we talked about waiting till Spring to talk about starting up the process again. On paper, waiting until Spring was the wise move. But emotionally, I needed something. Anything. I needed to focus on what I saw as moving forward with my life. I felt trapped in our tiny apartment and I felt like I was slowly going crazy. (Clearly, this has not changed. But sush. We don't point that out. It's not polite.)

So the house search resumed. Only to end by the first weekend of February in yet another failure discovered at inspection. The HG and I talked about continuing the process and offering on yet another house, but it wasn't right. It didn't feel right, so I said no. We had already met with the RE again and knew that I'd be having surgery in April to improve my fertility and I was feeling a lot more hopeful than I had been just two weeks before. But with the knowledge that I'd be having surgery, came the realization that there was NO way I'd be comfortable recovering in our tiny apartment. We didn't even have a full size couch. And I wanted my mommy to come take care of me. It would have been rude to ask her to sleep on an air mattress. And frankly, the place had years of bachelor dirt. I was not motivated enough to sand blast it away. So, before my mother came, it was time to find a new place to live. Within three days of losing the house, I found us a new apartment. And at the end of February, we moved. And I felt like a new woman. For about 2 weeks.

I had surgery in April and it was a resounding success. I think April 2008 was the turning point in my life. (Our lives. I mean, I do have to include the HG in my life, don't I? He's kind of vital.) When I woke up, my doctor told me that I still had one fallopian tube. And it was healthy enough to try on our own. I was stunned. I never expected such great news. I had braced myself to wake up completely sterile. But I woke up FERTILE. I hadn't been fertile my entire adult life. And I recovered so quickly from surgery...I truly felt like it was miracle. To this day, I believe the Hand of God guided my surgeon that day.

The joy lasted for a few weeks. Until I saw the RE again. And she burst my bubble. She thought IVF would still give us the best chance of a healthy pregnancy (due to the questionable health of my remaining tube and the resulting risk of an ectopic pregnancy) but that I was too fat for IVF. At least that's what I HEARD. I realize now, that's not what she SAID. But it's what I heard. I wanted to lose weight before IVF again because I had heard that being significantly overweight before doing IVF reduced your chances of success. And I wanted it to work this time. So when the topic of my excess weight came up, I heard that she wanted me to lose weight. (I now know that she was in the middle of completing a study which showed that there is NO difference in the rate of success with IVF between obese woman and those of "normal" weight.)

So, once again, I was in fertility limbo. When other people announced their pregnancies, I felt anger. And hopeless. And broken. And nothing was more painful. Somehow, somewhere, I had lost myself and the only thing that mattered to me was having a baby. That's really quite pathetic, actually. But I couldn't see that through the pain I was feeling.

And with that pain came several meltdowns where I turned my frustration on the HG. I blamed him for my unhappiness. I pinned all my sadness on the fact that we never bought a house. I needed a change. I needed to feel forward momentum in my life. I felt trapped and like nothing more than a recent college graduate. In my mind, as long as we lived in an apartment and didn't have children, I'd feel like a failure. Yes, our apartment was beautiful and huge. And everything I could ever have wanted in an apartment. And both the HG and I had received promotions and raises recently. But I simply could not feel successful, grown up, HAPPY without a house and a baby. Sadly, I did blame the HG for both of those things. I knew we could afford a house, the house I always wanted, but we were choosing not to. Or rather, HE was choosing not to. That, at least, is how I saw it. So sometimes, I'd get so frustrated that I'd snap and just yell at him for it. I didn't want to blame him. Deep down, I didn't even really blame him. He was just the easiest outlet. Using him as an outlet always made me feel guilty afterwards. So I'd sulk for days....the anger made me feel guilty which made me feel sad which made me depressed because I simply could not control my emotions.

Through all of this, we (the HG and I) both had some job related scares (gee, I love this economy!). We decided it was time to make a change. For both my sanity and the potential economic security of a less expensive area to live. We were going to move south. We would live out our lease and then make a move in March of 2009. This plan was so set in stone that I had started looking at houses in our chosen area and we told our families.

I felt so much better having a plan. Our lives were finally moving forward. With or without a baby, we'd make progress soon. We started focusing on the move. I looked for jobs, he hooked up with old networking connections and even got a few bites on his resume. I looked for REs and adoption information in our chosen state.

Then I got an email from the realty service I subscribe to. Our house was for sale. I say "our house" because it was the adorable cape I'd always dreamed of. In seemingly good condition. And in our price range. With a big yard and a finished basement. In our first choice town. The HG wanted to look at it. I did not. I was tired of being disappointed by the house buying process and I was not ready to derail our plans to move south. But the HG insisted we just drive by it. We would be passing by the area that day anyway. So we drove by. And the HG decided we'd go look at it the next day. I was hesitant. So afraid of further disappointment and I already loved the idea of living in this house. But I followed his lead. And the next day we looked at the house and negotiated a deal to buy it while we stood in the driveway.

I was cautiously optimistic, but the house sailed through inspection. We sailed through the mortgage application. Home ownership for us was imminent.

And my weight loss was going very well. We were planning for our next round of IVF to start shortly after we closed on our house. OUR house. We were almost homeowners. So imagine my surprise when my period failed to show on time. I was sure I had just counted wrong--we weren't even trying. But I POAS and it was positive. I have never, ever been so surprised in my life. I quite honestly never thought I'd be pregnant again. Secretly, I was working on the idea that I'd never give birth to my child. I had, and still have, actually, no fewer than 10 adoption websites bookmarked on my computer. I thought daily of how we were going to afford both the new house AND adoption. But I was sure we'd figure it out.

Turns out we didn't have to.
It was the craziest year of my life.
And the most wonderful.

I can't wait to see what 2009 brings me. I know it'll bring me my son. The son I never thought I'd have and have never wanted more in my life.
Frankly, as long as our son arrives healthy, I have no other wishes for this year.