SAFE ASSUMPTIONS

"ADAM!!!"

"WHAT!"

"It isn't nice of you to destroy the bathroom when I have to pee! Now you need to hurry up so I can go at the grocery store!"

"Well, I didn't know you had to pee."

"I'm pregnant. YOU SHOULD JUST ASSUME."

BETTER THAN EVER (EXCEPT NOT REALLY)

I bet you're all pretty sick and tired of hearing about how sick and tired I've been feeling as of late, which is fine really because I'm pretty damn sick and tired of it myself. So, because I'm making an effort to be a better person - stronger, stoic, selfless - I'm not going to bitch and whine and moan (like I used to do, dear interwebs, you know, back before I was a better person) about the nauseous feeling that STILL, almost 14 weeks into this gig, seems to strike in the evening for no good reason that I can discern and leaves me writhing and moaning and, occasionally, crying and snotting my brains out because, for serious kid, I do not want to vomit again, do not make my vomit again, so help me God if you make me vomit again. And then the little bastard up and makes me vomit again and tosses in a headache and dehydration for good measure causing me to make idol threats about trading my wet, soggy pillow for Adam's clean, dry one and WHO THE HELL WOULD EVER DO THIS A SECOND TIME and you may never touch me again. And perhaps I cry a little more because damnit, I want to cry and it makes me feel better even while I still kinda feel badly about putting Adam through my irrational, frustrating tirade because of course he can't take over this burden for me and I'm being a huge, stupid sissy and oh my God woman. Just suck it up already. Pull yourself together before his patience runs out and you drive him insane with your brand of crazy and he leaves you alone with a baby to be with some video game character...

But I'm a better person now, so I won't mention all that.

PHOTOS TO FOLLOW

After much consideration and careful debate (and because we just happened upon that particular end cap at Target), Adam and I decided that since Guinness is our oldest and original "kid" and we don't have much time left with him as the one and only, we would do something special for him. Something that would create memories for years to come. Something that will involve pictures. And humiliation. And probably a lot of emotional scarring.

We're going to dress him up for Halloween.

And note when I say "we decided", what I really mean that I decided. And when I give you those flamboyant and silly excuses, I really mean I'm doing it because I'm mean. Very, very mean.

I'm not ashamed to admit that it was quite the long and drawn out process to pick out exactly which of the many, many costumes best represented the holy terror that is my dog, because, see, I wanted to dress him up like a skunk. But they didn't have his size. So then it became a debate between the hotdog, the pirate, or the chicken.

The hotdog was deemed inappropriate, not because he's not a wiener, but because it would be too easy for him to remove, thus ending our hilarity far too soon. The pirate outfit was then nixed because it was made of sub-par materials and didn't have a hat. (Guinness hates hats. This will be important later.) So, dear interwebs, we were left with the only logical choice. A chicken.

Now, I wasn't going to make any attempt to put him in said outfit until Halloween day when we would be handing out candy to the few ambitious trick-or-treaters that even bother to canvas Adam's neighborhood, but after work today Adam and I were both feeling a bit naughty and we decided to make Guinness try on the hat.

In case you missed it before, Guinness does not like hats. Or clothing at all for that matter.

I held him upright while Adam struggled to shove his ears through the tiny holes, his black body writhing about, teeth flaring idle threats, tossing his head.

Hehe. Halloween is gonna be awesome.

MOVING TO THE SOUTHER, WEST-ISH SIDE

This weekend began the long and arduous process of Adam and I moving in together. (Like real adults! Because being pregnant with his child just wasn't quite adult enough.) A process that began the delicate packing up and shifting of my life, and the savage culling of his. (I say culling because, let's be honest, my decor is far superior. (I kid! Kinda!) Also, Mr. Pack Rat doesn't throw ANYTHING away.)

Now, to be fair, at this point it really is a balancing act to fit everything, not so much because we both have that much stuff. No, the space issue is really only an issue because Adam's roommate is not moving out immediately. In fact, he may be living with us for quite a while.

This means, that room we're planning on storing my (not so superior) bed and turning into a guest room? Shawn's room. And the media room we want to create so Adam can have all his major electronics and MILLIONS of gaming systems all in one handy dandy location, as well as making room for my couch and leather recliner? Shawn's other room. And the dining room where my awesome espresso colored table would fit PERFECTLY?! So sorry. It doesn't fit with Shawn's country bumpkin table already in there. Oh! And how about the baby's room where our precious, darling lemon will lay his (or her) little head? Storage for my junk in the interim (and by "junk", I of course mean "superior decor." Also, clothes.) OH THE TRAGEDY.

I know we'll make it work and I know it will be an adjustment, I just really hope we don't end up with all of Shawn's shit after I go bezerk from all the clutter and end up burying him behind the garage. The same garage we would then end up having a garage sale out of. FYI.


PS - Anyone in need of a lovely matching sofa/love seat combo in a lush and beautiful sage? $250. You remove the dog hair.

RELAXING

Sunday afternoon, in a rare instance of calm (unless he's being physically retrained--so not even kidding about that one), Guinness was curled up with me on the baby's future rocking chair/recliner, his fuzzy body pressed against the length of my leg, his head resting on my thigh, all while not making any attempts to bite my hands as I scratched his ears. The sight was so unusual, in fact, that I quickly alerted Adam.

"Lookit! My dog is behaving."

Adam turned from his computer (where he was playing World of Warcraft... our child has NO CHANCE of ever being cool) to gaze at the splendor of a not spazzy Guinness before reaching for his camera.

He lifted it to his face, lined up the shot, and stopped.

"I can't take your picture."

"Why the hell not?"

"You don't have any pants on."

"... Ah."

WHEREIN I LOSE MY SHIT

So this morning, rather than do work (because work is for sissies), I spent a good 10-20 minutes talking with coworkers about Lemon Baby and in the course of said conversation I poked my belly and, dear interwebs, that shit is getting hard, like genuinely pregnant hard and THAT means that I really do have a thing inside my belly.

OH MY EFFING GOD, THERE IS A THING INSIDE MY BELLY!

::Lip quiver::

::Whimper::

And then I promptly lost my shit and may or may not have been on the verge of having my own tiny, precious panic attack because I don't know if you heard me, dear interwebs, BUT THERE IS A T-H-I-N-G (a living, eventually breathing thing) INSIDE MAH BELLY!!!!!!!

Must. Find. Paper. Bag.

BABY NOTES, PART 1

Dear Lemon Baby (so called because, according to this, you are now about the size of a lemon, which, I know. It's substantial. In fact, I believe the proper response would be that you're freaking enormous):

Anyway. Dear Lemon Baby. Hi. This would be your incubator talking and speaking of enormous, you and I? We have several things I think we need to be discussing. First and foremost, you're about 3 months old now, give or take a few days, and due in large part to wonky pregnancy math, which had me pregnant 2 to 3 WHOLE WEEKS before The Deed, you know, was actually did. That's right. According to the crazy ass doctors and nurses, I was actually pregnant BEFORE I got pregnant. WTF, right? (Also, Kid Thing, with regards to The Deed, just remember that, until you're old enough to support your own damn self, the opposite sex is yucky AND, when you ignore that advise, you be sure that you/she is taking the pill AND using a condom. I'm just sayin'. It never hurts to double up.)

Anyway, the point I'm really trying to get at is that I was under the impression, and not unjustifiably, that the nausea and the vomiting and the general, all-around misery that is the first trimester would, you know, be OVER by the beginning of the second trimester, that magical, delightful, mystical 3 month mark I've heard oh, so much about. You know, WHERE WE ARE NOW.

You, dear child, must have failed to receive THAT particular memo.

It would also seem, according to the rather violent goings on of last night, that you are ADAMANTLY opposed to cheetos. THAT WAS UNFORTUNATE FOR ME.

And another thing. While I have yet to gain any weight, due in large part, I'm sure, to all the dinner time vomiting (and not that I'm seriously complaining about no weight gain. HELLZ no. In fact, if we could continue to keep that little symptom to a minimum (while still maintaining a healthy baby weight) I might just make you my favorite kid so far), I do already have two, TWO new, tiny, red stretch marks around my belly button. What the hell?! Now, I realize you're just utilizing my incubator status to it's fullest and to do that you must move you and your people sack higher into my abdomen to make some room (all while displacing my lungs and stomach), but, but, but! Stretch marks?! I've already gotten to the point where only TWO of my non-pregnancy pants fit and even those are a little tight! (Which is why I'm sitting here typing this without any pants on. I am so sexy.) I'm not understanding why you really need to be adding insult to injury here. AND!! Chipotle?! You had to take away Chipotle? Other than chips and guac, any thoughts and daydreams of rice-stuffed burritos is met with stomach churning resistance AND YOUR FATHER IS NOT HAPPY ABOUT IT.

WHY? WHY DO YOU HATE YOUR MAMA?! Seriously. You damn well better show me a SINGLE, solitary, healthy, strong heartbeat on Thursday to make up for all this shit or, so help me god, I will never let you have candy EVER!

Hugs & Kisses,
The Incubator

FREE SAMPLES

"So along with my shit ton of paper work and reading material I also got a bunch of maternity magazines. Oh! And look! With this one I even got a free sample."

"Um. What is that?"

"Disposable nursing pads."

"Why?"

"So that I don't go leaking all over everything."

"Oh. So it's a boobie diaper."

"... Yes."