NAME GAME

Alright. I'll admit we already have a name picked out for the darling little one. It's a name we agreed upon before we got pregnant and we're not to be swayed.

However, that doesn't mean I'm not still interested in your suggestions (especially Michael's). In fact, I was prepared to lie to you all about our naming status just to get them. But I couldn't do that to you, dear interwebs, because we have history. And I have standards. Sub-par standards but my point is they EXIST. So I'm proposing a compromise. I want to hear the wicked, awful things you wish for us to name our preshus, widdle babe and I will pick my favorite to be her bloggy name up until she decides to forcefully and painfully makes her entrance into this world and I then decide to tell you her real name.

I may also reward you with cookies. Maybe.

THIS WILL COST HIM

(After watching a Kay diamond commercial)

"Did you realize that you can't be 'The One' unless you buy expensive and fancy gems and baubles?"

"That is what the diamond companies would love for you to believe but don't you fret. I'm a rebel so you don't have to worry about any of that."

"...Fantastic."

BONDING EXPERIENCE

"You know, you really should talk to the baby so she learns to recognize your voice. That way she'll find you comforting."

"She can't hear me over all your crazy loud gastrointestinal noises."

"Yes, she can! Shut up."

"Well, then what should I say to her?"

"Whatever you want."

"Fine. Hi, Baby! We're going to play broomball except your mommy can't play because you came along and ruined her season."

"Oh, you are just so (CENSORED) endearing."

AWESOME CONVERSATIONS YOU GET TO HAVE IF YOU'RE LUCKY ENOUGH TO LIVE WITH ME

"I've got bills! And I've got the skills to pay the bills. Booty bounce!" (Complete with real-life kung fu butt jiggle)

"You call those skills?"

(Pointed glare)

"I guess I'm just a hater."

"THAT'S RIGHT! Don't hate the player, hate the game."

"...You're weird."

"It's all a part of my charm."

BABY v. 1.0.5

Alright. I'll admit it. There are some amazingly wonderful side effects to being pregnant. I mean, for one, people are extra special nice to you. They carry things for you, to the extent you aren't required to life a danty, delicate finger to move your stuff into your baby daddy's house (now conveniently known as "your" house). They go get burn cream for you at 10 o'clock at night after you set your palm on a hot burner. They even give you not one but two homemade chocolate chip cookies at 8:30 in the morning because there were extra and they wanted to make sure you got some.

And, as if that were not enough, let us all not forget The Boobs. Oh sweet god, The Boobs. The voluptuous, undeniable swelling. The subtly heaving mass that makes men fall to their knees in a quivering pile. Not only are The Boobs memorizing to behold, they are a force to be reckoned with. An entity all their own that DEMANDS respect and immediate action and gets it.

I really like The Boobs. Like, really really.

But, despite all that, despite the glory and the power, all in all, I don't like being pregnant.

Tsk tsk me all you want. It's the truth.

I don't know if you've been told, but this gig can be miserable and I will freely admit that I am not the sort who finds any sort of enjoyment, miracle of life bullshit or no, in feeling like warmed over ass for three plus months. Warmed over ass that is still hungry but can't eat because.. um, yeah. Definitely going to throw up dinner but don't want to throw up dinner but knows resistance is futile and don't you tell me what calmed your stomach because I'll just throw that up too. Or worse, being far enough past dinner that when the incessant need to vomit does strike, I'm forced to drink just enough water so there is something in my stomach to vomit SO IT WON'T HURT AS BADLY.

And you want to know what else? The only way I sleep comfortably and, most importantly, SOUNDLY through the night is ON MY STOMACH. I don't do my side.

Guess who doesn't have any other option?

Guess who also hasn't slept the entire way through the night in four months? Same person who has to get up to pee at least once every night. Same person who has to suffer through throat clogging coughs and colds because I CAN'T TAKE ANY DAMN MEDICINE. I hate feeling enormous. I hate feeling that I'm just days away from the patented pregnancy waddle. I hate stretch marks and my achy back in the morning FROM SLEEPING ON MY SIDE, and I'll tell you what. I was never a big drinker but I'd kill for a beer.

And you know what? I know I'm not alone. I know I am not the only woman to ever suffer during pregnancy but I'm not going to tell you all I enjoy this time when I don't. About the only thing left for me then to look forward to are those pregnancy milestones, each of which I've yearned for in anticipation. Milestones like hearing the heartbeat for the very first time, like feeling the baby kick and then feeling the almost daily tap, tap, tap and then the complex acrobatic performances on the car ride home. Even more special to me was when I finally got to share the experience with Adam and he felt the light drumming of little hands and feet on his fingers.

And then. The coolest deal. The milestone I've been anxiously waiting for since I found out I was pregnant. The milestone that made a lot of the suffering worth while. Friday I finally got to see Lemon Baby (who is now roughly 10.5 inches long) for the first time. And, even more exciting, I got to see Baby v. 1.0.5's cash and prizes flashed across a screen for all the see.


Proportionate eyes and nose and mouth and cheeks crowned with a gigantic forehead.



Tummy and chest and head featuring a teensy nub of a nose and the outline of an ear. Also a disembodied hand.



Enormous kangaroo feet that like to press painfully into vital organs.



Grainy, blurry, female baby bits. (Also referred to as her first nudey picture because I'm nothing if not grossly inappropriate.)



Yes, Dear Interweb. Baby v. 1.0.5 is a girl.

I am currently preparing to lose my shit in a most indelicate and unattractive way.

A GLIMPSE INTO OUR PARENTING STYLE

"HE PEED ON THE FRICKIN' BED!"

"I know. I'm sorry."

"What? Why are you sorry?"

"I should have let him out before we came upstairs."

"I don't care! He P-E-E-D on the frickin' bed. I think we should crate him for the night.

"That's what I was thinking."

"If that little shit is going to act like a puppy, I'm going to treat him like a damn puppy."

(LATER)

"So wait... When exactly did the peeing start?"

"When I grabbed his collar to yank him off the bed."

"You mean when he whimpered?"

"Yeah."

"So he was scared at the time?"

"Possibly."

"... Okay, I feel guilty now because he did it submissively."

"It is not going to hurt him to spend the night in his crate."

"Right."

"..."

"You realize we're going to have these same sort of conversations about Kid-Thing?"

"And it won't hurt him to sleep in the crate either." (Okay. So he didn't really say that last part but I'm sure it was only because he didn't think of it at the time.)

DAMNIT

Dear my immune system,

I'm not sure if you remember back a mere few weeks ago but you and I? We just got over a head cold coupled with an excessively annoying cough that woke us up at night and made me (if not you as well) crabby.

Now. I don't know if you know this, but I just checked the calendar to confirm and it is in fact the holidays that are beginning promptly at 4 p.m. tomorrow. I don't want to be crabby for the holidays. But, you see, I'm scared. Scared, dear immune system, because this morning a coworker pointed out that I was sounding a little froggy. Then, coincidence, I developed a sore throat this afternoon.

Now, I don't mean to be pointing any fingers but it IS beginning to look (and feel) like one of us (and that would be you) is slacking on the duties around here. AND RIGHT BEFORE THE FRIGGIN' HOLIDAYS! Dear immune system, WTF? I mean, I realize I'm pregnant and all BUT IT'S THE HOLIDAYS! AND WE HAVE TO DRIVE! A LOT. I don't WANNA with the sicky!

Therefore, under penalty of sleep deprivation and irritable moodiness, I expect IMMEDIATE improvements. Meaning that twinge I just felt in my left ear? DAMN WELL BETTER BE NOTHING OR SO HELP ME GOD!

Sincerely,
The Management

* * * * * * * *

Dear Dog-Thing,

Do not EVER sit on my hand after you have just come inside from doing your business because IT WAS WET. And I don't know if it was from your butt or your wee doggy boy-bits but I know you did both BECAUSE I SAW YOU and that sort of behavior is just UTTERLY unacceptable.

Sincerely,
Yer Mama

PS: Stop trying to steal my yarn you annoying little shit.

PSS: Thank you for keeping my shoulders warm.

MAN BUTT

"Hey Adam. Do you want some moist towellettes for your delicate backside?"

"It's not delicate. It's a man butt. We use sandpaper."

"..."

"What?"

"I love you a lot."

A STORY ABOUT A DOG

And in particular, this dog:


For those of you unawares (which should be no one but I'll appreciate you playing along), this is Guinness, my corgi/terrier mix.

Why yes, he IS dressed like a chicken. Because he lost a bet. A bet that Adam and I couldn't restrain him long enough to get that costume on him. Fool.

Now, being a corgi/terrier mix, he has turned himself into an ever vigilant watch dog making sure that his nose prints on the living room window prevent any perp who may glance in from seeing anything but dry dog snot or telling the occasional neighbor, yeah that one, walking down the sidewalk. How DARE he pass by MY yard?! Does he not know who I am? I bet if I bark he'll learn his lesson. Yeah, yeah that's right. YOU WALK AWAY. Man, he better not come any closer. Else I may be forced to bark at him louder.

This sort of guarding technique isn't uncommon among the canine crowd, but Guinness has another "guarding" duty that he performs as if the fate of the world depended on it. See, Guinness likes to point out, through the use of pawing and especially licking, if Adam or I have a stray body part showing. One that may not be appropriate for public consumption. Like a nipple. Or certain boy parts. BECAUSE IT OFFENDS HIM.

And don't get me wrong. We've certainly tried to discourage this sort of behavior because I personally am not that fond of getting felt up by a dog tongue but we are starting to discover that it certainly does seem to have it's advantages. Like, hypothetically, when Adam throws water at my face, and as a brilliant, gleeful, only slightly evil form of retaliation, I may or may not have thrown his towel out into the hallway while he was still in the shower so he had to run the doggy gauntlet while wet and showing off body parts that Guinness is adamantly opposed to seeing all the while I giggled and cackled to my bitter, black heart's content.

Except, you know, hypothetically.

CHALLENGE

"Adam, do I embarrass you?"

"What? No. You're going to have to try harder than that."

"I accept your challenge."

TIS ONLY A FLESH WOUND

Today I made a damn fine attempt at cutting a large chunk of my thumb off, and now they're threatening to take my X-acto blades away.



But don't fret. Once we realized we couldn't stop the bleeding, my coworker took me to an Urgent Care and some charmingly smart-assish doctor glued it back together. And now I'm not allowed to get it wet for 48 hours.



Washing my hair might prove to be a bit of a challenge.



Adam would like it pointed out that this is not a case of domestic violence since he has a rather air-tight alibi. He was at work. As was I. I would like it to be pointed out that I managed to not bleed all over my sweater despite my thumb's rather valiant effort otherwise. Because I'm a professional. So kids, don't try this at home.

AT LEAST IT WAS HIS LAUNDRY

"I'm going to go upstairs and play video games."

"Alright. I'll be up in a minute. Would you mind taking up the (freshly clean and FOLDED) laundry?"

"Yup."

"Um. Adam. You are not going to carry that basket of (freshly clean and FOLDED) laundry with a cup hanging out of your mouth."

"Why not?"

"Because you're going to spill it."

"Mm naw gonna sill ih."

"You are and I'm going to have to hurt you."

"Nuuh... DAMNIT!"

"YOU DID NOT."

"I did."

"ADAM."

"What?! It was your negative energy! This is your fault."

"Because I was RATIONAL?"

"Negative."

"Rational!"

"GLASS HALF EMPTY!"

"IT IS NOW!"

HE'S A DIRTY ROTTEN LIAR

I was nothing but charming and TOTALLY NOT ANNOYING THIS WEEKEND. My mother on the other hand....

KIDDING!!! MOMMY COME HELP ME ORGANIZE MORE!!!

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