The One Where I Tell the Truth

Thomas the Train got his revenge on us by infecting my child with strep. It’s the bad kind of strep with a horrid rash--the kind of rash that turns into Scarlet Fever. El Guille got a shot from the doc and will be fine. I just hate seeing his beautiful skin marred by an ugly bacterial invader. So Tiffany was right, Thomas the Train is a rat bastard.

I haven’t really talked much about what’s been going on with me since, well, it’s a dicey area. Last fall, right after Thanksgiving break, my company told us that they were shutting down the offices and moving everything to our HQ in Seattle on my due date. They didn’t plan for it all to happen on my due date, but that’s how it worked out. I toyed with moving up there, I even went up to interview for some positions. It just wasn’t going to work out, to tell the truth. What, was I going to pay a second mortgage payment every month for my kids to be in daycare? That’s not why I work. I don’t work just to work; I certainly don’t want to work to finance my kids' daycare. A ‘career’ is not that important.

So since last November I’ve been living with the specter of my breadwinning job going away. What was I going to do? Go out job hunting at 7.5 months? Please, hire me, by the way, I’m going to need April and May off. Other Half was going to be doing student teaching (a fulltime job for free) leaving precious little time to get another job. I wanted him to finish school, that’s the priority. Work strung me along promising me a maternity leave, then removing that possibility (they don’t pay maternity leave.) My boss tried to negotiate something for me. He succeeded, but then he left before we could get it all in writing so the deal evaporated. The place was as accommodating as a generic company would be. Even though the offices shut down, I went on unpaid leave to have the baby. They promised me that I’d be able to work from home when I came back from leave. I did that, going back to work a couple weeks ago. Well, it didn’t work out. So as of tomorrow, I don’t have a job. You know, a job, the kind of thing that pays for mortgages and groceries. I can’t complain too much, I’m just lucky they took pity on me and let me stay on insurance through the baby and leave.

You don’t even know what it’s like for me to voice even this kind of anonymous criticism. I don’t discuss work because I figure it’s private and certainly should not be logged forever online. I will say that being super pregnant and worried for months about how we were going to put food on the table and pay the hospital was hell. I cried and cried.

I cried for months.

Other Half tried to reassure me and remind how blessed we were, and are. It’s true, we are blessed, but I’m also a horriblizer who can’t help but think the worst (broke, uninsured, out on the street, starving.) When you grow up poor you worry about ending up there again, even if the likelihood of living on powdered milk and Deseret peanut butter is pretty low.

Tonight I’m writing all of this down. I am acknowledging how rough the past months have been. I’m giving myself permission to be upset about how everything went down.
I have some options on the table for work. Good, even great options. However, I think I am mourning my last job—even though that job ended emotionally months ago, I’ve been stringing along wishing that it wasn’t the case.

As you know, I went and had a baby in the middle of all of this. I think that worrying about how we were going to feed our kids just made the natural baby blues even worse. It has been so hard to shake the blues with this baby. He’s such a beautiful, easy baby. I am so lucky. That doesn’t change that I have spent the post partum weeks trying to pull myself together. Other people; family, friends, are usually how I pull myself out of this kind of funk. Holed up in the house hasn’t helped me, but I haven’t been able to leave it much either.

I find myself wondering how other moms do it. How do they handle a preschooler and a new baby, let alone other kids? Other Half has been at home with me since the semester ended and I still can’t keep it together. I feel guilty that I can barely function with a husband at home doing much of the housework for me. I feel guilty thinking of all the other moms out there that do it without help; why can’t I? What’s my damage? Then the other part of me says HOGWASH. I shouldn’t feel guilty that he has kept the house limping along, that he entertains El Guille while I squeeze in a few moments of sleep. This is the second baby where I've worked up until the day I delivered. He can do another load of dishes.

I know I’m not the only mom out there that has days where she lives for her kids’ bedtime, either. I have good days and bad ones. The days often depend on whether I slept for 4 hours or no hours. I think I'm well enough to start doing some yoga and walking again, that should help. I hope this summer is a good one; I could use a few good months.

I should go, there’s a baby who wants me to stare at him and make googly noises. I think I can pull it together enough to do that—especially since he’s finally smiling. Go babies.

It did not happen in Ream's Frozen Foods department.

I was at Target tonight at closing and my water broke on the shower curtain aisle!

Just kidding. Wouldn't that have been awesome? I really thought about how apropos that would have been as I picked up a new mosaic patterned shower curtain. The truth is I'm in a bit of a blog stupor lately. Hmm, what? Ok, ok, I'm just in a stupor; the blog is just part of it.

The stupor does not allow me to remember dates and event lineally, but it does work just fine with nesting. I have a great new shower curtain (I even took down the shower rod and scrubbed it clean.) Tons of projects have been completed around the house, although the housekeeping is slipping. Anyone can do the dishes; I’m the only one I trust to hang a new piece of wall art. The dishes may be still in the sink, but the hallway is looking spiffy!

People ask me (ALL THE TIME) if I’m tired of being pregnant. Not per say, I’m just tired of my maternity clothes. All of my stuff is fall/winter oriented and seeing all the great spring items makes me jealous. It doesn’t help that I’m about to enter the weird body zone. I want some new clothes, but I don’t know what size I’m going to be.

Preggos tell each other all the time that by X date they’ll either be back to normal or even smaller than they were before. The reality is a little more fluid. I remember going shopping with Tiff-fay-fay when she was 9 months pregnant with her first. At the beginning of November, she picked out a TINY pair of pants for herself to wear New Years Eve. “Don’t you think I’ll be at least back to that size by then?” she asked. Bowler Girl and I looked at each other. I said, tentatively, “Maybe you’ll want to give yourself a little more time…”

We all know the ladies that are back in their pre-preg clothes two weeks after baby. I am not that girl. Instead, I have a couple pieces that serve as bridge items until I can fit the upper end of my fat wardrobe. It’s hard to invest in clothes that you may only wear for a month or two. Since I’ll probably be working, again, after 6 weeks off, just slumming in sweats and forgivable clothes won’t be an option. The problem is two pronged: no money and a bad case of vanity. I guess I could do something about the vanity, but who wants that?!

In the meantime I can be patient. I guess this time around, the price of vanity is to learn patience. Patience about everything: work, clothes, house, housekeeping, and the baby that will not come to the amazement, amusement, and incredulity of the medical community.



p.s. if you have a minute, wander over to my friend manderate's blog to be one of "A Hundred People Surveyed..."

Cross Them Harder!

I can't have the baby this weekend.

Oh please, NO!

I can't!

Or rather, I don't WANT to have the baby right now. I really need to wait another week. My friend Miggy just posted a blog asking for ideas on how to induce labor (she's a couple days overdue.) Yes I'm constantly uncomfortable, yes I am sleep deprived, yes this baby feels so heavy. Still, I'm trying to think of ways to keep this baby inside.

I think I am going to have to take it easy.

I am going to spend time in a horizontal position, during the day. OK, enough vertical to prevent awful, persist heartburn.

I am not going to clean obsessively.

I am not going to stress because we are out of Raisin Nut Bran, my post-partum snack/meal of choice. (They're raisins! They're nuts! It's a world gone happily mad!)

I will not worry that El Guille/baby's room is a sty of clutter.

I will take the other half's word that he will actually clean things (a) and properly (b).*

I will try not to yell at him for not being perfect at everything.

I will not lift heavy objects even if it's "just across the room/up the stairs/down the hall."

No unnecessary trips to large stores that require a great deal of walking.

No worrying about the conference call on Monday that will influence everything in our lives for the next 6 months (that has been postponed twice already and led to several sleepless nights.)

I will laugh when the other half says, "I know, I know you're NEVER supposed to say this, no matter what, but, uhm, your belly, it's SO BIG. Does it seem bigger than last time? It sure looks like it."

Some yoga to keep limber and de-stress.

I will continue to make the easiest bread recipe ever. No kneading, no stress, looks and tastes like it came from a bakery. I'm using two cups bread flour, one cup whole wheat these days.

I can clear out my DVR; it looks like a Masterpiece Theater marathon. Maybe this time Jane Eyre won't piss me off (tough bones Janie, I'm a skeptic!)

This is getting to look like a list of things I have to do this weekend, so I'm going to stop before I blow it all.

*this is SO HARD

You Do Not Cross a Sugarbaker Woman

As this pregnancy winds down there are thousands of things to do and no time or energy to get them all done. It’s like my time and spatial awareness have decreased to tortoise speed. I’ve made an ambitious nesting list that serves to both remind and annoy me. I intend to get 25 things done everyday and I am lucky to get 3 completed. I need to reorganize my house from top to bottom with no Container Store nearby and an IKEA that isn't open yet. Any ideas on where to grab cute boxes or baskets that perfectly match my decor and were made by Malaysian children? (I'm cheap.)
Also, I keep forgetting everything. I’ve missed two really great parties this way and countless flaking on friends. Concentrating at work is hard and I feel like I’m dropping the ball--as if it’s an outstanding effort to actually complete a thought or project.
If I happen to sit down I usually fall asleep. I’m sure this is natural preparation for the extraordinary sleep deprivation we are about to endure, but it makes you feel a little useless as well. So my advanced apology for not updating as often as it occurs to me. The thought occurring is one thing. Moving my body from whatever position it has come to rest in just to reach my computer is requiring a disproportionate amount of energy (or at least, I am unwilling to expend it.)

*************************************

Sadly, we won the battle but have lost the war. Remember this? I went through a very large bottle of brake fluid all the while in deep denial: surely, it’s just that my very small car needs a lot of brake fluid to fill up the lines, not that there’s a leak, oh no. After all the stages of grief, not to mention a near accident, I realized that we needed help. I took the car in to the repair place. “What’s the problem?” the mechanic asked. I said in a rueful voice, “My car is hemorrhaging brake fluid.” That made him laugh—and if you can make a mechanic laugh, a crash test dummy gets its wings.

************************************

Late Thursday afternoon a friend at work was in my office discussing some of the funny things that had happened that week (sorry, no details will be provided.) He mentioned that when he first started at the company he was absolutely terrified of me. “I was so scared if I ever had to come talk to you.” I started laughing. He continued, “I thought, ‘Here is a woman that not only has a comprehensive understanding of the business, but has a command of the English language that is fearsome.’ Honestly!” I said, “You were really scared?” He nodded. I laughed, “That has to be the sweetest thing I’ve heard in a long time. How kind of you to say something like that!”
Is that bad? I don’t mind being feared, not one bit. It makes me feel like I’m growing to be more and more like my mom. I was always awed that while teaching MBA students, or Army officers, she had them all cowering in her 5 foot presence. I hated that growing up my friends were scared of her, but now I think it’s cool. The little snots should be scared of mom!

BOO.

Only The Good Stuff

This post is dedicated to TOWR, Kiki, and anyone else freaked out by pregnancy. Sometimes I think I dwell on the negatives, or the peculiarities of my journey, rather than discussing the great things that go along with gestation. So tonight we're going to cover some of the things I like best about the whole she-bang.

Last week Guille and I went to the aptly named Vosen’s Bread Paradise in downtown SLC. We picked out our delicious baked goods (try the Bauernbrot) and were about to pay when the clerk asked if she could give Guille something. Sure thing! She selected a golden croissant. We finished paying when she handed me a ginourmous pain-au-chocolat and said, “And something for the baby.” I ate the whole thing with no guilt, and I’d do it again.

I didn’t have to be in charge of anything for the family holiday celebrations. I got to show up and relax.

Being with child is the best excuse ever. No one ever makes you feel guilty about not doing Activity “X.” You can say you’re tired, and while that may elicit resentment at any other point in your life, during gestation it is gospel.

Sometimes I ask J to hand me some trinket or object. He likes to toss them in my direction to watch me reach and fumble. Ok, so this isn’t so much about how nice it is for me, but how entertaining it is for my spouse to see my reflexes slowed to the speed of a sloth. Add that change to the Relaxin, the hormone that loosens your joints, and you can’t catch jack squat, let alone a package of Kleenex tossed from across the room. He laughs like the 7th grader we all know is inside every man. I am a different kind of entertaining in this state.

I like that I am incapable of NOT telling you, your neighbor, your dog walker exactly what I think. For some reason, the truth gates open and I will tell you anything. Social niceties and deflections are in storage, check back in spring. For now, the vault is open for business!

You know the anxiety you feel when you forget an appointment or some kind of obligation? When you’re pregnant you honestly don’t care. “Oh well!” You might think it’s annoying that you can’t remember a word or phrase that would have easily been recalled at any former point. It’s a touch annoying, but it’s also funny that you seriously couldn’t care less. If I were in law school this would be a problem. Since I’m not, laissez les bons temps rouler! Let’s celebrate! I hope I remember to show up!

I am sitting on the couch writing this and feeling the baby move slowly. I like this stage because you can feel shape of the child through the dermis. I am going to pause writing this sentence for a minute and feel a little head, or maybe a bum. One of the secrets people don’t talk about is how your belly doesn’t stay perfectly round, it starts to move and shift with the motion of the child. In one moment your belly skews right, in another your left side moves. Tremors and wobbling; it’s comforting to know that the little person is moving around and growing. If you eat a little sugar, or something else interesting, you definitely get a reaction. It sounds freaky, but when it’s you, it’s really cool.

No pretending to suck in your tummy anymore.

.

For all the weird things your body goes though, the transformations are also miraculous. Your hair and nails grow at close to lightening speed. You can’t actually push yourself too far because your body will just stop (it’s a forceful reminder to take things easier.) You can take a nap at any time: go ahead, lay down, you’ll sleep. You don’t even have to think about growing the person because your body takes care of all the hard work. You just have to remember to feed and water it properly.

Now do you feel better? Then go get yourselves knocked up!

J thinks I am insane.

I decided a couple months ago that I might want to try an un-medicated birth with this baby. It’s not that I’m anti-meds—hey, down ‘em if you got ‘em—it’s just that I am extremely sensitive to most medications. I usually only need half of the dose of whatever I’ve been prescribed. The only exceptions are antibiotics because I’m not down with creating drug-resistant bacteria to wreck havoc on civilization as we know it because I can’t be bothered to take a whole teaspoon.

It shocked J that I would rather feel the pain than the side effects of most pain medications. All that being said, when I got to the hospital with El Guille, I elected to have an epidural. Hey, I didn’t know, it might have been the one pain med that was no big deal.

Don’t worry; I don’t have a crazy-horrible epidural story and this is not a graphic tale of birth (I save those for Sundays.) The epidural was completely routine and no big deal. However, when you get an epidural there are a whole bunch of other things that happen: saline to keep you hydrated, catheterization, etc, etc. I was not a fan of the nurse-trainee who stuck me four times trying to get in the saline line. J almost fainted when he saw the blood rivulets dripping from my arm to pool on the floor. That gal was a keeper! The saline itself made me puff up like a marshmallow over a campfire. J pushed his thumb into my forearm and made an indentation that stayed for hours (ok, that didn’t happen, but wouldn’t that have totally illustrated how puffy I was?)

The hospital also gave me the Pain Clicker Thinger (official trademark name) with which I could control the amount of medication that flowed into, well, into my spine. I clicked it a lot at first, which I think slowed down my labor (for various reasons that I will not go into so as to not freak out the three guys who read this blog—hey DM!) I also didn’t like the ‘asleep’ feeling in my legs, the shaking, or the nausea.

Ok, let’s be honest, I’m just not a fan of the out of control feeling I get while on pain meds. There are a dozen other valid reasons I want to try without pain meds this time. Most of all, it’s because I think I can do it.

J thinks I am crazy. He says, “Why would you elect to feel pain?” I try to say it’s not that simple and give him all the reasons. He goes back to his original argument, “But you don’t have to feel the pain.” I guess it’s because pain isn’t that terrible to me. I mean, labor is not equivalent to breaking my arm for fun. The whole thing is a process that my body was built to execute. Additionally, there are things you can do to mitigate the pain that are not drug related. After talking with my midwives, I felt like I had a handle on what I wanted to do: try for no medication and if I change my mind, they can hook me up (don’t get J started on midwives.)

A few weeks ago J had a root canal that he had been postponing for years—years! The root canal also came with a prescription for Lortab. J dutifully took the first few scheduled doses. A day later he said to me that he finally understood. It’s not that I am electing to have pain, it’s that I’m choosing between two outcomes: pain or medicinal side effects. This epiphany occurred while he was blinking slowly through the dizziness of the Lortab. He had thought that it was either pain or no pain, and when weighing the two more complex options, my choice was more understandable.

I’m glad he kind of gets it now.

However, I bet if you ask J directly, he still thinks I’m a little nuts.

The Bad Kind of Fasting

Yesterday I performed an awful rite of passage.

I have a family history of gestational diabetes. Most pregnant women have to drink a glucose drink at some point in their pregnancy to make sure they don’t have gestational diabetes. I always fail this first test, which means I have to do a three hour fasting test. You need to avoid sugars for 1-2 days before the test. That’s followed by fasting for 12 hours before going in for the test (water is allowed.) They draw your blood to check your sugar level and then you must drink another glucose drink. This time it was lime and it was beyond terrible. It was like green Nyquil, only exponentially sweeter. For a girl who prefers bitter diet cokes, the lime was a trial all its own.

Every hour, for the next three hours, you return to the lab where they again draw your blood. I had one good phlebotomist and one bad, so my arm looks a little beat up today. During this process you are still not allowed to eat, or to drink more than a mouthful of water.

By the third time, I was feeling, uh, out of it. I hadn’t eaten a spoonful in sixteen hours. I began to crave chips and salsa with a chaser of Brown Cow chocolate yogurt. As soon as the vampires took my last sample I drove straight way to Good Earth. I opened the salsa in the parking lot. I didn’t think I could function any more without getting something inside immediately. I thought I felt a little better so I started to drive back to work. Then I started feeling...curious.

Do you ever have a feeling, while driving, that you really shouldn’t be driving?

Things started spinning and the colors saturated into the most brilliant shades, my eyes started closing involuntarily. I had to pull over and soon. The chips and salsa weren’t cutting it; this called for the gastronomic equivalent of a defibrillator. I choose a Maverick: orange juice, straight up, and two Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Within a few minutes I felt well enough to drive again. I got back to work and drank a lot of water.

I was borderline with El Guille. I was able to avoid actual gestational diabetes by watching what I ate and completely removing sugars/refined flours from my diet. I knew I could do it again with this one if I needed to.

Today I found out that not only am I not diabetic, I wasn’t even close to borderline. I passed the test with flying colors. I am so happy, for both of us (was that cheesy?)

To celebrate, we had for dinner what we like to refer to as the four basic food groups: candy, candy canes, candy corn, and syrup.

Things That Have Made Me Cry Lately

I am not a crier but...

Gary being nice to me at work. (People being mean I can handle, nice? NICE? What am I supposed to do with that?)

Terri Irwin talking about losing her husband (I wasn’t even a huge fan!)

El Guille taking the open cornstarch box off the counter and throwing it on the floor on purpose.

A kid I read about who was cut out from his mom’s womb (which led to her death) and is now 10 and happy.

The girl I also read about who text messaged her parents about how she loved them two hours before she died.

The Rainbow Connection.

I made potato latkes from scratch for breakfast Saturday and I was the only one who bothered to eat them.

When I ordered stuffed mushrooms from the pizza place and they arrived in a container as battered and fried mushrooms (which I hate.) As a precaution I re-read the menu before calling to yell at someone. Indeed, the menu said “Breaded Mushrooms.” I still cried.

I asked J to pick up dinner for us one night and came home, starving, to find no dinner. Apparently, J thought I meant pick Guille (and only Guille) up dinner. Then I cried because I knew that J let him eat fries earlier that week and then Guille ate crap chicken nuggets for dinner. I am a terrible mother with a child who eats crap.

Halfway Through

I was overcome today with a craving that would not go away. That is why, if you could see me right now, you would see me eating Brie out of the rind with a knife. I started putting it on crackers and then just said hell with it and am eating it straight.

Anyone want an open box of crackers?



p.s. If any of you freak out because I'm eating soft cheeses and I'm pregnant well then you are cordially invited to stuff it, or, allow me to stuff it. Pass the apricots; our iron constitution can handle wimpy French foods.

Azúcar vs. Nana

Several years ago I heard a horror story about a friend who went to the doctor for her ultrasound and because the baby wouldn't move, they couldn't tell the gender. Now some people love the surprise of not knowing what the baby will be. I am not one of those people. I need to mentally, physically, and clothing-ly prepare for the new person. In the ongoing theme of my life, I am too controlling to not know the gender.

The urban legend of The Baby Who Wouldn't Move haunted my dreams until I formed a battle plan. 1 hour before my Guille ultrasound I drank a whole can of Diet Coke. In the ensuing 56 minutes I ate both a caramel Twix and a pack of chewy Spree. There was NO WAY that this kid wasn't going to be moving. When the tech applied the COLD gel to my belly and starting moving around the wand that kid was hopping! "Wow," said the tech, "Now that's an active baby!" I copped to the drugging of my unborn child. Instead of calling CPS, the tech laughed. When I told my mom (aka Nana Azúcar, La Profesora) she was horrified. How dare I do that to her one and only grandchild? A coke and sugar? What am I? The Worst Mother Ever?

The best thing about La Profesora is that she forgets everything. Ok, ok, it used to be infuriating, especially since she can't remember the names of even my oldest friends, people I've known for 25 years. I wore a brooch to her house the other day and she mused out loud, "Huh, I used to have a brooch that looked just like that." I replied, "I know. It was yours until you were scrambling around for another Christmas present and wrapped up a brooch you already owned and then gifted it to me."
So even though she gets distressed, positively aghast, at my actions quite frequently, she also never remembers them long enough to do any lasting damage (except for those pesky 'when you were a kid' stories that she clearly remembers enough to actually relate them when she speaks at BYU Devotional.)

Yesterday, on the car ride over to the midwives, I reminded J and Nana that I purposefully spiked El Guille’s amniotic fluid. It was worth it to see her get totally and completely horrified again. I didn’t spike this year for several reasons: 1.) I’m limiting my sugar so that I don’t get gestational diabetes, 2.) I wondered if consuming caffeine would raise my blood pressure and I am trying to watch that as well. I did buy the Diet Coke, but didn’t follow-through.

The tech applied the warmed gel (aaahhhh) and pressed the wand onto my belly. Segundo was just kind of hanging out. He wasn’t moving a lot and his legs were crossed at the ankles. “SEE,” I said, “I should have had the coke.” “Yes, you should have! Why didn’t you?” cried La Profesora.

I win.

Snips & Snails it IS!

Excellent--since we have the capital investment in puppy dog tail stuff.

"Are you SURE?" I asked the tech. She circled the breech bum again and said "YES."

I didn't tell her, "Because my friend Susie was told boy number two and it came out a GIRL."

It's a little disorienting because we have a girl name, but no boy name.

Next Topic:

What on earth are we going to name him? We honestly have no idea.

(Well, I had an idea: Proximo or Segundo but J says, "NO.")

Your idea? No parameters to speak of, go!

What's the Flavor?

What's your vote?

Snips, snails & puppy dog tails or sugar, spice & everything nice?

Things I've Tried in an Effort to Relax

This morning at the office I walked by the ping-pong table at least three times and I seriously considered playing a game. That’s almost as relaxing as having actually played a game, I swear.

I did yoga last week, but had to drop the meditation part at the end because it made me a floor target of super-jumping/hurling/diver El Guille de Magnifico. So I am about 7 out of 10 on relaxing through formal exercise.

We did go to the park two late afternoons in a row. Watching another mom trying to sneak in a ciggy at Rock Canyon Park while no one was looking made me snicker, which is relaxing. However, she was wearing some really awful plaid shorts, so I think the experience was a wash.

I love my new DVR, but the pressure to watch all these things that I’ve recorded is a little intense. These feelings of guilt are too much. I went ahead and deleted four programs from the list last night and experienced a profound sense of relief. No longer would I have to page past Frank Lloyd Wright’s Buffalo with pangs of guilt when I selected something vacuous like Project Runway. So what if I’m not learning more about Buffalo, New York’s architectural heritage, it will be ok if I decide to watch Battlestar Galactica instead, right?

It might be time to let my one-sided feud with the postman go. I put up two, count them two, labels on my mailbox asking for him not to put newspapers in the box. Despite those clear signs, he has continued to put the newspapers in the mailbox. The free paper I hate, by the way. That is why every time you come to my house the mailbox is stuffed. It’s civil disobedience, man! I’m fighting the junk mail power! I figure everyday I don’t pick up the mail is one more day he has to jam new mail into the box making it an unenviable task fraught with possible finger-jamming. It’s not laziness—it’s principle! Still, I don’t think, after three years, he gets it. Time to cede to the man, I can’t fight city hall!

I did not, as expected, have a complete meltdown at Elaine’s French Bakery last Saturday when I found out that they will no longer open until 10 making it impossible for me to pick up a baguette for breakfast on my way into work. I should be grateful that I will no longer be wasting gas to drive a little out of my way for that crusty, warm, multi-grain baguette. Yes, all of a sudden I’m going to turn into the silver-linings-Pollyanna-happiness that we all love to encounter in our fellow human beings. I will not dwell on the negative but ceaselessly find the positive. Or maybe I should just be happy that I didn’t ask for the manager to yell at while at Elaine’s. For the best probably, I can only yell one thing in French that sounds serious, “J’accuse!” It would probably mean nothing to the owner of a bakery, but if this was mid-revolutionary France our very next scene would be some ugly woman knitting while we all watched a guillotine make a swift descent.

I found some new music to calm me down. My noise-cancelling headphones help drown out the noise pollution in an office that can drive you slowly crazy (vents, buzzing, people asking you stupid questions, the phone ringing.) Here’s the problem: if I only listen to the music when my dander is high, will I eventually come to associate the dulcet tones of Rogue Wave with an anger-inducing pavlovian response? THIS IS SO COMPLICATED.

So Much More Than You Wanted to Know

My life has been a little gross lately, which is why I’m going to tell you about it. I will only mention how I got to examine my toilet’s cleanliness (7 out of 10) tonight. Maybe I’ll mention being on the phone with my mom while making the latest mad dash, hanging up on her, having her call me back, and not actually being able to explain why I couldn’t answer her.

How about two days ago, when I walked into my house and thought, “Huh, a brown cookie on my living room carpet, some of those cookies are smaller…we…don’t…have…any…cookies.” A clean diaper lay in the middle, mocking me with its perfect flatness. When gently confronted, El Guille said, “Look! No poo-poo on the table! No poo-poo on the sofa!” I guess it was all MY fault since I don’t remember specifying to anyone to refrain from taking dumps on the FLOOR. I’m putting this out there to all family and friends: please, confine your personal evacuations to the restroom.

Today I went to the midwife: we got good news and other news. Good news, growing fine, no weight gain (good news for me, I did get a talk about making sure I’m eating enough.) Then a petit suggestion: relax and let the stress go to allow my blood pressure to return to normal. Uh, ok. There, it’s all gone. No it’s not. If I could just relax, I wouldn’t be in this pickle. I take full responsibility for getting angry when someone at work asks me a stupid question.

(I also blame my blood pressure on the 25 minute phone call to Café Rio yesterday to order lunch for work: 10 entrees, 25 minutes. 25 minutes of the lady on the phone expressing her inability to work their undoubtedly picture-filled ordering stations, “Touchy little bugger!”)

I explained to nice midwife that my job can be stressful. She said, “Oh, is it life or death?” Fully realizing the implications of her subtly phrased question, I answered, “No, no it’s not.” “Well then, take it easier.” Ok, so maybe my Lewis Black impression needs to be contained.

But how, exactly, am I not supposed to stress when here it is practically mid-October and I haven’t even thought about Halloween costumes for the family. I mean, I live in the same town as The CLARKS; I can’t just pick some willy-nilly trifle of an outfit.

How do we dress El Guille? Cute like Elmo (boring,) predictably like a dinosaur, or what? I need your ideas. I also need to sip some broth, consider a peppermint tea and engage in contemplative deep breathing. Maybe we should all go as Buddhist monks. Time to pull out the hair clippers; I think they’re in reach from my position in front of the toilet.

LOST:

I've lost something...

It started with not wanting ice cream.

I could live on ice cream. Strawberry in the summer time, chocolate anytime. More, more, more. Who doesn't want ice cream? Me. I had literally two tablespoons yesterday to see if I could change my own mind, and guess what? I couldn't. I ordered an oreo shake a few days ago just in case, nope. I ate about a quarter of a cup and surrendered the remainder to my thrilled other half.

I'm actually not that crazy about cake to begin with. Don't get me wrong, I'd still eat the cake. These days I don't even want to try it.

Cake is gross.

It's pie and cobbler season. How do I love pie? Let me count the ways! Pumpkin, Apple, Dutch Apple, banana cream, this list could go on forever, seriously don't tempt me to name them all! Fresh peach cobbler, apple crisp, berry jumbles. No, no, no. Don't want. It's like eating them doesn't make me happy, or warm inside, it makes me nothing.

I threw away a cinnamon roll last week, just tossed it into the garbage.

Something is definitely wrong...

Could a milk chocolate Bordeaux, Kona Mocha, Hazelnut Truffle, or Apricot Delight shake me out of this funk? I didn't even bother trying them to find out.

Call me crazy, but I think I’ve lost my sweet tooth.

Is Greenwich Mean Time just a suggestion? Are the ocean levels rising every second? Have the poles lost their axis?

Today it's all about the chips and salsa...

I promise that this is not turning into My Pregnant Blog. There are other interesting things about me, I swear. For instance, I like enchiladas; also, Toffifay. However, the purpose of today's entry reverts to an easy topic: That Which Resides Inside.

Even after a reasonably good birth experience with El Guille, I decided that I would change the things I didn't like about it by changing my doctor. In fact, I gave up my doctor. I decided that a midwife might be more my style.

Now, if you'd of asked me ten years ago if I would consider going to a midwife I would have laughed in your face. This super spacy girl, "Sally," I grew up with wanted to be a midwife. She was one of those earthy freakazoid girls with the pasty skin of a die-hard vegan and the intellect of a concrete block. Sally was going to apprentice and then attend births with her accumulated experience (so the idea of her attending my birth was enough to put me off for a good long while.)

The other part of me knows the history of midwives, romanticizing the idea of women who served their communities. I understood how those women had been pushed out of the delivery rooms in favor of doctors with medical training--essentially medicalizing the birth process. Putting women under general anesthesia and then feeding their babies evaporated milk and corn syrup all in the name of modern progress. Modern OBs have come a long way, but they are still incredibly busy and incredibly unwilling to wait for the process--favoring control and routine over specialized needs. I am very aware that women used to die, like, a whole lot more than they do now. I also know that c-section rates approaching 30% is absolutely ridiculous. When my OB threatened me with a c-section after two hours of pushing, I knew our relationship was over. I could have gone much longer, but he was eager to make his appointments.

Our confidence in the ability of our bodies to do as they were designed has been undermined.

I decided the least I could do was to meet with one to see more of what they were all about. I went to the website of a clinic I'd heard about and actually found a picture of a friend of mine who is now a practicing midwife. It's a sign! I said while J laughed at me. I made an appointment and met with my (possible) midwife this week.

Here is what I learned:

1. My midwife is an R.N., a nurse practitioner, an additional medical masters in midwifery, is licensed by the State and board certified. A far cry from dippy Sally.
2. Midwives deliver in the hospital and also have OBs attached to their practices just in case.
3. While Utah average c-section rates are nearly 25%, my midwives are at 8%. EIGHT FREAKING percent. Even their OBs are only at 12%. Are you kidding me? It makes me want to punch Doctors and their tee-times.

4. Whatever I want goes. Epidural, sure. No medication? Sure. Change your mind in the middle and need something, anything? No problemo. Move around, take a walk, hop in the tub, why not?
5. No routine anything: significantly lower rates of episiotomies with none being done just because, less 'tearing' (you know what that means,) less internal monitoring by route (you know, where they literally screw a cord into your baby's head while he's still inside you).
6. How about a health care practitioner who LISTENS to you. I spent half an hour talking to my midwife in addition to my physical exam. My OB had, at most, ten minutes to spend for everything. I have a family history of gestational diabetes. Although my OB knew this, he didn't test us early to catch a problem. My midwife already has three tests scheduled to monitor me along the way.
7. The midwife told me that I can be the first to hold the baby and I can hold it for as long as I want. "You did all the work, you should be able to hold it as soon as possible." Sounds like a simple idea right? Well, when El Guille was born they took him away, cleaned him, suctioned him, wrapped him up, showed him to me, and then removed him from the room. Everyone else followed. I was left alone. Totally and completely alone. "I guess I'll take a nap," I thought, and promptly did. I didn't get to even hold the kid for probably 45 minutes. I didn't realize how much that bugged me until she mentioned their Mom First philosophy.
8. There are other things but this list is long enough for now.

Needless to say, I'm on board. Why did I even go to an OB in the first place?

E Tu?

Dear Body,

I know, Tiffany said that you pop out lots faster with subsequent babies than with your first. I don't know, it just figured that maybe it would be like month 4 (instead of month 3) before I'd be having these wrestling matches with my body over what we can and cannot wear. I just did not expect to hit that "My regular clothes don't fit right anymore yet the preggo clothes are too big" stage for a little while. That's why there was that showdown at 9:34 this morning in front of my clothes closet. We settled for mildly preggo jeans with a regular shirt (stretchy.) I thought that surely I could jazz it up with some great heels.


My feet HURT. What is the DEAL? Last time I was tottering around on 5 inch stilettos way into my 7th month. Today I am having a hard time with 3.5? This is ridiculous. Ridiculous and unacceptable. Mutinous behaviors will not be tolerated. Especially from my feet. They should be saying to me, "Yes Ma'am, may we HAVE ANOTHER?!"

Other Half suggested that we give the baby a nickname until we can ascertain the gender specifications. I figured that this was a matter for the interweb. Any ideas? The parasite? Lumpy? (that's Joe's contribution...we gotta come up with something different.)

Dear President Bush,

I'm sorry I couldn't make it to the protests today. I really, really wanted to. As you can see, I was forced to conduct my own personal protest from the relative comfort of my awesome sofa. This is no reflection on you. Believe me, if I had to throw up on anyone else, it would totally be you. We'd have a good laugh about it too, you'd make a crack about partyin' with the boys years back and I'd laugh while hiccuping. Maybe Laura would have held my hair. I might have asked you for an Altoid though (is that cool?)

Anyway, you know that we've never had an easy relationship. At first I thought you were completely incompetent, but I had no idea. 9/11 happened. You did the right thing (well, other than stopping it, but maybe no one could have stopped it, no matter what that PDB said.) You invaded the right country, our boys and girls did good work there. They're still doing good work there, let's throw them some more support. It's just that in the days right after 9/11 when you asked your folks to find a link to Iraq, I guessed you were just covering all the bases.

Those cool guys you surrounded yourself with, did you know they were planning a way to get to Iraq for years? Maybe you did, maybe you didn't, maybe you don't even care. One thing is for certain, I think you got hoodwinked.

I thought the whole thing was suspicious way back when, but you know me, I decided to follow with a fine toothed comb. I remember watching the entire Colin Powell presentation to the United Nations. My Marine friend and I decided to watch it together (we are on slightly opposite sides but love to debate and concede points to each other, maybe you should try that with people you don't agree with, it's brought us closer together, but whatevs,) both interested in the outcome.

He watched because there was already a stop-loss and he knew that if we invaded, he'd be going. I watched it because I hadn't been convinced by the evidence you'd presented so far to go to Iraq. I figured that for SURE you'd pull out the big guns and drop the real evidence. Nothin' doing. I turned to my Marine friend and said, "I really hope there's something they're not telling us, because this isn't good enough." He agreed, he thought there MUST be something you were holding back. Turns out there wasn't.

Everyone around me was so gung-ho about the Iraq thing, they really were. Even though you later said you DIDN'T say there was a link between the awful events of 9/11 and Iraq, you totally did and so did your dawgs. Like, alot. Lots of people believed that. There was the weapons of mass destruction arguments, the idea that spreading democracy by force would make a better region, getting rid of a bad bad guy (though, if he was so bad, why did you guys hang the Kurds out to dry in the 92 uprising?) and that we had to engage in a proactive rather than reactive fight. I kinda think you used us, you used our patriotism and our trust. That was kinda mean.

In March of 2003 I was pretty bummed. It was clear that we were, no matter what, going to go into Iraq. I remember there were so many people that I worked with that were teasing me about my views. Like a Cassandra, I went around telling anyone who would listen that this was a bad idea, that this war would be very long and very bloody. I would mention that sixty years after WWII, we were still in Okinawa, and it was likely that we'd be in Iraq a minimum of 5 years, likely 10 years, and probably far, far longer.

I said that the Sunni and the Shi'ia, long played against each other under the Hussein regime, would take the opportunity to power grab and that those long simmering animosities would boil over into sectarian violence. After we totally dissed them, who was to say what kind of reception we'd get from the Kurds?

I said that the country would fall apart soon after invasion and we'd be responsible for the crumbling infrastructure, that we'd get the blame if it wasn't fixed right fast. No one believed me.

My marine friend and I got into an argument a few weeks before invasion, right before he shipped out for Pendelton. I said that I didn't want to send other mother's sons and daughters to die for nothing. He was angry because he said this is what they'd been training for since forever and who was I to say that I didn't want other people's sons and daughters to have to go. We eventually came to an understanding. I'd send him lemon poppyseed cake at Pendelton. He went, he served honorably and did great work, came back safely and married the coolest chick.

That's why when your right hand man said "I don't think anybody anticipated the level of violence that we've encountered," I got really, really angry. I DID, I ANTICIPATED IT. A chick who has a BA in History and that works for the Internet anticipated it. What is wrong with our government when some nobody like me KNEW what would happen when YOU DIDN'T. I guess I don't get that.

It's just that if you want to fight terrorists, maybe you shouldn't pick a place and out of hubris, create them. Bygones. Do I think we should leave? Nope. Like Colin Powell said way back when you were hell-bent on this thing, it's Pottery Barn, you break it, you buy it. And we've bought it (177 million a day.)

I also hate when people say that we should not protest you. Of course we should. YOU WORK FOR ME, for my neighbors, for the soldiers, for all the moms and dads. You are accountable to me. There are things that you've done that I'm mostly ok with, but there is a whole lot that is just not cool. That's why, when it's time for a performance review, and you're in my neck of the woods, I thought it was time to discuss your progress. 'Cause I have some issues.

So sorry I couldn't make it. I'm cooking another patriot down here and it's feeling selfish these days. I guess it's more interested in local politics than international strategems right now. I dig, I do.

p.s. Don't you love my muu-muu? My blog is totally magical. I wished for a muu-muu and it appeared at my door last night, straight from Northern Mexico. I wonder what I should wish for next...

Hit Me Baby

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about Britney Spears. The Britster has had quite the year, let me tell you! First of all, her revenge marriage isn’t working out exactly as she’d hoped. Second of all, she got knocked up right after her number one son was born. While my marriage wasn’t totally based on revenge, I totally understand what she’s going through, really (even though I didn’t even meet my husband at the Circle K, promise. )

Our first babies were boys, and now we’re both expecting another child. Granted, my interval at three years seems a little more glacial than hers (Dear Federline, leave the poor girl alone for like two minutes!) at a little over a year. However, I understand, have ‘em while you can, Brit!

A couple of tales have come to light that I made me think of the solidarity of women. First, this story from Britney’s old pool boy:

“I was hanging out a little bit,” ex-employee Jon LaLanne told In Touch Weekly.
“She came out screaming at Kevin for lying around, then looked at me like I was
to blame.” The next day, LaLanne, says he got a call from Spears’ people, telling him not to report for work. LaLanne, son of the famed exercise guru Jack LaLanne, also has a band, and he says he and K-Fed would talk music. But, he claims, Spears would get jealous when her hubby talked to anyone else. “She wants Kevin on a leash,” LaLanne told the mag. “She fires everybody. I figured, ‘Why not me?’ I just didn’t expect her to be so mean.” He adds: “It’s a revolving door there. She’s not the nice person everyone thinks she is.”

Dear Mr. LaLanne, if you’re hanging around talking to Kev-bo that means that the pool is NOT getting any cleaner. Frankly, I’m with Britney. I don’t think it was mean of her to fire the pool boy. Mean would have been to shove his lazy-no-good-mug into the pool filter and ask him how he liked pool cleaning NOW. Maybe that’s not even mean. Mean should involve a quarter-race between the pool boy, a hyena, and a lion. Let’s see how far juicing gets you now. In any case, Britney, even if I had a pool-boy instead of a middle-aged female volunteer at my condo complex, I’d be on your side.

Sometimes, when you’re pregnant it’s all you can do to throw on any article of clothing to appear in public. I totally get that. Like this morning, even though I dressed in a cute BR skirt, red cami and crisp-ish white shirt, I committed a personally unpardonable sin…my feet hurt so I wore flip-flops. This might not seem like a big deal to you, but it’s a big deal to me. I might as well lay in my unwashed bed, surrounded by the detrius of weeks of poor housekeeping, open a bag of chee-tos (puffy, not crunchy,) wearing the shirt that still has frosting crunchies on it from a week ago, turn on a morning cocktail of Montell and Judge Joe Brown, and allow the drool to slow-hang from my mouth.

Which is why I totally GET this video store appearance:

Last week came this story:

Britney Spears is ruining all of K-Fed’s fun. The pop star is making her aspiring rap star hubby, Kevin Federline, get rid of his pet sharks, according to Life & Style. Spears, who is expecting her second child with Federline, apparently fears that the six Australian gray nurse sharks are a bit risky when there are two kiddies around the house. “Kevin loves those sharks,” a family friend told the mag. “He even named them. But Brit said there’s no way he’d be keeping them.”

I understand that Kevin named the sharks. I understand that he loves them (the simian brain is more capable than we give it credit.) However, I also understand that if a toddler times two can climb to the top of the entertainment center, they can probably figure out how to climb into a fish tank. I empathize with Brit because I told Other Half that under no circumstances was he allowed to keep the pizza boxes that he’s fallen in love with. I know he’s named them (“Meat Fantastico Delight” and “Spectacular-Spectacular Hawaiian Dreams”) but enough is enough, the toddler times two could get in there and try to consume the congealed cheese scraps and maybe even the plastic center holder. They had to go.

Today I feel like I want to crawl under a rock and allow the life to slowly ebb from my adorable, yet pain-ridden self. Our Britney decided to take that day and go to a coffee place.

So kudos to you, girl, for getting out of the house—I would have sobbed alone and on my couch.

Then this horrendous incident came to light:

The Dukes of Hazzard star Jessica Simpson was rudely snubbed by pop star Britney
Spears backstage at the Teen Choice Awards on Sunday, when Simpson innocently asked if she could kiss Spears' pregnant belly. Simpson was hosting the show and the heavily pregnant Spears was there to introduce husband Kevin Federline's debut performance as a rapper. After Simpson made her request, Spears immediately shot back, "Hell, no!" A backstage witness confirms the incident saying, "Jessica was really insulted, but Britney refused to let her do it."

It’s not RUDE to stop walking venereal disease Jessica Simpson from kissing your belly, it’s your duty as a parent to stop that short-legged Domino shilling adulteress from getting near your developing child. What if—WHAT IF the kid came out with an inexplicable gift for cheesy Christian Rock and Double D’s that you just can’t hide—and it was a boy. You’d never forgive yourself. I’m imposing a two state restraining order on whore-lips Jessica.

Dear Britney, I totally understand.

Hep Me

There is a not-so-good smell in my house and I can’t find it. I know that someone (El Guille) put something (food) someplace (WHERE?) and I can’t locate the offending substance. All I know is that when I walk into my house it’s wafting from locations unknown and I can’t handle it. Granted, I might be smelling things that aren’t there, what am I talking about? IT EXISTS. However, when I try to find it sensory overload kicks in and my formerly refined nose can’t find it (it will probably be sentient by the time I find it.)

Other Half left for the weekend with friends to Cali. I was good wife and let him drive away when everything inside my head was screaming “NOoooo, please, I am so sick, I need to lay down, not move, not take care of another human being, help, the house, disaster, can’t, can’t, can’t.” He never goes anywhere for fun and this is his break, so I hugged him goodbye. Help. My house had a supercell inside. I feel like this, only my house is worse. The sad thing is that I still think I can DO IT ALL. It’s all in my head, I'm sure.

I haven’t exercised for more than two weeks. Last Thursday I thought, “Well, enough is enough. You just have to toughen up, get it together, pull it together, girl. Suck it up!!” Bright and early, I pulled out my exercise mat to attempt my usual 45 minutes of yoga or Pilates. Mentally tough, pulled together, start the program! About 9.5 minutes into warm-up, in the middle of down-dog, everything went s p a r k l y. My breath quickened and then things started spinning. I gave up the pretense and lied down on my exercise mat. There I stayed for the next 30 minutes. Somehow I found myself converted into a car track and stuffed animal prop. So maybe this whole sick thing isn’t in my head, maybe I really AM exhausted, maybe this isn’t something I can just tell myself to snap out of (go figure!) I resolve to listen again to what my poor body is telling me (which is to use it as weight resistance when lowering to the couch.)

My body is also making me eat every two hours. If I don’t, I feel awful, which means I don’t feel like eating anything, which makes it worse. GREAT, a spiral from which I cannot extricate myself. I don’t quite understand how you can be drifting off to sleep and have to make a run for the porcelain throne, but there it is. So I watch Globe Trekker( Snowdon! Shin-kicking in the Cotswolds!), catch up on my Project Runway (Allison? Really? Vincent is such an idiot), and munch my whole wheat toast, hoping that the ginger ale will keep everything down (PULL it together! Suck it up! )

My friend asked me if I could watch her son tomorrow for a few hours while they were at a wedding, I said “SURE!” Maybe the two toddlers can occupy themselves, or maybe Nemo can help. This is for certain, I have to find that smell or I am going to be very, very embarrassed when they step through the door.

One other thing is for certain, I really want a muumuu.