My stomach is alive and other random notes.

A couple of mornings ago, I was sitting at my computer, typing away, when I looked down and saw the strangest thing—my stomach was twitching from side to side, all on its own.  It looked like some weird special effect from a sci fi movie or something. I almost expected a little green alien to burst out and start doing the macarena.

Such is life in the eighth month of pregnancy.

Other fun highlights?

Childbirth education class. This week, we talked about the wild and wacky world of pain medication during labor, with a particular emphasis on epidurals. Now, I don't know how much you have heard about this "regional anesthetic," but I can tell you, I now know far, far too much.

I know exactly where in your spine they put it in. How much it hurts (supposedly not at all). All the risks and benefit (surprise, it can kill you!). And, thanks to a teacher who has apparently never heard the phrase "too much information," what the catheter, and yes, even the needle, looks like (big. and scary.).

But, not being a big fan of pain, I'm pretty sure I still want one. I'll just have to make sure my husband's out of the room first—even hearing about it was enough to make him dizzy. I don't think he needs to see it done to his wife. Although, by that point, he might feel like jabbing sharp needles into me himself...

Of course, he probably gets that feeling several times a day. My hormones are, well, a bit crazy lately. So he might find himself getting snarled at if he fails to guess correctly what I want for dinner. Or confusedly grabbing tissues for a suddenly  sobbing me when moments before I'd been laughing my head off.  Or nudging me awake when I drift off mid-sentence.

But at 34 weeks, I make no apologies. I'm doing the best I can, and so is he. I'm sure in the end, it'll all be worth it.

My Baby the Kick Boxer.

Today, I had a 9 a.m. conference call to present concepts to a client—a new client, at that. Now, I'm not usually at my best at that hour. In fact, as a general rule, it's really not a good idea to even speak to me before 9:30 or so. But I knew it was important to make a good impression, so I made an extra effort this morning.  I made sure to get moving as soon as my alarm went off, had a healthy breakfast and got to work with enough time before the meeting to go over my materials. In other words, I was in good shape.

The meeting started, and my confidence level was still high. I jotted notes in the margins to make extra sure I knew exactly what I was going to say. And when the time came to speak, I launched right into my presentation.

And then the kicking started.

Kicks aimed directly at my bladder.

A bladder still full of coffee and juice.

I was about two sentences in to my little speech when the first one connected. Hard. I immediately lost my train of thought, stopping mid-word to catch my breath. I waited for a moment, but that seemed to be it, so I started speaking again.

Then, just as I was getting back into the groove, she started using my bladder as a punching bag again. I don't know what it had done to offend her, but she seemed quite displeased, and was intent on having her revenge. As the assault continued, all thoughts of the materials in front of me disappeared. Instead, the only thing I could think was, "Oh my God, I'm going to pee my pants. Please don't let me pee my pants."

I shuddered, and in a choked voice which I can only hope was too low for the client to hear, said, "Guys, I'm losing it. Someone take over for me."

One of my coworkers swooped in to my rescue, redirecting the conversation so I could get myself together. I breathed deeply and mentally shouted at the baby to Cut. It. Out. NOW. If I could have, I would have stood on my head to dislodge her. Instead, I just rocked in my seat, distracting both me and her.

Within a few minutes she stopped, and when there was a lull in the conversation I charged back in—completing my presentation without any further interruptions from the future kick boxer in my belly. After the meeting, I shamefacedly explained what had happened to the folks in the room. Luckily, they just laughed, and told me next time to just get up and go to the rest room if I needed to.

But I think I'll just hope it doesn't happen again. Once was enough for that particular experience.

My Toes Have Disappeared and Other Observations.

I’ve always taken my feet for granted. Whenever I look down, they’re just there, planted at the bottom of my legs. Which has made determining whether my toenails needed cutting or my nail polish is chipping relatively easy.

Then yesterday I made a startling realization. My feet aren't in my line of sight anymore.  The only thing a casual glance downwards reveals is the vast expanse of my belly. And that’s just weird.

I had to bend forward just to make sure they were still there. And they are, including all ten toes. They’re just hidden from sight when I’m standing upright. It’s a strange feeling, to be suddenly footless.

I’ve also recently discovered that thanks to my growing uterus, my insides have been thoroughly rearranged. How do I know? Because when I bend a certain way, my lungs literally run into something hard and I can’t breathe. Kinda like when you aren’t watching where you’re going and you walk into a shelf.

And yes, I have accidentally run into shelving. More than once, as a matter of fact. Just call me Grace.

Next disturbing physical change I’m expecting? The popping of my belly button. It's always been really deep, but it’s getting shallower all the time. I know because my husband gets a kick out of sticking his finger in there and measuring it every day.

What, is that too much information? Guess I’ll stop while I’m ahead, then.

My Baby Needs What?

You know, I'm pretty sure that for most of humanity's existence, babies survived without much more than a basket filled with hay to sleep in, some rags to wear on their butts, their mom's boobs, and maybe, if they were lucky, a corncob or two to play with.

Then, somewhere along the way, we decided babies needed more stuff. Lots more stuff. Stuff to make them smell better. Learn faster. Cry less. Eat more. So much stuff that we had to create Walmart-sized baby superstores, just to put it all in.

Even so, when Brian and I went to start our registry yesterday, I thought I was prepared. Figured I knew what we needed. Was sure that I'd done enough research to be able to whip through the aisles, scanner in hand, and be done before lunch.

Boy, was I ever wrong.

I got my scanner, alright. And marched straight off to the car seat aisle to christen my list. Only to find that there were five different versions of the car seat I wanted. And parked right next to the affordable, top-rated model I had researched was a much cooler looking orange one. With a sun visor. And a level-ly thing in the base. And did I mention it was orange? I do like orange.

Yeah. Our progress pretty much slowed to a crawl at that point.

We did eventually talk ourselves out of the snifty-looking seat, and the souped up travel system we knew wouldn't fit in our car, but not without a lot of debate. Before we knew it, almost an hour had gone by, and we hadn't even made it past the pack n' plays.

Three hours later my head was whirling, and my registry was nowhere near done. Did we need an exersaucer? How is that different from a jumperoo? Obviously, a baby has to have bottles, but did we want the ones that were guaranteed to reduce colic, eliminate gasiness, or teach her french?

Who knew our homes were unsafe enough to warrant an entire aisle of plastic cover gizmos and corner guards and appliance latches and rabid dog tranquilizers?

And can someone please tell me why, when everything I've read tells me that you can't use quilts in cribs, and that those cute little bumpers can contribute to SIDS, everywhere you look there are adorable bedding sets that just scream, "buy me?"

It's enough to make even a shopaholic like me dizzy.

In the end, we admitted defeat and treated ourselves to some yummy BBQ brisket while we waited for the world to stop spinning.

I am humbled. And very glad I can do the rest of my registering online.

Random thoughts at six months and counting...

So, I don't know what happened to this blog. I think I'll just blame the lack of posts on pregnancy brain and my complete inability to focus on anything that isn't completely necessary. But I'm never going to be able to quit my job and blog for a living like my idol over at dooce if I don't get serious about this, so I'm making a New Year's Resolution to make this a more regular thing..starting now.

To catch you all up, I found out a few weeks ago I'm baking a little girl. The ultrasound left no doubts on that score. But I won't share the picture, 'cause even though she's not born yet, I have a feeling she wouldn't want her privates broadcast on the Internet.

She's moving around a lot these days. Sometimes, I feel like I have a little acrobat in there. But that's good, because if she's capable of acrobatics, she'll hopefully have an easier time with the whole walking/talking without falling thing than her klutz of a mom. Once she's able to walk and talk, that is.

However, she likes to engage in her most vigorous gymnastics beginning at about 3:30, 3:32 a.m. So, because I'm a light sleeper, I tend to start my day at about 3:30, 3:32 a.m. This is not a particularly good thing (just ask my poor, long-suffering husband). But I do find that the more deliriously tired I become, the more creative my work gets, so maybe I'll finally write that novel I've been meaning to start in the months after her birth. Who knows?

And because this is a completely random post with no real theme, I think I'll leave you with a couple  quotes from my husband that positively cracked me up.

On learning that I'd signed us up for a childbirth education class: "Really? What's that? They can't teach you how to push the baby out, can they?" And yes, he was serious.

On viewing the holiday photo we took just last weekend: "You know, you don't really look pregnant. You just look heavy."  He really does know better. His brain just isn't always connected to his mouth.

And on learning that he could probably feel the baby kicking me now: "That's just scary. It's like there's an alien in there..." Ahhh, fatherly love.

Just a little bit giddy

I felt little Leroy move for the first time today. Actually, he was kicking the bejesus out of me - but he's too little for it to hurt. Not that I blame him. I'd been ignoring my steadily growling stomach for over an hour. He was probably like, "Hey, Mom, could ya go get something to eat already? I'm going deaf in here!"

Yep. At -5 months old, he's already being demanding. Must be my baby. Lord knows I'm no peach.

Although I'm told that pregnancy makes me a much nicer person. Seriously. When I first announced my news here at work, I quickly followed it up with an apology for being so grouchy and sick and miserable to be around.

To which my cube-mate replied, "Actually, I think you've been a lot nicer lately. You haven't told me how you much you hate the world in weeks!"

And, as I blushed furiously, all the other writers agreed.

I have to admit, I do feel pretty darn good these days. All contented and mellow and glow-y. It's positively unnatural.

All those extra hormones floating around must be drowning out my natural nastiness. I guess I'll enjoy it while it lasts. If genetics are any predictor, I'll get back in touch with my inner grump soon enough.