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.

A New Year Begins.

We're twelve hours or so into 2009, and as I sit here curled up on my couch, kitty purring at my side—with life continuing as usual, in other words—I'm struck by the feeling that things are changing faster than I can comprehend. And I only hope I'm up to the challenges that this year will bring.

This time next year, I'll be a mom. And quiet little moments like the one I'm currently enjoying, will, I'm guessing, be a thing of the past. But that's only a guess. Because truthfully? I have no idea what we're in for. I'm sure I won't be the same person, but who will I be? I know my marriage will change, but how, exactly? The questions, if I let myself think about them too long, overwhelm me...and that little nugget of fear that lives deep in my belly blossoms into something more.

So better to think about the positives. To wonder what her laugh will sound like. To anticipate the look of love on Brian's face when he holds her. To imagine introducing her to her grandma and grandpa for the first time.

To think about all the things she has to discover, like...

the brilliant yellow of the first daffodils in the spring.

the way a cat's body vibrates when it purrs.

the feel of the warm sunshine on her face.

the crunch of the leaves under her feet in the fall.

the sparkle of Christmas lights glowing in the snow.

the sheer joy of living, loving and being loved.

When I think about things like that, I know that no matter what happens, it will all be worth it. That there's nowhere I'd rather be than right here, right now, waiting for our little girl to arrive. And that 2009 will indeed be a very good year.

Happy New Year, everyone!

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.

Maybe we should name the baby Barack?

Change the world? Heck yeah, we can. We just did.

I couldn't have asked for a better outcome to Leroy's first election.

When we voted on Sunday, I knew we were part of something momentous. Here in my little town in Southern Indiana, the line at the polling station wrapped around the block. In fact, we waited almost three hours for our turn at the machines. Long enough that I got a sunburn. In November.

But you know what? It was kinda fun. There was an almost palpable feeling of excitement in the air. Of pride. And of impending revolution.

The crowd, which seemed to be overwhelmingly full of Obama supporters, chatted cheerfully, soaking up the sunshine and listening to the local musicians who turned out to entertain us, like Joe the Accordion Player.

There were many topics of conversation, (and indeed, I was subjected to a lengthy lecture about the evils of medicated childbirth) but most people seemed to be talking about one thing. Change.

A lot of folks seemed to be afraid to hope too much. Scared that the Republicans would still find a way to pull the rug out from under us. Unwilling to believe that we would actually pull it off. I know that's how I felt.

But we did it. We got Barack Obama elected and took the first step toward fixing everything that's wrong with this country.

And, for once in my life, I am ridiculously proud to be an American.

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.

The Best Part of Waking Up...

No, it isn’t Folgers in your cup. It’s a warm, furry buddy who, hearing you start to stir, leaves his post at your feet to crawl up your body and plop, purring, on your chest.

It just doesn’t get better than that, people.

That’s the new routine Oliver (one of my two cats) and I seem to be falling into. It might be my imagination, but ever since I turned up pregnant, I swear this little cuddle bug has been even more attentive than usual.

He follows me upstairs each night, waiting patiently just inside the door until I’m ready to crawl into bed. Then he hops up next to me, and as soon as I arrange myself on the pillows, settles in for a thorough petting session.

Usually, he stays until I fall asleep, his purr more soothing than any lullaby I can think of. He spends most of the night using my feet as a pillow—although how he hasn’t gotten brain damage from the amount of kicking his little head must receive, I don’t know.

Sometimes he’s joined by my dog Kermit, who, when he’s feeling sweet, curls up behind my knees. More often than not, though, he does an excellent Stretch Armstrong impersonation—leaving me with a narrow sliver of bed.

When Kiwi, the third member of the furry trio joins us, it can get quite crowded indeed—and that’s before my husband (a night owl if there ever was one) arrives.

But you know what? Those are the nights I sleep the best. And now that fall’s coming, there’ll be a lot more of those. I’m trying to cherish them while I can, knowing that once this baby comes, these scenes will be few and far between for a while.

I can only hope that Leroy (that’s what we’re calling the kid for now) loves them as much as we do, and that they love him (or her) in return. After all, there’s always room for one more in the family pile!

Surrendering to the inevitable.

The moment I found out I was pregnant, I made a promise to myself. A promise to exercise regularly. To eat healthily. And, no matter what it took, to gain no more than 20 to 25 pounds.

I thought that seemed reasonable. After all, I had just finished losing huge amounts of weight. Eating healthy had become second nature. And working out had long since stopped seeming like work. If I couldn’t keep my weight in check, then who could?

So I began my first trimester determined to gain no more than the two to five pounds all the books recommend.

Then the freight train of badness that is the first trimester of pregnancy hit. Soon, the only way to control the constant nausea was by feeding my face every two hours.

And as for those daily workouts? Well, I sure hope dragging my exhausted ass from the front door to the couch counts as exercise. That’s about all I've been able to manage.

Finally, last week I got on the scale. And, blinking at the number, got back off. Then got back on. And back off. And back on. Until finally it sunk in. At 13.5 weeks pregnant, I was up 11 pounds—more than twice my first trimester goal.

That’s when I broke into tears. And not cute, girly sniffles either. These were the huge, wracking sobs that turn your face purple and send snot pouring out of your nose. My poor husband bolted out of bed, convinced someone had died.

It took him a half hour, endless amounts of patience and a cup of deliciously forbidden coffee to calm me down.

And that’s when it hit me. I’m not in Kansas anymore. Whatever control I may have once had over my body is gone. There’s a new sheriff in town, and he’s tough—even if at the moment he’s only 3.5 inches long.

So I’m going to stop beating myself up. Stop counting every calorie and dreading every pound. Instead, I’m going to enjoy my pregnancy, including my newly rounded (well, rounder) belly and everything that comes with it (like elastic waistbands).

After all, my body’s making miracles happen. It deserves a little respect.