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.

The things I miss the most.

There's one thing (well probably lots of things) you truly can't appreciate until you're actually pregnant. Namely, how many of your favorite things are about to get put on the no-no list.

And it's not like the no-no list you put yourself on when you're dieting. The one where you say, no, you can't have that chocolate cake. Or that double fudge latte. Or that hot dog dripping with cheese. Because those? Are negotiable.

If that "no, I couldn't" becomes "well, maybe just one," you're not hurting anyone but yourself. Well, yourself and your waistline.

But when you're pregnant? Those no-nos become You Damn Well Better Nots. Because you are hurting someone else. Someone too small to fight back. And let's face it, my child is going to have enough to deal with without help from any potentially toxic substances that I ingest.

So, on to my list of the things I miss the most.

Drugs. Not the illegal variety. But all the ones I routinely rely on to keep my snot-filled, creaky body functioning. Right now, just about all I can have is Tylenol and Benadryl. And if you ask my three-day old headache, it'll tell you Tylenol isn't worth the trouble it takes to swallow it.

Caffeine. All caffeine, but coffee in particular. I've been drinking coffee since I was five (ask my mom if you don't believe me), so doing without is an unusual kind of torture. Sure, they say you can have one cup a day, but when you're dealing with an addiction as strong as mine, that's just enough to crank up the cravings to a screaming pitch. Not fun.

Lunchmeat. I looove deli meats. I eat it on sandwiches, cut up in salads, even just rolled up for a quick little snack. It's one of the 5 essential food groups in my house. Or it was. Now, if I want a piece of turkey, I've got to nuke the heck out of it first. Can you say ewww?

Wine. Alcohol as a whole is a no no, but the only adult beverage I really miss is wine. I like everything about wine. I enjoy shopping for it - reading all the little descriptors at the store to see what sounds tasty. I love the hollow popping sound the bottle makes when the cork comes out. And of course, drinking it. There's just something so relaxing about curling up with a nice glass of wine after a long, hard day. Grape juice in a wine glass? Not the same thing.

But, I have to admit - there's one huge plus to being pregnant. Well, there are a lot of them, but one I'm loving the most right now. Are you ready for it?

It's elastic waistbands. This is one time in your life when there's absolutely no shame in wearing nice, comfy pants. All the time. They even make special lycra bands you can use to hold your jeans up when you can't button them anymore. Get that? It's okay not to button your jeans.

It's paradise. Really it is.

Who, Me? A Mommy?

It was 6:25 a.m. on a Saturday. It was, in other words, many hours before I intended to leave my cozy nest of a bed. In fact, I’d been determinedly ignoring my hungry, howling cats for an hour, but when the dog stuck his cold nose in my face and sneezed, I gave up. I stumbled out of bed and stomped down the stairs, snarling “I really hate you guys right now. Hate, HATE, HATE you, you hear me?”

And that’s when it struck me.

Oh my God, I’m going to be a mommy.

What kind of mommy tells her children she hates them?

Holy crap, I’m going to be a Bad Mommy.

In theory, I’d already known I was pregnant for several weeks. But since no one knew but my husband, pregnancy seemed more like a never-ending case of the flu than the beginning of a life-changing event.

But as I sobbed my heart out at the kitchen table, reality set in. Soon, I’d be wholly responsible for another little person—and my every action would have an impact on their life. Every cross word, black-hearted glare and snide remark could be the one that sends them to therapy in their adult years.

I resolved to be a nicer person after that. A better person. One who could conceivably be viewed as capable of raising a child—hopefully one without too big of a risk of becoming a serial killer.

It’s several weeks later now, and things are still a little touch and go. I haven’t cussed at my pets lately. But I have snarled at my husband more than once or twice. I’m starting to feel excited now, even overjoyed. And although I haven’t met my baby yet, I already love her (or him) with a ferocity that surprises me.

But those moments of panic? They still sneak up on me. I’ll be minding my own business, flipping channels on the TV, when with a suddenness that stops my heart, I remember—I’m going to be a mommy. Who the heck thought that was a good idea?