Sprout and About

We have been given a cut-off (or should that be cut-OUT?) date for Sprout - if she does not grace us with her presence by the twenty-fifth, then we will go in and fetch her.

While I'd like to let her come in her own time, I have to say...my body, if not my mind, is ready.

Meanwhile, we play the waiting game.

Yesterday we drove up to the art co-op where Mum was waiting for us. With the gallery closing(sniff), they had to move a slew of furniture and had scads of pieces (did you know a Scad was a fish??) they needed to be rid of. One of those pieces was/is a bookshelf that now resides in Sprout's room thanks to Mum's overworked wallet and Someone's strong back and arms. I like it - it's nice and sturdy and has plenty of room for us to fill it with books.

Today I'm going grocery shopping to stock up on things that are easy to fix, both regular foods and microwave/Evil Genius friendly stuff.

I'm also going to pack my suitcase and shower bag, clean the van, install the car seat, and get the suitcases stowed in there so we don't have to worry about grabbing them should Sprout choose her entrance time rather than let us escort her out.

I also hope to finish taking down the holiday decorations (outdoor stuff - inside's done) and get them stowed.

Why so busy?

Well...I can't quite explain it...but we're thinking maybe Sprout isn't going to wait until the twenty-fifth. She has dropped quite a bit in the last few days - that means (for the uninitiated) that she is riding lower down in my belly now. I can feel her head pressing in my pelvic area. There aren't' any signs of impending labor, not even the tiny little practice contractions that are normal in most pregnancies, but Someone and I both agreed last night...we may be Sprouting sooner than we thought.

Of course, we could be wrong, and left to her own devices she won't come out until May. Babies are contrary like that.

Still.

Better safe than sorry.

So...quick gut-check - whatcha think? Will we have an early Sprout, a late Sprout, or one who pops put exactly on time?

It Ain't Exactly MTV Fodder

We got the crib put together last night.

You know a relationship can survive if you can assemble furniture together. We did fine...didn't even grump at each other. No "No, no, you're suppose to put the cam-bolt whatsie in the flanged doodle in a COUNTER clockwise manner!" and no "Wait wait, we were suppose to unscrew the fiddlebinger AFTER we locked the springbinger, not BEFORE!!".

It helps that Someone has a nifty screwdriver set that will pretty much handle any size, shape, or temperament of bolt, screw, or other furniture/assembly torture device imaginable. Gotta love a man who knows how to use his tools. Ahem.

Rook tested the finished product and declared herself satisfied with the results. She was less pleased when she was rather sternly reminded that this was Sprout's bed, not hers. I see a wet pile of kitty hork in my foot's future...

So, here's the crib:

Yes, the walls are plain - I figure once the kid gets her hands on a box of crayons, she'll take care of the decor, so why spend money on it now??

Four weeks to go...eeep...

It Hardly Seems Fair

It started around the sixteenth week - a little flutter that could easily pass for butterflies in the stomach, a case of nerves.

Unless one had experienced it before, and knew better.

Movement. Life. A small collection of cells slowly but steadily growing into something that less and less resembles a gummi bear or alien and more and more looks like a human being. Waving tiny arm and leg nubs, uncontrolled, reflexive motions that were barely perceptible but with huge impact.

The first time you feel the baby move within...it's surreal. Indescribable. Suddenly, you are aware of that living thing in a way you were not before.

While I can honestly say that hearing the heartbeat is the concrete moment...the instant it is driven home that there's a baby...the first motion is special in its own way.

From that point on, about sixteen weeks in, I have been aware of her in there. Long before she was showing herself by stretching my midsection out and up, I was aware. Her friendly little wriggles and flutters would come at odd moments, giving me pause. These little reminders of her presence were for me alone - no one else could possibly have felt them, yet.

Now, with less than five weeks to go, she's much more pronounced. Mum could see her moving from across the room! It has only been a few weeks since Someone could put his hand on my distended abdomen and feel his daughter rolling, stretching, kicking, or boxing in there. His smile was magic...sweet, full of wonder and delight. Now he likes to rest his hand or head there, talk to her, feel her elbow me (and, by extension, him).

Her motion is more purposeful, now - she pushes back when she's pushed upon, stretches out her arms and legs, rolls to one side or another, all in preparation for the day when she is no longer cushioned safely (if somewhat claustrophobically) within her mother but is out here in the light and air.

Sometimes she moves so emphatically, I wonder if she's taken up Irish dance! She is especially fond of the wee hours, rearranging her furniture at two or three in the morning. Her head is resting near my bladder, and from time to time she'll head-butt me, make me jump a little. Zing!

Although I often feel stretched beyond popping of late, I love to feel her rolling around in there. When the specialist was worried about size, about growth and maybe having a very early baby if things didn't improve...it was reassuring to feel the Sprout dancing about. Like she was telling me "I'm fine, Mama, don't you worry 'bout me!"

There are many aspects of pregnancy that are less than delightful...more than a few I dodged in both pregnancies, like morning sickness, high blood pressure, food aversions or cravings, constipation, anemia...there's the heartburn that wakes me nightly, side effect of having my insides rearranged and squashed mercilessly by the current interior decorator; there's the difficulty sleeping - between butt cramps (yes, butt cramps), hands going numb at odd times, and the feeling that I need a hoist or sky hook or huge spatula to turn over, sleep is not easy or terribly restful; there's the feeling that someone has seriously turned up the gravity around me, making any movement difficult and a few motions downright uncomfortable (I can sit on the floor, but getting up again ain't pretty, and stairs are NOT my friend at the moment); there are a variety of odd little aches and pains that can't be stretched or rested away and that twinge throughout the day as a reminder that I have added the weight of bearing a child to my frame.

The glow, the joy, doesn't last forever, and I am well into the stage when it has faded into extreme awareness of every cell in my body and what it's doing. I have never been much of one for looking into mirrors - I don't like what I see, why look? - and right now it's all the more difficult. All the weight I lost before I became pregnant has returned...and while more than one person has asked if I've lost weight, I feel...ponderous. I can't have lost weight, unless I'm having a forty-pound baby...which would be impressive but, erm...no thanks.

Still...I get to feel her. I can get her to move by pushing in certain places or playing certain music. I swear, she wriggles in response to certain foods, as well! While Someone can see her growing, can feel her on my surface...it's not the same. I often feel quite sorry that the other person who helped make this life only gets to experience a small part of her first months, the ones spent in the womb. That is mine, and mine alone...and it hardly seems fair.

Let Me Explain...No, Wait, That Will Take Too Long...Let Me Sum Up

To write it out in detail would just take longer than I'm willing to give it, so here's a summary of how this day has felt to me:

I'm sitting on the edge of the couch to type this. Normally I'd be cross-legged, but I'm too big for that right now. My feet slide off.

I'm wearing size ten granny undies because that's all that fits...I was big anyway, and they don't make plus-sized maternity clothes. As with wedding dresses, I guess fat chicks are SOL. Thank the Goddess no one will ever want to marry me again, so I don't have to endure THAT hell.

I had to squeeze into my size ten socks because my feet are poofy and look more like potato dumplings than feet.

The 3XL shirt I'm in is too tight, but I don't have a bigger one to wear right now. I look like an overstuffed blue sausage. It ain't pretty.

The seat belt in the truck wouldn't fasten around me the first three times I tried. I had to sort of stretch myself upward and pull hard, and it hurt like a bitch for the whole ride.

Every time I go up or down the stairs, I sigh or grunt. Ditto for when I sit down on or get up from the floor. Bending over? Is a process. It also ain't pretty.

My belly hits the shower wall when I wash my hair. Yeah, it's a small shower, but geeze.

I hurt all over, inside and out, mentally, physically, and spiritually. No one seems to notice or care.

I feel fat, ugly, misshapen, ungainly, stupid, undesirable and unwanted right now.

My candy thermometer, the one I've had and loved for years, broke tonight. Oh, well...like my fat arse needs candy anyway.

That's pretty much how I'm ending my day.

At least the sunset was beautiful. And the baby keeps on wriggling, stretching, growing, and reminding me that (at least until she wises up and realizes she has a choice in the matter) she will love me as only babies can, if I can just hold out a few more weeks.

Sew What if I'm A Quilter?

Yeah, yeah.

Anyway, I finished Sprout's quilt last week, but only just got the photos loaded onto old Bob the Wonder Computer.

The look on Someone's face isn't a reflection of his feelings for the quilt - he is making a social commentary about the scent of seven-year-old-boy feet. Either that or the Evil Genius farted.

The quilt is 100% cotton, a sort of pinwheel/windmill square made from pink and green fabrics, with purple paisley sashing (strips of fabric between the blocks). The backing (which I didn't photograph) is more purple paisley, but it's just a tiny bit different.

See, I got the fabrics for the front a few weeks ago, but the back? I've had that in my stash for almost a decade. I love that fabric. It's busy and gaudy and horrid and not at all my color or style and I love it. So I bought a big piece of it way back when it first made my mouth water but couldn't bring myself to cut it.

It looks essentially the same, until you get in close...then you can see slight differences in shading, but I dig the weirdness of it, and how the backing has a tiny bit more pink and green than the paisley on the front, so it echoes all the colors.

I was feeling lazy, so rather than quilting (which I have to do by hand when I do it, because my machine is cranky and doesn't take kindly to layers), I tied it with pale purple pearlized cotton. I may quilt it one day, but it'll do for now.

In case you can't tell, the pink has a looping line on it that makes hearts, and the green has a sort of leaf-and-vine on it...and the leaves are tiny hearts.

Now if we can get the bolts for the crib (still waitin' on those), I'll be able to make up her bed and get Sprout's room in order.

Taking Stock

Whew, it was windy today. No kidding, a pair of skates and a sheet would have gotten me where I needed to go a lot faster than the van. With a little lift, I'd have been airborne walking through the parking lot!

I had a doctor's appointment at eight this morning. Eight! Y'all, I'm usually still asleep (or trying to be) at eight. Aww, don't get mad at me...I often go to bed after two in the morning, so eight isn't as late as it sounds.

They did the NST (Non Stress Test), and we'll be having them every week from now until Sprout pops out. That's when they wrap a funny little belt with a sensor on it around my middle and a fancy machine reads Sprout's movements and how her heart rate changes as she does the Cha-Cha in there. I don't like the time they take, but I am rather find of the comfy chair...I dozed in it, this morning. Some day, I will have a recliner again...and you watch, I'll have a butt groove worn into in no time.

I potzed a little in the kitchen and in the Blue Nowhere when I got home, played some board games with the Evil Genius, got some turkey stock on the stove, took a nap, ran some errands, came home and put the finishing touches on a pot o' soup.

Want a quick tutorial on making stock? Too bad, you're getting one anyway.

My favorite stock:

The remains of a turkey or chicken that you made for dinner a night or three ago.
Three or four celery stalks, washed.
Three or four carrots, scrubbed but not peeled
A slice or two of onion.
Salt.
Pepper.
Water.

Place bird leavin's (if there's meat on the bones, leave it - you can always use it later for soup), celery, carrots, and onion slices in a large pot. Fill with water just until the contents are covered. Add a good shake or five of salt and a few grinds or shakes of pepper - don't worry, you can always add more later.

Place over medium heat just until it begins to boil, then turn it down and let it simmer. how long? Umm...I have no idea. I let mine go until the scent drives me mad and fills the house with its goodness...or about half the day. A few hours, at least.

Let it cool - sometimes, when I'm pressed for time, I put the whole pot in the fridge to deal with another day. If you do that, just bring it to a simmer again, let it cool, and you're good to go.

Pour the contents through a strainer into a large bowl or another pot. Refrigerate the liquid overnight, or at least for a few hours. You want the fat to rise to the top and solidify so you can easily skim it off.

If you want to make soup, pick the meat off the bones and save it, then discard the rest of the solids.

Once you skim the fat off the stock, you can decant it into containers and freeze it for bloody ever. Really, I've had stock for a year or so before using it, and it was fine. Aside from the obvious (soup), you can use stock for cooking rice, lentils, beans, making gravy, mashed potatoes, pasta sauce, and anything else that requires savory liquids in the cooking.

I'll post a soup recipe some other day...this post got long on me! Meanwhile, I think I'll go throw a few biscuits in the oven and enjoy some of the turkey soup I made this evening...good winter food for a chilly night, eh?

Do you have a favorite soup?

Parenthood

Yesterday afternoon, the Evil Genius and I found ourselves watching a movie. We'd met my sister-out-law J, and Bird's dad T for breakfast, come home and done a few chores, and I needed a little break...so I turned on the TV in the middle of the day. I haven't done that in a while, but I was tired of cleaning and shuffling toys, and the mess will be there tomorrow or the next day when I'm ready to clean it up.

So we watched Parenthood.

I adore that movie.

Of course, one has a different take on the film depending upon where one is in life...and right now I'm a mum, I'm pregnant, and I'm hormonal, so I got sniffly and a little scared and kinda thoughtful.

It reminded me of something I told Mum a few years ago. Story time...

A few years back there was a spate of storms that ripped through the Southeastern US, including our little corner of Redneck Central. These storms were quite rude, waiting until the wee hours when folks were asleep to come and party, sending tornadoes this way and that and wreaking havoc.

One tornado thought to pay a call on Big Brother's neighborhood. It missed his his house by a bit, although it did knock down all his trees on its way by. As the storm approached his house, he thought to call Mum and warn her. He told her to call me, too, as he was herding his family into their storm closet and he figured I'd need a heads up.

Mum ended the call, looked at the clock, and went back to sleep. She called me later the next morning.

She knew I didn't need a warning. Never mind why.

When she called and told me about her wee-hours call, she asked "What was he thinking??"

I told her "You're Mommy. No matter how old we get, no matter where we are or what we're doing, you'll always be Mommy. It never ends."

At once exhilarating and terrifying...because it is so very true. No matter how old I get, when things go bad or I need reassurance or comfort, I reach for Mum. I dread the day she's not there, reaching back.

Not matter how old he gets or where his life takes him, the Evil Genius will always be my sweet boy, my heart, my best good thing. Don't get me wrong...the Sprout will be my sweet girl, my heart, and my best good thing. Mums can do that...bend the physics of love around our children any way we like, redefine vocabulary to suit our reality.

I hope that, when my children are "grown", I am as good a mother as my Mum is to me. Gods know, I lean hard on her, more often than I'd like...and although she gets tired, sometimes, of propping me up...still, she does. Because she's Mum...Mommy...Ma...

And that's a job title that we never lose.

Wait, I have HOW Long??

If all goes according to the norm (and we all know better than to hold our breath for that eventuality), I'll have a baby in about eleven weeks.

Oh. My. Blessed. Gods. And. Ancestors.

Um.

So not ready.

There's a room, true. It's even clean. There's a piece of art waiting to be framed and put on the wall. There are some of Bird's old toys and books nestled into the rack of bins I bought and assembled two weeks ago week.

There's the diaper pail I still had from Bird's infancy, just in need washing because it's been in the garage all these years (don't ask).

There are a couple of outfits in the closet - some bigger things and three or four newborn sized items, including the one outfit I (finally) bought for her even though I really couldn't spare the cash but damn it, I needed to have something, anything, that I got for her in the closet. There's the little pack of nappies that the clinic gave us.

There's...erm...yeah, that's about it.

While Someone's sister will be giving us a crib (she had twins a couple of years ago, but they never slept much in their cribs and have outgrown them - score one for us!!), and my dear friend M has offered us her youngest's outgrown stroller/car seat combo...they're not here yet. Yes, I know they're coming...but they're not here now.

There's no dresser, either - I prefer a dresser to a changing table, as I'm tall and most changing tables are inches too low for comfort - bending over to change nappies for the next few years is not appealing.

Sprout's room echoes.

We have no bedding - some is on offer from another friend, I just have to collect it. No socks, no little mittens to prevent baby fingernails from scratching delicate baby face, no bottles or wipes or diaper ointment, no burp cloths or changing pads or....

Excuse me, I can't seem to catch my breath...

It's simple, really - in the end, we will make do with what we have. Even if there was no crib, we have several laundry baskets that would do just fine to begin with. Oh, stop looking so horrified - what, you think back in the dark ages people all had nurseries? They used what they had. Towels we have a-plenty, they can double as burp cloths and changing pads. We don't really need the pack-n-play...they're right handy to have, don't get me wrong, but we can get along fine without one.

I can buy a bottle at the grocery store for a couple of bucks, and we only really need one - it can be washed as often as necessary. Honestly, I'm hoping that this time (TMI alert) I won't have to resort to formula...that maybe this time my stupid boobs will cotton on to what's expected from them and I can feed my kid without having to open a can or heat water.

She'll be born in the winter - all I need is a good blanket (and between me, Mum, and other folks I know who knit, crochet, and sew, we have that covered)(Hah! Covered!) to keep her warm.

I've been through this once before...I know how much we DON'T need. A wipes warmer? Really?? A special bottle rack for the dishwasher...umm...no thanks. An ergonomically designed, infant-sized bathtub? What's wrong with the kitchen sink?? Color coded, age specific toys that rattle, squeak, crinkle, and stimulate baby's mental development? No need...I've been saving my empty thread spools and can string them on a bootlace. She'll be entertained for months, trust me...

I'm not trying to whine, here. I am feeling a little overwhelmed. My house is a mess and Someone's mom is coming for Thanksgiving. That's only a couple of weeks away. I'd like it to be possible for someone who isn't a contortionist to walk through the living room or down the hallway. I'd like to have a slightly smaller dust-critter population and floors that don't look like we're collecting petrified cat hork in our spare time. I'd like to have clean bathrooms and a dining room table that we can, you know, dine at. Actually seeing the top surface of the kitchen table would be a bonus.

Then there's Yule, then Christmas, then...

Uh...breathing...breathing...whew...

There's more weighing on my mind, but I think I'll just spare you.

Right now I'm just muddling along, cleaning a little here, a little there, doing what I can and trying not to dwell too much on how much I can't...because ready or not, in about eleven weeks (I hope), there will be a new resident at Casa de Crazy, adding to the joyful chaos...

Oh My God It's Moving Toward Us!

Twenty-eight weeks in, almost twenty-nine. We're in the viable delivery (although still terribly complicated) zone.

This past Wednesday I had my weekly appointment with the specialist. He started seeing me weekly in September, when he determined that (TMI alert) I had low amniotic fluid and the Sprout was "small".

Umm.

Define "small", please.

He really couldn't...but eventually, through a visit with my regular OB's office, I got some numbers, something for me to latch onto. I like information...lots and lots of information...to help me figure out what's not right and how to deal with it. The specialist is used to working with women who have some pretty severe problems (either with their own health or with foetal development), women who face terrible choices and information overload and may be overwhelmed by it all. He tends to play things a little close to the vest to keep us from worrying ourselves sick...but in my case, I worry when I don't know. We've gotten better at communicating with each other these last few weeks.

So...small.

She started out measuring (give or take - there's a margin of error even with these marvelous modern machines) in the sixth percentile. That means that out of one-hundred babies, she would be the sixth smallest. Small.

M'kay.

Small enough that he began bandying about ideas like "It's better to deliver at twenty-five weeks and maybe have a live baby than to have a baby that stops growing and have a still birth." Oh. Uh...yeah...

The low fluid was worrying, too.

I don't know what the unit of measurement is - ounces, litres, cups, drops, squirrels - but I know the number he gave to my fluid level. Seven.

So he decided to see me every week, and measure the baby every two weeks (it's pointless to measure every week because the margin of growth would be somewhat negated by the margin of error)(at least, that's what I think he was saying- I'm not entirely convinced he wasn't speaking in tongues).

Next time she was eleventh percentile, fluid level unchanged.

Then twenty-third percentile, fluid still at seven whatsies.

This week, there was more fluid. Apparently a lot more. In a happy way. He decided not to measure her but to wait an extra week because she's looking...erm...average.

I'll take it. For once, I'll take average as being exceptional. He'll measure her again next week...and I'm hoping to hear something close to fiftieth percentile and normal fluid levels. Despite their predictions, I would really like to carry to term. I don't want a holiday baby, or one too close to Bird's birthday, and I'd really like to NOT have another Capricorn in the house (which means after January 20, thankyouverymuch). Yeah, yeah...

Meanwhile...back at the closet...

My clothing is usually loose and comfortable, but not right now. I'm wearing some hand-me-down maternity pants (thanks K) and my big-girl jeans, and some days I still feel like an over-stuffed sausage. I'm tellin' ya, I'm reaching house-like proportions, here.

I feel huge. Ungainly. I feel sorry for the stairs when I go up and down - I don't blame them for creaking. I feel like handlers with long ropes should be maneuvering me past parade crowds in New York City.

Small, my Aunt Fanny! I'm having Gigantor the Mega Baby, I just know it...

Thoughtfetti

Preggo edition.
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Why do people think "pregnant" means "incapacitated"? I am perfectly capable of lifting a bag (or ten) of groceries. When I was preggers with Bird, around this time I was two months recovered from an emergency appendectomy and still tossing cases of water and fifty-pound bags of ice over a twelve-foot fence while working twenty-hour days running worker hospitality for an international auto race. Trust me, if I'm tired, I'll rest...meanwhile, let me go about my business...please?
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Why do people think it's OK to touch the belly? First of all, right now the only folks who can tell I'm knocked up are the people who know what my middle usually looks like on a daily basis. I still fit in my regular britches, for the love of Pete! You wouldn't usually wander up and fondle a random stranger's parts, would you? Why does a baby bump change that? It's not that I'm trying to be a bitch about it...but I'm a depressed, OCD-ing, agoraphobic, claustrophobic xenophobe...it's a kind of Hell to be out in public, let alone to have people I DON'T KNOW freakin' touching me!!
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I'm not sleeping well at night...not because of heartburn or illness or because I can't get comfortable....no....it's because knocked up women aren't supposed to sleep on their backs (and I don't like to, anyway). So I sleep on my side. And lately, when I sleep on my side...I lose all feeling in my hands. Sleep on right side, numb right hand. Sleep on left side, numb left hand. What the Hell??
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Why can't I remember things? It's related to pregnancy...my friends and I have all laughed over it and named it "preggo brain". I've missed several doctor's appointments because I wrote them on the wrong day in two calendars (not one...two!). I've had to reschedule several other appointments because I've made them for days when I'm going to be out of town or otherwise busy. If I don't have a comprehensive list, I will bring nothing useful home from the grocery store. If all I need are eggs, apples, and toilet paper, without a list I'll bring home Oreos, catnip, and balloons. Why? You should hear me fishing for words. I draw blanks constantly and have to play a sort of word-charades to find something as simple as "sponge". Again...why??
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Got a call from the specialist this morning - second round of tests came in normal, chromosomes all bright and shiny and in the right places in the right numbers, so small baby is just...small. Considering a baby's usual method of egress, is small really such a bad thing?

Looking Forward

It's September 11, and all over the Blue Nowhere folks are writing about what happened on this date in 2000.

While I remember clearly what I was doing when I found out, and how I felt, and how the nation reacted...I'm not writing about it beyond this opening.

We've moved past our sense of unity over the tragedy and have become fractured once more by opinion and politics, and I'm just not that into those games.

Instead, I'm cleaning up the Evil Genius's toy room, bit by bit, to make a room for the baby.

The space began as a spare bedroom, morphed into my sewing room, then was transformed only last February into a room for all of the Little Dude's playthings. How did he get so many dang toys? I clearly recall asking both families to please, please not give him a bunch of toys, but rather to give books, educational items, contributions to his savings account, or playthings with some kind of skill involved (Legos, K'Nex, that sort of thing)(which reminds me, did you know K'Nex has a DNA model you can build? Holy carp, I want one!!).

There was also a ban on things that run on batteries, make noise (especially without volume control) and video games. Branded items were right out, and I made it clear that if it involved Veggie Tales, Barney, or Wonder Pets, it would never make it into our house - I would burn it without hesitation. Few listened, it seems, and now we have a room full of...erm...crap, really. Cheap plastic crap that breaks easily but can't be thrown away because he loves it and cries and it breaks my heart, so I have to wait until he's not home for a few days (rare) and bin things, then hope he doesn't notice.

He's been helping me today, sorting through train things (and a huge thank to my Mum, who said we could bring the GeoTrax up to her place and let him play with them in her loft since there's nowhere in Casa de Crazy for him to set them up, any more) and taking apart the K'Nex roller coaster. I can't convince him to let me get rid of the train table, though...sigh...it may have to have an unfortunate accident...

While I don't have anything to put in the room yet, it's only because we haven't collected the things generously offered by friends and family. There's a crib waiting in Something Carolina, and a stroller/travel system and possibly a pack 'n' play here in Georgia waiting to be fetched home. If I can manage it, I will get new dressers for both rooms - the Evil Genius's has been on the receiving end of some serious little-boy play and isn't terribly steady on its feet, but it was the perfect height for changing nappies. I'm tall, and most changing tables are too short for me to use over the long run. I'd like to give him a new one and maybe find one for the baby's room that'll suit our needs.

I want to make a space in our home for this baby.

I'm worried...and will continue to be concerned until s/he is out and squalling his/her lungs out, running us ragged and being a perfectly healthy, normal little beast.

I'm trying to curtail the fear by being proactive, by focusing on something positive, by looking forward. The past is behind me. I cannot do anything about it. I have no choice but to dwell in the here and now...but tomorrow? Hasn't been shaped, yet...so I can look at it in whatever light I choose.

Still A Sprout

We went to the neonatologist's today - nothing special, just a regular visit (I have to go because I'm considered high-risk). We were hoping to find out what flavor we're having, but the baby - typical of one of us - was not cooperating, maintaining the absolute worst position is could be in for determining sex. Sigh. The doc said all he could tell us is that there's a baby in there, and it has a perfectly lovely heartbeat...and it weighs five ounces, which can't be right because the scale says I've put on much more than that and clearly I am having Gigantor the Mega Baby. He did say he should be able to see better next month, so we'll just have to wait to find out if it's a bud or a chick pea. Double sigh.

I know I haven't been posting much of late. While I could blame Facebook and its attendant distractions, the truth is I haven't had much writing in me. I've been stressing about the usual things, and the unusual things, and generally not feeling awfully creative. As soon as I win the lottery, I'm sure I'll be back to my old self...only on a new computer (Bob's feeling his age, poor thing) in a motor home, touring the country and making surprise visits to my as-yet-online-only friends (without warning, because why give them time to run??). Meanwhile, the two or three of you (bless your hearts) who still read...thanks for hangin' in there!

Bra, Bra, Bra, Yackety, Schmackety

This post was inspired by a post over at The QC Report. She is brilliant and funny and has no idea I exist. This post is an expanded version of my comment on her post about the Bad Bra.
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I have one bra. Yes, one. It is a perfectly nice bra. I don't wear it. It was purchased in a fit of optimism one day when I thought I might lose enough weight to finally fit into a bra. You see, I am rather on the plus size of the weight issue, but am not blessed in the bazooms...unlike most of the other well-padded women I know who could carry books on their shelves. No one makes a bra that fits someone big around but tiny in the cup. So I lost some weight and thought maybe I'd lose some more and be able to fit into this perfectly nice bra. Alas, it still does not fit, and so I am braless for the duration.

I am usually content with this braless life (most of the time no one even notices my lack of over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder, I can run without needing a truss or fearing injury, I don't have as much to fear from the dreaded boob-sweats, they don't migrate into my armpits when I'm sleeping, and I need less soap in the shower), but every now and then I think it might be nice if I could look toward an elderhood wherein I don't have to worry about kneeling on my nipples. Even my tiny ta-tas will droop. In fact, I know they're not as...erm...perky...as they once were, and they display an alarming penchant for gazing forlornly downward at my feet rather than alertly out at the world as they once did.

When I was pregnant with the Evil Genius, I had high hopes that the Boob Fairy would come calling and present me with one of the badges of motherhood - breasticles! She must not have gotten the memo, though, because my wee ones remained anything but plus in size and even refused to function for my poor little guy, who had to be content with formula and longing glances at other, functioning, racks-of-mom.

While I'm told every pregnancy is different and things may change this time, I'm not holding my breath or buying a bra...heck even if they double or triple in size, my mazulagalagawangas won't need a supporting cast...an ace bandage will do just fine!

Telling Silence

It's been a couple of weeks since Someone and I announced, in various ways and through various mediums, that we're expecting. Yes, we...I didn't make this bambino alone, it's a group project.

We tried to call folks who ought t be told in person but don't live in or near Redneck Central, like Mum and Mum2 (Someone's Mum) and fathers and siblings. We e-mailed where necessary, either because phones weren't answered or because we knew the news would be faster received, and then chose a way that would announce it, with a bit of whimsy, to the rest of the world that might be interested - that silly bear photo.

We've had varying responses to the news, from stunned silence to grins and cries of "congratulations". One or two folks have been a wee grim at the idea. That's OK...I have concerns of my own that are being allayed as each test comes back normal.

What I find interesting...and, if I'm being honest, disheartening...are the silences. A few key people have said...nothing. No phone call, no e-mail...not even a "What the Hell are you thinking???"

I can understand disapproval. We're not exactly the cultural norm here at Casa de Crazy. A few folks have had the chutz to grow a pair and speak their piece, and I appreciate that. I'd rather really know what someone's thinking than be wondering if they're just making nice. I prefer honesty, honestly. But to say nothing? Weeks after receiving a call or e-mail? What the Hell is that about?

Is it a sincere case of "Eh, who cares?"? Is it supposed to convey some message? One case in particular, I know they got the e-mails. They would have had a phone call, but it went straight to voicemail and I know leaving a message is an exercise in futility. I know they've been online - thank you, AOL buddy list. So what's up?

Yesterday did not start well. I woke full of doubt. I decided, at one point, that I wasn't getting out of bed - why bother? At least if I didn't get out of bed, I couldn't fuck anything up. I cried...a lot. Pregnant women are already riding hormone highs and lows...couple that with depression and a few other factors and you have...umm...not much fun, that's what.

I was convinced that this poor little chickpea (cheers, Mizz Rene) would be damaged in some way, because of me.

And then I began to think about the resounding lack of response, the silence from certain quarters. It shouldn't bother me, but yesterday was the kind of day where it's all personal...and I told Someone (who was doing his level best to help me feel better about things) "It sure would have been nice to have hear from ___, even a negative response. It would be nice to think I had some value to them."

He didn't have an answer for that...who would?...but he held me and that was enough.

The day improved, especially after a phone call from the doctor's office, telling me that certain key tests came back normal. Whew.

As for the people who've said nothing? Their silence does speak. It tells me they can't be bothered. Their loss.
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So here's where I am a pest. The contest is still on, and you can vote every day, so wouldja? Puhleeeeze?? Vote for me here: ...:Read my Medium Raw challenge essay: It's not always about the ingredients, is it? Thanks!!

What Have We Here?

Ladies and gentlemen, we here at Casa de Crazy are pleased to show you what we've been up to for the last 11 weeks, 4 days:

It's a...it's a...umm...a bean? Well, I'm calling it Sprout until we know if it's an innie or an outie. Although, it DOES have something of a resemblance to a gummi bear. Hmm...

We invaded went to the perinatologist's office this afternoon, and they investigated the wee one as best they could, which was fairly thorough (I'll spare you the details). So far, they said, so good...but until all the usual blood tests come back and a few weeks go by (when they can take an even better look), we won't know for certain that all is perfectly...er...well, I'd say normal, but this IS my fetus we're talking about here, and normal is relative. And since s/he's my relative, poor bairn...

We heard the heartbeat. That's what drove home the reality when I was preggers with Bird - hearing that hummingbird whub-whub-whub and seeing the shadowy bits and pieces on the screen. The same with Sprout, up there...it became real when I heard the heart going along at a healthy 178 beats per minute, saw the little legs kicking about, saw the hands moving.

I don't mind admitting, I nearly cried.

I also don't mind admitting feeling a tremendous relief...and while I'll worry about the blood tests (for Down's and Trisomy-18 and a host of other things) and the next ultrasound (in five weeks or so), I feel much better about things.

I'm hoping that the next time they look at the little beggar, we'll know what flavor we've got in there.

Meanwhile, I have dinner to cook, and dishes to do, and a movie to watch with Someone, so I'll wish y'all a good-whatever-time-of-day-you're-reading-this and get to it.

Cheers!

Today's Mantra

Everything is always exactly as it should be, when it should be; the Universe is a perfect creation, and we are all expressions of that perfection.

So...yeah...

This Post Brought to You By: Hormones, Nature's Little (Mood) Swingers

I had my first real doctor's appointment yesterday, went to the OB. Woo-hoo, fun.

Eh, it's not all bad...a nice fellow whom I've never met reached in up to his elbow and felt around for aliens, then said he thought I was farther along than the 11 weeks I should be. Huh. I don't think so...I'm very careful about keeping track of...er...things.

He wanted to do an ultrasound, but after waiting forever about half an hour, there was still at least another half hour to go, and then labs to get, and I was hungry, thirsty, and needed to get home so K2 (who was sweet enough to come watch Little Dude) could get home, so I was disinclined to hang around counting ceiling tiles. They allowed as how it could wait, because they wanted to refer me to a specialist, anyway. Yay, specialist.

You see, I'm 38, unemployed, uninsured, overweight and diabetic. Not that the deck's stacked or anything. Anyway, apparently those things put me in the "high risk" category, so to a specialist I go. He will check for such delightful things as whether or not my blood sugar levels have damaged the baby's heart (now there's a guilt trip waiting to happen), and whether or not my age and the likely stale nature of my eggs has relegated the peanut to a genetically undesirable category of human. Sigh.

Cheerful, huh?

And you know, pregnant women cry at freakin' coffee commercials, for goodness' sake...so you KNOW that I'm going to be worrying until I KNOW what's going on down there in the mysterious otherworld of the womb. I'm not delighted at the delay in getting the medication I need to control my blood sugar - see, pregnant women can't take the oral meds. I have to go on insulin...and for that I have to wait until I see this new doc.

Fortunately, I have an appointment tomorrow afternoon. I wish it would hurry up and never get here.

Yeah, I'm scared. What if something I've done, or not done, has meant this poor little critter is all mangled up? What if I eat or drink or do the wrong things, and the wee mite gets damaged because of my carelessness, ignorance, or stupidity? What if this baby taxes my own system to the extent that I damage something I need to live? What if, what if, what if...

Sigh.

I've danced to this tune once before and came out fine...as did the Little Dude...and I know that whatever comes, Someone and I will deal with it together.

Despite my concerns, I must say...I get a goofy little smile when I think about this tadpole swimmin' around in the great, murky me. I'm hoping for the best and getting weepy at the same time, but hey, I'm pregnant, and that's the way the hormones tumble.