Month 7: Earth to Mars

Every once in a while, a shocking thought occurs to me: I am raising a boy. A BOY. I have nothing against boys in general. I grew up with one. I was raised by one. I married one. I’ve been friends with a whole bunch of ’em throughout my life.

Maybe it’s because of my familiarity with the male gender that I’m worried about what’s in store for me as Miles gets older. There’s just no denying that boys are different. They act differently than girls do, they think differently, they pee differently …

Listen, I’m not one to perpetuate gender stereotypes. I jump down C.’s throat whenever he says some baseball player “throws like a girl.” I bought my niece-to-be plenty of non-pink clothes. But you can’t argue with hard evidence.

My mom likes to talk about how it was fashionable in the ’70s to give toy trucks to girls and baby dolls to boys. What happened? The boys would shoot at each other with the dolls and the girls would put the trucks to bed. And then there are the physical differences. If there’s an obstacle in their way, girls will daintily pick their way around it, while boys will barrel right on through it, my mom observed. She calls it the “Marine mentality.”

If you haven’t been forwarded that e-mail about raising boys, it’s pretty funny. Yet scary. Because I have no doubt it’s true. My husband, his brother and their friends used to jump off the roof into their swimming pool when their parents weren’t home. Can you say “lawsuit”?! The mere thought makes my hair gray.

Even when they’re grown up, boys are capable of baffling behavior. I’ve compiled a little list to start off the discussion. YES, these are all true, and NO, these are not all veiled references to my husband.

-- One guy told his wife he was “stopping by” a friend’s house after work (5 p.m.) and was annoyed when she called him at 10:30 p.m. to find out where the hell he was. “I told you I was stopping by a friend’s!” he says. Never mind the fact that his wife had been up with both children since 5 a.m. that morning and he hadn’t bothered to call home.

-- A mom came home from work to discover half a onesie hanging on the doorknob. Apparently, when faced with a diaper blowout of magnificent proportions, dad had decided the best course of action was to cut the dirty garment in half rather than pulling the poopy part over the baby’s head. OK, but did he have to hang it on the doorknob?!

-- One guy, with a baby on the way any day now, decides it’s a great time to buy a flat screen TV and spend all his free time – which could be spent, say, doing stuff that’s actually helpful – researching and shopping for the damn thing. Oh, and he also decided it’s the perfect time to scrape and repaint that lead-paint-covered radiator in their bedroom. Who cares if the car seat’s not installed yet and the crib’s still in the box?

-- Another dad fed his 6-mo.-old butternut squash while the baby was wearing his best white shirt, because dad claimed he couldn’t find any bibs even though there were two – count ’em, TWO – bibs directly beneath the sports section right there on the kitchen table in front of him.

-- Then there was the guy who unplugged the freezer full of breast milk to plug in the Shop-Vac … (OK, OK, C., I’m sorry! I know it was an accident and you felt horrible and apologized a million times over.)

Before anyone gets all up in arms about my man-bashing (some guys actually DO read this), I know we women do plenty of stupid and/or inexplicable things, too. But what do you know, I’m out of space! Darn. :)

TIP O’ THE WEEK: Keep a wet washcloth in a Ziploc bag in the freezer. Give the frozen cloth to your little one to chew on (take it out of the bag first) to soothe teething woes.

Month 7: In the Groove

You know how people are always saying that kids grow up so fast, so enjoy them while they’re little, because before you know it they’ll be teenagers, and boy are you in for it then, and you just want them to shut up because all you’re focused on right now is getting your baby to please, dear God, please sleep through the night for once? Well, it’s true, people. They do grow up fast.

OK, so my baby’s only 6 mos. old. Maybe that doesn’t make me an expert, per se. All I know is I saw a couple of newborns this past week and, oh my goodness, were they tiny. My friend JF’s baby, Laura, looks like a fragile little baby bird, all pink skin and stick legs. I was afraid to hold her, and I just had one of these things myself less than half a year ago! JF was asking me questions about sleeping and feeding and I honestly could not remember what Miles was like at one week old.

I know he once looked like Laura – we have the stick legs documented on film – but when I look at the photos now, it doesn’t even look like my son. I thought he was cute then, never imagining the beaming, shrieking, chubby-thighed baby he’d be in just 6 mos. I got a little misty looking at those newborns, I have to say. Then I saw their parents’ frazzled, dark-circled stares and thought, “I wouldn’t trade places with them in a million years.”

I finally feel like I’m getting the hang of this parenting thing. Oh, sure, I’m in tears weekly over something or other, and I still cling to “What to Expect the First Year” like it’s the Bible. But I actually feel much more relaxed and confident these days. I know how to make Miles laugh, and how to get him to stop crying (usually). I can tell his bored cry from his tired cry, and I can tell when he’s just about to lose it (the maniacal laughter is a sure sign). He’s much more predictable now. And when someone says “Mom,” I no longer look around for an older lady wearing sensible shoes. I’M Mom!

Not that I’m getting complacent. See, Miles is working on his first tooth. And he’s decided to go ahead and try to crawl. And he’s showing a keen interest in technology.(If you can call rolling over to the DVD player and kicking the buttons an interest in technology.) I’m just trying to keep up with him. And to enjoy every moment while he’s still small.

NEW FEATURE: TIP O’ THE WEEK: In an effort to make this blog, um, useful or something, I’ve decided to add a bit of practical advice to each entry. This week’s tip is to keep a stain stick on the changing table next to the diapers and wipes. The reason should be obvious.

Month 6: Giving Thanks

I’m a big fan of Thanksgiving. Surprising, perhaps, given that I’m a vegetarian and turkey is wasted on me. (People always ask me what I eat on Thanksgiving. I need a clever answer, like “Soy tacos. Duh!” Usually I just say, “Everything but the bird.”)

I like it because it’s a low-pressure holiday. There’s not all this build-up like there is to Christmas and New Year’s, which inevitably leave you feeling disappointed, stressed out, and/or hung-over. There’s no worrying about the perfect gift – Thanksgiving’s just all about food. And, you know, family and giving thanks and stuff.

I have so much to be thankful for this year. Number-one, of course, is my gorgeous, healthy, adorable baby boy. Not a day has gone by since his birth that I haven’t given thanks for him. Even those days when he’s working his way through a jumbo pack of Pampers and fighting tooth and nail against taking any nap whatsoever.

Here are some other things I’m thankful for:
A husband who’s happy to change diapers, wrestle with tiny onesies, get up at 3, 4, and 5 a.m. to soothe the baby back to sleep, make dinner occasionally, mop up the basement when it floods (again!), and countless other tasks. And I’m thankful that he gave our baby his big dark eyes and sunny disposition.

A family that gets as much joy out of our son as we do.

Friends who are more than generous with their hand-me-downs, advice, and willingness to listen.

My health, and the health of my family. I know enough people who’ve faced unspeakable health crises to not take it for granted for a single second.

Kind strangers who hold doors open for us moms struggling with strollers and unwieldy diaper bags.

New friends who reach out to us less-outgoing types.

A roof over my head, a warm bed each night, and enough food to feed my family.

The safe births of all my friends who’ve had babies recently. Welcome, Baby Laura and Baby Jack!

This list could go on and on. But I fear it would get sappy, and where’s the fun in that? Just so you don’t think I’ve gone totally sentimental, I’m also thankful for Tivo, Entertainment Tonight, and Starbucks gingerbread lattes.

Month 6: I Am Baby, Hear Me Roar

Miles has a new noise: “Aaaaaagggghhhhh!” It sounds like a cross between a lion's roar and a motorcycle missing a muffler. It’s very loud, and not the most pleasant sound in the world. (If only I knew how to post audio clips … ) And did I mention he makes this noise ALL DAY LONG? It’s bad enough at home, but he’s also done it in the library, a museum, a restaurant, and even at church. (Just once, thank God, but loud enough to draw giggles and stares from several members of the congregation.)

It’s got to be as hard on his throat as it is on my ears (and nerves). I have the only 5 1/2-month-old in the world with a smoker’s voice. The kid sounds like he has a pack-a-day habit. Aren’t babies supposed to coo?

Miles also has a new move. C. and I call it the Frogman. He rolls over onto his stomach and pumps his arms and legs like a surfer paddling out to a wave. He must be fixin’ to crawl, as our babysitter would say, but he hasn’t figured out that his hands and knees actually have to be in contact with the ground. That doesn’t slow him down, though. He’s happy to roll and kick and screech away all day long.

Miles is so happy and animated these days, it’s hard not to smile at him constantly, even when he’s embarrassing his parents in public. When C. goes in to get him in the mornings, Miles breaks into a huge grin. Sometimes he punctuates it with a happy screech. (Not to be confused with the more guttural motorcycle noise.)

Man, I love this baby. All that energy and personality rolled into a person who’s only been alive for approximately 150 days. (Which – coincidentally? – is the length of the warranty on our stroller, which broke down in the middle of downtown Washington, D.C. over the weekend. Guess Snap ‘n’ Go refers to the back wheel. Grrr …)

In other news, we bought a highchair since Miles is starting to eat solid food. It was like the crib-buying ordeal all over again – WAY too many brands, models, and features. And all of them rated "horrible" by at least one person on the Internet. We ended up going with Baby Bargains' top pick, in some crazy rainforest wonderland design. Some choice: tasteful understated deathtrap or gaudy plastic workhorse.

Breaking baby news: last week my friend D. gave birth to a girl! D.’s mom is our sitter, and she called one morning to say she wasn’t coming because D.’s water broke. Is it bad that my second thought after, “Yay, the baby’s coming at last!” was “Crap, no sitter for awhile”? Anyway, good luck to the new parents. May it be several months before their little angel starts frightening people on the street with her shrieks.

Month 6: Till Baby Do Us Part?

I’ll be the first to tell you that having a baby is great. In his few months on Earth, Miles has brought such joy not only to me and C., but to our friends and families as well. It’s so much fun to have a new reason to send out pictures and exchange e-mails with far-flung relatives. (Shout out to my aunt and uncle in California who are big fans of this blog!)

But it’s not all tummy kisses and giggles, people. A new baby is hard work. And it can be tough on a marriage. Just ask Britney Spears. (Why it took her this long to kick K-Fed to the curb is beyond me.) Now, before anyone freaks out and starts imagining Reese and Ryan scenarios, relax. C. and I are fine. I’m just saying, a baby can put a strain on even the strongest relationship.

For one thing, a baby takes a huge amount of time and attention, which, in your pre-baby life, was probably largely devoted to your significant other. I feel bad for my husband sometimes, because at the end of the day, I’m so sick of being physically attached to another person that I can’t even bear for someone to breathe on me. (That goes for C. and the dog. Except Gracie is a little less understanding about it.)

I’m also finding that the baby requires huge reserves of patience I didn’t even know I had. So naturally, I have less patience for other stuff. Like, say, C. leaving the lid open on the box of wipes EVERY SINGLE TIME he changes the baby’s diaper. Or flinging an article of clothing on the floor EVERY SINGLE TIME he changes his clothes. Or forgetting to raise the crib rail EVERY SINGLE TIME he puts the baby to bed. And can someone please explain to me the thought process that compels C. to place the baby’s dirty clothes ON TOP OF the hamper, but not IN the hamper?

I don’t mean to be bitchy. But that just seems to be my go-to mood lately. Chalk it up to 5+ months of interrupted sleep, being responsible for another person 24/7, financial stress from living on one income, loss of my pre-parent identity, whatever. All I know is, I’m usually not Miss Mary Sunshine these days. And while he tries to be understanding, C. bears the brunt of it.

Talk shows and magazines are full of all sorts of advice: “Schedule a regular date night with your husband,” “Keep the lines of communication open,” “Make time for yourself.” All good ideas in theory, sure. Except time and money and real life tend to get in the way.

As ridiculous as it sounds, I sometimes think if celebrities – with their personal trainers and chefs and nannies and spa vacations – can’t make it work, what chance do us mere mortals have? I mean, I doubt Britney and Kevin were fighting about whose turn it was to do the laundry or the dinner dishes. And was Reese resentful because Ryan wanted to go to a football game with his friends on the one day he was supposed to watch the kids? I know, I’m being silly. It was probably his wardrobe of wife-beaters and do-rags that sealed K-Fed’s fate. Wonder if he put them in the hamper.

Month 5: Mysteries of the Universe

How can I love someone so much who’s only been alive for 4 ½ months? I have lettuce in my fridge older than that.

How can I love someone so much who’s constantly grabbing fistfuls of my hair and pulling REALLY HARD?

How can I love someone so much whose idea of fun is cramming his socks into his mouth?

How can I change a sopping wet diaper, undershirt, and sleeper* without opening both eyes when I can’t cross my bedroom without banging my shin on the bed?

How can the baby nurse, burp, and repeat without opening his eyes when he couldn’t find his own foot until recently?

How can I be bored to tears some days when I’m too busy to brush my teeth?

How can I be lonely when I am never alone anymore?

How can I be giddily happy and so sad I can’t breathe in the same day?

How does spit-up get in the baby’s ear when he’s lying on his stomach?

How can the baby be crying hysterically one second and dead asleep the next?

How can the baby grow 6 inches taller in 4 months and his hair not grow a millimeter?

How come on the rare occasions the baby sleeps through the night I’m wide awake worrying that something’s wrong?

*Update: Huggies Overnites = Godsend.

Month 5: Confessions of a New Mom

You know I’m starting to get my act together when I post more than once a month. I feel compelled to report on a disturbing trend I’ve noticed among my women friends – the tendency to beat themselves up for anything and everything.

Take my one friend, a working mother of two whose home is always tastefully adorned with seasonal decorations. She beats herself up for not being able to fit into her pre-pregnancy jeans. Then there’s another friend, well into her third trimester and still working, who feels bad about herself for not getting to the gym more. Another new mom admitted to feeling like a slacker because she sent out store-bought invitations to a shower she’s hosting.

Come on, ladies, lighten up on yourselves! I’ve had the same vase of fake cherry blossoms in my living room since last spring. I still eat ice cream every night even though I’m no longer eating for two. And if someone gives me a cute gift bag that hasn’t been written on, damn straight I’ll regift it!

Still, I am sort of embarrassed to admit all this (notice I’m only doing it anonymously on the Internet), which I guess proves my point that we women are too hard on ourselves. And even though we know we shouldn’t, we constantly compare ourselves to other people. So I’m going to make all those self-haters out there feel better about themselves. I’ve drawn up a nice long list of all my shortcomings as a mother. Read it and gloat (or recoil in disgust, your choice):

I drink fully caffeinated coffee, wine, and eat spicy food, even though I am breastfeeding.

I watch all the morning shows while Miles plays on the floor in front of the TV, even though I know the AAP recommends no TV, ever, for children under 2.

I didn’t play classical music or read to my baby in utero; since he’s been born, I’ve only read him a book about 4 times.

Sometimes I go several hours without talking to Miles (not counting “boogety-boo” and “Who’s the cutest boy?”).

I don’t always make people wash their hands before they touch my baby.

If Miles leaks pee onto a particularly cute outfit, I sometimes dry it with the hairdryer rather than change his clothes.

My baby sometimes wears the same socks two days in a row.

I did not once wash his bouncy seat during his first three months of life, despite several diaper leakage incidents.

When Miles was really tiny, I would bite his fingernails rather than attempt the scary nail clippers.

I pick my baby’s nose instead of using the suction-bulb thingie.

Just so you don’t think I’m totally gross, I do bathe my son regularly (OK, semi-regularly) and Purell my hands after I change his diapers. Although just the other day, I overheard a woman at yoga talking about how you’re not supposed to use antibacterial products. Something about killing off the good bacteria, too? Sigh. Add it to the list . . .

Month 5: Had a Bad Day

You know how magazines are always featuring these successful working moms who effortlessly balance their careers and families? Of course their lives aren’t as perfect as the articles make them out to be, but I wonder if those moms ever have days like the one I had the other week.

I decided I was ready to start working again. Not full time, just enough to earn a little bit of money on the side. Since I’m a freelance writer who works from home, I figured this would be pretty doable. Especially since I’ve hired a babysitter two afternoons a week.

So I accepted a couple of short assignments. Then I set up a meeting, asked the babysitter to come a little early that day, ironed some non-drawstring pants, and (gasp!) blow-dried my hair. I waited until the last possible minute to put on my white shirt. (I’ve learned a thing or two by now about the digestive habits of babies.)

That was the day the babysitter’s bus was running behind schedule, for the first time ever. When she finally arrived, I tossed the baby into her arms and dashed out the door. In the car, I immediately noticed a foul smell. Was that … ? Could it be … ? Noooo … Did I accidentally drop a dirty diaper into my purse?

As the car filled with a horrible odor, I looked down at my shoe and saw that I had stepped in a disgusting deposit left in our yard by the neighbor’s dog. Not just a little bit, either. A huge, gooey gob stuck to my shoe and, by now, ground into the floor mat. I pulled over and, while cursing like a sailor, attempted to scrape the crap off my shoe with an old napkin I found in the glove compartment. Wouldn’t you know it, the baby wipes and Purell I’ve been carting around for months were conveniently packed in my diaper bag – at home. The more I tried to clean up the mess, the worse it got, and the worse it smelled. I cried. I cursed some more.

And then – what else could I do? – I called and cancelled my meeting. Then I cried some more and felt very sorry for myself. How had I ever thought I could do this working mom thing? Who was I kidding? After that I drove to the mall and bought myself a new pair of shoes. I figured I deserved them.

While Dog Poop Day ranks right up there, it may not actually be the worst day I’ve had since I became a mother.

Other bad days include:
The time our basement flooded (again!) and C. accidentally unplugged the freezer to plug in the Shop-Vac and ruined my whole stash of frozen breastmilk.

The Sunday we finally managed to get ourselves to church on time and then Miles had a diaper blowout minutes into the service and I hadn’t packed another outfit since we were only going to be away from home for approximately an hour.

The day (OK, today) that I left the cap off the baby’s vitamin drops – a sticky, dark-brown, foul-smelling liquid – and spilled half the bottle all over the beige carpet in the family room.

But you know what? Moms aren’t the only ones who have bad days. Babies have them, too. I don’t know why that surprises me. Maybe because I figure that without checking accounts or stretch marks, they have nothing to stress about.

But some days, for no apparent reason, Miles is in a bad mood. Even if he’s had his nap, just been fed, and not wearing a shirt with a scratchy tag. Inevitably, that will be the day I decide to take him to the gym and they page me three times during my 20-minute Stairmaster session: “Will Miles’ mom please report to childcare.” Then the next day, same scenario, only he’ll be shrieking with glee and grinning like a maniac.

Could I learn something from my little munchkin about accepting that there will be bad days and that every tomorrow is a new chance for a better one? One thing’s for sure: being covered in poop never seems to ruin his day.

Month 4: Where Does the Time Go?

A single friend came over for dinner recently. He asked whether I was doing any freelance writing these days. I said I planned to start again at some point, but I just hadn’t found the time yet. “I don’t get that. Don’t babies sleep all the time?” he said, genuinely puzzled.

Even though I now know otherwise, there was a time not too long ago when I shared our naïve friend’s perspective. Surely I could continue to write and raise our child, I thought – you know, during naps and in the evenings when the baby’s gone to bed. I wouldn’t even need to pay a babysitter since I work from home. Ha. Let me repeat that: HA.

It is in fact true that early on, newborns sleep most of the day. Their mothers, however, not so much. At first I was so exhausted that I tried to follow that age-old advice: nap when the baby naps. Easier said than done. Inevitably, each time I would lay down my weary head, the doorbell and/or phone would ring, the dog would bark, and a car alarm would go off. No amount of white noise could drown out these distractions, nor could a sleep mask completely block out the noonday sun streaming through the blinds.

Besides, Miles’ nap times are the only chance I have to get stuff done. Pre-baby, I foolishly imagined this “stuff” to be writing, preferably the income-generating kind. Silly, silly me. I still remember the day I was paralyzed with indecision when the baby fell asleep at last. Should I eat, shower, or sleep? If I could’ve figured out a way to do two of these things at once, I would have. In the end I chose a shower.

Which brings me back to our bachelor friend. How can a person not even have time to shower? he wondered, incredulously. Let me walk you through the following snippet of my daily life:

5:29 a.m.: Awake to the sound of baby’s hungry cry.
5:42 a.m.: Cries getting louder. Guess he’s not going back to sleep.
5:44 a.m.: Feed baby.
5:56 a.m.: Burp baby.
5:58 a.m.: Feed baby.
6:08 a.m.: Burp baby.
6:09 a.m.: Realize too late that I forgot burp cloth to catch spit-up spewing from baby’s mouth.
6:10 a.m.: Another bodily fluid spews from another part of baby. Still no burp cloth in sight to absorb leakage.
6:12 a.m.: Wait for next diaper explosion sure to follow. No sense rushing to change it too soon.
6:15 a.m.: Change baby’s diaper, clothing.
6:20 a.m.: Change mother’s clothing and, if necessary, bedding.
6:25 a.m.: Baby dirties another diaper. Should’ve waited longer to change previous one.
6:30 a.m.: Realize we are out of baby wipes. Make mental note to bring some up from downstairs later on.
6:31 a.m.: Bright-eyed baby shows no signs of going back to bed. Go downstairs.
6:33 a.m.: Baby plays in bouncy seat while mother forages for coffee and cereal.
6:35 a.m.: Realize we are out of milk. Make mental note to ask husband to buy some later.
6:36 a.m.: Baby spits up on shirt.
6:37 a.m.: Change baby’s clothing.
6:42 a.m.: Play with baby on floor.
6:59 a.m.: Baby falls asleep on play mat. Transferring him to crib will allow mother to shower and/or eat breakfast, but will almost surely wake and anger him. Decide not to attempt it.
From 7 a.m. on: Repeat above sequence many, many times throughout day. Remain unshowered. Forget about wipes and milk.

Of course, it eventually gets easier. Sort of. I can now shower while my baby’s awake. I park him in front of the open bathroom door in his bouncy seat. He usually entertains himself long enough for me to do a cursory cleansing of most parts of my body. Not long enough to fully rinse the conditioner out of my hair, mind you. And shaving my legs is out of the question.

On a good day, I can start a load of laundry (“start” being the operative word), load or unload the dishwasher (but not both), and finish eating two-thirds of a sandwich before baby duty calls again. One rainy afternoon I managed to watch the first hour of “Memoirs of a Geisha” and open the mail while Miles slept. It was a banner day.

As for my writing career … maybe I should take up haiku.

Month 3: Milestones

Miles has achieved a lot of firsts in his third month of life. He went on his first trip (a 7-hour car ride to visit both sets of grandparents), rolled over for the first time, and started sleeping in his crib in his own room.

Yep, once he surpassed the bassinet’s 15-lb. weight limit, I couldn’t put it off any longer. This nightly separation is definitely harder on me than on him. It took me a few nights to stop tip-toeing into his room every 20 minutes to make sure he was still breathing and hadn’t wedged a body part between the crib rails.

This month also marks the first time I’ve left Miles with a babysitter who’s not related to him by blood. It was easy enough to leave him with my dad while my mom and I went off to a yoga class. (Easy on me, that is. When I called to check in, my dad sounded frazzled. By the time we pulled up to the house, he was waiting outside with the baby in his arms, frantically scanning the street for our car!)

But leaving my precious child with a stranger is another matter entirely. OK, so she’s not a complete stranger; she’s my friend’s mom. Let’s call her “Scarlett.” Scarlett positively oozes gentleness, patience and Southern charm. I’m in desperate need of a few baby-free hours a week. And I plan to be right upstairs most of the time she’s here, catching up on e-mail, bills, etc. Yet I’m still a little uneasy.

For the first hour after Scarlett arrived yesterday, I ran around doing laundry, putting away clothes, and wrestling with the confounded crib sheet. They make those things so snug you almost need pliers to get them around the mattress. Which is why my poor son has been sleeping on a soiled crib sheet for two nights. You try changing that thing with a sleepy baby in your arms at 4:30 a.m.!

Then I figured I should probably leave the house to make the most of my precious few hours of “me time.” Destination: Panera. Goal: An asiago bagel with sundried tomato cream cheese. Since I’m used to scarfing down my food while standing in the kitchen, I finished my bagel in approximately 4 ½ minutes. Not exactly the leisurely, adult meal I’d envisioned.

As I sat there sipping my lemonade, I realized I felt vaguely guilty. Guilty for paying someone to watch my child while I sip lemonade and stare into space. Guilty for leaving a poor, unsuspecting woman with Miles, who’s recently started this new screaming thing. (If anyone but Mom holds him for longer than a few minutes, he screams.)

Guilty for not showing Scarlett how to turn on the TV because I don’t want Miles watching it, even though that makes me a hypocrite because I often have the TV on when I’m home with him. But, really, was I going to insult the sitter by instructing her how to correctly position the bouncy seat so the TV screen is just out of the baby’s view? And did I really want her to discover that when Miles spots the TV, it often stops the screaming thing and gives you a whole 5 minutes of peace while he fixes a glassy stare at the screen? The answer is no, my friends.

I just remembered I also forgot to show Scarlett how to turn on the baby monitor, where the fire extinguisher is (do we even own one?), or where we hide the spare key in case she gets locked out. Plus, our fridge is practically empty, and she didn’t seem all that comfortable with the dog.

Remind me again why I thought hiring a babysitter would ease my stress?

Month 2: Venturing Out

Two months old. 14+ pounds. I have given birth to a budding sumo wrestler. And I have the biceps to prove it. Miles is one good eater, I’ll give him that. The kid hasn’t missed a meal since he entered the world a few short weeks ago.

I’m consuming calories like Kirstie Alley at a Krispy Kreme and somehow I’ve still managed to shed most of the 37 lbs. I gained during my pregnancy. (My belly button, however, shows no signs of returning to its former state. Seems that being turned inside out for months on end was enough to permanently change my innie to an outie.)

Now that our steady stream of houseguests has dissipated, I’m starting to go a bit stir-crazy stuck at home all day. Let’s face it, Miles isn’t much of a conversationalist. Ask him what he thinks of the war in Iraq -- oh, let’s be honest, the return of the skinny jean -- and his only response is a wide-eyed stare. Maybe the occasional gummy grin. And as cute as those grins are, it’s tough to fill the day with “This Little Piggy.” (I mean, there are only five, and I can’t even remember what piggies three and four do.)

So I went in search of a social life for Miles and me. First I lied and said he was 6 weeks old when he was really only 5 weeks so we could sign up for Mommy & Me yoga. This was my first foray into exercise since I’d birthed the little bruiser. Let me tell you, hoisting a hefty little guy with no neck control on one hip while attempting the triangle pose is no easy feat. But at least we were around other people, including a couple of tiny 6-month-old girls who were dwarfed by Miles’ girth.

Next, we showed up for story time at the library. The librarian insisted babies from birth on up were welcome, but once again, my guy was the youngest one there. So he slept in the sling most of the time, and the finger puppets accompanying “Five Little Monkeys” were lost on someone who can’t see 6 inches past his face. So what? Again, at least we were out and about instead of parked on the couch watching Regis & Kelly.

A new moms’ support group at the local hospital served only to make me count my lucky stars that Miles knows his way around a nipple. Some of these poor moms were spending literally all day long pumping and feeding their babies with these little syringe thingies. They were near tears as they described trying everything under the sun to get their little ones to latch on. Clearly not a problem my chunky monkey shares.

Speaking of breastfeeding, a friend who’s active in La Leche League invited me to a meeting. I was not sure I wanted to stage a “nurse-in” at Starbucks or learn how to discreetly breastfeed a toddler. But boredom got the better of me, and I went. In all fairness, the women there were all very pleasant. I just couldn’t get past the 3-year-old boy who walked up to his mother, who was nursing his baby sister on one breast, and said, “Save the other one for me.”

So Miles and I continue to search for ways to occupy ourselves. A trip to the pediatrician is a big day for us. We stretch out our daily walks with the dog, and we invent reasons to go to the grocery store. (Hey, the recipe called for a rutabaga!) Sometimes we call up C. and beg him to meet us for lunch.

At least we have our yoga class. I’m slowly regaining my abdominal strength, thanks to doing the boat pose with a 14-lb. weight attached to me. And Miles has the flat-on-your-back relaxation pose down pat. His cobra needs a little work, though.

Month 1: All Wet

Miles turned one month old last weekend. If I had to pick one word to sum up his first weeks of life it would be “pee.” That’s right, pee. Tinkle. Urine. This is one leaky kid. On the upside, he’s clearly not dehydrated. We know the plumbing’s working. On the downside, he goes through a load of laundry and easily a dozen diapers a day. I began to wonder if perhaps we had picked up a faulty batch of Pampers at Sam’s Club. Those suckers were doing absolutely nothing to contain the pee. Then again, neither did the Huggies or the Target brand diapers we tried.

Nearly every evening, C. would come home from work, pick up the baby, and cry out, “Ah! He got me!” lifting Miles to reveal a large damp spot on his shirt where the baby’s butt had been. We took to using a cloth diaper as a protective barrier between the baby and any surface at all times. Sometimes, I didn’t even bother to put clothes on him.

One night C. came running when he heard a blood-curdling shriek. He was sure I’d dropped the baby. It was worse. Miles had peed IN HIS OWN FACE. How could such a bizarre and horrific act be possible, you might ask? I’ll tell you. I was changing his diaper (for the billionth time that day) and had lifted up his ankles to slide the clean diaper underneath him. Apparently, this positioned his pee producer at the exact angle of his face, because the next thing I knew I heard a hiss and a splutter. I looked up to find the baby blinking and dripping with a stunned expression on his wet little face. The horror!

I polled all my mom friends, who came to the same conclusion: It’s a boy thing. Somehow, that tiny little firehose just can’t be controlled when they’re this young. It’s not clear whether it’s due to the force of the pee stream, too-loose diapers, or too-skinny thighs, but somehow, the urine escapes the diaper every time.

And where it comes out is a mystery. You’d think the pee would leak out the front of the diaper, right? Wrong. The wet spot is nearly always on the back or side of the baby’s clothes. How is that even possible?! Once, the pee followed a curved trajectory all the way up the back to the baby’s neck! Baffling.

One friend suggested pointing our baby boy’s, er, “equipment”down instead of allowing it to point up. C. was horrified. “We will do no such thing!” he exclaimed. Nor would he allow the use of what he deemed a humiliating product called The Pee-Pee Teepee. (Picture a mini party hat.) I couldn’t bring myself to do it, anyway. Instead, I tried folding the diaper every which way as if attempting to fashion an origami bird. Tuck the flaps under, fold them out, cinch the velcro tighter. Nothing worked. I resigned myself to a soggy future with my firstborn.

Then, miraculously, the font of pee subsided. Now Miles goes through two, maybe three outfits a day, tops. Once he even made it till dinnertime in the same onesie. I think it’s partly because his thighs have chubbed up and fill out the diapers’ leg holes better. He’s also now wearing a bigger, presumably more absorbent, size. Of course, now we’ve moved on to spit-up. Can someone please hand me a burp cloth?

Week 42: Birth Day!

Welcome Baby Miles! Our son was born on June 8, 2006, at 12:40 p.m. I went into labor the day before I was scheduled to be induced. (I’m sensing Miles will be a bit of a procrastinator like his dad.) I soon learned that despite months of preparation, classes, books, and advice from friends and family, childbirth rarely goes as planned.

I will spare my readers most of the gory details. I’d hate to be one of those women who regales others with her labor horror stories. Anyway, it wasn’t exactly horrible. Just long. Really, really long. I intended to labor at home as long as possible before going to the hospital. So when I started getting contractions on Tuesday night, I tried to remain as calm as possible and went to bed. The next morning I was still having them, now about 30 minutes apart, so C. stayed home from work.

We took a long walk with the dog, I did some yoga, we ate lunch, I finished “The Nanny Diaries,” and we generally just tried to keep busy. By 6 p.m., my contractions were about 4 minutes apart, so we decided to head to the hospital. Imagine my disbelief when the doctor on duty informed me I was only 1 ½ cm dilated. Are you kidding me?! She also told me that active labor is technically defined as contractions plus dilation, and I appeared to only be experiencing the first part.

The doctor invited us to stroll the halls for a few hours, or go back home. I felt like crying. If the hundreds of miles I’d logged in my last month of pregnancy – not to mention several evenings of marching up and down the stairs in desperation – hadn’t done the trick, I doubted a leisurely stroll around the waiting room would do it. Besides, I was scheduled for induction at 6 a.m. the next morning, so what was the point of going home?

My doula arrived with homemade cookies. (My original doula, that is.) By this time, they had a room ready for us. Margo massaged my back during contractions and fetched me water. She and C. slept uncomfortably on hospital chairs while I lay on the bed wishing the baby would hurry up already. At some point, the doctors decided to give me Pitocin. Sometime during the night I requested an epidural. Margo went home to send her kids off to school. Time passed ever so slowly. Then I started feeling the urge to push. I was 10 cm at last! We called Margo and told her to come back to the hospital. Here’s the Reader’s Digest version of the rest.

Low points:
- What felt like the longest labor in history.
- An epidural that never quite worked on my left side.
- A pair of midwives (invited by whom?) barking at me to stop whining and frowning – 3 hours after I’d started pushing. No, I’m not kidding.
- The doctors having to use a suction cup to get the baby’s head out.
- The pediatricians whisking away the baby before we’d even seen him due to the meconium situation. (Translation: He pooped in the womb and needed help breathing. Gross, but not that uncommon.)

High points:
- The popsicles we’d brought with us. The best thing I ever tasted!
- C. staying by my side the whole time, and his reaction when he first saw the baby coming out.
- Margo’s constant calm, soothing presence.
- Most of the nurses and the doctor who delivered the baby were super-friendly and supportive.
- Seeing our gorgeous baby boy for the first time! He had these huge, dark eyes that just stared and stared at us.

It’s been three weeks now since Miles was born. Of course we think he’s the best and most adorable baby ever. In some ways, our pre-baby life feels like forever ago. In other ways, we’re still adjusting. The other night I came home after running a few errands by myself and was startled to hear a baby crying when I walked in the door. Then I remembered, “Oh, yeah, I’m a mom now!”

I’m not sure if I’ll be able to keep up the weekly installments of this journal, but I plan to try. Life with a baby is nothing if not interesting. And I definitely can’t rely on my overtaxed brain to remember everything if I don’t write it down!

Week 41: The Best Laid Plans

I’m a week overdue, my OB/GYN just quit, and my doula has gone out of town. No, I’m not kidding. Actually, losing my doctor is not that big a deal. She’s one of five female OBs in a group practice, all of whom see every patient several times, so she’s “my” doctor only in the sense that her name is on all the forms. I’ve known all along that any one of the doctors could be on call when I deliver my baby.

As for the doula, well, I can hardly expect her to put her life on hold till this baby decides to show up. She postponed a family trip last weekend since that’s when I was due. I could tell she felt bad. She found me a back-up, but I’ve decided it’s not worth the hassle.

See, like my original doula, the back-up doula is an Orthodox Jew, which means that she can’t drive a car, handle money, or answer the phone on the Sabbath or any Jewish holiday. Just my luck, one happens to fall on this weekend. What that means is, if I go into labor, we will have to call her cell phone and let it ring twice. That’s the signal to tell her we’re coming to pick her up on our way to the hospital. Can you picture C. and me – who don’t do so well with directions under the best of circumstances – driving around a strange neighborhood at 3 a.m. while I’m bent in half with contractions, looking for the third white house on the left after the drycleaners?

I’m trying not to give the baby the impression that he or she is inconveniencing everybody, even though it’s sort of true. My dad just got bilked out of a party to celebrate his 65th birthday and retirement because my mom figured they’d be here visiting the baby and didn’t plan anything. Plus, he hoped his first grandchild might be born on his birthday, June 1, but that day’s come and gone.

I’ve continued to try all the tricks to bring on labor (the latest is eating lots of pineapple) to no avail. My (back-up) doctor has scheduled me to be induced next Thursday if the baby doesn’t arrive before that. Today, C. and I went to the hospital for a fetal non-stress test and a sonogram to check the level of amniotic fluid. Everything looks fine.

We even got to see the baby for the first time since my last sonogram four months ago. It’s got fat cheeks and big feet! The nurse actually laughed out loud and said, “The baby looks mad. Look at that scrunched-up face and those chubby cheeks! It looks like it’s storing up nuts for winter!” She continued laughing way past the point that it was appropriate. It hurt my feelings a little. How dare she imply that our baby is funny-looking! Even though, I have to admit, that fat little mad face was pretty funny.

Maybe the baby will get mad enough to come out this weekend. But not till Sunday night – that’s when my doula gets back and can answer the phone again.

Week 40: Any Day Now …

Books read in the past week:
“Little Earthquakes,” by Jennifer Weiner
“Digging to America,” by Anne Tyler
“Nights of Rain and Stars,” by Maeve Binchy
Assorted chick-lit paperbacks that caught my eye in the library

Movies watched in the past week:
Rumor Has It
Junebug
Over the Hedge
The DaVinci Code

Phone calls from friends and relatives in the past week:
too many to count

My due date has come and gone. Even though my doctor says that first babies are, on average, six days late, I didn’t think it would happen to me. But here I am, still pregnant at 40 weeks. Technically, the baby is only a couple of days late. And, as I’ve been reminded infinite times during my pregnancy, predicting the due date is not an exact science. Still, I was discouraged when at my last appointment, the doctor reported that nothing was happening. At all. She prescribed evening primrose oil and sex to “get things moving.”

Now, everyone and her sister has a trick for jumpstarting labor. Some swear by spicy food, others insist that long walks, a glass of wine, or a hot bath work wonders. And, of course, there’s the sex suggestion. The theory is, that’s what got the baby in there in the first place, and it can help get the baby out. Only before the baby was in there, you probably weren’t carrying around an extra 35 lbs. and a basketball-sized belly. You probably still had ankles, could fit rings on your unswollen fingers, and didn’t grunt every time you changed position.

So it’s only natural that some of the other suggestions would seem a wee bit more appealing. In the past week I’ve tried: spicy drunken noodles from the Thai place (twice), the Victorian-sounding primrose oil capsules (which get stuck in my throat), daily walks (torture on my sore hips and pelvis), a hot bath, a few glasses of wine, yoga, bouncing on my exercise ball, visualization, massage, and having C. issue stern statements to the baby indicating that we’re ready for him or her to be born.

The amount of phone calls we get these days is comical. I haven’t been this popular since I was the first of my college roommates to get a car. My mother calls daily, and has taken to pretending she’s calling for reasons other than to find out if the baby is on its way. (Sure, Mom, whatever.) If I don’t answer the phone, people panic and start calling everyone else I know to see if THEY know if I’m off having the baby. Believe me, people, when I do YOU’LL KNOW!! I’ll broadcast it on the radio and take out a front-page ad in the newspaper.

Of course, Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie beat me to it this weekend by giving birth to the most anticipated celebrity baby ever (a daughter named Shiloh Nouvel Jolie-Pitt) -- ON MY DUE DATE. Maybe my baby’s just waiting for the publicity to die down before he/she makes his/her appearance.

Week 39: Have You Had that Baby Yet?

So much for my mother’s prediction that this baby would be early. Even though I haven’t reached the 40-week mark, I’m starting to get anxious. I’ve officially started my maternity leave, the car seat’s installed, the bassinet’s set up – there’s nothing left to do but wait for the baby to decide to be born.

I’m not the only one who’s impatient to greet this little person. My phone’s ringing constantly these days – my mother, mother-in-law, sister-in-law, friends, “just calling to see how you’re doing.” (Translation: Did you have that baby yet?!) I’m tempted to joke, “Oh, yeah, thanks for the reminder. We actually DID have the baby a couple weeks ago. I can’t believe I forgot to tell you!”

My friend E.G. was visiting from the West Coast this past weekend. “Are you going to have the baby while I’m here?” she asked eagerly, eyeing my ready-to-pop belly. But it didn’t happen. My dad is attending a conference nearby and had tentatively planned to stop over afterward to meet his new grandchild. But alas, he/she didn’t make his/her debut. I know it’s disappointing for people, but what can you do? The baby will come when the baby darn well wants to come.

I’ve tried to speed things along. C. and I went out for Thai food the other night. I had been thinking the spicy drunken noodles were the golden key to jumpstarting labor. No dice. I’ve been taking long, daily walks with the dog, which only cause me to take to the couch for the rest of the day to recover. (Having an approximately 7 lb. weight with sharp knees and elbows hanging low in your pelvis is PAINFUL, people!) Last night I even bounced on my yoga ball for a good 20 minutes, hoping to jar the baby loose.

So I guess there’s nothing left to do but wait. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go record a message on our answering machine: “If you’re calling to find out if we had the baby yet, press 1. If you’re calling to ask how the mother-to-be is feeling, press 2. If you’re calling to ask when the baby will arrive, please hang up and dial the Psychic Friends Network.”

Weeks 37 & 38: Leisure Pursuits for Preggos

Somehow, I got a week behind. Quite possibly because once you’re in the final stretch, there’s not all that much to report except YES, I’m still pregnant; NO, the doctor has no idea when the baby might arrive; YES, I realize I should enjoy my peace and quiet while I can; and NO, we (still!) have not officially decided on baby names, and even if we had I wouldn’t tell you so stop asking.

So I pass my time reading (three novels in the past week), watching movies (Netflix can’t send them fast enough these days), and going to the gym when I have the energy. It’s not as ambitious as it sounds. I pretty much just plunk myself on the recumbent bike with the latest US Weekly and pedal leisurely for as long as it takes to read about Paris Hilton’s latest exploits and who wore what hideous outfit to which awards show.

Still, I’m somewhat of a spectacle amidst the mostly slim, Lycra-clad set. My maternity workout clothes do little to camouflage my gi-normous midsection. In the elevator and on the elliptical machines, women eye me up and ask, “When are you due?” Most of them nearly fall off the treadmill when I say a couple of weeks. “Wow, you’re brave,” said one lady, inching away as if she expected my water to break at any moment. Well, what else do I have to do these days? At least the gym offers a change of scenery and clean towels.

The other project that’s been helping to pass the time is my birth announcements. I decided it would be fun to make them myself. That was before I visited four craft stores in as many days searching for the perfect paper, spent hours trolling the Internet for matching envelopes, and endured countless paper cuts making several sample announcements. I began having flashbacks to my wedding, when I decided it would be fun (fun!) to personally make 300+ shell-shaped chocolates for our guests.

At least I only have to come up with 75 birth announcements, but mass production sort of takes the fun out of any creative endeavor. And, of course, there’s the issue of not knowing the baby’s sex and, therefore, name. So I’m limited to gender-neutral colors and will have to add the specifics later. In the meantime, I will busy myself with affixing 75 bows to 75 cards with 75 miniature pastel pins. How’s that for fun?

Week 36: No, *I* Have it Worse

Now I know why pregnant women waddle. It’s because we have a crick in our back from trying to get comfortable in a bed that suddenly seems the size of a Saltine. No matter how many pillows we wedge around our swollen selves, there’s still some body part that’s being pinched or smushed. Especially the bladder. Nocturnal bathroom trips have increased exponentially.

We have also developed odd hitches in our hips and pelvis. Things are shifting literally overnight, so that we might spring (OK, roll) out of bed one morning to find that we suddenly can’t lift our right leg and it hurts to bend down to put on the dog’s leash. The last trimester’s no picnic, people.

I figure I’ve earned the right to complain since the beginning of my pregnancy went so smoothly. But I suddenly have competition in the complaining department: my husband. See, he got his wisdom teeth out last week. At age 33, just days before a business trip. (Didn’t seem like a good idea to me, either.) Needless to say, he has been experiencing some discomfort. He’s popping painkillers like Tic-Tacs, and tossing and turning all night. Now, having had my own hellacious wisdom tooth experience not that long ago, I’m sympathetic – to a point.

But on the fourth consecutive day of such statements as, “It’s so hard to concentrate/sleep/be in a good mood when you’re uncomfortable all the time” and “This is the worst pain I’ve ever felt” and the topper, “Now I have some idea of what you’ll be going through – times five, of course.” Excuse me?! Childbirth vs. wisdom tooth extraction. CHILDBIRTH vs. wisdom tooth extraction. Does he really think he needs to explain what it’s like to be uncomfortable 24/7? Try dealing with that for NINE MONTHS, I want to snarl. Does he really think having a couple of teeth pulled is anywhere near equivalent to pushing an entire human being out of a part of your body that’s stretched to 10 times its normal size?

But I don’t say anything. At least not too often. I just smile sympathetically, get us both a bowl of ice cream and prop up my swollen ankles.

Week 35: Reading List

We’re backpedaling on our names. I thought we had FINALLY decided, but I’m having second thoughts, especially about our boy’s name. It’s such an enormous decision. And that one name I thought was perfect partially because it’s uncommon? I’ve come across it at least five times in the past week. So I’m back to trolling the baby name web sites.

According to one site, the name Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes chose for their baby girl, Suri, means “wealthy” in Armenian and/or “go away” in Hebrew. How unfortunate. Or, perhaps, intentional.

I’m also having second thoughts about the baby’s room. Now that all the junk we were storing in there is cleared away, it looks rather bare. And sort of mismatchy. But our decorating funds have run low, so there’s not much more I can do at this point. Damn that Pottery Barn Kids catalog that came in the mail this week!

We still have to buy some basics, such as diapers, a diaper pail, a changing pad, and some other stuff I’m sure I’ve forgotten. (Do babies need socks in May?) Despite the months of preparation, I’m feeling pretty unprepared still. It’s hard to believe they just let you take home this fragile little person after a couple of days, without even having to pass a test or anything.

In the meantime, I’ve been getting my knowledge from books. Plus, I’m trying to cram in all the reading I can while I have the time and attention span. In no particular order, here’s my pregnancy reading list:

“The Girlfriend’s Guide to Pregnancy,” by Vicki Iovine
Even though it was published 10 years ago, this book is still quite relevant and very funny. The author pulls no punches, whether she’s talking about maternity-wear mishaps or pregnancy sex. I do, however, take issue with her “why bother” perspective on exercise during pregnancy.

“Waiting for Birdy: A Year of Frantic Tedium, Neurotic Angst, and the Wild Magic of Growing a Family,” by Catherine Newman
Started as a journal on Babycenter.com, this book chronicles the author’s second pregnancy and her first son’s toddlerhood. The best parts are anecdotes about the precocious 3-year-old; the worst, often-hefty doses of the tedium and angst mentioned in the title.

“Operating Instructions,” by Anne Lamott
A quick, entertaining read about a single mom raising her unplanned son on her own. At times, Lamott’s confessional style is a little much.

“My Boys Can Swim!: The Official Guy’s Guide to Pregnancy,” by Ian Davis
I bought this for my husband, who never managed to finish it, even though it’s barely 100 pages. I thought it was a witty, if lightweight, account of a guy’s perspective on procreation. Lots of discussion about not calling your wife fat and how to avoid things you don’t want to see in the delivery room.

“Breeder: Real-Life Stories from the New Generation of Mothers,” Ariel Gore & Bee Lavender, eds.
An anthology of pregnancy-related essays, many by atypical moms, e.g. unwed, tattooed, lesbian, proponents of home birth, ones who name their kids Lizard.

“From Here to Maternity: The Education of a Rookie Mom,” by Beth Teitell
The book I wish I’d written. Real, funny anecdotes about raising two small sons. I especially liked the chapters on the “new grandparents” (off getting Botoxed and doing Pilates instead of babysitting and baking cookies) and tricking her kids out of Halloween.

“Freakonomics,” by Steven D. Levitt & Stephen J. Dubner
Solely for the chapter on baby-naming trends. You’ll see why, although it’s a lovely name, we won’t be naming our daughter Avery. Apparently, it’s the new Madison.

Week 34: April Showers

Most frequently asked questions:
Are you sick of being pregnant? (Answer: yes!)

Uncomplimentary comments people don’t think twice about voicing:
Look how funny your stomach looks! It’s like a shelf.
(From an OB nurse who should know better)

Current symptoms:
Itchy belly
General feeling of hugeness

Current number of friends who are pregnant:
3 (not including J.G., who gave birth to a baby girl last week!)

My pregnant friends are dropping like flies. Or, I should say, are popping out babies like flies … or something. Baby Oliver and Baby Lily have come into the world at last! I got to visit T. and Oliver in the hospital last weekend, where they are keeping him for a little while because he was born almost a month early. He looked so tiny in his little plastic salad bin in the NICU! He’s an adorable, non-squishy little guy with a head of blond peach fuzz.

I was shocked, though, when the nurse picked him up and his little ear was folded over and stuck flat to his head. She just said, “Oh, he was just sleeping on it. The cartilage will stiffen that right up soon,” and nonchalantly bent it back in place like a piece of Play-Doh!

You would think that being in such close proximity to a newborn would sort of drive home the message that I’m next, but oddly, it didn’t. I still can’t quite grasp that the squirmy little being inside me is going to be coming out in just a few weeks. It’s currently part of me, yet soon it will be separate from me. Mind boggling!

After the hospital, my friend L. picked up my visiting mother-in-law and me to bring us to the top-secret location of my baby shower. We pulled up to an adorable Victorian tea house I didn’t even know existed. Inside, they had set up a private room with teapots, flowers, balloons, and all things girly. It was great! Even my SIL was there, despite the fact that she had already attended the shower my college friends threw me a couple of weeks ago.

K.F. displayed her super-creative skills with the adorable shower games she devised. One was to match the guests’ baby photos to their adult photos – tougher than it sounds. Another was to identify various kinds of baby food by taste. Can you say “ewww”?! That stuff is gross, people. Fortunately, we had tea and scones and tiny little sandwiches to chase away the foul taste of the pureed spinach.

The girls went all out on the gifts – the Rolls-Royce of car seats, a stroller, a handmade baby sling, and dozens of great books. You know this kid’s got to be literate, with a writer for a mom. I feel so lucky to have such wonderful friends and family.

Week 33: Status Report

Most frequently asked questions:
When are you due? [Insert comment about how “huge” or “tiny” I am here.]
Do you know what you’re having?
Is this your first?

Uncomplimentary comments people don’t think twice about voicing:
Looks like you’re having a big baby.
I doubt you’ll make it to your due date.
Your stomach looks pointy. (From my husband.)

Current symptoms:
Itchy belly
Near-constant case of baby hiccups
Pinched nerve in my back that comes and goes

Current number of friends who are pregnant:
4 (not including T., who gave birth to a baby boy yesterday!)

My parents were visiting this past weekend, so I took the opportunity to ask them what they remember about my birth. The short answer: not much. It seems that by the time you get to the second kid, it’s old hat. Also, because my brother’s birth was so dramatic (18 hours of labor culminating in an emergency C-section), mine was sort of anticlimactic. As my father put it, “It was less traumatic the second time. It happened so fast and then there you were.”

I arrived early. My mom was scheduled for a Cesarean on a Tuesday. But when she showed up for her checkup on Friday, she was in labor. “They kept saying, ‘But you can’t be having this baby. You’re not scheduled till Tuesday,’” recalls my mom. “And there I am [huffing and puffing] saying, ‘What do you mean?!’” It soon became pretty clear that she was, in fact, having the baby.

The part of my birth story that has become part of family lore is when my dad almost got kicked out of the hospital for plugging in his Super 8 movie camera and spotlight over the hospital bed. He’s always been a big gadget guy, the first to get the very latest technology. My childhood memories are plagued with images of cameras and microphones being shoved in my face, awkward phases and non-camera-friendly gestures being forever preserved for posterity.

So, anyway, the hospital staff came in and scolded him, quite rightly concerned that his energy-sucking camera apparatus might short out the medical equipment.

As for my brother, he remembers absolutely nothing about my birth. Of course, he was only 2 ½ at the time. My parents say he did suggest once that they put me in the dryer. Apparently that seemed to him like a good way to deal with this new interloper.

Week 32: Too Much Info

Maybe we should have adopted. It’s got to be less overwhelming than sitting through seven hours of “childbirth preparation” at the hospital last Sunday. From breathing techniques to labor terminology to medical interventions, the sheer magnitude of information left C. and me reeling by the end of the day. Thank goodness for the multiple snack and bathroom breaks. There’s just so much to KNOW about having a baby!

Some of it I wish I didn’t know. Like I really didn’t need to visualize the 10 cm my cervix will dilate in order to give birth. But a helpful plastic model was passed around for all to see. And I could have done without the full-color cloth model of the placenta that the instructor demonstrated delivering. (It looked like a jellyfish, if you want the truth.) And the model of the uterus? That resembled a misshapen, striped knit sock. Not sure how anatomically correct that one was.

But it was the videos on epidurals and C-sections that scared me. I thought an epidural was a one-time deal, like an injection of Novocain at the dentist. Except the (very large) needle is inserted into your SPINE and they LEAVE IT THERE. That’s right, they attach a tube so they can adjust the level of medication throughout labor. THROUGH YOUR SPINE.

Then there’s Pitocin, a synthetic form of the so-called “cuddle chemical” oxytocin, which your body is supposed to produce naturally during labor to help facilitate contractions. Sounds innocuous enough. Except there’s nothing cuddly about the super-strong, extra-intense contractions that Pitocin brings on. Plus, it can actually prolong labor. Who knew?

I’m guessing not everyone, based on the discussion at my baby shower last weekend. Besides me, there were two other pregnant women there. They casually chatted about the pain-numbing drugs they were planning to have administered the moment they set foot in the hospital. Was I really considering a natural birth?! they asked, stunned. I hemmed and hawed.

Never having done this before, I hate to go into the delivery room with strict rules about what I definitely will and definitely won’t do. It’s not a moral or religious issue. If you want drugs, by all means bring on the drugs. I just like the idea of the kinder, gentler, more natural birth they talked about in my HypnoBirthing class. “Your body knows what to do,” was the constant refrain. I sure hope so, because thanks to the packets of handouts, stacks of books, and reams of notes I’ve accumulated, my mind has pretty much shut down at this point.

Weird Symptom of the Week: Braxton Hicks or “practice” contractions. These are sporadic uterine contractions that increase towards the end of pregnancy. They’re reportedly painless, but feeling your abdomen tighten up till it’s rock-hard isn’t the most comfortable sensation.

Week 31: How Do You Doula?

A lot happened this week: I finally finished my baby quilt (It came out great!), we had our last HypnoBirthing class, and I met with a doula. “Doula” is one of those words I had never heard before I got pregnant – like “vernix,” which I recently learned is what the cheesy white stuff coating the baby’s skin after birth is called. Anyway, a doula is basically a birth coach.

“But isn’t that what my husband’s for?” you may be asking. Silly girl. Has your husband ever given birth before? Then how can you expect him to have any better sense of how it works than you do? Mine can’t even make it past the first chapter of the birth books.

Besides knowing what they’re doing – ideally by both attending births and having given birth themselves – doulas are also there to support you emotionally and physically. They will fetch you ice chips and rub your back. When I ask my husband for a backrub, he half-heartedly attempts a “massage” that mimics someone scratching a dog’s ears. It’s over in minutes and he usually keeps one hand on the remote control. Hardly a pleasurable experience.

My doula, Margo, looks about my age and has three kids. She has a pleasant, laid-back demeanor. When we met, she casually and discreetly nursed her 1-year-old while we talked. With her first baby, Margo told me she showed up for her doctor’s appointment a week before her due date and was told to proceed immediately to labor and delivery as she was already 8 cm dilated! (For those who don’t know, like me a week ago, the baby comes out at 10 cm, about the circumference of a CD. Try not to be alarmed.)

These stories are meant to be comforting in a “don’t worry, everyone’s birth is different” kind of way, but I find them maddening. In the movies, it works like this: a woman’s water breaks, she starts moaning and clutching her stomach, she’s rushed to the hospital, and she has the baby. In real life, apparently, you could be walking around for days, weeks even, with intermittent contractions – or none at all, like Margo! You could be in labor for days or hours. Your water could break on its own or the doctor may have to break it for you. There are way too many variables, people!! This is not reassuring to the first-time mother.

I guess the point of a doula is to help you handle the uncertainty and perhaps provide an educated opinion as to whether or not you are in fact in labor before you go waking your OB/GYN at 3 a.m. Though clearly Margo wasn’t exactly on top of things when she was giving birth herself for the first time. Hopefully she at least gives a decent back rub.

Week 30: Childhood Memories

As I get closer to becoming a parent, I find myself thinking back to my own childhood. For a relatively young person who hasn’t killed off an excessive number of brain cells, I remember shockingly little about the past. But now and then, certain memories emerge.

When my brother and I were small, my family lived in a small town in Germany while my father was on sabbatical from his teaching job. We lived in an old stone house ringed with grapevines and other exotic foliage. We slept under fluffy featherbeds instead of blankets, and you had to pull a chain to flush the toilet. Grocery shopping involved going from store to store downtown. The shopkeepers would sometimes slip us slices of bratwurst or tiny, exquisite animals made from marzipan. (This pre-dated my vegetarianism.)

I’m told I picked up the language quickly, as children tend to. My father likes to tell the story of the first time I taught him a German phrase. On the walk to kindergarten one morning, I pointed at a splat on the sidewalk and said, “Look, Papa, fogle ah-ah!” Roughly translated, that means “bird doo-doo.” What can I say? I was a child prodigy.

Then there was the humiliating incident with a street vendor. They would sometimes push their carts through our neighborhood, calling out in guttural tones. One afternoon, my mother handed me a few francs and told me to run outside and buy a loaf of bread for dinner. Together, we rehearsed my lines several times until I had them down. I approached the man alone, with hands that shook only slightly. “I would like to buy one loaf of pumpernickel bread, please,” I said in my childish German. His reply was along the lines of, “Kid, I don’t have any bread. I sell fish!” Hot tears snaked from my eyes as I turned and fled home, furious with my mother for embarrassing me.

Maybe that’s when I started to think this whole multicultural upbringing wasn’t so great after all. But when we returned home to the States, my parents were determined to retain some vestiges of our life abroad. A new rule was implemented: On Saturdays, only German would be spoken in our house. It didn’t work. My brother and I were loathe to do anything different than our friends’ families.

So my father tricked us. He invited over a colleague from the college. Though she was American, we had met this woman for the first time in Germany, so naturally we assumed she spoke only German. I’m not sure how long my father kept up this ruse until we figured it out.

But the thing is, somewhere along the line, my parents rubbed off on me. I ended up majoring in French in college and spending a couple semesters abroad. I listen to reggae music and prefer pungent ethnic food. For the baby’s room, I passed up Disney characters in favor of the worldly French elephant, Babar.

This poor kid’s not even born yet and already his parents and grandparents are making sure he’ll never fit in with his normal, American peers. It won’t be long before we’re teaching him to say “bird crap” in several languages.

Week 29: Little Suzy Homemaker

I am living the life of a retiree at age 31. Presumably, I am still self-employed, though once clients start hearing that you’re expecting a baby, it’s remarkable how quickly the assignments taper off.

So yesterday I got up at 9 a.m., ate some high-fiber cereal (more on that later), watched the “Today” show, and went to my sewing lesson. That’s right, I’m taking sewing lessons. My mother and mother-in-law have conspired to see that I’m schooled in the domestic arts by the time this baby arrives. They keep offering to buy me a sewing machine, and they send me money for lessons since they’re not around to teach me themselves.

Not that they haven’t tried. But sewing always seemed so tedious and time-consuming, not to mention impractical. I mean, why go buy a bunch of fabric, patterns, pins, etc. and spend hours slaving over a sewing machine when you can just pop over to Old Navy and pick up a brand new shirt for $9.99?

I’ve learned part of the answer to that question: sewing kills time. A lot of time. And that’s one thing I have in abundance right now. So I signed up for private sewing lessons with Irene, a bespectacled 60-something with a dry wit and a knack for needlework. She is part of a clique of white-haired ladies that hangs out at a local fabric store.

It’s a whole little subculture, complete with its own language. They talk about selvedges and quarter-inch feet and “thread play.” They praise each other’s patchwork teddy bears and complain about their latest projects. Irene’s having quite a time with the sleeves of a Renaissance costume she’s sewing for her granddaughter’s school play.

So yesterday it was just me and the white-haired ladies. My quilt is coming along quite nicely. Irene loves to tell people, “This young lady is working on her very first quilt for her baby.” This seems to please the old ladies.

I thought I was a perfectionist until I met Irene. She folds, creases, measures, and re-measures the fabric before she cuts it within eighths of an inch. “Close enough” is not in her vocabulary. She insists I rip out a crooked seam I would’ve ignored. I know she’s right, though.

I’ve got the whole front side of my quilt completed. As I look at the bright, cheery fabrics I stitched together with my own two hands (with some help from Irene’s), I feel a glow of maternal pride. I try not to think about the quilts on sale across the street at Filene’s Basement. Where’s the fun in that?

Weird Symptom of the Week: Because my blood iron levels are low, my doctor has prescribed twice-daily iron supplements. In case you didn’t know, iron tends to, uh, slow down the plumbing. Hence the high-fiber diet. Prune juice, anyone?

Week 28: Hypno-What?!

Last night we had our first HypnoBirthing class. Now, if you’re like us, you’re thinking, “That sounds pretty wacky.” It might even conjure up images of the hypnotist who performed at your high school graduation after-party. You know, the bowtie-wearing guy with the staticky microphone who made the captain of the track team stand up on his chair and bark like a dog.

Well, HypnoBirthing’s not like that. It’s more akin to the kind of hypnosis people undergo to lose weight or quit smoking. It’s even more similar to the type of positive thinking techniques self-help gurus promote on infomercials.

So what’s a perfectly normal couple like C. and me doing at a HypnoBirthing class? Well, the thing is, despite my initial skepticism and subtle mockery of the concept, it intrigues me. I may shop at Ann Taylor and lust over Pottery Barn furniture, but at heart I’m a little less conservative than I might appear. I’m into feng shui. I read my horoscope regularly. I once tried on a wedding dress made out of hemp. And as my doctor put it, “You’re a vegetarian and you do yoga. You might do well with HypnoBirthing.” She’d already pegged me as the earthy-crunchy type.

So, with visions of patchouli and Birkenstocks dancing in our heads, C. and I pulled up to the house where the class was held. Another couple was stepping out of their Honda CRV. “That guy looks like me,” said C., with audible relief. We scrapped our escape plans and followed them inside.

As it turns out, we are the only two couples in the class. The instructor, Marjorie, makes up for her pupils’ lack of weirdness, however. She is a middle-aged mother of five with a Dorothy Hamill haircut and an intense gaze. She fixed it on each of us in turn as she asked us about our expectations about childbirth, what we did for exercise, and whether we preferred nature sounds to Tibetan chanting. C. filled the nervous silence for much of the class. The rest of us were grateful for his easy banter.

But even C. lost his composure a bit when Marjorie invited us to try various massage techniques on our partners. “My hands are palm fronds, sweeping gently across her back,” she cooed, as she demonstrated on our classmate. “What?!” said C. “Shhhh! Palm fronds!” I glowered back at him.

For next week, we’re supposed to read up on HypnoBirthing vocabulary. (Instead of “contractions,” the preferred term is “waves of energy.” Instead of “water breaking,” we refer to “membranes rupturing,” and instead of “delivery” we say “birthing process.”) We also have to pick out our birthing background music (I’m guessing Gwen Stefani is not recommended) and practice our visualization techniques. I, for one, will be going the Caribbean beach route rather than the balloons-and-blue-silk-ribbons route. Don’t ask. It’s a HypnoBirthing thing.

Weird Symptom of the Week: I’ve forgotten about this feature for a couple of weeks. The latest? Baby hiccups. Either that, or the rhythmic pulsing means the baby has really cranked up the bass on the constant dance party he’s having in there.

Week 27: What’s Up, Doc?

The next task on our parents-to-be checklist is to choose a pediatrician. I’ve been putting it off because it seems so daunting. First, I’ve got to poll friends and acquaintances for their recommendations. And, inevitably, everybody tells you something different. One loves their grandfatherly-type doctor, while another cautions against going to any physician who’s been out of medical school longer than you’ve been alive. Then we’re advised to actually interview potential pediatricians in person. I printed a two-page questionnaire off a parenting web site, though I don’t even understand half the questions. What do I know about vaccinations or co-sleeping?

Let me tell you, this is considerably more effort than I’ve ever expended choosing a medical professional for myself. Usually, I just open the insurance booklet and pick someone with a name I can pronounce. Or I go with the one who has the first available appointment. Hardly discriminating, but what do I care? Normally I see a doctor once, maybe twice a year. And most spend less than five minutes with their patients, anyway. I had planned to be more thorough when choosing my OB/GYN, but I was pregnant by the time my appointment rolled around with the first potential doctor a friend recommended. I liked her well enough and it seemed like a hassle to switch at that point, so I stuck with her.

We’re going to be spending a lot more time with our baby’s pediatrician, though, so I’m willing to make the effort to find a good one. The first one we met with, Dr. M., is an older woman who treats my friend S.’s kids. She was warm, friendly, and reassuring to C. and me, who clearly know nothing about children’s healthcare. She talked a lot about breastfeeding. She had a reasonable selection of magazines in the waiting room.

The second pediatrician we met with was a guy my friend’s wife had gone to medical school with. Dr. G. is a young, newly-minted pediatrician with an amiable personality. In addition to his office hours and the staggering number of appointments we’d need in the baby’s first year of life, he talked about his dog and his baby daughter. Her name happens to be C.’s number-one choice at the moment. (In the waiting room, C. told me that my first choice for a girl’s name has just been taken by his coworker’s new pug puppy. If this were the only dog we knew with that name, I might ignore it. As it happens, we know two others. What’s with giving canines people names?!) Dr. G. also talked a lot about breastfeeding. His office is conveniently close to a good bakery/coffee shop.

I’m particularly aware of the importance of our decision because of the bond I had with my childhood pediatrician, Dr. Robinson. He was a genial man with slicked-back, chestnut hair who always sounded slightly congested. He once bet me a six-pack of root beer that I didn’t have a bladder infection. I won the bet. (A mixed victory, since guzzling soft drinks is probably the last thing anyone in that condition should be doing.) Still, I liked and trusted my childhood doctor. I would like our child to have a similar experience.

So I guess that means my decision on which doctor to choose should be based on more than whose office is closest to a Starbucks and has the best magazines in the waiting room. Though I really can’t underestimate the value of a good white chocolate mocha and the latest issue of National Geographic Traveler.

Week 26: Fit Mama II

I never got around to signing up for a prenatal yoga class. It seemed like too much on top of the birthing classes and all the home improvements we're working on. So I’ve continued with my regular Tuesday night yoga class, albeit with a few modifications.

For instance, the Cobra is now out of the question, as is any other pose that involves lying on my stomach. So I’ve invented an alternate pose I call Begging Dog. It involves raising myself up on my arms and extending my neck while keeping my knees in contact with the ground. It’s similar to what my dog, Gracie, does when she smells peanut butter and sticks her snout in the air to get a better whiff.

Then there’s the Dead Manatee, where I flop over onto my back and lift my inflated midsection into the air, imitating a large aquatic mammal that’s gone belly up. This is similar but not identical to the Reclining Hippo.

Since I am the only pregnant person in the class, I do feel self-conscious at times. I used to take pride in my Bow Pose and Dancer’s Pose, envisioning myself as the epitome of elegance and grace. Now, not so much. I refrain from grunting if at all possible, but I often cannot stifle the occasional groan or moan when shifting position. And I flop these days more than I flow. True yogis would shudder, I’m certain.

Still, I have to give myself credit for showing up. That I make it off the couch and into the gym these days is pretty amazing in itself. So I’m not my former fit, flexible self. But I can do a pretty mean Lumbering Elephant.

Week 25: The Waiting is the Hardest Part

Here’s what no one tells you about pregnancy: it’s often kind of boring. There will be days, weeks even, when not a whole lot happens. Sure, the baby is growing and changing constantly inside that big belly of yours, but from the outside, it’s not that exciting.

Let me clarify: I am thankful that my pregnancy has been uneventful, medically speaking. I have felt great for the most part, and have had no complications. I realize I’m very lucky. It’s just that, except for my occasional doctor’s appointments, there’s not all that much to do while I’m waiting for the baby to finish up in there and get born already.

We’ve ordered the crib, registered for baby gear, and are putting the finishing touches on the nursery. I’ve read more books than I ever knew existed about pregnancy, birth, baby names, and infant care. We’ve signed up for childbirth classes, gotten recommendations for pediatricians, and borrowed an infant car seat. I’m even learning to sew and knit, for Pete’s sake. That should tell you how much time I’ve had on my hands lately.

So now, there’s not much left to do but wait. Of course, few people – especially those who already have kids – have much sympathy for me. “Ha! You certainly won’t be bored in a few months,” they say. “You’ll WISH you had time to be bored!” Or sometimes they’ll say, “Enjoy it while it lasts. This time will be gone before you know it.”

Yet somehow, knowing that come June, I may not have time to shower, let alone take in a movie or get my nails done, doesn’t make those activities oh-so-much more enjoyable now. I’ve always been able to do those things. Big deal. I think they really only take on heightened appeal when you can’t remember when you last had time to do them.

I do take advantage of being able to sleep in when I feel like it, and go out to dinner with my husband. I keep telling myself, “In a few months, these date nights will be rare occasions that will require advance planning, a babysitter, and a list of emergency phone numbers.” I guess I could get started on that list now. It just seems so … boring.

Weird Symptom of the Week: Sleep is now frequently interrupted by calf cramps, bathroom visits, and general anxieties about work, breastfeeding, and the expiration dates on the dairy products in the fridge. Also, my stomach looks and feels like an overinflated basketball. I fear that it may explode at any moment.

Week 24: Our Other Baby

I’ve neglected to mention until now that there is actually already another member of our immediate family besides C. and me: Gracie the dog. We adopted our lovable mutt from a shelter about a year ago. She’s got a scraggly black beard, soulful eyes, and a tendency to toss her Milkbones the minute she’s locked inside a moving vehicle. (She gets that from me – weak stomachs run in the family).

Gracie is the sweetest dog in the world, even if she’s no Rhodes scholar. She flees from garden gnomes and barks viciously at wind chimes. She’s fallen face-first into duck ponds and off the edge of decks because she’s unable to distinguish them from solid ground. She has consumed entire boxes of roach poison and peppermint tea, along with several recycling bins’ worth of junk mail. What can I say? We love her anyway. Maybe too much.

Sometimes I look into Gracie’s deep brown eyes and say, “Dog, you have no idea how your life is going to change in a few months.” She’s used to being the baby of the family – commanding all our attention and affection, sleeping at the foot of our bed, being taken to the dog park on weekends. Little does she know that in May, a little pink (not to mention loud and stinky) interloper is going to join the family. Poor pooch doesn’t even see it coming.

She may have her suspicions, though. The whole week after we got back from our “babymoon” she gave us the cold shoulder. Wouldn’t come out of her bed, wouldn’t play with her favorite sock-ball, wouldn’t even come upstairs when we whistled. The brat.

Gracie would have even more reason to resent us if she knew that I have considered taking her name away and giving it to the baby. Don’t judge me! We have been having such a hard time coming up with a girl’s name that we both like and that sounds good with our last name. “Gracie” works. And we wasted it on the dog! Anyway, we already renamed her once. At the shelter they called her “Jacquita.” Would another name change really matter at this point? Still, I can’t bring myself to do it. “Gracie” is such a brilliant misnomer for our clumsy mutt.

I hope that Gracie will adjust to having a baby around the house. Like I said, she’s a sweet dog and she’s good with kids. Plus, she and the baby can bond as they slobber on anything within arm’s (or paw's) reach.

Weird Symptom of the Week: This is a new addition to my journal, made necessary by the fact that I am now experiencing random, pregnancy-associated discomforts. This week, it’s calf cramps in the middle of the night. Can you say OUCH?!

Week 23: Up to My Ears in Baby Gear

A baby requires more gear than an expedition up Mount Everest. Not only do you need a crib, changing table, bassinet, rocking chair, and playpen, you also apparently need a highchair, a stroller, a baby carrier, an infant car seat, a convertible car seat, a bouncy seat, and a swing (motorized, with six speeds and 15 musical selections). And that’s not even counting all the diapers and clothing and bedding and bathing and breast-feeding paraphernalia.

Now, I know you may be thinking what I was thinking: Surely babies don’t need ALL this stuff. I mean, there are tribes in Africa that raise their children with no other accoutrements than a homemade baby sling fashioned out of a sarong.

But here in the U.S., as any experienced parent will tell you, you not only need all this stuff, but you would be willing to sacrifice an organ rather than live without it. At least, this is what my friend T. told me as we were wandering the aisles of Babies R Us, scanner in hand. Yes, when you register for baby gear at these places, they set you loose with a multi-page checklist of “must-haves” for new parents and a scanner so you can zap any piece of merchandise your little heart desires.

I didn’t get any further than the diaper-pail aisle when I froze up. Did I want the Diaper Genie, which turns dirty diapers into magical, stink-free, hermetically sealed sausages? Or should I go with the plain old diaper pail that looks like a regular kitchen trashcan? T. and I examined the inner workings of a few models while she pointed out that some contained no form of odor-shielding apparatus – a crucial feature, for obvious reasons – and others required special, extremely expensive refills. Do you know how many diapers a newborn goes through in a day? Four or five? Maybe six? Try TWELVE, people!! At that rate, the money we’d spend on the diaper pail refills would burn through the kid’s college fund in a few months flat. So I went with the basic model.

It got a little easier as we moved on to the other aisles. Digital thermometer – zap! Baby bathtub – zap! Highchair – zap! Baby Bjorn – zap! I stalled again when faced with the swings and bouncy seats. Surely I wouldn’t need both. Most of these contraptions are the size of major kitchen appliances, not to mention rather gaudy. But T. remarked that while the swing was guaranteed to lull her daughter to sleep, only the portable bouncy seat would do for trips to Grandma’s. Fine. Zap! Zap!

I nearly had a meltdown when we got to the strollers, though. Talk about too many choices. And I’m not even referring to colors and fabrics. There are umbrella strollers, jogging strollers, reclining strollers, ultra-light strollers, and “travel systems.” That’s the marketing term for these all-in-one thingies that include an infant car seat that snaps onto a stroller, which folds up to fit in a car trunk.

See, the idea is that this one stroller will accommodate your child when she’s an infant and then convert into a toddler stroller, all the while providing you with nifty features like rain canopies, under-seat storage, and cup holders. But here’s the catch – this convenient “system” weighs more than most 10-year-olds. The thing is HEAVY, and that’s without an actual human baby in it!

Speaking of which – side note – I am beginning to feel ridiculously heavy myself. My body is not used to carrying a 20-lb. bowling ball strapped to its front. At least, I’m assuming that’s where the extra 20 lbs. has settled, since the rest of me looks about the same and the baby only weighs about 1 lb. at this point. Anyway, it’s starting to get a little uncomfortable, walking around, sleeping, and digesting with this large weight resting just above my belt. Best not to think about what month nine holds in store …

So, back to the baby gear. Not only is most of this stuff heavy, unwieldy, and garishly colored, it’s also EXPENSIVE. Of course, the idea of registering is that other people will buy it for you. (You know, the same people who shelled out for that platinum-rimmed Waterford wedding china that’s now gathering dust in your dining room.) But why go broke giving someone a six-speed motorized swing when you could just get a cute onesie and a pack of bibs and be done with it?

Odds are, we’re going to end up purchasing most of this stuff ourselves, however impractical it may be to fork over $90 for a mass-produced baby carrier we’ll only use for three months. That homemade African sling’s starting to sound pretty good. I wonder if it comes with a lumbar support attachment?

Week 22: I’ve Popped!

At some point over the past week or two, I have started to really look pregnant. Of course, people who know me could tell something was up awhile ago. But to the rest of the world I think I just looked like I was carrying a little extra weight around the middle. You couldn’t even tell in baggy T-shirts. But now, it’s unmistakable. I have an upside-down salad bowl protruding from my abdomen – with the tell-tale “outie” belly button on top.

The reactions I’ve gotten so far have ranged from, “Oh, look how cute your belly is!” (immediately reaching out to touch said belly) to “Holy sh*t! You look, like, completely pregnant already.” (This from my ever-sensitive brother.) For the most part, I’m not too concerned about my extra weight (19 lbs. and counting). But occasionally, some doubts creep in – say, when I’m squeezing into my biggest pants and I still can’t button them. Or when my stomach casts a shadow over my knees. Or when I look at myself from the side and notice that my belly now sticks out farther than my chest. Or when I think about the fact that I’ve still got almost four months to go before this bun’s ready to come out of the oven.

When I’m not thinking about my ever-changing shape, I’m thinking about baby furniture. You thought it ended with the glider/recliner? Oh, no, my friend, you’re sadly mistaken. Even more important than the chair is the crib. I had naively imagined that finding a plain, white, mid-priced crib would be a cinch. But that was before I wandered into Babies R Us and discovered convertible cribs, sleigh cribs, single drop sides, double drop sides, and wheels. Prices varied by hundreds of dollars. And it turns out white cribs are no longer in fashion – who knew? Natural wood finishes like cherry, honey oak, sandy pine, and chestnut are popular now.

Of course, no two brands use the same finishes or the same names, so good luck trying to match a crib and a dresser from different lines. And you can be sure that your favorite crib will only come with a matching deluxe double dresser with a hutch – costing hundreds more than the simple changing table you had in mind. (That only comes in deep mahogany, sorry.) The helpful salespeople might also mention that the cribs may take anywhere from eight to 14 weeks to ship, though they can’t guarantee delivery before your child’s out of diapers.

Hubby and I spent way too many Saturdays and way too much time on the Internet before throwing in the towel. That happened right around the time we looked up user reviews of the crib we’d finally decided on. One user gave it five stars and praised its sturdy construction, while another gave it half a star and described in graphic detail how one of the wooden rails had split, causing her maimed child to be rushed to the hospital. Comforting.

So we went ahead and ordered a basic, white, mid-priced crib from Sears. They’re a reliable company, we reasoned. The elderly salesman in the furniture department had a grandfatherly quality; surely he wouldn’t steer us wrong. Plus, it was on sale. When it doubt, let frugality prevail. Next we ordered a simple white dresser – also on sale – from JC Penney. We plan to throw a $25 changing pad on top and call it a day.

Will the finishes match exactly? I fear not. (One woman’s “eggshell” is another woman’s “satin.”) Will our baby need to be rushed to the hospital because of faulty construction? I sure hope not. The medical bills would definitely cancel out the money we saved by not getting the deluxe honey oak hutch.

Week 21: Babymoon in Paradise

Before I got pregnant, C. and I had been planning a trip to Buenos Aires in February. We later scrapped that plan and decided to find someplace closer and cheaper. After all, we’ve got a lot of major purchases coming up. So when we found cheap airfare to Florida this month, we decided to take a week-long vacation while we still can. The travel industry has actually coined a term for a final pre-baby getaway -- the babymoon.

Since I’ve never been to the Florida Keys, we decided that might be a fun destination. We chose Key Largo because it’s the closest to the mainland. I didn’t think my pregnant bladder could survive the much longer drive to Key West.

When we arrived at the airport in Florida, they didn’t have the car we reserved so they gave us a white convertible – bonus! We found a great little hotel on the Internet overlooking Florida Bay. The décor was very classy and modern, with tile floors, leather couches, a spacious bathroom, and a kitchenette. (You know we pregnant chicks love to eat!)

I was kind of surprised when the guy who runs the hotel said “Congratulations” as soon as we walked in. C. assumed I had told him I was pregnant, but I hadn’t. Plus, I was wearing a flowy tunic top and didn’t think it was that obvious. But he kept commenting on how pregnant I was – “Are you eating everything in sight yet? Better be careful if you go kayaking.” – that I started to get a bit of a complex! He’s the first stranger who’s commented on my pregnancy immediately upon meeting me.

Anyway, he was a pleasant guy, and he ran a nice hotel. The best thing about it was that they deliver fresh pastries and yogurt to guests’ doorsteps every morning. By the second day of our stay, my stomach had developed its own internal pastry clock, awakening me in anticipation of the yummy papaya- and guava-filled croissants by 8:30 a.m. (On our last day, they gave us three – one for the baby!)

Our first day in Key Largo was in the low 80s and sunny. We drove a couple miles down the road to a state park, where there were two sandy beaches with restrooms and refreshments nearby – another bonus! The water was pretty chilly, so we just sat on the beach and relaxed in the sun.

But it was a good thing I brought two swimsuits -- my newly voluptuous figure proved too much of a strain on my pre-pregnancy bikini, causing the top to pop open unexpectedly when I bent down to pick up my book. Luckily, C. provided a screen while I covered myself!

That afternoon, we rented kayaks for what I hoped would be an easy paddle for a couple of hours. Things started out fine, but an hour or so into it, we got turned around in the narrow channels and lost our way. Three hours and some choppy water later, we somehow ended up back at our starting point, exhausted. I was a little scared I’d damaged my unborn baby. But when I felt him/her moving around later that night, I relaxed.

The next day was overcast, so we drove to Key West for the day. It was a nice drive along the Overseas Highway, but by the time we got there, we only had enough time to eat lunch and look in a couple of shops before we had to head back for my prenatal massage appointment in Key Largo. Key West seemed a little too busy and crowded for my tastes, anyway.

The spa at the Marriott just down the road from our hotel was situated in an open-air tiki hut overlooking the pool. My massage therapist had outfitted the pregnancy-appropriate massage table (topped with a special cushion with scooped-out areas for my boobs and belly) with heated blankets. The massage was amazing. Though I don’t know what exactly was prenatal about it. I’d heard you’re not supposed to stimulate certain parts of your feet and ankles because it can cause contractions, but she didn’t seem to avoid those areas. Anyway, afterward I felt unbelievably relaxed.

At night we didn’t do much more than eat and go back to the hotel to watch movies in our room. The first night we had the most amazing coconut-crusted mahi mahi with curry raisin sauce at this little hole-in-the-wall place down the road. The next night we headed down the highway to a fancy French restaurant in Islamorada. I keep thinking to myself, we won’t be able to come places like this once the baby arrives. It was a super-elegant, waterfront restaurant with dark wood paneling, cream walls, and black and white nautical prints. Kind of like we’d decorate our family room if we could afford to. My potato-crusted grouper with roasted tomatoes was a work of art, as delicious as it was attractive. So was C.’s wahoo with seafood risotto. Even though we were stuffed, we ordered the crème brulee for dessert. Hey, I’m eating for two, right?

The last day, we drove back to West Palm Beach and stayed with my grandfather. It was fun to see him, and my aunt and cousin from Kentucky were visiting, so I got to see them, too. Everyone made a big deal over my pregnancy, and my aunt gave me some cute maternity clothes. (So far I haven’t had to buy any for myself!) We came home relaxed and ready to tackle the baby’s room. Well, maybe we'll start on it next weekend …