the pieces of my life

I haven’t blogged in a while because there’s been nothing to say. I realize, though, that we’re getting to the point where if I don’t pop in and say hi, people may think I’ve, well, popped. (“This is day number 254 and you’re 36 weeks pregnant! You have 26 days or 4 weeks left, and are 90% of the way there.”) But I haven’t. Really everything is the same (baby hasn’t turned, my ankles are still gone, my mid-section is ever-increasing) except that perhaps I sleep less and I’m more cranky. The wedding dress sale at Filene’s Basement is happening today in Boston. That’s the one-day sale where all the wedding dresses are on racks and priced at $249; from the store’s site: when the doors open at 8 a.m., “it takes less than 60 seconds for the racks to be stripped bare. Shoppers grab as many gowns as they can carry and drag them off to a corner, strip down to their underwear, and start trying on dresses. Minutes later they begin a complex system of trading.” The site even includes ten tips for success. I have a coworker who’s getting married next year and I tried to convince her that we needed to go to the sale, really more so I would have something new to blog about than out of any altruistic feelings of wanting to help her find her dress. But she found the whole thing rather intimidating and decided to pass. There was also much talk of “Is it really safe for a woman who’s nine months pregnant?” but I figure I’m the safest one there: I’ve got extra padding and a bonus layer of annoyed chutzpah.

So, with my friends as little help, there’s nothing to report. My pregnancy calendar at Baby Center no longer has a “next month” for me, which is mildly freaky. Adam and I took an infant CPR class last night, but nothing of excitement there. And in just five days, I’m officially full term, which means the little guy is cooked.

Jenn’s coming to town to visit this weekend. So I’ll put the onus on her to be interesting so I have something to blog about. No pressure, of course, or anything.

Let me say that if Brown Brown is born with a negative self-image, we can actually blame it squarely on Adam. Because of Brown Brown’s big butt in my pelvis, Adam has taken to calling him the “J. Lo of babies” and “Bubble-Butt Brown.” There’s even a catchy little song that goes with the latter. It’s nice to know that I won’t be the only one doing irreparable damage to our child’s self-esteem.

After yoga class on Saturday (the very same yoga class that at one time I said, “Oh, it’s so easy,” and I now break a sweat in when it comes time for leg lifts. The same class where I laughed every time the teacher said, “Only do what you can,” thinking who can’t do this? and now, hey, I can’t do half the poses and I just sit there in a tailor pose while the rest of the class bends. The same class where I marveled when the teacher would look right at someone and say, “Women in their last month will need more modification,” and I’d think, “Wow, last month, that’ll never be me,” and now, it’s me!), Adam and I hit Target to purchase yet more baby and mom supplies (how much crap do we need?): baby wipes, diaper cream, infant Tylenol, breast pads, syrup of Ipecac. We need bottles, because I plan on pumping enough that Adam will be able to feed as well, only we got to the bottle aisle…and froze. All the advice our breastfeeding teacher gave us shot clearly out of our head. “Is it better to get this nipple or this nipple?” I asked, staring at the array of bottles and nipples. “What was it she liked? The Gerber bottle with the Playtex nipple? Or the Playtex bottle with the Gerber nipple?” Adam just picked up package after package after package, reading the backs and putting them back down again. His most helpful comment was the one-word utterance, “Idunno.” “Do we need shaped or straight? Is the wide nipple what we want? Or the curved?” “Idunno.” After fifteen minutes of just staring, we finally gave up and decided we better actually read the pile of handouts we got in all our classes that we merely stuck in a pile and said, “We’ll get to this one of these days.” I think this week will be a major reading kind of week. And we’ll get the bottles another time.

I’m covered in food, because I’m clumsy and apparently Lean Cuisines are hard to eat. I’ve hit my belly with doors three times today, because I don’t have an sense of my girth anymore. My back hurts, my belly hurts, my heartburn hurts, my feet are sore, I’m tired. But this does not–does not, I emphasize–give you leave to ask me in that simpering tone (or any tone, for that matter), “How are you feeling?” I’m so sick of people asking me how I feel. I’m still standing, right? Then I’m fine. It’s hard to keep the snarl out of my voice when answering. Adam is trying to deal with Ikea because the stupid twits gave us the wrong dresser (keep in mind the nearest Ikea is four hours away, so it’s not like we can just go exchange it). We said we wanted the Malm five-drawer dresser in birch. And in fairness, we watched the guy type in, “MALM, 5-draw, bch” (or something like that), not realizing that “bch” is actually beech. A color that works not at all in our nursery. Luckily, the Malm three-drawer dresser was in the correct color (we picked that one off the shelves ourselves), so we do have some place to put the clothes. Anyway, the point is, I’m tempted to tell Adam that I’m the one who should call Ikea because I am just cranky enough to go absolute nuts on them, as I’m now itching for a fight. Which, I suppose, is all the more reason for Adam to be dealing with it. Best bet for all of you is to keep a wide berth. And the first a-hole who e-mails/calls to ask “How am I doing?” just to be cute is the first one to receive a string of obscenities back from me. That’s only if I’m feeling nice. If I’m not feeling nice, it could be worse. Like dead-horse-in-your-bed worse. Don’t try me.

Forget not telling you people Brown Brown’s real name: I can’t seem to remember it myself! Adam and I were setting things up in the nursery and we were debating where to put all our wonderful new books. “We could get those cute book ends that are letters,” I said, “and put the books on top of the table. You know”–and I’m sticking with Xavier as a first name here (no people, not the real name!)–“an X and a B.” Adam looked at me, smiling. “And what would that stand for?” he asked. I looked at him strangely. “You know. Xavier Brow– Oh. Um, I mean an X and an M.” I think not remembering my own son’s name could cause some serious psychological damage. But considering that the damage has to be done in some way, I guess that one’s not too bad.

(Does RIF still use that big dog? What was his name?) You know what the best thing about working with writers and editors is? They all love to read. My fantastic office threw me and Brown Brown a book shower and now Brown Brown has a library extraordinaire. At lunch time on Wednesday, we had pizza and chocolate cake with extra frosting (mmm, frosting! In fact, when my boss ordered the cake, the store said to her, “We can put plastic booties on the cake,” and she told them, “You better make them out of frosting.” Anyone who’s ever eaten cake within a mile radius of me knows that frosting makes me weak in the knees. Chocolate cake with vanilla frosting is just about the best thing ever invented). My boss said lots of nice things about me (the shower also doubled as my going-away party as my last day–Aug. 22–happens when a few folks will be on their vacations), and she gave me a gift certificate for a pedicure. And then everyone gave us lots of books! Some great classics (such as Dr. Seuss, Curious George, Mother Goose) and some I’d never heard of but now think are just fabulous (Five Minutes’ Peace and Henry Hikes to Fitchburg, to name two)! I got home on Wednesday night with my pile of books to discover that our glider came in, so now I not only have lots of books to read to Brown Brown, but I have a place to read to him!

On Wednesday I went to the hospital for a “Meet the Doctors.” Our OB is part of a call group, which means they each are on call one day a week and someone else covers their patients on other days. I was quite impressed with the group as a whole (six of the eight doctors were there. All but one is female. Just my luck, I’ll end up with the only male. Not that I have anything against male OBs. I just don’t want one coming anywhere near me), and they had an hour-long question-and-answer period. It was interesting and I learned a few new things, but they kept saying, over and over and over, not just the procedure that shall not be named, but it’s natural corollary. They spent a good three hourse on the topic! (Okay, well it felt like three hours. Whatever!) Happily, I was not the only person in the room turning green. I have to say, as much as I’m not crazy about the idea of a c-section, I’d be very happy to avoid that other thing that shall not be named. Oh, I feel queasy even just remembering the lecture.

“Hug a lot, hold hands, sleep in the spoon position, and kiss” StorkNet advises dads-to-be. Um, hello? Hugs? Have you tried to hug with a basketball under your shirt? Spooning? Have they not seen the pile of pillows on every pregnant woman’s bed? (By the way: Adam originally was slightly miffed at the body pillow, which he named Fred, that lay between us on the bed. Now I find when I come back from my nighttime bathroom trips, I have to wrench Fred from his grasp as he sleeps cuddled next to it.) Holding hands and kissing. Well, great. We’ve still got that going. Except that when you’re as cranky as I am, it doesn’t make for many kissable moments.

I’m working on my last story for work. This is it. Finito (which means, of course, I’ll be assigned some quickie project tomorrow, but hey, I like living dangerously and tempting fate). And so who am I to miss the opportunity to bitch about the fact that I can’t find a lead? Instead of thinking of my lead, all I can do is hum “I Need a Lead” to the tune of the Roseanne Cash song “I Need a Cure.” Someone send me a lead!

Adam gave me an out. “You’ll be 34 weeks pregnant. You really don’t have to come with me to the wedding.” “Oh,” I blithesomely said, “I’m not worried.” And it was true, all the discomforts of the weekend came not from the baby (although sitting in a car for so long with a head crammed in your ribs is not the most comfortable of things) but just from the sheer exhaustion of getting from Boston to Atlantic City and back in one weekend (because of his internship, Adam couldn’t take Friday off). Note to self: Do not try to leave Boston on a Friday at 5:30. Never ever ever ever. Luckily, the Tweedle Twirp’s weekday home is two hours from Atlantic City, so we used that as our homebase, breaking up the ride and meaning we got to skip the $180 hotel room. Of course, the Tweedle Twirp is a graduate student. What does that mean? It means a futon on the floor. TT was concerned about me on it, and I said, “Oh, no problem! I always fall asleep in my yoga class and that’s on the floor.” And it’s true–her futon was quite comfy. But, man, getting up and down from the futon was less than graceful. It involved some rocking back and forth, a half-hearted leap, and my grabbing onto whatever was closest to pull myself up every time I needed the bathroom. Adam, of course, slept soundly. One thing I can say for TT’s apartment: it made me realize just how happy I am to have air conditioning at home.

The wedding itself was lovely. There were a few snafus, but as a guest and not a participant, I could just sit back and relax and not worry about them (for instance, the florist thought the wedding was on Sunday, not Saturday, so many of the flowers were not ready. The wedding started forty minutes late as they waited for what flowers they had, and from what I heard, the bridesmaid’s flowers came from the Stop N’ Shop. They were still pretty, though). You know, I had so much fun planning our wedding and I really enjoyed the day and I am so happy that I’ll never have to do it again. Guest is way more fun than participant. Adam was an usher in the wedding, and the funniest part was that the morning suit he had to wear was HUGE on him. You could barely see his hands under the cuffs.

Sunday was my day, though. A trip to Ikea where we finished purchasing things for the baby’s room (a dresser and a table/shelf). Lunch with an old friend of mine. And shopping at the baby store at Jersey Gardens. Then we attempted to leave the Tri-State area. I think it’s the fastest we’ve ever done it: only an hour and forty minutes to get from Elizabeth, New Jersey to the other side of the George Washington Bridge. What a joy. We made it home in about five and a half hours.

All in all, a good weekend. But from here on out, whenever I’m given an out… I’ll be taking it!