Friday, July 31, 2009


Take this fun quiz, and find out how much you really know about pregnancy!

1. How many pairs of pants that fit comfortably does a pregnant person need?

a. Four or five; a couple of pairs for work, a good pair or two of jeans, and one for the weekend. Cute skirts will round out your wardrobe.
b. Comfortably? Well, none. What is this 'comfort' of which you speak?
c. Does a muu-muu count?

2. How many frozen treats should be in the freezer at all times?

a. Maybe some Lite ice cream: you don't want to pack on the pounds too fast!
b. Maybe some regular ice cream: Lite ice cream is disgusting and pointless.
c. Five: Fudgesicles, real fruit popsicles, two kinds of Ben & Jerry's, and some Girl Scout cookies.
d. Well, it was five, but the pregnant one ate everything but a few of the cookies.

3. Starting in the 7th month, how often will the baby kick you in the ribs per day (on average)?

a. 40-50 times.
b. I lost count when I started sobbing because she just. won't. STOP.
c. Once. It's a trick question: her feet are permanently lodged in your ribs!

4. How many jokes about how huge the pregnant woman is can the husband make?

a. A few, it's important to keep your sense of humor!
b. As many as the husband can while the pregnant one is sitting on his chest. (Zero.)
c. One. Then the pregnant one EATS HIM WHOLE.

5. What are Elena and Alex having?

a. Boy
b. Girl
c. An ultimate frisbee player
d. Monkey
e. b, c, and d

6. What will be the most precious thing in Alex and Elena's lives once Baby comes?

a. Baby, of course.
b. The wonder that they are now a real family of their own.
c. The money from selling Baby on the black market.
d. Sleep.

How did you do?
1. b, 2. c (but give yourself half a point for d), 3. b, 4. c, 5. e (half a point for everything but a), 6. d.

Zero to two points: You need to hang around more bloated people. Go buy Elena some ice cream to make up for your failure.

Two to four points: Pretty good, but you could use some work. Go buy Elena some ice cream so that you'll do better next time.

Four to six points: Great! You are probably pregnant or have recently been sat upon by someone who is. Go buy some ice cream to celebrate and then share it with Elena!

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Climb that Inadequacy Ladder!

When Alex and I went to our infant care class, we got a book from the hospital called "The Joy of Parenthood." I think the publishers should be a little pickier about their typesetters, 'cause I'm pretty sure the title was supposed to read, "The 'Joy' of Parenthood: The Myth Revealed," because the book is actually about the different ways that having an infant will ruin your life as you know it.

The very first page, after a perfunctory congratulations, assures you that it's perfectly alright and even normal to have exactly zero maternal affection toward your slimy, bald, bluish howler monkey. Page two holds this quote, which I am not making up: "You may find yourself crying and feeling like you are climbing this ladder of inadequacy higher and higher with every cry from your baby." (My question is: if I decide to take a header off of the inadequacy ladder, will the fall be enough to kill me quickly and painlessly?)

There are pages upon pages describing all the ways that your baby will be hideous and misshapen, and warning you not to throw it away, as there is at least a 50/50 chance that your baby will not be permanently coneheaded and crusty. This is followed by even more pages about silencing your infant's incessant shrieking, or barring that, coping mechanisms that will keep you from shaking the baby. From there it's a natural segue into the many ways to fail at breastfeeding, and then onto post-partum depression. Because really, by now, how could you be happy?

There is, however, chemical help! No, not the gin, although that will be awfully nice after nine months of teetotaling. We're talking about Oxytocin, the hormonal fairy dust that will make you love and care for your baby despite the fact that it looks like a blotchy pink Yoda. This magical product of the pituitary gland is apparently strong enough to make new parents genuinely happy! I can swear to the power of this stuff. I have been known to tear up during fabric softener and life insurance commercials. Um, and yogurt commercials. And at blank walls and silence. Okay, so maybe lately I've been mostly running around saying, "Baaaaaaaabyyyyyyyyyy! Oooooohhhh!" and then trying to snuggle the dog, who really just wants to nap and drool on the rug. Anyway, goo-covered or not, bring on the life-wrecking infant! The joy of parenthood doesn't scare me one bit.

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

Week 34

A recent picture of me in week 34 of pregnancy.

Monday, July 27, 2009

I have the most amazingly awesome friends in history.

Saturday night was the Don't-Call-It-A-Baby-Shower, and people, the bar has been set high.

Instead of sitting around watching the mother-to-be awkwardly open endless pink-ribboned packages of booties and onesies, we stood in the front yard when 12 adult men and women nearly gave themselves aneurysms racing to drink beer from baby bottles. Instead of sipping tea while Great-Great Aunt Edna retold the story of how she gave birth to her eighth child out in the cow pasture, in a snowstorm, uphill BOTH WAYS, we drank home-brewed "It's a Girl Raspberry Ale." And instead of guessing how many safety diaper pins fit inside of a baby-wipe container, we took turns trying to bash open a papier mache baby bottle to get at the candy and nips inside. And you KNOW a baby shower has gone well when the police come to break it up.

In all seriousness, I can't think of the last time I felt so loved. Alex and I are incredibly lucky to have such great friends. Thank you, guys.

Friday, July 24, 2009

Fast Times at Pre-Pregnancy High

Lately I've been having dreams about running and playing Ultimate. It might have something to do with the fact that I like to bring my cleats to bed and lull myself to sleep by caressing them and cooing, "I miss you," over and over. I used to have a much healthier relationship with my athletic equipment. For example, last Thanksgiving I did NOT lick my running sneakers at all, and instead just used them to run the Applied Materials Silicon Valley Turkey Trot 5K. I'm hesitant to call it a race, because although some people thought of it as such, I think the rest of the 6,000 people who 'ran' it were hoping to rationalize eating three different kinds of pie later on that day.

I started training for the race a good seven weeks beforehand. It was my first 5K, so my main motivation was to avoid embarrassing myself. (Okay... it's also because I'm insanely competitive. To me, there is no such thing as a "Fun Run". Running is something to be done faster than other people, or at least as fast as you can go without puking.) I printed a calendar with workouts listed for each day. I slowly built up the mileage. I did sprints. I had time goals. I did longer runs once per week. I even tried to practice running the course once, although I ended up in a Target parking lot (where the race did not go, by the way) and eventually walked back to the car, but I tried.

This year, I have two goals. One: to finish without walking (maybe). Two: to not scream, "I could have kicked your ass a year ago!" at the octogenarians with walkers whose dust I'll be eating. I was thinking I could duct tape my mouth shut, but that might interfere with the whole breathing thing. Meh, it's a secondary goal anyway. They probably won't even be able to hear me, what with the wind whistling in their hearing aids and all.

Somebody call me an agent, cause I have the next best-seller.

You'd be surprised at the lack of literature on disciplining your unborn child. Nothing on the internet, and the woman at the library was NOT helpful at all. You'd think I had asked her when the next meeting of the I Heart Hitler Club was.

But guess what, Baby? You've got a clever Mama, and just because it hasn't been done before, doesn't mean it never will be. Especially if you don't stop kicking that one monkey-scratchin' rib within the next 20 minutes. I've been more than patient. I know you don't have a lot to play with in there, nor a lot of room to move around, but guess what? That's a bone. It's a permanent fixture in my body. And no matter how many times you pummel it with your tiny little foot, it's not going anywhere.

So we can do this the hard way, or the easy way. You've got to ask yourself one question. "Do I feel lucky"?

Well, do ya, punk?

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

You're probably dying. Seriously, google it.

At about one o'clock yesterday afternoon, I was thinking to myself, "Gee, I think I'm finally feeling these perfectly normal Braxton-Hicks 'practice' contractions that a majority of pregnant women feel in their last trimester." At five o'clock yesterday evening, I was in the hospital hooked up to a blood pressure monitor, a heart rate monitor for me, a fetal heart rate monitor, and a doo-hickey that measures contractions.

What happened between one and five, you ask, that would cause me to be lying in a hospital bed with so many contraptions and wires hanging off of me that reading a magazine was difficult? Simple. Google. (Before anyone has a heart attack and calls my mom to tell her that I'm probably dying as we speak, everything is great. Baby's great, I'm great, my pee is great. (They checked.))
So I was feeling these sort of crampy little pains, and like I said, I figured they were Braxton-Hicks "practice" contractions. My doctor had asked me at my last appointment whether I had felt any yet, so I was expecting them. I googled the symptoms, and I found out that for most people, they're painless and feel like your uterus bunching up or hardening. Mine were definitely on the painful side, and I didn't really feel any uterus bunching, although honestly, how the hell do I know what a bunched-up uterus feels like? So then I googled some more, about what my symptoms might indicate, and people, I all but got red flashing lights and sirens that told me that I WAS PROBABLY IN LABOR RIGHT NOW.

I was still pretty sure that they were just Braxton Hicks, and that they happened to be painful for me, but I figured I'd call the nurse at the doctor's office anyway. She asked me a bunch of questions like, Have you been exposed to chicken pox lately? and, Have you been stabbing your abdomen with scissors lately? And then, SHE was pretty sure that it was just Braxton Hicks, but she wanted to talk to the doctor just in case. If I called the doctor's office and said, "I'm about 34 weeks pregnant, and I've noticed that my belly has gotten much larger, and I've got these weird movements inside," the nurse would tell me, "It's probably just the infant that you're gestating, but... Did you see Alien, where Kane has weird movements in his abdomen, and then the alien, like, totally rips through his chest and runs off, dripping blood everywhere? It could be that, and we really don't want you to sue us, so we're gonna need you to come in for some tests."

After an hour or so, they determined that I was having weensy little contractions, probably Braxton Hicks, that just happened to be kind of painful for me, and that I could go home. Duh. I think I just figured out what's wrong with health care in America: an explosive combination of people googling symptoms and doctors being deathly afraid of malpractice suits.

If the baby comes out looking like this, though, I am SO suing the hospital.

Monday, July 20, 2009

What's in a name?

Everybody's been asking what we're gonna name this kid, so I figured I'd give y'all the short list, and let you vote.

In no particular order:

Hepzibah (From the great novel, Silas Marner. I think this will give her a refined, intellectual air.)
Paprika (Great spice)
Pimenton (It's paprika, but smoked! From Spain! Exotic, no?)
Clytemnestra (From ancient Greek. And such good nicknames, too... Doesn't "Clytie" sound cute?)
Myrtle (She'd probably be the only one she ever meets. Also, rhymes with "turtle.")
Goneril (From King Lear. So many great names from literature!)
Pinky (She'll be small and pink at first, this seems appropriate.)
Bjorn and Ulv (Swedish for bear and wolf. This would probably work better if she turns out to be twin boys.)

What do you think?

Friday, July 17, 2009

No guts... no glory

My mom used to get horrible migraines when my brother and I were little, and if there's anything harder than taking care of little kids whose favorite game is Sibling Dismemberment, then it's trying to referee Sibling Dismemberment when even a wayward sunbeam can make you vomit. Once when my brother and I were about 9 and 6, Mom needed a little help from the Electronic Babysitter so that she could writhe in agony in relative peace. At the video store, she went for a nice safe choice, something that was a cartoon at the time... Robocop.

That movie is forever seared into my brain, which before that fateful day had been mostly devoted to My Little Pony, ballerinas and sparkly unicorns. Robocop originally got ELEVEN X ratings for graphic violence before they finally cleaned it up enough to get an R. (And what kind of genius went to a board room and pitched the idea for a kids version? "Hey guys, you know that new movie, the one that kept getting ratings that would have kept it from wide release? I think there's a real market for it in the 7-11 year old range." He's probably still trying to get Schindler's List: The Animated Series made.) Remember that scene where they torture him at the beginning, right before they kill him? Yeah, I still do.

Anyway, my point is that well meaning parents make mistakes. All the time. When we saw The Watchmen, someone in the theater had brought a little girl who looked to be about four years old with them. Besides the gallons of spurting blood and prolonged soft-core porn scenes, there was also, oh, THAT ONE PART WHERE A LITTLE GIRL GETS CHOPPED UP AND FED TO DOGS. Maybe their reasoning was the same as my mother's: if a movie is made from or into a cartoon or comic book, it's okay, right? We shouldn't be so judgemental of other people's parenting choices. I watched Robocop in my formative years, and I didn't end up a drug lord snorting cocaine off of... um, ladies... and their, um... lady parts. I mean, I gave it a go, but it really wasn't anything like it's portrayed in the movies. For one thing, nobody ever makes mention of all the bookkeeping involved in running a drug cartel. Unrealistic expectations... if you ask me, that's the real problem with the media and kids these days.

Thursday, July 16, 2009

Safe and secure

She looks pretty happy, don't you think?

Wednesday, July 15, 2009


What the doctor says: "Hm, you've gained 6 pounds since your last visit, that's a little high. Although, overall, your total weight gain is fine considering your height, especially since your weight gain was on the lower side last week. Everything else good? Good. I'll see you in two weeks for your ultrasound."

What I hear: "Holy shit, you've gained 6 pounds since your last visit? How do you even DO that? Are you mainlining lard? Well, that's it... you're already huge and unattractive, and you're never EVER going to lose this baby weight. This will start the cycle of you being depressed about your body, then overeating to console yourself, until in a few years, when your house catches on fire you end up on the evening news because you'll be so fat that the firefighters have to chop down your doorframe to get you out. Everything else good? Good. I'll see you in two weeks for your ultrasound."

Monday, July 13, 2009

Dear Co-workers

Dear everyone at work,

How are you? You seem confused. I know that I used to see you all and greet you every day when I worked in the main lobby, and now you rarely see me. I can't help but notice that when we do have occasion to run into each other, your eyeballs drift to my abdomen. It's not just you - I'm pregnant. Very much so; you can tell by the many, many pounds I have gained that have deposited themselves exclusively on my belly area. I can also tell that you're dying to ask me if I'm pregnant, but you're afraid that maybe I've just become heir to a fortune that's dependent on how well the stock of Ben & Jerry's is performing. It's okay! Go ahead and ask me! If I really dislike you, I'll say no and watch you squirm in horror, but there are very few of you who deserve such torture.

I know that everyone says that you should never ask someone if they're pregnant, and I follow that rule myself. Still, if you're going to be blatantly eyeballing my gut, you might as well ask. If I was just getting fatter, your stares would be just as insulting as you asking outright. If you don't ask, I'm not really going to let you off the hook on my own. When we do run into each other in the break room, I like to keep our interactions confined to the usual: minimal eye contact, perfunctory greeting, maybe on Mondays/Fridays an acknowledgement of the past/upcoming weekend. Ditto elevator. There's nothing worse than starting a conversation only to have the other person get off on the next floor, forcing an awkward and abrupt end, or worse, the open-door linger. Nobody likes an elevator lingerer, and I don't want to be responsible for anyone having to wait an extra 20 seconds to get upstairs.

The only other solution that I have for you is to just carry around cans of cheap beer, and you can offer to chug one with me. Actually, you all should probably start doing that whether or not there are pregnant people you want to ferret out. It'd be great for company morale.


Friday, July 10, 2009

The Kids' Table

I went to a barbecue at a friend's house a little while ago, and I have never been more terrified in my life.

We walked in, and even though there was no wall separating the dining room from the kitchen, there may as well have been. The dining room/play area was full of pants-pooping toddlers and those who owned them, and the kitchen was full of the rest of the adults. At first I thought that all of the parents were three feet tall, but then I realized they were all of normal height, you just couldn't tell because every single one of them was constantly bending over or crouching down to pull Cheerios out of their two-year old's nostril, or to keep their one year old from bashing the 8 month old's head in with a Teletubby.

I hid behind Alex (about as well as a sumo wrestler can hide behind a telephone pole) so that I could sneak into the kitchen where the regular adults were. I was petrified that if they saw that I was pregnant, they'd reach out and drag me into their circle with their diaper-smelling claws to be mauled by their sticky, shrieking spawn. I wanted to hang out with REAL adults, who were drinking beer, liberally peppering their speech with cuss words, and planning on staying out past six pm. It's not that I don't like kids; in fact, I like them a lot. I wouldn't be having my own if I didn't want to be on nostril-Cheerio removal duty for the forseeable future. And, to be fair, the two groups of people really didn't know each other so it was perfectly natural for them to be separate. A lot of the kids were pretty cute, too, especially the one who figured out how to use the garden hose.

Still, I couldn't help but feel what I can only really describe as rising panic as I watched all the mothers entertain and feed their babies and wipe their kids' faces for hours. (And I do mean mothers... there were only a couple of fathers in attendance, and only one of them was helping wrangle his kid.) Is this really what I have to look forward to? Is "socializing" going to mean being in physical proximity to an adult while I'm entirely focused on my damn kid's bodily functions? It didn't help that one very well meaning mother was telling me all about how I'd never get to play Ultimate again because the baby will be napping from 11-2, and you can't do anything while the baby is napping, or else she'll get cranky! I got lots of other helpful information, including exactly what I'd be doing every day for the next two years, and NONE of it had anything to do with fun. She was telling me all of this with a wide smile on her face. I'm sure she's completely in love with her daughter, and no game of Ultimate will ever compare with the feeling that having my own child smile at me and drool on me, but I wanted to shake her and scream, "LADY, do you have any idea how completely insane you sound?"

I had to leave the room before I burst into tears over my lost freedom and youth. Luckily, Alex was there to assure me that he'd be happy to stay home from 11-2 every Saturday so that I could play Ultimate as soon as I felt like it, and I know that I'm going to make my own choices as a parent that will probably end up having little to do with all of the advice I get. Still, I'm just saying, Baby... you had better be awfully cute.

Thursday, July 9, 2009

Strawberry Shortcake

Alright, people. It's summer, and you should be eating strawberry shortcake. I don't mean the half-assed kind, with the weirdly circular Yellow number 5 cakes from the grocery store and Cool-Whip, but the real thing. It couldn't be easier, and I'm not even going to include a proper recipe because it's really so painfully easy that you don't need it.
  1. Macerate yer strawberries. This just means that you cut them up, sprinkle sugar and maybe some lemon juice (if you have a lemon*) on them, stir (maybe moosh some of them up a little, I like that) and let them sit in the fridge for a couple of hours while the juice comes out and mixes with the sugar to make a little bit of a syrup. Don't ask me about quantities or times, I've never measured anything in my life. I prefer to cook by the seat of my pants. You don't even really have to do this. Last time, I just mixed a little bit of sweetened frozen strawberries that I had thawed to make the strawberries a little syrupy and sweet. But, you HAVE to use mostly fresh strawberries.

  2. Make yer shortcakes. I just use the recipe on the back of the Bisquick box. (I always have Bisquick around because I reallllly like pancakes, especially blueberry.) The Bisquick recipe takes literally less than 5 minutes to do. I think I even know it by heart. 2 and 1/3 cups of Bisquick, 1/2 cup of milk (soy milk works fine), 3 Tbsp. of melted butter, and 3 Tbsp. of sugar. (I admit it, I cheated to check the amounts. I was almost dead on, but I said 2 and 1/2 cups of Bisquick.) Stir it together, just until it's well mixed. Plop 6 blobs on a cookie sheet and bake it at 425 F for 12-15 minutes. I soooort of measured these things, but only using a one cup measurer, and none of it was precise in any way, and I know that I put more butter in than 3 Tbsp. The shortcakes came out perfectly anyway.

  3. Whip yer cream. Put some whipping cream in a bowl with a little sugar and a teensy bit of vanilla, and whip it, either with a hand mixer or your arm. Doing it by hand is hard, but not impossible, especially if you freeze your (metal) bowl and whisk beforehand.

  4. Plunk 'em all together on a plate and be happy it's summer.

I have neither the camera nor the skills to actually take my own food photography, which is really really hard, so I found a picture instead. Thanks to the person I stole that from.

*Real lemon juice only. The stuff in the plastic bottle just ain't right, don't use it if that's all you have. And why do you have that icky stuff anyway?

Wednesday, July 8, 2009

The Cervix Whisperer

Last night, at our first Childbirth Preparation/Lamaze class, I met the Cervix Whisperer. I am not kidding. She even has a website, thecervixwhisperer dot com. I didn't really have an image in my mind of what a cervix whisperer might be like (and if you're lucky, neither do you), but as it turns out, she is a petite, self-proclaimed ex-hippie with hair past her waist. The Cervix Whisperer knows everything about a lady's nether regions that one could ever possibly want to know, and she is NOT afraid to show you pictures. She was also not afraid to describe a fourth degree episiotomy.* I think that we are definitely in good hands, as she is probably one of a handful of people on earth who has seen more vaginas than Wilt Chamberlain.

Anyway, she was walking us through all of the different things that could happen during labor, telling us what to expect, what was abnormal and warranted a call to the doctor, and what wasn't. (Sadly, excruciating pain, gushing fluids, and involuntary pooping all fall under "perfectly normal".) We got to the part where we all sat on the floor practicing breathing, and she suddenly turned. The Cervix Whisperer, friend/earth-mother to women everywhere, told the husbands to pinch us. Hard. The husbands began frantically looking around the room at each other, telepathically asking each other, "Is this a horrible trick? We're not REALLY supposed to pinch the hormonal whales, are we?" She convinced them to do it, and told us not to whine about it, but to practice our controlled breathing while she coached us through a "contraction", and had the husbands pinch progressively harder until the peak, and then they backed off. I was doing my best, but I started laughing partway through because I thought that Alex was too afraid of my wrath to actually pinch me hard enough for it to hurt. We ended the exercise, and after a minute, she had the husbands pinch us again as hard as they had been during the contraction. I almost yelped in pain, and asked Alex if he had really pinched me that hard, and he swore that he had pinched that hard or harder. The second pinch took me by surprise, and it didn't increase gradually as it had during the exercise, but even so, just doing the calm and focused breathing made it hurt about half as much. Thank you, Cervix Whisperer!

Now, if only she could make it so that my contractions during the late stages of labor hurt only as much as a pinch to the arm, I think she could give Cesar Milan a run for his money.

*If you don't know what a fourth degree episiotomy is, do yourself a favor and DON'T GOOGLE IT, for the love of all that is good in the world. Especially if you think you might ever consider giving birth, or providing someone you love the, uh, "means" to give birth themselves. Google "cute puppies in baskets" instead, or "cute stories about cute babies."

Monday, July 6, 2009

31 weeks

This is me yesterday, at about 31 weeks along. My belly is still pretty low and pointy, and excellent for warding off unwanted hugs. I think the black shirt is incredibly slimming, because in real life, I look like a manatee with thyroid problems. My profile picture is now a front-on picture of the same shirt, which explains where I came up with the name for this blog.

The Stand-In

We put together the crib yesterday, and by we, I mean that I was often in the room messing around with iTunes while Alex figured out how to put the whole thing together himself. Without having any instructions. Oh, yeah, and I occasionally asked him if he was SUUURE that that really was supposed to go there? Cause that really just doesn't make sense. (Answer: Yes, it does go there. You can tell because the crib looks like a crib, and doesn't wobble at all.)

A point came during the construction that Alex told me he needed my help, and I immediately left the room for a snack. He deserves a lot of credit here, because if I had asked him for help with something and he hadn't started doing it before I even finished the sentence, I would have punched him in the stomach and then stuffed his favorite PS3 game down the garbage disposal. Instead, he very calmly asked where I was going, and casually mentioned that this was, in fact, the one and only time that he needed two minutes worth of extra hands. You'd think he wanted Baby to come out brain damaged because I postponed eating a handful of almonds for five minutes.

We got the crib together (thanks, Alex... you are awesome), and arranged the baby furniture in the second bedroom. Even with the adorable bedding in the crib, it didn't look quite right, so we looked around for a stand in baby so that we could really get an idea of how the whole picture would look. Cash was too big to hoist up, and anyway, he's surprisingly uninterested in being mauled by us when he's busy sleeping. When we first got our changing table, Alex was wondering what the straps were for, so I put the stuffed bear that he gave me for a birthday years ago onto the changing pad and buckled it in. Those straps work! We turned the changing pad upside down and shook it, and that bear stayed in. We spare nothing when it comes to ensuring our offspring's safety.

Anyway, we put the bear on its back to sleep in the crib, and we both stood there, pondering the upcoming miracle soon to come into our lives. After a minute Alex made the bear do a dead on imitation of our pending miracle screeching its head off, complete with waving arms and kicking legs. He also discovered that the plastic-covered, pee-proof mattress without sheets on it is perfect for sliding bears (and babies?) back and forth, bouncing the poor thing off the sides of the crib bumper. Also, should our zero to 24 month old show any propensity for break-dancing, especially when it comes to spinning on the head, that sheet free mattress is where it's at.

I know that Alex is incredibly excited for this baby to get here, though. Last night after he turned the lights off in the rest of the house, he went into the nursery, stood next to the crib and said (out loud!), "Good night, fake baby." I can't wait to see how much love he has for the real one.

Thursday, July 2, 2009

Love Letter

Dear Baby,

I love you already! This may seem strange to outsiders since I haven't even seen you yet, but the amazing progress you have made inside of my body is causing me to burst with pride at how awesome you are already, and you're not even born yet! You have definite patterns of being awake and asleep, and right now, you are definitely awake. In fact, whenever I sit down for more than a few minutes, you start to get really fiesty, and say, "Hey! You, nutrient providing one! Turn the ride back on. It's really boring in here without the bouncing and the swaying, so get some quarters and TURN THIS THING BACK ON!" Unfortunately, you seem to get most fidgety when I'm trying to sleep, and you are not weak. You showed Alex just how strong you were the first time he felt you kick, weeks and weeks ago. He had laid his head on my abdomen to feel your delicate little fluttering, and just as he put his cheek to my stomach, KAPOW! Super kung-fu kick, right to the ear. It was the strongest you had kicked yet. How did you know to save it up, just for him? Clever girl! Alex and I like to try to guess what exactly you are playing in there. Are you building a pillow fort? Swimming laps in the amniotic fluid? Getting ready to beat both of us at tennis the moment you can stand? Nothing would surprise me.

Yesterday was exceptionally awesome, and I think we may have played together for the first time. Okay, maybe "play" is too strong a word, and maybe you responded to stimulus in a way that many other advanced creatures such as an amoeba might, but still. I was lying on my back, and you, as usual, were tunneling your way through my liver. I decided to poke your little feet back, and once I did, you stopped, but then, tap tap! kicked me again! So I poked your little feet again twice, and you did it again! Normally it feels like an ADHD puppy is trying to get untangled from spaghetti in there, but yesterday when I was poking your feet and you were kicking me back, it was definitely more rhythmic. We've got two more months... I think we can teach you some Morse code. First order of business: getting you to not come out during the finals of the US Open.

Keep exercising in there, and get strong. We can't wait to meet you.

Mom and Dad

Wednesday, July 1, 2009


This is the money you could be saving by, oh, let's just say, NOT leaving your job for the indeterminate future to take on a 12 hour per day new job that does not pay, has no sick or vacation time, and will NEVER END.