Baby Noah Says Hi!

I went in for a gyno appointment yesterday, and turned out I was due for an ultrasound. Which was kind of a bummer since Derek likes to be there for those, but alas, I flew it solo. I find it funny this time around how much less unnerving the whole thing is. First pregnancy, you are hanging on every word the ultrasound technician says, every inflection his voice has that might be a hidden meaning of something regarding the health of your unborn baby. It is nerve-wracking, to say the least. And then with the doctor -- am I eating the right things? Am I gaining too much weight? Am I gaining enough weight? Why does my leg feel like it's being sliced open with a dull butcher knife in the middle of the night? WTF?

This time, I have just kind of relaxed about everything. Brain stem looks great? Grrrrreat. Spinal cord fluid at normal levels? Super. Oh look, he's grabbing onto the placenta! That's so cute! M'kay, see you next time!

Then it became all about food as I was way late for lunch after a longer-than-expected appointment. I didn't even have questions for my doctor other than "Am I clear to fly in March for our Hawaii trip?" (I am.) Yes, I will be playing the part of "Beached Whale" at the luau, but what a beautiful place to be a whale, right?

Back From Hiatus

The World’s Slackingest Blogger has some news: I’m pregnant!

This is how much I’ve been slacking: I’m already five months, i.e., halfway through the pregnancy. It was a bit of a surprise. Okay, it was a total surprise, and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t a tiny bit bitter about the timing -- that I finally felt cute again for my 40^th birthday, was back down to my wedding day weight after nearly a year and a half post-partum, and was successfully navigating the challenges of full-time mothering. There was a feeling of not being in control of the whole thing that was pretty disconcerting, but I have since kicked those weak feelings in the ass and embraced the whole experience for what it is: a tremendous blessing.

It has gone by so fast this time, I guess because I have been so occupied with other things to obsess over rather than what size fruit my fetus most resembles this week and whether or not I should be eating peanuts and what position is best to sleep in and what can I do about the damn stretch marks from coming?

For one thing, taking care of McLean these days is more than a full-time job that requires every ounce of my thought and energy. He’s just so busy! He’s into everything, wants to read everything several times a day, is eating like he’s training for a hot dog eating competition. Then, as with last pregnancy, I immediately became deathly ill with a couple of colds back to back, which turned into bronchitis. Always fun to be hacking your brains out while pregnant. Combine being sick with the usual severe fatigue of the first trimo, throw in a dash of the holidays, and you have one pathetic whiney person, i.e., me. Keeping a halfway clean house and being sociable were out of the question, much less getting on the computer to write.

But as is always the case when you’re too consumed to write, these seem to be the most fertile times that I want to write. There is so much to talk about. I’m kinda tired of talking about myself (downright bored with it, actually), but there are a lot of topics I want to cover in the future in this forum: Being a stay-at-home mom, environmental and health issues, and some more before and after’s around the house. We will be converting our office to a play room, so that transformation should be interesting to those of you who dug my last makeovers.

So more to come, dear readers, now that my health has returned and Little Man is learning to entertain himself a bit more. I have missed talking to you and sharing with you.

Oh, and guess what? It’s another boy.

The Vadge Update

41 weeks and counting. I am really hoping this is my last post as a pregnant person. For the last few weeks, there has been this constant tantalizing knowledge that it could (and should) happen any second. You never know when your body is going to decide to go into labor, so you just make as many preparations as you can and try to limit your exposure to the public to avoid the risk of having your water break all over the produce section of Trader Joe’s. I have done every project imaginable that involves sitting with my feet up – even finally constructed my wedding album AND baby shower album. A piece of advice to other moms-to-be: save up all that crap you’ve been procrastinating doing for the last two weeks of pregnancy. You want busy work, but nothing you have to focus too heavily on since you are brain-damaged at that point.

So we went to the doctor today for the third time post-due date to confirm that yes, the wee babe is still fine in there, yes, he still has enough fluid to wriggle around in, yes, the placenta is still functioning properly, etc. But today (our one-year anniversary, BTW) is when it starts getting dicey. I am not dilating or really having any labor signs other than some irregular contractions, and you have to weigh the risks of waiting against the benefits of letting the little feller cook on his own schedule. In my case, according to the doc, it is becoming clear that waiting much longer means adding more bulk and heft to an already larger-than-average baby. This would raise the likelihood that he could get stuck in the birth canal and necessitate an emergency C-section, something I REALLY do not want. All this sitting around being incapacitated and 50 lbs overweight is making me crazy enough without adding the prospect of six weeks of recovering from major abdominal surgery. Not to mention the benefits of the vaginal birth: The fluid gets squeezed out of the lungs on his way through the birth canal; the milk production hormones get released, etc. It’s just the way I feel the birthing process should go for me.

So . . . we come home and wait some more. But we decided to only wait two more days if my body hasn’t started the labor process on its own by then, and then we'll go in to induce. It’s not as exciting as just letting nature take its course and having the fun surprise of “Honey, it’s time!” but there is some relief in knowing the grand prize is in sight. I know a lot of women in my position would, at this point, be losing their minds and screaming for the baby to be taken out by any means necessary, but I really haven’t gotten to that point. Yes, I am huge and really uncomfortable. My feet are so puffy and swollen, they look like little hams with sausage toes. My low back hurts if I stand for any length of time. When I do have contractions, they aren’t necessarily painful, but the way the baby is positioned makes it feel like there is a lead weight squishing my bladder for about a minute. This doesn’t feel good. I would love to walk, but the nearly 100-degree heat is making that prospect really unattractive. As it is, I sweat like a pig just by sitting in the easy chair and doing this.

So physically, I think I’m handling it fine. It’s my mental state that is getting icky. I think it’s a combination of things. The waiting around does get to be excruciating. The hormones are kicking the emotions into overdrive. The lack of sleep and the constant interruptions to sleep due to my enormous size and frequent bathroom visits are enough to make anyone batty since I have had no REM sleep for months now. And yes, I am WELL AWARE due to constant reminders from about a bajillion people that there will be sleep shortages after the baby arrives, but dammit, at least I will get to sleep fairly comfortably whenever he sleeps (which is often for newborns) and feel some measure of energy from having a ton of baby and fluid lifted off my person. Besides, I started sleeping through the night my first night home from the hospital and Derek did at two weeks old. I can’t help but think some of that might rub off on our offspring, maybe? I don’t know, call me crazy. Because I am starting to feel that way.

But at least the time is drawing close and of course I take a lot of comfort in the knowledge that my little boy is still kicking ass in there and is coming out soon into a world full of such incredibly loving family and friends that already love him and can’t wait to meet him. That is the prize I have to keep my eye on. Meanwhile, I wait. And wait. And wait.

Another Shitbiscuit

So now we wait. It’s only a matter of days now and could happen any minute. I’m not having any real signs of labor aside from more intense Braxton-Hicks contractions and have taken to doing as many activities as possible that involve sitting with my feet up: Eating Lucky Charms; eating a Chipwich; messing around on the computer; watching the TV; eating a Chipwich; fielding a jillion phone calls (“Are you STILL pregnant?”); and of course, eating a Chipwich.

And just so the Universe is sure I am kept on my toes, I get a call from my gyno’s office Thursday afternoon, four days before I am due to pump a chil’ren out into the world: Their office had been robbed that day. A nurse’s purse and checkbook were taken, along with 18 medical charts that were sitting out for the next day’s appointments. Mine was one of them. So not only does some nameless, faceless, chicken-shit asshole have my entire vaginal and reproductive history, but my address, social security number, date of birth, insurance info, you name it.

To say I did not react well would be kind of an understatement. Pregnancy is a very vulnerable time for even the most bad-ass of us women. I’m a pretty tough L.A. chick who does not adopt a victim stance in any situation. I consider myself to be pretty street-wise and I don’t put myself into compromising situations.

But this is a strange time in a woman’s life. Not only are you in a hyper-vigilant state because of the life you are nurturing inside you, but you are physically weaker, unbelievably tired, and waaaaaay more emotional than usual due to hormones and feeling out of control of your own body and mind.

Add to this the fact that there are a lot of sick puppies out there who do terrible things to children and to pregnant women, the knowledge of which is difficult to escape when the stories are all over the news and even entire shows are dedicated to such crimes on the crime and court TV channels and such. You can only filter out so much of reality, but some of it still seeps in and keeps you up at night. Because of this vulnerability, home security takes on a whole new meaning in a pregnant woman’s life. And when that security is messed with, it’s not difficult to completely lose it.

A couple of weeks ago, our alarm system was set off by accident and neither Derek nor I received a call from Protection One asking if they should send the police. When I called them to ask why, they informed me that we had changed the primary contact numbers several months ago. They rattled off two phone numbers I have never had nor even heard of in my life. As the maddening conversation with this “customer service” person went on, it became clear that Protection One had made some sort of clerical error with our account, and it was rectified and our correct contact numbers placed back on the account. I’m always saying it is extremely rare to find someone who does their job meticulously well anymore. I’m like Mr. Hand from Fast Times: “Are you people all on dope?” I am convinced that everyone in customer service is medicated, mentally-challenged, just doesn’t give a crap, or all three. Rare is the person you can get on the phone who comprehends the problem and knows what they’re doing, and can execute an efficient resolution. And this point was proven even in the security business, where being extremely detail-oriented is of extreme importance. So it was a stupid clerical error -- it's really no surprise.

But I was hysterical. What if the alarm hadn’t been set off by accident, but by another thieving asshole? As some of you may remember from a year and a half ago, we only have this alarm system in the first place because we have had our house broken into before and several important items stolen, not the least of which was our computer with a ton of irreplaceable personal photos and information on it. At the time, my only solace was to remind myself that they had not harmed my dogs, who were locked in the backyard and thus, unable to defend their house. You dickheads can take whatever stupid material things you like, just don’t touch my loved ones.

But the sense of being raped and blatantly pirated was devastating. Some stranger of God-knows-what origin had seen fit to invade our home, take whatever they wanted, look at our faces and those of our family and friends in our pictures, see where we sleep, what we ate for breakfast, what kind of toothpaste we use. The outrage you feel in that situation is indescribable. And it had all happened in broad daylight while we were at our jobs, trying to earn a living.

And here I was, faced with that icky, powerless feeling again. Somebody has stormed in and taken what is rightfully mine on the eve of the most important event in my life – bringing my first child into the world. Seriously, WTF?? Who the hell does this to people? What happens to them in life that this is an acceptable solution to a money shortage?

Of course I placed the fraud alert with the credit reporting agencies and with my health insurance and so forth. Had a good “Why Me?” cry on Derek and my girls. But where is the lesson in all this? I used to enjoy being the person who would walk the dogs and leave all the doors and windows unlocked. I never looked over my shoulder at the gardener or worker on the street I didn’t recognize. I freely gave out my social security number when I visited a health practitioner and didn’t think twice about it. Is the lesson here that I am too trusting? That trust is bad? I hardly think so, but it’s hard not to feel that way with all these security breaches happening.

Anyhoo, I post this not just to bitch, although I do feel better having released it into the internet ether, but to warn you all: Don’t give out your social to anybody. ANYBODY. Most people who ask for it on forms and stuff don’t really need it anyway. Leave it blank, and tell them to have the insurance company contact you personally if there is some problem verifying your identity. Run your credit report periodically to be sure there are no strange items on there that you did not sign up for. When I worked doing massage at the chiropractor’s office, patients’ charts with all their most personal information were left out on the front counter every single day in front of God and everybody, and nobody ever complained. I’m begging you – please complain. According to the police who handled the theft from my doctor’s office, this is becoming more common: Identity thieves will hire some petty pissant to specifically take medical files because they are a goldmine of information. And there are always people in and out of a doctor’s office. It is impossible to keep track between specimen-drop-offs, patients, lab workers, etc., not to mention medical care workers who are shits and will sell your information to the highest bidder. They will harvest your information and use it whenever they want. And that is just a hassle you don’t need, whether you’re about to have a baby or not.

So do me that favor, m’kay? I think I just figured out what my lesson in all this was….

Chained Heat

There is a boredom that sets in toward the end of pregnancy that has a certain powerless restlessness to it that is really disconcerting.

I’m too exhausted and huge to do anything physically productive, be on my feet for any length of time or run errands, not to mention the heat in the valley right now is preventing my doing any of that anyway. It has become abundantly clear in recent months that I am just not cut out for a sedentary lifestyle. I am starting to go nuts and it is strictly due to lack of physical activity.

My brain doesn’t work so great due to being hyperfocused on the impending arrival in the weeks to come, so getting any kind of meaningful work done is out of the question.

I am sick of reading about baby stuff. There is just too much information out there, much of it conflicting, and it starts to get annoying after awhile. My usual pleasure of reading and researching something I care about is squashed because it has just gotten to be too much, dammit! I have decided I will be largely relying on motherly instinct and that will have to suffice since you just cannot possibly know everything there is to know about parenting.

I can’t even take that much pleasure in pigging out anymore since there is not much room in my stomach for anything, so any would-be oinkfest is over before it even begins.

Add to this the fact that I am SICK TO DEATH of everything on TV. Even movies. Even indie movies. I have seen them all (some repeatedly) or tried to see them and determined they were unwatchable.

Enter Chained Heat.



Have you ever seen this movie? With Linda Blair? How this gem of a confection missed my Awesome Bad Movie Radar is anyone’s guess. It was on one of the movie channels on a recent quiet evening at home (WTF am I talking about – every evening is a quiet evening at home) and was enough to jolt me out of my jaded I Hate TV But Am Too Tired To Do Anything Else stupor.

Imagine chicks in prison, in the early 80s, none of whom has any acting skill whatsoever. Imagine this prison being corrupt, where the warden has a hot tub in his office and videotapes himself having sex with prisoners. Imagine that in this prison, a can of Aqua Net, rattail comb and buckets of purple eyeshadow are standard issue upon entry. Imagine the shower scenes in this prison involving full-frontal shots of not only boobies that are subject to the laws of gravity, but massive amazon jungle bush action. Imagine Linda Blair being all pouty and pissy and complaining to the warden about the way she is treated in the prison. Now imagine all this with horribly choreographed fight scenes amongst the chicks thrown in. You guys, it is friggin’ AWESOME. YOU CANNOT LOOK AWAY.

Remember that episode of Charlie’s Angels, where the girls go into prison to investigate the murder of one of the inmates? Where Kelly (aka Jaclyn Smith) utters the best line EVAR after the prisoners get hosed down with the nasty anti-lice spray or whatever it is, and she turns to the prison guard all snotty and goes “When was the last time YOU were sprayed?” and the guard gives her this sneery bitchy look in return and I think billy-clubs her ass but I don’t remember. But I digress. Remember how the girls get dressed up and taken outside of the prison to be hookers to wealthy businessmen? Oh yeah, that happens in Chained Heat, too. It’s just one big giant ball of awesome. Please, if you are severely pregnant or just incredibly sick of everything on TV lately, look for it in your movie channels and tivo that bitch. You will be so glad you did.

Oh So Tired

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Preggo Watch '08

I’m in the home stretch, as it were.  Only about six weeks to go.  I’m doing pretty good.  Baby Mac continues to kick the crap out of me on a daily basis.  He usually gives a few kicks and squirms right after I eat, but he doesn’t really get going until around 5:00 p.m.  I have taken to calling it “Junior’s Happy Hour” although really it lasts about five hours.  He starts up with the grooving and doesn’t stop, especially when Daddy comes home and he hears his voice.

I started a prenatal yoga class in Sherman Oaks at Black Dog Yoga and love it.  It has helped calm down my obsessive psychotic pregnant brain a LOT.  Not to mention all the stretching really helps my poor overstressed joints and muscles.  I have gained over 40 lbs., people!  Heaving all that weight around is not easy!  I have to do things a lot more slowly and carefully than I am used to, and that has made me much more patient.

Bending over or getting up off the couch or turning over in bed are still a world of suck, but now it’s just part of daily life.  Speaking of daily life, here are a few of my favorite things that I will get to have back again before too long:

Things I miss about NOT being pregnant and am really looking forward to:

1. Shaft.  I miss my pole, y’all.  I miss blasting Korn and spinning around on that thing at mach 10 with my hair on fire (yes, that was a lame Top Gun reference, but it kinda works, no?)
2. Going running and hiking.  Rollerblading, riding my pink bike.  Just being active in general.
3. Dirty martinis.  Mojitos.  A cold Hefeweizen with lemon on the Venice boardwalk.
4. Sushi.
5. Sleeping on my back.
6. Sleeping through the night without having to get up and pee four times.
7. Sleeping without waking myself up snoring, snorting, drooling, or with an excruciating charlie horse in my leg.  Ever had your calf sliced open with a dull butcher knife?  That’s what it feels like.
8. Not having to ask my poor husband to fetch me water or a glass of milk or a chipwich (the ice cream sandwiches from Trader Joe’s, OMG you have not LIVED until you have had one) because dammit, it is just too friggin’ hard to get up off the couch once I am there.
9. Not having to go to the doctor’s office every stinking month – ugh!  And now that I’m in the third trimester, it’s every two weeks!  I would SO not made a good hypochondriac.  I love my OB and his nurse, but me and the medical establishment simply do not mix.
10. Sex without needing a forklift.  Need I say more?

That being said, here are a few of the things I will really miss about being pregnant:

1. How nice and helpful total strangers are to me, especially the Trader Joe’s guys.  Sometimes they will even pull me out of line and open up a cash register just because they see my giant pregnant ass standing there looking non-plussed.  It’s super nice to be a VIP.
2. Cutting myself a slackburger with cheese about stuffing my face.  This is the only time in my life I can really let myself be such a pig and not feel guilty, and lordy, am I embracing it!
3. Not having to hold in my stomach.  My belly is large and in charge and is just out there, bitches – deal with it!
4. Having a valid excuse to lie down every day.
5. Thick, luxuriant hair and glowy skin.  Those preggo hormones really rock when it comes to that.
6. Feeling my little baby kick and move.  I get kinda teared up when I think about it.  There will come a time very soon when he will be outside of me, and I won’t have that motherly luxury of feeling him close, so close to me, knowing all the time that he is safe and warm and protected in this quiet bubble of love inside my body.  Yeah.  I’m really going to miss that.

[Photo of me courtesy of Jen.  Yes, I know, she is brilliant, but try telling her that.  We took a bunch of nekkid photos over the weekend and they are amazing, but you don't get to see them.]

I'm Sad

I had to take out my belly button ring the other day.  I had been hoping against all hope that I could leave it in  for the whole pregnancy because, well, I'm attached to it now after six years.  And I had read that unless it was causing me any discomfort, I could leave it in.  I only have two months left to go, so I figured I was home free.

Well, suddenly it started feeling stretched and tight and kinda itchy one day, and Derek agreed that it was looking kind of wonky and should probably come out.  I took it out, and now have the saddest-looking belly button.  Since my belly button is an "innie" in the process of popping out from my bulging belly, I now look like I have a small cat's butt on my belly with a weird slit above it where the piercing is.  It is bizarre.

And if you think that's a funny visual, you should see me trying to put lotion on my lower legs after a shower.  Since my belly is so big, I can't really bend over properly, or even put my legs up on something to bend over and lotion them.  So I have to spread my legs really far apart to lotion up both legs at the same time, and assume a position that can only be described as "Sumo Wrestler Doubled Over Trying to Look Up His Own Butt."  And then I start laughing at how goofy I must look and almost fall over.

Yeah, I amuse myself.

Oh, and the Lucky Charms feedings?  Back in full effect.  In fact, I think I'll go hook up a bowl right now.

Movie Minute

Yes, there is preggo news, but I am so bored talking about it and it doesn’t amount to much more than the following:

 1) I am friggin’ ginormous.  So much so that I had to get new maternity clothes so as not to be forced to run around nekkid in the remaining 2.5 months and possibly frighten passersby who happen past the house.  It’s true that boys sit lower in your midsection, so now am I not only pregnant in my belly, but also in my hips and am now sporting Jabba The Hut-like jowls.  Yay!  I saw a recent photo of myself and just about barfed.

2) Getting up from a sitting position just blows.  The grunting, the groaning.  It’s like being 90 years old all the sudden.  Even Grammy doesn’t complain this much when she stands up from her easy chair, and she’s a hundred and freakin’ two!

3)  Still as tired as ever – with a new and exciting crabby twist!  My worst enemies:  “Customer Service” phone personnel and medicated/stoned drivers on the road.  I think they all just need to die.  Before I kill them myself.

But this post is not about pregnancy gripes.  In my limited mobility, waking hours, and lack of tolerance for the public at large, it has been a great opportunity to get caught up on movies.  Here are my latest critiques in case you are wondering what a psychotic pregnant person would have you put in your Netflix qeue:

1) The Last King of Scotland.  Oh my god.  This one blew me away.  Not like I’ve ever been that up on the history of Ugandan leadership, but Forest Whitaker scared the SHIT out of me in his portrayal of Idi Amin, the brutal dictator who ruled Uganda in the 70s.  This movie is not for the squeamish, though.  There were two visuals in particular that will haunt my nightmares forever (if you’ve seen it, you know which ones they are), but I am so glad I saw this thrilling rendering of the story and learned a bit about this important time in African history.

2) Lucky Number Slevin.  My new favorite gangster movie, hands friggin’ down.  Or at least it’s now up there in the top three along with Goodfellas and The Departed.  Not only a taut and slick mystery, but hello, you get Morgan Freeman and Ben Kingsley as two colossal baddies each intent on screwing each other over so bad, you could cut the tension with a butter knife.  Not to mention a beautiful love story that allows you to fall in love with Lucy Liu all over again.

3) Sleeping Dogs Lie.  This poor girl admits to her fiancé the most disgusting thing she ever did.  If you can get past the first five minutes of the movie where that thing is revealed (don’t worry – they don’t show it), you will find a tender and heartbreaking little story about honesty in relationships, and laugh your ass off at the meth-head brother.

4) Notes On A Scandal.  I have always marveled at Cate Blanchett’s range, and this movie is no exception.  And of course, Judi Dench just rocks the friggin’ house no matter what she does.  There were a couple of scenes in this movie where a look from her shot violent chills down my whole body.  She is THAT good.

5) Spanking The Monkey.  Yes, yet another movie involving a main character doing something really pervy, in this case, sliding down a slippery slope into Oedipal tendencies.  But a sweet and relatable coming-of-age story for anyone who has ever felt put upon and unable to break out of a toxic cycle.  I love how good indie films will take a microcosm situation and really examine it and explore it, and this movie does just that.

6) Just Friends.  Okay, this is not a movie I have just recently seen for the first time, but rather, seen many times for its neverending ability to make me laugh my ass off (Kristi, you know what I’m talking about – one night when we all shared a motel room after a wedding and this came on, she and I cracked up over it even though we had both seen it many times).  Not only does it have the funniest sibling rivalry scenes I have ever seen, but has permanently cemented Anna Faris in my mind as the best comedienne of our time.  Oh, and adorable love story, for those of you who are into that crap.

That’s it for now, until I remember more and feel the need to share my thumb position with you.  Meanwhile, I leave you with this quote from Jeff Spicoli of Fast Times At Ridgemont High:  “People on ludes should not drive!”

Never Say "I Can't"

Because guess what?  If I can, you can.

The dilemma was this:  I wanted to add more greenery on the walls of the nursery work in progress.  Specifically, I wanted palm leaves, big ones, to go with the existing décor that my adorable decorating team had come up with last week.  The problem:  I can’t draw.  Or so I told myself.  In the past, even stick figures have presented an exotic challenge.  And all those pretty leaves I put on last week were stencils applied with a sponge.  How hard is that to do?  There were no stencils big enough for what I wanted.  

I sat down and humored myself by drawing a few on paper.  Then figured, hey, if I draw them on the wall with pencil and it sucks, I can always erase it.  So I drew it, outlined it with some paint, and decided it didn’t suck that bad.  I filled it in with paint, and holy shit, I am an artist, people!  I really love the result, and especially love that I showed my negative self how to get bent.  

Bonus:  I even drew and painted this with both hands, which was really weird since I write exclusively with my left hand, but do everything else with my right.  I don't know if that makes me ambidextrionical or what.

And here's Daddy, painting the ceiling blue so that I can add on little clouds and glow-in-the-dark stars.

This photo would have been really hot if he had been wearing his tool belt, but I still find it hot nonetheless.

The Nursery -- Work In Progress

Amidst the hell that is reviewing and shopping for baby stuff, what is safe, what is not, what causes SIDS, what is not going to be toxic for the baby to inhale, etc., etc., ad nauseum, there has been a break to do something fun -- turn what used to be the guest room into a cute, happy, McLean-worthy nursery.

As I have stated before many times, I have the most awesome girlfriends in the world, and they also have the most awesome girlfriends in the world, and two of these beautiful and generous creatures volunteered to spend their precious Saturday helping me with the transformation.

Since it took us the first few hours simply to determine furniture arrangement, account for an absentee crib placement, and devise a paint scheme, the following pictures only represent the partially-completed project, but you will get the idea.  

Here are the before's that I took before my Angels of Decorating came over:

Here is the mural that will be hanging on one wall and represents the theme on which what the rest of the decor is loosely based:

After some toiling with stencils and paint and catching up on the latest celebrity gossip, here is what we came up with:

Bunnie and Erin, you guys so totally rule.  Thank you so much.  I love peeking my head into this room and just looking at it.  It will always remind me of both of you.

Top 6 Reasons I Can’t Sleep For Shit

6. Baby McLean routinely holds Uterus-Kicking Contests in the McLean Condo between the hours of midnight and 6:00 a.m. Have you ever tried to sleep while a tiny little person stomped your insides? Try it sometime.

5. I have never snored in my life, but am now so damn congested every time I lie down that when I do actually fall asleep, I routinely wake myself up with a loud snort that sounds something like a wild boar shouting “SSSGNAAACK!” directly into my ear.

4. With nasal congestion comes mouth-breathing, also a novelty to me. If I do not first wake myself with a wild boar snort, I will inevitably wake because my mouth is hanging open and an ambitious stream of drool is making a break for it, causing me to jump up in alarm and disgust, furiously wiping my face and then attempting to settle back to sleep atop the nice clammy wet spot on my pillow. Ewwwwwww!!!!

3. I have never been a nighttime eater, with the exception of those times in my past life when I would go out partying until the wee hours and then need the requisite 3:00 a.m. Reuben from Canter’s on Fairfax or Monster Tacos from Jack In The Crack. Not so anymore. Not only is there no partying going on, but I will even have a very satisfying dinner only to actually be awakened at 3:00 a.m. by the ravenous beast that is my stomach! WTF? I just fed you, bitch!

2. I have only two stinking positions I can sleep in: A) On my right side; or B) On my left side. Once I settle in all nice and cozy with my giant pregnancy pillow (aka Humpty) all wedged just so, within an hour or so, the arm and/or hip I am lying on will start to hurt, forcing me to flip like a giant incubating omelette, along with Humpty, to attempt to fall back asleep as fast as possible and cook the other side before that side gets sore and wakes me up. This goes on approximately 8 to 10 flips per night. It’s really neat.

1. Sometimes I just wake up and can’t believe how exciting it all is, this little guy living inside me, and the thoughts just start coming: Am I going to be a good mother? What is his personality going to be like? Will he look like a Mini-Derek and melt my heart every time I look at him? How could I ever discipline him if that is the case? When the hell is he going to come out? How bad is it really going to hurt when he does? Will I ever be able to sleep again once he is out? Or will it be like the times my Godbaby has spent the night, and I lay awake obsessing about the sound of her breathing and if it sounded normal and mentally reviewing every article I have ever read about SIDS and my God that wasn’t even my kid and I barely slept a wink!

I know I need to just relax and enjoy being pregnant now. But it’s so hard sometimes. Maybe a good night’s sleep will help.

Letters To Baby: Four Freaking A.M. Edition

Dear Baby McLean,

I realize you are pissed that Mommy ate the spicy noodles for dinner, but did you really need to get me out of bed at 3:00 a.m. to watch Tom Selleck and his ginormous pornstache in Her Alibi? The ‘stache is quite frightful when peered at through delirious, nauseated, sleep-deprived eyes, but I had never before noticed how it also looks as though his eyebrows are taking over much of the real estate of his face. I guess they didn’t do much facial hair grooming in the 80s, but still. The man has some serious outcroppage going on. So I gave you some Barbara’s Oat Squares cereal, do you think you can chill and let Mama have some sleep now? It would be really super considering it was kind of a long and stressful day, and I’m pretty exhausted.

We got to see you on TV again today. The doctor was concerned that my belly (aka The McLean Condo) was too big for where I am in the pregnancy and ordered an ultrasound to check out what’s going on in there. He said it could be my uterine fibroids crowding you, could be a couple of scary things that are hard to tell without peering in on your little butt like some kind of techno-voyeurs and checking it out. I was worried all weekend that the doc would tell me I would need to be put on bed rest, a very real possibility. I realize the prospect of bed rest would be a dream-come-true for many people, but not your mama. Mama needs action, Mama needs to have experiences, especially now that the evil bronchitis is over. Mama needs to get the hell out of the house and do some stuff and things. When you fly the condo in May and start seeing how fun things are out here, you’ll understand.

So it turns out that you are simply a little on the big side, and that the amniotic fluid is a little more on the voluminous side, both of which are causing me to stick out a little more than usual. No bed rest. And a huge sigh of relief from your mommy and daddy. Pity the man who has to live with a confined woman. Your dad was probably sweatin’ more bullets than I was. And I’m really glad your doc is on top of things, but I could have gone the whole pregnancy without having to worry about weird things happening with you, like your not swallowing fluid properly, or my fibroids squashing you in the condo.

But the bright side is, we got to see you and your cute little face again. It is probably too premature to say, but I think you got my nose. Here you are, with your peaceful little face.



And here you are yawning.



There are no words in the English language to express your mommy’s relief that you are okay. I guess for now, “I love you” will have to suffice.

And since you know how to yawn now, you must know what it’s like to be sleepy. So, go to sleep, Baby. Please?

Love,
Mommy

Letters To Baby: New Year Edition

Dear Baby McLean,

So this is what 6:30 in the morning looks like. Dark grey light. Peaceful. Beautiful colors forming in the sky as the sun comes up. And two annoying hounds who want Daddy to get the hell out of the shower and feed them their chicken.

You started kicking around 5:00 a.m. and didn’t let up, so I figured I may as well just get up and get some coffee brewing and check out what Halle Berry has to say about being pregs in this month’s issue of In Style. I can’t say I look a fraction as gorgeous and glowy as she does, but now that the fun holiday bronchitis is finally behind me, I think I’m starting to get that second trimester feel-goodness that everyone talks about. Can you believe we have been together five and a half months? I still can’t. If I really sit and think about it, I get way too tripped out on how so very close and intimate you are to me, yet still such a complete mystery. I had moments where I thought I was done obsessing over you, but turns out I hadn’t even begun to obsess.

My Pregnant Christmas was one of physical misery, which turned into total emotional distress. It’s true for me that pregnancy lowers one’s immunity, and boy did somebody pass on a whopper to me. I came down with the bronchitis on Christmas Eve Day while we were up north visiting your Great Grammy, grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. I later found out I am also anemic, worsening my resistance and body’s defenses to fight off the cooties. I may as well have been naked in a snowstorm.

The lack of sleep is one thing, but lack of sleep compounded by constant racking cough accompanied by severe snot faucet effect left me frantic that somehow you must have been suffering. This was supposed to be a super happy family joyous time. I’m so sorry if you felt my anxiety. They say the mother’s state of mind is felt by the baby, but on sleep deprivation and illness, sometimes my state of mind just gets unbelievably out of control.

I’m having to start monitoring what I watch on TV because of you. I love the show 48 Hours: Hard Evidence on Discovery Channel. But can no longer watch the crime episodes involving kidnapping or children being harmed by people we share this world with. These things, aside from your kicking, wake me in the middle of the night and scare the living shit out of me. You’re not even born yet – how could I ever conceive of going through something like that where you are concerned if I am going to flog myself over taking a Tylenol while you live and grow inside me? It’s frightening to me how my pregnant mind works. I don’t have as much control over my thoughts as I am used to. Obsession is a slippery downward slope. And I’m pretty top-heavy right now.

I am working hard, my little son, on getting these thought processes under control. I have always been one to believe strongly in the power of the mind and the direction you can take your life because of it. This is something I really want you to know and understand as you grow up. It is this knowing that makes me not believe in astrology – I simply know innately that I am going to be exactly how I decide to be every day, and I choose to follow that path instead of some code of planetary alignments that tells me how I am supposed to be. I am way too complex for that, and I’m sure you will be too. So why should my Pregnant Mind be any different? It’s still me in here. But now I have you in here too, and I guess that changes the dynamic of things a bit.

Keep kicking, Little Guy. If you start to pick up on my crazazy, go ahead and give me a punch in the uterus. Maybe it will knock me back to my senses and remind me that somehow, some way, everything is going to be okay.

Love,
Mommy

"You Have A Teeny-Tiny Penis Inside You!"

That's what Derek's sister said when she found out we are having a boy, referring of course to the famous Sex and the City quote when Miranda is pregnant.

Yes it's true, folks. After much speculation on the part of those who would wager a guess (which was a very long list that included family, friends, and even the guy at the water store), when it seemed every last one of them (except for Karin and Heddie) had concluded emphatically that I was having a girl, I really had no feeling about it one way or the other. Until the night a few days before the ultrasound when I had a very vivid, detailed dream about breastfeeding our little boy. I clearly remember what his face looked like, that he was very busy, and that my dad was in the dream as well. I told Derek the next day about the dream and that now I wasn't so sure. Everybody else seemed so convinced I was having a girl -- could I really be having a Penis Person?

The day of the big ultrasound came and we were on pins and needles. The anticipation and not knowing was getting to be maddening. When the ultrasound guy pointed out on the screen where there was a definite penis, I was still dubious. "Are you SURE?" I asked. It is still beyond me how those guys can decipher anything on those images. "Oh yes," he assured me. "I have checked it from three angles now, and your boy is not shy. He is putting it out there."

So my boy is an exhibitionist. Like his mama. Let it all hang out, son. I will support you in this.

Letters To Baby

Dear Baby,

Wow, hard to imagine you and I have been together for 18 weeks now. You are getting big! I have really popped out in the last couple of weeks or so and there is no denying it now – there is definitely an obvious bun in the oven. I get sweet and sympathetic looks from strangers out in public now, as well as outright questions about when I am due and whether I am having a boy or a girl. You are quite the attention-getter! A lot of what I have been told about pregnancy has actually happened, while a lot of it, alas, has not. Here are my observations about incubating your little butt thus far:

1) I have not, as many formerly pregnant women have complained about, had a complete stranger come up and touch my belly. Only friends and family have attempted to touch such an intimate area, and have all asked permission before doing so, which I always oblige. I LOVE the feeling of the belly rub from loved ones, especially when your father does it. The way he does it is almost as though he is already caressing you or soothing you to sleep. And I have a feeling you can sense this, and this makes me happy. Should a complete stranger actually come up to me and touch me there, I think I would seriously bitch-slap the person. Who does this? No one has attempted it thus far. Perhaps I have a “Don’t eff with my bump” look on my face when out in the public sector. But we still have five months to go. Any range of inappropriate behavior by strangers is likely, I suppose.

2) I have not, as I have been extensively warned, had any radical mood swings or periods of intense hatred of your father. Sure, there have been days when I have been irritable enough (usually from lack of sleep) that even Gandhi himself spoon-feeding me caramel sauce with a chocolate spoon whilst watching Sex and the City episodes in a zero-gravity chair would do something to piss me off. And yet, I still can’t find a reason to be annoyed with your father. It’s like he took a “Help For the Husband of a Pregnant Person” sensitivity course behind my back and has nimbly side-stepped every pregnancy landmine there is. Some days a girl just feels like complete and utter shite, and no amount of lip gloss and Ben & Jerry’s will assuage the situation. Your father, in his infinite wisdom, will look upon my sorry, tired heap on the couch and say “My little Pregnant Princess, would you like me to make you some mac and cheese?” This is the utterance of a smart man. But for me, nothing during pregnancy has compared even remotely to the average symptoms of PMS. Of which I am blessedly free for ten months!

3) I wish I could tell you that I have had some exotic and interesting food cravings or aversions while you have been in utero other than my daily consumption of Trader Joe’s kosher dill pickles. I eat and enjoy pretty much all the same stuff I did before you came along. Of course there was a brief Lucky Charms phase a few weeks ago, the knowledge of which caused your Aunties Jen and Jillie to erupt into fits of laughter. Lucky Charms? WTF? But I don’t think that was so much a craving as it was a desire for comfort when I had that bad cold. Sugar cereal was forbidden when I was growing up, and since I can’t drown my poor sore throat in a hot toddy or even take a hot bath, the next best thing for me was being “bad” and having my favorite sugar cereal. Three times a day.

4) It is true that you receive a lot of unsolicited advice while pregnant, 90% of which is total bullcrap. I have had to repeatedly whip out the glazed-over nod and smile routine I perfected in the office when this or that gossip-monger would corner me in the hall with some such trivial nonsense of which I couldn’t have cared less. I had never imagined it would come in handy at this time in my life, but it sure does. Perhaps one day in the schoolyard, you too will perfect this look with a classmate who only wants to talk about how eating crayons changes the color of his poop while you are trying to get caught up on your MENSA newsletter.

5) I really do have “that pregnancy glow” that everyone talks about. But I think it’s really just a combination of two things: A) A detoxed system from not drinking or being around lawyers, and B) The fact that I mix my daily moisturizer with Sally Hansen Skin Brightener, which has a tiny hint of shimmer and is seriously the pregnant person’s BFF.

6) Dogs really can tell when you are pregnant. Even before our first ultrasound when we heard the heartbeat, The Big Brown Dog was suddenly extremely interested in you, sniffing my belly like he was trying to hoover up my belly button ring and whining at it anxiously. I realized he could hear not only my heartbeat, but yours, which is nearly twice as fast as mine. He probably thinks I am harboring a speed freak. Whenever he does this belly-sniff and whine routine now, I ask him in a hushful tone, “Rufus, do you hear the baby?” to which he pricks up his ears and cocks his head from side to side, brow extremely furrowed and extra-wrinkly in a look of heavy concern. Of course he also makes this face when I ask, “Would you like a tasty delicious biscuit?” So I’m not sure if this reaction is a good thing. But he sure is excited to meet you. Of course The Pug, being completely deaf now, and too diva-like in nature to give much of a crap about anything except where her next chicken leg is coming from, knows nothing of your existence and probably wouldn’t care if she did.

7) Probably one of the most profound things someone told me is that, as a pregnant person, you are never alone for the duration of your pregnancy. I think now that I am starting to temper the constant paranoia of scrutinizing every single little thing I am eating/drinking/smelling/wearing/exercising/touching with a little more calm rationale, that realization that I am never alone while I am carrying you has finally set in. I am being prepared mentally to be hyper-vigilant in caring for every aspect of your little butt, and even when you are living outside of my body, I will never really be alone. I’m sure I will always be thinking about you, worrying about you, admiring you, loving you. You may be a big mystery for now, but I feel connected to you already, like we are speaking some secret language to each other that doesn’t need words or even sight. My Little One. Take all the time you need in there. But Rufus isn’t the only one who is anxious to meet you.

Love,
Mommy

The Bummer About Being Pregnant

So yeah, I’ve been tired and yeah, I have to go pee all the damn time and yeah, I am a pickle-eating freak (thanks to thee, O Pregnancy Gods, for the advent of the kosher dill), and yeah, none of my jeans fit anymore, but you know what? I am really happy about having a baby and thus don’t like to complain too much about these little annoyances. But do you know what the worst part about being pregnant is?

No swinging on the pole, y’all. I miss Shaft. Terribly. Shaft has been carefully unscrewed from the ceiling hook on which he usually resides and is currently collecting dust in the garage. It’s so sad.

I spent so many fun-filled nights with Shaft and some loud angry stripper music as my only entertainment, and it was good. Shaft could keep me entertained for HOURS with nary a break. I would navigate that pole with seven-inch clear heels on like it ain’t no thang, all the while getting a good workout (and some bruises here and there but that’s why God invented knee pads) and feeling like I had my own private adult-version of monkey bars in my house. I owe a lot to Shaft. Shaft made me feel like a million bucks. Shaft sneakily developed my core strength under the guise of fun, something VERY difficult to pull off. Shaft was the life of my bachelorette party and unselfishly shared his gifts with many of my friends that night and on subsequent nights. And Shaft probably helped conceive my child. Talk about a fertility specialist!

And now Shaft leans against a wall of the garage, surrounded by hordes of macho tools and discarded lumber who are likely threatened by Shaft’s impressive size and luster, and more than a little jealous that, unlike themselves, Shaft had, until now, enjoyed a comfortable place in our living room for many months. Let’s have a listen:

Hammer: Oh, well will you look at the ladies’ man all sad and pathetic now that he’s not living the cushy life. Hey fellas, what say we give Mr. Shiny there a garage welcome, eh?

Cordless Drill: Being that shiny obviously means he’s overcompensating for something. What could that thing possibly be good for? Can he hang a picture? Can he assemble something from Ikea?

Screwdrivers: Hey Pretty Boy, you miss having your mommy rub you down with alcohol every day? Wah wah! Sissy!

(Shaft leans and takes it all in, then quietly turns to one of the nearby lavender dryer sheets.)

Shaft: Psst, hey, Beautiful. Your luscious scent is absolutely intoxicating, you little dryer minx, you. Why don’t you come over here and slide ever so slowly down my shiny self and wrap yourself around my girth. You will feel so sexy and alive, I promise you.

Lavender Dryer Sheet: Tee-hee! I don’t know. I might hurt myself.

Shaft: My Pretty. I will catch you if you fall. I just want to be close to you, my little divine herbaceous satchel of love. Please come to me.

Hammer: Hey uh lady, I wouldn’t do that if I were you. It ain’t safe. You don’t know where he’s been.

Screwdrivers: Yeah, he’s a poser, don’t listen to him. You’re more safe with us Tools.

Lavender Dryer Sheet (to the Tools): What the hell do you guys know? You’re a bunch of f@cking tools!

Lavender Dryer Sheet pops out of her box and onto Shaft, sliding and twirling down his welcoming shaft. (Okay, yeah, that sounds really dirty, but come on, it just flowed so well.) She lets out a huge happy sigh at the end of her twirl, gives the finger to the Tools, and curls up to sleep at Shaft’s feet.

The Tools, shamed into silence, sulk back off to the toolbox to plot Shaft’s demise. Obviously this threat to their masculinity will never do.

Shaft leans with a little grin on his face, a nice lavender dryer sheet now keeping his feet warm.

Da Bump

In a Valley Girl first, I would like to share a post with you that was written several weeks ago, but for reasons that will become clear, could not share with you until today.

Here is the post from my Past Self:

God, it is so hard for me not to tell you guys this. But you know how it is – you’re supposed to wait until you’re absolutely sure everything is fine until you spread the word. And since my Future Self has decided the time is right to let the cat out of the bag, here is the big news:

I am pregs.
Knocked up.
Totally sperminated.
Smuggling fetus.
In the family way.
Got a bun in the oven.
Expecting.
With child.
Maternally accelerating.
Living la vida preggo.
The object of Bumpwatch ’07.
Packing grandchildren.

Isn’t it great? The man and I think so. Excitement is all around us and it’s so hard to think about anything else. Here are my symptoms thus far:

1. Hungry. No, make that starving. All. The. Time.

2. Tired. No, make that exhausted. All. The. Time.

3. Have to pee. All. The. Well, you get the idea.

It’s been hard not to post much lately, but the fact is, there is just not much to tell. When you are tired all the time, you pretty much have no life or goofy stories to share, so I have been uncharacteristically mum. But all that is about to change.

Okay, back to my present-day self now:

By way of details, I am now eight weeks along or two-thirds of the way through the first trimester. We have had the first ultrasound and seen the little bugger and heard the heartbeat. Wow. Up until that point, I was just “pregnant”. Sitting there hearing the heartbeat, it suddenly hit me like a ton of bricks that there is a little person in there, doing its best to kick ass. It was pretty major. There was some leaking of the tear ducts.

We don’t get to know the sex until sometime in the second trimester I think, so in the meantime, we are referring to it as “Pat” a la vintage SNL, since we don’t know what the hell it is.

Today was a good day. I was still tired, sure, but not “feeling like I’m going to die” tired, and that is a definite step up. I do routinely thank the Pregnancy Gods that I have been blessedly free of morning sickness since I cannot imagine being barfy on top of the exhaustion. God, that would suck.

And being the only sober one at a festive occasion? Not so bad after all. I attended a family wedding with the hub over the weekend (with a four-hour open bar!) and felt blessedly free to be a goofy spaz on the dance floor because I didn’t have that paranoid “Oh my god, I’m Drunky Drunkerson, I’m going to do something inappropriate and be mortified with myself tomorrow” feeling the whole time. It was actually quite liberating. And there was the added “heh-heh” bonus of knowing that I would wake up the next morning feeling totally fine, whilst everyone else would be cursing the day alcohol was invented. So we got a late-night pizza that me and my spawn very much enjoyed, and I gave Pat a little rub on the belly and thanked it for keeping Mommy in line tonight.

And the next morning I woke up feeling like a million bucks. I think this pregnancy thing is going to be pretty awesome. I’ll keep you posted.