Okay, Okay, Fine...

August 25, 2009

I swore I wasn't gonna do this, but you guys are persistent, and will-power isn't my strongest suit right now. Don't believe me? Just peek inside my freezer.

Here I am at 34 weeks--and I know these kind of comments are totally against the rules--but I've got to admit that I'm looking pretty stinkin' cute. It's gotta be the headband.

That shirt on the other hand? It's having a very rough go of it.

A Giant Sack of Crap

August 19, 2009

If you were to meet me in real life and ask me a question like, "So how are you feeling?," there's only one way I'd respond. I'd smile, shrug my shoulders and say something like, "Great! A little bit tired, but honestly, I couldn't find a reason to complain if I tried."

That my friends, is widely known as "keeping up appearances." In other words, LIE! LIE! LIE!
I know it's wrong to fib, but every single woman in my neighborhood seems to have given birth during the days of push-carts and woolly mammoths, so somehow, in these days of air conditioning and Bagel Bites, it just feels wrong to complain.

All I can say is thank goodness for this website, my secret place where I can be honest with the masses--because dude, I totally feel like crap. You're welcome to think whatever you'd like in regards to my whining. Judge me, whip me, tell me I'm not grateful enough--chances are, I don't know you anyway.

Oh the freedom.

So anywho, this is where I'm at...

If pregnancy were a marathon, I'd have to say that I'm at mile 22. It goes like this--you've been running forever, you still have a long ass way to go, and that whole "hitting the wall thing?" Yeah, it's not just some crazy idea.

Amy Lawson has hit the wall. And crapping my pants could very well be right around the corner.
I'm now to the point where I'm carrying 30ish extra pounds, Jared has to tie my shoes, and generally speaking, I cry 3 to 5 times daily. Almost anything can spark the tears these days--a radio commercial for auto glass, the movie Flushed Away, a craving for macaroni & cheese, anything.

For example, yesterday evening, when I returned from my nightly waddle, I walked into the kitchen to find the missionaries chatting with Jared. Sure I'm already Mormon, it's not like they were trying to convert me or anything--but when all you want to do is scratch your crotch, pull the curtains, and walk around wearing nothing but nature's glory, unexpected visitors can really put a damper on your evening.

So I breezed right past them, sat my ass on the living room couch, and commenced with the sobbing.

Jared came in and he was like, "Amy, oh my word, are you okay? What's wrong?"

So I was all, "Jared, the only thing I want to do right now is take a shower, sing some Bon Jovi, and air-dry my crack--but they're here. I can't do any of that while they're here."

"Amy," he said, "I can't ask them to leave, that would be rude."

So I cleared my throat, muted the television and said as loudly and clearly as I possibly could, "ASK THEM TO LEAVE, JARED! ASK THEM TO LEAVE RIGHT NOW."

Apparently they showed themselves out.

And then I cried again, because holy crap, I felt shame like I've never felt shame before.

So you see? This 33-weeks pregnant thing? It's complicated.

And me? I feel like a really big sack of crap.

The end.

If My Pubic Bone Could Talk

August 13, 2009

If my pubic bone could talk it would be like, "What the hell?"

But since it can't talk I'll speak on behalf of it by saying, "What the hell?"

I never experienced anything like this during my pregnancy with James, but this time around, whenever I exert myself to any degree, five minutes later I'm limping around like a cowboy who just rode his horse all the way across the great state of Texas (and got kicked in the groin with a steel-toed boot somewhere around Amarillo).

This pain-in-the-crotch of which I speak? It's 100% of the reason that I hung up my running shoes a couple weeks ago--I just couldn't stand it anymore. Well that and the teenage spit flying at me, but you know, whatever.

For the last four weeks or so, with the exception of a minute or two here or there (obviously when no one is looking), I've downgraded my running to walking and I'm not gonna lie, it totally blows. Don't get me wrong, I like to walk as much as the next menopausal woman in a terry-cloth sweatsuit, but honestly, I miss feeling the burn.

As a matter of fact, I miss feeling the burn so much, that if it hadn't been for my husband saying something completely assholian, like "Well stick a fork in her vanjango, folks--she's done," every time I limped into the kitchen after a run, I'd probably still be doing it.

But I'm not. So I guess that entire last paragraph is completely inconsequential.

Anywho, yesterday afternoon, James mustered up his very best manners and asked me if I wanted to play tag with him. He was like, "Mommy, may you play tag with me outside for some minutes?"

I couldn't resist his mastery of the English language, so obviously I said yes.

I also said yes on account of the fact that a good game of tag would burn some calories while simultaneously banking some serious super-mom points--but really now, who's keeping count of all the selfishness and ill-intentioned acts in the universe anyhow? (Oh. What's that you say? God is? Whoops.)

So we played tag, at full speed, for forty-five minutes.

This involved running up hills, down hills, around lawn ornaments (I have many), over rock walls, and through hedges without any break to speak of. By the time all was said and done, once I had lured James back to indoor sedentary comfort with the promise of a Kit-Kat bar, my pubic bone was on fire.

Notice I didn't say that my pubic bone felt like it was on fire, but that it was actually on fire. Because it was. On the inside. And that's the honest truth.

It hurt so badly that I actually decided to forgo walking and crawl to my front door--you know, for intense dramatic effect--but that hurt even worse, so I decided to cry like an almost-two-hundred-pound baby and walk the old fashioned way.

When Jared got home from church (yeah, keep that in mind) an hour or so later, he found me sprawled on the bathroom floor, clinging to my lady parts for dear life. As he stepped over my limp body, and unbuttoned his pants for what seemed to be an impending poop he was like, "Dude, what in the crap is wrong with you?"

And I was all, "You wanna know what's wrong with me? I played tag for forty-five minutes, now I'm paralyzed, unable to move, and I'll kill you if you take a dump while I'm incapacitated on this bathroom floor."

And my husband, the one who regularly makes me rethink the meaning of love, was all, "Sorry, Ames. Gotta do a poo whether you're paralyzed on the floor or not."

Apparently death threats mean nothing from a woman in my condition because there he sat, 'working out his issues' shall we say, while I used nothing but my toes to push my very pregnant body across the tile, out of the bathroom, and into the hallway--much like a snake, if a snake had toes.

Then he flushed, stepped over me again, went to the fridge and cracked open an icy cold Coke.

I was like, "Bastard."

And he was all, "Fatty."

And then he helped me up and smacked me on the rear like a baseball coach or something.

I was like, "What was that? Some kind of encouragement or something?"

And he was all, "Nope, just wanted to touch your ass." And that was the end of that.

The flame in my crotch (remember, that's literal, not figurative) continued to flare up for each of seven nocturnal bathroom trips, and still hurts like mother to this very moment.

And that's why, if my pubic bone could talk, if would totally be saying, "What the hell?"

The End.

Incoherent Thoughts on Pregnancy

August 12, 2009

I'm reaching that totally fun stage of pregnancy where you can feel little unidentifiable body parts moving around all over the place. And no, I'm not being sarcastic--it's really, really neat. Sure I get the occasional bladder issue as a result of all the wiggling, but honestly, I've never been happier to pee myself every now and again.

Feeling this little girl kick and punch and flip reminds me that, well, there really is a little girl in there.

Profound, I know. As always.

Yesterday my husband's facebook status said something like, "Can't believe we'll have another little one in eight weeks!"

You know? I can't either.

Sure her room is painted, her name's all set, and we have every single baby item we could ever dream of owning, but until she's out--breathing, sleeping, and crying in my arms--I really feel like I can't make sense of it all.

I do know how unbelievably lucky I feel, but at this moment, that seems to be the extent of it.

Lately, when I get up for one of my six nightly pee breaks, I find myself sneaking into James's room--you know, just to check on him. Just to watch him breath and smack his lips for a minute. And every time I do, I feel totally overwhelmed by how much I love that sticky little, back-talking child.

On a typical day he'll get one timeout for swatting at me, a second timeout for using his stuffed animal's arm to swat at me (um yeah, still not allowed), and then he'll cap it off with a 'no dessert' sentence--usually for something super creative. Like using his Power Ranger's legs to move his stuffed animal's arm to deploy a toy crossbow at his mother.

It's super.

But despite the wide variety of four-year-old antics, I love that kid with everything I've got.

Usually, when I'm sneaking out of his room at night, I catch a glimpse of the baby's room across the hall. I see the empty crib, with the quiet mobile, the brand new homemade curtains, and I just can't help but get choked up.

It's a sad choked up because there's no five-month-old tossing around in there. But it's also a happy choked up, because soon enough that very still room will be very, very occupied.

What can I say? I'm totally looking forward to it.

Every day, I'm completely amazed by the people who stop me at meetings, in public, where ever, and say things like, "Oh will this be your second? Oh boy. A second child makes for at least five times as much work. You'd think it's doubles, but that's not the case!" And they anxiously go on to list the four-hundred-and-one challenges associated with a new baby in the house.

I'm never quite sure how to respond, but I have made a solemn promise to myself that I will never say "Why don't you shut the hell up and keep the negative sh!t to yourself?" ever again.

I did that once. Let's just say it ended with a long and detailed apology letter.

I'm also abstaining from retort lines like, "Oh, so you regret having your second then?"

Because that one? That ended in an apology letter, too.

(If you must know, I actually have and apology letter template saved on my hard-drive. Girls like me can use that extra shot of convenience.)

So these days, I try my best to remember my manners and usually respond by saying something neutral like, "Thank you for that information. I hope to find it helpful before or after the baby arrives."

I use the same line when people imply that my uterus might explode into one-million pieces at the mere mention of a VBAC, or when they wrinkle their noses and gasp because oh-my-word, we're naming our daughter a nickname. How will she ever get a job? Won't that sound too casual at her wedding ceremony? But wait, that's if she can't even find a husband to have and hold her with a stumpy little name like that!

Really now, who cares about a name? We're holding out for some exceptionally good looks and some outrageous tap dancing talent. Got that?

And as a side note, the last woman to hit me with the name related nose-wrinkle has a son named "Chick." Let me tell you, I could go on and on and on some more about that naming choice. As in: "Oh, your grown son's name is Chick? Is that short for "Chicken" or does he actually have no penis?"

And now I will stop.

(If your name is Chick, please let me know and I'll send you a personalized copy of that aforementioned apology letter by the end of the work day.)

So anyway you slice it, the point of this post is just to say that I'm really, really getting excited for this new, little girl. It's been a long time since we've had a baby in the house, and let's be honest here, I'm definitely gonna need the diversion when my current 'baby' starts riding the bus this fall.

Total and Complete Basketcase

August 6, 2009

(If you know me in real life, please refrain from discussing this situation over the phone, facebook, or across the dinner table. I'm serious. And yes, that even applies to my mother, my sister, and any other females who share my DNA.)

I don't know what the deal is, but I'm a big, fat, ball of nerves today. Last night I woke up to pee around 2 o'clock and watched the minutes tick by until 5:30, when I finally fell asleep again. I've got to say, that for those three and a half hours, my mind was filled with nothing but thoughts of my midwife moving to stinking West Virginia.

And that is precisely why my husband, who spent his morning with a naturopath, an acupuncturist, and an aromatherapist got the following text message this morning:

Can u get some kind of calming potion from the calmologist who

you're meeting with today? I'm not joking. I'm wound up so tight.

Well apparently he didn't get the text until all three of those hipped-up alternative care providers were puttering away in their Prius (carpooling, duh), and there will be no magical, herbal, calming potion for this girl tonight.

Perhaps a frying pan to the head will work just as well.

I'm not sure how it happened, but in my mind, I set myself up to need my midwife more that I probably really do. I had a plan A, B & C for how I wanted things to go, and somehow she ended up as the star player in each of those scenarios. Not me, not Jared, not the baby--but the midwife.

And really now, who is this about? Right. That would be me, Jared, and the baby--not the midwife.

I guess I feel extra reliant on her because I met her at a time when I was feeling super, super vulnerable. Pregnancy after a loss is a very scary thing (which is the understatement of the universe), and somehow she really helped me through the initial uncertainty of it all. She was kind of like my security blanket. With boobs.

On top of that, I had a c-section with James. And as easy as the recovery was, it's definitely not something I'm hoping to repeat. The good news is, as long as this little girl stays head down, it shouldn't be an issue. I went into labor with James on my own, I progressed really quickly, and if he hadn't have been in a transverse kind of lay, I'm sure the whole experience would have been smooth as silk. Silk that stabs you in the abdomen with a rusty knife over and over and over again, but you know, details details.

So yeah, I'm going for a VBAC--vaginal birth after cesarean (sorry guys, for using the V word on my blog)--and Jared and the midwife were in a dead tie as my number one fan. Now, for the time being, my only fan is Jared, and as much as I love the man, I know for a fact that he has no foam finger and he's very under experienced as a labor coach.

So now she's gone, I'm going to see a new midwife who I've never ever met, and I'm an absolute basketcase. Yes, I've had friends who've used this woman, and they all seem to place her on a pedestal next to Jesus, Moses, and Betty Crocker--but as far as I know, she's not on call 24/7. I could end up with someone else.

Me. Over here. Basketcase. Have I mentioned that yet?

I completely trust two out of the three physicians in this practice, so that's a good thing. This hospital is way over-the-top as far as natural birth and breastfeeding go (we're talking water births, doctors trained in hypnobirthing, very low c-section rate, no pacifiers allowed), so that's a great thing, too.

But that third physician? Yoinks.

I said to Jared, "If I end up with her, I swear I'll be the only documented case of a woman who got a c-section and an episiotomy for the very same labor. Just watch." He agreed.

So I'm all worked up.

And all of the sudden I feel completely ill-prepared for this upcoming labor and delivery. I mean really, why would I have needed any kind of refresher course when I had my magical midwife by my side?

So now I have nine weeks to turn Jared Lawson into something equally magical. Wish me luck.

Last night, after reading Dooce's labor & delivery story I was like, "Jared, all I'm asking is that you make me feel like a flowing lawn ornament in the palm of your almighty hand."

And he was all, "I have no idea how to do that, or even what you're taking about."

Men.

We've got a long way to go--a new midwife to meet, four-hundred-thirty-two podcasts to listen to, sixty-four books to read, sixteen cheers to learn, and oh yeah, I'm hoping to achieve the highly sought after state of nirvana. I've heard it's excellent.

If my head pops off, please don't act surprised.

Adventures in Emotional Eating

August 5, 2009

Well friends, it's official. I, Amy Lawson, am an emotional eater in the most serious sense of the phrase.

Let me back up.

Have you ever come across a new person and you instantly fall in love? I'm not talking romantic love or girl-crush kind of love, more of a if-I-happen-to-die-on-my-next-drive-home-will-you-raise-my-kids-for-me-and-oh-yeah-wanna-be-my-new-best-friend kind of love. I'm sure you've all experienced it.

It's deep, it's instant, it's magical, on oh my heavens, I have it with my midwife. The woman has a magnetic personality, a bedside manner that can't be beat, she's smart, she's funny, and I won't mince words here--her boobs are simply out of this world. On average, Jared and I spend seven to eight minutes discussing the fantasticness of her cans after every single appointment.

See? Love.

The first time I met her, I literally had to restrain myself from nuzzling up in her lap, wrapping her arms around my shoulders, and crying the words, "You'll take care of me, right? Right?" Instead, I opted to kind of tilt my head, lazily gaze into her eyes and say, "You're great," eight or nine times in a row.

Perfectly normal.

Well guys, today, I'm very sad to let you all know that there's been a bit of a rift in our provider-patient-soulmate relationship. I guess I can refer to this little bump in the road as "West Virginia."

As in, my midwife is moving to West Virgina. In two weeks.

She broke the news this morning, at my 31 week appointment. She was like, "Sit down Amy, I need to tell you something important."

And in my mind I was thinking, *Aw crap, does 180-pounds really look that bad in these skinny jeans?*

Yes in fact, it does--but this news had nothing to do with my wardrobe choices, nothing at all. Instead, it had everything to do with twice the money, half the hours, student loan repayment, and some kind of a dream job in West Virginia.

I'm very proud to say that I more than kept my wits about me when she gently dealt the news. I was like, "West Virgina, huh? I hear it's beautiful in the fall. I can do West Virginia."

Well apparently I've been experiencing what some might call "unrequited love," because get this, I'm not invited.

Deep down I guess I always knew she was a punk. Something about the boobs.

So I scheduled my next appointment with the other midwife, gave one last hug to the woman of my dreams, and calmly walked into the parking lot. No tears, no snot, no tearing of clothes, no gnashing of teeth. Just a big, loud SH!T when I settled into my driver's seat.

(side note: sh!t is the word of the week)

Then, I did the only thing that a distraught, hugely pregnant woman can do at trying time such as this--I drove around the corner, pulled into the nearest Burger King and ordered a Whopper with cheese, some onion rings, and a bucket of Sprite. Then I snapped at the window lady for leaving out the spicy ring sauce.

Sure I feel bad about getting sassy with the burger slinger, but dude, I'm GIANT, I'm HUNGRY, and I JUST GOT DUMPED. GIMME THE DAMN RING SAUCE, BYOTCH.

In all actuality, I blame my midwife. She left me no other option but to resort to such unbecoming behavior. It's a shame really.

I spent the next four minutes navigating the roads, searching for a appropriately sappy song, and shoving all manner of nastiness into my mouth. It wasn't until minute five, when I was stopped at a red light, ferociously licking my burger wrapper, that I realized, "Damn, I didn't get anything for dessert."

And thus commenced Round Two, which I like to call "Get in my belly you Devil Dog Muffin."

So what exactly is a Devil Dog Muffin?

Welp, it's a chocolate muffin, roughly the size of one of my ass cheeks, filled and topped with half a cup of homemade frosting. They're baked--with a tremendous amount of love, mind you--by an elderly woman in town. They're sold at the local gas station, and if I had to wager a guess, they weigh in at about 1,200 calories a piece.

I ate it in the parking lot.

Then I saw some spots and had to roll down the driver's side window in case I had to ralf all over the pavement. Thankfully I used some Lamaze breathing and urge to boof subsided about fifteen minutes later.

Yeah, the spots are still there.

But you know what else? I feel much, much better. Thanks to 2,300 hundred calories and 105 grams of fat, I've managed to master my emotions, weigh my options, and come to grips with the details of the situation.

And ya know what I've figured out?

I'm moving to West Virginia whether she likes it or not.

The End.

Sense of Smell

July 18, 2009

I'm not sure about the science behind this, but now that I'm in my third trimester, everything smells.

My dog's breath smells just like a swiss cheese and salami sandwich on rye--even though those foods are clearly not a part of her therapeutic canine IBS diet. My kid's head smells exactly like spicy Thai peanut sauce--not his breath mind you, but his head. His four-year-old body on the other hand? Now that smells like sweat and Ju-Ju-Bees dipped in 2% milk.

And then there's my husband. Who just smells bad.

I haven't been able to pinpoint exactly what his smell is, or precisely where it's coming from--the only thing I know for sure is that it's very pungent and it travels in waves. Sometimes I swear it comes from his mouth, other times I'd bet money that it's anal in origin. And then, just when I'm about to ask him if he farted clear up into my nose while I was distracted by Days of Our Lives, the smell seems to shift, and waft from his feet.

Sometimes it's spicy, other times it's sugary, but most of the time it's plain old defecation-y. And my heavens, I can hardly handle this type of uncertainty at a sensitive time like this. I should be worrying about Twinkies and Ho-Hos--not the fact that the people in my house all smell like chocolate covered hot dogs on a stick.

Last night, when Jared came home from work, he cracked open the mudroom door and yelled, "Hey Hon, I'm home!" James immediately left his Pinocchio movie in the dust (Side Note: Did you know that kids drink and smoke and say "jackass" in that movie? If that sounds interesting to you, it's available for rent at your local library.) and barreled to meet his Dad Almighty at the door.

Now I, on the other hand, stayed on the couch, gave a sniff or two and said, "Hi Jared! Have you been eating Doritos?"

He was like, "I ate Doritos three days ago with my lunch."

"Well you still smell like them. Can you jump in the shower before you come in here and hug me?"

And he was all, "No Amy. I've had three showers, mowed the lawn, and swam across the lake since I ate those Doritos. A shower won't help."

"Well were there any Doritos floating in the lake, Jared? I'm pretty sure you're contaminated."

And so on and so forth.

Now I know what you're all thinking--"Well Amy, what exactly do you smell like these days?" I'm gonna be completely honest with you right now--I smell like baby powder and lilac deodorant. This is no lie.

I know.

According to Jared I smell more like body odor and hair gel.

I have no idea where that man gets these things from.

Oh, Just an Update

July 1, 2009
(Happy 30th Birthday, Jared!)

Well friends, as of my appointment this morning, it's official--I'm up 24 pounds and I've never looked better. At least that's what the medical assistant keeps on telling me.

(I love you, Lisa!)

Actually (and I fully realize that according to the fashion magazines I'm supposed to hate myself and wretch every time I look in the mirror right now), I really can't help but agree with her. I'm looking pretty stinkin' cute these days.

So fine, the back of my thighs are a straight-up cellulite horror show. But the rest of me? Not so bad if I do say so myself--and I should know. After all, I see my reflection at least thirty to fifty times daily--you know, every single time I have to stop what I'm doing to get up and go pee.

And no, that is not an exaggeration.

There are many days, today included, that I'll excuse myself from my desk to use the facilities, do my business, and turn on my heels before I even get back to my office, because I have to go and pee again. And friends, these are not false alarms, these are good-old-fashioned fire house pees.

Earlier today, while I sat in the waiting room for sixty minutes at my midwife's office (gestational diabetes test), I used the potty not once, not twice, but five times. James went twice. We earned our stares--every last one of them.

This pee situation doesn't bother me so much during the day--any excuse to leave my work in a cold, stagnant pile is fine by me. But dude, the night times? Not so good. I'm tired, I'm walking into walls, and a couple of weeks ago I actually woke up to find myself standing on the cold tile, jiggling the deadbolt on our mudroom door. Apparently, I was changing things up and planning to go outside to pee in a sleep-walky haze.

Huh. Makes sense. Safe, too.

Anywho, that's about all I've got for this latest update--up some pounds, pee machine, and it now officially take three jabs to get the blood in my veins out of my arm. Oh, and I almost forgot--this season, McDonald's double cheeseburgers are the new apple.

Have a good rest of the day, guys.

Rain, More Rain, and Really Big Bathing Suits

June 30, 2009

Well friends, it's still raining in Maine. If I had to venture an honest guess, I'd say we've had two or three days of sun during the entire month of June. And according to the ten-day forecast, we shouldn't expect to see the sun until next Wednesday.

Long live the summer!

Swimming lessons started yesterday, and guess what? They were cancelled. Due to thunder.

You see, up here in Maine we don't do swanky swimming lessons in indoor pools--we pay $5 for a snotty little teenager to teach our kids to swim in the lake--the 54 degree lake. As of yet, swimming lesson are still a go for today--you know, with scattered showers and a high of 57.

In honor of the next three weeks, I taught James the word "hell." As in, "This lake is cold as a frozen chunk of hell," and "Why in the hell do you do this to me, Mom?" I'm hoping the extended vocabulary takes the edge off of his discomfort--I know it always works for me.

Oh, and geeze, I almost forgot to mention that James's 4-year-old group lesson is described in the flyer as a "parental involvement class."

Joy above joys.

Not only do I get the opportunity to shiver my cellulite off, but I also have the rare and unique chance to show my half-naked pregnant body to James's friends' parents, a handful of neighbors, and our adorable teenage babysitter (just one more reason not to have sex in high school, honey!).

I mean, don't get me wrong here, I'm all for walking out to the mailbox in my underpants--there's just something about the size large maternity tankini that makes me want to hide. Behind my 45 pound son.

So there ya go. Yay summer!!!

Pregnancy Sass

June 29, 2009

For the first time in my life I can honestly say that I've become a head turner--double takes, triple takes, eyes the size of dinner plates, I get them all.

And it's probably not because I'm hot.

I personally think it has a lot more to do with the fact that lately I've preferred to exercise in the broad daylight, in a bright yellow volunteer t-shirt, that somehow makes me look pregnant in my ass and in my tea kettle.

Couple that with my very shiny spandex pants, and folks, I've become the stuff that highly disturbing dreams are made of.

Just this past weekend, after my run, when I was still in my skin tight get up, James told our neighbor that, "My Mom might have twins. Dat means two babies. She got one in her tummy and maybe one in her bum."

Thank you, James. Thank you so, so much.

Prior to this pregnancy, I wondered, on an almost daily basis, why so many larger-sized people seem to love to wear spandex pants. Now my friends, I completely understand. It's not about the love--it's comfortable, it fits, now shut your mouth and get out of my way or I'll eat you faster than a peanut butter cup.

That's why.

I think it's funny when strangers stop my on the street to say things like, "Look at you exercising! You're so cute!" I just keep plodding along and I'm like, "Cute? I'm not so cute, I'm so hungry. And so full of pee. But thank you. Have a nice day."

Last night, I had a very different reaction from a very strange stranger. She was moping along in the rain, smelling like booze, letting her puppy poop all over the middle of the sidewalk (my pet peeve beyond all pet peeves). As I approached her, I stepped off the sidewalk to run on the shoulder of the road--partly to be polite, and mostly to avoid a run in with the dog doo.

When we were almost shoulder to shoulder, I offered a casual smile and she offered me the following comment: "You're gonna shake your baby and give it brain damage from runnin' like that."

I was confused and honestly thought I'd heard wrong, so I stopped, removed my earbuds and said, "I'm sorry, what?"

"You're givin' your baby brain damage from that."

"From what," I snottily demanded.

"From running," she said.

"Oh my word," I replied back, "I didn't realize that. Are you an obstetrician," I asked?

"No."

"A pediatrician," I offered?

"No."

"A child development expert?"

"No," she replied.

"So I guess that means you're just super opinionated," I confirmed?

Silence.

"Geesh," I said, "You know? I'm not even pregnant. Show how much you know." (I threw it out there for dramatic effect)

She eyed me up and down, found that be very confusing, huffed, and kept on walking.

That line--the "I'm not even pregnant" line?--hasn't failed me yet, and honestly, I never expect that it will.

Today I'm feeling slightly to moderately guilt ridden for being such a sassy mouth to a total and complete stranger. Maybe she was having a bad day. Maybe she had just worked a double, dropped her paycheck in the mud, and had her hat stolen by an angry bird. I guess I'll never know.

I'm sorry random lady.

Running While Pregnant: The Truth Revealed

June 5, 2009

Well friends, I've officially found myself in a place I never thought I'd be--running while legitimately pregnant. In the past I've run until I was 11 weeks along or 17 weeks along, but this time around I'm almost 23 weeks along and I see no end in sight. I'm beyond showing, my sweat smells like garbage, and despite this exercise, my thighs are still covered in an inch-thick layer of cellulite. I'm the real deal if I've ever seen it, and let me tell you, the real deal is just about as pretty as Al Roker in a bedazzled tube top.

In other words, not so much.

I'm not sure if it's the endorphin high that keeps me going or maybe deep down I enjoy being heckled by gangs of dirty little skateboard punks, but either way you slice it, I can't seem to help myself.

Just last night, I huffed and puffed past a group of high school aged skaters and offered up a friendly little wave. When I was ten paces past the group I heard three skateboard decks hit the pavement and all kinds of hideous, half-brained laughing. I looked back over my shoulder and sure enough three of the burnouts were imitating me--bellies sticking out, legs kicking in every direction, arms flailing like drunk monkeys.

I must say, to an outside observer, their impression was dead on. But I'm pregnant, and I was tired, and it goes without saying that I was in no mood for the highest form of flattery. So instead of ignoring my three young friends I stopped dead in my tracks, turned to face them, calmly removed my headphones and said, "Guys, I'm pregnant. Do you know what hormones are?"

They nodded.

"Well," I continued, "my hormones are totally out of control right now. Seriously, I'm crazy. Do I look crazy to you?"

They shook their heads.

"Well thank you, but I am," I kindly offered. "And if I ever catch you making fun me again I will kill you dead."

They nodded. I waddled off. From this point forward I expect them to remove their hats and genuflect when I pound past them.

The fact that I subject myself to all manner of ridicule is funny because really, I kind of hate running. Sure I've been doing it for fifteen years straight, but honestly, it sucks. It's really hard, I don't look anything like Carmen Electra, and at my current rate of progress, I'll never ever be able to bounce a quarter off my backside. Yet I continue on--pregnant or not, I just keep on running.

On that upbeat note, I'd like to reveal some truths and debunk some myths about running while pregnant. So here goes:

#1. If you run while your pregnant, there's a good chance that you might pee yourself. TRUE!

Last week, I was running down Main Street and saw a set of Mormon missionaries walking in my direction. Obviously, in an effort to impress the two handsome young men, I picked up the pace from a 12 minute mile to a 9 minute mile.

And then I peed myself.

#2. Running while pregnant will keep your weight gain at a reasonable level. FALSE!

I'm so fat.

#3. Exercising while pregnant might help prevent constipation. TRUE!

Maybe that's why I do it--beats the hell out of an enema.

#4. Running while pregnant will keep the aches and pains at bay. FALSE, FALSE, FALSE!!!!

If anything, running brings 'em out. Most nights, when I come home from my 3 miler I can walk about as well as my 87-year-old neighbor lady. My low back seizes up and it kind of feels like I've been stabbed in the pubic bone with a serving fork. Jared (my chiropractor husband) told me to flip-flop my run-walk ratio from 70/30 to 30/70. I told him to get in ma belly.

He told me, "Fine. If you won't take more walk breaks, then need to buy a maternity belt to support that thing." So, being the bargain hunter I am, I searched "Belly Bra" on Ebay.

And a pages full of theses things popped up:
"Really Jared? How could this possibly help my running?"

And call me crazy, but if coffee's against my religion, then there's a good chance that the belly bra is, too.

Turns out, he had something more like this in mind:

I was like, "Screw you, Jared! Why don't you just tell me we're going on a surprise trip and trick me into an assisted living facility while you're at it!?" I don't care who goes by "Doctor" in this marriage, I'm not wearing a frigging leotard.

We finally compromised on something more like this:

Sexy and functional. Well there.

#5. Running through pregnancy will make delivery a snap.

I'll be sure to let you know.

And that's all I've got. If you're 4 weeks along, a dedicated runner, and just Googled the term "Running While Pregnant," please accept my apologies. I hope this doesn't discourage you from pursuing your wildest dreams. Just be sure to wear your belly bra snug and low at the hips, and remember, peeing yourself isn't all that bad. It's pooping yourself that you want to avoid--and even I haven't done that....yet.

The Infamous Egg Incident of 2009

May 27, 2009

Let me tell you how my day started off. Actually, scratch that. Let me tell you how my day at work started off--you know, after James took thirteen minutes to put his crocs on this morning and then decided that he'd rather wear his rain boots.

So I walked into my office building eating a hard boiled egg, because hello, I'm totally classy like that. As I greeted the cleaning woman (who was shining the baseboards because she's incredible), I noticed a tag sticking out of the front of my skirt. Upon further inspection I confirmed my suspicion that yes, I was in fact wearing my clothing backwards.

With the egg in one hand and my bag in the other, I grabbed my waistband and gave it a sharp tug in an effort to rotate the skirt 180 degrees in one not-so-graceful swoop.

Yes, I successfully turned my skirt. Bu-ut, my quick flick of the wrist launched the hard boiled yolk out of my egg, off the wall and onto the floor where I promptly proceeded to step on it with my big ol' heavy body and mash it into the carpet fibers.

All of this in front of the superhuman cleaning lady. Who had just finished freshening the carpets.

And then, THEN, when I hastily bent down in an attempt to clean my mess (or at least show how much I cared), a king-sized package of peanut butter cups, one small can of prune juice, and my beloved tube of hemorrhoidal ointment rolled out of my bag and onto the floor.

All in all, I'd have to say that the egg fiasco has been the best part of my day so far. Really, things are that good over here.

Call me crazy, but it's a nice day for hiding.

Brotherly Love and Voting

May 22, 2009

Well guys, it's official. James is completely bummed that he's having a sister--and I just can't lie, his outlook is weighing me down. Now I know full well that this will all get better with time, but for this moment, I reserve the right to feel poopy about it.

Before yesterday James talked and talked and talked some more about becoming a big brother. This kid had some really major plans that revolved around treehouses and halloween costumes. But now that he knows he's getting a dumb old sister, he's been completely tight lipped about the pending situation.

Actually, he did mention the baby one time yesterday, when he suggested that we name her "How Are You Today?" I loved his suggestion until I worked out the acronym and realized that it sounds remarkably similar to the word "hate" when said out loud.

Then, as I was putting James to bed, he threw down quite the tantrum--something I rarely see him do. Among other animated moves, he stripped down his bed, emptied his book shelves, slammed his door repeatedly (learned that one from his mother), and dumped a glass of water down the front of my shirt.

If he goes for a repeat performance tonight, I'm shipping the child to the East coast of Africa in a large, wooden crate--without hesitation. And I'm putting the "THIS END UP" stamp the wrong way. Uh huh, let's see how that little sister-hating-tantrum-thrower likes standing on his head for 4-6 weeks.

I'm not even kidding.

But let's all hope for a bedtime completely void of drama. I think I'd miss the kid.

To wrap this up, here are the family stats regarding our new discovery:

AMY--happy

JARED--shocked and overwhelmed, but happy

JAMES--pooping in his pants on purpose

MY PARENTS--very happy

JARED'S FATHER--very happy

JARED'S MOTHER--unable to contain her excitement, proclaiming the good news to the neighborhood, tripping-over-her-own two-feet happy (I'm still giggling over her reaction--absolutely priceless)

But here's the bright spot to my day, the silver lining to this dark and dismal sister cloud...we get to vote on an internet alias for this little girl!

Thank you for all of your name suggestions--they were fantastic! My expert panel of judges (thanks ladies!!!) used the magic of modern technology to narrow the choices down to about ten. Then, the super secret judge extraordinaire narrowed those down a little bit further.

If you'd like to vote, you can do so in the upper right corner of the site until next Friday at midnight.

And remember, this is a fake name for blog reference purposes only. The real name is competely up to my Mother-in-Law.

(That was just a joke, Meredith--even though I'm sure you'd do a bang up job!)

The Verdict Is In

May 21, 2009

It's a....

You know, actually, I'll just let James tell you.

This was the second take, when I was like, "C'mon buddy! Just pretend to be excited."

And this was the first take:

Oh yeah, the kid is totally thrilled.