What're you lookin' at? | Ramblings from a self-proclaimed yada yada yada...ist

Little Mister

As promised, I have returned with pictures of the little man of the hour, all brand new and perfect.

 

Mommy & Daddy with Nathan, just into the recovery room.  I know there isn't much to say for the picture quality, but the baby had his eyes open, giving a very suspicious peek to all he encountered.  And how cute is that, I ask you?

   

Nathan just about an hour old, none too happy to leave Mommy's arms for a quick listen from the stethoscope.

Thanks dad, much better.

 

Aah yes, that's exaaaactly the sleeping place I was looking for.

 

Luke & Nathan, pals.

 

Bree and I and baby Nathan.  Might I add that the last twelve times one of the two of us has birthed a child, the next one in the picture is pregnant (whether they know it or not).  And it is just time to take a break from that for a while, thankyouverymuch.

 

Gush.

And last but not least, here's a little video clip of Nathan, very soon after he was born:

Hoping for a smooth, happy recovery for Bree, and looking forward to seeing pictures of the new fabulous duo, Kara and Nathan, together.

He's here!

Hi all, it's Molly with good news!

Nathan Byron was born at 8:39 this morning.  He weighed 9 pounds 5 ounces and measured 22 1/4 inches long.  He has lots of dark hair and the sweetest little face. 

Both Breain and Nathan are doing great, enjoying their snuggle time together. 

I will update again with pictures when I arrive home this evening.

Welcome Baby Nathan!  We love you!

The night before (but just barely)

As you can tell by the time stamp on this entry, my resolution to keep better hours doesn't apply the night before a life-changing event. Oh, well. It's not like I'll be running a marathon tomorrow, just lying on a slab waiting to be sliced open. Would it really be that inappropriate to take a little nap?

Things are OK--Luke and I have both been a flip-flop of emotions today, excited about the baby, sad about Kara losing her status as an only child so quickly, anxious about getting the house in order, nervous about tomorrow. It hasn't taken much to get the tears flowing--"Kara's last bath as an only child! Sob," but surprisingly my eyes were dry when I put her to bed, and that's where I expected to get really emotional. She fell asleep quickly, though, and the two of us sat in her rocking chair for a good hour while I just held on to her and told her that I loved her and that I knew she'd be a wonderful big sister. And she will be.

 

Everything is in order--dishes washed, laundry washed and folded, picture framed dusted, carpets vaccuumed, refrigerator and pantry stocked, and grandparents on board to take over baby duties so Luke and I can leave for the hospital by five a.m. Registration is at six. I should be under the knife by eight.

But let's not talk about that right now. Would you like to see pictures of Baby Brother's room? I thought about waiting to include them in my grand House Unveiling post, and then I realized I've been promising that post for about two months, and really, I don't even know if you care anymore, but still, I swear it's coming. In the meantime, though, there is this:

 

Somebody on Parents asked about the paint color we used in here. It's Eddie Bauer Dill, EB10-3, courtesy of Valspar at Lowe's. Of course, this information might be more useful to include on my actual Parents blog.

 

I am so in love with this dresser, it's not even funny. In fact, I'm over the moon about all of Baby Brother's furniture--the style, color, the matchy-matchness of it all. Swoon.

 

As you can see, we went with a safari animals/monkey theme for his room. Just enough for everything to compliment each other, but not so much that other items seem out of place. In my opinion, anyway.

 

To think I once thought boy clothes weren't fun. Look at that onesie on the right. See how bright and bold and colorful? Blue and green are my favorite colors, and these shades rock my world. Oh, yeah.

 

A closet waiting for clothes in sizes larger than six months.

 

Not part of Baby Brother's room, but adorable just the same.

My big goal for this weekend (aside from having a healthy baby, of course) is to take care of myself in the hospital well enough to be discharged in two days instead of three (the standard stay for a c-section), and I have more perspective this time than I did after having Kara, so my next post should take place relatively soon. If not, though, no worries, because Molly is coming to Indianapolis to meet her godson and has agreed to update here once she's back at home. Until then, hopefully this will tide you over:

   

We're coming to get you, baby. See you soon.

See ya, February delivery date; January, how YOU doin'?

Today at three o'clock, I had my 38-week appointment slash last prenatal visit before Baby Brother's scheduled delivery on February 5. I learned from the nurse that the protein level in my urine was still at +3 but that I had lost two pounds since last time, which means my swelling has gone down. Blood pressure checked out just fine, as usual. I saw the doctor, who measured me at 43 centimeters and said she wouldn't be surprised if I had a ten-pound baby in there. I mentioned last week's HELLP scare, and she looked at the notes taken during my last visit. We talked for a few minutes about life with two small children, as she herself is the mother of two boys fifteen months apart. By a quarter to four, I was on my way home.

That was easy! I thought. No more drama.

At four-thirty, I walked through the door. At four-thirty one, Luke informed me of a message from the doctor on our voice mail, instructing me to page her at my earliest convenience. She had called at four o'clock.

Well. That can't be good.

I paged the doctor. She called me back. After examining my file more thoroughly, she discovered that my 24-hour urine collection revealed a protein level of 691, which puts me in the category of "mildly pre-eclamptic." If I were 32 weeks along, I'd be on bedrest, she said. But since Baby Brother is full term and growing well (ha! that's an understatement), there's no need to keep him in there any longer.

"So, what does this mean?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"It means that I would be more than happy to deliver your baby tomorrow."

And there it was.

As it turns out, I'm not having the baby tomorrow. Because my pre-eclampsia isn't severe and my blood pressure is good, my doctor was fine with postponing the c-section until Saturday. So the new game plan is for me to go to work tomorrow long enough to tie up some loose ends and then scramble like mad to clean our house. (Three cheers for doing the last of our shopping and finishing the baby's room over the weekend.) Luke's parents will arrive tomorrow evening (a gazillion more cheers for wonderful in-laws willing to watch their granddaughter while her pushy brother makes his way into the world). At five a.m. on Saturday morning, we'll depart for the hospital. I should be under the knife by eight.

I'm not sure what to feel. On one hand, OH MY GOD AM I SICK OF PREGNANCY. It hurts to get in and out of bed. My clothes don't fit. The Braxton-Hicks contractions are taking their toll. The last of my work projects can be easily passed along to other members of my department. I'm tired all the time. Our bags are packed. I'm done.

On the other hand, I'm not ready for surgery. I'm freaking out over having to leave Kara. I'm upset that our family of three is losing four precious days together. I'm worried about recovering from surgery while meeting the needs of two young babies. I need more time.

But all of that said, I still know that I'm lucky, because the first scare was enough to whip our asses into gear and the second one bought us another day and a half to wrap things up. Poor Emily had to leave from her doctor's office straight for the hospital for the births of BOTH her children. In the grand scheme of things, my rushed birthing experience isn't that big of a deal.

Remind me I said that when I'm hyperventilating tomorrow.

Expect one more post before Saturday.

HELLP diagnosis: negative

The doctor just called. Platelets are good. Blood count is stable. Liver enzymes are normal. Nothing indicates HELLP Syndrome, though I was instructed to stay off my feet as much as I can to help with my swelling. I shared the happy news with my boss, and she has instructed me to step away from the computer and get some rest. So I am going to do just that.

Thanks so much for the well wishes. Will hopefully update over the weekend with pictures of wee baby clothes (and maybe even my house!).

Not the HELLP I had in mind

"175," announced the nurse.

I almost shit my pants when she announced my weight, up a whopping NINE POUNDS from the week before.

As she took my blood pressure, she also shared that the protein level in my urine had risen to a +3. Unbeknownst to me, I've been at a +2 all month, but since that could have been for any number of reasons, it wasn't enough to raise a red flag.

"The doctor will want to do some tests," she said.

Not the routine 37-week appointment I was hoping for yesterday.

Me at 37 weeks. This was taken two days ago, before I knew about the atrocious weight gain (though it only brings me to 35 pounds overall. Thank goodness for small favors?).

I talked to my doctor. My blood pressure is and always has been normal, so no cause for concern there. However, he wonders if I might have HELLP Syndrome; if I do, the only cure is to deliver the baby.

"So he could come as early as Saturday?" I asked in disbelief.

He smiled sympathetically. "Tomorrow. He could be here tomorrow."

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In the waiting room, I was fine. I called Luke. I had three vials of blood drawn. I accepted my tool kit for collecting a 24-hour urine sample (which is festering in an ugly orange jug in the fridge as we speak, isn't THAT a lovely picture). I called my boss. I walked out with the receptionist and got into my car. I called Luke again and pulled out of the parking lot.

And then I lost it. Suddenly I was sobbing about not being ready to mother two children and what if tonight is the last night that we'll only have Kara and the baby clothes aren't washed and I don't want to go to the hospital and waaaaah.

I broke down again a few hours later during Kara's bathtime, sitting on the floor and cradling my head in my arms on the toilet seat lid as I contemplated life's grave injustices. "I'm not ready," I wailed.

There was silence for a couple of minutes. Then Luke said, "We can call him Jake if you want."

When in doubt, comfort your wife by conceding to one of her top name choices.

(Note: His name will not be Jake. But I sure appreciated the gesture.)

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I'm OK now and trying to stay positive. Baby Brother measured at 40 centimeters and I don't have any other obvious HELLP symptoms (headaches, nausea, vomiting), so maybe I just grow big babies. All I can do is wait for a call on the results of my blood work and take it from there. If all is well, I'll drop off my urine sample at 4 p.m., have more blood drawn, and await further instructions. I spent a lot of last night and will spend much of today catching up on work so I don't leave my boss in the lurch. Luke's been on laundry detail. Kara's being her normal wonderful self.

 

I just called the doctor's office and was told someone would get back to me soon with an update on my blood work. I'm torn between wanting this pregnancy to finally be over--my physical uncomfortableness is now at a point where I cry out just from getting out of my seat--and hoping for more time to relax and prepare. But last night I had a dream about Baby Brother, and he was so cute, except for the part where he didn't have a penis and Luke told me I was looking in the wrong place. 

Don't hold me to it, but I think I'm finally ready to snuggle my son.

One baby, extra caesarean, hold the VBAC

When I was 26 weeks pregnant with Kara, my uterus measured a perfect 26 centimeters. So when people questioned the appropriateness of my size, I just repeated what my doctor told me: the baby was healthy and doing just fine. I kept the meaner, gutter-language retorts to myself.

Here's photographic evidence of Kara and me at the 26-week mark:

 

...And here I am yesterday morning, 26 weeks in with Baby Brother, just a couple of hours before my monthly prenatal appointment, where he measured a whopping THREE weeks ahead of schedule:

I know. Kara can't believe it, either. See her look of disbelief? She's all, "Who does this kid think he is, showing me up before he's even outside? I'M the miracle-size baby. Just let him TRY to top my birth weight!"

(Um, sweetheart, let's not encourage him.)

What to say to the haters now? There's no denying it: I look huge and I feel huge. The doctor wasn't concerned, but when I told her I wanted remove this boy from my uterus via a planned c-section, she didn't bat an eye, just asked for my date of choice and verified with the doctor scheduled to be on call that day (the doctor who performed Kara's surgery, no less). I've spent more time ordering beef low mein than it took to schedule the birth of my son. And the noodles weren't even that good.

For those not in the know, I've written a couple of times about forgoing a VBAC on my Parents blog, but to document it here on my personal site, I'll share my thought process again. At last month's appointment, I asked the doctor for her opinion regarding whether or not attempting a vaginal birth was a good idea for me. There are five ob/gyns in my practice, and each time I see one, I throw that question out there just to see if everyone's on the same page. And when it comes to supporting a woman's right to VBAC, they are; nobody ever said I couldn't try for one. However, this doctor was the second one to recommend another c-section (my primary ob was the first). She listed Kara's size as one factor, which I knew was still mind-boggling to everyone there; so much so, in fact, that at yesterday's appointment I took my glucose challenge test two weeks early to make sure my body isn't harboring a secret case of gestational diabetes. The other issue was the risk of uterine rupture, a rare but life-threatening condition I'll allow Wikipedia to explain to you. It sounds just lovely.

Anyway, the idea of attempting labor and then deciding Baby Brother was too big to deliver vaginally was never a big deal to me; I wasn't worried about pain because I knew I'd get the epidural again, and the possibility of avoiding surgery was worth risking an unsuccessful trial of labor. It's the uterine rupture thing that's always been a hard pill to swallow. Once I learned from my doctor that the risk of rupture increases when births are fewer than two years apart, there was no question in my mind that for me, a c-section is the way to go. My kids will barely be ONE year apart as it is; hell no am I counting on the strength of an abdominal scar that only had a few months to heal before it was subjected to another pregnancy.

I applaud women who have the confidence to attempt a VBAC. I think it's wonderful that the old adage "Once a c-section, always a c-section" no longer applies. I'm proud of myself for even considering it. But in the end, it's just not for me. So Baby Brother's birth day is officially on the books: Thursday, February 5, 2009, 8 a.m. My plan is to wrap up work the Friday before and spend the first half of that week freaking out about having my second baby, a baby I STILL can't believe exists in the first place. Mark your calendars and hold onto your hats.

As if this post weren't already chock full of meaty content, I also talked to my doctor about birth control after Baby Brother's extraction--something I obviously didn't pay much attention to after Kara. I'm not interested in methods that turn my uterus into a poo-poo environment on the off chance ovulation were to occur; once the life process is in motion, I don't want to mess with that. But I am interesed in sidestepping it for a bit while Luke and I figure out if we want to have more children. Just for kicks, I asked my doctor about having my tubes tied during my caesarean, but since I'm delivering at a Catholic hospital, it's not even an option. Which is fine--I'm not sure how I feel about permanently ending my childbearing years before I'm 30--but I'm not sure I'd ever be up for another pregnancy, either. My doctor recommended Mirena, which sounds great except it doesn't meet my uterus-friendly criteria, and she also mentioned Essure, a procedure that's just as permanent as a tubal but without all the surgery. Also great, if we decide that we're Done.

In the end, Luke and I will probably just use condoms until my cycle regulates itself and I can trust the calendar to tell me when I'm ripe for the picking (thank you, Taking Charge of Your Fertility). It obviously worked before Kara, seeing as we were able to conceive her the minute we stopped avoiding relations on my "high-trigger" days. Baby Brother's conception had nothing to do with botched birth control and everything to do with "Ha! There's no way that could happen to me." A hard lesson to learn, for we all know how well THAT turned out:

Not that I would have it any other way, of course.

Your mother's a tracer!

The names, they were copied.

They were placed inside a hat.

  

And then three names were chosen by Luke, who was gracious enough to play my assistant while catching up on last night's episode of House.

In an effort to spread the wealth, I decided to break up the mega package into three separate prizes: the Jay and Silent Bob series, the two Clerks comics, and our dear Buddy Christ.

And the winners are...

 

 

Congratulations Gry, Dawnie, and Audrey! Gry, you get the Buddy Christ. Dawnie, the Jay and Silent Bob series is yours. Audrey, enjoy Clerks. Get me your addresses by Monday and I'll try to mail everything out next week. A big thanks to the rest of you who...um...wanted to take my stuff.

For those of you who couldn't care less about my nerdy contest, might I interest you in a belly shot of sorts?

 

Here I am at 23 weeks pregnant with Baby Brother, my two-days-shy-of-10-months-old daughter standing by my side. It's not the most telling angle, but it's the best Luke and I could manage under the circumstances ("circumstances" being a code word for "the child who insists on clinging to my legs for dear life the minute I walk through the door"). However, it's still enough to compare to my size at this point in Kara's incubation:

 

So far, the kids seem to be progressing at relatively the same rate. I had an ob/gyn appointment on Monday, where I learned that Baby Brother is spot on, measurement-wise, just like Kara was until we reached the final few weeks. (For more details about that visit, including my decision regarding whether or not to attempt a VBAC, check out my post on Parents.com.)

Edited to add: Whoops, there was one more photo I meant to post last night, because HELLO, adorableness:

Closing time

So. Today is closing day! The day Luke and I officially become homeowners for the first time in our lives. Final walk-through is at 2:30 p.m., closing is at 3:00, and of course we're still waiting to get final numbers from the bank for our cashier's check because why should we expect things to run smoothly?

I came into work this morning with a huge rock in my stomach (aside from Baby Brother), and as excited as we are to begin this new chapter of adulthood, Luke and I couldn't be more nervous. And because everything's happening so late in the afternoon, I'm not sure how we're going to celebrate. Maybe remove the "For Sale" sign in the front yard. Possibly go out to dinner because there's dried Rice-A-Roni on the stove from last night and Kara will need to eat shortly after we close and our apartment is a good forty minutes from our new pad. Continue to hash out paint colors and a schedule of what we can reasonably expect to accomplish before our October 28th move-in day. Originally the plan was to spend three weekends painting the entire house and the last weekend moving in, but my nephew Danny's baptism is now set for on October 26 and by the way, Ryan is moving to Germany to reunite with her army husband the weekend before that, and there's no way I'm missing out on my last chance to see her before spring. This leaves us only two working weekends left, so the NEW objective is to simply finish the second floor before the new carpet and bathroom tiles are installed later in the month.

Not that any of this makes me the slightest bit uneasy. Or crabby. Or hungry for a big bowl of spinach dip and a day in my pajamas.

It's overwhelming, how much there is to do before vacating our apartment; so overwhelming, in fact, that all I can do is think about October in small, manageable chunks. Call the flooring company. Price-check options for Internet, phone, and cable. (Yes, after more than three years of doing without, the Frema-Useless Clutter household just might hop on the cable bandwagon again.) (Also, I'm thinking not so much with the Comcast.) Buy primer and paint. Figure out when to paint. Figure out what to do with Kara. I would totally put her to work if she could walk more than five steps at a time. Also, if she could be trusted to keep her gums off the paintbrush.

(Actually, we do have some plans for Kara. A friend of mine from work who I knew from my Saint Joe days is going to come to the house and keep her company next Saturday so Luke and I can tackle the upstairs at the same time. Marissa heard about our baby-sitterless plight and actually volunteered to baby-sit. Hopefully this will be the beginning of a beautiful, paid friendship.)

In more uplifting news, did I tell you how much fun Kara is these days? Oh, wait, I guess I did. But I want to document it here, too, that my baby toddles and eats yogurt and "reads" her board books the right way and still has to play with my hair when I rock her to sleep. Luke and I are constantly looking at pictures from her newborn days and marveling over how much personality she's developed since then, how active she is, and how she loves us through each fumble. I would never categorize myself as patient, and I'm embarrassed to admit how damn frustrating parenthood is sometimes, but despite my shortcomings, Kara still scrambles to my arms when I come home each day. The biggest fear I had about being a working mom--that she wouldn't want me as much--has now reversed into my biggest obstacle, at least when trying to tackle my daily to-dos. She can't get enough of me. But I wouldn't want it any other way.

It's amazing to think that soon, there will be TWO little wonderfuls vying for my attention.

This was taken last Wednesday morning to document me at 20 weeks. Tomorrow I will be 21 weeks. Where is the time going?

Kara doesn't know, either.

It's mind-boggling, how much I love her.

Trying to bring pretty back

At nineteen weeks and some change, I finally feel like I'm coming into my own with this pregnancy. Having more energy and a cute little baby bump to boot have inspired me to take more pride in my appearance as opposed to those first couple of months, when just rolling out of bed and showering required supreme effort. Blow-drying my hair? Ha! Don't make me laugh.

Now, though? I'm not sure where to start.

I desperately need a hair cut, but my stylist is in Chicago and I'm not brave enough to try somebody new, so that will have to wait until the end of October, when Luke, Kara, and I will make the trip for little Danny's baptism. I plan on adding to my maternity wardrobe, but new clothes aren't enough. As always, whether I'm gestating or not, my biggest problem has to do with my skin.

Before returning to work in March, I went on a postpartum shopping spree to load up on products that I hoped would reduce the appearance of blemishes and even out my color. And once I went back, I took great care to apply the moisturizer, primer, and foundation. I used Philosophy's "On a Clear Day" kit and was pleased with the results. It was groovy, baby.

Now that I'm knocked up again, though, the tools at my disposal have changed. I love the overall effect of Philosophy's acne products, but the magical step-two serum is now off-limits until I deliver, and it seems like a waste of time and money to use the others out of sequene. For a while I continued to buy the facewash, but I'm going to run out of my current supply any day now, and it doesn't appear to be as effective without the added boost of the serum and the creams. Also, I'm too lazy to go to the mall and buy more, so I'm scratching that, too, even though it would also give me the opportunity to restock on my absolute favorite Clinique product in the whole entire world. End result? Right now I'm going the drugstore route and relying on Aveeno to keep my face clean and moisturized until Baby Brother makes his debut.

Did I ever tell you about how the rest of my beauty finds worked out? Of course I didn't, otherwise I wouldn't have set myself up to talk about them right here and now.

Since 2005, I had been utilizing every last drop of my bottle of Becca's Mattifying Primer because of how silky the mousse-like texture felt on my skin. So on my back-to-work shopping spree, I originally searched for that. However, the gal at Sephora said the brand had been discontinued and pimped the Smashbox Photofinish Light Foundation Primer as a worthy alternative. Amalah is a huge fan of Smashbox as well, so I gave it a shot. And I liked it! But it was one of the few times in my cosmetic history where I actually depleted a product over the span of a couple of months as opposed to a couple of YEARS. And when that product is forty buck a pop, that will. not. do.

So I went back to Sephora, where this time Laura Mercier's Foundation Primer was pimped out instead, and I said yes because it was ten dollars cheaper. But this primer? I do not like. It feels good going on but leaves my face greasy and shiny all the livelong day. According to some of the reviewers who faced the same problem, this probably isn't the best choice for those with oily or combination skin.

I still have a lot left, but because I don't like it, I've stopped wearing make-up altogether, even though I actually quite enjoy the LORAC foundation I found in March. This means I've been showing up to work in all my prenatal, pimply glory. I have finally decided this must stop.

So in vain I looked up Becca on Google, and what do you know, the brand wasn't discontinued after all. And oh, look, there's my primer! So did the Sephora girl lie to my face, or did she mean to imply that Sephora discontinued the stocking of Becca products? If it's the latter, she certainly could've MENTIONED the ability to buy it elsewhere. But whatever. I'm thisclose to doing exactly that. I'm sure my complexion and my coworkers will thank me.

Before my Oops, I Did It Again Moment in May, physically I was in a good place. I felt more confident about how I looked, and I was on the right track to losing the last few pounds of my baby weight. Pregnancy is a blessing, but hot damn, am I excited to do that again.

So, to sum up, Aveeno cleanser and moisturizer (including night cream! my, but I'm fancy), Becca primer, and LORAC foundation. I guess I DO know where to start. Carry on, then, but not without sharing your own favorite beauty and skincare products. You know, for future reference. Sisters have to help each other out, you know?

Let's Hear It For The Boy

Well, THERE went two weeks of personal blogging I'll never get back.

The mini-hiatus was unintentional, but life, it has been busy. Between welcoming sweet baby girls, working out insurance and inspection details for our September 30 closing, and keeping up with projects at work, I'm lucky I've managed to update my Parents blog. But, you know, they pay me, so it wasn't that hard of a decision to make.

Speaking of Parents, if you're a follower, you learned on Friday that a penis was discovered in my uterus.

Thanks to the cheesecake I had at lunch, Baby Brother was much more cooperative during his ultrasound than Kara was for hers, so we saw the goods twice. Also, his very adorable profile.

Oh, and we might've purchased a few little boy things. Maybe. Just a few.

I so thought this baby was going to be a girl (thanks for nothing, stupid old wives' tales), but disappointed would be the last word I'd use to describe what it felt like to learn about my son. Luke and I couldn't be more excited.

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I really appreciated all of your comments regarding our new house and our plight with the kitchen cabinets. Despite the amount of work we know it's going to take, Luke and I have decided to bite the bullet and repaint them a soft, creamy color. Paired with a khaki/tan shade on the walls, that should be enough to even things out and keep the first-floor rooms from clashing with each other, no matter what colors we end up using. I was quite impressed with Dr. Maureen's paint job, and after seeing her "before" pictures, I better understand why in certain cases, painting over the wood actually makes more sense than keeping the cabinets in their current condition. I have no idea what shape my cabinets were in before they were subjected to all that green, but after visiting the Valspar Web site to review paint swatches, I think I know where the sellers got their inspiration.

Coincidence? I THINK NOT.

The kicker? I actually DON'T MIND the color scheme in this room. But when you swap out the laminate flooring for a blah white tile and eliminate more than half the square footage, including the kick-ass island, what could have been a warm and inviting look becomes cramped and mismatched in a less impressive space. Oh, well. Live and learn.

The time between now and when we actually move in October is already making me nervous, wondering if we can paint every room and every damn cabinet prior to the second floor's carpet and tile job, prioritizing the items we want to add/upgrade in our home, counting every penny and trying to maximize it best we can. It's overwhelming now, but I trust that once we have the keys in hand, everything will suddenly appear much more managable. In the meantime, let's all ooh and ahh over Kara, who turned nine months old today and currently steals our hearts with her open-mouthed kisses, determination to walk, and ability to babble Mama and Dada at just the right time.

The apple of our eye indeed!

Much cuter than the professional shots she took at Target last month. We'll be redoing them this weekend at Portrait Innovations.

Today it's orchards, tomorrow undergraduate education. Sob.

"The Moist Maker" sounds much tastier than a calzone

Blasted food and its effect on second-trimester gestating women! The drama continues.

(Though not with Subway. I finally figured out the solution to my sub-versus-wrap dilemma. Double meat! Genius! AND DELICIOUS.)

The farther along I get in this pregnancy, the hungrier I get, at least for the first part of the day. If you don't believe me, let me tell you that today's lunch included a Weight Watchers Smart Ones calzone, an apple, banana, pear, and a roast beef sandwich. God help me, I PACKED A ROAST BEEF SANDWICH AS A MID-MORNING SNACK. With cheese, even! The sandwich was gone before ten, and that's only because I had a nine o'clock meeting. Restraint and Self-Control, see you in February 2009.

Anyway, by eleven I was fishing around the company freezer to retrieve my calzone, but it wasn't until I had unwrapped it that I realized it wasn't my calzone at all, but one of those Hot Pocket things that Jim Gaffigan used to poke fun at, and a feeling of shame washed over me as I compared myself to the professor in Friends who shamelessly stole Ross's post-Thanksgiving turkey sandwich and only ate half before throwing the rest away. I imagined the owner of the Hot Pocket lamenting the loss of his high-calorie treat much like Ross did, releasing a gutteral "My Hot Pocket?!" cry loud enough to send every pigeon in the Indianapolis area off in search of less tortured pastures.

But now that it was opened, what could I do but eat it, write a note of apology, and carry on with my life? So I stuck the Pocket in the microwave, taped a note to the freezer offering my smaller-but-healthier Smart Ones calzone in return, and waited three minutes for the dinger to go off.

Turns out my packing the sandwich wasn't just a piggy move after all, because the Hot Pocket smelled absolutely terrible and inspired a gag reflex so horrendous that I tossed the whole damn thing in the trash. I almost ripped up the note and went for my Smart Ones, but the guilt of eliminating somebody's lunch entirely was reason enough to hold back. I quizzed a few of my coworkers to see if they were the owners of the offending Pocket, but nobody was, though I did learn the IT director is quite fond of them, so I'll check out that lead later this afternoon.

When revealing my plight to one of the director's colleagues, she was sympathetic. "Now, you don't have a lunch," she said.

I just nodded. Nobody has to know about my sandwich but me.

P.S. House info is coming! The inspection is scheduled for three o'clock tomorrow, and I'm allowed to take pictures, so I'll try to relate that tale sometime this weekend. In the meantime, might I placate you with shots of my eight-month-old? She really is the cutest.

No, my daddy doesn't spike my bottle with Starbucks, why do you ask?

My mother, a sandwich stealer? Heavens to Betsy!

I'm a little ashamed

...because here's what I bought for lunch today. For myself.

Let me explain.

It started out innocently enough yesterday when I went to Subway for lunch, as I've been apt to do on days when our cupboard is bare. Usually I order a six-inch turkey sub on wheat bread with American cheese, tomatoes, and mustard, and I was about to order that yesterday when a sign caught my eye. It said that any six-incher could be turned into a salad or a wrap. And since I wasn't really in the mood for a whole lot of bread, I went with the wrap. And it was delicious.

But the wrap was not enough. Even after a bag of chips, even after a chocolate-chip cookie. I still wanted more.

So when I went back for lunch today, I contemplated getting TWO turkey wraps. I reasoned I could eat one now and one later on in the day so Luke wouldn't feel pressured to make dinner as soon as I got home. But then two of my coworkers lined up behind me, and if there were two turkey wraps attached to my order, it would be obvious that both of the sandwiches were for me. And since it's NOT obvious to everyone that I'm 14 weeks pregnant (it's not a secret, but it's not main-stream information for those who don't know me), I did what any starving, gestating woman would do.

I got a turkey and a roast beef. With two different kinds of chips. Fooled them all, I have! I thought, and ran the hell out of there.

Until I got back to the lab and realized that NOW I had to worry about somebody passing my very-public cubicle and noticing the two Subway sacks on my desk. Plus, I was mentally cursing myself out for not ordering any liquidy condiment for the roast beef, because Subway's beef tastes awfully dry without at least a little bit of mustard. Too late now.

So far I've eaten one full wrap--half the turkey and half the roast beef--and I've finished one bag of chips. I'm not starving anymore but still hungry enough that there's a good chance there will be nothing left to store in the company break room for tomorrow.

I have a good excuse, though, right? Doesn't every woman start her second trimester with a desire for two lunches?

Also, to document that my pooching uterus still looks more like it's holding beer and pizza than my beautiful, surprise second child, here I am at 14 weeks. In the john. Again. Some things never change.

ALERT, ALERT: An update to add that everything is gone except the second half of the roast beef, which is now sitting in the fridge and will probably never be eaten because OH MY GOD, DRY. Then I went and grabbed an ice cream sandwich from the vending machine and so help me, God, it was delicious. Good thing I'm out of cash or my boss would have to roll me to my car, Violet-style.

In case you couldn't tell, I got a haircut, too

You don't mind an entry chock full of pictures, do you? Good. Because I am very tired and these images are the only reason I was motivated to post tonight.

Last week, Luke, Kara, and I spent four days up north visiting family, prompted by the fact that my new brother-in-law, Jason, was on a two-week leave from duty in Iraq, and not only did I have to miss his and Ryan's wedding (remember my Saint Joe scare?), he was deployed before Kara was born, so he still hadn't met his niece. We wasted no time getting them properly introduced.

Uncle Jason was happy to see Kara, though he admitted at one point, "I don't know what to do with her!" Here they are both looking to my mom for further instruction.

For our four nights away from home, we spent the first and last one at Luke's parents house and the middle two with Samantha and Dan. My sister is just over a week away from her due date, which just so happens to fall on the anniversary of her wedding. Little Danny Junior's arrival is eagerly anticipated by all.

(Here would be a great place to include Samantha's picture, except that I didn't take any. Bad big sister!)

Here's Luke reading to Kara one of the mornings we stayed with Samantha and Dan. I'm including it because Kara munching on her bunny's ear--the one that has helped her recover from a rough sleep patch these last couple of months--is way adorable, and it showcases one of her very favorite books: Gossie and Gertie, which is actually part of a Gossie-and-friends-type series. MY favorite is the one about BooBoo because it talks about burps, and what could be cuter then a story about a gosling who burps?

 

On Saturday morning, our little family stole away for a couple of hours and drove to Navy Pier. It was Kara's first time seeing Lake Michigan, and Luke and I had a blast strolling her down the boardwalk and giving her a view of the water. The Pier is one of my favorite Chicago landmarks, so it was probably natural that I felt a ping of sadness over not living closer and being able to see it any old time we wanted. Staying in Indianapolis is the best option for us right now, but part of me holds out for the chance of someday making the move to northwest Indiana, where the grass is green and the commuter trains are pretty.

Later that afternoon I attended a surprise baby shower for Molly (I know she'll be sharing pictures soon) (hint, hint, Molly), and while I was gone Luke and Kara hung out with my mom, who was ecstatic over having so much time with her granddaughter. There are some especially cute pictures over at Parents, where Kara's reading Grandma's face Helen Keller style and Grandma's teaching Kara this "so big!" move that she absolutely loved.

(Notice Kara's travel chair? It's a Chicco Caddy Hook-On Chair we can use at places where a high chair isn't available. It was thirty-five bucks and works like a charm, though Kara did cling to me for dear life the first couple of times she was in there.)

Kara likes the hustle and bustle of Chicago, but she also enjoys the quiet calm we experience when we visit Grandma and Grandpa Dunscombe. Also, Grandpa provides adequate lap space for naps.

The next day, before we headed out of town, we stopped to visit Molly and Jack. They were both excited to see Kara, because Molly has baby girl fever and Jack still gets a kick out of Kara's "Oopsie" video. I think they had a good time with each other, though Jack was not thrilled with Kara's tendency to drool on his toys.

Jack's like, "What are you doing with my bus, woman?" and Kara's like, "Boat?"

I don't know why innocent pictures like this make me want to joke about a future pairing, but they do, except then I get weirded out contemplating my baby daughter's potential love matches. Forgive me, Jack.

Molly and I juggling small children and fetuses (feti?) in utero. Neither of us expected to get knocked up with surprise babies this year, but who does? And anyway, there's nobody I'd rather freak out with.

-------

Now, the random stuff.

My Hoosier Momma shirt turned out to be too small, so my embarassment over wearing it can wait until next year. Maybe we'll just save it for bedtime.

It looks like the top three venue choices for BlogHer 2009 are Portland, Philadelphia, and St. Louis. I voted for St. Louis because it's closest in proximity to Indianapolis, but I would be way stoked to visit Philly again. I went there with Luke in 2004 to visit his best friend. We visited Old City and Valley Forge and took a ghost tour and all of it was awesome. Luke is actually encouraging me to sign up next year and even suggested that the four of us (!) could go together and turn part of the trip into a mini family vacation. I am so all over that; I really did have a great time last year. My only hang-up is my purpose for attending: my personal blog is often left to collect dust, so ads are definitely not a part of my near future, and sometimes it's difficult to keep up on the one I get paid for. Am I looking for larger readership? More freelance work? Or simply network (Amalah, for the love of God, PLEASE SAY YOU'RE GOING IN '09) and have a good time? Is that good enough?

I suppose it doesn't really matter. Luke's on board with my going, and I bring in enough money from blogging that attending a conference like this would be totally worth it. Count me in.

This week has been great to me, baby-wise. I entered my thirteenth week and experienced an energy surge that didn't come until closer to week eighteen with Kara, and my work unveiled a new maternity leave policy, effective immediately, that pays six weeks at one-hundred-percent salary. Words can't express the impact this will have on my life, but I make the attempt over at Parents.

On the housing front: Luke, Kara, and I will visit three more houses on Indy's south side. Wish us luck.

Lastly, Kara is just nine days away from turning eight months old and making the cutest "mamadadababa" babbles you've ever heard in your life. On Monday morning, Luke will take her in for her first professional photo shoot. I didn't realize how bummed I'd be over not being able to join them, but I'm already leaving early that day for an ob/gyn appointment, and things are too busy for me to take off the whole day. Where did the time go? When did my sweet baby girl go from this:

To this?

Hell if I know, but damn if she isn't the most beautiful person I've ever met.

A six-month-old's lament

Dear Internet,

Why is my mom all about the disappearing acts lately? This hiatus was even lamer than the last one. I didn't even get a chance to post! What's up with that?

Grrr,
Kara

-------

Dear Kara,

When you type negative comments about your mother using her very own blog, remember she can read them. Also, that she has the power to take that pacifier away faster than you can crawl after her.

Love,
Momma

-------

Well, if my non-literate baby daughter took the time to ask such deep and meaningful questions, the least I can do is answer them. Maybe you're interested, too!

But really, it's quite boring. I never intended this place to collect dust for as long as it did. Every few days I'd intend to post, but first-trimester yuck caught up to me, to the point that once Kara was down for the night, I was down for the night. I could pull myself together long enough to post on Parents, but not for anything that didn't absolutely require some level of attention. Plus, I'm still feeling hella overwhelmed about this baby (as evidenced by my recent Parents freak-out), and I wasn't sure what to say about it here. I go back and forth between feeling completely off my game about having two kids so close together and completely guilty that I'm not one-hundred-percent over-the-moon about our new addition, which I know is a gift from God, a gift I will love just as much as Kara. But right now the big picture is hazy, as the every day is spent battling UTIs, trying to find an appetite (yet simultaneously wondering why I've only lost a pound), sleeping whenever I get the chance, and bemoaning my overall lack of energy. I don't want to complain all the time. I don't want people to think I'm asking for sympathy. But I can't pretend I'm over this hump yet, physically or emotionally.

It helps that Luke and I have put off house-hunting for a bit. Our whirlwind touring process ended with us making offers on three houses in two weeks, none of which worked out. In all three cases the counter was too high, and the sellers weren't willing to come down any more, and we couldn't afford to go up more than a couple of thousand. The first house we bid on was actually a pipe dream -- it had only been on the market one day, so we knew they wouldn't be desperate enough to go down as much as we wanted, but it never hurts to try -- but the last two offers were acknowledged to be quite reasonable by the seller's agents. It sounds like in each case, the sellers owed more than the houses were worth and couldn't accept much less than their original purchase price. Which, OK, but then why is your house on the market? Why not wait until the economy improves and get more bang for your buck? Whatever. Luke and I are taking the next couple of months to save up a larger down payment (thank you, July bonus) and clear our heads so we don't settle on something that won't work in the long run. I really hope all three of those houses are still on the market when we get back on track. Maybe they'll like our offers then, bastards.

(Not that I'm bitter or anything.)

Things around here are OK. Kara officially turned six months old a couple of weeks ago and weighs in at a whopping 21 pounds and 11 ounces and measures 28 3/4 inches long. She's crawling, pulling up on furniture, kind of submitting to a somewhat regular nap schedule, and laughing. The laughing is the best -- full-on, belly laughs that I didn't think were possible for babies, but they are. And on Saturday night, we caught it on video.

I look terrible, and my voice is super annoying, but surely you can get past all that to appreciate my beautiful baby girl. We couldn't be more delighted with her.

FYI, we haven't been able to get a reaction like that from her since, even with the magic word "Oopsie," so let's just thank our lucky stars we captured it when we did.

(It's totally inappropriate for me to watch this clip and wish I'd pointed at my belly during one of the "Oopsies," right? Probably yes?)

Also, in case you were wondering, the newest Frema-Useless Clutter embryo (who from here on out shall be known as Number Two) isn't doing so bad, either.

There's not much to see right now, but the first picture includes a tiny yet helpful arrow to indicate Number Two's current residence. This ultrasound was taken when I was exactly six weeks along and suggests a due date of February 11, 2009. If I have another c-section (which my doctor suggests), I'd go a week earlier, putting my children just shy of 14 months apart. Tomorrow I will be eight weeks. This early part of pregnancy is going exactly like I remembered -- loooong, and also BLECH -- and I'm already waiting in earnest for that second-trimester burst of energy that didn't come until around week 18 with Kara. Hopefully, Number Two will be more considerate, but probably not. I bet Kara posted crib notes on the wall of my uterus, instructing future siblings on proper prenatal behavior, just to spite me.

For those of you who haven't stopped checking this blog for signs of life, I will do my best not to flake out again, but see above regarding BLECH. Thanks for hanging in there.

For what it's worth...

I told myself it didn't matter, not having a positive pregnancy test. A blood prick from the doctor's office is way more telling than a first morning's urine, and the last thing I need to do is waste three-fifty on something that offers redundant information. But tonight I asked Luke to pick up a Target-brand HPT, anyway, frugality be damned, because I am a girl and biologically programmed to pee on sticks. I need proof. I need the two pink lines. Or in this case, a big blue plus sign.

Mission accomplished.

It's about damn time.

Congratulations, pregnant self! Call me crazy, but it's much more real now.

Things have been crazy-busy around here. Last Wednesday, Luke and I lost two hours of married life talking numbers with our mortgage lender and visited seven homes in four hours on Sunday. Today we saw three more plus the most promising one from the weekend, and tomorrow we will make an offer.

House hunting has proven to be one of the most interesting experiences of my life, and the most exhausting, especially when you're schlepping around a six-month-old who will only tolerate so much car seat before her screams permeate a twenty-foot radius. One house had a whole room shocasing African safari decor complete with elephant wallpaper border and an unfortunately persistent smell of cat. We also attempted to see two bank-owned homes listed at to-die-for prices, until we actually entered the homes and realized that's probably what happened. Somebody must have died. What else could explain the torn carpet, scribbled-on walls, damaged fences, and bugs seeping through the woodwork? If Luke and I could afford a more mature down payment and about ten thousand dollars worth of up-front maintenance costs, these bad boys would be a steal. But we have babies (babies! MY GOD), who would prefer to eat more than once a day, and I am not a fan of having to purge questionable living creatures from my happy place.

The house we are going with, our first choice, is adorable. Three bedrooms, two baths, roomy, fenced-in backyard, two-car insulated garage, brand-new carpet, appliances included, and closet space galore, all in a neighorhood with one of the best school systems in the Indianapolis area. Originally we were hoping to score four bedrooms, or at least three beds and an office space, but alas, we are first-time home-buyers living on one salary, so some of those wants will have to wait until next time. First Choice will definitely meet our needs as a soon-to-be four-person family for years to come, and today on our second walk-through, I got lost thinking about raising our children there--rocking them to sleep, setting up a Christmas tree, playing tag in the yard while Luke throws hot dogs on the grill--and now I am quietly freaking out because I am too emotionally invested in this transaction. We have a price cap that we will not (cannot) negotiate, and there are two other houses to act on should this deal fall through, so I'm not worried about losing my head, but if for some reason things didn't work out, I just might pull a Sally Field circa Steel Magnolias ("I wanna know whyyyyyyyy") and consume an entire pint of Chunky Monkey in one sitting. Which may or may not be appreciated by my embryo.   

Kara is fabulous. She's been sitting on her own for months now, but yesterday was the first time she actually pulled herself into a sitting position. That made me cry, too, as did thinking about how huge I'm going to be in a few months and I won't be able to hold her on my chest like I do now and wah wah wah more ice cream please.

It's getting harder and harder to keep my lips zipped about baby number two at work. I've already told my VP, my direct supervisor, two of my work buddies, and our sales and marketing analyst. If I can make it to my June 18th ob/gyn appointment and ultrasound without tipping off the CEO, it will be a bloody miracle. And seeing as life lately is already one big miracle, I doubt I'm due for another.

Name that due date!

I don't know if it's a sign of pregnancy or just an excuse to abandon the strict Weight Watchers regime, but food and I have once again become BFFs. Last Thursday, I "snacked" on a piece of cold steak while Luke was cooking dinner, and yesterday I suggested ordering from our favorite local restaurant, and by the way, wouldn't it be nice to get a hot roast beef and split a small pizza?

What can I say? Baby's gotta eat.

Not this baby. The new one.

Clearly, Kara is bad to the bone.

While surfing the Web for a due date calculator that would allow me to take my unpredictable, postpartum Aunt Flo visits into account, the only one that even provided a spot to adjust cycle length was BabyCenter.com, but even then the cap was 45 days, and I truly believe ovulation took place in mid-May. There's no way I can be seven weeks pregnant. I just can't.

Can I?

You decide. Here are the facts (advance apologies for the TMI):

First day of last period: March 27
Unprotected "incident" #1: April 26
Unprotected "incident" #2: May 12 (Happy anniversary, dear)
Negative home readings: May 9 through May 29
Positive blood test: May 30

There's no morning sickness to speak of yet but plenty of uterine cramping, so my guestimate is still mid-February. If I had ovulated at the end of April, surely I would have seen a positive reading on ONE of my five pee sticks, yes? At least, I think I would have. When I found out I was pregnant with Kara, I was only a few weeks along and STILL got six positive readings. Why would this time be any different?

So. Have at it!

Good-bye, cold lunchmeat. See you in February 2009.

So, over the last couple of weeks, I've kind of been making a big deal over the possibility of being pregnant (again). At first it was fun, something to blog about for Parents that didn't make me out to be an angry dog hater, but I didn't really think it was true. Apparently nobody else did, either. I heard the DUH in comments from some of my readers. "You KNOW your cycle can take a while to get back on track, right?" they said. Which, hey, I'm with you. Surely FIVE negative pregnancy tests can't be wrong.

Except they totally can, because according to my blood test? I'm having a baby.

It's probably safe to assume Luke will never touch me again. No need to worry about number three.

Kara is unimpressed.

Silly Mommy. You've really gone and done it now.

It's going to be OK, right? I mean, I KNOW it's going to be OK, birthing two children fourteen months apart and having to buy a house and upgrade our car and save for doctor's visits and hospital bills and maternity leave (oh, my God, my boss is totally going to think I'm a nympho) and recover from two c-sections in two years and deal with morning sickness and round ligament pain and breastfeeding AGAIN. I know people do more with less. And really, I am so happy. So very, very happy.

But still.

Tell me it's going to be OK.

She's here!

Boy, you guys are a tough crowd.  When Frema appointed me Official Blog Updater (for when I arrived home tonight, that is) I suppose we might have mentioned that I'd be staying at the hospital with her.  All day.  Without internet access.  Until I arrived home, which was two and a half hours North of where this precious baby was born tonight.

But now you'll forgive all of the madness and waiting, won't you?  Because I've returned with pictures!

When I arrived today, I was excited to see my dear friend in her normal character.  Is this the perfect Frema Does Childbirth picture or what?

Of course, then the medical staff went and ruined all the fun with a pretty good Pitocin drip, and I've never seen Bree more focused, or in more pain.  She was wonderful, and Luke was an incredible support, but dog-gone if she wasn't in some pain.

And then, well, the drugs came.   And all was right with the world again.

By 2pm there was cheer and double foot rubs and full effacement and eight good centimeters of dilating.  We thought for sure baby Freka was well on her way to catching the five o'clock news.

But as things sometimes go, progress came to a screeching halt and the baby decided things were a bit cramped, but mostly comfy inside.  And she stayed exactly where she was comfortable throughout almost fourteen hours of labor, until approximately 9pm, when the doctor assured Breain and Luke that the only way this baby would be coming out would be through a c-section.

This was definitely the low point of the day, when they wheeled our girl(s) off to surgery. 

(Luke, your gown's open, pal.)

(Snicker, snicker.)

Thankfully, the low point was followed closely by the highest point.  This is who returned to the room, just an hour later:

An amazing family of three.

At 9:50pm, Miss Kara Leigh arrived, weighing 11 pounds, 4 ounces, and measuring 22.5 inches long, with a smirk on her face and the sweetest chubby cheeks you've ever laid eyes on.

Which should leave no room for questioning the need for a Cesarean Section.  My word!

Congratulations, friends.

The end is near.

Well, it looks like we'll need that induction after all. Freka appears quite content to remain in my uterus, thank you very much, so tomorrow at 7:30 a.m., Luke and I will head to the hospital and see what we can do to persuade her to join us.

It's been a weird day, and more than a little unnerving to think about having to jumpstart a process so intimate and normally so intuitive. I'm sure the baby would've come on her own eventually, but the longer she stays in here, the more on edge I get, wondering if her activity level is normal, if my placenta's still taking care of her the way it should, if her ever-growing body is going to fit through my wee-by-comparison vagina. I never thought I'd need an induction, but I still feel good knowing that I didn't rush into things the minute my due date passed and that I gave her some more time to get with the program. Now, though, her lease is up, and Momma wants to collect what's due.

Until then, it's time to clean up and go to bed. I've got a big day tomorrow.

(By the way, let's all give three cheers for Molly, who has moved Heaven and Earth to be able to come to the hospital tomorrow and see my baby. She's being charged with the very important task of updating this blog with pictures and news once she gets home, so be sure to be nice to her.)

Not so much with a baby yet.

Just in case anybody's checking in on Blogland this weekend, I wanted to post a quick no-baby update. There's been breakfast at my favorite pancake house, the purchase of new gloves, a wonderful steak dinner prepared by my husband, LOTS of eager phone calls, and a little bit of snow, but nope, no baby.

As you were.

My child is a medical marvel

"I honestly don't know what's keeping this baby from coming out," said my doctor this afternoon after my latest cervical exam. Dilation is almost five centimeters, while effacement is steady at seventy percent. A non-stress test revealed Freka's strong heart beat and contractions six and a half minutes apart lasting sixty to eighty seconds long. Go, body, go!

My original plan was to schedule induction for Saturday morning if Freka hadn't arrived before then, but it turns out my practice doesn't "do" them on the weekends, so we're penciled in for Monday at 7:30 a.m. However, my doctor said that at this point, if I were to show up at the hospital, nobody would turn me away.

I'm well aware that my gut feelings haven't amounted to much these last few days, but I really don't think I'll make it to Monday morning. Until then, though, Luke and I will continue our going-out-to-dinner streak (I'm in no hurry to mess up our perfectly clean kitchen), watch movies, and rest up as best we can for the job ahead. Also, we'll be keepng a close eye on the weather, because Indianapolis is slated to receive six to ten inches of snow this weekend. Of course.

I feel good about where things are and how I'm progressing. The gals at the front desk were impressed that I was already so far along and predicted a fast and easy labor for me. "I bet you'll show up at the hospital ten centimeters dilated and ready to push," the receptionist said.

Works for me.

I'll keep you posted.

If the stair climbing doesn't do it, Carol's sexual innuendos will

I was so sure it was going to happen last night. The contractions were coming every fifteen minutes or so, Luke and I walked around our apartment complex to jiggle the baby up, and I bounced my ass off on the birthing ball; plus, ten minutes before bed I proceeded to have a nesting panic attack so severe that Luke mopped our floors and took out the trash for me. At midnight. Because suddenly everything seemed filthy.

This morning we woke up and took another walk. I vaccuumed the shit out of our apartment, bleached our sinks (wearing gloves, don't worry), and did several laps on the stairs in our building. When Luke comes home for lunch, we'll do some more walking, but in the meantime, I'm watching A Very Brady Christmas in hopes that the awfulness of the dialogue, wardrobe, and continued abuse of Alice (if she's really a houseguest, why not encourage her to get out of that damn uniform?) will be enough to make Freka want to flee the confines of my uterus before the ending credits have a chance to roll.

Seriously, this movie is terrible. Between Carol's thinly veiled "let's do some business together" sex talk, Mike's pairing of a watch and a bracelet on the same wrist (I really can't stand jewelry on men), Greg's selfish wife (who refuses to visit the Bradys for the holidays this year because her favorite aunt will be in town, EVEN THOUGH they've been to her family's house for Christmas the last two years), Marcia's whiny, jobless husband (who has no qualms sharing their dismal financial state in front of their two bratty kids), and Peter's willingness to sleep with his boss but not make her an honest woman because she makes more money than he does, I haven't a clue as to why I look forward to watching this drivel year after year after year.

But, God help me, I do.

Still hopeful for today

Luke and I were married on May 12, so I think December 12 would be an excellent birthday for our first child, don't you agree?

Obviously, still no baby yet. Contractions are coming, but they're not very long or close together, so I still haven't bothered to time them. My guess? Freka is just as psyched as I am about this week's three-episode block of Deal or No Deal, and she's not coming until the last one airs tonight. And really, who can blame her? Howie is awesome.

So. Happy.

Let's hear it for Freka and my cervix, the latter of which, according to my doctor, is almost four centimeters dilated and 70 percent effaced!

My 40-week appointment was this morning, and I walked away from it feeling much better than when I came in. My total weight gain to date is steady at 35 pounds, the baby's heart rate is strong at 160 beats per minute, her head is sitting low in my pelvis, and my uterus is measuring in at a whopping 43 centimeters. Upon hearing that, I shot a worried glance at Luke and asked the doctor to estimate the baby's weight. In her opinion (which, yes, I know it's only an opinion), about eight pounds. Whew.

Things are going well, though she did say there were slight traces of protein in my urine and asked if I was experiencing any headaches or blurred vision. "None" to the first, and "occasionally I see spots" to the second, but other then that and the swelling in my hands and legs, I'm peachy keen. We talked about induction, and I said I wanted to give Freka some more time to do things on her own. Both of us were impressed with the progress I've made in the last eight days, and I don't want to interfere with that when there's no medical reason to do so. We scheduled an appointment for Friday afternoon, at which time we'll do a non-stress test to make sure the baby's still thriving. If necessary, I plan to induce on Saturday.

It feels so good to know my body's doing what it was designed to do and that my baby really will be here any day now. In the meantime, I'm going to clean up, rest up, and think good thoughts about labor and delivery. I can do this. My body was made to do this. My baby has to come out. These are all good things.

Once again, to quote the great Amalah...

Hello, due date!

Good-bye, due date!

When Luke came home from work this evening, I held it together for approximately eight seconds before bawling into his shoulder over how nervous I was about labor and how I did NOT want to read another baby book until I actually had a baby to deal with at home. I started What to Expect: The First Year yesterday, and while it's been a great read so far (I really have no idea why the What to Expect series gets such a bad rap from the Internet. The authors are always talking about the wide range of normal that exists both in pregnancy and in babies, and I've found them to be very comforting), my brain needs a break. The last thing I want to turn into is That Mom who runs to her stash of parenting guides every time she has a problem, and yet in the last few months, I've read two books on breastfeeding, delved into two baby's-first-year manuals, finished The Big Book of Birth (which I just might review on my Parents blog one of these days), and breezed through countless magazines from my ob/gyn's office. And that's in addition to all the regular pregnancy stuff. Being prepared is one thing, but at this point, it's safe to say that I am literatured out. Tomorrow I'll go for something lighter; perhaps a hardcover Nancy Drew.

If I'm still at home, that is. I've been having more regular contractions since before Luke and I went to dinner (thank you, spinach dip?), though I still haven't timed them. I'm almost afraid to, like I'll jinx my progress or something.

People are calling me, full of excitement about the new little person that's about to enter our lives, eager to measure my own barometer of Happy!, and I feel like my reaction disappoints them. I'm not chirpy, I'm not eager, I'm not even impatient anymore. Freka can wait a few more days if she wants to. Hell, I'm not going anywhere.

Here it is, folks. Forty weeks in all its glory. Here's hoping I don't make it to forty-one.

If I knew she were coming, I would bake a cake

Well, Luke would bake the cake. We've got a box of Duncan Hines banana mix and container of cream cheese frosting in the pantry, and I'm not afraid to (ask him to) use them.

As you can tell by the fact that I posted this entry, Freka has yet to make her debut. We spent the weekend running errands, picking up the apartment, and wondering when she might want to get things started. Yesterday was nice because it was the first time in almost a week that I ditched my glasses and product-free hair for contacts, mousse, and even some pressed powder. It felt good to actually get ready for the day, which started with church and ended with waffles two hours before bedtime.

If we're not at the hospital this evening, we're going out to dinner to take our minds off the whole baby-not-coming-yet thing. I'm thinking spinach dip, chicken fingers, and a very rich dessert.

I wish I had more interesting things to tell you, but the closer I get to giving birth, the harder it is to concentrate. I'll try to post an updated belly shot tonight, after I've had my Deal or No Deal fix. Watching the rise and fall of greedy contestants over the course of the next three days is the only coping technique I've got.

Come out, come out, wherever you are

Last night I had a dream that Freka had been born, and she was absolutely beautiful. I dreamt that I had brought her home from the hospital ("home," in this scenario, being my parents' apartment in Chicago), and I was the only one up, and she was so alert and happy, and I propped her up in her car seat on the couch, only the angle was wrong and she fell out. Alone ten minutes and I'd already broken my daughter.

Vacation has been low-key. Showering, dishwashing, blogging, reading, dozing, watching Judge Judy after my stories have ended, counting the minutes until Luke gets in from work. The closer we get to my due date, the more I'm apt to think the pack of newborn diapers we bought will be obsolete. Good thing we have THREE packs of size ones.

My mother still thinks the baby's a boy.

One of my favorite doctors is on call this weekend, so it would be really nice if Freka chose to get things moving today. Hear that, sweet girl? REALLY NICE.

I still say the carrot-stealing bastard got what he deserved

This baby is taking her time.

I know, I know, I'm not even past my due date yet, but I can feel it. The Braxton Hicks contractions that seemed to be coming so frequently two weeks ago seem to have disappeared almost completely, and I can practically hear my cervix taunting me with all the non-dilating it's probably doing. My 40-week appointment is scheduled for Tuesday at 9:45, and in my heart, I know that Luke and I will be there. Blah.

How 'bout we answer some questions today, eh?

Professor Art Nerd is dying to know:

Who is your favorite artist, or artistic period, or work of art? What do you like about it? (I'm not judging, honest, it's just a question I always ask)

Oh, Lauren, I'm sure my response is going to diappoint you, because while I have a huge appreciation of art, my actual art knowledge is scant. I can tell you I love the Saturday Evening Post covers created by Norman Rockwell, which will be gracing my calendar for 2008, and there's a matted photograph of autumn leaves in my living room that I purchased at a local craft show a few years ago when I lived in Rensselaer and worked at Saint Joe. Other than that? I'm useless. I love the Post covers because of how well the images reflect all the coming-of-age situations that seem to happen in a typical American's life, and fall is my favorite season, so the leaves photo reminds of me crunching through parks in my hiking shoes with Luke, something we used to do all the time. That's one of the things I can't wait to do again in my non-pregnant state.

What is the book you most look forward to reading to Freka?

Now HERE'S a question I can get behind, mostly because I was a reading fool as a kid, and one of the biggest things that excites me about having a daughter is being able to share my favorite childhood and young adult books with her. Baby-sitters Club. Nancy Drew (both the original hardbacks and the paperback Nancy Drew Files). Sweet Valley High. Anything by Judy Blume and Paul Zindel. It's not that boys can't read these books, but do they? No, not usually. And even though I tried, I could never get into the Hardy Boys; they were only tolerable when teaming up with Nancy, Bess, and George in those random mystery thrillers that came out every few months.

Anyway, to answer the actual question, the book I'm most excited about reading to Freka right now is the comprehensive collection from Beatrix Potter. When I was a kid, one of my aunts gifted us the entire series of stories, and my sister Samantha and I had a blast going through the little books. My favorite at the time was The Story of a Fierce Bad Rabbit, mainly because he got his naughty little cotton tail shot off at the end.

Brittany asks:

Have you ever had something stolen from you?

Hell, yes, I have. The neon-green scooter I bought with money I received for making my First Communion back when I was nine years old, and I'm still pissed about it.

That scooter was a big deal. I already had a bike; Samantha and I had received matching pink bikes from my Nana for Christmas the year before, each with their own names etched into the handlebar padding (mine was Pink Taffy). But still, I wanted a scooter. Don't ask me why.

A week or two after my First Communion celebration, my father took me to Toys R Us, and I picked out said neon-green scooter. He put it together for me as soon as I got home, and I fell in love. Between that and the bike, my feet almost forgot what it felt like to make physical contact with the sidewalk. (We were NEVER allowed to ride in the street, and I'm still amazed when I see kids that do. My mother would've killed me.)

The poor thing didn't last through the summer.

My parents might say part of it was my fault for occasionally neglecting to store the scooter in the basement like I was supposed to every night before going to bed. Our apartment had fencing around the yard, and a gate, but it was that criss-cross wiring stuff that anyone could easily climb over. Apparently, the temptation of the scooter just sitting there next to our staircase was too great for one of the local sticky-fingers, and one morning, it was just gone. I never saw it again.

Now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure they stole my bike, too. Couldn't you just cry a river for poor 'lil Frema?

Deep thoughts from my first day off; also, in case it isn't obvious, no baby yet

Yesterday, while reading Marie Clare:

Christina Aguilera, I don't think buying a house qualifies as "nesting."

Will I ever be in a financial situation that can justify spending four hundred dollars on a purse?

God, I miss normal-people clothes.

While showering:

Hot damn, is this a pain in the ass.

While brushing my teeth:

Hey, our soap dispenser is almost out. I wonder which Bath and Body Works pump I should put out next: Country Apple or Warm Vanilla Sugar?

I really should floss. Tomorrow.

While watching The Parent Trap:

Uh, Susan? Telling your camp buddies that The Girl Who Looks Exactly Like You is the spitting image of Frankenstein doesn't bode well for you, honey. Also, you are a bitch and totally deserved to have the back of your skirt cut out at the Saturday night dance.

I wonder if Hayley Mills got bored acting with herself.

Maureen O'Hara was gorgeous. Does my generation even have a Maureen O'Hara?

Vicki was actually pretty nice to the girls until they submarined her.

Wasn't Mitch in The Shaggy Dog? I've never seen it, but still.

Am I the only person who remembers the sequel to this movie? Who was it that the divorced sister hooked up with in that one?

Mitch has every right to be mad that his ex-wife is prancing around in his bathrobe while he's meeting with his fiancee and wedding minister. Where the fuck does she get off punching him?

I bet the sex was pretty good.

Tom Skerritt.

Ben and Jerry, your Banana Split isn't bad, but it's no Chunky Monkey.

While watching The Sound of Music:

Did Julie Andrews ever have long hair? Mary Poppins doesn't count, that was totally a wig.

Captain Von Trapp is HOTT. HOOOOT.

I don't care if I'm a dork, I LIKE Maria's handmade dresses.

Liesel is so pretty. Look at those eyes!

Her shoes are cute, too.

I wish handsome boys delivered telegrams to MY house and then twirled me around in a gazebo in the rain.

When I was a kid, I always thought the German/Austrian conflict stuff was kind of thrown in after the second act, but really there were subtle clues throughout the whole movie. Damn network television and their edits for clouding my original impressions!

The adult dialogue in this movie is actually pretty clever!

I wonder what the age difference is between Maria and Captain Von Trapp?

HOOOOT.

"Climb Every Mountain" is the worst song in a musical ever, mainly because it's sung by an eighty-year-old nun.

Would a sixteen-year-old girl really enjoy helping out with a damn puppet show?

I remember when I wanted to be a nun. Good thing that didn't work out.

Poor Captain Von Trapp, having his homeland torn apart by Nazis.

HOOOOT.

Ready to rock

I did it! Today was my last official day on the clock at work. Until March 5. Presumably because I'm going to have a baby. I guess time will tell on that one.

Anyway, even though I was working from home, I still managed to get some things done: run to Babies R Us for the bazillionth time, wrap Luke's stocking stuffers and Freka's Christmas gifts, fold laundry, indulge on ABC soaps (I have no idea how daytime television will be affected by the writers' strike, but could this crap come at a more inconvenient time?), and down a few Reese's Christmas tree candies. I know! All before Luke came home, at which time we got chicken from Popeye's before banishing me from the apartment for an hour and a half because my wonderful husband wanted to treat the carpets with some type of foam cleaner, and he was worried about possible fumes harming the baby. I'm not complaining; I got to sit in a comfy chair at Books A Million and browse through parenting guides for most of the time, and since retail stores aren't libraries, I also picked up one of Suze Orman's older books to read, maybe even finish before the baby comes. (I also have a copy of Women and Money; we'll see which one I pick up first.)

Since I'm no longer getting vibes that Freka will be joining us anytime soon, I've been trying to figure out how to spend this newfound free time. I'm picturing long afternoons on the couch, alternating between saturating my mind with knowledge and spacing in front of the boob tube. I can already hear A Very Brady Christmas (which I've yet to watch this season, I'm so behind), The Sound of Music, and The Lord of the Rings trilogy calling my name. Also, now that both work and NaBloPoMo are over, I'm much more eager to blog again and hope to keep you guys updated on all the minute details of my now (temporarily) uneventful life.

One of those details being how insanely excited I am about our newly refurbished rocking chair. It was delivered on Sunday afternoon, and I swear, it felt like a totally new piece of furniture was entering our home.

Once again, the before shots:

...And after:

New fabric, new stuffing, a layer of polyurethane, and voila! An heirloom fit for my sweet little baby, an heirloom that's even older than I thought. I was under the impression it was purchased for my parents when I was born, but my mother said it actually belonged to her mother first, which makes me even more glad Luke and I shelled out the money to have it professionally redone.

I can't believe in just two weeks or less (please, dear God, let it be less), I'll be rocking my daughter in this very chair. Dudes, it's like, totally blowing my mind.

Seven days

When you're pregnant, hearing that phrase and knowing you still have a week to go before your due date is just as horrifying as that movie from The Ring.

Pulling the newest issue of Marie Clare from your mailbox, seeing an airbrushed, knocked-up Christina Aguilera on the cover, and comparing her obviously Photoshopped belly to your own runs a close second.

I had another doctor's appointment this morning, and while Freka is doing just dandy, my cervix is dropping the ball. Apparently, it's quite fond of being one and a half centimeters dilated; so fond, in fact, that it prefers to stay that way, at least for now. No additional progress on the effacement front, either. So it appears that my hopes and prayers for an early delivery were not meant to be answered. But that's OK. I still have plenty of baby-related things on my plate vying for my attention, and seeing as my last day of work is tomorrow, I should have plenty of time to obsess over them.

That's right. After all that bitching and moaning on my Parents blog regarding what to do about maternity leave, I talked with my boss this morning about using the last of my vacation time for 2007 to squeeze in some much-needed R&R, and he was totally on board. I'll work from home tomorrow to wrap up some last-minute e-mails, but I've already said my good-byes to everyone at the office, so the end, it is near. Vacation starts on Wednesday and carries through until next Tuesday; I'll officially start maternity leave on Wednesday, December 12, and return to work on Wednesday, March 5.This plan allows me to put my feet up a little and start my leave a tad later than expected, which means if the baby is a little off schedule I won't miss out on more than two or three days at home with her. Plus, I love the idea of returning to work in the middle of the week. Hopefully, it'll make the transition back into corporate life more managable.

I know a lot of you were real troopers who kept your professional noses to the grindstone 'til the very end, but this pregnancy has been busy enough, what with freelancing and teaching on top of my regular job, and I'm not ashamed to say that I want a break, thank you very much. Plus, since I'll continue to accrue time off while on leave (yes, I know how rare this is, and yes, I have it in writing from HR), there's no reason for me to martyr myself or hoard my vacation days for when I go back to work.

I'm going to call it a night for now, but tune in tomorrow, when I plan to show off my fabulously re-upholstered rocking chair and possibly answer some more Q&A questions. Oh, the suspense of it all!

P.S. Check out my husband's awesome new blog design. He drew the pirate ship himself!

P.P.S. In case you haven't already noticed, I'm giving myself a short reprieve from answering comments individually because holy hell, is my attention span shot. However, I will address any burning questions within the comments section itself. Thanks for understanding.

I don't think Samantha ever made it, either

At long last, it is here. The last day of NaBloPoMo.

I have to say, this year I disappointed myself. The first time around, I did a good job of writing about a variety of different things: sharing stories from my childhood, creating Tragic Love Friday, initiating the cheesy love song swap, blah blah blah. This year saw no such variety from me--it was pretty much all baby, all the time.

Then again, I'm about to have a baby. And that's what I think about. All the time. Surely you understand.

Today was one of my final days at the office, and even though I spent most of it cleaning out files and meeting with coworkers who'll be taking over my core duties while I'm on maternity leave, this whole experience still doesn't seem quite real. It reminds me of the years I spent in Girl Scouts when I was a kid, and every year our troupe visited a local pumpkin patch for a day of fright and fun. I'd never been to a pumpkin patch before, and the month leading up to the event I was always so excited I could wet myself.

(And sometimes I did.)

(Just kidding.)

Anyway, every year something happened that prevented me from going on the trip, and it was always my own fault. One time it was because I'd mouthed off to my mother the day before; the year after that, my sister and I were caught fighting in church THE MORNING OF. By the time I got my act together, I wasn't in Girl Scouts anymore. My pumpkin-patch ship had sailed.

Where am I going with all of this?

It's like the birth of this baby is some wonderful event being dangled in front of me like cheese to a mouse, an event so wonderful that it's too wonderful to actually come to fruition. Like I'm going to do something stupid--say, trip on a crack in the sidewalk or drop a coffee cup on my belly--and Freka will never be born. It's hard to comprehend that I will go into labor, that she will come out, that I will hold her in my arms and become a mother for the first time.

Her clothes are washed. Her room is ready. She has Christmas presents for her stocking and even one for under the tree. We've got enough newborn and size one diapers to last us the whole winter (or at least the first two weeks). What Luke and I don't have is a firm grasp on the notion that this baby, our baby, is actually coming.

But when she does? It'll be so much better than a romp through a pumpkin patch.

Preparing my nest; also, let's count how many variations of "damn" appear in this entry

I think depression and nesting are in the same boat. As in, they're both terms that get tossed around way too casually and far too often.

For example, a person might feel sad for a couple of days, maybe a week even, and label themselves as depressed, when really it's a condition that doesn't apply unless that sadness stretches on for weeks at a time, preventing said person from completing normal, everyday tasks. In high school, I thought listening to mix tapes of easy listening love songs and prank calling my ex-boyfriend meant I was depressed, when in reality I was just a big fat loser with no life. Sad? Yes--on many levels. But depressed? No.

Same thing with nesting. Just because a pregnant woman vaccuums her rugs or washes a sinkful of dishes doesn't mean she's nesting. Maybe she's always been a neat freak. Maybe she's releasing pent-up energy. Or maybe, just maybe, she's simply cleaning her damn house.

Lots of people think I'm nesting, but I think I'm just doing what I always do: meticulously preparing for a significant life event. I did it when Luke moved in. I did it again when we got married. And I did it once more when we upgraded our apartment. It only makes sense I'd want things in order before we introduce a new human being into our home.

That isn't to say the nesting instinct doesn't exist. One of my company VPs relayed a story about his wife pushing him out of bed at twelve-thirty in the morning during her last month of pregnancy insisting he take out the trash. Our sales director told me that days before his wife gave birth to their first child this summer, she was on her hands and knees scrubbing their floors even though she'd just mopped them the day before. To me, those are signs of nesting--irrational yet uncontrollable urges that must be satisfied NOW because OH MY GOD, THE BABY IS COMING.

I have not reached that point yet. Luke and I have made countless trips to the grocery store to stock our pantry and refrigerator, and yeah, I make sure all the dishes are washed and put away before bed every night (what woman wants to come home from the hospital to cereal bowls crudded with dried-up Raisin Bran?), but in my non-gestating state, that wouldn't be anything unusual. I'm almost hoping I do something crazy like get up at six in the morning to dust all the pages in my books, just to know what it feels like. And if I do, I promise, Internet, you'll be the first to know.

Anyway, I'm not really feeling the Q&A stuff tonight, so instead, I'll just present another round of... 

Project Freka: Prenatal Edition

• Write thank-you cards for shower gifts
• Purchase life insurance
• Create will-like document to secure guardianship and general well-being of Frema-Useless Clutter offspring
• Start Roth IRA for Luke (because if we don't now, we never will)

How naive am I for thinking there's still a chance we can fit this one in?

• Complete application for private student loan consolidation (who wouldn't mind saving thirty bucks a month? Not me, that's for damn sure!)
• Wipe down bedroom blinds (ours, baby's)
• Clean car (wash exterior, disinfect/vaccuum interior)
• Fill out engagement book (because really, enough with the procrastinating already)

I'm crossing this out because it ain't gonna happen. Handwriting anything these days requires a special focus I just don't have anymore. Maybe postpartum.

• Order wedding pictures from photographer (for reasoning, see above)

This one's off because I want to wait and see how the first couple of months of my temporary unemployment go before spending hundreds of dollars on something that isn't a breast pump or a car seat (hot damn if we don't already have to investigate the next size up). If we have money near the end, we'll place an order.

• Print recent family photos and sort them into albums, seeing as eight weeks from now I'll be mostly preoccupied with somebody else's eating, sleeping, and pooping habits

Even though it's actually doable, this bad boy's gone, too, because I don't want the pressure.

• Renew domain registration and TypePad account
• Burn TLF soundtrack for Audrey out of gratitude for her mad summarizing skillz (I totally intended to create a kick-ass play list for the sequel, but...well...I didn't)
• Organize baby's room/assemble baby gear

Our rocking chair was finally picked up by the upholstery shop owner on Wednesday morning, and after offering profuse apologies for not doing so last week, promised to have the whole thing done by this weekend. I did not complain. The stroller, play yard, and swing still need assembling, but I'm not concerned. Like I said last week, we don't plan on taking any big family outings during the first few weeks of Freka's life that would require toting her around for long periods of time (and if we did, we inherited a Baby Bjorn from my brother- and sister-in-law that'll work just fine), and the play yard isn't as necessary for the first few months, so as long as we (read: Luke) can get the swing put together this weekend, life is good.

• Research nursing bras/camis
• Prepare and freeze several meals for easy reheating during baby's first few weeks
• Explore cheap birth announcement ideas
• Purchase and wrap Christmas presents
• Find a pediatrician
• Install, inspect car seat

Done! Luke and I both visited a local fire station this week to have our car seat and bases inspected by a certified car seat technician, and all I can say is these inspections should be required of every parent with a driver's license and an automobile by law. BY LAW. It's amazing to know how easy it is to create hazardous traveling conditions for your child.

• Pack hospital bags

I can't believe how quickly time is flying by. I have a couple of work meetings tomorrow and Monday, but other than that I'll be "on call," working from home through next Friday. I've decided to begin my maternity leave on Freka's due date (December 10, if that hasn't been grilled into your brain already) whether she's here or not because dammit, I am Done, and my practice will recommend induction at week 41, anyway, and I can't imagine not taking them up on it. Even though, in my heart of hearts, I still think this girl's coming early.

Please baby girl, come early. Momma's begging you.

Unless she decides that blogs are bogus; that I CAN'T get behind.

First of all, mad props to Molly and her pinch-hitting for me yesterday when I was a mere fifty minutes away from blowing NaBloPoMo four days before crossing the finish line, thanks to a ill-timed power outage. I loved reading your guesses (though some more than others--I'm looking at those of you who chose dates AFTER December 10); keep them coming!

In the meantime, I'll keep the Q&A stuff coming with a goal of wrapping things up by Friday. Roxanne wonders:

What is one of your hopes/dreams for your new little one?

Oh, goodness, that's a biggie. There are so many things I'd love to see her do: find a passion. Excel in school. Treat her body with respect. Raise a family of her own. Give back in return for all that she's been given. Live a relatively debt-free life (though a few student loans and a reasonable mortgage won't kill her). Luke is hoping she'll attend Purdue and go on to become a marine biologist (hence the Sea Life bedding theme).

In the grand scheme of things, though, I just want her to be happy. I know she'll have hard times, I know she'll have to fall on her face every now and then, but as long as she's grateful for the path she's on, I'll do my best to be supportive and keep my mouth shut about her choices. 

What is one of your greatest fears for little Freka?

This may sound silly, and I'm sure I'll change my mind once she's here, but right now I don't have any fears. All I can think about are the various ways Luke and I hope to give her the best life possible, and how excited I am over imagining her experimenting with sports, reading her first Nancy Drew book, attending her first sleepover, and leaving out milk and cookies for Santa.

Katie asks:

If there was only one language that you could speak/write for the rest of your life, and English wasn't an option, which would you choose and why?

I took two years of Spanish in high school because everyone on my dad's side can speak Spanish and it's one of the most popular languages in the United States. However, my second choice would've been French, because how cool must it be to speak French? So yeah. French. 

What's your favorite cocktail?

I haven't indulged in alcohol since February, back when Luke and I knew we wanted to start trying for a baby, and I really haven't missed it, so my memories of drinking are distant. I do love a good amaretto stone sour, though, and red wine, mostly because it makes me feel grown up at parties.

Sorry for the brief answers, but it's hard to concentrate today, seeing as my doctor's appointment this morning revealed that I'm a centimeter and a half dilated and fifty percent effaced!

Hear that? My cervix is cooperating. Freka is showing (small) signs that she wants to ditch my uterus and meet her mom and dad. That's my girl!

Your mom has control of Frema's blog!

Howdy all! 

Molly here (ahem, shameless self plug, ahem.)  I'm taking a quick break from NaBloPaintMo over in my world to post for poor Frema, who is not only endlessly dedicated to the love of all NaBloPoMo, but also stuck at home gestating away without power, without Internet.  Thankfully, she is not without cheesecake.

At almost midnight, nearing the end of a month-long blogging spree, what's a girl to do?  Why she calls on her pal for a quick post, that's what. 

Of course, each time she calls, I answer the phone with an excited, "Areyouinlabor?"  Because friends, (I can call you that, yes?) I'm dying for that phone call already.  And I can tell that you are also.

So while Frema's in the dark, let's place a few bets.  What day and time are you calling for Freka's birth?  I'm calling December 6th, 8:19pm. 

The winner gets the baby.

Oh, wait.  She'll never agree to that. 

The winner gets the I Called It, Bitches title.  And THAT is something for your resume. 

Braxton this, Mr. Hicks; also, the episode where Brandon met Emily in San Francisco was also a Turkey Day one, right?

Long day, people. Long day. And because of it, the 38-week photo shoot is lacking, I think.

But don't worry. Frema finally found her happy face!

I'm working on it.

Tonight, Luke and I had a fun time trying to time my latest round of Braxton Hicks contractions, which were (sometimes) strong enough to inspire my breathing exercises but never regular enough to merit real concern. I did get one hell of a foot massage out of the deal, though. With lotion! Bath and Body Works lotion! Such a lucky woman, am I.

Continuing with the Q&A goodness, Jenny asks: 

Have you been watching The Office this season, and if so, what do you think so far?

Luke and I have been huge Office fans ever since we discovered the show during its season two run; every episode is guaranteed to withdraw at least one heartfelt guffaw from each of us. Michael's stupidly painful (yet unfortunately, still very boss-like) antics! Toby's depressing life! Dwight's cousin Mose! It's all too much!

At the end of season three, when it appeared that Jim and Pam were attempting to make a go of things, we both cheered. And at the beginning of season four, when we saw their relationship wasn't going to dominate the show's entire story arch, we breathed a sigh of relief. But now? Now, I'm not sure how I feel. The show is still very funny, but at this point it's kind of...I don't know...slow? The Dwight and Angela break-up is interesting, but it's not picking up fast enough for me. Jim and Pam are adorable, but I'm getting some very strong "Ross and Rachel season three" vibes--you guys know what I'm talking about, right? When Rachel went from being a waitress at Central Perk to a fashion executive at Bloomingdale's, and Ross got all iffy, and now Pam's trying to shed her receptionist shell to pursue leads in graphic design, and Jim's all iffy? Branch out a little, NBC writers, is all I'm saying.

What is your favorite Mexican food/Italian food?

This may come as a shock to you guys, but I'm a picky eater. I know! Despite the Mexican genes I've inherited from my father, it's a miracle I even eat tacos. I do, though. They're very good. But steak fajitas are the best.

As far as Italian food goes, same thing. When Luke and I go to places like Olive Garden or Macaroni Grill, I usually get either spaghetti (with sausage, yum) or pizza. If it ain't broke, don't fix it, am I right?

I think I'm right.

What is your favorite (or strangest) Thanksgiving memory?

Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays because the focus is so simple: family and food. No worries about decorations or presents, and most everyone gets to enjoy a lovely four-day weekend without having to lose a vacation day. I can't ever remember having a bad time. Memories that stand out include a broccoli fight shared between my mom and one of my aunts when I was eleven and the first time Luke and I spent it together in 2005. Prior to that we were usually apart for the actual meal on the actual holiday, so finally being able to share that with him was extra special.

If it's strange you want, I also have a lingering memory of a Beverly Hills, 90210 episode that aired on Thanksgiving, probably when I was in middle school. I never did see the whole thing, but Brandon was hanging off a cliff. Anyone care to fill in the blanks for me?

I was a good kid, I swear

For a while there, it looked like today's was going to be another bullshit entry--Luke and I woke this morning to find our wireless modem had no signal, and after a phone call to AT&T's tech support line, we learned it had indeed met its maker. At first we thought we'd have to wait a few days for a replacement and made plans to crash Luke's work (which is fewer than ten minutes away) and publish obligatory placeholder entries for NaBloPoMo, but since the modem had outlived the initial one-year warranty, we were free to hit to Best Buy and spend ninety dollars on a new one instead. Which we did, which is why I'm able to type at you from the work computer in my living room sated with Oreo pudding and Sara Lee cheesecake instead of an empty office building with no windows and probably no snacks.

Anyway, today was busier than yesterday--there was church to attend, Mexican food to feast on, errands to run, computers to reconfigure, and a little napping on the couch to do in between reading pages from The Big Book of Birth, a book I've really come to enjoy. It was tempting to post another quickie update, but you guys have been very patient and deserve better than the crap I've been slinging lately. It still might be crap, but at least not for a lack of trying.

...And on with the Q&A. Wilddreemer wants to know:

What is one thing you did as a child you hope your child doesn't do?

Take one of my shitty diapers and wipe the contents on the walls. Scoop handfuls of applesauce from the jar and eat it with my bare hands. Wet my pants during fourth grade math. "Accidentally" poke my sister with a nail file. Prank toll-free mental support hotlines under the guise that I was a thirty-something corporate professional whose husband just had been caught in an affair with his administrative assistant. Kiss boyfriends in deserted alleys to avoid getting caught by my parents. Scribble in library books. But the worst thing I ever done--I mixed a pot of fake puke at home, and then I went to this movie theater, hid the puke in my jacket, climbed up to the balcony and then, I made a noise like this: hua-hua-hua-huaaaaaaa--and then I dumped it over the side, all over the people in the audience. And then, all the people started getting sick and throwing up all over each other. I never felt so bad in my entire life.

Wait, that last one was Chunk. My bad.

What is the one thing you are looking forward to doing most after finally having the baby, ie. drinking coffee, touching your toes, shaving your legs?

I've never been fond of coffee, I don't care much for my toes, and with careful (albeit uncomfortable) manuvering, I've been able to maintain normal leg-shaving activity, so those are out. So what I do miss? Sleeping on my back. Grooming my lady parts; hell, being able to see my lady parts without assistance from a mirror. Eating cold lunchmeat without fear of poisoning my unborn child. "Enjoying" my husband. Wearing clothes from New York and Company instead of Motherhood Maternity. I'm so excited about banishing my maternity wardrobe to a tupperware bin in our storage unit until it's time to do this all over again.

As much I as look forward to those things, though, I've surprised myself with the realization that, once this is over, I'll actually miss being pregnant. The first trimester sucked major ass--just thinking about all that morning sickness makes me nauseous--and with the exception of our ultrasound and some moderate fetal activity, the second one wasn't much to write home about, either. But the third trimester.... This is where I feel like I've really come to know my baby, experiencing her sharp jabs and gentle, wave-like rolls, rubbing my hands over the protuding shoulder or elbow or whatever the hell happens to be poking me at the moment. This is where Luke and I can talk to her and she can recognize our voices. This is where I know she's safe all the time, where nobody can get to her without my permission.

This is my first real glimpse at motherhood, and I cannot wait for the rest. 

Thankful, so thankful

Both for what I have and what's to come.

NaBloSickofthisO

OK, is it just me, or is the Internet not as enthusiastic about NaBloPoMo this year? Last November, everyone seemed more inspired to write; now, it's often just an obligation, something to do when we'd rather be lying on the couch waiting for the two-hour, sure-to-be-awesome episode of Deal or No Deal. (Or is that just me?) Plus, the tingling in my left hand has become so bothersome that I'm now sporting a wrist brace, which makes typing extra fun.

In other words, let's just get this entry over with.

Project Freka: Prenatal Edition

• Write thank-you cards for shower gifts
• Purchase life insurance
• Create will-like document to secure guardianship and general well-being of Frema-Useless Clutter offspring

Like I said a few days ago, on Sunday night I finally purchased Suze Orman's will and trust kit, even going so far as to complete a durable power of attorney for health care form that only needs a few signatures to be official. The kit is easy to use and designed to make sure you're meeting the legal guidelines required by your particular state, Suze herself walks you through each process with her lawyer (the one who helped her create the kit), and the documents can be updated any time. However, I'll be holding off on finalizing anything until after Freka's born. There are two reasons for this:

- The will template asks several questions about children that we can't answer properly until the baby is actually here, and I don't care to create a document that'll outdate itself in just a couple of weeks (or days, dear God please let it be days).

- All of these things specifically ask for the mailing address that appears on my driver's license, which still features info on our old pad next door. I would've have it changed it by now except I'm terrified the Bureau of Motor Vehicles will require me to list the current amount of tonnage attached to my belly, which is thirty pounds heavier than my pre-pregnancy weight. Again, I'd rather wait and do this stuff until our official documentation can feature up-to-date information (not to mention a weight that wouldn't make me cry under non-gestating circumstances).

So, because there's nothing else I can really do at this time, I'm crossing this bad boy off my list. Go me.

• Start Roth IRA for Luke (because if we don't now, we never will)
• Complete application for private student loan consolidation (who wouldn't mind saving thirty bucks a month? Not me, that's for damn sure!)
• Wipe down bedroom blinds (ours, baby's)
• Clean car (wash exterior, disinfect/vaccuum interior)
• Fill out engagement book (because really, enough with the procrastinating already)
• Order wedding pictures from photographer (for reasoning, see above)
• Print recent family photos and sort them into albums, seeing as eight weeks from now I'll be mostly preoccupied with somebody else's eating, sleeping, and pooping habits
• Renew domain registration and TypePad account
• Burn TLF soundtrack for Audrey out of gratitude for her mad summarizing skillz (I totally intended to create a kick-ass play list for the sequel, but...well...I didn't)
• Organize baby's room/assemble baby gear

Our rocking chair is presently awaiting pick-up from a local upholstery shop owner, who's confident he can have it ready for us by my December 10 due date. Other than that, all we have to do is assemble the stroller, play yard, and swing, and of the three, the swing is probably the one I'm most concerned about, seeing as we don't plan on taking any big family outings during the first few weeks she's here and we already have the crib and bassinet ready to go, so the play yard isn't as necessary right now.

• Research nursing bras/camis
• Prepare and freeze several meals for easy reheating during baby's first few weeks

OK, we didn't actually prepare anything yet, but we did stock up on some frozen pizzas and crock pot dinners to have on hand for those times when we're too tired to do anything more complicated than turn on the oven or plug in an appliance.

• Explore cheap birth announcement ideas
• Purchase and wrap Christmas presents
• Find a pediatrician
• Install, inspect car seat

I seem to be playing phone tag with someone from our local fire department, but at least we're making progress.

• Pack hospital bags

Last time I provided an update, Molly left a comment asking if I thought we'd be able to get to any of the photo projects on my list. Honestly? I don't know. The wedding photo ordering may have to wait since that'll likely involve a couple of hundred dollars, but printing out our favorite family and friends pictures from the last few years shouldn't be that big a deal. I also hope to fill out our engagement book, but with my new hand problem, all that writing might be too much for me right now. I'm already worried about Monday, when I'm supposed to transcribe notes for a story at work, so I'll just take it one day at a time and see how it goes.

These things aren't on the list, but I'm pleased to say that Luke finally got his flu shot, I've completed all grading duties for my adjunct teaching gig, and the two of us have a meeting scheduled for this Friday at eleven o'clock with the pastor of the church we've been going to so we can talk about Freka's baptism. Things are really coming along, and I feel like I can finally start to relax.

Which I will do in exactly twenty-four minutes with Howie Mandel.

If this baby were a turkey, she could feed the whole Brady clan. I'm sure of it.

Seriously. Spouses, kids--the whole shebang. Lucky for me they're not into cannibalism. Also, that they're fictional characters who don't celebrate Thanksgiving together in real life. Or possibly at all. Really, who's to say?

I'll stop blabbering now and just show you the damn belly shot already.

I'm trying to maintain a zen-like attitude regarding Freka's due date, trying to convince God and myself that I'm perfectly OK with the baby deciding on her own when it's time to join the mother and father who have so earnestly prepared for her arrival, but my hands are starting to go numb. Climbing in and out of bed is no smaller a feat than nabbing a gold medal in the Olympics, and a full bladder reduces my stride to an off-kilter duck waddle while en route to the john. Sugary drinks and cereals aren't as easy to digest anymore (though that hasn't stopped me from eating all the Smarties I can get my hands on), and it only takes about twenty minutes of activity for massive swelling to attack my legs and feet.

When I dwell on all of that, I pray my daughter has mercy on her poor momma's physique and makes her debut on December 1. This will allow me to finish out one more full week of work and also keep the inscription featured on the stuffed elephant gifted by my sister and her husband--"Baby Dunscombe December 2007"--nice and relevant. Plus, it's a Saturday, so people would be able to visit us without sacrificing their vacation time.

See how thoughtful I am? Hopefully, Freka will follow suit.

Even though there are several items on my prenatal to-do list that are far from being crossed off, I feel closer and closer to being as ready as I can be for this baby to come. I graded the majority of my students' final papers tonight (only stopping because I lost most of the feeling in my left hand) and plan to do the rest tomorrow. I'll also tally their final letter grades and mail them to the registrar's office on Wednesday so that I'm free and clear of all academic responsibility come Turkey Day. Luke and I have been pretty good about keeping the apartment in order so that we're not faced with a sinkful of dishes in the event that labor takes us completely by surprise, and except for a few family-style frozen dinners, our fridge and pantry are pretty well stocked. Pretty soon, there'll be nothing to distract me from willing this child out of my body.

In church yesterday, when revealing my due date to a well-meaning parishoner, she laughed a little and said, "That was my due date with my first. She didn't come until December 19."

At this point, I hate those remarks even more than ones about my belly. Another month of no baby? Of heavy panting just from rolling over in bed? Another month of WORK?

Somebody, ANYBODY, hand me a tissue.

I think I saw Greg's wife on an episode of Murder, She Wrote when I was wrapping presents last week

Talk about a productive Sunday! Luke and I kicked things off by going to church for the first time since Easter and initiating talks with the pastor about baptising Freka in the Episcopal tradition. Long-time readers will remember that we come from different faith denominations (Luke grew up Methodist and I was raised Catholic), so neither one of us were sure how to go about preparing our baby for life in another religious community. The pastor was very easy to talk to and promised to get in touch with us sometime this week, which is good, because I can't stop obsessing over whether or not we're supposed to designate godparents for our child. Does anybody know how Episcopalians feel about this?

However, we did learn that the church's next scheduled baptism is January 13, so apparently we can get a head start on our invitations. Yikes.

This evening, I finally downloaded Suze Orman's will and trust kit (will share more details when I post my next Project Freka update, presumably this Wednesday), and Luke and I decorated our apartment for Christmas--nothing fancy, just the tree, stockings, and a festive tablecloth, but the place already has a much warmer feel. Holiday CDs have been dusted off, we're already going through half a gallon of eggnog a week, and my VHS copy of A Very Brady Christmas is ready for a spot in our rotation of seasonal movie staples, which currently include It's a Wonderful Life and Elf. Luke is less than eager to witness Mike and Carol spend perfectly good vacation money on plane tickets for the kids, their spouses, and their spawn, not to mention their poor treatment of Alice, who they allow to serve them breakfast in her FREAKING UNIFORM, even though she's no longer pulling in a paycheck.

Valid points, yes, but I still say bah, humbug. He clearly hasn't consumed enough eggnog.

I wanna rock with you, baby

Seeing as this baby is just about three weeks away from her scheduled arrival, I've been starting to panic a bit over all the things Luke and I still have yet to do. My biggest priority of late: reupholstering the rocking chair my mother gave me years ago, the same rocking chair she used to lull me (and eventually my four siblings) to sleep. I can also remember being thirteen and sitting in this chair when my youngest sister, Donna, was born, pushing my feet against the carpet and moving in time with her breaths for hours.

To say this chair has special meaning to me is a gross understatement.

Another thing that can't be underestimated? The horridness of the fabric.

Here's the front, in all its mismatched-patterned glory:

The brown plaid is what initially covered the chair almost twenty-eight years ago. The questionable green-pink-blue concoction is thanks to my mom, who swears this once complimented the rest of our living room furniture. I wish I could believe her.

Here's the back:

I think we can all agree, it's time for a change.

For months, I've planned on doing this. I've had visions of reupholstering this precious childhood heirloom with a rich, creamy, neutral fabric, allowing the chair to match the decor of any room it might find itself in, which right now happens to be the baby's room. I knew it could be done--after all, my mother had the same itch herself once (probably in the mid-eighties, judging by her color choices). Her solution? Nail the fabric to the frame for the front and back and sew up the cushion. I figured I could do at least that much and didn't give it another thought until fall, when I realized this project wasn't going to complete itself.

The nails didn't seem like such a good idea then.

But staples! We could staple the fabric and thus avoid bludgeoning our fingers. Problem solved (read: problem shelved for another couple of months).

Which brings us to the present time.

Every weekend for the past three weeks, I've expressed to Luke my desire to PLEASE LET'S GET THIS CHAIR DONE, OH MY GOD, and every weekend it slips off the radar as we wash dishes, fold clothes, and make yet another mad dash to Babies R Us. Finally, this morning, I told him enough already. This baby, she could come any time she wants, and it would be more helpful to finish this off before I'm breathing through contractions on the way to the hospital.

This afternoon Luke removed the second layer of fabric from the front of the chair, after which he realized that staples might not be the smartest solution, either, as they might be just as hard to hide as the nails were. Carpenters we are not, people.

We first googled "upholstery shops Indianapolis" with the intention of purchasing better materials with which to attach new fabric. Then I was calling businesses and requesting quotes and suddenly we were driving through downtown to meet with the only shop owner with Saturday operating hours. It's all a blur now, but the bottom line is that handing the problem off to a professional will ensure us a quality job, not to mention completion before Freka's due date, so that's what we're going to do. If I were even half as crafty and resourceful as a certain domestic goddess I know, I'd vow to save the money and find a way to do this ourselves. But you know what? I'm not that crafty. I'm not that resourceful. I'm almost thirty-seven weeks pregnant, is what I am, and holy cow, do I not want to deal with this damn chair anymore.

Now I can finally dedicate my time to finishing a project more up my alley. Like wills! The fun, it never ends around here.

Soon to be listless?

Glory be, the end is near.

Work has finally slowed down, my Saint Joe class meets for the last time tomorrow, and this list feels much more managable. It's been two weeks since I last posted an update, and though I think I should have more to show for my lengthy hiatus, I'm still proud of myself for being able to wrap up a couple of the biggies.

Project Freka: Prenatal Edition

• Write thank-you cards for shower gifts
• Purchase life insurance
• Create will-like document to secure guardianship and general well-being of Frema-Useless Clutter offspring
• Start Roth IRA for Luke (because if we don't now, we never will)
• Complete application for private student loan consolidation (who wouldn't mind saving thirty bucks a month? Not me, that's for damn sure!)

I'm cheating just a little bit, crossing this one off, but all I have to do is fax some supporting documentation to Sallie Mae's main office, so I'm marking this puppy DONE. After playing phone tag for almost an hour with the automated Fembot on Saturday, I finally reached a real, live person who walked me through the pre-approval process (again), and today I received an e-mail confirming my status. I've already signed the application electronically, so once I fax the paperwork, I'll finally be on my way to saving that blasted thirty bucks a month. This was a huge pain in the ass, but it's oh, so worth it to owe that much less to Sallie Mae.

• Wipe down bedroom blinds (ours, baby's)
• Clean car (wash exterior, disinfect/vaccuum interior)
• Fill out engagement book (because really, enough with the procrastinating already)
• Order wedding pictures from photographer (for reasoning, see above)
• Print recent family photos and sort them into albums, seeing as eight weeks from now I'll be mostly preoccupied with somebody else's eating, sleeping, and pooping habits
• Renew domain registration and TypePad account
• Burn TLF soundtrack for Audrey out of gratitude for her mad summarizing skillz (I totally intended to create a kick-ass play list for the sequel, but...well...I didn't)
• Organize baby's room/assemble baby gear

There's a few reasons this item is still considered active; while all of the initial baby essentials (bassinet, crib, changing table) are ready to go, we still have the baby swing, play yard, and stroller to deal with. Plus, I'd like to replace the fabric on the rocking chair my mom and dad gave me a few years ago because the fifteen-years-old pink-and-green pattern is totally freaking me out. We have the fabric; we just need the time. And the motivation. I hope both will come into play this weekend; otherwise, I just might succumb to a two-day sob fest over missing my sister's post-wedding wedding shower on Sunday.

• Research nursing bras/camis
• Prepare and freeze several meals for easy reheating during baby's first few weeks
• Explore cheap birth announcement ideas
• Purchase and wrap Christmas presents

Done. Done done done done DONE. Every present purchased, every present wrapped while feasting on back-to-back episodes of Murder, She Wrote. I snagged the first season more than two years ago and still have yet to make it through all three discs, but I'm OK with that. Jessica Fletcher's wiley antics deserve to be savored.

• Find a pediatrician

Also done. Over the last two weeks, Luke and I interviewed four pediatricians and have decided to go with doc number three. It feels good to know we made a conscious effort to find the best physician for our baby--someone who'll look out for her best interests and respect our wishes the best he can.

• Install, inspect car seat
• Pack hospital bags

There are a few things not this list that really should've been added--contacting the church where we plan to have Freka baptised, buying and addressing Christmas cards so all that's left is to stuff them with birth announcements--but rather then overwhelm myself, I'm just going to keep chipping away at what's here until every single item's been dealt with. At this point, though, I'm most concerned with drafting our will and inspecting the car seat bases currently strapped into our back seats. Everything else can be dealt with postpartum.

Holy shit, we're having a baby.

One little story before I sign off: I was interviewing a new hire this afternoon, and we chatted a bit about my upcoming maternity leave and Luke's stay-at-home dad plans. The employee was an older man, so it threw me off when, at the end of our conversation, he said, "So, I guess that means you'll be bottle feeding?"

"No," I replied, but then I stopped, not knowing how to finish my thought. I couldn't bring myself use the word "breast" around a man I'd just met twenty minutes ago, no matter how innocent the context. "Well, since I'm going back to work, we'll eventually be using a bottle to feed her, but..." And my voice trailed off, hoping he'd get the point.

So, to answer TasterSpoon's question from yesterday, the mix of busy bodies ranges from repeat offenders to those who haven't even received their first paycheck yet. Lucky me.

Drop it like it's hot? Not yet.

So I had my 36-week check-up today, and things are peachy keen. My overall weight gain currently stands at twenty-seven pounds (speaking of which, a woman at work actually had the gall to ASK for my "number," how ballsy is that?!), Freka measures in at around 37 centimeters, and my blood pressure, sugar, and protein levels are marvelous. I told my doctor about the intermittent cramping I experience in my fingers throughout the day, and she attributed it to swelling, which she noticed slight traces of in my face, hands, and legs--totally normal at this stage in the game. We discussed the logistics of my birth plan, talked shop about pediatricians, and laughed over all the conflicting advice I've received about the baby's gender and positioning of my uterus. Which means that no, I've not dropped yet, and in fact, I may not drop until right before I go into labor, but either way, it'd be a better use of my time to pay attention to the irregular contractions I've been having as of late. Good call, Doc.

In other news, a big thanks to all who took the bait for my Q&A teaser. Here's a burning question from The Ambitious Mrs:

Are there any traits about yourself or your husband that you're hoping your baby really will or will not inherit?

If we're talking physical traits, Luke and I are both plagued with poor vision and temperamental complexions, and I'd love it if Freka didn't have to bother with contacts, eyeglasses, and routine visits to the dermatologist. When I was a kid, my poor mother, who was blessed with beautiful skin, didn't know what to do with me; I often received instructions to lay off the candy and chips, and she wasn't above steaming my face with a hot wash cloth and squeezing out the blackheads herself to ward off my acne (are you gagging yet? Because I sooo was just typing that, God bless my mom's dedication) (your mom's dedicated!). It wasn't until years later that she recognized I could've used some medical attention, but at least my siblings have had a much easier time of things. Luckily, I'll be prepared to handle this with my own children, but if they could skip that trauma altogether, that would be fabulous, thank you very much.

By comparison, dealing with glasses and contacts isn't nearly as big of a deal, but I remember the types of frames I was drawn to a kid, so all I can do is pray that little Freka demonstrates better taste if she's subjected to the fate of her parents. Seriously, have you seen my blog banner? It was bad, folks. Really bad. But as Luke pointed out, my father--the one who took me to all of my appointments--was brave enough to let me choose my eye wear, and lil' Frema liked having that say. After all, it was my damn face. Doing the same thing for Freka is the least I can do, if it comes down to that.

Physical traits I hope she does inherit? My thick hair and Luke's ridiculously long lashes. A few inches of her dad's height wouldn't hurt, either. Man, would she be a knock-out.

In regards to intellectual traits, we plan to do everything in our power to encourage a love of reading in our children. I also hope they have a passion for education. And blogging, but all in good time, my pretties. All in good time.

Could I BE any more unattractive?

What can I say? Frema and 36 weeks pregnant are like oil and vinegar--they just don't mix.

The comments continue to come at me from all sides. All I can do is grit my teeth and plaster a clearly forced smile on my face.

Random Bitch at Mimi Maternity, Who's Obviously Still in the "Cute" Stage of Pregnancy: "Is that one in there or two?"

Sales Clerk at Finish Line, Who Felt the Need to Shout This at Me From Halfway Across the Mall: "You're due any day now, right? With a boy?"

Overly Perky Mall Cop: "Four weeks to go? Are you sure?"

Waitress at Squealers: "You've got to be having a boy."

Client Services Manager at Work: "Oh, no, that's a girl, alright. And she's definitely dropped."

I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow morning, so we'll soon see about that last one.

Also, is now too early to start taking bets on when Freka's going to come? Because I am SO done with this gestating thing.

'Cuz I'm the queen of wishful thinking

FYI: Today's post is dedicated to Isabel, who's always on the ball when it comes to updating her many blogs. Isabel, you have my blessing to take the day off. I hear eating spinach dip can be a fulfilling way to pass the time.

Over the last few months, I've found myself constantly thanking God for all the good things in my life. Marrying Luke was one of the best decisions I ever made, and I'm reminded of that every day when he kneels down to tie my shoes, refills the prescription for my prenatal vitamins, flips load after load of dirty laundry, and understands when stress and fatigue wreck our weekend plans yet again. I can't remember the last time we took a walk through the park or visited an orchard or even did anything that wasn't related to preparing for this baby. Still, he refuses to complain. I think the man's incapable.

I'm thankful for a day job that allows me the option to work from home so I don't have to spend ten minutes rummaging through my closet for an ensemble that doesn't expose my belly. I have generous benefits and paid time off. And while I won't see a dime from my boss during my maternity leave, he's been completely supportive of me taking the maximum FMLA time in order to spend a few months focusing solely on motherhood. I'm thankful I earn enough to support my family so that Luke can be with our daughter full time.

I've been lucky to find additional work freelancing for Parents and adjunct teaching for my alma mater, which has allowed us to enjoy one last pre-baby vacation (a vacation that took place a lifetime ago, it seems), upgrade our living room furniture (my sister Samantha and her husband, Dan, can personally attest to the quality of our sleeper sofa), move into a two-bedroom apartment, pay off my car, and purchase hundreds of dollars worth of "must haves" for little Freka, all without running up our Visa bill.

I feel blessed to have such a supportive network of family and friends. I say prayers of gratitude for being able to conceive so quickly, sustain a healthy pregnancy, and receive quality medical care. I praise my daughter's insightfulness at arranging her birth to take place before the end of the year. Hello, tax credit!

It would be pretty hard for my life to get any better. I know this.

Yet, I see Samantha bask in the glory that comes along with thriving in a new work environment and I'm jealous. I watch my sister Ryan prepare to move to Germany with her new husband, imagine the adventures they'll have exploring a new country, and I foam at the mouth. I see my good friend delight in the comforts of her new home and succumb to violent bouts of house fever.

Luke and I are about to experience the biggest change of our lives. So why am I craving even more?

Maybe because it feels like I've been pregnant and anchored to this apartment for thirty-seven years. Maybe because the changes that accompany new jobs, new continents, and new houses seem easier to handle than those associated with a new baby. Maybe because all those things would have less of an affect on my identity than becoming a mom. I don't know.

Please tell me I'm not the only one to feel this way sometimes.

It's beginning to look a lot like...your mom

In an effort to avoid lugging Freka through crowded city malls shortly after her birth, Luke and I have been spending the majority of our free time Christmas shopping. I've always loved buying presents, and even though we've had to downsize our gifts budget, it's still a lot of fun trying to find things our loved ones won't want to exchange after the New Year. Even though all that walking around usually brings on those sonofabitch Braxton Hicks contractions. Hey, it's for a good cause, right?

I'm sure it's because of the baby, but nevertheless, I can't believe how excited I am for Christmas to come. I've already expressed to Luke my wish to decorate our apartment on Thanksgiving, seeing as we won't be able to travel north, and this Saturday, while he's enjoying a Purdue football game with his dad, I will most likely be watching A Very Brady Christmas while wrapping all the presents we've accumulated thus far.

Despite all the new-mom kinks I'll be working through, already I know that the high I'll get from smelling my baby's head, having full-time support from Luke for the first two weeks after my discharge from the hospital, abandoning corporate America for three blessed months, and filling our modest little two-bedroom apartment with family and friends eager to meet the newest member of our household will outweigh the suckage that is sleepless nights, sore boobs, and a halted paycheck.

(One thing making the "halted paycheck" thing easier to handle is the fact that Parents wants me to continue blogging for them after my contract expires at the end of December, at which time my "column"--that's how I think of it, anyway--will have morphed into a journal documenting my trials and tribulations with new motherhood. Luke and I have money stashed away to be used while I'm on leave, but dude, it feels so good to know that we'll have additional reserves coming in just in case we spend more than we anticipate. Which, let's be honest, is most likely going to happen, because hello, NEW BABY HERE.

In other fabulous financial news, this past Saturday I mailed out the last payment for our Chevy Cobalt, which means the budget we planned for our life post-maternity leave is now a feasible reality. Hooray for an extra three hundred and thirty bucks a month!)

Anyway, I'm ready for the Christmas music. I'm ready for the gift wrapping. I'm ready for eggnog. In fact, I've already had my first glass.

It was wonderful.

35 weeks

To date, I've gained about twenty-five pounds, an inability to lay on my back AT ALL, symptoms of arthritis in my hands, and an aversion to sugary juices in the evening. Braxton Hicks contractions are all the rage around here, to the point that I'm often benched for the majority of our shopping trips because the tightness in my uterus directly correlates to the amount of time I'm on my feet. This baby is zapping every ounce of energy I have.

God help me and my husband if I actually make it the full forty weeks.

Day four of NaBloPoMo...

...and I'm already questioning my commitment. Luke woke me up from a delicious cat nap to make sure I had enough time to post today's entry. I almost said "To hell with it" and went back to sleep, but I didn't because I'm...dedicated? Just plain stupid? Only time will tell.

I know my half-hearted attitude towards blogging these days comes from the numerous to-dos already competing for my time. Today was another action-packed day, filled with more family visiting, more apartment cleaning, more Christmas shopping, and even more maternity clothes shopping, seeing as most of the items I received in my last Gap order are already too snug, and also seeing as it's unacceptable to attend professional work functions in a shirt that constantly threatens to expose the mass of purple stretch marks hiding underneath.

(As I'm typing this, Luke is giving me a wonderful massage with one of those hand-held contraptions you can get at Bed Bath & Beyond for like, ten bucks. So good, and so worth it.)

Anyway, for those of you wondering, Tori's concert on Friday was wonderful, and I'm so glad I decided to go, even though I felt like a senior citizen in my black pants and sneakers compared to the college-aged grungies in ripped tights and brightly dyed hair and the savvier gals who donned heels, jeans, and jackets, jackets that wouldn't stand a chance against my plentiful waistline. I only left twice to pee--once during the opening act, and once during her second encore performance, after listening long enough to make sure the song wasn't one I would kick myself for missing. Freka liked it, too; for at least half of the show, she couldn't stay still.

Speaking of Freka (ha! Like there's anything else I talk about these days), tomorrow I'll be thirty-five weeks, and I'm genuinely amazed at how quickly this last stretch is slipping through my fingers. Instead of constantly devising new ways to relieve my back pain, my thoughts are now centered around delivery and postpartum: preparing my birth plan, coming up with questions to ask potential pediatricians, whether or not I'll labor in my own things or the hospital's poor excuse for a gown, and how in the world I'll manage breastfeeding around my family during the first month when I'll have to whip out a boob every two hours. My mother formula-fed all five of us, and though she's supportive of my desire to nurse, she's already said something along the lines of "You're not going to do that in front of your father, are you?" As if feeding my child were on par with pole dancing in an x-rated night club, even though I've seen more breast at work parading under the guise of business casual than I have from nursing mothers in all those parenting magazines I skim at the doctor's office.

I picked up two nursing camis and one nursing bra from Target this afternoon, so at least I've got some clothing that'll keep the quote-unquote indecent exposure down to a minimum, and I'm not against using a blanket around those who are truly uncomfortable with watching a woman breastfeed, but I hate being made to feel like I'm doing something that needs to be covered up in the first place.

I also think about how long I'm going to make it in my current ginormous state before I either abandon work for early FMLA leave or demand the doctor induce me.

Yes, I admit it. I am big. Huge. The belly, it is gargantuan.

I know this because Luke and I attended a labor support class at our hospital last week, and despite all six of us having due dates ranging within one week of each other, I was the only mom-to-be who looked like the simple act of breaking wind would be enough to bring her baby into the world.

If only it were that simple.