What are you looking at?

Apparently five home pregnancy tests CAN be wrong!

When visiting the phlebotomist at my ob/gyn's office yesterday, I couldn't sit still. "It's OK," she joked as she grabbed my arm to keep it steady. "It's going to be just fine."

And I really did think it would be. I walked to my car and drove home and picked up Luke and Kara so we could meet the realtor who will help us buy our first home. I figured I would call the office in the morning to confirm my negative pregnancy test and finally get on with my life already.

But at 8:30 a.m., the results weren't in. "It usually takes 24 to 48 hours," droned the receptionist, not understanding my urgency. "We'll call you."

WTF?

As I was packing up for the day, I decided to call one more time. Because HELL NO was I waiting until Monday.

I’m pretty sure it was the same receptionist, because once again, she acted like finding out whether or not I had a human being in my uterus wasn't that big a deal and didn't she say they would call when they had news?

(She didn't say that. But I know she was thinking it. Bitch.)

I heard shuffling of papers.

"Well, the test came up positive, but we didn't check your levels, so…"

My stomach dropped. "Excuse me?"

"The test is positive."

"The test is positive?"

"Yes." She sounded slightly annoyed. Women get knocked up every day; what's one more, right?

And then I was grabbing my purse and hauling ass out of work as fast as my legs could carry me because I knew I was going to cry and I didn’t want anyone to see.

By the time I got to my car, I was hysterical. Perfect time to tell Luke.

"Hello?"

"HONEY?"

"Yeah?"

"I'M PREGNANT," I wailed.

"OK… Honey, are you OK?"

"I'M SO HAPPY I’M SO HAPPY."

And I was.

My doctor called last night. The plan is to schedule a full work-up in about three weeks. Because I've only had one cycle since Kara was born, and because I still haven't scored positive on a pee stick yet, we need some help with an exact due date. My guestimate? Is February.

I suppose we’ll need a lot of help until then.

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Excerpted from Parental Discretion Advised, originally published on Parents.com. Copyright 2008 by Meredith Corporation. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.

As told by Luke, as played by Steve Martin

This is what happens when you engage in marital relations on day 30 of your cycle without protection, assuming Aunt Flo is just around the corner but realizing two weeks later she is still nowhere to be found.

Scene: Chevy Cobalt, Walgreens parking lot, Northwest Indiana

Bree: So…. Do you want to run in, or should I?

Luke: I don't know.
 
Bree: I should go. I'm the one who's going to pee on the stick, I should be the one to buy it.

Luke: No, I'll do it; you’re already back there with Kara. I'll just be a few minutes.

Bree: Remember, First Response or EPT, and make sure it's a bonus pack.

Luke: OK.

Luke enters Walgreens; stands in entranceway, searching for appropriate aisle. Picture furrowed brows and much head scratching.

Sales Clerk 1: Sir, is there something I can help you find?

Luke: I'm looking for a…

(Still grappling with the possibility of having two children less than a year and a half apart, his mind blanks on the correct terminology needed to verbalize his request)

…birth detection kit?

Sales Clerk 1: Do you mean a prophylactic?

Luke: No! The opposite of that!

Enter Sales Clerk 2.

Sales Clerk 2: Sir, are you talking about birth control?

Luke: No, no! It's too late for that!

Sales Clerk 2: Ooh! You want a pregnancy test!

Luke: Nods frantically, fights urge to smack forehead a la "I could've had a V-8!"

In the end, a First Response bonus pack was indeed purchased, and by Mother's Day morning, both tested negative. But this evening, when toasting to two years of marriage, we used sparkling grape juice instead of wine.

Anytime now, Aunt Flo. Anytime.

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Excerpted from Parental Discretion Advised, originally published on Parents.com. Copyright 2008 by Meredith Corporation. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.

L&D Q&A numero dos

You know the drill, part one is here, blahdee blah blah.

Did you feel as if they rushed you through labor? Or were you able to go at your own pace? Also, is the pain really as severe as people say it is?

When pregnant with Kara, I took three different childbirth classes and read a bunch of booktalk that outlined the nitty-gritty of labor and delivery, and the most important piece of advice I gleaned was to be my own advocate; that I had a right to express my wishes, ask questions, and know what was happening to my body at all times, and I had a right to know why. Giving birth isn't like mending a broken arm; it's not about fixing what's broken but facilitating a process that's natural and beautiful, and it's not unreasonable for a woman to hope that process stays as intact as possible. Until I was admitted, I was afraid of the hospital staff placing their own scheduling needs above my desire to let my baby come in her own due time. We were already nudging things along with the induction, and while I was in full agreement about its necessity, I wanted to keep further interventions down to a minimum.

I say all of that so you can appreciate how relieved I was to learn that my medical team felt the same way. When my nurse started my Pitocin drip, she did so at the lowest amount possible and slowly increased it over a period of hours. When my contractions hit their stride, the dose was scaled back. Cervical checks were done sparingly, and I was mostly left alone to dilate and efface in peace. I received the epidural when I asked for it, but it wasn't pushed on me, and the nurse didn't laugh when I told her I might try to go au naturale. And it was only after twelve hours of labor that the idea of a c-section was even brought up as an option. All of my questions were answered promptly and completely, and my husband and I both were treated with dignity and respect. So no, I don't feel like I was rushed through labor, and yes, I most certainly was allowed to go at my own pace. I'm glad I was prepared to speak up in case things were moving too quickly, but things never moved too quickly. I have no regrets.

Also, HELL YES the pain is severe as people say it is; at least, it was for me, though to be fair, it's well known that contractions jumpstarted with Pitocin are more intense than those that come about naturally. It's hard to describe what they felt like; it's as if a giant hand had wrapped itself around my uterus to squeeze it like a grape. At their worst, I remember thrashing my legs about, trying to focus on another part of my body, but it didn't help, and breathing didn't do anything, either. Praise Jesus for the epidural, is all I have to say about that.

What were your first thoughts when they decided to do a c-section? Were you relieved, sad, scared? Was there ever a point where you had to ask people to leave the delivery room to give you privacy? Was it nerve-racking having so many people focused on your lady-parts?

Wow, lots of questions here! To say I was scared about having a c-section would be a gross understatement. Aside from minor dental surgery—a root canal here, an implant there—I'd never gone under the knife. Nothing sprained, nothing broken, nothing removed, and I had hoped it would stay that way, thank you very much. I was terrified that the epidural would stop working mid-procedure, like it had for my mother fifteen years ago. I hated that my chances for future vaginal births would be in jeopardy. And I was worried I'd come to resent my baby for making things so difficult for me.

Once the doctor left to let me think things through, I sobbed good and hard for at least ten minutes. Crying has always been the best way for my body to get rid of bad feelings, so I didn't try to fight it. But surprisingly, when I was done, I was really done. I was done trying to question all the ways my operation could go wrong. I was done praying for my cervix to dilate that last fateful centimeter or for mini-Bree to get to her proper station. I was ready to meet my baby, and at least with the c-section, I didn't have to wonder when that was going to happen anymore. And once she was out, nothing mattered but her.

In regards to having people in the delivery room with me, long-time readers will recall that I went back and forth on that issue way before the big day. On one hand, I wanted my family and friends to be with me on one of the most important days of my life. On the other, I was afraid I'd be too intimidated with everyone there to practice all the natural coping techniques I'd learned in childbirth class. I was also nervous about Luke and me not having enough time to just be together and take everything in.

In the end, though, it turned out the big crowd I was hoping for/afraid of wasn't meant to be. Most of our family members were too sick to make the trip to the hospital, but my sister Samantha and good friend Molly braved the questionable Midwest weather and came to Indianapolis. They showed up around lunchtime, which meant Luke and I had the whole morning to ourselves, and they really helped me keep my mind off all the "what-ifs." They brought me presents, they made me laugh, they massaged my feet. And when I found out about the c-section, they told me they loved me and said everything would be OK. I'm so glad they were there.

As far as the whole privacy/lady parts thing goes? Any shred of modesty I had left by that point in my pregnancy went out the window the minute they gave me those crappy gowns to wear; after that, I truly didn't care about trying to stay decent. Molly and Samantha were told by the nurse to leave the room for every cervical check and the insertion of my epidural, but other then that, I was perfectly fine with them sticking around as much as they wanted to.

I would like to hear how breastfeeding went the first few times.

Oh, this one’s a doozy, so I’ll save it for next time. Be sure to bring tissues.

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Excerpted from Parental Discretion Advised, originally published on Parents.com. Copyright 2008 by Meredith Corporation. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.

L&D Q&A numero uno

OK, folks. Now that my birth story has been laid out for all of you to see, it's time to address some of the questions you posed before I was admitted to the hospital. Because I have delusions of self-importance, and also because I like to babble incessantly about my female parts, I'll break up the answers into a series of posts and scatter them throughout the next couple of weeks. At this point, Kara will be hitting her first birthday and I'll STILL be philosophizing about her birth. How boring am I?
 
Don't answer that.

Let's get started.

Was it easier or harder than you imagined? 
Nothing like easing into things, eh? This is actually a hard one to answer, because really, it was both. It was harder than I imagined for a lot of reasons. I always pictured myself going into labor on my own without any trouble, and that didn't prove true for me. Kara went a week past her due date, it took a Pitocin drip for my contractions to finally reach a consistent pattern, and even after a full day of labor, I still ended up with a c-section. For a gal who once contemplated giving birth in her own home without the assistance of pain meds, things definitely didn’t go as expected.

On the other hand, it was also easier. I was able to handle my induction quite well for the first half of the day, I felt wonderfully cared for by my nurses, Luke was by my side the entire time, keeping me focused and calming me down when I was unable to cope, and Molly and Samantha pampered my feet with Warm Vanilla Sugar body lotion. Plus, most importantly, being in the thick of things made it truly real that this baby was coming. I was in the hospital, wearing those crappy gowns that never cover you completely, epidural in place. This experience couldn’t end any other way, and when times got really tough, that was the thought that made it all bearable.

I’d like to know if the nurse that put your IV in poked the area that she had just placed your IV and then had the audacity to ask if that hurt. Mine sure did! 
My nurse actually did a decent job; the biggest surprise was that she placed it above my wrist instead of on my hand, which is how it was done back in October when I went to the hospital worrying about pre-term labor.

Now that you’ve had your baby in the hospital, will you be more receptive or less receptive to my pro-homebirth brainwashing? 
This question comes from Katie, a longtime reader of my personal blog who, in case you couldn’t tell, isn’t a cheerleader for the medical profession, at least when it comes to childbirth. Sorry to disappoint you, Katie, but I was quite satisfied with my birth experience. Read on to learn why.

Did you feel prepared to deviate from your birth plan as needed? Did you feel supported by your medical team? And okay, did you poop? 
First things first: The whole poop issue actually turned out to be a non-issue, seeing as I never even reached the pushing stage of labor. And because I don’t see myself being brave enough to attempt a VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean) with any future children I bring into the world, I’ll never worry about it again. Score one for surgery.

Second, the birth plan. I’m so glad I had a birth plan. It was a simple one, really, and mostly consisted of things that were already hospital procedure, but as a person who makes her living as a writer and thrives on list-making, it was important to put down on paper what aspects of labor, delivery, and recovery meant the most to me—or at least, what meant the most to me at the time. Keeping that list down to just a handful of bullet points helped me not sweat about the small stuff, and when things didn’t go as planned (i.e., “No interventions unless medically necessary, i.e., Pitocin”—ha!), it felt good to know that at least my plan was a starting point.

I don’t know why birth plans get such a bad rap. We go through our whole lives preparing for best-case scenarios and re-adjusting when things deviate from our expectations. Does that mean we shouldn’t plan for anything, shouldn’t hope for anything? If you ask me, that’s a pretty pessimistic way to live.
 
So really, the problem isn’t the birth plan, it’s the attitude of the person writing the birth plan. During one of my later prenatal visits, my doctor once mentioned a woman who wrote a SIX-PAGE birth plan, filled with stuff like the temperature of the room and how often she’d be checked and how she did NOT want a c-section. Good God, the thing should’ve been copyrighted and displayed in the window of a Barnes and Noble. Do you think everything went according to her control-freak novel? No, it didn’t.

At first glance, it may seem like a lot of things in my birth plan didn’t come to fruition. I had a Pitocin drip and IV fluids from the very beginning, and I had continuous fetal monitoring. However, when you see that the phrase “unless medically necessary” is attached to almost all of them instead of “not at all,” you’ll see that actually, everything went according to plan. I didn’t want Pitocin unless it was medically necessary. Was it medically necessary? Since my doctor and I were both in agreement about induction, and since Pitocin makes inductions possible, yes. It wasn’t my first choice, but in the end, it was still what I wanted. You could say the same thing about my c-section except it wasn’t in my birth plan. I tried to include things that would reduce my chances of needing a c-section, but I knew if I needed one, I’d have to get one. No wiggle room there.
 
And you know what? I don’t regret that, either. My biggest fear was having something done to me that I didn’t understand. I was afraid of having a labor progress slowly but normally and a doctor who wasn’t patient enough to wait it out. But that’s not what happened to me. We’d given a vaginal birth the best shot we could, and Kara still wasn’t budging. Once I agreed to the c-section, I was freaked out and sad and scared, but I knew it was in my and the baby’s best interest, so at least I didn’t have to worry about whether or not I was doing the right thing. It’s not something I give much thought to these days. I’m ready to move on.

Some things that we thought we wanted didn’t happen. With all the hullabaloo in the OR, Luke didn’t cut the umbilical cord. He probably could have, but he totally forgot to ask. Does he care now? No.

And yet other things went right according to plan. I wore my contacts during labor and nursed Kara as soon as we were wheeled into recovery. Luke was with her when I couldn’t be. And nobody offered the baby pacifiers, sugar water, or formula. All in all, my birth plan kicked ass.

Pardon the French. 

More tomorrow.

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Excerpted from Parental Discretion Advised, originally published on Parents.com. Copyright 2008 by Meredith Corporation. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.

To think I could’ve had a daughter named Puppy! Birth story part four

Don’t go on unless you’ve read parts one, two, and three.

9:00 p.m.
True to her word, my doctor arrived once more to perform a final cervical check. No change. She looked at me, waiting for my cue. I wasn't crying anymore.

"We've waited long enough," I said. "Let's do the c-section."

The Pitocin drip was turned off, and the anesthesiologist was summoned to ramp up my epidural. Samantha called my parents to give them the news, and moments later, the phone was to my ear. It was my mother. Having given birth five times herself and delivered the youngest of us via c-section, she wanted to offer words of reassurance.

Also, lies!

"Mine wasn't bad at all," she said. "I didn't feel a thing."

"Yes, you did!" I cried. "The whole time I've been pregnant you’ve talked about how the doctors messed up your pain meds and how you felt them cut you open!"

"But I had bad doctors!" she replied. "You've got good doctors. Everything's going to be OK."

I sure hoped so.

The anesthesiologist arrived and increased my epidural. "How numb should I be?" I asked. "Should I feel pokes but no pain, or not feel anything at all?"

"You won't feel anything at all," he said. "At one point there'll be pressure, but other than that, you shouldn't feel a thing."

"What if I do?"

"Then you tell us, and we'll stop."

"OK."

Luke was given a gown and face mask and instructed to suit up. Meanwhile, the day was finally taking its toll on me; I thought I might fall asleep any minute. I actually hoped that I would.

9:23 p.m.
I was wheeled to the OR. (Thanks to Molly for jotting that one down. Luke was a bit preoccupied.)

I don't know what I imagined the operating room would look like, but it seemed a lot smaller than I thought it would be, and much brighter. I was transferred from my bed to the operating table, and my arms were laid out on my sides. My gown was rolled up to my chest, and a curtain was positioned just below my breasts. Luke had to wait outside while Kelli, nurse number three, prepped my lady parts for surgery. The anesthesiologist was there, too, ready to offer his services at a moment's notice.

My eyes kept closing. I really thought I might pass out. Then Kelli spoke.

"I've been poking you pretty hard," she said. "You didn't feel anything?"

"Nope. Where's Luke?"

"He's coming," she said. And suddenly, he was next to me, to the right of me, squeezing my hand.

"You're not going to look, are you?" I asked, and he shook his head. "I'm going to stay right here with you."

Part of me wanted to look into his eyes, but keeping them shut seemed like my best option. I kept willing myself to fall asleep and not wake up until the baby was out and I was put back together. I was still afraid of the epidural failing on me, just like it had with my mom.

Next thing I knew, the doctors were doing their thing, and I couldn't keep quiet.

"What do you think her name will be?" I said to Luke. "Do you think she'll be a Kara Leigh, or Maia Katherine, or Katherine Amelia?"

"She can be whatever you want," he replied. Later, he told me he would've agreed to any name I wanted, that's how bad he felt for everything I had to go through that day, only to have it end with surgery.

After what seemed like forever, the doctor spoke.

"You're going to feel a lot of pressure on your chest now," she said. "Remember to take deep breaths, OK?"

"OK," I said, and bam, there it was, all that pressure, and I was holding on to Luke's hand with all the strength I could muster.

And then I was hearing her cry. It was the most incredible moment of my life.

The doctor held her up for me, and I maybe saw an arm. But I didn't care.

"She's OK?" I asked. I was crying again, in a way I've never cried before. What else can you do when presented with such a miracle?

"She's perfect."

I looked at Luke, and tears were in his eyes, too. "I love you so much," I said, and he kissed my forehead. "I love you, too," he replied.

"Go and be with her, honey," I said. "I'll be OK."

And I was.

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Excerpted from Parental Discretion Advised, originally published on Parents.com. Copyright 2008 by Meredith Corporation. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.

All my poop worries were for nothing: Birth story part three

Don’t read any further unless you’ve seen parts one and two.

2:14 p.m.
By this time, the epidural had taken full effect, and the doctor had returned to perform another cervical check. Luckily, things were moving along, albeit still at a snail's pace: I was ninety percent effaced and eight centimeters dilated.

Eight centimeters dilated! No wonder the pain had been so intense; I was in the transitional phase of labor, that magical and pain-riddled time in which the cervix dilates from eight to ten centimeters and the baby drops lower into the pelvis—both of which are required to dispense a human being through one’s vagina. I’ll be the first to tell you about my low threshold for pain (my dentist would probably be the second), so I was extremely proud of myself for moving through the first half of labor with natural coping techniques and not crying “Uncle” the first chance I got. While it’s true they don’t hand out gold stars for Best Laborer, it was important for me to get a small taste of what natural (Pitocin-inspired) childbirth felt like. I’m happy I did.

But I was even happier about the epidural.

My ob/gyn proceeded to break my water, and a warm gush passed through my legs. Surely this baby would be coming any minute now.

3:00 p.m.
Another cervical check revealed I was fully effaced but the baby was only at -2 station, meaning her head had quite a way to go before fully descending into my pelvis. Bertha’s shift also came to an end; she would be one of three L&D nurses I’d interact with that day. Angela was number two.

4:38 p.m.
Molly and Samantha, who’d both arrived around lunchtime with gifts and good will, took turns massaging my feet while I drifted in and out of a half-conscious sleep, still optimistic about wrapping things up before dinnertime but confused as to why the induction was taking so long.

4:47 p.m.
I received my very first catheter. Good times.

5:15 p.m.
For the first time since the Internet's outrage over it last year, I saw that infamous breastfeeding commercial where the pregnant woman rides a mechanical bull and the caption reads, "You wouldn't take risks before your baby's born. Why start after?" That's one way to promote boob juice. I guess.

7:18 p.m.
Another nurse, another check, another disappointing update. Still no dilation past eight centimeters, and the baby's head was holding steady at -2 station. Any confidence I had in my body's ability to get this baby out the old-fashioned way was rapidly fading fast.

7:35 p.m.
My doctor paid me a visit and did a check of her own, even kept her hand up my girly parts to see how my cervix fared during a contraction. "Well, at the height of your contractions, you're almost at nine," she said. "But other then that, there's still no change. Let's start talking about our options here."

I nodded.

"You've had a long day," she said, "and your contractions have been doing exactly what they're supposed to be doing. In my opinion, the fact that you've been at a standstill for such a long time means Mother Nature's trying to tell us something."

"You think it's her size?" I asked. This time, she was the one who nodded.

"I think we've got ourselves one big baby."

She went on to explain that mini-Bree (who at that point still didn't have a set-in-stone name) had fared wonderfully throughout my entire ordeal, and there was no medical reason to rush into anything. She was more than willing to let me labor for another hour or two and see if a vaginal birth was still possible, if that's what I wanted. I agreed to take the time, and she made plans to come back by nine. Once she left, my face crumbled, and I let myself sob, really go at it, because I knew in my heart I'd be getting that c-section. The extra hour and a half was less about letting things progress and more about preparing for my first bout with major surgery.

To be continued…

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Excerpted from Parental Discretion Advised, originally published on Parents.com. Copyright 2008 by Meredith Corporation. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.

People really do this without drugs? Birth story part two

Catch up on part one here.

9:49 a.m.
My Pitocin drip was up to 6ccs. Bertha checked me again and found I'd dilated another centimeter. "How are you doing on pain?" she asked. "Is it time for the epidural?"

"Not yet," I said, and it wasn't. The contractions were faster and closer together, but they weren't so much painful as they were uncomfortable. The breathing exercises I'd learned in childbirth class were enough to keep me focused and calm. I was seriously considering forgoing pain meds altogether.

"You're a big, strong woman," Bertha said.

10:21 a.m.
My ob paid her first visit since my admittance to the hospital. Her cervical check revealed no change in dilation or effacement, and in fact, my cervix was in a posterior position, which meant she had to navigate her fingers around the baby's head to feel it. She wanted to break my water but decided to wait until my cervix was closer up front.

11:17 a.m.
Up to 12ccs and still managing the pain just fine. I asked Bertha about the highest amount of Pitocin she'd ever administered. "I once gave 100ccs," she said, and I gasped. "Don't worry," she added. "I don't think we'll need to do that with you."

11:24 a.m.
Realizing I'd forgotten to swipe my armpits with my Dove bar that morning, I implored Luke to dig out his Old Spice deodorant from his hospital bag and hand that bad boy over because HOT DAMN, did I smell.

12:38 p.m.
Up to 20ccs, and it was getting more difficult to talk through contractions. Bertha had to excuse herself briefly in order to rescue her husband, who had locked himself out of his car. Fabulous.

1:08 p.m.
Slight leak draining through my special place. Did my water break? I summoned Bertha's temporary substitute to do another check.

1:10 p.m.
No breakage, just pee. Figures I made it through nine months of pregnancy with nary a urinary accident only to break my lucky streak in active labor.

1:40 p.m.
22ccs and the four-count deep breathing wasn't cutting it anymore. I graduated to the hee hee hoos and made Luke work through them with me. Hearing the pattern of his breaths was the only thing that kept me calm enough to focus.

1:46 p.m.
Bertha was back and happy to see the consistency of my contractions. I, however, wasn't as pleased. She decreased the Pitocin down to 15ccs to ease my discomfort, but it wasn't enough. My eyes were glued to the monitor, and with each spike, I could feel my uterus tightening as if it were trying to drain the essence of my very soul. I couldn't concentrate on breathing anymore. I couldn't stop crying.

"I'd like the epidural now," I sputtered.

2:00 p.m.
The anesthesiologist arrived armed with The Good Stuff. The bed was elevated, I was propped up with a pillow, and I think I was holding on to Luke and Bertha while the doctor numbed my back. The needle stung, and I cried out, but after living through the torture that is natural childbirth, the pinch was nothing. This? Was child's play.

2:11 p.m.
Oh, blessed, sweet relief! Bring that baby on.

To be continued…

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Excerpted from Parental Discretion Advised, originally published on Parents.com. Copyright 2008 by Meredith Corporation. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.

One baby, hold the fries: Birth story part one

Seeing as my child is almost three weeks old, I suppose it's time to start spilling the beans regarding how she got here, right?

To prepare for just this occasion, I took careful notes in the hospital. You think I'm kidding? Don’t make me scan in my scratch paper.

MONDAY, DECEMBER 17, 2007

Luke and I were up by six o'clock to get ready for our 7:30 induction. After a rough night obsessing over the fact that the manner in which we were collecting our baby could be compared to somebody ordering a value meal from McDonald's—each incident a painful experience in its own right—I had finally reached a place where I was at peace with the whole situation and excited knowing that by the end of the day, I'd be holding my daughter in my arms. Hell, with such an early induction time, I was counting on having her by lunch.

We took our showers, gulped down bowls of cereal, double checked our bags, and before we knew it, we were off.

7:50 a.m.
After registering at the front desk, the two of us were escorted to a private room in the labor and delivery unit, where I would remain until after the baby was born. We were introduced to Bertha, the first of three nurses I'd be assigned to that day. I was handed a set of gowns and told to undress. With the exception of my bra, I wouldn't don actual clothes again until my discharge Thursday night.

Once I'd gotten good and nekkid, I made myself comfortable in bed while Bertha fired off a series of questions regarding my health and the progression of my pregnancy. She asked about my preferences regarding pain relief and I replied that I'd probably want an epidural.

Then she asked about my last meal, and I told her about the bowl of Cheerios I'd eaten a couple of hours before.

"Did your doctor give you permission to eat that?" she asked.

"She didn't say I couldn't," I replied, which was true, but it didn't matter anyway, because hell no was I going to starve myself before jumping into the most physical challenge of my life. I'd talked to plenty of nurses to know there's no real benefit in a woman refraining from food or drink during labor, so self-restricting beforehand didn't make sense to me.

I refrained from sharing these deep insights with Bertha (who really was a lovely person and a great support in the hours ahead) and simply smiled.

8:50 a.m.
Bertha gave me my first cervical check of the day and pronounced me five centimeters dilated and eighty percent effaced—no real change since my last doctor's appointment the previous Friday. She told me her instructions were to start me on 2ccs of Pitocin and increase the dosage in increments of two until my contractions were consistently two to three minutes apart. Once the IV was in place, monitors were attached to my belly to measure the baby's heartbeat and the pattern of my contractions, the drip was started, and Luke and I were left alone to take everything in.

At this point, I wasn't sure what to think. I'd taken classes, done my reading, and overall prepared myself to give birth as naturally as I felt comfortable. With continuous monitoring and drug administering, ninety percent of the laboring positions Luke and I had practiced were no longer feasible. The suite did have a rocking chair, which I was encouraged to use, and it was perfectly fine for me to walk around the room, but I felt most at ease just sitting in bed, watching my contractions dance about on the monitor, hammering out last-minute name ideas with Luke, and waiting for the arrival of my sister Samantha and good friend Molly, each of them warning me not to push the baby out before they got there.

To be continued...

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Excerpted from Parental Discretion Advised, originally published on Parents.com. Copyright 2008 by Meredith Corporation. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.

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.

And I don't even watch the damn show anymore

Luke and I will be leaving for the much-anticipated Tori Amos concert in three hours, and I've been sitting in front of the computer all day, half working from home, half indulging on clips from General Hospital that highlight the tumultuous love triangle between Jason, Liz, and Lucky, and Liz's giving birth via emergency c-section to Jason's baby but passing him off as Lucky's, and then the baby being kidnapped, and then Liz and Lucky getting in the middle of a nasty divorce, and Lucky trying to take Jake away from Elizabeth under the guise of "custody strategy," and I've cried three times because I keep thinking about what would happen if I had an emergency c-section and died and Luke and the baby had to be without me. I haven't even showered yet.

It's just one of those days.

It's the most blogiful time of the year

First off, I totally had plans to blog yesterday, because the list, she is on FIYAH. I was also going to talk about how Halloween is the one time of year where I truly miss cable, because slasher films from the mid-eighties just aren't meant to be rented. You're supposed to stumble upon them while aimlessly flipping through stations, gasp in delight, and quickly grab a blanket so you can cover your eyes when Gage is hit by the highway truck and again when his aunt Zelda screams "You'll never get out of bed again!" into the camera.

Oh, well. It's not like I would've had time to watch anything, anyway. I was too busy preparing for class and contemplating my own demise as a result of signing up for life insurance.

The fun, it is non-stop in the Frema-Useless Clutter household.

Anyway, I didn't blog, and you knew that, but now you know it wasn't an attempt to make sure I had something to write about for this year's very first NaBloPoMo post. Also, it looks like our computer is going to see DOUBLE the posting action, seeing as Luke has decided to hop on the blogosphere bandwagon. Be sure to show him some love this month, will you?

Enough overexplaining. On with the list.

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 seriously think about this one every day, and most certainly every time I write a damn check to Sallie Mae. Until I fill out the application, it's like I'm throwing money away. This does not please me, but neither does the idea of having to wade through screenshot after screenshot of my thirty-year financial servitude.

• Wipe down bedroom blinds (ours, baby's)

Here is where I brag about the awesomeness of Luke's parents, as they came to Indy last weekend to help us get things ready for Freka's arrival. My mother-in-law was concerned about the possibility of lead paint being in our mini-blinds, so she graciously offered to replace the ones we had hanging in our bedroooms. Which means our lungs safe and our hands were saved from the tedious task of cleaning each blade individually, which is exactly what I would've done otherwise. I had two containers of disinfectant wipes just for that purpose.

• Clean car (wash exterior, disinfect/vaccuum interior)

Luke and his dad did such a great job of cleaning out BOTH of our cars that I'm crossing this one off the list, even though the exterior wasn't touched on either one of them. If we can make it through a car wash on the next warm day, great, but who cares, I no longer have crusted up juice stains in my cup holder. 

• 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

One down, one to go. I actually tried to renew my TypePad account, but I think I've got it set to do that automatically? I can't tell, but I suppose I'll find out come December 10th, won't I?

(Also, December 10th? Shit. I should be in labor on December 10th!)

• 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)

Not only did I burn said CD, I also threw in a copy of my Lionel Richie-approved* cheesy love songs mix just to reward her patience. They were mailed off yesterday morning, so Audrey, you can expect them either tomorrow or Saturday. Enjoy.

• Organize baby's room/assemble baby gear

Every stitch of baby fabric--bedding, clothes, changing table pads, socks (little baby socks!), hats, bibs--all of it has been washed, dried, folded, and put away in little baby drawers. The first three activities weren't so bad, but I nearly gave myself a heart attack trying to organize the drawers. I knew I wanted to sort each one by age, but should I group together the onesies and sleepers or the onesies and pants? Should I separate the short-sleeved onesies from the long-sleeved onesies? Is it appropriate to toss the socks in the drawer with the wash cloths?

Final answers: Onesies and sleepers, I certainly tried, and most definitely, especially when there's no other alternative and I wasn't about to run to Target a third time for a yet another set of plastic drawers.

We also prepared the crib, fooled around with the changing table some more, and assembled a TV cart to place next to the rocker, resulting in a lovely feeding station for the baby. This TV cart was insanely important to me; I don't know why, except the books talk about having a feeding station and where else would I put my glass of water while my boobs are busy sustaining our child's livelihood and please don't argue JUST GET ME THE DAMN CART.

• 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

The shopping is on, folks! Three gifts have already been taken care of.

• Find a pediatrician

We have two consults scheduled with area pediatricians featured on a list provided by my ob/gyn's office. By Tuesday afternoon, we'll know if one of them's a keeper.

• Install, inspect car seat

It took the strength and patience of three grown men, but the car seat bases are locked in and ready to go. Now all that's left are the inspections.

• Pack hospital bags

Words can't express how happy I am to report that in case of emergency, we have four--yes, FOUR--bags packed with essentials like pillows, blankets, bed clothes, nursing pads, slippers, and rations for our stay in the hospital. The only things keeping me from throwing them in my trunk are that I still have to pick up a nursing cami and select Freka's going-home outfit. Everything else? Done.

Now go ahead and tell me I'm awesome.

* OK, it's not really Lionel Richie-approved. But it so would be if he knew it existed.

Frema and the Three Winter Coats

Once upon a time, in a Midwestern state far, far away, there lived a 34-weeks-pregnant woman (let's call her Frema) who was scheduled to deliver her first child in the chilly month of December. Over the course of the last several months, Frema had purchased a gazillion dollars worth of maternity clothes to accommodate her rapidly expanding waistline, and despite temperatures being low enough that she had to scrape layers of frost from her car before heading to work, she hesitated buying an item whose estimated period of use would be limited to six weeks or fewer.

In an effort to save a few pennies, Frema rummaged through her closet and unearthed the charcoal pea coat she'd worn the last three winters. But, not surprisingly, the coat was too small.

Not one to give up, Frema reflected back on all "the books" that recommended raiding a spouse's wardrobe for make-do attire. But Frema bets most pregnant women of petite stature aren't married to men with six-foot-four-inch builds. His coat was too big.

Finally, because Frema's husband was more concerned with her causing an accident behind the wheel due to wearing all that excess material and/or possibly catching cold than avoiding another charge on their Visa, he suggested visiting Old Navy's maternity section and perusing winter wear more fitting--quite literally--for the gestating variety. "We know we want more children, so a coat would be a worthwhile investment for future pregnancies. Plus, you have three sisters you can one day share your loot with," he said. "It won't go to waste."

Who is Frema to argue with such wisdom?

So off to Old Navy they went, and lo and behold, the beautiful, light gray ensemble fit just right.

So delighted was Frema with the newest addition to her wardrobe that she asked her husband to take an updated belly shot, even though three hours of shopping left her looking and feeling like ass on toast. "After all, the Internet, it likes the belly shots," she said.

And everyone lived happily ever after.

I would've packed my hospital bag last night but decided to watch 1408 instead

Things are looking up. Mainly because Luke's and my to-do list is coming along splendidly (more on that in a minute), but also because yesterday I finally received my (final) online order from Gap Maternity. This means I was able to come to work this morning donning black pants that don't cut off my circulation and a top that actually covers my entire stomach. I'm half tempted to audition for America's Next Top Model, that's how close to normal I feel.

Not all the items fit as well--a couple of the shirts are just as snug as my Target tees even though I ordered the next size up, and one pair of lounge pants bunches around my ankles--but it's so refreshing to have a wider variety of choices in my closet that I'm going to wear them all and OWN IT when I do.

Just like I'm owning this list.

Project Freka: Prenatal Edition

• Write thank-you cards for shower gifts

Done! I spent almost two hours on Sunday night crafting what I hope are thoughtful messages to all the family and friends who've sent us baby gifts these last few weeks; it would've taken longer had my sister not sent us home with pre-printed mailing labels for all the shower guests. Luke and I liked the idea so much that we whipped up a batch with the return address, so the only writing I had to do was for the actual card. Genius!

• Purchase life insurance

Though we don't actually have policies in place yet, we did decide on an insurance carrier and set up a medical exam for this Saturday, so the only things left to do are sign our applications, get approved, and pay the premiums.

• Create will-like document to secure guardianship and general well-being of Frema-Useless Clutter offspring

This isn't done yet, but we've decided on a will kit, a kit that also includes other Important Documents for things like revocable trusts and durable power of attorney. Easily available online for the low, low price of $13.50! Suze Orman, have I told you lately that I love you?

• 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

I've stopped deleting the reminder e-mails. Does that count as progress?

• 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

Last week Luke assembled the bassinet and changing table, and I had a grand ole time on Saturday organizing all that glorious shelf and drawer space. Later that night, after spending a combined six hours at Babies R Us and Target stocking up on the (admittedly few yet still insanely important to us) baby essentials we didn't get at our shower, we camped out in Freka's room to cut off the tags on all her clothes and tear through package after package of onesies and sleepers to prepare them for the wash. Yes, I know that was premature, and yes, I'm aware she could still be a he, and no, I don't plan on dressing our son in outfits decorated with pink flowers and hearts, but what can I say? Luke and I plan to have more children, so we can always set aside what doesn't work for baby number one. Or we can pass them off to one of the gazillion pregnant women I currently know. Either way, my nesting urge will be sated, and at this point, that's all that matters.

• Research nursing bras/camis

You guys were right--Target's got 'em both. Enough said.

• Prepare and freeze several meals for easy reheating during baby's first few weeks
• Explore cheap birth announcement ideas

Sets of a hundred are only forty bucks through Walgreens, so Walgreens it is! In an effort to save on postage, we're going to stick the announcements in our Christmas cards, allowing us to spread holiday cheer and show off our baby in one fell swoop.

• Purchase and wrap Christmas presents
• Find a pediatrician
• Install, inspect car seat
• Pack hospital bags

By this time next week, this list should be even shorter, as I plan to launder any and all baby items and put them in their proper places, pack hospital bags, complete my Sallie Mae consolidation application, and drop Audrey's TLF soundtrack in the mail, at the very least, so help me, God. I will also make it my mission in life to compare the list of area pediatricians provided my ob/gyn against our insurance directory so we can fit in a few consults before the month is out.

I feel much better.

Forget the epidural; why doesn't anybody warn you about the IV?

It's been a long few days.

Those of you who follow my Parents blog already know about last Thursday's ER scare; those of you who don't? Well, you really should follow my Parents blog.

Just kidding. (Except not really.)

Here's the story: Almost two weeks ago, I showed signs of my third pregnancy-related yeast infection. I began treatment and took my last dose this past Wednesday; the following morning, I awoke to mild irritation in my vaginal area. Initially attributing it to an ill-timed poke with the Monistat applicator, I drove to Rensselaer as usual for class because my friend Jackie--fellow BlogHer attendee and seasoned PR executive--was scheduled to give a presentation about her experience with blogs in the marketing world. I didn't want to waste her time or cheat my students, and anyway, I figured the discomfort would fade away as the day wore on.

Only it didn't. Two hours before class, I was crying to Luke about the pain, my God, THE PAIN, in my special place and now my stomach, too, wondering how the hell I was going to make it from six to eight-thirty without running to the bathroom, pulling my pants down, and trying my damndest to relieve myself, as by that time, my symptoms were comparable to the worst urinary tract infection imaginable.

As it turns out, I didn't make it. Hell, if you ask my students, I barely made it the first thirty minutes. Five minutes before class began, I called Luke to tell him I needed to get to the hospital. I knew I couldn't drive back to Indy in my condition, so the plan was for him and his brother to meet me in Purdue country, enabling my husband to take my spot behind the wheel without leaving behind a second car. I figured Jackie could make her presentation and I could end class shortly after to get started on the forty-five-minute trip to Lafayette.

Educating young minds without sacrificing my need for immediate medical attention. Everybody wins!

Jackie eventually transported me to the local ER.*

I didn't know what to feel. On one hand, Freka's activity level hadn't changed at all, and I wasn't leaking any fluid, so a phone call to my doctor reassured me I probably wasn't in labor. On the other, I was also experiencing irregular contractions and a physical strain so intense I could barely walk. All I could think about was parking my ass on a toilet and willing it out of my body.

The ER nurses loved hearing that. "Don't push, don't push!" one of them barked when I explained my urge to pee. "We don't want to deliver a baby right now!"

Me, neither, lady.

Thankfully, I wasn't in labor. I was, however, badly dehydrated, and apparently lack of fluid was to blame for the contractions and that horrible pain. I received my very first IV feed, and it hurt like a sonofabitch. A non-stress test confirmed the baby's heart beat was strong, and three and a half hours later, Luke and I left the hospital with the results of my urinalysis and strict instructions for me to get more rest and drink lots of water.

The fun part? A follow-up appointment with my ob/gyn the next day showed that our little Freka is sitting way lower than normal for this stage in the game; also, my cervix has already begun to soften. Even though there's still seven weeks to go until my December 10th due date, it's not totally off-base to think my Christmas baby might be here by Thanksgiving.

At least she's head down.

Things are OK now; I had another "episode" on Saturday night, but I'm thinking the six hours Luke and I spent running through the aisles of Babies R Us and Super Target in a frantic attempt to stock up on the last of our baby essentials had something to do with it. Once again, copious amounts of water saved the day.

...And consider yourself officially caught up on all matters related to my uterus. Don't you feel special?

In other news, my sister's post-wedding wedding shower is set for November 18th, but in light of recent events, there's no way I can in good conscience commit to a trip to Chicago. Ryan was extremely understanding, and she promised to visit with Jason while he's on leave, but still, knowing I have to miss one of the few marital milestones I could've actually participated in for her doesn't have me jumping up and down for joy. (Their elopement, by the way, was rescheduled for this weekend due to outrageously priced air fare, so she still has another few days of living life as a single woman.)

Tune in again on Wednesday to see all the progress I've made on my prenatal to-do list. You'll be amazed, I promise.

* Words can't express how grateful I am for all Jackie did that night--taking over my class, driving me to the hospital, staying by my side until Luke arrived.... I couldn't have managed on my own, and she made it possible that I didn't have to. Jackie, thanks so much for being such a good friend. It means more than you know.

I almost fell out of my chair today.

Literally. I was joining my boss and HR director for a meeting in our fancy schmancy conference room, and as I went to sit down, the chair lurched back and I had to grab the table to keep my skull from kissing the carpet.

Thank goodness I wasn't asking for a raise.

The meeting was just as big a deal, though, because it involved creating a list of "back-ups" to handle my responsibilities when I'm on maternity leave. The last few weeks, I've been swamped with things to do, and at first I thought the best way to handle all the build-up was work work work and deal with the long-term details of my absence closer to my due date. However, as time marches on, I've come to realize that I'd feel a lot more settled if I had those details ironed out now instead of later, because the last thing I want to think about when my water breaks is who's going to finish our winter newsletter.

Work isn't the only place where my to-do list runs a mile long; I'm constantly reminded of household projects I hope to complete before Freka makes her grand debut but have yet to organize into some sort of tangible reference guide.

Until now.

Project Freka: Prenatal Edition

(in no particular order)

• 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!)
• 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
• 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
• Pack hospital bags
• Fuh-REAK out over the fact that in seven and a half weeks, I'll finally have my baaaaaybeeee

To keep me on task and give you something to read, I plan to post my progress every Wednesday. If you think I'm missing something, let me know. Any additions will probably cause me to break down at my desk, but you know, whatever.

Also, I think I can cross off that last one.

Baby Boom

Big weekend. BIG. Baby shower! Generous family and friends. Beautiful gifts. Very tired. Also, a little overwhelmed with the knowledge that yesterday marked eight remaining weeks until my daughter's arrival. That said, let's get this show on the road, shall we?

Freka's shower was hosted by my family and organized by my mother and sister, the super-excited Auntie Samantha, on Saturday, October 13, at my parents' house in Chicago.

My mother made the cake, and it was delicious: vanilla frosting, white and chocolate layers, strawberry and banana filling. Every pregnant woman's dream.

One of the shower activities involved all the guests writing a letter to the baby geared towards a specific birthday year. She'll receive a letter for each year of her life until she turns twenty-three. Here's Samantha, hard at work. I think she chose year eighteen.

Surely you recognize Molly, my blogger partner-in-crime. If I look a little dazed, it's because ten minutes before this picture was taken, I was holding the three-week-old son of my girlfriend, Nicole, oohing and aahing over his tiny fingers and toes, realizing with a start that in two months, the child in my arms will be mine.

It was daunting, to say the least, and I came close to throwing up a little bit in my mouth, but overall, it was a good feeling.

Words can't begin to describe how grateful Luke and I are for all the wonderful gifts we received. Stroller, high chair, Pack 'n Play, bedding, bouncy seat, tummy time mat, monitors, bottles, lotions, creams, clothes, blankets, toys.... It really was amazing. This baby is so loved, already.

Belly shot with the proud grandmas.

Me, three of the four grandparents, and the "Baby Girl" doggie signed by all the guests. When I saw Luke had written "I love you! -- Daddy," I almost cried.

Luke and his brother, Matt.

Though I didn't get to visit with everyone for as long as I would've liked, us girls did manage to squeeze in a chat over cake. Starting from the left we've got Gina, my sister Ryan (newly engaged! And the ring is so pretty!), Samantha, and Brooke.

Luke and me with my brother and sisters, sharing the sibling love. Are they a good-looking bunch or what?

Momma and Daddy.

Me just two days shy of week thirty-two, happily sporting a blow-out I wish I could've maintained for the duration of my pregnancy because honestly, the hair clips and rubber bands? Not really cutting it anymore.

And finally, because I know this is what you all REALLY came here to see, wee baby things!

 

I can't believe how quickly time has flown by. Luke and I completed our four-week childbirth prep class last Friday (and it was great. Our instructor is the mother of five and experienced labor and delivery with her last two completely unmedicated, which gives me hope that I can, too), so all that's left are two sessions dedicated to labor support and breastfeeding basics. I just spent a hundred and sixty dollars online at Gap Maternity because my pants won't stay up and my belly button is on the verge of shamelessly exposing itself to random coworkers at the lab. I'm still shopping for a breast pump, torn between the Internet's fondness for Ameda and Nicole's love for the Medela. We need to interview pediatricians. We finally have what we need to start decorating the baby's room. And this afternoon, I wrote my first entry for Freka's journal.

We really are almost there.

I want fried chicken. (This entry isn't about that, though.)

Also, I'm still in awe that 58 of you commented on a post dedicated to cloth diapering.

Thank you all so much for the many, MANY recommendations you left in response to my call-out for cloth info. It sounds like the best plan is to buy a diaper here and there and see which ones Freka likes best. Luke and I don't mind using disposables while we're testing the waters, especially since we never planned on an all-or-nothing type deal to begin with. I have no intentions of touting shit-stained diapers when traveling outside city limits.

I have to admit, though, using anything other than an All-In-One scares the bejeezus out of me, even though several of you are die-hard advocates of the more...involved products. The idea of trying to assemble various diaper parts and do I have to order them all separately or are they included in each individual order and what the hell is a PUL is enough to scare me into Huggies's open arms for the rest of my childbearing years. I can only pray detailed instructions and step-by-step diagrams are included in every package.

I'm nervous about working out the kinks but definitely excited about keeping money in the bank. Somebody mentioned that the added expense of increased laundering might cancel out the cost savings associated with buying cloth, but I can't imagine doing one more load every couple of days will run me $336 a month--the approximate amount it would take to keep Freka in Pampers each month.

Hmm. Thanks, Jana, for pointing out my faulty logic. I took the numbers of diapers I anticipate changing every day (12), multiplied that by seven, and then multiplied that by four, which gave me 336--a correct number if we're talking about how many diapers Luke and I will change each month, but not the monthly cost.

On BabiesRUs.com, they carry boxes of 96-count Pampers for $22.95. Three boxes would leave us about 48 diapers short for the month, but the cost for those would be $68.97, so let's assume I'd spend a hundred dollars a month (with tax) on disposables. Not the huge monthly savings I anticipated, but still, a hundred bucks is a hundred bucks, and my cost for diapers overall should be considerably less with cloth. Kerflop shares a breakdown at her Very Baby Web site, one she probably didn't attempt to outline at 1:30 in the morning.

(Now back to our regularly scheduled entry.)

As far as the environment goes, whether or not it makes a significant difference to our landfill problem, it certainly can't hurt. So we'll give it a try and see how it goes.

Now on to more important things, like the fact that my sister Ryan is getting married in two weeks so she can move to Germany in December to be with her high school sweetheart slash ambitious Army husband.

My mother called last week to say that Jason had contacted my father from his base in Texas to ask for Ryan's hand in marriage (I know, I know, outdated and patriarchial and insulting to women, blah blah blah, but it means a lot to my parents that all of their future son-in-laws do this, and in the end nobody's worse for the wear). Anyway, permission was granted, Ryan flew down to Texas for the weekend, and by 11:30 Sunday night she had spilled the marital beans. She also told me Jason's being transferred to Germany in two months and they needed to be married by then so she could go with him. Tonight, she said they've made plans to elope next weekend so she can get a head start on the mountain of paperwork required for her Big Move. Jason is slated to come home for a short visit mid-November, at which time there'll be some sort of celebratory gathering for the newlyweds. By Christmas, they'll both be gone. It's not even guaranteed that Ryan can meet her firstborn niece before she has to leave.

So, to sum up: Baby sister is getting MARRIED, OH MY GOD, moving to an overseas country far away from friends and family, and by the way, my new brother-in-law might get deployed to Iraq or Afghanistan next year.

It has also not escaped my attention that in mid-November I'll be thirty-six weeks pregnant and Chicago is a good four-hour drive from Indianapolis, what with all the construction taking place on both the tollroads and expressways. And that's just one way.

This is a lot of information for a highly strung, easily overwhelmed incubator to absorb in a forty-eight-hour timespan, but so far, I'm doing OK. If you're up to being helpful, though, I wouldn't mind suggestions regarding appropriate wedding presents for a bride and groom who have no practical use for coffee pots, toasters, or oven mitts. These gifts should also be readily available at most retail chains, seeing as Freka's shower this Saturday will also commemorate Ryan's last days as a single woman. I can't let her say "I do" without having at least a little something from me.

Let's talk about cloth, baby

I hear there's a new de-lurking movement pulsing through the blogosphere today: The Great MoFo De-Lurk, in which those of you who cower behind the bland template of your feed reader are encouraged to visit the sites of the blogs you read and (gasp!) leave a comment. Now, I use a feed reader for blogs I'm still "getting to know" but rely heavily on my About page's blogroll to keep up with my favorite reads, so this concept isn't geared towards folks like me. However, if you're going to take the trouble to stop by these parts, the least I could do is give you something to talk about, right?

Right. So here it is: cloth diapers.

Whenever Luke and I tell people that we plan to use cloth diapers for Freka, we're usually met with a nose crinkle and a "Good luck with that," as if we're lofty idealists completely out of touch with the workings of the real world. And for the most part, I can understand where they're coming from. Why purchase reusable diapers when you can buy ones that go in the trash? Who wants to run shitty fabric through their big, shiny washing machine?

How about people who want to save money?

Though my husband won't be quitting his job until the end of my maternity leave, we'll actually be putting our one-income budget into effect the minute I'm hit with my first contraction since, you know, I'll be too busy caring for our child to bring home the bacon. This means we have to be very creative with our budget in hopes of working each dollar to the max. When it came time to draft our Excel spreadsheet, we looked at what the cost of using disposable diapers would do to that budget and nearly had a collective heart attack. Because of the Interweb, I was already familiar with some of the benefits of using cloth, but my near miss with death sealed the deal.

I talked to Luke about it, and he was totally on board, which was pretty important, seeing as he'll be the one in charge of all the day changings once I'm back at work. He was especially interested in doing a little something extra to cut back on the vast amounts of waste we humans dump into our landfills every day.

(Quick note here to acknowledge that the only reason cloth diapers are feasible for us as renters is the fact that we have a washer and dryer set in our apartment. No way could we afford to pay a professional laundering service. The whole point is to save money, remember?)

Yes, this move will require a little more legwork on our part. Yes, it might get a little disgusting from time to time. But hey, nobody said this parenting gig would be shit-free.

Still with me? Here's what I need from you:

Luke and I need to build up our supply of cloth diapers. We know we want to go with enough All-In-Ones (no messing with extra inserts for us, thank you very much) to last us the first few months, but we're not sure how many we need starting out or how varied the sizes should be (i.e., do we really need to buy the ones especially for newborns, or can we just go with the next size up?). We're also not sure where to search for the best deals or if we'll need any special accessories to make this work. Also, where in the hell do you stash the dirty ones until you're ready to wash them? I'm assuming the bathroom, but WHERE?

Readers without any interest in the type of fabric destined to grace my kid's ass: Can you offer any insights on the new Tori Amos CD? This is just as important as the diaper stuff, seeing as Luke and I bought tickets to her November Indy show! Yes!

Freka's going to love it. She's already partial to "Bliss."

Tell me I need a medium and it'll be the last sentence you utter.

Oh, Internet. I am a crabby, crabby woman.

Part of it is the craptacular sleep I've been getting lately. Neck cramps from using even one damn pillow to support my head. Pee breaks every hour and a half. The agony that is laying down on the mattress in the first place, because if my body suspects even for a second that I want to lay on my back, it's like a thousand-pound weight has been dropped onto my chest and I'm grunting like one of those Orcs in Lord of the Rings.

Luke's been a good sport and swears my thrashing about doesn't bother him, but I'm wondering how much longer I've got before he banishes me to our yet-to-be-used sleeper sofa. Or leaves me permanently in search of greener, less pregnant pastures.

The other part is juggling my work load. It continues to get better, though, which I attribute to dragging my ass into the office before nine-thirty to get a head start on my day. You eight o'clockers are probably cursing me out right now, but my work schedule is so flexible that I could really show up at any time (or work from home), so long as my productivity doesn't suffer. I usually thrive on later hours, but these days all I care about is ending my day as soon as possible so I can eat peanut butter ice cream and take lots of naps.

This week is particularly busy, but there'll be a silver lining come three o'clock this Friday, when I can deliver a ginormous proposal downtown. I may reward myself with tickets to a Tori Amos concert--another issue causing me a great deal of inner turmoil.

I was introduced to Little Earthquakes on a spiritual retreat in high school at the tender age of seventeen and was immediately taken by her vivid imagery, the way her voice could be both brutal and tender, the manner in which her fingers moved over piano keys. So what if I couldn't interpret most of the lyrics? Lines like "Maybe she's just pieces of me you've never seen" blew me the eff away.

My confusion deepened with each album I discovered, along with my musical infatuation, and except for a brief time in high school where I debated chucking Boys for Pele because I feared listening to track number four would secure my spot in Hell (to this day I skip that one, it creeps me out that much), I remained a devoted fan into my college years. Sophomore year my friend and I scored tickets at the last minute for her show with Alanis Morissette, and I was so excited about going to MY FIRST CONCERT and it was to see TORI FREAKING AMOS, OH MY GOD that I cried in my dorm room for twenty minutes.

Anyway. I bought everything of hers I could get my hands on until 2001, after the release of Strange Little Girls, a cover album I actually really enjoyed, but the rest of her stuff after that was too weird for me and I gave up trying to figure it out. It warms my heart to know she's still around, but I don't follow her current career.

At least, I didn't until I learned she was coming to Indy this November. Indy, of all places! The woman who brought "Snow Cherries from France" into my life will be performing in my own backyard.

For forty bucks a pop. And therein lies the dilemma because, in case you didn't know, Luke and I are having a baby this December. I can think of a million ways to spend eighty dollars that don't involve sitting in a packed theater and wading through lines of sweaty strangers to use the john every eight minutes, all to hear a play list that'll be mostly unfamiliar to me.

On the other hand, Luke and I are having a baby this December, and this may be the last time in my twenties that we can attend a concert worry-free. Plus, with her cult following, isn't Tori mandated to include a good number of tried-and-true fan favorites in her set?

What's a girl to do?

(Also, are you still with me? I realize this entry is horribly fragmented, but it's been so long, so very very long!)

-------

Hmmm. When I started this entry, I was very crabby. But I'm not crabby anymore. And if you want to know the truth, what really ticked me off more than any of the shit I just mentioned was an encounter I had with one of my coworkers this afternoon right before leaving the lab. I was waiting to drop something off for the receptionist when one of my coworkers (the omelet guy! Yes!) happened to be walking down the hallway. He saw me, stopped, furrowed his brow, and smiled.

The hell? I thought, but I smiled back anyway. That's when he said it.

"When are you due?"

Red spots danced before my eyes.

"December. December 10."

Pause.

"You sure?"

The spots turned into stars. Glorious, yellow-brick-road stars with flames bursting from each point. I sincerely wished for one of the points to embed itself into Omelet Guy's skull.

Shit. My "That's not nice" line is totally out of place here.

"You know, my doctor says I'm measuring perfectly. I don't know why I get all these comments about my size," I said.

He cocked his head as if lost in thought. "Mabye it's the shirt," he finally concluded, and then he was out of sight, continuing his stroll down the empty corridor.

(Insert mouth agape emoticon here.)

Internet, I am not crazy. I really am measuring perfectly at the doctor's office. At twenty-eight weeks, my uterus was twenty-eight centimeters (not inches, thanks, Katie). Upgrading my shirt size will not change how the cotton clings to my belly, a belly that is FILLED WITH A CHILD WHO IS ALMOST THREE POUNDS, WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT FROM ME.

I do not look nine months pregnant.

Do I?

You realize, of course, the above question was totally rhetorical.