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

I may not be a natural athlete, but I sure am great on defense

On Wednesday night, Luke and I prepared ourselves for our first "big" trip away from home with the baby--dual check-ups at the dentist, whose office is located a good half-hour from the apartment. Diapers, check. Wipes, check. Back-up outfit, check. Pacifiers, three different kinds. Pre-mixed bottles, double check. Also, a whole lot of finger-crossing. We'd been out with Kara several times, but just to run small errands among faceless strangers we'd never see again. We know our dentist. We LIKE our dentist. And we didn't want him thinking our girl was anything but a beautiful, delectable, five-week-old-who's-already-wearing-three-to-six-month-old-clothing angel.

The visit went well overall, with just a few snags. Like when the hygenist squeeled over Kara's adorable adorableness (can you blame her? I mean, really) and she asked how the baby was sleeping, and I said pretty well, considering her age, and I was able to bank four to six hours a night on average, and she was like, "Wow!" and I was like, "Yeah, we're pretty lucky, I'm sure it'd be different if we were still breastfeeding, though," and she was like, "Oh?" and then, because I am still Sensitive About My Feeding Choices, fell victim to Diarrhea of the Mouth and spent ten minutes relaying my woeful nursing tale. Then she was like, "What formula are you using?" and I was all, "Similac Advanced," and she was like, "Oh!" And I was left thinking, "Huh?"

After THAT awkward exchange, Kara decided it was time to release a questionable-smelling number two, which, thanks, sweetie, for pooping in a place where the restroom doesn't have one of those plastic koala-bear tables attached to the door. My first diaper change away from home was staged on the floor of my doctor's personal office just as Luke's exam was coming to a close. He peeked in on me and the baby and gave us a smile. "I'm almost done," I said as I tried to keep my collection of dirty diaper wipes in a manageable pile away from his fancy, shiny furniture. A couple of minutes later, he popped in again while I was fastening her waist straps. "She still fighting you?" he asked.

Fighting me? What the hell is that supposed to mean? I bristled at his choice of words but shrugged it off as I passed Kara over to Luke and took my place in the chair. "It's about time for her to eat," I said as she began to fuss, and he nodded as they made their way back to the waiting room. The hygenist took the standard annual x-rays, and when the doctor joined us a few minutes later, I could hear Kara wailing in the other room.

"She's very loud, huh?" he said, smiling. The corners of my mouth turned up weakly.

"Yep, she sure is," I replied.

"Is she colicky?" he asked, and I stiffened, even though Luke and I were wondering the same thing last night. Once again, I tried to laugh it off.

"No, she's just a baby, doing what babies do." Now, if we could please just keep the focus on my damn teeth....

Luke and I have been frequenting this particular dentist's office for almost two years, and we like him very much. It's not like the guy's a jerk or anything. But I'm still wearing this motherhood gig very delicately, like a brand-new suit I'm afraid to take outside, and I don't know how to deal with those random comments people say about my kid. Just like when I was pregnant, I want to set the masses straight, tell them their remarks are out of line and why, only this time I'm not the focus, my baby is, and the last thing I want is for anyone to have the opinion she's anything less than wonderful.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Even more amazing than peeing on all those sticks

There were two possible ways I could approach blogging about today's appointment.

1) Post a quick "It's a insert gender here!" and go into more detail later.

2) Write a lengthy entry and make you wait 'til the end for the reveal.

At first I thought I'd go with number two, until I realized that most people would just skim through the entry until they found the information they wanted, which meant all my carefully crafted prose would go to waste, and who wants that?

In the end, I decided to write the tell-all version right off the bat. But first...

Sugar and spice and everything nice, indeed. And this next statement might sound weird, especially since you're essentially looking at my daughter's ass (I think; some of these pictures are super hard to read), but she's absolutely beautiful.

------- ------- -------

It wasn't until Luke and I were in the car to make our 10:30 appointment with the ultrasound tech that I began to feel nervous. Up until that point I'd been solely focused on learning the gender, but once we were on our way to the clinic, I couldn't stop picturing worst-case scenarios about the progress our baby was making. I'm eating much better and have put on a few pounds since my last visit, but what if my lack of weight gain was due to the baby's lack of growth? Why hadn't I felt Freke move yet? What if, lying on that table with my belly covered in goo, we were told the baby had died?

Awful thoughts, but I couldn't shake them. My heart was pounding, my hands were clammy, and I thought I was going to lose the bowl of Fruit Loops I had for breakfast.

Once there, we waited about ten minutes, and then suddenly I was lying on that table, pulling down the waistband of my maternity pants, and breathing deeply in an effort to stay calm. Lisa, our technician, squirted the gel over my stomach (and it was hot! Yikes!), and went into her spiel.

"Now, I normally use 'he' when referring to the baby, so until I say, 'I think it's a...', don't take that to mean anything, OK?" she said.

We nodded.

"Also, I like to make faces when I'm reading the screen, but that doesn't mean anything's wrong, OK?"

Again with the nodding of the heads.

She was a pleasant woman, that Lisa, and the three of us chit-chatted about various gender myths as she moved the wand over my belly, typing notes on the screen and keeping an eye on the monitor the whole time. She kept it face forward, so I tried to crane my neck a bit to see what was going on, with no luck. I motioned for Luke to join me next to the table, and he grabbed my hand.

After a few minutes, a slew of pictures printed from her machine, and she tilted the monitor towards us. There was our baby.

She pointed out various body parts for us to see: head, legs, arms, spine, stomach, from all sorts of angles. I almost stopped breathing when I saw the tiny little heart muscle, beating just as fiercely as it had during my initial appointments through the Doppler. A hundred and forty-three beats per minute, she said.

Then we were on a mission.

"Let's see what we can find," she said, and proceeded to poke and prod my belly for a shot of the good stuff.

It was hard at first, but finally the baby moved into the proper position, and Lisa took a peek.

"Now, there's always a chance I could be wrong, but I think..." Her voice trailed off, and her fingers returned to the keyboard to type those fateful words.

"It's a girl."

And that was it. I started to cry, and I really went all out, with the chest heaving and shortness of breath and the blotchy red face. I couldn't believe it. I was so damn happy to see our baby in action, in person. It was the most miraculous moment of my pregnancy thus far. Not since learning about this little person's existence have I been so emotional.

Luke squeezed my hand and kissed the top of my head, and Lisa grabbed some tissues. She didn't comment on my tears, and I was glad, because I hate when people acknowledge my blubbering. It just makes the blubbering worse.

After about fifteen minutes of watching our baby in action, Lisa was helping me off the table and handing Luke our now-precious VHS tape. We went back to the waiting room for my 11:00 appointment and were ushered in just minutes later.

The actual appointment was great. Measuring within a four-day range of her December 10th due date, our little girl is doing marvelously, and there's no reason not to think I'll give birth to a strong and healthy baby.

Hi there, baby. We love you.

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Now the only question is what to do about her Internet moniker. Freke no longer seems fitting, and I was considering Frekie, but that might be even worse. Freka? Frekette? Your suggestions are most welcome.

According to my doctor, I'm one hot momma

Maybe "hot" is too strong a word, but this morning at the ob/gyn's office, the first thing he did after shaking my hand was comment on how warm I felt. Then he winked. Or was it an eye twitch? So tired today. It's all a blur.

As far as Freke is concerned, everything is A-OK. My urine sample came up clean, and while I haven't lost or gained any weight since my last appointment, I'm continuously reassured that this child is acting as a parasite and thus freely taking whichever nutrients it needs to thrive, regardless if there's anything left for me. After relaying this information to my mother on the phone later in the afternoon, she said, "His whole life he'll be taking from you. Get used to it now."

(In case you didn't notice, my mom thinks Freke's a boy.)

I had a lot of questions today, questions about when to schedule classes and search for a pediatrician, and also uncontrollable smiles on the way to work, because we went ahead and scheduled my first ultrasound for July 11th at 10:30 a.m. By lunchtime I'll (hopefully) know whether to read up on HPV vaccinations or begin addressing the whole "to circumcise or not circumcise" issue.

I was informed we can invite family and friends to witness the baby's debut on the two-dimensional screen, but Luke likes the idea of us finding out together, just the two of us, and seeing as we'll be up north that weekend, anyway, we can just bring in our VHS tape and show everyone just as well, though my mother has informed me that she doesn't want to know the gender, despite my warning that I'll be sharing the news with the entire Internet. So, for any relatives who read this blog (Auntie Diane, are you out there? Stop lurking!), know that your lips must remain sealed regarding the revelation of any wee body parts. Because, don't you know, "finding out the gender in the delivery room is the only fun thing about pregnancy."

What can I say? I want my fun now.

Testing 1-2-3 Wednesday

Yesterday I had a follow-up doctor's appointment to check on my recent weight loss. Turns out another three pounds have gone by the wayside since I was in last, but since my appetite is slowly starting to return, the physician I met with saw no reason to take any further action. I heard the heartbeat again, whooshing away at about a hundred and sixty beats per minute, and we talked about the ultrasound I'll be having in roughly eight to ten weeks.

She also brought up the idea of prenatal testing. Hmmm.

I know that testing can be important for many types of women. Those of certain ethnicities, for example, or who are over 35, or whose family histories include physical or mental disabilities. I know that testing can determine whether or not your baby is predispositioned to genetic defects and provide couples with an opportunity to make critical, sometimes heartbreaking, decisions prior to delivery. I know it and appreciate having the choice. But I don't want it.

My reasoning? Neither Luke's nor my cultural backgrounds are prone to anything out of the ordinary. Experiencing my first pregnancy at 27 years old is far enough from 35 to categorize this gestation as low-risk. I'm healthy. Our families are healthy. Everything should be fine. But if for some reason it isn't? Well, I don't know that we'd do anything about it, anyway. After all our talk of wanting a baby, we've been given a baby--a miracle, a gift we've done nothing to deserve. We will take this gift and care for this child the best way we can, for as long as we can, whether it's eighty-three years or twelve days or six minutes or just nine months in utero. Even the best testing can't guarantee anything, even the best testing can be wrong, and I would hate to play God based on the number of dots or squiggles printed on a piece of paper, then wonder for the rest of my life if I should've left things alone. I'd much rather take each day as it comes and prepare for the worst when there is a legitimate reason to do so.

Tell me, parents out there, what's your take on or experience with prenatal testing?

Edited to add: In reading through your comments, I realized my post reads as if I believe the only reason to move forward with testing would be to determine if termination is "necessary," which isn't true at all. There are many afflictions that can plague babies but don't prevent them from living long and happy lives, and many parents want to have that information. Again, though, for me, it wouldn't help. How does one mentally prepare for something like that? As far as medical arrangements are concerned, Luke and I have chosen a hospital that's well-equipped to handle any complications with my labor and/or the baby's arrival, and if specialists are required, we can receive recommendations at that time.

I briefly considered going through with the first-trimester screening, a non-invasive way to detect chromosomal abnormalities, but to have a test done simply because it was non-invasive didn't sit well with me. Since ultrasounds between eighteen and twenty-two weeks are routine and have the capability to provide physical evidence of a problem, that's enough 411 for this mother-to-be. Finding out the gender? Will be icing on the cake.

It seems like only yesterday I was ten weeks' pregnant

On the day Luke and I learned I was "with child," one of the first things we did was race over to the computer to determine a due date. We stumbled across babycenter.com, which asked a couple of questions about the first day of my last period and the average length of my cycles and then voila! A December 10th due date.

Three days later, I met with my ob/gyn nurse for the first time, who used that fancy little calendar wheel shaped like a pack of birth control pills to place my date of delivery at November 29th. Since she had collected extensive information on my menstrual history, I shrugged my shoulders and didn't give it much thought. Until today, that is, when the doctor noticed my cycle length and discovered that the nurse hadn't taken my 38-day visits from Aunt Flo into account.

"So that means..."

"Instead of being ten weeks and five days pregnant, you're actually only nine weeks and two days," he said. Which puts me back to a December 9th/10th due date.

In other words, I have to deal with this first-trimester crap for THREE MORE WEEKS. Oh, the horror. Words cannot properly express my sorrow.

It also means I'll change weeks on Monday instead of Friday. This kid is lucky I'm flexible.

Other then that enlightening piece of information, the visit went well. Luke was subjected to an up-close-and-personal view of my first prenatal pelvic exam, through which it was revealed that I have a wide V bone or whatever the hell it is you call it, which will be helpful when it's time to push this darling miracle out of my special place, and the internal exam showed that my uterus is a bit larger than what's considered typical for nine weeks, so basically we have to wait for the first ultrasound to see when this baby might want to come out. The doctor asked about my weight loss and reassured me that I can skip vitamins altogether right now if I can't keep them down, since the most important thing I can do is increase my fluid and caloric intake, in that order. He recommended lots of milkshakes, and really, who am I to refuse doctor's orders?

We also got to hear the baby's heartbeat, though we were warned that nine weeks is sometimes too early to pick up anything on the monitor. He squirted some jelly on my lower stomach and pressed. We all waited. I kept my eyes on the ceiling, already consoling myself with the knowledge that we could try again in a couple of weeks at my next appointment, scheduled specifically to see if I was making any progress in the weight gain area.

Finally, after a couple of minutes, it was there.

Whoosh whoosh whoosh whoosh whoosh. Like my uterus was busy washing a load of whites on its lunch hour. Only it wasn't a load of whites, it was my little baby. A hundred and seventy beats per minute, the doctor said. Luke and I locked eyes and smiled.

Pretty effing cool.

Baby Steps Wednesday

Baby steps, indeed.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 138.8
CURRENT WEIGHT: 138.2
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 13.2

I blame the absence of any truly significant weight loss this week on Luke's surprise dessert Tuesday night. The day had been going so well otherwise; me weighing in at a respectable 137.2 that morning, the two of us feasting on a light dinner of grilled cheese and tomato soup, my future plans of nursing a small bowl of berry rainbow sherbet before bed. Then, suddenly, I noticed the oven was on.

Surprise! Luke said. Pillsbury cinnamon bread!

Foiled again!

In an effort to remain content with eating at home, we often pick up fun breakfast items from the grocery store to have on the weekends, like muffins or cinnamon rolls. Who knew one could partake in the joy during the evening hours?

After it finished baking, Luke presented his spontaneous masterpiece on one of our largest Target dishes, along with two forks, and we delighted in the gooey, frosty goodness. Ten minutes later, Luke had stopped with the delighting; meanwhile, I was packing it away like a rabid squirrel on the cusp of hibernating for the winter. The look on my husband's face clued me in that we probably weren't meant to finish it off in one sitting.

And to think I told my new ob/gyn I was giving diet and exercise "an honest try." Ha!

My appointment yesterday ended my journey to find a doctor who could manage both the care of my nether region and the delivery of my first child before either was actually necessary. The first one I met with two Fridays ago was receptive to all of my questions, but Dr. Wonderful (do you think she'll mind if I call her that?) took a more proactive approach in providing information. She initiated conversations about office procedures, equipment capabilities (3D ultrasounds right in their office!), how to time conception, standard L & D practices, and anything else you could possibly think of; plus, the fact that she was a young, healthy woman currently experiencing pregnancy herself--she's due at the end of the month--put me at ease right away. I knew within the first five minutes I'd found the right person.

Before I left, Dr. Wonderful sent me off with a generous sampling of prenatal vitamins, and it's now starting to hit me that holy crap, I'm trying to grow a baby inside of me. For the first time in my life, I'm counting the days on the calendar in anticipation of my next fertile window, Luke and I both so excited about finally taking the next step in our relationship as a family. There's no guessing how long it will be before the little person I'm so in love with already will assume his/her rightful place in the world, but knowing that we're finally OK with putting ourselves out there, well, right now that's fantastic enough.

Not so much that I'm laying off the junk food, apparently, but fantastic just the same. I'll get there, sweet baby, I promise!

A Blush-Inducing Public Service Announcement

The memory of losing my virginity is one that will never lose color. I was eighteen years old and on the verge of jetting off to college, and Nick, The Boyfriend Who Went For Three Weeks Without Calling, and I had been dating for three years--not straight through, but steady enough that each break-up led to a passionate reunion, and every reunion foreshadowed an angry shouting match complete with name calling, door slamming, and hot tears running down one or both of our faces. You know, all the elements of a deliciously amateur teenage romance.

In the summer of 1998, we'd been together consistently since prom (another post in the making), and from that night, I remember everything. The positioning of his lava lamp; our spot on the bed; the CD set to repeat on his stereo. I was convinced that melting into each other, in body and soul would seal our commitment to each other and provide Nick with the life-changing revelation that after sharing such an intimate experience with me, he'd never be interested in anyone else.

In the midst of clumsily trying to find our way around the bedroom, we both had sense enough to use a condom, and continued to do so for the first two months of our sexual relationship, but by the time we finally (unknowingly) severed all emotional ties two years later, the only layer of protection in place was my spotty use of the Pill. What can I say? We were both virgins when we started, and I never once thought Nick had been unfaithful. The only thing I cared about was not having a baby.

One month into my relationship with Mike, who was lucky enough to date Trophy Frema for ten months, I still believed that to be true. However, thanks to all the literature passed around in high school health class, I knew the most responsible course of action when taking on a new partner was to undergo testing for sexually transmitted diseases. At twenty-six years old, almost twenty-seven, Mike had been with twelve women, and it strengthened my resolve all the more.

That's another day I'll never forget, driving the two hours with him to a congested Illinois suburb to receive services at a free clinic sporting stark, white walls and rows of plastic chairs littered with outdated issues of the Chicago Sun-Times. We waited another hour and a half to be seen, and during that time we sat silently because, really, is any sort of small talk appropriate when you're waiting to find out if any previous sexcapades ruined your fertility or planted warts on your privates?

Once our names were called, each of us was whisked away to separate examining rooms, and I solemnly spread my legs as a doctor who couldn't pronounce my name performed a pap smear conducted a culture under harsh florescent lights. When it was over, the nurse who assisted him gave me a brown paper bag filled with female condoms, assuring me that "your guy will thank you for these, honey, I promise." After I donned my clothes, I found Mike already waiting for me in the lobby. "How did it go?" I asked.

He was pretty quiet until we were almost to the stairway, where he stopped, placed his hands on my shoulders, and said, "I love you, but I didn't go through with it." Something about them wanting to stick a Q-Tip through his you know and him vehemently denying access. We argued about it all the way to the car, but ultimately he won, because he said he wore a condom with his last girlfriend, and he'd been tested a few times before, and he was positive he didn't have gonorrhea, and that was that. And even though I knew he'd been with four women in the last twelve months because the forms had a spot for listing your number of sexual partners and he commented on 2000 being a pretty good year, I didn't push the issue. Adding to the madness was the fact that I was still on birth control, but we never used a condom. Not even the female ones endorsed by my overly enthusiastic free-clinic nurse. I was in love, and I trusted him. For almost a year I trusted him, until we broke up, and Luke and I started dating, and soon we were asking questions about the other's sexual history. We brought up the idea of STD testing but never took it any further.

Until this year.

While reading through my Kerflop-approved copy of Taking Charge of Your Fertility: The Definitive Guide to Natural Birth Control, Pregnancy Achievement, and Reproductive Health, I discovered a whole chapter dedicated to the correlation between STDs and infertility, and by the end I couldn't believe how reckless I'd been to kabosh testing after Mike and I parted ways. Suddenly all of my former hesitations--Where will I find another free clinic? What if the doctor calls me a slut? What if Luke thinks I don't trust him?--paled in comparison to the possibility of passing something harmful along to our future baby.

So today, after conducting my second ob/gyn interview in two weeks, I explained my concerns to the doctor, and she didn't grimace in disgust or tsk tsk at my careless behavior. Instead, she arranged for me to meet with the phlebotomist and have my blood drawn to test for HIV, hepatitis, and syphilis. I'll see her again in six weeks for a culture, where she'll gather samples to test for gonorrhea and chlamydia.

Do I think I have a sexually transmitted disease? No. Do I think Nick or Mike ever cheated on me? No. Do I think Luke contracted anything from his previous partner? No. Am I experiencing any out-of-the-ordinary symptoms? No.

But do I know for sure?

No.

And my budding family deserves better.

Edited to add: Upon further consideration, I don't think the exam I received at the free clinic was a pap smear, since they aren't able to check for STDs that way and the doctor knew that was my sole reason for coming in. Culture, the term my new ob/gyn used, is the correct term.

Giving You the Best That I Got, Which Isn't Much Today

In snippet form:

This morning I saw my general practitioner for the second time in seven days to see how the urinary tract infection I've been suffering from all month responded to the antibiotics. While everything appears to be in tip-top shape, I'm still running to the bathroom every eight seconds, so he prescribed a second round of meds to treat any lingering effects. UTIs are nothing new to me; I've gotten at least one a year since my sophomore year in college, most likely due to the fact that I don't get thirsty very often, I'm afraid a liberal intake of fluids will result in bathroom overload, and I hate the logistics of leaving my office, marching down the corridor, and going through the whole depants-pee-handwash routine twelve times a day. Of course, this eventually guarantees that I'll leave my office, march down the corridor, and go through the whole depants-pee-handwash routine twelve times a day, only with a sharp pain in my bladder and a heightened sense of urgency. My plan, she's not working so well.

During my visit, the doctor and I talked about how Luke and I plan on actively trying for children soon and discussed the importance of finding an ob/gyn now, so I have time to interview different practitioners and determine which one will be the best fit. Besides abandoning artifical birth control last year, this is the biggest step I've taken to acknowledge that I (hopefully) (some day) will become a mother. For some reason, it's freaking me the eff out. Any suggestions of questions to ask when putting these MDs in the hot seat?

My much-anticipated Big Love season one, disc one DVD came in the mail on Tuesday and I popped it in last night, as Luke is away on business and completely uninterested in watching the life of a closet polygamist unfold on the small screen. Thirty seconds into the opening credits I already loved it, knew it would be a work of art, and spent the next two hours learning about the marital interworkings of Bill and Barb, Bill and Nicki, and Bill and Margene.

Storywise, it's fascinating, watching this man juggle three different families and serve as a referee of sorts in the family's interactions with each other. It's also disturbing; Margene, his youngest wife, can't be older than twenty-two, and the way they communicate reminds me more of a father/daughter relationship (minus all the sex, of course) ("Oral is moral!") instead of one in which each partner is on equal footing. (One might argue that women involved in plural marriages aren't looking for equality, but that's a post for another day.) And I can't help feeling for Barb, who spent ten years of her life with a man in a committed, monogamous union before talks of a second wife began. How betrayed she must have felt; how heartbroken she must have been to know her husband was interested in adding another woman to their family.

I don't know if watching this show will be a good idea for me in the long run, but I plan on plowing through a few more episodes, maybe even the entire first season, before I make a final decision.

BlogHer '07 is fast approaching, and updates regarding theme, location, and seminar topics are showing up more frequently in my Gmail inbox. One tiny fact that has yet to be revealed: the freakin' cost. When perusing the list of upcoming conferences, I noticed that BlogHer's business extravaganza in New York City is running for a whopping six hundred and ninety-nine dollars. The hell?! What middle-class Jane Doe can afford to drop a grand in conference and travel fees at a moment's notice? I'm hoping and praying the Chicago shindig is more reasonably priced, seeing as the majority of women who blog either do so without the benefit of financial compensation or generate meager sales from ad revenue and/or shopping paraphernalia. With Luke and I working so hard to get into a house this summer, I can't in good conscience do anything to jeporadize that. However, the possibility of not going makes me very, very sad. Maybe I can talk to Saint Joe about shouldering some of the costs--you know, for academic research!

When the nurse weighed me this morning, I registered at an even 133, even with my clothes on. So apparently I lost four-point-eight pounds in twenty-four hours. I could get used to (delusions like) this.

Yesterday I realized that, whenever I say my blog title in my head, I'm totally doing a throw-back to Biff from Back to the Future, in the scene where he grabs the fifties version of George McFly by the collar in their high school cafeteria and snarls "What're you lookin' at, butthead?" to an onlooking Marty McFly. That'll be a fun story to share at dinner parties.

Wahoo! Wednesday

I did it! I lost weight! And all without resorting to bulimic tendencies.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 138
CURRENT WEIGHT: 135.8
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 10.8

But don't pat me on the back just yet. Remember what I said last week about dumb luck? Well, she must've been a lady for every night of last week, because not only did I continue to avoid the gym, but Luke and I finally took official measures to axe our membership. We're both sad about it, because we really do like working out, but the motivation to get us through those blasted double doors just isn't there, and I don't want to flush another sixty-nine dollars down the toilet while we coax ourselves into a better mindset. Fortunately the Y doesn't charge registration or cancellation fees, so we can pick up where we left off any old time we want to. Which helps to lessen the blow--a little.

In the meantime, I'm going wallow in self-pity over the plethora of dental problems currently plaguing our household. You'll recall that two weeks ago a permanent crown fell out of my mouth, requiring another trip to the dentist and the refastening of my silver bling with temporary cement until he could schedule another appointment for an impression. "If it falls out again," he said, "don't worry about it. You'll be back in another few weeks and we'll take care of it then."

As luck would have it, the blasted thing DID fall out again, last Tuesday while I was at work. Because a root canal was performed on the original tooth just six months after the crown, I'm unable to detect sensitivity or pain, so I simply shrugged it off until Monday night, when a piece of said tooth broke off during a marathon viewing of the last four episodes of All My Children (Dixie is dead! Because she ingested poisoned peanut-butter-and-banana pancakes originally meant for her skanky daughter-in-law! If that's not infuriating enough, her 2006 storyline revolved entirely around finding the little girl she gave up for adoption four years ago after receiving substantial injuries from a plane crash in Switzerland and being suckered into signing away her parental rights by her doctor, who told her she was on the verge of death and hinted that Tad would resent Kate for taking Dixie's life. And then she croaks before learning her daughter is now living in PINE FREAKIN' VALLEY. Though viewers were treated to Dixie's spirit realizing the truth and blowing her daughter kisses before ascending into Heaven and flashbacks to all three of her weddings to Tad. Hiccup sob blah).

Anyway, the tooth. I tossed the fragment into the garbage can and indulged in a mini-freak out, because what if they can't save what's left? What if it's so weak and decayed that the dentist opts to pull it and drill another post into my gums? So I called his office in a slight panic yesterday morning, and Betty, the sent-from-above hygenist who held my hand and dried my tears during the whole implant procedure, assured me there were other ways of fastening the crown without replacing what little of the tooth I appear to have left. They'll assess the decay and outline my options first thing tomorrow. Because there's no better way to motivate yourself for a nine-hour work day than a consultation for hundreds of dollars of anticipated dental work, work that doesn't include the extraction of Luke's wisdom teeth OR the minor gum surgery he'll have this spring. Praise Jesus for insurance.

Moving on....

After reviewing yesterday's post, I realized that for all my talk of houses and cars and stay-at-home parenting, I neglected to address the most emotional topic of all: baby making!

Before the wedding, Luke and I had planned to start trying for kids as early as the honeymoon, so eager were we to start our family. However, when forty days passed and we confirmed I wasn't pregnant, we decided to hold off until Luke found a job and we had stabilized our finances. Once that happened, we agreed to start this summer. And even as we bounce back and forth like ping-pong balls over every other issue under the sun, this is the one plan we continue to agree on. It's the one plan that hasn't changed.

I'm not sure why I feel the need to spell that out for everyone. Maybe it's due to the fact that whenever I broach the subject of getting our ducks in a row before making The Leap, many people like to remind me that Luke and I can never adequately brace ourselves for parenthood; there will never be enough money or time or insurance or enough square footage, and we'll never have all the answers. And I know that. I have no intentions of allowing the best part of life to pass me by because I was busy worshipping a spreadsheet.

That said, I also don't like the idea that family, friends, or even blog readers might be calling me naive for wanting to buy a house or have a baby without worrying about foreclosure or having to transform one of my dresser drawers into a makeshift crib. For cripe's sake, I'm only 27 years old. My clock isn't ticking. I have not been diagnosed with a fatal illness. Waiting a few months or even a year to procreate doesn't seem unreasonable or even idealistic to me.

Not that I'm defensive or paranoid or anything. Not at all.

Weight Loss Wednesday

Feelin' good, people, feelin' good! I'm wearing my super-comfortable gauchos, pain-free brown boots, and less weight than I did this time last week. Miracles, they do happen.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 138.6
CURRENT WEIGHT: 137.2
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 12.2

I'm not really sure HOW I lost the weight, since I pigged out on TGI Friday's beef brisket and a Pot Belly's roast beef sub within a twelve-hour timespan, but when faced with a miracle, it's in one's best interest not to ask questions.

Unless those questions are about a costly gym membership. Luke and I have discussed this on and off for the last few days without coming to any real conclusion.

In theory, we're both serious about wanting to commit to a regular fitness program. The Y is a seven-minute drive from our apartment; unless we decide to shack up in the facility's parking lot, you can't get any better than that. The branch is less than a year old, so the equipment's top notch. At the end of our work-out, we always feel better than we did coming in. What is the problem?!

The problem is reality. In reality, we function better at night and stay up too late to put in sufficient time on the treadmill before breakfast without wanting to crash after dinner. In reality, at five o'clock we're more excited about coming home to each other and our pajama pants than spending another hour at a place that isn't home. (OK, so I'M the one who tosses the work clothes aside for pjs. The SexyBack giveth, and the SexyBack taketh away.) When push comes to shove, we're mentally burned out.

But there's something about the gym that keeps us holding on. As long as we continue to renew our membership, there's still hope that one day we'll fulfill our half of the bargain and actually use the machines we pay to access. Continuing our membership gives us motivation to get our squishy asses off the couch. Being open to even the possibility of swiping that plastic card at the Y's front desk means we're not failures.

One option we've talked about is eliminating the Y from our budget and paying for an annual state park entrance permit instead. It's way cheaper--just thirty-six dollars for the whole year--and we'll be paying for an activity we truly enjoy. The majority of our weekend trips revolve around hiking, camping, and frolicking at the beach, anyway, so this would just encourage that.

What do you guys think? Are we awful for giving up before we even really get started, or does it make sense to axe the Y and explore different ways to get in shape?

In other news, the crown is back in my mouth, held into place with temporary cement until the dentist can see me again in February, at which time he'll fit me for a new, permanent piece. Since I was so busy reading through yesterday's entry for typos, I didn't get out of work until forty minutes before my scheduled appointment, which means I didn't have time to pick up my old one on the way. I called the receptionist twice to make sure this wasn't a problem, and twice she assured me it wasn't. That is, until I got to the clinic and waited an hour and fifteen minutes to be seen for my "emergency" fit-in, only to be chastised by the denist for not bringing in the original crown. If looks could kill, some funeral director would be pumping that woman's limbs with embalming fluid as we speak.

Since it would've taken another hour and a half for me to go home, pick it up, and come back, I did what any married woman would do--call her husband and beg him to make the drive himself. Which he did, bless his white little heart, and the doctor took all of four minutes to stick the thing back on tooth number fourteen. By this time it was seven o'clock and we were about to eat our own arms for nourishment, so we hopped over to Bennigan's, home to The Best Spinach Dip In The Universe. I planned on ordering that and nothing else, fully content to bask in the glory that is spinach and artichokes on seasoned flat bread.

Imagine my surprise, then, upon learning that the dip had been removed from their appetizer menu ONE DAMN YEAR AGO. I almost burst into tears right in front of the waitress.

A perfect ending to a perfect day.

What Am I Still Doing Here?

When reviewing my entries for last week, I was proud to see that Hey! I posted five days in a row! I totally need do to that again! So yesterday afternoon I slaved over a post that was intended to honor Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, but the Internet was acting wonky and I forgot to copy and paste the text into Word before hitting "Publish" so I ended up losing the whole damn thing. Which is OK with me in the end, because the post was fine, but it didn't feel like ME. So here is something more ME. Crap! In the form of chunky paragraphs without transitions!

Friday

The BMV mix-up was resolved in eight minutes, with profuse apologizing on behalf of the branch. It was implanting my post that took an hour and a half, what with my sobbing hysterically every time the drill attempted to secure the metal screw through my bone. It all started on Wednesday, when I accompanied Luke to have four cavities filled (because the HSA debit card is in my name and practitioners like to be compensated for their work) and warned both the doctor and hygenist about my tendency to get a tad "anxious" in the chair, suggesting it would benefit all parties involved to nail a nitrous oxide mask to my face for the entire procedure. The doctor just laughed and assured me I wouldn't feel any pain, he'd thoroughly numb the area and anyway bones don't have nerves so I shouldn't feel a thing.

I laughed, too, and didn't give it much thought until Friday morning, when they called me in after a thirty-minute wait, during which I reflected on the hell I experienced in Rensselaer when they attached a permanent crown to my badly cracked tooth and thought once again that nitrous would best calm my ultra-sensitive nerves. And once again, I was silenced with promises of no pain. It wasn't until the doctor had pumped my gums with Novocaine three times in an effort to stop my hysterical chest heaves that he began to second-guess his decision, but it was too late. I was afraid of the drill and the size of the screw, and everyone's attempts to comfort me just resulted in more tears because being the center of attention when I'm upset is embarrassing, and when I'm embarrassed, I cry, and the vicious cycle repeats itself until I'm home, where I can unabashedly surrender to my hysteria and then move on with my life. Until I remember all the caring and sympathy and cry again.

The doctor called me at home later that afternoon, when the pain had turned into a dull, bearable throbbing, and apologized for the miscommunication; a nice touch on his part, and I hung up feeling pretty good about the whole situation, soothing myself with the knowledge that I had a six-week time frame before my next appointment, during which I could pray for selective amnesia.

Saturday

Molly of Lost A Sock fame and I joined forces to drive to Chicago and attend Dawnie's 27th birthday bash at Dave and Buster's, marketed as Chuck E. Cheese for adults. Dawn and I "met" each other through a CD swap organized last spring and have been e-mailing back and forth since then, but this was our first meeting, not to mention MY first time meeting a blogger in real life, so by the time we parked Molly's Ford Explorer (an adventure in its own right) and made our way through the crowd to find Dawn and her friends, I was ready to wet myself.

There wasn't much time to talk, but it was a fun night. Hopefully we can do it again before BlogHer. Also, don't you like how Molly and I used mental telepathy to coordinate our outfits?

 

I risked my life to take this photo by pretending I wanted a shot of Molly scoring tickets from Pirate's Revenge, but it was totally worth it because this woman looked like she'd had one too many Appletinis and was concentrating harder than a gambler in a Las Vegas casino. She must've been sitting in front of that "Wheel of Fortune" station for at least thirty minutes. Of course, Molly and I dropped twenty bucks apiece at the Skeeball lanes (where we almost had to rumble with a couple of bitches who claimed we were taking their place in line, even though they were gabbing it up a good five feet away), so who am I to judge?

WARNING: the following two paragraphs contain spoilers for 24. Fans not in the know should proceed at their own risk.

Sunday

The first two hours of 24's season premiere. I spent most of it yelling at the television because after six years, don't these people know Jack's super powers can't be thwarted by a twenty-month stint in a Chinese prison? Watching him bite flesh off a terrorist's neck was pretty disgusting, but I nearly lost it when the Muslim American teenager labeled a terrorist by some hillbilly redneck actually turned out to be a terrorist, causing me to change my Gmail chat tagline from "Tragic Love Friday: now with more tragedy" to "Twenty Flop." Way to break down ethnic stereotypes, FOX.

Monday

Two more hours of 24. Two more hours of yelling at the TV and lamenting Curtis's totally out-of-character personality change and subsequent death. However, the nuclear explosion was cool, so I changed my Gmail tagline to "Twenty Forgivable."

I also lost a crown while brushing my teeth.

I got the crown in June 2004; the following January I received a root canal on the same tooth, which is how the hole started (he had to go through the crown to get to the nerve), until it got bigger and bigger and eventually it was so big I could feel it with my tongue. My dentist and I had previously talked about replacing it since the hole leaves the tooth underneath susceptible to decay, so I'm not heartbroken, just baffled as to why the crown chose MLK Day to make the break.

Tuesday

As soon as I finish this sentence, I'm going to the dentist so he can make the crown situation all better; I could've left an hour ago but didn't want to go another minute without updating this blog. I'm nothing if not dedicated. And stupid.

Tragic Love Friday

Today marks the beginning of a four-day weekend for me, a day I'd like to spend catching up on two weeks' worth of All My Children episodes but will probably use to run boring errands like finally updating my driver's license to reflect my married last name and visiting the dentist to take bite-wing x-rays of a tooth most likely infected with a cavity. Luke and I were there just last month for cleanings, during which I scheduled a post implant to replace the molar I had pulled two years ago. I would've had the bite wing taken then if my period hadn't been a week and a half late, causing me to think I was pregnant, but of course it came the next day and I was a little sad but mostly pissed about having to make the thirty-minute drive to the doctor's office before my January 12th appointment. The things I do to avoid radiation exposure to my future children.

But what about Kayla's and Jenna's little rug rats? That's the real question of the hour.

-------

CHAPTER FIVE - JENNA

I walked out of St. Joseph's Hospital feeling like I could fly. My doctor, Dr. Foremann, had given me an excellent report. "Your little girl's doing great. The next time I see you, young lady, will be in the delivery room." [Because women who are seven months pregnant could never benefit from a doctor's watchful eye. Frema, M.D. strikes again!]

I had really hoped David could be there, but he had to work. Poor David. He seemed so stressed out. I decided to stop at McDonald's and let him know the good news about Mary Katherine.

When I got there, business was slow. David was slipping on his jacket. His face paled as I walked over to him and gave him a kiss. "Jenna, what are you doing here?" he asked. "I just got back from my appointment. The baby's doing great," I said, smiling. David just stared at me. "We have to talk."

"Sure. About what?" He didn't answer, only led me outside to where his car was parked. "First let me tell you that I never wanted to hurt you," he began.

"What are you talking about?"

"It all started last month. One night I was with Mike, and we had a few beers. You and I had a little arguement that day, and somehow..." he bowed his head. "I went to Kayla's house. We talked about my mom, you, the baby. She listened to me. Old feelings were brought up. Jenna ... we made love." 

I felt dizzy. David noticed and tried to put an arm around me, but I pushed him away. "Don't touch me!" I yelled. "You bastard! Don't ever touch me again!"

"Jenna, I'm so sorry. I feel terrible." He took a deep breath. "Today Kayla called me at work and said she was pregnant with my child." [Oh, that would've been a fun scene to write! How could I have let that gem slip by?]

That did it. My fist went smashing into David's jaw. He stumbled a few steps backward, but managed to stay on his feet.

I was crying. My eyes blinded by tears, I ran to my car. David was right behind me. "Jenna, wait! Let me explain!" [I think you covered just about everything but positioning, buddy. She gets it.] I started the engine and rolled down my window. Throwing a glass car ornament at him [do these even exist?], I screamed, "Take your explanation and shove it where the sun won't shine!"

I managed to get home without killing anyone. I ran into my house and picked up the phone, punching in Kayla's number. She answered on the second ring. "Hello?"

"Kayla, you slut! This is Jenna. [Ya think?] I'm just calling to let you know that if you want the asshole who slept with you, take him. He's all yours." I slammed the receiver down.

"Calm down," I told myself. "Don't do anything that would hurt Mary Katherine."

That was the only reason I didn't go kill David. The stress of killing him could hurt the baby.

I needed to talk to someone, or else I'd go crazy. So I hopped back into my car and drove straight to Michael's house. As soon as he opened the door, I collapsed into his arms. "Jenna! My God!" [If this were a TV script, this would be a perfect place to fade to commercial, don't you think?] He scooped me up and carried me to the couch. [How muscular must Michael be to sweep a pregnant woman off her feet? Pretty muscular, ladies!] "Are you OK? What's wrong?"

"It's David. He's..." My voice cracked with emotion. "He's gotten Kayla pregnant." I couldn't say anymore.

My best friend was silent as I sobbed in his arms, his hands running through my hair. [I'm surprised they're not on her boobs. News flash, Michael: Groping isn't part of the traditional BFF package!]

After a while, I was OK. I told Michael everything. When I was finished, he looked like he would spit nails. "Jenna, he's a jerk, an idiot and a fool. He doesn't deserve you or that beautiful baby you're going to give birth to."

"What am I going to do?" I wailed.

"You're going to forget about him. He's not worth the effort."

"But he loves the baby. He wants to be in her life."

"So he takes her to the park once in a while. Listen to me," Mike said, cupping my chin in his hands. "I will help you get through this. I'll ALWAYS be here for you. You can depend on me for anything." [Except to support the role your baby daddy hopes to play in your daughter's life.]

"I know." I smiled through my tears. "Tell me: what did I do to deserve such a wonderful friend?"

He hugged me. [Geez, he can't keep his hands off her for even a second!] "Dollface, it's the other way around."

-------

When my girlfriends at school got to this point in the notebooks, they always sighed over Michael's outlandish yet noble display of affection. It even seemed sweet to me at the time, and I wrote the damn thing, but you all know better, don't you?

I have a few thoughts about the story's progression so far. Despite David's superhuman baby-making abilities, I feel for the poor guy, who really has worked hard to do the right thing. Sure, he fucked up a little, but he's also admitted his shortcomings and taken responsibility for his own actions. Most adults in his situation wouldn't have stepped up the way he has for Jenna and the baby, and there's no reason to think he wouldn't support Kayla and her child as well.

My opinions are probably clouded by the fact that I often hoped Nick, who received the best of my heart during my teenage years, would act in a similar manner if I ever "fell with child." I never would have tried to get pregnant on purpose, but I secretly wondered if such a life-altering change of events would inspire him to take stock of his life and realize the wonderful future we could have had if he put forth the effort, because as dysfunctional as our relationship was, we did have amazing chemistry and we really cared about each other. I realize now how naive I was, how lucky I was to be spared the pain of learning my lesson the hard way; Nick didn't have the ability to be the father figure I romanticized about for my babies or the partner I longed to have for myself. But back then I thought about it all the time. What a dreamer I was.

Also, if I were Kayla, and the love of my life came to me one night and wanted to hold me and kiss me and make love to me, I would've had my clothes off faster than you can say "Your mom." For real, peeps.

Not Even An "A" For Effort

Are Luke and I the only people who watched Skating With Celebrities? After my baby freak-out the other day, I knew I needed to bring back the funny STAT or risk having you all think I spend every night holding myself in the corner of my closet, mumbling some nonsense about Lucy falling from grace with the local mail carrier is all due to my taking a cashier job at the local Jewel. Only instead of inspiring laughter, I had people scratching their noggins and thinking, "The hell?" Way to alienate your readers, Frema.

Anyway, my cholesterol test. I wish I could say the doctor's weight-loss announcement was true. I wish I could say the ten bowls of Cheerios I had last month were enough to produce satisfactory results. But I can't. In fact, my "bad cholesterol" actually went UP a few points. Because I had talked to Mr. Doctor about getting off the pill and Luke's and my baby-making plans, his nurse explained he didn't want to prescribe a medication, so I need to continue adhering to my diet and start exercising several times a week, something I didn't even try to do before. On the bright side, at least I know what I've been doing wrong: still snacking too much, planting my bottom on the couch after work, etc. Imagine if I'd done everything to the letter and still got crappy news? Which is quite possible, since my mother's mother had a history of cholesterol problems before she died in 2000.

I'm disappointed the results weren't better. I'm disappointed in myself for not taking this more seriously. But it's water under the bridge now. All I can do is try harder.

Back in happier times, last weekend witnessed the rejuvenation of several pampering rituals, most of which should only be done in the sanctity of one's four walls; soaking in a bubble bath, buffing and painting my toenails, and letting my hair air dry, which, lo and behold, is just what it needed to curl properly in the absence of thirteen-dollar styling products. Luke and I also spent two hours uploading songs from old CD's so we could pawn the hard copies at a local music store. Approximately forty discs earned us twenty-seven bucks, but you'd have thought it was twenty-seven hundred the way we rushed back to the car and stared at the bills in awe. The world was ours! What to do with this power? New top from New York and Company? Additional accessories for Luke's iPod? Extra milk and pretzels to hold us over 'til pay day? In the end we treated ourselves to dinner at Applebee's, and I'm telling you, no two people had a better time there than us. We barely even talked--just being together in the presence of processed food was just what we needed to feel more in touch with the universe.

By the way, we also spent the majority of our Sunday browsing through pictures for our reception slide show. Therefore, be on the lookout for Frema's Life in Pictures, because oh, yes. It's coming.

Beauty and the Prick

The beauty is ... well, me. The prick is from the nurse's needle that broke the surface of my skin yesterday because, after two weeks of insurance glitches, I said to hell with Anthem and their refusal to hand over my new insurance card and just kept the damn appointment to follow-up on my cholesterol.

(Or by the time I remembered to call and cancel on Thursday, the doctor's office was already closed and my appointment was the first one of the day and I didn't want to piss off the nurse because she's nice and all but has a bit of a Homie Don't Play That complex. Would you want to trigger the Homie in your health care professional? I didn't think so.)

Anyway. I get to the office and engage in some friendly banter with the receptionist, who's become a kindred spirit through all this insurance nonsense, and then I get weighed, and then I get pricked, and then I twiddle my thumbs until the doctor delivers the verdict.

Turns out he's got good things to say. While the actual test results won't be available until early next week, he reports that I've lost four pounds since my last visit, a sure sign that my cholesterol is on its way down. He said that I'm the exception, because most people who come in for this kind of follow-up have either gained weight or simply refuse to be weighed, a sure sign that they fell off their diets. He congratulated me for making such great progress and left instructions to call on Monday for the numbers.

And the whole time he's talking, all I can think is: there's no way I lost four pounds. No. freakin'. way.

Because at my last visit, I remember the nurse weighing me in at 133, and that made me ecstatic, because on the visit before THAT I was 139, and I said, "I lost six pounds?" and because she has a Homie Don't Play That complex, she wasn't about to patronize me, so she said, "Let me check on that," and then a few minutes later she was all, "You're right!" And then I cried tears of joy into the camera and thanked the Academy for making this miracle possible.

At yesterday's visit, I weighed 135, which at first didn't bother me because I was on day two of my cycle and therefore blamed the extra poundage on Aunt Flo's water-retaining suitcase. That is, until Mr. Doctor started talking about extra weight sentencing patients to cholesterol hell. THEN it totally bothered me, and twenty-four hours later, I still can't tell which of us is the crazy one. Was that glorious visit a figment of my imagination, or did Mr. Doctor skip over the last page in my file?

Who knows. It no longer takes three jean wears for the denim band to accommodate my pouch, so maybe he's on to something. Either way, I'll find out next week. Cross your fingers.

In other news, I cannot BELIEVE I forgot to mention last week that Amalah answered my question on the Wednesday Advice Smackdown! Here's how it happened:

Last Thursday I was checking my Gmail, minding my own business, when I discovered the following message:

Hello!

So I read your comment AGES AGO about having a question in the July batch of advice emails (Right? Am not hallucinating this?) (Man, I gotta cut back on the shrooms.), and I was all, "Oh! Frema deserves special treatment, because I love her!" So I was decided that your question would be the next one I answered.

Except...um...I don't seem to have it. Which is probably completely my fault -- I may have not labeled it correctly or something. So! I would like to answer your question, either the original one or any other new question of your choosing, since you know, JULY.

Bah.

Amy

And I was like, "Holy crap! The goddess of the Internet is talking to ME!" So I wrote a really long reply that spelled out my question of what to do about sunburnt shoulders, originally submitted because I was wearing a strapless dress in my sister's wedding and needed advice on how to cover them up. I went on to tell her that now is actually the PERFECT time to be answering this because I'm getting married in May and the dress is strapless, thus resurrecting the problem all over again. I may or may not have ended my monologue with, "This e-mail will stay in my Gmail box FOREVER." Nerd.

And then, heavens to Betsy, I was on Amalah.com.

Amalah did a great job of whittling my rambles down into a short and comprehendible read, though there are a few words peppered here and there that only those privy to my original e-mail would understand. But still, me! On Amalah.com! Mine was the last question, so do a little scrollin' and witness the glory for yourself. Also, if you read the comments, you'll notice our own Number Twelve was the first to post. A happy, happy day.

Oatmeal in the Hizzouse

Oh, Internet, how I've missed you! I've thought about you daily, reading your updates, tossing around ideas for possible posts. And yet, I have not actually done anything until today. Here's why:

Tuesday: Receive a call from my new doctor's nurse, which initially scared the bejeezus out of me because she said she wouldn't call unless the results were abnormal. Am told the results were abnormal and that I have elevated cholesterol. Am ordered to reduce my intake of fast food, greasy food, bread, cheese, and pasta and load up on fruits, vegetables, oatmeal, and other not-going-to-kill you items. Cry because I suddenly hate my body with all its digusting internal problems that are meant for old lazy couch potatoes like Archie Bunker, not young and vibrant couch potatoes who put a cup and a half of Parmeasan cheese in their spinach dip like me.

Wednesday: Try oatmeal for the first time in my life. Gag reflex is reborn.

Thursday: Visit Annie. Am witness to Kroeger Night, in which workers from the local chain of the national grocery store stop by the facility with a stocking for each resident. Stockings are filled with oranges, electronic Uno, and sample sizes of shampoo, toothpaste, and deodarent. Cry at home when I realize that's all some of these children will get this year.

Friday: After two days of soup and fruit, throw caution to the wind and bust out with a frozen pizza for dinner. Indulge in season-two episodes of Scrubs. Provide shelter for Ryan and her boyfriend, Jason, en route to Chicago from IU in Bloomington. Spend forty-five minutes inflating new queen-sized air mattress with bicycle pump. Never actually finish inflating mattress.

Saturday: Spend the day with Luke's sister-in-law and baby niece, now ten months old. Against my will, order garlic chicken from Chinese place. Spend Saturday night scatching the skin off my thighs, bottom, and stomach, because, they itch! my God they itch! Get out of bed at 2:00 a.m. intending to catch up on soaps "until I fall asleep." Finish soaps. Don't fall asleep until 8:30, after wonderful Luke has purchased Aveeno cream for my skin and Benadryl to finally knock me out.

Sunday: Sleep. Shower (I think). Sleep again. Repeat non-sleep sleep cycle.

Monday: Try to work at home but the itching! my God the itching! won't let up and I'm exhausted and now sick to my stomach. Visit idiot dermatologist, who is an idiot because he dares to talk smack about Proactiv, which I have not personally tried but want to because my siblings and Jessica Simpson and Vanessa Williams are doing it and achieving marvelous results. Same idiot hypothesizes that the itching is caused by an allergic reaction to the meds for my bladder infection, orders blood work, and makes weird lines on my back with a popsicle sick. Submit myself to blood work from rival lab. Think twice about naming my employer on their information forms. Pass the evening in an oatmeal bath, in which I sit for nearly an hour. Surprisingly, no urge to vomit. Instead, sleep peacefully. Hooray!

And now, today: Update with a guilt-filled frenzy that cannot be denied. Will most likely be late for work. Promise the Internet to check for typos at lunchtime.

There Are Lurkers in Our Midst

I visited this blog today, which talked about celebrating the wonderful concept that is de-lurking: that is, "taking attendance" of those who visit your blog but don't speak up. It sounds like she has software that tracks the number of hits she gets each day. I, for one, do not, so I would appreciate it even more if you made your voice heard - whether you already comment or not.

Now, my life. Things are good. I had a root canal on Monday that went really well, and I'm in zero pain, though I keep forgetting that I no longer have to guard the tooth with my tongue when drinking milk. Next dental endeavor: replace the molar I had pulled this past summer. Then I can demote my activity to a normal biannual cleaning. In the meantime, I'm thinking a lot about school, which starts tomorrow (assuming the roads will be clear and the university doesn't close). My last winter class. Possibly my last Thursday class. Oh, what a diligent student I will be this quarter. Straight A's to prevail all year round! I will walk across stage in June with magna cum laude status and seize the world!

Since the new year began, my head has been spinning with the goals I want to accomplish, mainly find another job and become Money Saving Genius. I'm currently in the market for some kind of investment planner who can help me manage my moolah. Should I pay off my car early before student loan debt hits this December or funnel all extra income into an IRA? How much extra income do I actually have? How many shopping sprees am I allowed before they become obsessive? Absolutely mind boggling. And all in time for my very own 25th-no-longer-will-I-ever-again-be-early-twenties birthday. This Sunday. January 9th. Just in case you want to de-lurk and offer warm wishes.

I'm In Love With My Dentist

No, not really, but he is pretty great. I had my post-opp (post-operation) check-up yesterday, and he gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder and a smile before asking how things have been since my extraction. I have never had a dentist I've felt so comfortable with. If I'd had care this good in Chicago, maybe I wouldn't have taken a three-year break from professional oral hygiene. Anyway, my stitches are out and I'm healing nicely. Next step: my crown from March is still pretty sensitive to hot and cold, which isn't a great sign, so I need to schedule an appointment up north with some kind of -ontologist to see if the nerves need to be killed; then I can stop wincing every time milk hits the left side of my mouth. More dentist adventures for me - woo friggin' hoo.

For the last couple of nights, I've been plagued by dreams that seem pretty damn real while I'm in them. Thursday night, in a dream inspired by watching an episode of VH-1's Driven, Ashton Kutcher called me at home (which happened to be Chicago with my family), and we had a marathon phone conversation that ended with us making plans to get together. (Evidently I have much more sex appeal than Demi.) Last night, I was in my high school auditorium (which, of course, really wasn't my high school auditorium), complete in my old Catholic-school