Yo’ mama is so whipped…

This past Sunday morning, I laid in bed listening to the crying baby across the hall, and instead of popping straight up to retrieve him and stop the tears, I took a minute to daydream. I fantasized about being young and lounging around the house watching Saturday morning cartoons. I remembered those lazy college days when you could actually create a class schedule to avoid 8 a.m. classes (and you still went to your noon class in slippers). I even thought of a not-so-long-ago past when Nate and I could cuddle together before getting up for work, if even for 10 minutes. No noise. No rush. No stress. No, well, I’ll just say it….No baby.

As I took the pillow off my head and stumbled down the hall, these memories washed away (far too quickly) and I stood there, face-to-face with that grinning, 25-inch, 17-pound reminder of what my life is today.

Ah, this new life. What a drastic turn it has taken. I can’t even begin to explain the many various obstacles we’ve experienced, and overcome, not to mention the ghastly effects these obstacles have had on both me and Nate. What obstacles, you ask? Oh, I’ll TELL you what obstacles.

Physical: OK, let’s start shallow. Three months after baby was born, I dyed my hair dark brown. I thought it would detract from the fact that my butt hasn’t gotten any smaller and all the pants I’m stuck wearing either don’t button in the stomach or could fit a small country in the crotch. Well, I’d say it boosted my confidence for about a week. My new life is filled with LOTS of smiles, but the face that goes with it no longer has the application time for lip gloss and bronzer. Instead, I am happy if my eye makeup doesn’t wear off in the shower so I can “reuse” it that day. I’ve started shaving my legs again (three cheers for Nathan!). And, just last week, I sucked it up and took myself to the mall to buy size not-to-be-mentioned pants so I owned some that actually fit where they were supposed to, creating slightly less humiliation amongst my office of pretty people. I still manage to wear ironed clothing and put on deodorant and match my socks and every so often curl my hair, so I’m not going to say I’ve completely mother-morphed, but I have had a few down days here and there. If you ever catch me sporting a fanny pack, however, please just do us all a favor and put me out of my misery.

Mental: Now, you all have to promise not to judge me when I tell you my worst “where was my mind” moment, OK? Promise? OK. Just last week, I thought it would be lovely to take Coen for a crisp, fall walk in his stroller. And, of course I can’t leave the dog behind out of sheer guilt, so she came along too. I wrapped him up in a blanket, put a hat on his head and socks on his feet, and out we went. I set him in his stroller, tied Chloe to her leash, and we were off on our picturesque little family jaunt through the neighborhood. You should know that Chloe tends to pull on her leash at times (bad training on my part), and she decided this day she was going to go squirrel-sprinting the second I was trying to get the stroller up a bumpy curb. It all happened so fast, but the stroller flew forward, the dog took off, and the baby….the baby….um…the baby FELL OUT! He just slid right under the tray, back first, then head first, then bellyflopped onto the sidewalk. I watched the event unfold in slow motion, the whole time thinking, “NO WAY did I forget to BUCKLE HIM IN!” Yes way, Nicki. Yes. Way. After a couple minutes of consoling, he stopped crying and came out scratch-and-dent-free, but the remorse has yet to leave me. Where was my mind? I wonder that a lot these days – I’ll repeat a story four times to the same (patient) neighbor, drive half-way to work without my career-required laptop, shoplift the sunglasses I tried on my head, forget to call my mother back, neglect to flush the toilet, burn the pizza, miss a meeting – you name it, I’ve done it. We’ll be lucky if we all get out alive.

Emotional: Well, this is the toughy for me. When I started writing this blog, I was sitting here listening to my little boy “cry it out” in his crib for the first time. We had his four-month checkup this morning, and I asked the doctor why he wakes up every 2 to 3 hours to eat and she said, “Because you let him.” Hmm, interesting. “So, you’re basically telling me my baby’s got me whipped?” Nod. Great. Now what? We discussed it a little more and Nate and I decided that, for our own sakes, we needed to let him soothe himself to sleep at night. No more running to his side when he squealed, no more rocking him when he fussed, and definitely no more feeding him when he howled at 3 a.m. According to Dr. No-Nonsense, Coen is of an age where he should be able to get through the night without needing extra food or attention. Interesting, since WE were convinced he was just a whole lot hungrier than a normal baby. Pfft, amateurs. As if hearing that wasn’t heartbreak enough, she proceeded to inject him with two different vaccinations – one in each chubby leg. Having a child really opens your heart to those hidden strings you never really knew existed. And, my oh my, mine have gotten a workout today. Listening to him cry, sitting 20 feet away and doing nothing about it, my legs were shaking, my eyes were welling up, and my pits were sweating (What? I’m still hormonal! Give me a break.). This kind of torture should be used on female prisoners of war. I guarantee they’d talk! Eventually, he cried himself to sleep, just like the Doc said he would. I’m not looking forward to midnight…and 2 a.m…and 4 a.m….Being a mom is hard. Emotionally, very, very hard.

Tonight will be a true test of my ability to handle this new life. I’ll try my best and do what I can do, but I will NOT beat myself up if I just can’t do it. They can’t expect me to shut down all of my maternal instincts, especially when they adjoin my crabby, middle-of-the-night instincts, just like that. If he cries bloody murder in the middle of the night, I might cave. And, I might be tired in the morning. What’s another day, right?

And, tomorrow morning, I will most likely awaken to coos, cries, and kicking just like every other morning. It will most likely be at an hour that I can barely stand to type. And I will most likely cover my head with a pillow for 30 seconds, take a deep breath, and eventually stumble down the hallway to confront the cause of it all. But, let me tell you, when I get there, that pint-sized “reminder” will flash his heart-melting smile and I will buck up and face another sleep-deprived day with my goobering, beautiful little man who I wouldn’t trade for anything in the world.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, he has decided to start crying again and I need to go lock myself in the basement closet. Yes, I am one whipped mama.

innocence, A lesson in

Today my little boy turns four months old. Four months! Not sure when that happened, but it happened. Next thing you know he’ll be borrowing my car, sending in college applications, and walking down the aisle. If you think about it, he is already 1/54th of the way to 18. It’s that thought that helps me remember to cherish each moment…moments like yesterday…

Coen laughed for the first time yesterday. I was holding him on the couch rocking him back and forth singing some ridiculous made-up gibberish about Lincoln Logs, enjoying that big gummy smile, and POOF! Out it came – a hearty chuckle followed by sweet little giggles that could melt the heart of even the coldest soul. It was the sound of genuine pleasure and innocence  in that one particular blink-of-an-eye second of his life. To laugh that hard about something so inane got me thinking about that period in all of our lives called “childhood” and all the glory and freedom that comes along with it.

Everyone, as depressing and bitter as they may seem as adults, has some embedded fond memories of growing up. Even that old guy in suspenders that humphs in the corner of your office about the pencil sharpener not sharpening his pencils sharply enough had some endearing moments as a kid. His parents may have hated him, but even HE can’t deny having had a day or two of sunshine and rainbows. I was a lucky girl who grew up with siblings close to my age and parents close to my maturity level. Everything was treated with the anticipation and delight of a trip to Disneyworld. Camping in the rain was a “test of survival,” grocery shopping for Thanksgiving was “a scavenger hunt,” and bloody wounds from falling off a bike were “bodily badges of courage.” Simplicity was the name of the game. A red handkerchief and a couch was all we needed to become pirates, a record player and two toilet paper rolls made us instant, top-of-the-charts rock stars, and don’t even get me STARTED on the surplus of storylines that came from unloading the new vacuum cleaner and being handed that gigantic, gorgeous, Hoover cardboard box.

The laughter that erupted from dancing wildly around the pool table, cooking eggshells (accidentally) into Mother’s Day breakfasts, and ripping up Ritz crackers to feed ants in the driveway is truly and undeniably the laughter of innocence. Before we worried about the hazards of running into tables or choking on eggshells or cared about pavement rocks scarring our ladylike shins, we were innocent. When we could eat seven scoops of ice cream without picturing it on our hips, we were innocent. When the greatest fear we could fathom was the monster under our bed, we were innocent. When imagination was our driving force and creativity kept us out of trouble, we were innocent.

I’m not sure when it happens, but we all lose a large portion of that innocence as we get older. After your first accident, your first heartbreak, your first funeral, your first D+, your first job…little by little…that innocence is replaced by fear and caution and the dreaded R-word we all hate so much. Oh, how I HATE responsibility. Being a new mother has my R-word working overtime. I worry about bacteria in his bottle (not eggshells in his breakfast). I have newfound fears of abduction and SIDS (not monsters under his bed). And, I promise you, I haven’t eaten a single scoop of ice cream since the day he was born (Hey, I’ve seen my present-day hips and they do NOT need seven scoops of help).

Sometimes I wonder if I’m turning into that old guy in the corner with all his pencil-problem drama, but I sure do hope not. I still love to laugh and dance and sing into toilet paper rolls (but now, I do it when no one is looking). It’s funny how growing up really opens your eyes to the other side of the coin. You start to notice the dents and rust on what was once shiny and bright. But, when you become a parent, that shiny and bright side is even SHINIER and BRIGHTER than ever before.

I have a new life to sculpt and form and introduce to this world. It is my job to make sure the world he knows is carefree and memorable, filled with plenty of cardboard boxes (and vacuum cleaners, apparently). If it takes kneeling over ant hills crushing crackers into the sidewalk cracks, I will do it everyday to hear that amazing laugh – the laugh that erases all my fears and worries and helps remind me to live this second with those people in that spot. Children are our savers of innocence, and I’ve learned that in the first 1/54th of his life. Makes me wonder what the rest of his childhood will teach me.

So, apparently, it’s mine.

Welcome back, friends. It’s been awhile. 16 weeks and 6 days, to be exact. Don’t be mad – just think of it as a summer vacation from school, only instead of going to the waterpark and playing baseball with my friends, I sat in a hospital bed for 4 days hopped up on bloat-inducing meds that were supposed to loosen all my woman parts so I could cry and scream and threaten divorce, get my stomach sliced open with a tool from the Paleolithic Era, and, oh yeah, bring home a baby boy. HA! And you used to complain about the mosquitoes at summer camp…rookies.

Coen – Day 1

Coen – Month 1

Coen – Month 2

Coen – Month 3

Well, there you have it – the new love of my life. His full name is Coen Jeffrey Brunner, born June 25, 2009 at 5:20 p.m., 22 inches long with a full head of midnight black hair. Nate and I became parents after a long and grueling ordeal, not surprisingly documented hour-by-hour on Nate’s social media sites. Apparently, my entire office was out of commission due to the constant “refreshing” to 42 Facebook pages. Sorry, boss. My bad.

Without going into too much detail, I was induced on June 23 with Pitocin and Cytotec and whatever else was flowing through the 900 tubes attached to my body. I got a catheter. I got an epidural. I got a lot of full vases from friends and empty promises from nurses. I got to 6 inches. 6 inches in more than 45 hours, and he took a wrong turn. My baby TOOK a WRONG TURN! Plan B: C-section. Sign me up, Scotty! A quick 15-minute surgery (in which I only accused one doctor of “never having done this before”) and out he came. Mr. Wrong-Way entered the world with a bright red face, scrunched little eyes, and dark black matted hair. My sister and Nate got to take him to the nursery to get him cleaned up and to be the first people on this entire planet to hold him. I, on the other hand, was more passed out than [fill in D-list, slutty celebrity name here]. But I knew, once I woke up, I was going to meet this new little being…the cause of all my trials and tribulations of the past 9 months.

Sure enough, he was everything I knew he would be. A good sleeper, a great eater, and one helluva smiler! Amazing how your life can do a complete 180 overnight. The life that once consisted of spontaneous happy hours, compulsive online shopping, and long stress-free bubble baths has turned into grabbing bites of cold pizza with your one free hand while balancing a bottle with your chin after having paid the nanny the money you had hoped could be used to buy that much-needed “transition” outfit since your old clothes still won’t zip and you need stuff to wear to work to hide the formula spit-up smells that are still embedded in the work outfit you wore yesterday since you haven’t had time to do the laundry yet. But, don’t worry – you’ll still get 4 quality minutes of solitude in the bubble bath until he starts to cry again. Hey, that 4 minutes is better than nothing! It’s a balancing act to which you are quickly forced to adjust. List-making becomes second nature. Deciphering cries becomes a sixth sense. And, what you used to consider “easy” may as well get comfortable in the backseat, because it’s going to be there awhile.

Every new mother has stories. Some mothers experience fear, some frustration, some happiness, some awe. If you’re a normal mother, you should have said “yes” to all of those emotions. I sure did.

…I remember looking at Coen in our hospital room the second night of his life. Nate was sound asleep on my bed and I was wandering around the room the best I could post-surgery. I had our little video camera and I spoke to him softly over his heavy baby breathing, “Baby, I don’t know what I’m doing. But, I’m going to do my best.” That was FEAR.

…I remember right around his 4th week, just when the body starts to recall how wonderful life was with uninterrupted sleep, I couldn’t get him to stop wailing for 45 minutes. At that point, you are undeniably the worst mother in the world (in your own head), and all logic and rationale floats right out the window. I screamed at Nate and told him I can’t do this anymore. Then, as if screaming wasn’t “6-years-old” enough, I took the baby and ran across the street to the neighbor’s yard, sobbing and staring at the sky wondering why God trusted me with this teeny tiny, and completely dependent, human being. That was FRUSTRATION.

…I remember the week Coen learned to smile and what a sense of joy that brought to both me and my husband. Finally, a sense of worth. All this feeding and changing and changing and feeding was paying off. Our little boy was happy! It was in the week that I had my first hysterical laughing fit, one-on-one with my baby. I heard some gassies going on in his nether-regions, so decided it was time to change a poopy diaper. Mmmm, every mother’s favorite chore. I set him on his changing table and took off his diaper. Yup. Mommy was right. He had pooped. Then, as I was sliding the diaper out from under him, Mount Coen erupted! Poop shrapnel fired everywhere! Nope. Mommy was wrong. He wasn’t done.  I dodged the line of fire, and when I sensed he was finished, I looked up at his face and there it was…the biggest dimple-filled baby smile I have EVER seen. How can you be angry at that? We laughed and laughed and laughed. That epitomizes HAPPINESS.

…Lastly, I remember just a few weeks ago…we had just laid him down in his crib and were doing our nightly routine getting ready for bed. Both of us, exhausted and barely mobile, looked forward to our heads hitting the pillows. I poked my head in to Coen’s room to make one final check before bed. I’m not sure if it was his new robot pajamas or the Disney lullabies in the background or the extra batch of post-prego hormones I developed that day, but something took my breath away. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Then, I felt Nate’s arm around my waist and his head on my shoulder and heard him whisper, “This is our family.” Wow. AWE.

I have had more than 3 months to get my head around the fact that I have a family! Not a family I was born into, but a family that I created. (Well, if we’re being scientific, I guess “we” created.) Sometimes, I still catch myself looking out the window waiting for his mom to come pick him up. I am somebody’s mother. I have a son. Now that I am slowly getting over the shock of it all, I decided it was time to start writing again. So many times in the past 3 months, something has happened and I run a paragraph through my head and laugh out loud, but never had the time to actually put it down in print. The fountains of pee that regularly adorn the changing pad, the packing up of adorable outfits he never had a chance to wear, the interactions with his extended family (e.g. learning about the corrupted political system from his Uncle Brandon)…

There are so many moments his life has already created. It’s time to start (b)logging them. Mommy’s BACK!

One miserable month…One amazing gift

The Last Month. I could write an entire series on The Last Month, only I would change the series name from The Pregnancy Diaries to A Month of Fiery, Evil, Miserable Hell on Earth. I think it would be a big seller, don’t you? I’m just being honest, and who doesn’t like honesty? Even if it means hearing the worst of the worst of the worst. I promise it will end on a high note!

Oh, the last month. We made it! My husband is relieved that it’s so close, but I worry it’s more to get me back to normal than to meet his son. Maybe it’s a little of both, but with my constant complaining and sudden 2 a.m. teary outbursts and a complete and utter inability to do ANYthing on my own anymore, I’m guessing it’s about 30/70 – 30% being “to meet my son” and 70% being “to shut her up.” It truly is amazing what has occurred in the past 30 days. Yes, hitting full-term was a very big deal. A wave or relief swept over me as he could now join the world at any minute and be healthy and happy. We made it. I have grown him for 39 weeks and we made it. WE MADE IT! I have to admit that I feel like I was pretty strong and self-sufficient up to this point. But, man oh man, when it rains, it pours and when your overdramatic to begin with, a slight drizzle can become a freaking monsoon in a heartbeat. My mama monsoon season has lasted 30 straight days. Here is an inside look into the life of Last Month Nicki:

Three weeks ago… I woke up with my first “contractions” in the middle of the night. I thought it was just the urge to pee, but it turns out that my body corrolates the two (peeing and contractions), so every time I woke up to pee, I laid back down and got pretty severe cramps. It was like getting your period 7 times a night, without the mess, of course. This is when the lack of sleep started. My new nightly routine came out of left field: Go to bed at 11. Get up at 12:30. Pee (not NEARLY enough to make the trek worth it, in my opinion). Stumble back to bed and wake up husband to move dog who felt the need to keep my pillow warm while I was away for 30 seconds. Lie back down. Cry because the contractions were hurting. Cry harder to wake up husband. Husband awakes. I feel like I fulfilled my duty by making us BOTH suffer from lack of sleep (hey, I can’t do this alone!). Fall back to sleep. Then, repeat this series at the hours of 2 a.m., 4 a.m., 5:30 a.m., and 7 a.m. And, this has yet to subside. Same routine, different night.

Two weeks ago… I started lacking a real concern with my physical being. Not my internal or well-being, but my physical being. Examples: I have not shaved my legs or armpits in over two weeks. Washing my face has become “optional” at bedtime. Pajama pants have been worn to work on more than one occasion (I don’t think they noticed, and if they did, at least they were kind enough not to say anything). Oh, and (this is classic) the other morning I woke up and got undressed to hop in the shower and spotted a GIANT puddle of dried toothpaste sitting directly in between my boobs. Are you KIDDING me? It must have just crusted on there from the night before, but, seriously, who doesn’t NOTICE something like that!? I got a pedicure at least. That made me feel sexy for, like, an hour. Red toenail polish can do wonders for the pregnant woman’s psyche.

One week ago… this lovely little boy decided to “reposition” himself into a position that must be comfortable for him, but it is KILLING me. At first I thought it was just a pulled muscle in my back. I operate like my mother in the fact that I have a hard time sitting still, so at 9 months pregnant, I thought it would be a swell idea to paint our side door and do some weeding. Brilliant. That’s me. Absolutely brilliant. I woke up the next morning unable to move my back and it has stayed that way ever since. Doctor Obvious said I should ice it, heat it, and try to get some sleep. “Wow, I’m sooo glad you were able to help me out with that. I’ve just been running laps around my house and smoking cigarettes on my patio while praying to the sun gods to release the tensions in my ribcage.” Duh. So now, in between my trips to the bathroom, incessant crying, and brutal contractions, I get to deal with back pain. And, I gotta tell you, there are NO good infomercials on at 3 in the morning. I’ve learned to keep a disc of Will & Grace in the DVD player so I can just hit Play when I’m unintentionally depriving myself of much-needed sleep.

Currently, I am sitting here at my kitchen table, 58 pounds heavier than when I started this diary and in miserable pain, but I have a light at the end of my tunnel. We scheduled our baby to be induced this coming Tuesday! I keep reminding myself that I have a maximum of four days left of my current life and soon our family of two will become a family of three and there’s no stopping it. It’s a rollercoaster of emotions and I cried for seven hours straight the day I scheduled the appointment. I think I called my mom three times at work bawling for no real reason…mostly because I didn’t know WHAT to feel – anxiety, fear, happiness, worry, hope, joy, and pain. Mix all of those with a fresh batch of hormones and the “I’d like to schedule my baby’s birth for next week, please” conversation, and yes, seven hours of tears IS possible.

But, a large part of those tears are tears of the unknown..tears of relief that I will soon MEET this handsome little bugger that’s been dancing on my bladder for nine months… tears of the inevitable joys of this unknown land called motherhood in which I am about to reside. This last month has been torture, yes. It has not been pretty. I have not been pretty. Nate has not been pretty. Even Chloe the Dog has not been pretty. We all sludge along through our days blinking back sleep like zombies, trying to enjoy our last evenings of together time. But, the gift that is coming will be worth it. I know this. And, not because it’s what EVERYONE says (“oh, it’s so worth it…the second you hold him, you forget all the pain, blah, blah, blah”), but because in those few reflective moments that I allow myself, I can FEEL it. When I’m up at 4 a.m., I find myself touching my stomach and talking to him, telling him stories about his grandparents and how his mommy and daddy met and asking him if he has dimples and wondering what he’ll be when he grows up. I tell him about his Aunt Julie and how funny she is. I explain that Nate’s sisters may look alike for a few years, but if you study them long enough, you’ll learn which is which. These are conversations that I know I will remember (even if he doesn’t) and this is how I know I’m ready to welcome this little person into my life.

And, whenever I do feel like I can’t handle it and the lack of sleep is too much to bear, I read an excerpt by Jeanette Lisefski that my mom sent me in a card from the book “Becoming a Mother.” I share it with you to help tie all my thoughts together:

He slips into this world, and into my arms, placed there by heaven. Through joyful tears I whisper in his ear, “We are glad you are here. We waited so long to see you.” He opens his eyes, and I am transformed – a timeless moment filled with the infinity of what life is. In his eyes I see total recognition, unconditional love and complete trust. I am a mother. In that instant I feel, and in my heart I know, everything I need to know to guide him. We look for ways he looks like us, and ways he is uniquely himself. We have nothing to say, but our hearts and minds are full of thoughts – of our hopes and dreams for him, of who he might be, of what gifts he brings with him and how he might touch the world. It is hard to close our eyes to sleep.

This is probably the final blog post I will write pre-baby, so I ask for your prayers, thoughts, advices and encouragements. Soon, all of these obstacles will be over – the sausage feet, the beer deprivation, the urinating in softball fields, the spilling, the burping, the nausea…and so much more will be beginning. I cannot wait to introduce you all to Baby Boy Brunner!

My hump. My lump. My lovely baby bump.

OK, the finger pointing can begin! I know I deserve it. I’ve been MIA, pregnant-style, for more than a week and that’s just not fair. But, I’m laying my excuses here on the table for you: A) I’m 30 days from D-Day. B) I have a lot going through my mind. C) I am T-I-R-E-D when I’m A-W-A-K-E. And, D) This blog is supposed to be humorous and, trust me, there is a lot less humor in things when it gets down to the wire. It’s like you hit mile 25 in a marathon and all you want to do is walk and/or vomit because the reality of what you’re really doing is washing over you. But, you still have one mile to go, so you TRY to smile and sprint it out, but you just want to lie down on the pavement and wave a white flag as if to say, “I came. I tried. I did not conquer.” So, please accept my apology for being slow on the postings. It’s more of a nervous thing than anything. The reality of mommyhood is like a cloud hanging over my head. Sometimes it lets a little rainbow through and sometimes it pours buckets, but as unpredictable as it’s been, I thought it safer to not attempt blog-writing. That being said, I’ve had this one running through my head for weeks…Enjoy!

My stomach. My blockage to all table-served dining. My newfound bodily obstacle course. My catcher of all things colorful. I recall complaining about how big my stomach was in month six, and I could slap myself for being so ridiculous. Month nine. I’m there. That six month belly would look like an ant hill compared to what I’ve got going on under my shirt today. It’s more than a “baby bump” – it’s a “camel hump.” I have no idea where it came from and when it got there, but it’s sooo there and, day-by-day, I’m learning of the irritating handicaps that come along with it. People think they’re “brushing past me” but they’re practically knocking me over (I know, the size is disillusioning). Getting up from a deep slumber proves to get more complicated the bigger you get too. It’s like, the ONE time in life I would be thankful for the abs I DO have, and I have NOTHING to work with! Sitting up? Really? I can’t SIT UP? Nope. I literally roll off the side of the bed four to six times a night now because my potato sack of a mid-section lacks any muscle whatsoever. It’s really a good time. The constant sensation to urinate + a forty-inch stomach = a daily unpleasant Nicki.

But, the worst and most embarrassing big-tummy effect is the inability to pull myself up to any sort of table anymore. You learn it when you’re two years old – place your napkin on your lap, pull yourself up to the table, use your silverware, and eat over your plate. I’ve always followed these rule but watching me try to do it now has GOT to be hilarious.

1) Place Your Napkin On Your Lap. Ummm…what lap? I fan my napkin out as large as it will go and place it on whatever thigh area I have showing (slim to none, usually). But, I’ve learned that really does no good, so do I face looking like a complete headcase in a public restaurant and wear it as a bib? I have not done that yet, but I have attempted to do the full-stomach coverage where I pull the napkin up to my boobs and see how long it can stay in one place before it just flops over onto the table into my plate of food. My record is about 12 seconds (and those were spent holding completely still – shhhh…don’t wake the giant!).

2) Pull Yourself Up to the Table. This, my friends, is why I’ve become a booth sitter. Sure, it’s harder to get in to initially, but no one can judge you when you are slightly far from the table because, hey, the booth and table are cemented into the ground and I just can’t help it. But, at a table, you have all the power to pull your chair up as tightly as necessary, which for me, is, errr, not so tight. I go as far as I can, but once that belly button hits the table’s edge, I’ve got about 12 inches of potential exposed stomach spillage area.

3) Use Your Silverware. Silverware is made for people who dine properly, elegantly, and non-pregnantly. Balancing something on a skinny fork is much more difficult when your only direction is not straight up from the plate and into your mouth. When you’re prego, you’ve got to go up, around, and in. This is not easy when dining on items such as corn, beans, cereal, macaroni, or anything else that really SHOULD require a utensil. Silverware has become one of my greatest enemies, and lately, if you catch me eating in my own home at my own table in front of my own self, you will see (washed) fingers digging through the milk bowl for the last of the Fruit Loops. It’s just so much easier when you’re hungry, robustly round, and most importantly, alone.

4) And, finally, Eat Over Your Plate. Your mother taught you this one, right? Lean your chin in ever-so-slightly and scoop the food into your mouth. That way, in case anything falls out, it will land on your plate and no one will notice you lost some unless they actually saw it happen. Screw that. You think THAT would be mortifying? Woe is you!! Try thinking that you are doing well at eating over your plate at an in-law’s picnic and looking down post-meal to see strawberry juices, corn-off-the-cob, four humorously-placed ketchup blobs, and cake frosting spread like a Jackson Pollock painting across your new white shirt that you bought special for this fun family event. Try that on for size. We all know how embarrassing it can be to spill a little coffee on your work shirt first thing in the morning. Now multiply that be a trillion and that is how I feel after every dinner out.

Nate has learned quickly that I no longer think it very funny to be the homeless man’s dreamcatcher. I miss the days when I could wear something nice and come home with it looking the same. Maybe it’s preparation for baby. I guess that’s what I am using as an excuse for a lot of things nowadays. Why do I need to get up to pee six times a night? Well, it’s good preparation for sleepless nights with baby. Why do my hormones make me so exhausted? Well, you won’t have a lot of energy left at the end of the day when baby comes. Why do I clumsily miss my mouth and bring half my barbecue ribs home on my belly-top? Well, a baby will puke, drool, and poop all over your clothes, so you better get over being so vain now. Easier said than done, but I’m trying. I’ve always been vain when it comes to my clothing (I’m a girl – remember that before you judge me too hard), and giving that up will be quite a challenge for me. I’m not going to lie and say I won’t get angry at the little guy the first 100 times he rolfs on my favorite scarf or gets poop on my SAK purse, but I will try my hardest to understand that he is clueless and has not one ounce of vanity in his tiny little body, and that can be a good thing. I will try to take pointers from Baby Brunner and just roll with it.

I know I will bask in the irony of this ridiculous complaining when I’m sitting at a slightly unkempt Denny’s restaurant celebrating my little boy’s 2nd birthday, trying to teach him to place his napkin on his lap and use his spoon to eat his ice cream. And, I’m pretty sure I’ll be soiled in cheeseburger grease and boogers, but I hope it will not be quite as big a deal as I’m making it today. I will still have my name-brand dress-up clothes hanging in the closet, but will choose to wear them for adult nights only. And, when I slip on my favorite silk dress and sit down for a decadent dessert at The Cheesecake Factory, I will look down at my stomach as Nate pushes in my chair and smile because, hey, look at that – I can eat over my plate.

There’s an oven baking a bun in my oven

My husband and I got married on October 6…a nice, crisp fall day, or so I thought. I was anxious for red and orange leaves to match the cinnamon vests and thought I might even get chilled in my long strapless gown. Well, the day came and we hit a record high of 89 degrees. In October? You’ve GOT to be kidding me! Halfway through pictures, I not only wanted my strapless dress to be bustled – I wanted to rip out the extra layers of fabric, convert it to a mini-dress, and sit on an air conditioner. But, to keep up appearances for this wonderfully blessed event, I kept my dress on, reapplied deodorant and mascara, and danced my butt off.

Two years later, I’m walking around in the same temperature, but now I have a fetal heater growing in my stomach. I’m raising a boy scout who, I swear, practices building fires in there at least twice a day like he’s on freaking Survivor. He’s earned his badge already, people! We’ve all suffered enough! End the madness!

Apparently, these so-called “seasons” don’t agree with me. An October wedding? YES! I love the fall air. A June baby? YES! I’ll beat the heat. Wrong, and WRONG! It’s like God finds some sort of sick humor in testing how much back sweat I can create before I completely lose my mind. The last two days have been record highs for May in Minnesota. The first day I tried my hardest to stick it out, but being pregnant on sweltering days turns you in to a horny vampire, of sorts. You try your best to block the unwelcome rays of sunshine and happiness from your home, you confine yourself to a dark room in the basement and don’t move for an extended period of time, and when all else fails, you take an ice cold shower to help ease the tension. See? A horny vampire. And you thought I didn’t know where I was going with that analogy!

Yesterday I knew it was going to be an equally hot one, and I wasn’t sure my hormones were up to the task of behaving. I plopped myself on the couch when I got home and slowly stripped off my work clothing piece by piece. I’d been dying to do this all day, but figured Nate would care much less than the entire Member Services Department. Eventually, I was down to a sports bra and underwear, letting it all hang out in front of the big picture window in our living room as if to say, “Hello world! I’m pregnant and bloated and leaving butt sweat everywhere I sit, so go ahead and look if you want to, cuz I no longer give a damn!”

I took my cold shower around 10:30 pm and Nate had the brilliant idea to sleep downstairs in the guest room where it’s slightly cooler. You see? This is why I married the boy – he’s always one step ahead of me. And whether it’s because he really does love me and appreciates what I’m going through, or he just wants me to shut up and quit my b*tching, it was a brilliant plan! We carried our 17 pillows and our puppy downstairs and laid down on top of the covers. I remember doing this last summer and thinking THAT was bad. Man, if I had a clue what I’d be feeling a year from then, I’m pretty sure I would’ve complained a lot less. I guess it’s always something, huh? I mean, if it’s not heat, it’s pain. If it’s not pain, it’s cold. If it’s not cold, it’s thirst. If it’s not thirst, it’s hunger. If it’s not hunger, it’s heat. And the cycle continues.

But last night before we finally fell asleep (it took me an additional half hour and one more strip show), Nate rolled over to me, put his hand on my tummy, and cooed ever so sweetly, “Soon…soon.” He could tell I was near tears because my everything was sweating, my feet resembled those of a Sasquatch, and I was tossing, turning, and pillow-flipping like a crazy woman. “Soon…soon.” For some strange reason, these words which I would normally roll my eyes at and mumble a “whatever” to really calmed me down. Soon the temperature will go down and the wind will pick up. It IS still spring, after all. Soon we will have central air. Nate didn’t sell that motorcycle for nothin’! Soon I will no longer be 20 degrees hotter than every non-bellied person in my office. Soon…soon.

And as I lay there with Nate, I placed my hands on my little internal heater and realized I only have five more weeks with this little boyscout. Soon he will be screaming in the room across the hall. Soon he will be here, with us, in person, live in living color! This heat wave may make me miserable and cause inflation in places I didn’t know were inflatable, but it’s helping me to become a stronger mother.

Although it may feel at times like I’m overcooking my baby, I’m really keeping him safe and comfortable in his little uterine home. THAT is my job, through the sweat and the tears. I’ve never been very handy in the kitchen, but in five weeks he will enter this world and gaze up at his parents with a look of gratitude because I will have cooked that little bun to absolute perfection.

One shirt, two shirts, three shirts, FLOOR!

The pile grows higher every day. Higher and bigger. That pile of clean laundry rises daily from a Large to an Extra Large, and from an Extra Large to a…dun dun DUN…Extra EXTRA Large. We’ll clean on Sunday and by Friday, our bedroom floor is the new home of 22 wrinkled shirts, 3 pair of dress pants, 4 tanktops, random miscellaneous undergarments, and a pair of pajama bottoms that I swear fit me last week!

I guess what they say is true. I will continue to get bigger. My baby grows a half a pound a week from now until the finish line, and considering the cheeseburgers and chips that I eat regularly for breakfast, I’d say I’m destined to gain at least one pound a week. Six more weeks = Six more pounds (minimum – let’s not fool ourselves. Reference: cheeseburgers and chips). Six more pounds means I am sure to grow out of at least one more pair of work pants and pretty much ALL of my tanktops. As of now, my mornings go something like this:

Get out of shower. Have outfit picked out in head. Try it on. Throw at least half of it on the ground because either A) my stomach pokes out the bottom or B) My breathing/circulation has come to an abrupt stop or C) you can visibly see my newly-formed cankles. Undershirts that fit me literally YESTERDAY now creep up to right below my belly button. Not so professional, I must say. And, even though I’m starting to care less and less about my physical appearance at work, I still have my standards, and they don’t include donning my stretch marked midriff to my department or camel-toeing my way to nickname hell.

Once half the outfit is on the floor, I rummage through the other “longest tanktops I’ve got” and see if any of those will suffice. No. No. No again. Unbelievable how much shirt space this kid consumes! Finally, I find one that reveals limited skinnage and decide to roll with it since I’m already near tears and it’s not even 8 a.m. yet. Then, I find a top to cover it but care much less about that choice since I’ve already got the hard part taken care of. On to pants. Pants are always a pretty miserable experience for women. I have one pair that still fit me comfortably, all decked out with the lovely gut cover that jacks up to your fatty prego boobs and “holds in” your stomach. Well, it finally happened. My stomach can no longer be held in. The top of the waist band actually sits at my waist now. Last month, it was jacked to the max. Unbelievable! At this rate, with one month remaining, by the end those pants will be long retired and I’ll be wearing sweatpants to work. Really? You’re going to mess with THIS, Mr. CEO? I don’t think so.

Once I’ve got pants and a shirt semi-securely fitted on my disproportionate body, I am usually desperate for some accessories. Accessories ALWAYS fit. It’s a wonderful thing. Grab a new colorful purse, mix and match necklaces, and finish it off with a cute pair of shoes. But wait just a minute…why is it that my shoes DON’T FIT? Yesterday morning I actually tried on a pair of shoes and threw them across the room because they were too tight. MY SHOES WERE TOO TIGHT! Are…you…kidding….me?! A couple F-bombs later I was a mess of tears and felt the need to start all over with the dressing process. But I decided why bother, right? I can only rotate three shirts and one pair of pants so many times before people start picking up on it. And, those old tattered flip-flops have become my new go-to-shoe. If I ever see the day when I can’t squeeze in to those, someone just put me out of my misery.

One month to go. One hot summer month. Today hit 90 degrees (a record high – yes, I AM lucky. Thanks for noticing). 90 degrees and no central air. 90 degrees and two ceiling fans and 45 extra pounds of weight. I guess days like this are when I  should be thankful that none of my clothes fit. What better excuse to walk around in your skivvies than a 90 degree day, no A/C, and a gigantic baby-filled stomach? It was a beautiful thing. Now, if only I could get away with that at work. I imagine it probably wouldn’t fly, but there would definitely be no better time to test it out than now. Even I’M not that gutsy. Guess that gives me just one MORE reason to look forward to the weekends.

And with every day of failed outfit-making, I get one day closer to the end. And, I certainly don’t expect to get into my size 8 jeans again right away (although a girl can dream), but I would be just as satisfied being able to pull up the pants I wore last month without a blasphemous revealing of buttcrack. It’s the simple pleasures that I live for now, one day and one desperate outfit at a time.

Painful practice makes perfect

What the heck was that? That was PRACTICE? Are you KIDDING ME? If that was practice, what’s it going to be like at game time?

These are the thoughts that run through my head about twice a day, or whenever my 34 week, baby-growing body decides to spring into motion and have a fake contraction, or what the medical world likes to call “Braxton Hicks” contractions. Apparently, these are mini-contractions that help your body prepare for the more intense pain you will be experiencing in approximately five to six weeks. Hmmm, yeah. I don’t know about these things. First of all, they don’t feel “mini” at all. They feel hard and gut-wrenching and, though they are only 20-30 seconds long, that whole time is spent with a grueling (probably insanely unattractive) cringe on my face. Secondly, why do we need to “practice” these anyway? Can’t it just be one of those pleasant day-of surprises that shocks the hell out of you when you realize how truly agonizing it is? In my opinion, the further in to the dark I can be, the better. I don’t need a preview of this show. Let’s just curtains up when the day arrives, spew out whatever lines I remember, receive my standing ovation, and call it a night.

The worst part about these contractions is knowing that they are really just the squirrels in the roadkill world of deliveries and the real thing will feel more like speeding over a 500-pound moose in a SmartCar without a seatbelt. And, I’ve got to be honest – I don’t like roadkill. Period. So this analogy was not a good one for me.

It happened to me the other morning on my drive in to work. I was bringing Nate downtown and everything clenched up. I tried to remember if this is what period cramps felt like, and as pleasent as it’s been not having to deal with THAT, THIS was worse than I remember THAT ever being! I grabbed Nate’s hand and squeezed until I thought his pinky was going to pop off and eventually it subsided. Granted, I could still drive and talk, but the pain was intense nonetheless. They say when you have a “real” contraction, you are unable to speak through it. I can’t imagine not being able to talk….being in so much pain that it takes your breath away. That’s not an easy feat and I often wonder how strong it’s going to have to be to get me to shut up.

I have found that these “test” contractions are often followed up by a very awake and active baby. He must sense that his home is in danger of flooding out and he is working hard to keep it comfortable and fluidy. He bounces around and kicks and elbows and rubs his head agains my stomach. Either he is building a baby dam or organizing a protest, but whatever it is, it’s done with great fetal fervor and strength.

I wish he knew that this is how it is supposed to happen. This painful preparation is no more fun for me than it is for him, but it’s how it’s supposed to go. Soon, we will both adapt to our new lives – his in the new world of oxygen and humans and mine in the new world of motherhood and endless worry. Everything is going as it was meant to, but it’s just hard to see that when you’re in the moment. When it feels like my bully of a baby is tying knots around the less cool organs on his turf,  it is VERY hard to not be IN that particular moment. I want to cry and bite down on something metal, but I have to tell myself that I’m practicing for the collision of these new worlds. And only in this united world can me and baby meet, so I’d have to say it’s worth it. Every fake contraction, every real contraction, every practice, every game, every protest, every tear…it all leads up to that beautiful moment when our eyes meet for the first time and I can say, “Practice makes perfect…painful, as it was.”

I came. I saw. I didn’t puke.

Yesterday marked the completion of our birth class. This was something I never thought I would want to do, but the further along I got in this pregnancy, the more I realized I just plain didn’t know. So, what better way to learn it than to spend $90 and attend eight hours of classroom-setting talk-time with ten other couples, watching videos and asking the most basic of questions because, hey, none of us have done this before?

I admit that I was skeptical. Usually, being lectured at isn’t my most effective way of learning, but I was hoping this would be different. We walked in at 8 a.m., armed with our mandatory pillows and blanket, and got comfortable at our table. The couples continued to pour into the room, each one so unique but making the same face that Nate and I had, I’m sure. With every couple that walked through the door, I couldn’t help but think, “Weird…those two had sex and made a baby.” I’m mature, right? But, I found amazement in the diversity of these couples – the tall blonde wife with her short Italian husband, the couple that was probably nearing their 50s, the pudgy couple, the “model” couple, the interracial couple…it was all so interesting to watch. What were we to them? The cliche couple? The brunette couple? The couple that wears their pajamas to class? Who knows. Of course, I was probably the only person playing this game, so it doesn’t really matter.

We all got seated and our teacher introduced herself. Her name was Suzy and she was a fiery redhead from the UK with a gnarly British accent and a vocabulary of words I would LOVE to start using in my everyday life (knickers, mate, fanny, bum…). Her sense of humor started the class off on the right foot as we slowly got to know her better, including the ever-so-important fact that she got into nursing mostly because of her intense obsession with George Clooney (think the days of Dr. Ross).

With our round of introductions, we were asked to give our highs and lows of pregnancy so far, and our husbands were to say what has surprised them the most. “I love feeling my baby kick” and “I have a sore lower back” seemed to be the overall consensus of the room. We changed it up. Nate said he was surprised at how strong I’ve been and that I’m handling it better than he thought I would (oh boy…what was he expecting? I think I’ve been pretty intolerable thus far. Must…try…harder. Must…push…buttons). I explained that my high was telling my parents and my family because 28 years ago, having a child with diabetes didn’t guarantee a grandchild-filled Christmas, and I get to give that to them. How cool is that? That got little to no reaction, so I jumped on the bandwagon of typical “awwww”-responsive answers and quickly added, “And I love feeling my baby kick.” Awwwwwww…Yup. Just as I expected.

The class followed a nice outline of topics including the stages of labor, comfort measures (HA!), pain and medication options, C-sections, and breathing and relaxing methods. I listened closest to what I should pack in my hospital bag and sort of zoned out a lot of the medical talk, due to my weak stomach and jello-limb-syndrome.

The stages of labor were interesting. Early, active, and transition labor (which should just be called bad, worse, and the most-pain-you’ve-ever-felt-in-your-life labor) were discussed in quite some length, including what to look for when your water breaks (color is important – apparently your baby can poop inside of you! Wow, this just gets prettier and prettier).  What I remember most from this discussion were the icons that accompanied it. Early labor was a smiley face with pretty eyelashes and an ear-to-ear grin. Yes, I understand this. You’re happy because the child you’ve nourished for nine months is finally going to be here! Active labor is when the contractions start becoming more prominent. This face was a straight-lined mouth and furrowed eyebrows. She was now distressed and thinking about the pain a little more than the baby. Finally, the face of transition labor was one of complete and utter horror, as if she had just found out her baby daddy is nicknamed “The Jigsaw Killer” just moments after sitting through the supposedly fictitious four-part SAW series. Yeah, THAT kind of horror!

Speaking of THAT kind of horror, I would like to take a moment to discuss “the video.” We watched three in total, but only one is permanently burned into my brain. A quick overview of the movie: Chubby husband does the voice over, narrating each situation as it is shown onscreen. He is obviously whipped and terribly afraid of his angry, beefy, bowl-haircut of a wife. Every time she moans in pain, it sounds like a herd of cows making whoopie, and when she orders him to get ice chips, it comes out in a voice that could’ve easily won her the main role in The Exorcist. The nurses and doctors were decked out with hair from the ’70s and I hope to God they were only acting that “articulate” because they were on camera. “OK, now we are going to check how dilated you are,” says Robot Doctor #1. “How many centimeters is she?” asks a Jan Brady-esque Doctor #2. “Seven,” they say in unison. Smile up at camera. Look away. Act serious. And…Scene!

This continued on for awhile, but the part that we all knew was coming finally came. Camera one – zoom in. Witness crowning baby head emerging from giant woman bush. Cow herds unite! We’ve got a live one! I had to look away or I actually felt that I may vomit right there in the classroom. Interesting as it may be to help understand what goes on downstairs through the whole process, I am not planning on standing on my head to see it on delivery day, so why, WHY must I see it now? I even caught iron-stomached Nate looking away every once in awhile. I don’t know if he was expecting an X-rated swimsuit model to present a peaceful, calm and well-trimmed delivery, but that was so far from what we got, I think it surprised us both! Ahhh, reality. God bless it.

The funny thing is, as nauseus as I was feeling and as much as I didn’t want to look directly at it, that baby came out and the cord was cut and he started to cry. The robot doctors held him up like Simba from the Lion King and, I don’t know if it was the hormones or what, but I was crying (and singing “The Circle of Life” in my head). What a miracle. Chubby Hubby and Exorcist Wife had just brought a little tiny miracle into this world and he was beautiful. He was an adorable, fragile little miracle. So, if I cry and immediately dismiss all the bad and blood I had witness 30 seconds earlier for THIS couple, I can’t imagine how I will feel when it’s OUR baby! OUR BABY!

We toured the hospital and got to stand in the room where each of our little angels would be born. Everything was clean and sterile and as comfortable as it can be in a hospital room. I hate hospitals, period. So, for me to be impressed and semi-comfortable while touring one was a BIG deal. The class ended with breathing and massage techniques. These are supposed to help clear your head of the pain and help you regain focus on something else. I’ve never been very good at mind over matter or “picturing myself in a happy place.” If there is something bad going on with my body and I can feel it, guess what? I’m going to focus on THE PAIN! I can’t help it. And, this was quickly justified when she had us each hold two icecubes in our hand for one minute while doing our breathing techniques to try to focus on something other than the excruciating frost bite developing on our palms. I got through it, but I’m not gonna lie – with each breath, I would picture the nerves in my hand getting black and numb. Breathing was NOT going to help THIS girl! An IV of vodka and pain medications? Now, THAT has possibilities!

I could see the look of anguish in each of the lady’s faces as they dropped their icecubes to the table. Looks of “holy crap, that was hard” filled the room and I knew I wasn’t the only one who wondered how I will get through 20 hours of labor if I can’t hold frozen water for ONE MINUTE! I was not alone. There was fear everywhere. We were all scared. Even if I was the only one looking away from the vagina video and plugging my ears during the epidural details, we were ALL scared. What first-time mother isn’t? If this class taught me anything, it was that fear is imminent. It’s going to be there until the bitter end. But, the tears that flooded the room after each video-baby was brought into the world, screaming nakedly and covered in slime, was a reassuring sign that it will all be worth it. The fear, the pain, the possibilities of emergency surgery, the needles, the pointless breathing…all to hear that baby’s scream. So, so, so, so worth it. In fact, I can’t wait. I never thought I would sit through an 8-hour lecture on blood, poop, and pain and say that I can’t wait to experience it all, but I CAN’T WAIT TO EXPERIENCE IT ALL! Bring it on, world! I came. I saw. I didn’t puke.

Would you like toast with those sausages?

Remember the days when shopping was enjoyable? When pants fit, when shoes fit, when bras fit? When you didn’t have to get your fix in the purse section because, well, those are the only fashionable items that you can still wear comfortably?

I realized last weekend on the first hot day of the year that long pants weren’t going to cut it anymore and I needed to suck it up and show off these sexy waterlogged legs. So, I ventured out tonight to do a little shorts shopping. Now, I never really enjoyed the thought of my pasty sticks exposing themselves freely to the world, but the thought of my pasty, PREGNANT sticks entering nakedly into the summer sunshine was a little more than I could handle. But it had to be done. I have recently started to perspire while sitting at my office desk doing nothing, so the thought of folding laundry in a non-air-conditioned house in full-legged pants was more than I could bear. I only have 53 more days (but who’s counting?) to suck it up and at this point in the baby-building phase, I should probably start to choose fit over fashion.

I simply couldn’t justify spending full price on items I’ll drown in the second he decides to come out, plus I read price tags in “diapers” now. A $35 shirt? That’s 120 diapers! And then, I say no and leave the store with pangs of guiltless regret. So tonight, I gathered a couple handfuls of clothing from the clearance racks and headed for the fitting rooms, determined to make something work to help get me through the warmer coming months. I glanced back at Nate with a look of “here goes nothin,’” took a deep breath, and stepped in to the closest stall.

Jimmy likes his women with hearty sausage feet. "Good protein," he says.

Fitting room lights are never flattering. Every woman will tell you that her sexiness level drops abruptly upon seeing herself under fitting room lighting. You could walk in feeling put together, like you could conquer the world and get digits from the cute guy in the suit and tie at the service desk. But, when you walk out, you feel the need to hit up the Clinique counter and the local hair salon ASAP to hide all your new-found blemishes and uncolored roots.

This is when it happened for me – under the fluorescent lights of fitting room fat camp. Ignoring the bad hair and lack of makeup, I tried to focus on the lower half of my body only, since that was the area I was shopping for anyway. I slipped off my shoes and jeans and pulled up my first pair of potential work capris. They fit like a glove, in the thighs, the waist (what waist? Who am I kidding?), and the butt. God bless America! Pants that fit! I admired the fit all the way down…to the ground. The capris fit my legs nicely, but where my legs met my ankles? Not so nice. What was this I was seeing? I was being rudely introduced to my newest pregnancy nightmare – the sausage ankle!

My once-athletic legs had tone and muscle. There was a definitive kneecap-calf-foot separation. And, maybe it had just been winter too long or this happened overnight, but somehow, some time, somewhere…I developed cankles. My calf had melted down into my foot and become one solid form, freakishly resembling that one overstuffed cheddarwurst left exploding on the grill to die, painfully alone and unfulfilled. I was puffing out like an overcooked cheddarwurst, people!

I sat down on the micro-seat in the stall (those chairs are meant to hold real-life-sized human beings, right?) and did my best to bend over and rub the fluid out of my feet. They felt like play-doh and the more I poked at them, the easier they were to sculpt into my own fun and colorful skin sculptures. I got the puffiness to settle down a bit and decided it was safe to take another gander in the mirror to observe the new capris. It was official. There was going to be no more consumer productivity coming from this fitting room. I couldn’t take my eyes off my feet long enough to notice the color, fit, or flair of my other clothing options. Forget about it! I’d try on a shirt and look at my ankles. Yup, they look fat in this shirt. Guess I won’t buy THAT! I was ruined for the night.

“How did those work for you?” I was asked as I left the room. I looked up at the sweet grandmother doing her job so very well, and non-aggressively, with a tinge of disgust, snapped back, “I have sausage ankles. Maybe another day.”

At the end of it all, I did wind up purchasing a comfortable pair of running shorts and a casual pair of black capri sweats. My husband, and maybe some neighbors, will be the only breathing lifeforms that will be exposed to the Jimmy Deans attached to my toes. I only spent about 40 diapers and am sure this new ankle-obsessed Aphrodite-syndrome will subside eventually. And, when it does, I’ll be happy I made the purchase. But, like any good woman, I bought myself a purse to tie myself over until that day comes. And, you know what? The purse fits like it was custom tailored for my body, sausages and all.