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.

The sacrificial lamb and his cynic of a wife

Last night I crawled into bed around 10. It was quiet and wonderful and much needed, since I could no longer find comfort on the couch watching TV no matter how hard I tried. Four hours later, Nate decided to join me. He had been up working and at 2 a.m., he tried to gently crawl over me to get to his side. I woke up, yes. But did I move over for him? No. I was mesmerized by the level of comfort I was experiencing for the first time in months and I knew if one pillow was readjusted or one limb had to find a new resting spot, all bets were off for a good night’s sleep. So, I laid there pretending to sleep while guiltily listening to Nate’s rustle and bustle to maneuver himself into a position that wouldn’t require a morning chiropractor visit. He was struggling, and I knew why. We have a queen-sized bed, true. But, when you’re a pot-bellied pregnant woman sharing that space with a hairy dog and a tall husband, that glorious queen-size can suddenly feel like a miniature prison cot, and this girl was taking up way more than her fair share of the cot that night! I was sprawled out in every direction, pillows tucked underneath my arms, one leg above the covers, the other below. No wonder he couldn’t find a position worth sleeping.

Then, as if he knew I were awake, he laughed. Just a quiet laugh, but the kind of laugh that said, “Wow…I don’t even know what to do with myself right now because SHE is so comfortable, and I am SO NOT, but what am I supposed to do? She’s carrying my child and it’s just one night.” It was a sacrificial laugh is what it was. Just suck it up and move on. It had guilt, frustration, and angst written all over it, but he curled himself up in a teeny tiny corner with what little sheet he could scrounge up and attempted a short nap. As comfortable as I was, I couldn’t let him suffer like that so I “woke up” and rolled over, completely readjusting myself, but providing adequate room for two plus baby plus furball.

I laid awake silently for awhile after that, thinking of the many, MANY sacrifices we will be making in our upcoming decades. I thought about how many Nate has already made for ME. I thought about how many I have already made for BABY. It’s amazing how much you can give of yourself when you have someone else in your life who depends on you so much!

Our lives are soon about to change, taking a sharp, unprepared turn into the lane of self-giving sacrificial lambs known to the common man as “parents.” Moms and dads swerve all over this highway, in hopes they will eventually find the appropriate speed and direction for their particular and individualized Mini-Mes. I am quite sure our adventure will start out like a Nicholas Cage action sequence, with lots of unnecessary explosions and tire-squealing, but eventually there will be a happily-ever-after and all main characters will still be alive. Cliche? Maybe. Successful? You bet. And success is all we can really hope for, isn’t it?

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On a side note, I was recently accused of being negative and cynical in my writing of this blog, told I should spend my energies elsewhere in a more “happy place.” And, I need to apologize to anyone who may agree with that statement. However, I defend myself briefly in saying this:

I blame my father for my sarcasm. I blame my mother for my temper. I blame myself for combining the two and creating a world of written words that may come across as angry and bitter. I promise you, PROMISE YOU, this is all written in an melodramatic, highly-exaggerated, balls-to-the-wall fashion and not every word should be ripped apart and dissected. I’ll tell you right now: Pregnant women ARE smug. We don’t all mean it when we say “Oh, I’m fine. Just a little backache.” We mean, “Hell yeah, my back hurts! I feel like I have small military elves armed with knitting needles crawling up and down my spine poking and jabbing to their heart’s content.” We don’t all mean it when we say, “It’s a beautiful feeling when he kicks me all night long.” Sometimes we mean, “It was cool for about five minutes, then his foot got caught in my ribcage and I thought I was going to have to perform surgery on myself and cut his foot off to relieve the pressure. Plus, I really wanted to get some sleep!” Every pregnant woman misses wine/beer/caffeine. Every pregnant woman hates not being able to “stare down there.” Every pregnant woman gets frustrated with the fact that men can’t do this and probably wouldn’t even if they could.

And, in my defense, I could pull off “smug” just as well as the prego next to me, but I choose not to. I don’t think I live out the bad, but I WILL write about it. When I’m at home with my husband and we’re lying around, I will grab his hand and make him feel his baby’s hiccups. I will walk my dog and breathe in fresh air and just be happy to be alive – alive for TWO. I will leave the doctors office and smile because 30 years ago, having a baby was still a big question mark for someone like me and today I can schedule a measly 53 appointments and end up with a healthy child, just like everyone else! So, I remain positive in my day-to-day life, just as excited to become a mom as every other mother out there, but the cynic in me decided there is enough Internet-jabber about the miracles and wonder and beauty of it all. I am going to focus on the pleasantries that don’t get discussed – farting, waddling, frequent urination, you name it!

Closing statement: I will be a good mother – this I know. Nate will be a great father – no doubt in my mind. We have the ability to sacrifice, to teach, to love and learn, to try, try again until we get it right. And, with a blessed mix of DNA, our kid will be a patient, witty, non-judgmental, mischievous, charming ball of energy and light with friends and family who love him for him. For these reasons, I am certainly not as scared as I may come across to the world of bloggers. And a big thank you to all of you who understand and are willing to find the humor and love (though it may hide between the lines here and there) in my writing.