From the Ministry of What the F*cks

Right. So here's the story.

It make you go, "Are you f*cking kidding me?" Or maybe, "What the hell?"

If so, well, join the club.

I'm going to get right to the point. Until Tuesday, I was pregnant, just over seven weeks so. Then my doctor determined that it had stopped heading in any direction except miscarriage.

And so that night I took the little get-the-miscarriage-party-started pills. And it was a truly hellish night. And now things are better.

But here's the real crazy. I'm 46.

Now, 46 is a not a lot of years when you're talking about all of eternity. But! It is a lot of years when you're talking about pregnancy. Add to this that we've not exactly been burning up the sheets. So I was completely astounded, and so was Nick.

I realized it was not outside the realm of possibilities. But neither is winning the lottery or being hit by lightening.

What the hell? Exactly.

Since I went through this the year before last, I knew the odds were abysmal.  In fact, when you are this much older, they are this much abysmaller.

Miscarriage rates are 70%. Odds of chromosomal abnormality are like 1 in 16.

In fact, finding an outcome chart for pregnancy over age 45 was  hard. I googled "pregnancy at 46" and came up with Halle Berry and a bunch of fertility articles saying that even though you see celebrities doing it, what you don't know is that they're probably using donor eggs.

In other words: don't try this at home.

On a side bar, a friend said, "Are you kidding me? Good thing you didn't start having babies in your twenties! You could have like eight kids by now."

Anyway, I didn't exactly let myself get all hopeful. Which was good. Because at what would've been somewhere early in the seventh week, it just stopped being.

But first I thought: What if this works? Oh my hell. I'm going to be exhausted for the rest of my life. My back already hurts and it's only the size of a pea. We will need a goddamn minivan. How will I give my kids enough attention and deal with a newborn? How will we do this? And I will definitely need to buy me some boobs when this is all said and done.

I also thought: A new little human! A smooshy snuggly baby! Fortunately, Maude hasn't gotten around to giving my Ergo and sleep sacks to Syrian refugees. There's a reason we still have our monitor and stroller. Another sibling for my kids! Awwwww. Hooray!

Once again, though I believe in choice, I knew I personally couldn't terminate unless there was a chromosomal abnormality. If I got to 11 weeks, I'd have a CVS. If there was going to be something wrong, I wanted it to happen early and resolve itself.

And then it did.

So here's my soapbox. To start a miscarriage, you can take misoprostol, which is generic, and inexpensive (at least with insurance). The doctor had me stick four little pills in my vagina. As I understand it, you can also take them orally.

But in any case, it's four pills.

For an abortion, they apparently have you take a different pill beforehand to make your uterus inhospitable, and then you use these to open your cervix and start the cramping. And according to my research, if you are early enough in your pregnancy, apparently misoprostol can be sufficient.

I feel like abortion is sold to us as whole, pink, recognizably human babies being chopped up and dragged out of women's vaginas. The women could take them out and put them in Hannah Andersson. But no! They choose to murder them instead!

Now, given the choice, I'd have had this baby, and in November, somewhere approaching Election Day (which I found funny, considering how hostile some of the candidates are to reproductive freedom), I'd have wound up with a whole, pink, recognizably human baby coming out of my vagina.

A baby I wanted, a baby who would've had a loving home and family.

But let me tell you what expelling that seven-week-old-no-longer potential baby was like. It was (in the privacy of my own home) a lot of cramping, a decent amount of blood, and some tissue.

That was it.

The reality of terminating an very early pregnancy is nothing that would work on a poster. It's nothing that women should have to jump through hoops to beg for. It's definitely not something that should require a woman to go to a doctor once, then return two days later for.

It's four little pills. And some tremendously horrible cramps, and in my case three hours of the worst body-wracking chills I've ever had, although to be fair, I've never had malaria or dengue fever.

And then it was over. And my body immediately started feeling better. I stopped being so tired that I'd be unable to leap out of the way of a speeding truck. My back stopped hurting. I stopped feeling queasy all the time. I started feeling more like myself.

In other words, pregnancy stopped taking over my entire body.

It's not over emotionally, in that despite my best efforts, I'm still sad. I am really, really sad, even thought I keep telling myself it is for the best. Everything is easier this way.

But loss is never easy, whether you are voluntarily letting go or not.

But physically, it can be that easy, at least in the early weeks. And then it is over. No politician, no doctor, no objecting pharmacist should have any say-so in whether it is that easy or not.

Everything else is hard enough.

Agos

I went to Tryst this morning with a friend of mine and our babies.

Random note: there were a shocking number of attractive men there today.

Anyway, as pretty much always happens when I go anywhere, India wanted to nurse. So I did. Our server gave me a dirty look, but I think she was in a bad mood or didn't particularly like us or something. Nobody else batted an eye.

And I realized that a year ago I was freshly back from Paris and heading to the doctor to see if I was still pregnant (pleasegodpleasegod...).  And I was!  And here we are!

I ordered a chaippuccino, a word that still makes me cringe whenever I say it, and which I've been ordering there since back in my single days. And I said to my friend, "You know, five years ago if you'd told me I'd be sitting here nursing my baby, I wouldn't have believed you."

Because five years ago, I hadn't yet met Nick. I was dating like a fiend, and had recently gone out with a completely critical asshole who inspired this post.

Four years ago, I wasn't yet married, but was counting down to next week.

Three years ago, I had a new baby and was completely losing my shit.

Two years ago, I was trying very hard to get pregnant. I was terrified of being too old. And I wasn't talking about it. When I finally did let it out, it was such a relief.

And here I am, a married mother of two.

Five years and a million chaipuccinos ago, I would never have believed it.

Watch out, you might get what you're after; Cool babies, strange but not a stranger

I'm not kidding when I say that compared to a C-section, vaginal birth is like a dance party.

And please forgive me if birth stories are not your cup of tea. I know I was never interested in them until I had a kid. And now I'm all, "So your mucal plug was the size of a golf ball??"

Honest to God, a couple people told me that. I never saw mine. No clue.

Also, this is very long. Because I want to record it all for myself, for India. You won't  hurt my feelings if you decide to wait and read another day, or just skip to the end where, you know (spoiler alert!), the baby comes out.

So.

I trudged home from work Wednesday the 18th, exhausted, crabby, and having spent the day feeling like I was being stabbed in the vagina from the inside. I took Tylenol before I went to sleep because I was all, fuck the stabbity stabbing. I need some sleep.

Water Breaks and Contractions Hurt Like Holy Hell
And then at 2 am I felt this little twinge. And then I started to leak. But not gush, like in the movies. I had time to wake Nick up and be all, "I think my water broke. It's like I'm peeing but I'm not peeing."

Naturally, I dragged him into the bathroom so I could demonstrate the not-peeing on the toilet. It just kept going and going.

I called my doula, who confirmed that it did indeed sound like my water bag had broken, and told me to call the midwife and then to get some sleep. I called the midwife, who said it sounded like there was meconium in the fluid, but not to worry, and to come to the hospital at 6 am. And sleep in the meantime.

Which was when the contractions started. They were much like my midwife had demonstrated. Except like 50 times more painful.

My doula had said that they'd start, and they'd be far apart, and not to pay attention to the clock. Approach each contraction as an opportunity to move the baby down. And then rest in between.

Basically, I was prepared to rest, watch a movie, read, what-have-you in between contractions.

Except that these motherfuckers started 3-5 minutes apart (yes, I'm a clock watcher) and they hurt so much that I was on my hands and knees on the bed, squatting on the side of the bed, leaning over and clutching the bed...

I was all, "Breathe, breathe, this is an opportunity..."

I finally texted my doula all, "These hurt like holy hell and there's no way I can do this for 24 hours." At which point she called and while we were chatting she was all, "Hmm. Sounds like it's going a bit faster than anticipated."

Honestly, I would recommend her to anyone. She's very even and calm and soothing, and she handles both Nick and me and our varied styles extremely well.

And It Doesn't Hurt Less Just Because You're at the Hospital, Until...
We got to the hospital a little after 6 am. The midwife (a very sweet, gentle one - not the hardcore one who I respect but fear) checked my cervix around 7 and I was not at all dilated. She pushed, and she said most people's will open if that happens. Me? Zero.

They had both India and me hooked up to monitors, and she was doing fine and I was contracting like all hell and yet no dilation.

This continued for another couple hours. The nurse was wonderful, doula, and Nick were all there the whole time and were wonderful. They would rub my back, breathe with me, remind me to relax my shoulders, breathe into it, etc.

And then, about 9, the anesthesiologist came in, I think as a routine visit in case I wound up needing anesthesia. She asked me what meds I was taking, allergies, etc. And then she said, "If you want an epidural, you just need to ask. There's no shame in it."

At which point I burst into tears and said, "YES PLEASE I WANT ONE RIGHT NOW I CANNOT DO THIS IT HURTS IT HURTS PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE CAN I HAVE ONE RIGHT NOW."

Nick reminded me that I'd worked so hard for all these months and was I sure? And since he wasn't within kicking range all I could say was "Please shut up, Nick."

The doula had suggested that I ask for the attending to perform the procedure, so I did. The resident left to get him, and the nurse said, "Actually, she is very good."

I looked at Nick and said, "GO GET HER BACK!" and, good man that he is, he sprinted.

Accio anesthesiologist!

Epidurals Are Magic And Then I Slept

As I dozed off (sleep! after days and days! finally!) Nick and the midwife had a little meeting. She was going to consult with the head of OB. Nick called family to tell them it looked like I'd be having another C-section.

My body kept contracting. India kept doing well. And my cervix, it turns out, decided to dilate. They would occasionally reposition me to help the baby work her way downward.

Somewhere around noon, as they were shifting me, they saw the bloody show. 

And when the midwife came back in to check, she said, "I can't really feel..." I was sure she was going to say "any dilation" but instead she said, "much cervix. You're almost fully dilated."

Which made me burst into tears. My body works like it's supposed to after all. And I've spent the last three years thinking I was totally defective. Fuck you very much, OB.

So they said to hang out until I felt a tremendous urge to poop. Then I'd start pushing. This took another hour or so. I was worried I wouldn't recognize it.

Hahahaha.

And Then With Much Encouragement, Behold, I Squoze a Baby Out of My Vagina
Suddenly I was all, "Oh! I feel it!" This was right about 3 pm.

And then they all sprung into action. I was all worried I would poop. They told me I probably wouldn't but not to worry. If I did, I wouldn't know.

Oh, I did. And I knew.

Somehow, I had always envisioned women depositing a large turd on the table. I don't know why. But then my friend Jane said her husband said it was like a Play-Doh factory, if you remember extruding your Play Doh.

Nick started making fun of me, at which point they directed him up by my head. But then he settled down, and they assigned him leg holding duty. First they had me on my side. They'd have me take a breath and let it out, then take a breath and push for 10. The nurse was counting.

And then they asked if I'd like to try being on my back. Neither of these would have seemed like optimal pushing positions prior to this little exercise. But you have these contractions and then you just, well, push.

So there we all were: the midwife, the doula, the husband, the nurse, and me. All up close and personal. They were doing warm compresses, they were supporting my perineum, they were discreetly wiping away the poop. That just kept coming and coming and coming.

I know it did. Nick unnecessarily confirmed this fact.

You know how when people tell you you're doing a good job, it just makes you want to try harder? This is what was going on. They were complimenting my pushing abilities. Clearly Lisa, you are very fit and have great abs! Such fantastic pushing!

(Fortunately nobody was like, clearly you have a lot of huge poops!)

And then after a while her head was almost out, and my vagina cheerleading squad got all excited, and they were all, a few more pushes! and then it was out...and the midwife asked Nick if he'd like to catch the baby...

Personally, I was about to suggest that they leave it to a professional, but he was really excited about it.

So Nick caught the baby. And they put her on my belly, all gunky and red and what the hell just happened? She was there. Right there. My baby!

They left the cord connected until it turned white, so she could get all the blood, oxygen, whatever else from it. And then they offered for Nick to cut it, which he was also all thrilled about. They put her up to nurse.

I'm telling you, although my doula contends that I could have, and I just made a choice - the right choice for me - I don't believe I could've done it without the epidural. I have never, seriously never, been in pain like that.

But I will also say that as soon as it was over, I genuinely felt the urge to be all yee-haw yippeee naked backflips down the hallway! when it was over. I mean, if I had been able to move my legs.

Honestly and truly one of the best days of my entire life.

So Nick and his dudela walk into the hospital bar...

Ha, no, I'm kidding. I'm a frayed knot. If you know that string joke.

So here's the deal. It dawned on me, as we were walking to work this morning and I would stop every so often to catch my breath after a particularly sharp internal stab to the crotch that actually, I'm not a person who likes to suffer in silence.

In other words: my labor is likely to be rather hard on Nick.

I relayed my epiphany. He wasn't all, "Oh? Do you think so?" More like, "Um, hell yes."

Clearly it's something he's known for quite some time.

I told him that our doula will be very helpful to him as well. To which he replied, "I've been thinking about it, and what I'd really like is a dudela. I need the support. I need someone to hang out with me at the hospital bar."

I'm not kidding you when I say that the night I was induced with Jordan Nick asked one of the nurses where the bar was. He wasn't kidding.

They were rather stern in telling him, in no uncertain terms, that hospitals don't have bars. Although he wasn't joking, if you can't see the humor in a husband's offer to administer the suppository, you aren't going to laugh about a hospital bar.

Now, on the one hand, I think a hospital bar is a great idea. It could be a huge revenue source. Most visits to the hospital are for sad reasons, and you leave wanting something to take the edge off. It would be kind of nice to be there with the edge off. I don't know how that never occurred to me during my myriad visits.

Candidly, all those times my dad was in the emergency room, I'd have headed straight to the bar rather than sitting in the wretched waiting rooms.

But then you figure it's a rather bad idea as well. Because I'm sure the last thing hospitals want are drunken imbeciles wandering the halls. People might get so drunk they'd wind up in the emergency room. Plus there'd be the risk of drunk drivers. Liability would probably be high.

I suggested that Nick's dudela could bring him a flask. In my mind, his dudela would be this big, muscular guy who would sit around and talk football or something else stereotypically manly.

And then, then my dear husband had the temerity to say, "But the dudela isn't going to be a guy. My dudela needs to be a hot woman who can massage my shoulders and sympathize with how stressed I must be."

Pretty sure we won't be hiring her anytime soon, uh, ever.

When a spaceship doesn't land in your alley and also the difficulty of finding somewhere to talk about your vagina in an office environment

Hiya! It's early to wonder, but in case you were, I'm still around and still pregnant.

I got a very sweet email from my friend Sophie yesterday all, "I assume no news is good news?"

Basically we've been getting organized and I've been so very tired and sleeping a lot, except in the middle of the night which seems to be my girl's preferred window of time for aqua-aerobics. And being all, "Settle down in there!" gets you nowhere.

Also, the rat issue keeps me up.

And I don't mean I'm up fretting. I mean that I'm currently sleeping nestled in a little pillow cocoon on a day bed in the elevator room/nursery, which is just off our bedroom. And the on-off-on-off of the motion sensor light outside the window downstairs comes up through the plexiglass shaft and wakes me up.

Or rather, I wake up for one of myriad reasons (Must pee! Or: hip aches! Or: stuck, can't turn over, am I going to have to call for Nick? Or: awake! Let's see if I can remember all the words to The Gambler...), and then I start fixating on the on-offness.

I was kind of disoriented the first time, so naturally I assumed it was beams of light from a spaceship landing in our alley. I didn't see Close Encounters 78 million times as a kid for nothing.

Then I decided it was a signal from one sketchy alley person to another, like, "Coast is clear to break in!"

But no. It's the rats. There are so many scurrying around next door that the light is on-offing for a significant portion of the night.

Because, you see, the next door neighbors have approximately a million rats. This was verified by the DC Rat Eradication Department (or name to that effect), which, at the behest of one of our neighbors, came out and inspected our alley and back yards/areas.

The neighbor who spearheaded the project has an actual back yard sort of space, and rats have dug up their flagstone patio. Because it turns out there are 16 rat burrows! Each with a WHOLE FAMILY OF RATS! Evidently their yard is popular because they have a little fish pond. So the rats have somewhere to quench their ratty little thirst.

Vomit, I know.

Now, we are not a source of rats because we have no yard. Only concrete. But they still come over to visit and eat our basil and such.

Rat bastards.

However. The could-be-nice-but-is-not-slumlord-run-apartment building next door has a lot of garbage, a lot of piled up junk, and is a rat haven. But being a private apartment building, the DC Rat Department couldn't go in.

We're supposed to take photos and email them to a different DC department, which I guess deals with apartment buildings and health hazards or something. So far, Nick has emailed them several times with photos and they've passed the buck.

Aaaaand now I realize there's no actual graceful segue from neighborhood rats to my vagina, is there?

So my doula called this morning to check on me. How's everything going? And also, all of her April clients have delivered! Her schedule is wide open for me.

Now, while I like my Quad-mates very much, and talk about all sorts of inappropriate things with them, it seemed like sitting in my cube discussing my vagina would be sort of...disrespectful. Plus, anyone could walk by and overhear.

But my vagina was precisely what I needed to discuss.

So I headed to the hallway and was just saying, "I'm having a lot of stabby pains in my va...!" when two men rounded the corner.

So I cut my pronouncement short, went into the stairwell, told her about my vagina, and then heard voices on the stairs. Seriously. It's impossible to find a quiet moment to say the word vagina out loud during the work day.

I returned to our office and found an open conference room in which to discuss the state of my business.

My doula, she was delighted. This is a good sign! The head is down and the girl is turning and mashing down on my cervix! My body is doing what it should! Great!

I'm pretty sure I heard her right when she referred to it as the "grapefruit juicer" - yikes.

Then I caught her up on the dread sex assignment, to which she said that self-pleasure would work fine (I seriously love this woman), but I explained the explicit mandate for the magical cervical-softening penile prostaglandin serum.

I also wanted to tell her that Nick has to go out of town Thursday night. This judge scheduled a hearing on our due date, to which Nick said, no, not possible, potential baby birth and all. So the judge rescheduled for this Friday.

Nick was concerned, but I think it's better to just have it out of the way. My doula agrees - odds of the kid arriving in the 18 hours he's gone are slim, even with all the super-positive cervical mashing that seems to be going on.

So not Friday. Saturday, though not expected, would be kind of awesome though, don't you think?

Books to get down to: A list for the Three-to-Five a Week Pregnancy Countdown Literary Society

You know how sometimes you walk away from a conversation and then you think of the perfect thing that you wish you'd said?

Admittedly, with me, I more more likely to walk away wishing I hadn't said whatever it was that fell out of my mouth. (Just one example chosen from myriad.) Oh, here's another. And crap, possibly my favorite one, where there are not just words, but actions involved.

But sometimes, sometimes I have the ideal response...just a few minutes or hours too late.

So, along those lines, I woke up this morning thinking, oh, here's how I wish I'd ended yesterday's post: It might be time to pull out the Dickens. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times...

I told that to Nick. He agreed. We talked about being hard core Dickens fans. That Dickens, he's deep. And so on and so forth.

We think we're funnier than we are, I know, I know.

I knew people in college who had their preferred sex music - particular albums or mixes they'd play.

Then I got started thinking, wouldn't it be funny to compile a reading list? Books to have sex to?

So I've been trying to compile a book list for the 3-5-times-a-week-task that lies ahead of me. It's a hard project (no pun). I asked my friend Kaysha for help, and here's what we've got so far...

Deadeye Dick - Kurt Vonnegut
The Sound and the Fury - William Faulkner
The Sun Also Rises - Ernest Hemingway
The Fountainhead - Ayn Rand
As I Lay Dying - William Faulkner
Of Human Bondage - W. Somerset Maugham
Anything by Balzac

I know for a fact that you all are an extremely clever crowd that loves books. Any suggestions?

I need your baby stuff opinions. Neeeeeeed. Pleaseandthankyouverymuch.

I'm sure I've said this before, but I do best when I have like three options. The baby stuff world is too full of options.

And I realize this is a topic of interest to a fairly narrow slice of the population...but it's kind of pressing for me at the moment. Particularly because in a scant few weeks we won't be able to leave the hospital without the kid in a car seat.

So if you have opinions on car seats and/or strollers - and actually, any baby products you've come across that you generally think are awesome that I might not know about - please, oh please, share!

Here's the deal: So, with Jordan, my brother - who found out I was pregnant when our dad died - passed along his car seat and Snap n Go. He and his wife are super cautious and particular, and I was grateful that what I found a confusing decision was made for me.

But by the time J was done with it, it was too old to save. So all I remember is that it was Graco, but not the height/weight limit.

I've been looking at Graco and Chicco, and was originally going to bypass the 22 lb seat in favor of 30 or 35...but then someone said, really? Are you going to be carrying your kid in an infant seat at 30 pounds?

Um, no. I can barely hoist Jordan, who is now somewhere in the 30s.

The bucket seat with the Snap n Go worked out well, and while there are parents who are totally opposed to letting their child nap in it, I will fully admit that if he was asleep when we took him out of the car, we let him sleep in it until he woke up. Hell, sometimes I'd keep rocking it to keep him asleep.

He's a big, strapping lumberjack of a kid and doesn't seem to have suffered any ill effects from over-use of infant seat.

But I realized the other night, while doing obsessive internet research, that Jordan's convertible car seat can be used with infants 5 lbs and up. We have three of these seats, as we had one for Betty's car as well.

So I could just use that one, and buy an infant stroller. But that takes away the portability of the bucket seat. And means I'd be waking the kid up as soon as she needs to get out of the car.

Also, then what stroller? Would it be better to just go with a set, if I'm going to buy an infant car seat? Or get another Snap n Go?

Seriously, I'm hung up on this. I just need to make some fucking decisions and get on with my life.

Opinions? Help!

March(ing) madness, or walking my invisible dog again

It's started out in the street again.

I don't know if it's because I've hit that bigbig point in my pregnancy, or because it's been warm this week and I've been commuting in dresses or shirts and pants, not all bundled up, but the comments have begun.

On Wednesday, Nick and I were walking to work together, and a man called out, "Twins?"

Nick replied, "Nope! Just a big one!"

And the guy beamed at Nick and said, "Congratulations, man! Good luck!"

I got to my building and a man in the elevator on the way up to my floor said, "You look like you're soon to be two people! You look great!"

Later that afternoon, a woman in the gym in my building smiled at me as I was huffing and puffing along, and asked when I was due. I told her, and she said, "Just one?"

"Just one."

Now, on the street, I've started getting the "Hey, Mama!" and "Congratulations!" Also, "It's a boy!"

Everyone (by everyone I mean every stranger who has speculated so far) guesses boy.

And there's the totally random: The other night, as Jordan and I were walking home, a (probably crazy but kindly-intentioned) man leapt up from his chair at Starbucks, ran over and greeted Jordan and then leaned over and blessed my stomach.

Nobody I don't already know has suggested I name her after them, but I fully expect that one of these days.

Like I said, it's started.

Completely freaking out

Update: 3 pm.

The midwife said, in a nutshell: The baby is FINE, totally fine. It's a virus (which you guys said). There are lots going around. Eat what you can, sleep, and stay home tomorrow if you can - one, to rest, and two, not to spread it around.

Also: Leave Google the hell alone.

In further good news, the kid's heart sounds great, and she is now head down!!! I felt her squirming a lot last night - partly because I couldn't sleep and partly because I kept obsessively checking to make sure she wasn't dead.

My personal theory is that all the organ upheaval from the vomiting flipped her right over.

You all are the BEST. So sweet and kind and supportive. Huuuuge hugs to you.

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

Let me start by saying that I have a scheduled midwife appointment at 1 pm, and I am so very grateful. Hopefully she'll be on time, and so I only have 90 more minutes of absolute hysteria.

Because I am freaking the fuck out.

I spent last night vomiting violently. I assumed I had the same stomach virus thing as Betty, but hers lasted a couple days. Me, I'm exhausted, but haven't thrown up in hours.

So Nick called and suggested food poisoning. What did I eat yesterday?

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. How am I so stupid? Tuna salad from sandwiches that were brought into our office for a meeting.

A perfect way to get listeriosis, which can kill your baby. Or just cause birth defects, premature labor, and what have you. Seriously, if you are pregnant and would like to make yourself clawing-the-walls-insane, go ahead and google food poisoning and pregnancy.

Not only am I exhausted and feel like hell, but I'm also convinced that I'm singlehandedly responsible for having done irreparable damage to our kid.

Fuck.

Secrets, frozen eggs, chippies, and could you honestly not sleep with James Bond if you had the chance?

OK, so, I hadn’t thought about my definition of a secret until the other night.

And once I told him about it, Nick thought of it as a secret kept. Whereas I thought, since I hadn’t made the other decision – which would definitely have been a secret – that it wasn’t a secret. Just something I hadn’t shared.

Which is entirely different, I think. Kind of like if you have the opportunity to cheat on your partner, but you choose not to. Cheating and not telling would mean you have a secret.

Whereas you probably wouldn’t come home and say, “I didn’t sleep with someone else today.”

Unless it was oh, Daniel Craig. Then I think I would definitely come home and say that while I’d had the opportunity to have sex with James Bond, I didn’t, and THAT’S HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU. YOU’RE WELCOME.

Except, sweet Jesus, how would you NOT sleep with Daniel Craig? So then you'd have to keep that secret to your grave. Except I'm a terrible secret keeper, so I'd just have to hope my marriage survived it.

Note to self: create one of those five celebrities you get a free pass with kind of list. Which is actually hilarious, because I think Barney Frank is the only famous person I've seen in years.

But anyway. Not having slept with the person isn’t a secret. You agree?

And this is nothing as juicy as all that.

Basically, here’s the deal. We were having this big contentious conversation the other night and I said, “There’s something I haven’t told you.” (Which is so not the same as a secret.) So he said, “Yeah, well, there’s something I haven’t told you, either.”

He made me go first.

Back when we were doing the IVF that led to my present state, Nick came with me when they sucked the eggs out. He kind of had to be there, really. Remember the whole Whorientals business? Plus the fact that I was seriously doped up.

But when they stuck them back in, I walked myself down there, and then cabbed home. It was kind of surreal. The doctor and I talked about Mardi Gras while he was injecting my potential future progeny into my uterus.

Nick really had no role that day. I mean, aside from potential moral support. Which is of course nice but not absolutely critical.

So.

So when I was sitting under an electric blanket in the reclining chair drinking water to the point where they were satisfied that my bladder would be full enough to push my uterus into optimal position, they handed me some forms to fill out.

One of which was to tell them whether or not to freeze any leftover embryos. And who got what rights. I can’t remember exactly, but you chose the rights for each partner (basically: donate, use, discard). You checked different options, depending on the person.

Naturally, I gave myself free reign to do whatever I wanted, without a second thought.

And then, then I got to Nick. And paused. I know, I know, this sounds terrible. How could I even hesitate, right?

Except, think about it. If he’s making these decisions, it’s because I’m dead and he’s married some dreadful chippie. And I was all, I am so NOT giving Nick and the chippie full reign to use my eggs! HE just had to wank into a cup. I had to do days of shots in the stomach and egg-sucking-outing and all the rest of it.

And suddenly, there he was, bringing some overly made up tramp into our home, acting all like he could just walk over to the freezer all breezy and pull out those embryos and use them anytime he wanted? No sirree!

I sat in that warm chair and stewed about the chippie for a couple minutes. And then I remembered that chippies are, by definition, young, and she wouldn’t need my eggs.

Plus then, then I thought, but what if he marries someone totally age appropriate? Someone like me, against whom time and ovaries are working? She might be a perfectly nice person, someone I’d like, a good mother for Jordan. And they could totally use these expensive, hard-squozen embryos.

So I gave him every right to them.

See how it wasn’t a secret?

Also, he was totally lying. He didn’t even have a secret/non-secret.

The health edition. Plus, doesn't "flip a breech" sound like an album title?

Little Facey Face

I had a sonogram this week, because I have this extra bit of placenta which is, they assured me, totally normal but something they want to keep an eye on. And in my sonogram I learned that I still have the extra placenta, but it's all fine and good and she's all healthy and normal and not growth-restricted, which was their big (unbeknownst to me) concern.

In other words, my AMA placenta is doing a good job and she's growing great guns and onward and upward. Excellent.Apparently she was facing away from the camera and so the sonogram guy did a bunch of poking and prodding and this was the best he could do. But it's a real face, no?

Flip a Breech, or Ding Dang Heckfire
Less excellent sonogram news: the little head of cabbage or what-have-you of delight currently residing in my uterus has flipped herself back head up. So the midwife directed me to the Spinning Babies website and I'm now doing inversions daily and tomorrow I'm going to do a headstand in a pool. With help.

Also, I'm trying to talk to her gently and coaxingly when really my inclination is to swear and stamp my feet.

The midwife also suggested a version, which sounds painful. And scary because of the possibility of emergency C-section.

Have any of you done this? Was it successful?

Flu/Norovirus/Vomit Plague
Betty has been sick all week. We thought she had the flu. And then my midwife said the Norovirus is going around and that will make you puke and ache for a couple days straight and basically beat the stuffing out of you.

Which is precisely what has happened with her.

She just saw the doctor, who ruled out pneumonia (we were supposed to be worrying about pneumonia again?) and they're doing a blood test but odds are it's this stomach flu that's going around.

Lazy Eyes and Doctor Crushes
As a kid I had thick glasses and a patch for a lazy eye. It was, in fact, as cute as it sounds. I'll post pictures if you're interested. And Jordan's eye sometimes turns in, which prompted me to get a recommendation for a pediatric eye doctor.

So this morning Jordan and I went on a Big Adventure to Friendship Heights. He was all excited because: 1. We were going on the metro! 2. The Eye Man was going look at Jordan's eyes! (See how we avoided the D-word? Made all the difference.) 3. Then we would get a treat!

The Eye Man turned out to be tall and charming and Latino and super kid-friendly. Really just all around the kind of Harvard-educated doctor you might fall madly in love with IF you were single AND the focus of his "look at me."

Rather than, you know, happily married to the love of your life and also lumberingly waddly, and the recipient of his "Will your toddler still fit in your lap at this point?"

But most importantly: Jordan's eyes are fine. Borderline fine, but fine. The hope is that Nick's awesome perfect eyesight genes will prevail and Jordan will grow out of these Mama-gene inflicted issues.

We go back in six months for a follow-up. And the girl should see him at age two to make sure she's not following in my um, eyesteps.

The Eye Man had toys, and he gave Jordan cookies, and made things so pleasant that as soon as we walked out Jordan said, "I want to go back and see him!"

Best doctor visit ever.

Color opinions: Cliche or not cliche? Harmony? Boldness? Help!

So when poor old Jordan was born, we'd been in our new oldoldold house for two months.

Incidentally, Nick has taken to calling our abode Downtown Abbey. Because it was built in the late 1800s and, until we upgraded it, had plumbing and electricity of roughly the same era as the Downton series. It was probably very modern, you know, when electricity was first installed in city houses.

You know, back when they wrapped the electric wires in cloth. And made the pipes out of lead. Hand to God, we had both.

Anyway, Jordan. We chucked him in the room off of our bedroom, which was made to feel like the nursery only because it had a crib and changing table and some cute decals on the walls.

But the walls were still grotty and gross and cracked. Same with the window sills. And floorboards. And really everything.

He was wee, and he didn't care, of course. And I didn't have the energy to care, quite honestly, because we had things like a kitchen to build.

And then a year ago we moved him (and the awesome claw foot tub!) down the hall to another grotty room. Which turned out to have no insulation. And big gaps around the windows And so we ran an AC window unit all summer, and have had a space heater all winter.

So.

Now we are insulating and fixing Jordan's room. And putting up a wall in the room in front of it to make into the girl's room. Initially she will sleep in the old nursery, but now the elevator runs through it and also that means we can't get to our bathroom, both of which make it less than ideal.

We're also redoing the bathroom between the two rooms, because it turned out that those soft spots in the floor were, uh, holes in the wood. So when you pulled up the tile you could see daylight below.

AND NOW HERE'S THE VERY IMPORTANT QUESTION: WHAT COLORS?

See, I love pink, I do. But very strong pinks - like fuchsia and magenta and such. And I love them with orange.

But our girl's room, it is small. And dark. There is one window, and it is opaque, because the view is of the neighbor building's fire escapes and garbage cans and piles of crap.

So, while I would like Spring Bloom (and if you click you can embiggen the photos), I think it's too dark. Betty and Nick like the lighter pink, but it seems kind of cliched, doesn't it? How do you feel about Weeping Wisteria?

These are the same colors on the wall nearest the window.The Bayou blue is the color I think I am going to paint Jordan's soon-to-be done room.

But then what for the bathroom? There's very little wall, and mostly white tile...so of course I am tempted to turn it lime green or ORANGE! or something extreme. But Nick and Australian Builder think it should probably harmonize with the two rooms. Particularly since we have so many other colors going on in the house.

These are a couple possibly harmonious options. I didn't lighten the photos, so you have a good idea of the lack of light we're dealing with.

I don't have baby colors or a theme, or really anything I have to work around. I'm considering peacock decals, but those could be any color.

In other words, it's wide open and I have to decide soon, particularly on the bathroom and girl's room and I don't know what to do.

What do you think?

Week 25: cat @sshole territory

Here Mama, I'll hold it in for you!I'm definitely bigger this time, but while I could be wrong, I don't think I'm significantly bigger at this point than I was with Jordan, but one thing is certain: my belly button is firmly in what my friend Maude terms the "cat asshole" stage.

It got there fast. It's been there for a while. It grosses me out.See?

I'm not sure why I find it so much more horrifying than other icky pregnancy-related things, but I do.

So naturally, when anyone asks if my belly button is poking out yet, I say, "Oh, it's so disgusting! Wanna see?"

(I promise, this will not be my response when people start to ask if I'm dilated yet. Which they will, if history is any guide. It seriously becomes hallway conversation.)

Jordan is the only one who actually wants to see. He's fascinated by the state of my belly button. He points to it and pokes it and says, "That's where the baby girl will come out!"

Uhh, sort of.

And then he lifts his own shirt to show his belly button.

This morning I put his hands on my tummy while she was moving. I said, "That's your baby sister! Can you feel her moving?"

He nodded. He inspected my belly button very closely. And then said, "Pretty soon, she's going to come visit us!"

Oh, and back on the cat assholes, or rather, an asshole cat...

My friend Kristin in Paris is having this cat problem. She had her male cat snipped yesterday, and as soon as he got home he was all out of control and rapey, totally humping and molesting the other cat.

So she locked him in the bathroom and posted it on Facebook. And poured herself some wine.

She was worried maybe they snipped the wrong thing. I thought it might be post-surgery insanity (does that happen?). Or do male cats go through a rapey period after being de-balled? I suggested sedatives. Seriously, sedate the shit out of that fucker.

Not being a cat person, I wanted to suggest shoving him into a box and heading to Le Animal Shelter tout suite. However, I refrained.

For the cat people out there, any thoughts?

Name struggles

I always thought boy names were harder than girl names, but now I find it to be just the opposite.

I was so certain that this kid would be another boy. And Nick and I had several names we agreed we really liked. And they sounded nice with his last name.

And it was nearly settled! So easily!

Except that we're having a girl.

What I will tell you very candidly is that while I am not remotely secretive (I know you just laughed at the obviousness of that statement), I'm not going to talk about whatever name we choose until she's born. For two reasons.

One, because there are always people who find fault with it. You mention what you're thinking about, and they don't like it and they wrinkle their noses and tell you so and why and what's wrong with it. And two, with this one, the odds are we will be making our final really absolute decision at the hospital, with the way it's going.

Here's the thing. Years and years and forever and as long as I can remember ago, I decided that one day I would have a girl, and I would name her after my grandmother. It was just fact. This is what I would do.

And then I was certain I was going to die alone. But in the moments when I wasn't, I was going to have a girl, and I was going to name her after my grandmother. No matter who I married.

Also. If you know me you know that I am firmly of the opinion that whoever carries the kid around for 9+ months (and wrecks their abs and/or vagina, anus, internal organs, God knows whatever else) has final say-so in the naming. I mean this in a hand-to-God, stare-you-down, do not fuck with me kind of way.

So the girl name has been settled for years.

However.

Now my grandmother's name is popular, as is the nickname for her name. Very very popular. Apparently everyone is naming their daughter after my grandmother.

And while I still love the name, here's the deal: I have been named Lisa my whole life. There were lots of other Lisas when I was growing up. It is not remotely interesting. I have never been particularly fond of it.

When we came up with Jordan's name, which sounds great with Nick's last name, I genuinely considered ditching Lisa and becoming Jordan Nick'slastname. I thought about it, I talked about it, and several friends ridiculed me for it.

And then I gave the name to Jordan and we can't both be Jordan Nick'slastname. That would just be too weird.

So I'm still Lisa and there you have it.

I mean, Lisa is not offensive. I don't think it's ugly. It's just so fucking boring. (No offense, other Lisas.) The best thing I can say about it is that no matter where I've gone, no matter what language, people have been able to pronounce it. (And in Japanese class, it didn't matter, because we called each other by our last names, with "-san" attached.)

So I am determined NOT to have a girl with the same name as everyone else.

Nick doesn't have an issue with it, because there weren't other Nicholases around when he was growing up. His biggest issue with his name was the McDonald's commercial Nicholas Pickle-less. But that was short-lived.

I love Nicholas and Nick. Both good, solid, non-boring names. In my opinion.

Here are names either Nick or I like, but we won't be using, either because one of us doesn't like them or they have other issues:

Autumn (issues: Fall makes me depressed. Which is too bad, because Nick loves the name and it's his favorite season.)
Carol-Anne (issues: Over my dead body.)
Cleo/Clio (issues: Nick hates it.)
Emma (issues: Very popular; also, Madame Bovary.)
Gaia (issues: Nick hates it.)
January (issues: I hate winter; nickname Jan; also, January Jones - terrible actress.)
Ophelia (issues: meets a tragic end; possible nickname Oph, which sounds like "oaf" which, just no.)
Persephone (issues: Stuck in the underworld; nickname Percy would be awful.)
Phaedra (issues: Lisa, what is it with you and the Greek names? Um, at least it's not Terpsichore.)

We're casting a wide net. Any thoughts?

Hopes and resolutions

HOPES

Personal: A Healthy Baby
I haven't been told any stillborn stories lately, and I've managed to keep myself off the Internet in that regard, and so I've calmed down on the fretting. I know I'm lucky to be pregnant, particularly after the first IVF.

On a related note: that month, while waiting to see, people told me so many friend- or friend-of-a-friend stories about multiple (like, up to 12) failed IVF attempts. It was kind of like the stillborn thing. Then they'd say, "Oh! But I'm sure it will work out for YOU!"

And we'd look at each other awkwardly. And then it did.

I know, I know, how fortunate we are. And please god, let the rest of the pregnancy go well.

Global: World Peace
I don't expect it really ever, but if you don't hope for it, it definitely won't happen, you know?

Which of course makes it totally unlike true love and getting pregnant, where if you stop thinking about it and stop trying, it will just happen for you. (Ohh, hahaha! I just cracked myself up. It's actually shocking that I never facepunched anyone who said those things to me along the way.)

DC: The End of the Fucking Construction on 18th Street, Already
Who do you have to blow around here to get the construction crew to speed up their glacial pace and get to the top of goddamn 18th Street? Actually, forget I said that. I'm sure someone, and, uh, ew. I'm in favor of supporting our troops, but I'm not that into public service.

But I don't believe they're in any hurry, and I do believe someone is profiting, and it being DC, I'm sure that there's someone high up with an open palm. I mean, we tip the trash collectors quarterly. Yes, we feed the system, but trash pickup turns out to be critical. And people like to be appreciated for their work.

RESOLUTIONS

Write and send Thank You cards. I have such good intentions. I am grateful. And yet, I suck at sending the cards. I owe years' worth of thanks. This year, I am going to write and send them. Instead of just feeling guilty about not doing so.

Be more patient. I'm giving myself until mid-year to start this one, though. Because with pregnancy and newborn, really, all bets are off.

Revamp LG. I should finally grow up, blog-wise, don't you think?

Potty train our son. This one I dread. But I want him out of diapers before the next poo-factory arrives. Plus, his man-poops now almost make me puke, even when I don't stick my head in the trash can. And we need his changing table; I'm not buying another one.

Get back in shape post-baby. Also to begin mid-year.

WRITE WRITE WRITE. No explanation needed.

And, because this is my favorite one ever and easy to succeed at, I am going to make it a resolution every year: Eat more bacon.

I hope your 2011 ends happily! Huge New Year's hugs to all of you!

Itchy and squarchy

So if you've been pregnant you know that it's this big body- and mind-fuck of an evolving science experiment.

Of course, if you've never been pregnant but it's something you want, then what I really mean by the above is that it's a beautiful, serene experience. Nothing alarming happens to very personal parts of your body like your anus and you never have daily WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING TO ME kinds of moments.

Although truthfully, I'm not so freaked out by body stuff this time. If you were on the pregnant ride with me last time, you know that I had these daily hysterical preoccupations.

This time I'm all, oh, right. This is the point where I feel like I've been run over by a bus. But eventually, I won't feel that way. And oh, here's the sticky sticky 5-million wipe poo. Must remember to bring baby wipes with me to work. And also to push my sleeves up before I get to work.

Fortunately, I kept my squarch bottle. This morning, I sang myself the following ditty:

"I wanna squarch right now
I'm Rob Base and I came to get down..."

In case you, uh, lived through the 80s and remember that fine tune. Otherwise, nevermind! Look, a squirrel!

Anyway.

I know that eventually I'll hit the I CAN'T SLEEP AT ALL AND IT'S YOUR FAULT AND NOW WE'RE SUPPOSED TO HAVE SEX TO SOFTEN MY CERVIX AND DON'T EVEN TRY IT I HATE YOU MOTHERFUCKER point. But hopefully that's a couple months away.

See how much calmer I am this time?

One thing I have gotten recently is incredibly TIRED. Like, back to first trimester exhausted. I pull myself out of bed in the morning by my fingernails. Even when I go to bed at 9 pm, I wake up so wiped out I can barely function.

I drag through the day, doing the bare minimum. Nick and Betty are really picking up the slack. I am lucky about this.

Also, I've gotten so ITCHY! Itchyitchyeeeeeeeee kinds of itchy. I've been putting on Palmer's cocoa butter cream and Lubriderm and then slathering Baby Oil or Vaseline on top of it. All over my body.

And still! Within a couple hours! Itchy!

The other day, I was about to pull up my pants and put hand lotion on my legs when my boss appeared at my desk. I seriously had an entire handful of lotion that I then had to rub into my hands.

Lots of awkward hand rubbing. It wasn't a situation where I could be all, "Hey, want some?"

So what I'm wondering is, does anyone have a suggestion for an insanely moisturizey moisturizer? I'd love to not have to add the serious grease to my body and clothing. I'd love to reduce the itch.

Also, you can't necessarily itch the places you need to in public. So then you're stuck in a meeting trying not to think about your itch when really all you can think is HOLY CRAP MY NIPPLE ITCHES!

In other words, I need help. Seriously.

Mr. Play It Safe was afraid to fly. He packed his suitcase and kissed his kids goodbye...

After the last story that I was told about a stillbirth, I started wondering if they're kind of like plane crashes.

They're terrifying, and yet the odds of your plane going down are lower than you winning the lottery or something like that.

These stillbirth stories are tragic, upsetting, horrifying stories...and somehow, somehow people keep telling me about them. At least once every other week, I'd say. Something that happened to them. To their wife. To a friend.

But then I gave it some thought, and realized that plane crashes, while sensational, can't be as common.

A friend of my cousin's died in the Lockerbee explosion. But other than that, I don't think I have any friends of friends who have died in plane crashes. Knock wood, of course.

But the late-pregnancy miscarriages, the stillbirths (which is what they call them after 20 weeks), Christ, it seems like every third person has a story.

And they tell them to me.

And then, then after they've told me the worst piece - that the baby died in-utero at five months, six months, full-term...they all of a sudden look stricken, look down at my belly, and stop, and say, "I shouldn't be telling you this."

Silently, I think, "No fucking kidding."

Out loud I say, "I can't really talk about this."

The most recent person to do this to me is a friend of Nick's. He was telling me that their first child was incredibly premature - and now she's a healthy 19-year old. This led to him telling me about the 5-month stillbirth...

But in a case like this, once you know the worst of it, you don't want them to stop. Because you want to know the WHY?

You want to know that this won't happen to you. Was there a logical reason?

No, not that they know of. There was nothing apparently wrong with their baby. It just happens.

You can't worry about everything, all the time. But somehow, I do try.

It's like the punch in the face versus the $1,000 for leaving your house kind of thing. I just haven't had Nick lay it all out for me in those terms yet.

Week 19: the 20 week sonogram. Yes sir, that's my baby!

So this morning we got to see our girl in all kinds of detail.

Like, she has a real face! It was easier to tell on the monitor than in this picture, but you guys, she has a little facey face! And little fingers and toes and, thank god, all her itty bitty organs as well. Oh, it just made me teary.Today was resident interview day at GW. We rode up in the elevator with a bunch of nervous-looking people being led by someone all official-y. I couldn't get Grey's Anatomy out of my mind. I swear that show has colored how I think about hospitals for life.

But the sonogram.

Much like Jordan looked like a naked boy sitting on a glass table, she was all girly bits to the camera when they turned on the sonogram.

Nick was all, "Hey! There's the girl!" and the woman doing the sonogram said "Oh yes, absolutely!"

I was all, "How can you tell? I can't tell any of it."

So Nick of course had to say, "Well, as someone with plenty of experience in this area..." And then I gave him a shut-uppy look.

I think because he's an extrovert, he just needs to interact so much of the time. Sometimes it's really helpful, because he asked a lot of intelligent questions and we learned a lot. And sometimes it's just too much. At which point I suggested that he sit back and enjoy his coffee.

But did you know that girls in utero have all the eggs they're ever going to have? They're already there! Isn't that insane to think about?

I have to say, I'm incredibly impressed with GW so far. You check in at a kiosk with your credit card or your name. They're pleasant. All of their equipment is so high tech. And today we had the head sonographer (which, I have to tell you, spell check wants to change to stenographer or pornographer - oh, do I have Damn You Auto Correct on my mind!), who was incredibly nice and patient and positive.

It would've been much more awkward and much less productive if she were a stenographer or pornographer.

In any case.

She explained everything about the organs and the amniotic fluid and the placenta and the cord. It all looks great with the baby. Not that I didn't expect it to...but it's such nice confirmation. And someone being so kind to you through the process makes the whole experience smoother and happier.

She was genuinely enthusiastic, so excited that everything was checking out healthy. Really. She said things like, "Oh! Look at your cute baby!"

When honestly, it's hard to see the cute even in the 4D pictures. But even so, I appreciated it.

Anyway, that's my good news. Happy weekend to all of you!

Maybe if I were the Georgia O'Keefe of vegetables. And here we are at 17 weeks. With news!

This week the kid is the size of a turnip. And if I wasn't willing to draw an avocado with toenails, I'm damn sure not drawing this one out.

So we had the amnio and we were supposed to get early results in 48-72 hours.

The genetic counselor we met with was very nice. When she called the following week she said, "The preliminary results look good. No Downs, no Trisomy 13 or 18. [Thank God] And it's a girl. [What?] BUT..."

BUT is not what you want to hear in this circumstance. I sucked in my breath.

Turned out it wasn't a punch in the face but. It was this kind of but:

"But they got some maternal cells in with the sample."

"What does this mean?"

"It means that at this point, they can't be certain that these are the results from the fetal cells. The odds are that they are, but..."

"In other words, it could be a healthy girl..."

"Yes."

"OR they've verified that I don't have Downs, or Trisomy 13 or 18. And I'm a girl."

"Well...yes."

So we had to wait for the culture to grow for 10-14 days. Apparently they feed those little suckers something that only promotes the growth of the fetal cells. So they really really know by the end.

And then the cells were slow growing. Which I took as a very bad sign. Slow growing? Slow? They assured me this had nothing to do with the cells. It could just be lab conditions.

Nick called for updates twice a day. Just to see if they'd gotten results. He was very polite. Just, you know, persistent.

I am sure they were sick of him. He was fine with this. He wanted them to be tired of him to the point where they'd give us results the minute they had them just to stop the calls.

This is not something I can do. But I am so grateful he can.

He said, "I don't care if I annoy them. We're paying them a lot of money - and it's not like we're going to invite them to dinner next week and it's going to be so awkward."

And they called - the minute the lab reported the results. In fact, the genetic counselor spoke with the head of the lab to get his assurances that there were no concerns about maternal cells.

And so...

It's a GIRL! A little vagina-having turnip!

And she doesn't have Downs, Trisomy 13 or 18, or any of a host of other potential genetic things they test for!

And neither do I.

Week 16: Mama's belly button! (while I still have one)

Nick was reading the Richard Scarry book What Do People Do All Day? to Jordan the other day.

This is low on my list of books to read. I love the illustrations, but I have a hard time with these books that are sort of but not really stories. Nick, however is great at being all, "Oh, look, there's a tractor! And a farmer! And a big truck!"

He makes it all very exciting.

So, there was a mama bunny who had a big tummy and went to the hospital...and then had a new baby to bring home!

It's kind of suspect in that Dr. Lion, her OB, instead of eating her right up, delivered her baby bunny.

Anyway. Nick thought he'd capitalize on the moment.

So Nick said, "Remember how much you liked David's new baby at his house?"

"Yes."

"Would you like a new baby at our house?"

And Jordan said, "No."

Also, yes, I buy boxer briefs to sleep in. I love them. They're comfier than any jammies I've ever had.

Which reminds me. We recently were given the Boynton book Pajama Time. Love love love! Except I've realized I pronounce pajamas "puh-jah-mas" but I say "jammies" like a plain old normal American.

Or maybe this is regional? Pajamas Dunno.

Happy weekend, all!