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!

Kind of like if the Yeti were blue and worked in a law firm downtown. Plus a brief poll.

In Nick's office Santa Swap game, Nick wound up with a Forever Lazy bodysuit. Have you seen these things?

Naturally, he donned it immediately. One of his colleagues snapped this photo.

I had seen pictures but I'd never felt one all up close and personal. I certainly didn't know anyone who owned one, nor aspired to spend the day in something that doesn't even have to be lowered when you have to use the facilities.

Not to imply that I'm above this sort of thing, but, uh...

Then Nick gave me the socks (there are matching socks!), which are spectacularly soft and fuzzy and warm. They look like Grover feet. They're kind of like wearing little blue feetmice.

I imagine. Although I assure you I'd never actually thought about wearing mice.

Anyway, he said the whole suit is like that inside. Which, after the socks, so made me want to get all naked and put it on immediately. Seriously. Really kind of terrific.

Plus, he said it was so warm! Although he did have clothes on underneath. He wore it the other day while we watched Brideshead Revisited in our TV room, which is approximately as cold as my memories of ice skating at Christmas in North Dakota.

So I huddled under a fleece blanket up to my nose and he wore his fleecy suit and was plenty warm. And then eventually he stuck is legs under my blanket.

His ankles were cold.

Turns out the suit shrunk in the washing, and now it's a bit too small for him. The backflap for convenient bathroom use is nowhere near his bottom - rather inconvenient if your goal is to really and truly be lazy in your Grover outfit.

More importantly, however, it cleaves his manly nutsack in twain.

And thus the short shall inherit the earth. Or whatever the expression is.

So what do you think?

A. Horrifying. Should be given to Goodwill stat.
B. Comfort above all.
C. Keep it, but don't tell anyone.
D. Put it on immediately and take a picture for my amusement.

Warm fuzzy blue hugs to all!

Where are me?

Please behold the train table, tracks, and land of magical wonders that Jordan's grandparents gave him for Christmas.

Nick started putting it together when we got home from our annual Christmas Eve festivities with dear family friends. I waited up being all supportive as long as I could, and then pregnancy exhaustion took over, and right around 10 pm I had to go to sleep.

So when I got up in the morning, it was seriously like Christmas fairy dust for both Jordan and me.

While all the adults were still all, "Ooh, look! The tracks go up in the air!" and "Hey! A gas pump!" Jordan discovered The Drawer.

This table, it has a large drawer underneath, in which to stash the multitude of toys that would otherwise be strewn about the room. We were excited about the drawer.

Not half as excited as Jordan.

He promptly climbed in, looked at Nick, and said, "Close me!"

The kid loves to be closed in the drawer. And then he says, "Where are me?"

To which we respond, "I don't know! Where's Jordan? Is he in the bathroom?"

Jordan pipes up with a soft little, "No!"

"Is he behind the radiator?"

You can see a blue eye peering through the gap between table and drawer, Jordan barely able to contain his glee. "No!"

"Is he under the kitchen table?" And we go through places in the house, each time with Jordan's delighted and unsuppressed "No!"

Finally, finally one of us says, "Maybe he's in the drawer! OH! HERE HE IS!"And then he climbs out, runs around, then climbs back in and says, "Close me!"

He could do this all day. We don't even necessarily have to play the Where Are Me? game. Sometimes we just close the drawer and then wait until he says, "Open me!"

Where's your child? Oh, he's just hanging out in the drawer.

The nice thing is, we know where he is and what he's up to and he's not banging, climbing on, or breaking anything. On the downside, um, our kid likes to lie quietly in a closed drawer.

Also, we're pretty sure Closing Your Kid in a Drawer is a no-no on the Social Services checklist.

It's Christmas and I love you

Dear Invisible Friends,

This year, this 2011, was going to be the year that Lisa Sends a Christmas Card.

Because I absolutely adore getting annual family pictures of friends and relatives. I know people who think it's cheesy; I eat it up. I love seeing kids change year to year. I love knowing what people are up to. If you have extras annually and do not know WHO might appreciate them, let me tell you: me.

Go ahead, make fun, it's fine. I love these cards.

So I thought, this year, I will be one of the organized people who sends them!

We had a number of attempts at Family Picture - all failures. And then, then at a Christmas party, where all of us were dressed up, someone took a very nice picture of all of us (except that I'm doing something weird with my face/jaw - but this is comparatively minor, let me tell you) and yay! Family Picture! Make a card, Lisa!

And then I...didn't. I tried, and I couldn't decide - Shutterfly? Tiny Prints? Snapfish? This design? That one? - Truly, I am best when I have like three options, tops. Too many and I just can't do it.

So I spent more time than I'd like to admit furtively comparing card designs at work (because home, home is too busy!) And then I didn't decide, and then, well, truth be told, I just...didn't.

And here we are, on Christmas Eve, and nary a Lisa and Family card has been sent. I'm considering sending a Happy 2012! card, but let's be frank: the odds are low.

But even though I cannot get my act together to get a picture on paper and paper in the mail, I love all my friends and I adore all of you. I hope you're all comfy and cozy and happy and surrounded by people you love for who love you right back.

Big hugs,

Lisa, Nick, Jordan and Betty

What I want for Christmas

We are having a very low-key, practical Christmas this year.

Honestly. Like, slippers and tools and such. None of us actually need anything (besides slippers and tools, of course). Except Jordan. Jordan is getting a train table.

Also, further simplifying our Christmas plans: our oven is broken. Well, not broken. The gas to the stove is turned off.

You know, so that it doesn't cause the entire house to explode.

It turns out we had a gas leak inside the oven. The part doesn't arrive until next week.

Betty and Nick are talking about grilling Christmas dinner. I was wondering if you can do a whole turkey on the grill, but I think they're going to make lamb. Sticky buns, however, Betty's awesome North Dakota sticky buns? Cannot be baked on a grill. This, this I find is the tragedy of the situation.

But truly, it's all good. I'm embarking on four days off with my family. And the weather, while not Chrismasy, is really quite nice.

You know what I would really, really like? Like, if I could ask for anything within reason?

I want two solid weekends of movie watching. Two entire weekends in front of the TV with absolutely nothing to do and nobody asking anything of me.

One weekend would be entirely devoted to Star Wars. The original three.

The other weekend would be a Harry Potter-a-thon.

I'd take breaks to make popcorn and take naps, of course.

But I want them AFTER Christmas. Because Christmas is about spending time with the people I love most in the world. We're going to wear our new slippers and put stuff together.

Like train tables.

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.

Assorted unmentionables

So I was going to talk about underwear, because it's very much on my mind, or rather, my abdomen. I mean, it was, until I folded it down.

Because postpartum, once I was out of the gigantor hospital undies, I went out to Target and got huge cotton underwear that came up way past my scar and kind of helped hold in my sloshy belly. Which I made the mistake of putting on today and now they're squeezing my little baby house.

But then I was thinking, does anyone really want to hear about my underwear? So that's probably all I should stay about that.

Speaking of baby houses, the kid is all kicking and turning and flipping and generally, I assume, keeping herself amused in there. She's busy, I tell you.

I'm now 21 weeks, which means that due-dately speaking, I am more than halfway done. Even though it is likely that I will go past it, it's nice to have the countdown to the end be smaller numbers than the ones behind you.

If that makes sense.

Speaking of behinds, which I'm sorry, kind of leads back to my underwear, or rather the reason I thought the big ones were a good idea. Ass containment and all.

Because this! Sometime between Wednesday night and Thursday afternoon, when I was doing squats and happened to look sideways in the gym mirror, my ass doubled in size.

Doubled. I am not kidding.

And because I have been through this science experiment before, I was all, "Crap. The ass explosion has begun."

I apologize for how that sounds. You understand that what I mean is that my ass is just going to just grow exponentially from here on out. Kind of like a chia pet in my pants. God, that's not a better visual, is it?

Anyway, it is about size and NOT that I suddenly have no control over my fecal matter.

Oh, god, which reminds me. Also: one of Jordan's diapers - we have to assume dirty, although also we can fairly safely assume JUST PEE - somehow made it into the washing machine. We only realized it once our clothes came out of the dryer with shockingly tenacious white clumps on them.

You know how sometimes you run a Kleenex through? And you wind up with tons of white speckles that are a pain to get off? But they're not like totally industrial white chunks that cling to your clothing like it's the only thing between them and death?

We're running the load through the washer again. In case. Because, well, really, does anyone actually need a because?

OK, I'm stopping now before it gets any worse.

The opposite of air fresheners

I don't know if you've spent any time looking at air fresheners.

There's a spray can in the bathroom at work. It's called Morning Linen. Which, if you think about it, is kind of an odd name for a smell.

Because linen on its own doesn't really have a smell, does it? And you can only associate times of day with particular smells if you associate them with what's going on.

Like, morning might smell like breakfast cooking. Mmm, coffee and cinnamon and maple syrup!

But morning could also smell like last night's debauchery. Eww, too much alcohol and, uh, I can't believe I brought you home with me.

I get that they're trying to conjure up crispness and cleanliness. I looked up some others. Linen seems to be popular. Linen and breezes and spring and water. Linen and Sky, Crisp Breeze, New Zealand Springs, Refreshing Spring...

So then I started thinking about names for air fresheners that would be distinctly unpopular:

Gingko-lined Street
Damp Wool
Afternoon on the Ganges
Adams Morgan Alleys
New York Subway Breeze
Kiddy Pool
Evening Rush Hour on Metro

You'd think I'd put my mind to a higher purpose, wouldn't you? Or maybe you know me well enough by now.

It wasn't the milk; it was the whine

So Jordan has been kind of a whiny little bitch lately.

I mean, yes, I adore him and the air he breathes and of course I consider it an honor to call him my son and to wipe the poop off his bottom.

But he's still been behaving like a whiny little bitch.

In fairness, he's had a cold, so he's not feeling 100 percent. But cripes, the WHIIIIINING started weeks ago, and so I know it's not totally cold-related.

And it makes my blood pressure go through the roof while simultaneously causing my head to melt.

I pick him up from day care and he's all excited to see me and we have a nice little walk home and we chat about his day and then he just hits this point where he starts to WHINE. It's the whining. The whining fucking kills me.

Honestly. I'm walking along all normal-headed and then the whining starts and what used to be my head is now like 300 degrees and oozing down my body. There's steam rising from my neck hole.

So last night there was the WHINE SOB! "Fiiiiix it!" from the living room as I was cooking. Because the backhoe, which is too small to pick up the car, couldn't pick up the car.

I've explained this 54 million times. The backhoe is too small. The car is too big. It can't pick it up. It's just not big enough.

And still, he insists. "Pick it up! You do it!" And he whiiiines.

And there was the WHINE because I NEED GOLDFISH! I NEEEEEEEEED GOLDFISH!

While I contemplated saying no, that he could have goldfish after dinner, I weighed it against the quiet I might have while he worked his way through goldfish and I got dinner ready.

I gave him the damn goldfish.

No, I'm not proud. Just...tired.

And I couldn't ask my mom to step in because Jordan had been a huge dick to her for a couple days. Seriously. He was hurting her feelings.

She would ask him something and he'd say, "Don't talk, Nana!"

We'd make him apologize, and tell him we don't talk to people like that. And then he'd do it again.

We were finally having some dinner with a mere modicum of WHINING when he knocked over his milk.

It was an accident, completely inadvertent.

As was my reaction. Which was: "AAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRERAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHHH!"

I yelled. Very loudly. It was maybe more like a roar. I can't exactly recall. It was just this extremely loud sound that came out of my mouth. And made me feel a whole lot better.

Jordan just sat there, eyes wide, with a "holy shit" look in his face.

And then I mopped up the milk. I said, "I know it was an accident. You didn't mean to spill the milk."

He reached up his arms for a hug, and I hugged him, and then he ate some more dinner.

Things you do for a discount on your caulk

I got an email last week that a Living Social coupon for Logan Hardware was about to expire.

It gave the option to email it as a gift, so I emailed it to Nick. Not to be all stereotypical, but he adores hardware stores. Somehow he can always use things like more caulk.

I joke about the caulk at work, but in this case I'm not even kidding.

He bought four tubes. He brought it home and immediately went outside and caulked the shit out of the holes in our house.

Anyway, he said he was in line and these two guys behind him were totally flirting and making inane conversation. One of them needed a hex key, and the other guy said he had one for him. And then the first guy said he needed a special size, and the other responded he had his special size...

You get the picture.

So Nick was standing there thinking, "Idiots."

And then he realized that the guy in front of him was looking down at his felt slipper-clogs, and kind of looked Nick up and down and gave him a, "you idiot" look.

"So basically," he said, "there we all were judging each other, thinking we each the only non-idiot in line with a bunch of imbeciles."

Anyway, he got to the register and presented his coupon, and the woman said, "You're Nick Lastname. This coupon is for Lisa Gloria."

He said, "Lisa Gloria is my wife."

The woman just looked at him. So he started thinking about how to prove it.

He took off his wedding ring and showed her the inside, which reads: LG + NL September 27, 2008.

So then she said, "Oh, you just had your third anniversary! Congratulations!" And then she looked at his hand and added, "And you wear your ring all the time! So sweet!"

And he knew that everyone in line behind him was just rolling their eyes, all, "Get over it, you idiots, and move on."

Coupon success, however. And our house is well caulked. At a discount.

How to make friends

We have neighbors who have a daughter just a bit younger than Jordan.

She and J go to the same day care, and we've just started getting to know the parents. We keep making neighborhood friends with kids J's age...and then they move away. These people said they're here to stay. So I'm trying to cultivate them as friends.

So I ran into the husband on the street last night. Apparently his wife had told him I'm pregnant, as he said, "I heard congratulations are in order!"

I thanked him, and then he leaned in and said, "How did you make the decision to have another one?"

I was a little surprised - it's the first time I've been asked that - but he went on to explain that they'd originally thought they'd have two, but then they had their daughter, and it's so much work...and the thought of having a second is so daunting.

Which is true. I admitted that even though Nick and I had set out thinking we'd have two, for much of the first year after Jordan was born, I was adamantly opposed to having another child. No way in hell.

"But you know," I said, "Nick is 43 and I'm 42. ."

"We're in a similar situation."

"So we figured it's kind of now or never. So, we just went, 'All right! Fuck!'"

And then I realized how that might sound. So I added, "I don't mean...That's not what...ha ha ha!"

"Oh, yes. Ha ha ha!"

We both laughed awkwardly, all, "OK, then! See you later!"

We don't poop in the bathtub!

Yah, so, Jordan pooped in the bathtub the other night.

Apparently, this happens to everyone. It's just a matter of time.

We have these texturey sliding doors on the tub, and lately, once a bath, he likes to close them and splash around all privately for a couple minutes. I see no harm in letting him. I can see, so I know if he's up and about and not drowning.

So he announced that it was time to close the doors, and I let him. I could see that he was sitting up. He was being awfully quiet, but I figured that maybe he'd discovered his penis.

After a couple minutes of quiet I said, "I'm opening the door!"

"No, mama! Keep your face away!"

And then I went ahead and slid open the door anyway, and there were three long strings of poop, bobbing in the tub.

I won't bore you with the cleaning up and scrubbing down details, but after we both got over the poop trauma and got all clean and into jammies, Jordan announced, "We don't poop in the bathtub!"

"No, we don't."

"And we don't poop in Daddy's bed!"

"You're right. We don't poop in Daddy's bed."

"And we don't poop in Nana's bed!"

"Actually, we don't poop in anyone's bed."

He pointed to the toy-filled tub in his room. "But we can poop in that bathtub."

Because we are not raising him in the same places and way that my brother and I were raised, this seemed a good time to say that we only poop in diapers, and potties and toilets - and nowhere else.

We now have regular conversations, however, of where we don't poop. The sofa. The floor. The chair.

Um, right. No, no, and no.

She doesn't get eaten by the eels at this time.

I don't know what the descent into depression is like for other people.

I've talked about it like falling into a hole, but lately, I realized that it's not like that for me. I think it would be easier if it were. Like, one day you'd be walking along singing what you think is an upbeat tune that actually turns out to be about a dark teenage mind contemplating a Columbine-like killing spree.And then suddenly, you'd find yourself in the bottom of a hole.The contrast would be so stark, you'd realize immediately, I think.

For me, however, it's more like stepping off the sandy shore and slowly walking further and further into the ocean. The change is incremental. Once the initial shock of getting your feet wet wears off, the downward slope is gradual enough that you don't really realize what's going on.With each step, your footing gets less secure, as the ground shifts beneath your feet. You reflexively readjust.As you get further in, the vicissitudes of currents beyond your control pull at you. And you resist, without consciously doing so. As they get stronger and stronger, it takes more work.

You get a little colder, a little less secure, with each passing day and each step forward and downward. And somehow, somehow still you do not recognize that you have been here before.

You just know that you hate your life and everyone in it. How come people suck so badly? How come you suck so badly?At some point, though, you're in deep enough that you're not only over your head, but you've lost your footing entirely. It's so dark, and so cold, and so very scary.

This is the point at which, finally, finally, you realize that unless you get some help, you are fucked.You push for the surface, and you reach for the strongest hands around. You gasp and you sob, and you choke out, "I'm in a very bad place."

And while they cannot fix you, they can pull you into their laps, and put their arms around you, and say, "We know, and we're here for you."

With the support of those hands, that warm towel of reassurance wrapped around you, you have the impetus and strength to seek out the help you need.

Having hit that point last week, I'm back on the shore. I fully expect to resume singing about pumped up kicks any day now.

When politics of smugness try to creep into my uterus

I never, ever thought I'd say this, but Rick Santorum has been on my mind recently.

(Yes, I still think he's the Devil. And if you haven't ever googled Santorum, please do so. It's kind of a delight.)

So, during the 20-week sonogram on Friday, one of the things the technician pointed out was that the baby had her hand open flat, and she said that if she had Trisomy 18, she wouldn't be able to do so - her hands would be clenched. Now, we had the amnio, so we knew already, but I found it interesting.

There is all this news about Rick Santorum and should he be campaigning when he has this critically ill daughter with Trisomy 18. She's three, and needs 24/7 care, for which his wife quit her job.

Presumably, they have good health care, the Santori, because the fraction of babies diagnosed with the disorder who live much past birth require astounding amounts of medical intervention and care. So the choice they made - to have the child - is manageable from a health-care perspective. And presumably they make enough, even with eight kids, that his wife was able to make the choice stay home.

But it underlines for me that it needs to be a fucking choice. And this man who lives with a child who suffers, perhaps daily, who knows how much money and work a special needs kid requires, wants to take the choice away.

Oh, and isn't interested in health care for all. Devil ass douchebag fuck.

And I feel like people like this are always so fucking smug about it.

I don't know if you remember back a number of months when I wanted to rear-end that anti-choice minivan and wrote that mind your own uterus post?

Yah, so, now I'm almost 20 weeks pregnant. Last week I spent over an hour looking at my daughter-to-be flipping around on the sonogram monitor. When you watch what's going on in your uterus, it's extraordinary what a little human being it looks like is bopping around in there.

I came into the office after my sonogram appointment on Friday. I showed some of my colleagues the strip of pictures.

We were talking about how extraordinary it is that at 19 weeks of development - which is actually just 17 weeks, because the first two really don't count - you have this little human with all her organs and bones and what-have-yous.

One colleague, who is Catholic, pointed to the strip and said, "And this is why I just don't understand people who believe that life begins at birth."

Comments like that make my hair stand on end. I'm pretty sure I physically backed up. I don't know when I think life begins, but I know for a fact that at this stage, one of us can breathe on her own, and one of us can't.

I said, "Listen, you're talking to someone who is relentlessly pro-choice."

I think it's miraculous, I do. And I want this baby so badly. I worked hard to get her, and I try not to fret about losing her. I'm so thankful that our tests showed she was healthy.

But people need to have the choice.

Our other colleague, who pointed out that she is also Catholic, said she is pro-choice as well.

So the first woman said, "Well, if there were something wrong with your baby, I would still pray for her."

I believe she meant it kindly. I do. I smiled, but I couldn't really respond.

Because like boats against the current, my refrain is always: mind your own fucking uterus.

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!

Ell Oh Ell

Have you laughed hard, like really laughed out loud, lately?

One of the things I am supposed to be doing in pregnancy is seeking joy.

They didn't put it exactly that way, but that's what it comes down to. They want you laughing and having sex and doing things that make you happy and up your endorphin levels.

And it occurred to me that apart from a giggle or a chortle here and there, and the occasional laugh out loud - but short laugh, not like laughing so hard you cry and it hurts - I have spent very little time laughing lately. Appallingly little.

Granted, I have been low on the humor front lately. I need to start seeking it out.

So I am wondering - has anything made you laugh out loud lately? A movie, TV show, stupid cat video, hilariously-written blog post, book, joke? If so, what?