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?

38 weeks. Filter is gone. Long, long gone.

Yah, so when I woke up this morning, I was pretty sure my belly had doubled in size. I realize that's unrealistic, but it feels like it has.I had no intention of doing a tummy picture this week, but I couldn't resist, because I'm just astounded by the enormity. Even though I've been told I was even bigger with Jordan.

So once again, here I am in Michele's office. Skinny, glamorous, so fucking fit, high-heel wearing Michele's office. This time all, the hell?

Maybe my stomach hasn't actually doubled, but it is definitely bigger than yesterday. Seriously, a lot.It's like there's this huge tender bulls-eye around my belly button, too. I keep bumping that one hurty spot. Because my stomach sticks out so much farther than I think it does.

A friend of mine told me weeks ago that this baby sits lower than Jordan did, and I'm just lately realizing that it's true. Because now that my tummy is this big, there's so little room below it to keep my pants up. I'm constantly scooting them up on the sides.

I lumbered into the kitchen the other morning, one hand on each side of my waistband, complaining to Nick. "It's so annoying! My pants slide down constantly because my stomach is so big it pushes them down! But I suppose you already know all about what I'm talking about."

PREGNANT PAUSE.

"Did you really just say that to me?"

(Crap. I did. But so totally not maliciously. Just...you know...you can probably commiserate? Kind of thing?)

"Oh, God! Not on purpose! By accident! Water's boiling! Tea? I love you!"

No graceful recovery.

So it turns out that the natural childbirth business is going to hurt like holy hell and also, Dear Nick: You have a job to do

Note to reader: If vagina talk and childbirthy stuff and TMI make you twitchy, you should just stop reading now. In fact, you might just want to check back in, oh, June or so. I envision a lot of vagina talk in my near future.

OK. So.

I had a midwife checkup today. All is good. And I'm almost at 38 weeks! Super exciting!

Although she said I should be fully prepared to go to 42 weeks. I should gear up for it, rather than being disappointed to not go into labor two weeks from now.

She did the only cervical check they do until you go into labor. They don't believe in it. Which is fine with me.

In fact, this particular midwife feels very strongly that nothing but a penis should be put in your vagina. No latex gloves, nothing that can introduce bacteria.

Seriously. She's said, "Nothing but a penis!" to me a number of times.

I get her point, but it kind of makes me want to pull things out of my purse and be all, "Not even some sparkly lip gloss?"

Yah, so all was going well and we were having a perfectly nice conversation even though her hand was in my vagina and then all of a sudden she was all, "OK, now, here's what a contraction feels like."

MOTHEROFGOD FUCK FUCK FUCKITY FUCK OW! Is kind of what it felt like.

What I said once I was able to speak was, "Wow, that hurts!"

"Yes. And when you're in labor, that's what you're going to feel every 3-5 minutes."

(Huh. And why didn't I opt for the repeat C-section?)

And then, then she did some other kind of little trick and was all, "Do you feel this? What does that feel like?"

BESIDES JESUSFUCKINGHELL? "Um..." (breathe, Lisa, breathe...) "Full? And burny? And like it's pressing on my butt?"

"Exactly. That's how it feels when the baby is descending."

So we went through this mini-enactment of how it's going to feel to go through contractions and the baby coming down through the birth canal. I knew it was going to hurt...but somehow I thought it would just be like terrible menstrual cramps.

I didn't think about the fact that it would be all stabby and fiery-burny awful inside my tenderest little womanly parts. I don't know why.

And then! Then, as I was recovering from the fisting she said, "Now, you and Nick need to be having sex three to five times a week."

THREE TO FIVE TIMES A WEEK. (Visions of C-section scheduling began to dance in my head.)

I replied in a tiny little voice, "Oh, please don't make me."

"I know it's awful. I know. And it's not going to get better. But you have to. You need to get that cervix-ripening sperm up there."

"We have to?"

"Yes. Nobody thinks it's fun. Maybe you can lie on your side and read a book or make a grocery list. Just tell Nick he has a job to do."

37 weeks: full term!

"Oh, God, do I really look like that?"
"You do when you don't smile. Would it kill you to smile?"Apparently not.

Happy Friday, all!

Pregnancy Tourette's

Australian Builder came over on Saturday, looked at me, and said, "This racing the baby is really stressing me out."

He's one of these big, strong, macho types. The kind of guy whose idea of a touchy-feely conversation is sharing a bottle of scotch. But this kid has him frazzled.

"You know what one of my other clients said to me?"

"What?"

"That babies can be two weeks early! You could have this baby next week!"

I'm not going to say he got shrill, because he doesn't have a high voice. But this baby, she's stressing him out. They're almost done, though. Now, the odds of her being early, everyone has said, are very low. Which I didn't tell him. Because the construction, it needs to end.

We need to clean and move Jordan back to his room and put dressers in place and put clothes in dressers. We have to get a mattress. We still have to buy a car seat.

Still much to do!

All that said, ooh, I'd be delighted. I think I'm holding it together better this time, in that I'm not just sitting up on the top floor weeping into my iced drinks and refusing to come down. So there's that. But I'm glad to be counting down more in days than weeks at this point.

This morning I walked into the kitchen at work and two of my colleagues burst out laughing.

"What?"

"The look! On your face! Is just so 'fuck off'!"

It's true. I know I walk around all Stay. The. Fuck. Out. Of. My. Way. And don't you hurry up to get in front of me on the sidewalk. Don't even think you're faster than me just because I'm pregnant. And if you brush against my belly I will cut you.

Is kind of how it is now.

The other day a woman got into the elevator after me and turned around, moving backwards. I saw her backpack heading for my stomach and without even thinking about it, I squawked loudly and my hand shot out and I pushed her forward. Because, owie hurty tender!

I know that particularly at the end of the day I'm really slow when I cross streets, but if I'm at a zebra crossing, I still give impatient cars the stinkeye. They're supposed to stop for pedestrians, no matter how slow and waddly.

Older women tend to be nicer. Cab drivers and bus drivers are typically nice about stopping and letting you go. It's usually the early-20s men and women who are dicks and only stop at the last minute because you're in the street. You're clearly inconveniencing them.

I give them this semi-sneer you try being all hugely pregnant don't fucking run me over and PS I hate you kind of look.

That said, I don't just fling myself out into the crosswalk if it looks like someone isn't going to stop. But in that case, I do my best to catch their eye. And then I narrow my eyes and mouth "ASSHOLE" as clearly as possible.

It's like temporary Tourette's or something. I can't seem to stop myself.

The kind of for example that can make a husband twitchy

So this morning I had this sudden sharp little pain and it caused me to suck in my breath and kind of clutch at the counter with one hand and my abdomen-ish region with the other.

Which is a total exercise in futility because where I need to make it stop is so very far from accessible.

It wasn't subtle, and Nick was immediately worried. "Are you OK?"

It was the same kind of stabby little poke me in the somewhere terrible pain I've been getting intermittently and complaining about regularly. It happens and it's awful and it passes.

So I said, "It's fine. It just feels like she's stabbing my vagina from the inside."

"Are you sure it's a stabbing pain? Because maybe it's a contraction?"

Instead of being all, dude, I know a motherfucking stabbing pain from a contraction pain I thought, why not bring the illustration home?

"Nick. A contraction feels like squeezing. Stabbing feels like stabbing. If someone were stabbing your penis with a sharp little pin, would you be able to distinguish it from someone squeezing your penis, even if they were squeezing it hard?"

"Fine, Lisa, fine. I understand. You've got a stabbing pain."

So there.

35 weeks and the sad realization that I am definitely Capital rather than District

First things first: Yes, I wish I were going to Hunger Games this afternoon, and yes, I'm waiting for my HG necklace to arrive. And yes, I just had a conversation about how, although I like to think of myself as tough, I would probably be Capital rather than even a townie from one of the districts.

I would never make it in the Seam in District 12, for example. And Nick is the only one with any chance of surviving the arena.

Also, I'm not actually this gleeful about the tremendosity of the baby house I'm carrying around. I'm tired and whiny and complainy and bitter and disgruntled. I've begun commuting with a full backpack for a couple reasons: one, it's easier than carrying my bag across my body, and two, it kind of balances me out.

But Nick and I were going to take a picture this morning, and then our delightful progeny, light of our lives, was, quite frankly, such a tremendous asshole that it made the entire morning extremely chaotic.

And so I asked my friend Michele if she would take it in her office. I closed her door, peered out the window to see if anyone would see me partly nakey against the door (no), and bared my belly. She burst out laughing, and I did, too.

I'm sure it falls under Not Appropriate Office Behavior. Much like furtively changing in your cube while your Quad-mates keep a lookout.

Good times.

Anyway, the pregnant.

This past week the girl started stabbing me somewhere very terrible. It's like she took one of her wee fingers (with fingernails!) and poked it repeatedly into my, I don't know, bladder? cervix? Somewhere internal and ooh! ooh! ooh! tender.

It's mostly been intermittent, but she kept it up for a good hour the other day.

If that won't make a person bitter, I don't know what will. It's very hard to walk to work or carry on a conversation with little sharpy pokes in tender places.

This past week Jordan also suddenly took notice of my belly. No matter that I've been putting his hand on it, talking about the baby sister, asking if he can feel her move, for weeks now. Now it is big enough that it inconveniences him.

He was sitting on the edge of what is left of my lap (thankfully we visited the hot eye doctor while I still had more of one), and suddenly put his hand on my prodigious belly and said, "WHAT IS THIS?"

So we talked about the Baby Sister! And how much she's going to love him! And how she is going to be here soon! And bring presents!

And he asked, "Who is her mama and daddy?"

"I'm her mama and Daddy is her daddy."

"NO! YOU'RE NOT HER MAMA! DADDY ISN'T HER DADDY! NO!"

All I can say is, the de-throning is going to be very good for him. And all of us.

May the odds be ever in your favor, my little friend. Except when you're throwing a huge tantrum on the floor. Then I'd like them to be in mine.

I'll cut you. I will.

I seriously feel like my belly doubled in size over the weekend.

This girl is all up in my business. She's squooshing my lungs, she's poking my bladder with little sharpy stabs. There's almost no room below for my pants to stay up. And those belly bands are bugging. (How's that for alliteration?)

And CLOTHING! Don't get me started. I'm all, "I HATE YOU! STOP TOUCHING ME!"

My out-in-public-all-nakey-nakey days are long gone, but boy, would it feel good. When I'm home, I pull up my shirt and just sit around bare-bellied. One, it's comfortable, and two, it's fascinating watching her move under the surface of my skin.

I admit, it's kind of like Alien, but I'm riveted.

Yesterday, as we were hanging out having sweet schmoopy cuddle time, Nick was clearly amused by my attempt to roll from one side to the other. Because now I am not unlike one of those potato bugs when I get stuck on my back.

I haven't needed the Amish man with the forklift yet, but I'm sure that's coming.

He giggled, but not at all unkindly. I'm sure I do present a funny image, all the arm flailing to get over to the other side.

But you want to make a pregnant woman hostile? Laugh at anything physical she's doing.

Everything is now so hard. I huff and puff going down the block. And up the stairs. And down the hall. I don't have enough room inside my body. I never know what will be too tight tomorrow. Putting on my shoes is hard. MY CLOTHES ARE CRUNCHY!

In other words, I was all poke him in the gut, "Oh, yeah? You think rolling side to side is easy because your big old stomach just sloshes when you roll over. You try having a big, solid, 10-lb ball strapped to your front."

I'll cut you. Don't think I won't.

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.

Fictional schmictional. We all need a Bates. And a Pamuk.

I don't know about you, but engaging in idle speculation, no matter how frivolous or pointless, seems to be one of my favorite things.

This morning I was huffing and puffing as I put on my sneakers, and Betty asked if I needed some help.

I told her that the other day Nick had come upstairs to see if I was OK, because I’d been grunting and groaning like a stuck pig. He could hear me all the way from the living room. And I was all, “Oh, I’m just trying to put on my maternity tights.”

“Did Nick help you put them on?”

“He didn’t! You know what I need? I need a valet!”

(Of course, being all Downtonified, I pronounced it vall-et rather than the American vallay.)

Nick said, “You wouldn’t have a vall-et. You’d have a lady’s maid.”

“I don’t want a maid. I want Bates.”

“No you don’t. You thought he was pasty and squishy, remember?” (Trust my husband to remember that.)

“Oh, right! Yes! Right! But handsome in his clothes! What I really need is a Pamuk!”

Betty asked, “What’s a Pamuk?”

“Remember Poor Mr. Pamuk? The Turkish delight who died in Mary’s bed? Best looking man on the whole show.”

“Oh, yes. Did he have a heart attack?”

“I think so. Which, actually, is kind of sketchy, since he’d only be like 25 or so.”

“Maybe he had a heart condition?”

“Or maybe he was doing drugs.”

“Maybe...”

Nick broke in. “Maybe it doesn’t actually matter, since we’re talking about a fictional character?”

Cause there's nothing, there's nothing you can teach me that I can't learn from Mr. Hathaway

So I've hit 30 weeks. And Amy Winehouse's Rehab song keeps playing in my head. I ain't gonna spent ten weeks...

Although of course I am. And I'm hoping it's ten weeks rather than 11 or 12.

At last week's midwife visit, the girl was head down (yay!). The prior visit, they told me to start visualizing her getting into head-down position. I pretty much suck at visualizing (in the same way that meditation is hard for me - I get distracted) but I started regularly singing "Put your head down. Put your feet up."

Because I've been thinking, oh, you, my little friend, you are not going to be breech after all this pursuit of VBAC and following the midwives' dietary guidelines and putting all that money down for a doula...No no no. You are going to stick your head down there and cooperate.

But, of course, mostly I tried to channel happy warm rainbow puppy thoughts about how much more fun it would be to have her feet up.

I love having my puffy feet and ankles up now, and so it was kind of a soothing thing to say. I'm not saying I got her to turn. But I'm happy about it.

Of course, when there seems to be a lot of activity in there, particularly activity that involves lots of poking with elbows and knees, I always imagine her putting her head back up, all, I'm sick of this upside-down shit! You're not the boss of me!

We'll see.

The night before last, Nick saw me lumbering up the stairs and said, "I don't mean this unkindly, but I don't know how you're going to do this for ten more weeks."

No fucking kidding. Get me a palanquin.

I can't get comfortable, particularly at night. I'm hot, so I throw off the covers. Then my skin is itchy, so I put on lotion. Then my hip hurts, so I roll over, with great difficulty. Then my other hip gets sore. Then I readjust the pillows. Then I'm thirsty. I drink water. Then I need to pee.

Etc. Ad nauseum. Blah blah blah. And so on and so forth.

And yesterday we were walking to work and Nick said something that pissed me off. It wasn't anything egregious, but it just flew all over me.

I was immediately enraged, and in my head was all, who is this fucking asshole and how in hell did I wind up married to such a douchebag?

And thus, and I let him have it.

To which he responded, "Could you dial back the sarcasm by about 50%?"

At which point of course I burst into tears all, "NO! NO I CAN'T DIAL IT BACK! I HAVE ABSOLUTELY NO ABILITY TO DO SO I CAN'T DIAL ANYTHING BACK AND THIS IS ONLY GOING TO GET WORSE AND WE HAVE MONTHS AND MONTHS TO GO AND DO YOU THINK I LIKE BEING LIKE THIS?!"

My friend Kaysha told me that her boss said I looked tired. And Kaysha said, "Yeah, we were wondering if Lisa would find anything pregnancy more enjoyable this time. And she doesn't seem to be."

No, I certainly don't, do I?

Midas is king and he holds me so tight and turns me to gold in the sunlight

Sometimes I have to drag my own self down there kicking and screaming, but I'm still working out in our office building's gym at least a couple times a week. You know, the gym with the shiny red button.

So last week it was brought to my attention that my stomach is roughly the same size as the 15-pound medicine ball. Although what it really feels like is this:
Now, I've tried to be a lot more measured in this pregnancy about what I say on LG, partly because I got berated in my Jordan pregnancy for complaining about how fat and gross I felt. I mean, I got a lot of support, too, so it's not just fear of people thinking I'm an asshole that's holding me back.

Although naturally, I'd rather people didn't think I was an asshole, if I had my druthers.

But I've also tempered my complaining nature because fuck, it took so much time, so much work, and so much money to get to this pregnancy. And part of me is scared that if I'm not grateful enough, it'll get taken away.

Don't step on the crack. Don't walk under ladders. Don't break a mirror. That sort of thing.

Thankfully, with Jordan, I didn't realize how fragile it all can be. I'm well fucking aware with this one. And so, at least publicly, I've tried to hold it in. Hey, look at me with the medicine ball belly!

But you guys, I hit a huge wall this weekend.

Sunday morning I was all kinds of mad at Nick for not loving this sweater I'd gotten him. And he kept saying, "Why are you getting so angry?" Which just made me angrier.

And so I snapped, "Because it's so hard to find XXL sweaters that actually fit you and this one actually fits and I AM SO TIRED AND OLD AND HAGGARD AND UGLY AND I HATE MY BODY AND I HATE MY FACE AND I HAAAAAATE BEING PREGNAAAAAAAAANT. I HATE IT I HATE IT I HATE IT."

At which point I just leaned over and started sobbing onto the kitchen counter. Like the snuffling, hiccuping, gasping for breath sobbing of abject despair.

Nick curled me in his arms and said he thinks I'm beautiful, and he patted my just-highlighted hair and said, very sweetly, "I think you're beautiful. And I like your new hair." (He's a good man, that one.)

And Jordan came over and asked me if I wanted to put some animals in his backhoe. Which is pretty much like saying I love you so much.

I'm loved, and I'm lucky. I love the family I have. And I'm lucky to be having another baby. I'm grateful, I am. Really and truly.

I just suck at the pregnant. And the pregnant, coupled with the sped-up aging it seems to be doing to me? Super mindfuck.

I am the opposite of glowy. My skin and my hair and my nails are so dry. I have 500 more wrinkles than when I started. When did I get so old and wrinkly?

It's one thing to feel fat and full and exhausted and achey and uncomfortable all the time. But it just feels so unfair to have to feel so hideous on top of it. And so old. So fucking old. It kills my self-esteem.

I feel all superficial saying that, because I am so much more interested in what people are like than what they look like. But it's true. I need to feel attractive in some way, shape or form. And I don't. I just don't.

I hate it.

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?

The reason I almost removed my pants walking home last night plus photos that go with prior posts and no, there isn't a no pants photo

I always aim to post more photos or drawings because they spruce things up but most of the time it just doesn't happen. Even though I love it when other people add pictures to their posts.

But I'm trying.

And sometimes I feel like one needs evidence. Last night I walked home past the pee bottle and decided that I'd walk by again this morning, and if it was still sitting outside the wrought-iron fence of the nice building, I'd call 311 and see if pee removal was under the purview of DC government.However. When I walked by this morning, the pee bottle was in the yard. Meaning, well, two things. One, that someone picked it up and chucked it over the fence. Ew. And two, it's now clearly the lawn-owner's problem, and not DC's. Right?

Also. I'm still bummed about my glove. See how cute?And finally, these are some of the animals Jordan has a creche on. If you come over, you are likely to wind up with at least one or two in your pocket or your shoe.Also, I damn near pulled off my pants on my walk home last night, and only modesty/fear of being arrested/bigger fear of people pointing and laughing kept me from doing so. Because my maternity coat only comes down past my bum.

I don't know if all the laundry detergent didn't wash out, or what the deal was, but they were so burny! It was kind of like the insides were covered with shards of glass that were making itty bitty cuts with every step.

Which made me think back to my tobacco dipping days and how apparently they put fiberglass into dip to cut your gums so the nicotine gets in there nice and fast. Which is why it's such a quick little buzz.

Those days are long past, though. And there weren't that many of them. Fun, though.

But last night with my fiberglass pants I was seriously fantasizing about the chilly air on my thighs and it took every ounce of my willpower not to just pull them right off and pretend I had on the whitest tights one could imagine and that I thought they were pants.

As soon as I got in the door I stepped out of them and dabbed my legs with water. I couldn't bear to put on more pants, and all evening Jordan kept saying, "Mama, you have no pants!"

That's right, honey. And when you grow up, you can have no pants whenever you want. And eat cake for breakfast every day if you so choose.

Then Nick came home and said, "You have no pants!" I briefly considered feigning surprise but was too tired.

I'm not sure what the deal was there. I started getting hurty little red bumps but they didn't get any worse. Today my skin is a little aggravated, but not terribly. And if it were laundry detergent, wouldn't you think my shirt would be bugging me as well? It's not like your legs are the tenderest parts of your body.

I dunno.

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.

And then I turned into one of those women

We got back late last night. The trip was spectacular and Jordan was amazing, and I have photos to post but not much time right now.

But I must post this little tale, as it is at the top of my mind. And I must write it down so I can refer back to it regularly.

Like in moments of weakness or duplicity.

So on Saturday night at the wedding reception I was talking to Jane's sister. She was asking about pregnancy, how it went for me.

And I, I kid you not, I said, "It was pretty good, actually."

I honestly said this.

"Really? What about nausea?"

"Well, I was kind of nauseous at the beginning, but it didn't last long. And then at the very end I was huge and it was hot, so that was a little difficult. But overall, it wasn't bad."

"Interesting. A lot of my friends had a much harder time."

"It's really just the beginning and end that are hard. Most of it was good."

"So you liked being pregnant?"

And you know how you might be drunk or fading off to sleep or in some slightly altered state, and then one specific thing - a noise, a light, a something - just snaps you back to the cold hard present?

That's what this question did for me.

I clutched her arm. "I can't believe I just completely fucking lied to you! I lied! I've become one of those women!"

"What are you talking about?"

"I hated being pregnant! I hated it, all of it. The nausea sucked. The hugeness sucked. I hated being big and fat and waddly and uncomfortable."

She laughed. "That sounds more normal."

"Yes! But now I've become one of those 'pregnancy is great!' women! The ones I wanted to stab once I was in it and miserable and said it sucked and suddenly they were all, 'yeah, it really does suck'."

I took her by the shoulders. I looked her in the eye. "If you ever hear me saying pregnancy is great, would you just pinch me very hard?"

The Hell? Is THIS what they mean by pregnancy amnesia?

Well, yah

I told you this would be hard.

We have been here since 7 pm last night.

The Cervidil did nothing. Why? Because I have some scarring on my cervix.

The OB has tried three times to break it up. Nothing doing. And so I have to have a C-section.

We are next but we're also so fucking healthy that we'e not an emergency. So we've been about to be taken in to the OR since oh. noonish.

I have an IV. I have a catheter. I had an epidural. I can't feel most of my body.

I'm nauseous; Ive thrown up. A bunch. I might do so again - not clear at the moment.

I've cried and cried. It scares the shit out of me.

And now they just said the OB I've been waiting on isn't feeling well. So we are waiting on her replacement from the practice.

Who, on the bright side, might be less of a bitch than today's doctor.

I'm so upset. And I'm so frustrated. I was prepared for stamina-requiring feats of strength.

But this?