When I was just a baby, my mama told me Son, always be a good boy, don't ever play with guns.

Just to be clear from the outset: it's not that I would've been glad if Nick were in jail, because of course I wouldn't. I only would've preferred it to what seemed like the alternative at hand.

(Nick: I'm sure you understand, sweetheart.)

OK. So.

My mom left an urgent message on my voicemail this morning. “Lisa, call me as soon as you can.”

No details, nothing. I used to be used to these gut-wrenching messages, back when my dad was alive. My body went cold. This sent me into a complete panic.

You see, when Jordan woke up this morning, he was cry-y. He had a bad cough. He had a fever. He was clearly sick. Or, as my mother has always put it, ever since I was a kid, “feeling puny.”

I took his temperature. We have this digital thermometer, and he used to be belligerent about it. I mean, it is a little weird to expect a toddler to sit still while you place something on his forehead and run it across.

It makes me feel very old and all, “I walked uphill in the snow both ways to school!” when I think about how my parents used to shake down the mercury and then you’d have to sit very still with it under your tongue or your armpit. Which was at least not your anus.

This little electronic thing is easy.

Anyway, to entice Jordan into staying still while we take his temperature, we play this game. I’ll ask Nick if he wants me to take his number. And then we’ll make a big deal about it. “Oh! 97.8! What a number!”

Then Jordan is all, "Look at my number! Look at my number!"

Also, Nick always runs cool, which is so weird to me since he can pretty much walk around in the snow naked and still be warm. I mean, he doesn’t, and wouldn't, in case you live in our neighborhood and worry. But I betcha $5 he could.

Anyway, Jordan had this little fever. Not so high. But that, coupled with the cough and his general listlessness made us very glad he could stay home and snuggle on the couch with Nana. We dosed him up with grape Tylenol and told my mom to call if she needed either of us.

So back to Betty’s voicemail. I had a busy morning, and didn’t look at my phone until several hours after she’d left the message. I figured she’d talked to Nick in the meantime, but still, I flipped out.

I was sure Jordan had taken this massive turn for the worse. As I was calling back, I had visions of reaching Betty in the emergency room of Children’s Hospital, my boy all hooked up to an IV.

I do sometimes wonder if I don't have a little PTSD from my dad. I don't say that lightly.

So she answered quickly, and I said, “What’s wrong? What happened? You said to call you immediately!”

“Well. Nick’s uncle called to say that Nick was in jail.”

“Oh, thank God.”

“He’s not. What?”

“I thought something happened to Jordan. Wait, what?”

Nick’s 96-year old grandfather got a call this morning, ostensibly from Nick. He was in jail and needed $2,000 as soon as possible.

(Relief!)

And so his grandfather immediately called one of Nick’s uncles. Who then tried and tried to reach Nick. And then called our house. So Betty then called Nick’s office. She left two messages. B

When Nick returned from a meeting, he had two urgent messages from his uncle, and two from Betty. He was sure his grandfather had died.

By the time I spoke with her, she'd spoken with Nick, and he'd called his uncle.

Not from Mexican jail. And he didn't need money.

And Jordan? He was still feeling puny, so at his request they went to “the cupcake store,” AKA my favorite Korean Jewish deli, which apparently has cupcakes. And then he asked for a nap.

In other words, no toddlers are on the brink of death, and nobody's shot a man in Reno, or, rather, Tijuana, and wound up in the slammer. I mean, nobody I'm currently the mother of or married to.

And there you have it.

Let my love open the door. It's all I'm living for.

So, when you walk in the front door after work and the first thing your mother says is, "I have to talk to you about something," it makes you a little nervous.

Here's what happened.

You know how Jordan has become particularly interested in poop? Which just means that now he fits in with the rest of the family? Except Betty, who used to regularly say when I was growing up, "Can we please have no anal talk at the dinner table tonight?"

Poor woman.

So, anyway, he has.

We've been very open about all of it, in an encouragement of heading towards potty training. We let him flush the toilet, which he loves.

Now, he spends two days a week at home with my mom, plus a lot of time in the evenings and on weekends. They're tight. And typically, at least in our house, if it's just you and Jordan, you leave the bathroom door open when you go in.

It's just safer. Because Lord only knows what he'll get into left to his own devices.

So that particular day, Jordan ambled on into the bathroom and said, "What are you making, Nana?"

This is his new thing. What are you making?

As it turned out, she was engaged in an activity of supreme interest to our little friend. And so he marched over, pushed her forward on the toilet, exclaiming, "Move! I want to see!"

He wants to see the poop come out. I am not kidding you.

So Betty said, "You know I would do anything for Jordan. But this is just beyond what I can handle."

It's beyond what any of us really want to handle. So now, here's what you have to do.

You wait until Jordan walks out of the room. And then, making sure he's not looking in your direction, you scurry towards the bathroom, closing the door behind you. He can't yet turn the handle.

Sometimes it all goes fine. But sometimes he walks back in, notices your absence, and he suspiciously inquires about it. If responses are vague, he makes a beeline for the bathroom door.

If he finds it closed, he bangs. He wails, "What are you making?" Bang! Bang! "I neeeeed to come in! OPEN! I NEEED TO COME IN!"

His distress is palpable. He's pretty singular of purpose and hard to distract from this endeavor.

It doesn't help that the spectators in the house are supremely amused by the whole thing. Who wants to be laughed at when you have a serious objective?

So far, it's only at home, and guests are exempt. Let's hope he grows out of it before it gets all awkward and we have to warn his prom date or something.

So if any of you have suggestions on how to smother the little voice in your head

I know I'm an ingrate in that you all said such nice things on my last super-angsty post...and I've not yet thanked any of you for it. Thank you. I'll comment back soon, I will.

I mean, not that you're on pins and needles. But I want to. I just...haven't.

It's been one of those crappo weeks that claws at your self-esteem from multiple angles. The kind of weeks were if one weren't pregnant, one might go home at night after work and open a bottle of wine and sit in the corner and swill the whole damn thing. And do it again the next night. Which I don't think I've actually done since I was single, now that I think about it.

It sounds pretty good to me, actually.

Anyway.

Tuesday started with a fight with Nick, and then turned into a day in which my abilities at work were called into question even though it was a misunderstanding and not something I hadn't actually been on top of and I just felt fucking miserable all day long. Even if I don't love my job every minute, I'm a first born rule follower. I get my stuff done. If people think I'm doing a bad job, I feel like shit.

Wednesday began at the midwives with MY WEIGHT. The nurse didn't even have me pee first!

You know how last time I didn't let them tell me how much I weighed? And it was just a big surprise at the end?

This time I thought I'd grown (personally, I mean) and that I could take it. But no matter how many times I tell myself YOU'RE PREGNANT, I still cannot take the numbers in stride.http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif

I've now hit the weight I was freshman year of college. When I spent most of the time sitting on my dorm room floor, crying, eating chocolate, and not being able to fit into any clothes but sweats.

Weight gain for me is inextricably linked with misery. And panic. And self-flagellation. I cannot handle the numbers. I should never know them.

I emailed Nick while waiting for the midwife to come in. "I'm a big fat cow. Here's proof: LARGE (for me) NUMBER."

And then I was all, "But I had my sneakers on. (It's true - the thought of relacing was just too much.) And I'm wearing a very heavy necklace. Oh, plus, I had rocks in my bra."

Here's what makes me so mad at myself about it. My midwives are totally happy with where I am. I'm doing the things I need to do for my own body and for a healthy baby. I'm eating well. I'm not eating crap. And I'm exercising.

I'm not going to cut down on my food intake, because that's just stupid and unhealthy in pregnancy. I'm so totally within the guidelines. Except by my panicked calculation, at this rate, I'm going to be heavier at the end than I was last time. When I was one week overdue.

Which is fine. It's still within reasonable range. Technically, It's all fine. Really.

And still, there's this little asshole Danger! Danger! Fix it! voice in my head telling me how fat I am.

I'm closing my eyes next time. I totally am.

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.

Well there ain't no use to sit and wonder why babe if you don't know by now

Nick has been gone all week.

And so, while we do set our alarm nightly - the alarm that to my surprise doesn't go off in a tiny little model of our house at the police station - I sleep with my cell phone right next to my bed. Even though we have a land line right there. Just in case of some unexpected calamity like someone smashing a window and cutting the phone lines or a vampire attack or what-have-you.

I have always been afraid of whatever might be lurking in the shadows. Also, I have always been Team Jacob, despite the alabaster vampire loins and rainbow sparkly skin.

So anyway, Nick has been calling me on my cell first thing in the morning to wake me up.

And this morning, when the house phone, which we almost never use, rang, I was surprised.

I answered, and Betty said, "Lisa?"

"Hi, Mom!"

"Hi! Where are you?"

"In the kitchen. Where are you?"

"I just got up."

"So what are you calling about?"

"I'm not calling. You called."

"I didn't call you. You called me. The kitchen phone just rang."

"Well, my phone just rang, too."

And then it dawned on me to stop talking...which gave me a chance to hear my husband's slightly fainter voice in the background saying, "Lisa! Betty! Lisa! I'M CALLING YOU."

Oh. Hi!

Now that there are two of us, this is probably even more true. Poor man.