Dear Baby

Dear Baby,

I suppose if you were to read back on the last few posts, you might be having some doubts about actually making your debut from the loins of such a frazzled, worrywort of a mom. Because I want to calm any fears (and ensure you actually do come out) I wanted to talk about the things that make me happy when I think about you.

1. You are going to be so small that you might actually fit into those preemie-size outfits of Avery's I accidentally shrank in the drier.
2. You are going to be the most photographed infant on the planet, next to Anne Geddes' kids, and I won't put you in any of that creepy cheesecloth.
3. Judging from the way you respond to ITunes, you're going to have your father's taste in music. Why that makes me somewhat sad (no JT, little one?), you dig soul singers and really seem to like Amy Winehouse's Rehab which makes you a hipster - and you haven't even been born yet.
4. I'm going to get to introduce you to the pleasures of taking nice, long baths. If you can hold my New Yorker, it's yours.
5. You are a smooshed up grabbag of traits of me and your crazy hot, wonderful dad, and I can't wait to spot them all as you grow.
6. You will be proof that I can start and finish something.
7. You will also discover the pleasures of eating, and I will do my best to make sure that after "mom" and "dad," papadum will be your first word.
8. If I don't go crazy and runaway with you back to LA, you're going to grow up surrounded by family and an awfully adorable cousin.
9. You're going to be my sous chef.
10. You're going to be out of my belly and in my arms very soon. My back is particularly excited about this. It stops my heart sometimes, but I think that's only because like my uterus, it's getting ready for a pretty major workout.

worry

Along with the swelling, the bitching, the deep ache in the back that doesn't go away, I'm thinking maybe worry is part of the 3rd trimester litany of complaints that's just par for the course. So much of my focus has been worrying about me - my discomfort, my guilt over my relative cakewalk of a pregnancy, my fear of labor pain, my fear of being a terrible parent, my fear of post partum depression, of painful postpartum sex and incontinence if I have a vaginal birth, or torn abdominal muscles if I have a c section.

And then in a rare shift of considering anyone's/thing's experience outside of myself, I started worrying about the baby. I woke from a deep sleep the other night convinced I heard someone going through our garbage cans. The baby felt like a hard slab of clay in my belly, like an art project settling overnight until the artist came back to complete his work. The weight and lumpish feel of it started to really bother me. Usually the baby moves the second my eyes open, and as little room as they have, it still is a feeling of fluidity, of pliable skin and waves. This felt cold, hard..dare I even type the words - dead. I instantly tried to take back the thoughts. The baby was fine, just in a deep sleep and comfy. But I couldn't stop the onslaught of panic. I had opened up the What to Expect book - right to the section on stillborn births. Was that supposed to be a sign? A premontion of this very moment? What was I supposed to do? How was I supposed to go back to sleep when the baby could be in fetal distress, me powerless to do anything. But was I really powerless? Was this something covered in childbirth class that I just glossed over? Would I - the baby kicked. And kicked again, and did that weird rolling thing that felt what I think a whale breaching and crashing down on its side looks like. The baby was fine.

For now.

And Caleb - when he left for work today. Gave me a sweet smile that suddenly begged the question - what if this was the last time I saw him? What if he were to be hit by a car on the way to work, leaving me all alone to raise a child, to wallow in grief. Then, immediately after, I heard a radio show about a young mom trying to explain to her son why his father was dying of a rare brain disease, a man who ran marathons and ate organic vegetables. Just like Caleb.

My god I haven't even given birth and the worrying is already paralyzing. retarded and nonproductive and silly and a unhealthy way to try and assert control over the unknowable by trumping worry at its own game - by coming up with all the scenarios before they can actually happen - yes I've been in therapy for this in the past - but still fresh, painful and exhausting.

ready to pop

Saturday was the Wild Women Shower and Sue spent the weekend with us. Got lots of cute clothes - funny how it was divided between the skulls and the lambs contingency. Because of the gestational diabetes I've been obsessed with baking, so rationally I decided it was time to bake cupcakes as a thank you gift to those hosting the shower. Suffice it to say the decorations were cute, but ultimately it looked like a baby sitting on a giant mountain of poo. And to my horror, after being on my feet until about 1 AM frosting cupcakes, I realized my feet were really starting to hurt. Like, really really hurt. Caleb was already asleep, so I fumbled my way to the bathroom in the dark and got undressed. And then I saw my ankles.

Nothing could have prepared me for the sheer size. You see those insane power walkers with the weights around their ankles? It was kind of like that, but squishy. And really, really gross. It was like my boobs had slid all the down into my ankles for a change of scenery. It was disgusting and sadly, while they haven't again returned to that supersized addition, they are fully swollen everyday by 3, making it prettty much a bitch to walk anywhere.

My saint of a mom came over today and helped get rid of the mountain of trash that had become the nursery, and it's looking really close to being ready for an actual baby. I'm 36 weeks as of Wednesday, and it is blowing my mind that I will be a mom in less than a month. I don't know if anyone is truly ready to become a parent, but then, maybe that is why one's 3rd trimester body becomes such a hostile environment. At that point you're bargaining with God that you'll do anything, be a freaking PARENT, just get the kid out of me.

So I'm not that desperate yet, but I definitely would not be crushed if baby decided to make an early debut. Like right now.

Bad Internet

I just need to stay off the internet. After a great apt. with Diane who told me that the baby was great, my diet was great and my blood sugar numbers were awesome, I realized it had been awhile since I scared myself to death googling info on GDM. So I promptly found some blogs written by pregnant chicks with GDM whose numbers were WAY below mine - and they had been put on insulin by their doctors. This the the first solid week (I've been on the diet for 6 weeks now) that my fasting numbers have been consistently under 100 - maybe twice they have been under 90. My post-prandiallalala #s have mostly been under 120. But there was this one time, after we cracked open Anthony Bourdain's Les Halles cookbook and made petite filets and bistro fries, the numbers sneaked up to 135. Diane said it was cool. And as long as my doctor is not freaking out, I know I shouldn't be. This is the first week since I started the diet that I finally gained some more weight - and this is on at least a 2000 calorie diet. The baby is not hulking out.

But in last night's dream, we had a boy. or kinda sorta. he was a hermaphrodite. And one leg was shorter than the other. And he had a gigantic ass covered with hair. We still hadn't named him after a day - apparently 'Magnificent Sweazy" was our top choice - but kiddo informed us that he was going to start working out as soon as possible to try and lose some of the baby back.

No more googling until baby comes.

p.s. Why is it that with every boy dream I have, he speaks in complete sentences?

HUGE

There you have it. That is what 34 weeks looks like. And please note the bruise. Call me crazy, but I think the squirmer did enough damage in my innards to leave a mark. Sure felt that way.

UP at 4 this morning, my first real bout of insomnia. Forgot to take off the wedding ring and the Crystal Light I insisted on sucking down before bed gave me Super Mario hands. Hurt like crazy. And now this weird pain in both boobs, under the rib cage. Googlage revealed that 1) my rib cage is expanding along with my entire pelvis 2) baby is doing a handstand and has wedged its foot under my ribs or 3) I'm in my 3rd trimester and should accept any bizarre pain with zen buddha-like tolerance. And then I was starving, so I shrugged on the bathrobe, ate some toast and peanut butter and wrote until Caleb got up at 6. Then promptly napped until 9. They say the insomnia is Mother Nature's way of preparing mom for a future of sleepless nights. I'm with Jill. Mother Nature is so totally a dude.

Holy Crap

I'm 34 weeks pregnant. This means that it is completely within the realm of possibility that I could become a mom anytime from today to 6 weeks from now. Because of the diabetes, I will not be allowed to go over my due date of April 4th, so there you have it. Baby is coming soon. All I've talked about is how great it would be if the baby, being the antsy little squirmer they are, decided to hurry up and join the party here. But now as the realization of what that means is dawning, after we attend our 3rd childbirth class tonight, as we assemble the final pieces of the nursery, I'm still anxious for baby to get here, but maybe just slightly less so. So much change and chaos and the unknown looming. But man I can't wait to see what's been cooking in here all these months.

At my last drs. appt Diane did a manual inspection of my belly and pronounced that she thought the baby felt "big." Not gestational diabetes big - my blood sugar numbers are fine - but big. Sweazy babies are famously on the big side, so I fully expected the woman doing the ultrasound to fall out of her seat in shock after getting a look at our little one. But she gestimated 4 lbs. 6 oz. - exactly the weight he/she is supposed to be. Of course, there is a 10-15% margin of error.

Oh - and why I love my husband? Last Wed was Valentine's Day, and he got me a heart, pictured above. He also got up at 6 AM and walked the dog for an hour in below freezing temps so I wouldn't have to. I love me that man.

lately

The past week has been all about school. Last week was my four hour gestational diabetes class where I learned some helpful things, like how to use the glucose meter (doesn't hurt at all) and where I learned some not so helpful things, like how the nutritionist on staff had never heard of hummus or pilates or falafel and felt McDonald's was fine on the GD diet. So I'm mushing together what I learned there with my LA nutritionist and making a go of it on my own. The glucose meter is realy easy to use but insanely expensive. I'm supposed to check my blood sugar 4 times a day by pricking my finger and wicking the blood on this little strip. Those little strips are a dollar a pop and only come like 15-20 to a canister, so I'm gonna have to fork over some serious cash to keep this up. So far my numbers have been pretty good. The trick has been to get cardio everyday which entails me dressing up like a kid on her first snowday to take Murphy on an hour walk. The snow from last Friday is still on the ground - it's that f-ing cold. If it weren't for this diet, Murphy would have to be content running around the backyard and barking at dogs from inside our cosy, warm house.

Last night was our first childbirth class. Caleb mentioned that every guy at work - and dad's friends that we bumped into at dinner afterwards - said the same thing. Class shmass. Just make sure she asks for the drugs. But I'm glad we're going, I think mainly just for the men to get a better understanding of what is going on inside of our bodies. I got to see what 10 centimeters dilated looks like - it's like a kiddie pool decorated with the flames of hell along its sides.

Like a good student, I will be asking for the drugs.

funny dreams

last night I dreamed that my son was here in town but kept in a nursery until I, still visibly pregnant, gave birth to him. Maybe it was him in spirit form. Anyhow, I was able to sneak in and visit him one night. He didn't know who I was - he called me Danielle, apparently confusing me with the camp counseloresque woman in charge of him - apparently they were riding horses the next morning and he was VERY excited about that. But I told him I wasn't Danielle but his...mommy. His face lit up in recognition of the word and he seemed very excited at the prospect of having a mommy, but I sensed he was still a bit attached to this Danielle character. I figured it would both take us some time to get to know each other.

Later in the dream my water broke, and I frantically called several salons to see if I could come in for a blowout. Good to know my priorities are in order.

Dylan!

My beautiful, hysterically funny friend Jill and her equally hilarious, adorable husband Michael welcomed their baby Dylan to the world after 30 hours of labor and a malfunctioning epidural. She says she won't tell me the whole story until after my delivery, but I'm hoping to get the nitty gritty. It's been so fun having close friends charting the pregnancy waters - so to speak - but I have discovered one downside.

No way is our kid gonna come looking as cute as that. After Avery and now Dylan, the bar has been set ridiculously high. I mean, I'm gonna love our baby, squishy and pointy headed and gooey and all. But damn if those 2 didn't come out paparazzi ready!

ache-y breaky heart

Blah day in the hood. Missing LA hard right now. Missing friends, food, warm weather. We had a high of 36 today and the news keeps talking about the "wintry mix" to expect after midnight. I keep envisioning a giant frozen salad to rain upon us as we sleep. I had a nice lunch with Mom (soon to-be Nana) today and as she loaded up my car with boxes of my high school crap and shadowbox framed poems and stuffed animals, she told me how happy she was I was back home. It makes me happy that she's so happy - I just wish I felt the same peace being back here. Don't get me wrong - I love my family and we're super close and it's great getting to know them all as people again. But sometimes I just hate it here. Ok, deep breath.

I hate that smoking is still allowed in every restaurant and bar, seriously cutting down my opportunities to go out and meet new folks and hear music. I hate that it is so fucking difficult to eat out healthily, especially now that I'm dealing with the whole diabetes drama. I hate that they inexplicably shortened Fresh Air to a half-hour on one of the few news radio stations here. I hate that I hear Whitney Houston and that fucking Lips of an Angel song 4 out of every 5 times i turn on the radio. I hate that our local, closest grocery store, the bain of this side of town's existence, makes me want to gouge out my eyes and stab a fellow shopper everytime I'm forced to go there. I hate that there are verty few boutiques and urban-cool shops. (Thank God for the internet) I hate the weather. I hate that I am now part of the SUV revolution swallowing up this town. I hate that there is a church on every block, packed with said SUVs and W stickers. I hate that I live in a red state and not a select city. And worst of all, I hate hating Memphis, because I'm not going awywhere for awhile.

Baby has been strangely subdued today - I'm wondering if because I feel like I'm coming down with something that they are chilling out as well. Dad copied the VHS 4-D ultrasound onto a DVD, so getting to watch the little one considerably brightened my day. I'm sure the grumpiness will pass. I just hurt and I want chocolate and I know I've got at least 8 more weeks of this to go.

Babies R ExhaUSting

Saturday C and I made the 80th or so trek to Babies R Us to 1) pick up our ginormous crib box and 2) buy the Peg-Perego stroller that I was absolutely certain - after weeks of research - I wanted to buy. By the time we left 2 hours later, the PP stroller was history (sucker was freakin heavy - and that is without a baby or carseat in it!) and we drove away with a crib neither was sure the other one wanted.

I keep telling myself it's just a crib, what's the big deal? The big deal is that Caleb and I turned into design snobs (more specifically, he of wood, me of overall design) and I'm now drooling over modern offerings that are sleek, attractive and insanely expensive. To makes matter worse, freakin Walmart debuted the Roxanne crib, a sleek, attractive, and very WalMarty price of $300. The catch here is that you can only order it online and well, it's freakin Walmart. The crib we've bought is really beautiful, but it just has the slightest whiff of country kitchen. At least we can take comfort in the fact that the bed can be converted and reconverted into different configurations so that our little baby can conceivably use it until they've mailed out their college applications.

So now we have to go back to find 1)another stroller and 2) maybe buy the matching furniture dresser and changing table. 3) and a rocking chair and 4) a million other things we haven't gotten to on our to do list

Baby's not even here and already this is exhausting.

You wouldn't guess it from my dreams. Every night this week has involved some kind of cardio for me. Sunday Caleb and I did jumping jacks in a park. Monday I was running around the block, thinking maybe it wasn't such a hot idea for an 8 month pregnant lady to be out for a jog. And then last night - some artist had created a giant indoor/outdoor art installation at the base of an ampitheater, and I was sprinting in the dark, I mean running as fast as I could, on the outdoor track. My body felt so incredibly light and compact and free. But then I realized that sprinting at 9 months was probably not on the recommended list of activities for 9 month pregnant ladies. But I kept running anyway.

Shoot Out

I'm in the Willow Oak house of my youth, and these two faded action stars who have had an intense, unyielding rilvarly for years have finally decided to settle the score. In my house. Dressed like two cowboy extras on the Paramount Lot, the men open fire on each other with shotguns, blowing cat-sized holes through the walls and knocking over furniture. I'm running around like a crazy person, trying to get them to understand that maybe firing at each other inside my house may not be the ideal way to settle their issues, when I notice Mac clutching Guion in his car seat and scrambling to get out of the house. As they sprint away to safety, I come upon his hastily scribbled note:

Melissa,

Sorry to rush out, but we don't feel like this is a very safe environment in which to raise a child.

Mac

And then I wake up.

Nah, I don't have any fears over being a bad parent.

Scared of Girls

i am a fountain, a virtual Old Faithful of happiness at the moment. We just came home from our weekend in LA which culminated in the most jaw droppingly beautiful, moving and simply lovely baby shower I ever could have imagined. Already Baby Sweazy is the most fabulously outfitted fetus this side of the Mississippi, and with a nursery waiting to be stocked with the cutest toys, books and fuzzy blankets. I think baby's 20-some aunts was the greatest gift, though.

There's a band in LA who somehow got my name on their email list. I don't ever remember hearing them play, but every now and then, Scared of Girls writes to let me know they've got an upcoming gig at the Viper Room. These emails always cracked me up and unsettled me at the same time, because they were scary appropriate. I've always been scared of girls. If I started a band, I'd be jealous the name was taken, because surely all my songs - when not about high school boys breaking my heart - would be about the high school girls that broke my heart. The group I ran with were generous and fun but they were high school girls - they made up mean songs about my fixation with my hair (granted - I touched it way too much) and said terrible things about me, because that is what high school girls do. I sincerely believe that like an Indian's walking across coals or an East African tribal warrior's circumcision at age 16, being bullied and shunned by a girl posse is an America teenager's essential rite of passage. But I think that unlike most people, I never really got over it. I realize now that it was always easier to risk kissing and curling a leg around the torso of a boy who might never call than to simply offer up my heart to a girl in friendship, because the latter was simply too terrifying.

Yet, somehow I made friends despite the paralyzing fear. And I'm not exaggerating the fear. Some people reading this may recall the migraine I developed at my bridal shower. Yes, I was tired and hadn't eaten much, but that was because I was simply terrified at having to be the center of so much female attention. So my head tried to give me an out by exploding. In light of this weekend I'm almost embarrassed to be revealing so much about this, but almost. I can talk about it because of Sunday.

Today, I received several emails from various people at the shower commenting on what an amazing group of friends I have. I found myself stunned by the fact that other people outside myself had actually observed this. Because this just confirmed it wasn't some lovely dream curled up all catlike and out of reach. I know I got all teary and emotional at the shower when I clumsily - but honestly - tried to thank every person in the room for being there, because it is true. I do have an amazing group of women I'm privileged to call friends, who lift me up just by thinking of them and break my heart not through cruel songs this time, but because I cannot fit them all into my suitcase and spirit them away to Memphis.

When Caleb picked me up at the airport, he told me about his dream last night. We were visiting his mom and he was out on the driveway when he noticed a little girl inside a parked car. He asked her what she was doing and if she wanted to come inside, but she just smiled at him and acted shy. I showed him the very girl-centric thank you notes I bought today, and we both laughed that we were on the same wavelength. Maybe it's a girl in there. One who will grow up to be battle-scarred by high school girls only so that she can appreciate the grace and beauty of female friendship when it bonks her on the head.

hurts

Today is not a banner day for pregnancy. Got the official word that I have gestational diabetes. I have zero of the risk factors listed on every website I could find on the subject: I'm not overweight, I exercise regularly, eat well*, I'm causcasian and have no family history, but now I am doubly at risk for diabetes with my next pregnancy and for developing Type 2 diabetes later in life. This news came approximately the same minute I got an email from the agent I had been praying would take an interest in my book saying, in fact, she hadn't.

So big ole pity party here with the mama to be.

On the bright side, the strict diet I will have to adopt will almost ensure that I fit back into my skinny jeans sooner rather than later. And we leave for LA early in the AM, so being among so many friends again will certainly lift my spirits. It's just hard right now not to feel like I've already failed as a mom somehow. That eating chocolate or french fries has put my baby at risk for obesity and diabetes in their lifetime. I know its a stupid and unproductive way of digesting the news, but this is how my brain works.

* in the interest of full disclosure, it was only last week that I gave up my big indulgence - my (once a ) daily coca cola.

Bladder

Dear baby,

What is with the recent fixation with my bladder? You seem to take particular pleasure in standing on top of it and perhaps testing it for buoyancy by kicking it - repeatedly - with those cute little feet of yours. Which I saw, by the way. We almost didn't get to have the 4-D ultrasound, first because your daddy and I were cagey about getting an early glimpse, as if that would be like opening a Christmas present before Christmas morning. But we decided to go ahead and take a peek. And when we finally got to our appointment, they made us wait an hour and a half. We were going to leave, but they plied me with peanut butter crakcers - which you really seem to dig, by the way - and finally we were in.

And there you were. Not the grain of rice, not the rockabilly baby of 11 week old ultrasounds or the skeletor baby of week 20, but a real baby. With your father's nose. We don't think you were really into the whole process, because you dedided to kick the tar out of me for its duration. The woman running the ultrasound said that in the duration of her career, she had never been kicked so much by a baby. Look at that. You've already garnered your first accolade, and you're not even out of the womb! You made your father very proud.

So we've entered the home stretch, you and I. We picked out your crib yesterday and selected the paint for the nursery. Pretty soon the room's gonna be done, my showers will have come and gone, and still we wait.

I'm not very good at waiting. But I have a feeling you're worth it. Except when you do that kicking, pummelling thing with my bladder. Then not so much.

Over. It.

I haven barely begun to write when the guilt over what I am going to say is already creeping its way in, but Im just gonna say it.

I'm over being pregnant.

I'm 26 weeks, barely halfway there. Not once have I puked. My face has seen a smidge of acne - my back is a different story - but it's not on my face, so I don't care. The weight gain is primarily just in my belly, and people who don't have to endure my daily inspection of inner thigh and waist spreadage swear they can't tell I've gained anywhere else. So what I'm saying is that in the grand spectrum of pregnancies, mine is the proverbial walk in the park. But right now I just want to fast forward this thing and get on with it.

My back is killing me. A problem that plagued me in my first trimester has reared its ugly head - my piriformis muscle is irritated and keeps poking my sciatic nerve, so I'll just be walking over to get something and suddenly its as if someone is stabbing my lowback with a penknife. The pain is so sudden and intense that it gives me a goofy limp, like I'm a pregnant zombie. What really bums me out is that I'm convinced my awesome new workout tape - the one led by an eight months preggo former Cirque du Soleil performer - is the guilty party.

I miss sleeping on my stomach, and the weight of my bowling ball uterus pressing into my lungs as I roll over in the middle of the night wakes me every time. I hate that my coke a day and my holiday sweets fest is convincing me that I'm giving my baby gestational diabetes. I hate worrying over every little piece of food that goes in my body. I hate the depression that has taken a firm hold of me this past month. I hate bitching about being pregnant.

But what I love. I love that the baby kicks stronger every day, and almost always when I think about them, as if we were telepathically connected. We are already communicating, and we haven't even been formerly introduced. I love my husband's smile when he looks at my belly, his look of shock when he feels the baby move. I love that this kid, for better or worse, is gonna be a big mushed up ball of the very best and worst of us.

I think that is the main reason I'm over it. Because I can't wait to meet the little fella.

Nervous

Two doozies, back 2 back. Doesn't take a degree to figure out the mysteries within.

Wednesday:

I'm bleeding. Profusely. Down there. I know I need to get to the hospital, and of course I'm in some cavernous train-like station lost and scared. Not much plot, just terror of the impending chaos.

Thursday:

My baby - a girl in this dream - is in the front seat of a large passenger van I'm driving - like a Mystery Machine straight out of the 70s contraption. My sister is also riding along, but she is maybe 13 here. That doesn't stop me from literally flinging myself from the van as it's moving. I run after it, but clearly I can't catch up. I guess my 13 year old sister is driving at this point. I find a tricycle and use that to pedal home. The whole time I'm staring at my thighs which jiggle with the fluidity of ocean waves. I make it home and my sister informs me that they got home safely, but she had to tell on me to mom. My sister looks amazing - like supermodel body hot - while I stand ashamed in my fatness. My daughter looks ridiculous - lots of bows and headbands and frilliness.

Apparently, I'm absolutely brimming with confidence about my abilities as a mother.

Florida

I'm in Florida right now, a girls trip with my mom, sister and 3 month old Avery, my cousin and her 2 children, 1 being 6 weeks old, my other cousin and her 3 month old and their mom. And then there's lil pregnant me, a bit scared out of my mind by the babyness of it all. All the crying, screaming, spitting up, constipation, gas, and general chaos has been a little overwhelming to say the least. My poor cousin with the 6 week old - the baby cries like someone is holding a hot poker to her skin. They have tried so many different remedies based on their doctors (and friends and families' advice) and the child just screams like the devil itself is on her tail. So while the terror sent me fleeing to the bath with an US Weekly, I woke up today to see my niece roll herself over for the first time. Watched her take in the world around her and laugh and smile- and cry and spit up and drool - but this morning it didn't seem quite so terrifying.

Overdue

I started this journal because I am a writer and I am pregnant; therefore, I figured I would write about how my dreams, aches and pains and rapidly expanding belly are affecting my life and the universe around me. Unfortunately I've barely been able to commit to a few measly postings, and this really bums me out. I'm already learning that the brain post pregnancy doesn't remember a whole lot of what happened prior to that baby sliding out of their body. Do they remember when their nipples began to turn brown and expand, when the breasts stopped throbbing with pain, when the inner thighs turned to jelly, when forgetting thoughts midsentence became routine, when that mysterious brown line bisecting the belly appeared, when the doubts and fears crept in, when the minor revulsion at seeing your body warp and shift and change suddenly, slyly became joy?

It seems the answer is no. When I ask my sister or my two cousins - all with brand new babies - when this symptom began or why I might be feeling a certain way, they just shrug and plead amnesia - or momnesia if you will.

The past few weeks so much has happened and it already feels like its one big jumbled blur. But enough self flagellating and more chronicling:

Caleb and I saw The Departed a week ago Sunday and the baby decided to say hello. Just as the Rolling Stones' Gimme Shelter started blasting on the soundtrack. I'm not sure if I've ever seen my husband more proud.

The following Wednesday was the big 20 week ultrasound. I get why Tom and Katie bought a sonogram machine. Our viewing of the baby lasted maybe 20 minutes but each second felt like a birthday. I couldn't get enough. As the technician placed the wand over my belly, the baby was staring at us, as if expecting our arrival. Then the tech pointed out a little hand - that immediately started waving to us. The kicker was when the tech took a few "snapshots" for us as keepsakes. The second picture is the baby staring directly at the "camera," resting his/her chin on its hand. If this kid wasn't already papparazzi ready.

Volvo

We hit a milestone the other day. It wasn't an item on one of those What To Expect checklists or seminal moments in pregnancy development, like the baby moving around (and anytime you want to start doing that, kiddo, I'm good). I got a Volvo. As I drove the Mini on our last rites to the Volvo dealership, I honestly thought was going to start crying. Which was ridiculous. Here I was getting ready to own a fantastic car that vaunts safety above else, has storage for passengers and the dog, a built in booster seat, and 14 cup holders to boot. Yet it was hard not to see it as a yet another definitive moment in the transformation from carefree girl into responsible mother. It's still just so crazy, that in a few short months I'm going to be a MOM. A Mini Cooper-less, Volvo driving, 14 cupholder-owning mom. I am definitely showing now, just in time to have my bridesmaid's dress for Alexa's wedding let out. But on a more positive note, it's also in time for next week's ultrasound where we get to peek in on the little fella and see all the fingers and toes. But no naughty bits. We're waiting until the bitter end for that reveal.