Babymoon

Presidents Weekend marked Ivan's and my last little getaway before Baby H makes 3.  These last escape vacations have come to be known in the trendy baby website world as "Babymoons."  Of course that means that anyone who isn't a giant loser who spends an indecent amount of time on these websites has probably never heard of this terminology, but me being the sucker I am got roped into the whole phenomenon.  I don't think that the concept is anything new- I know my parents went to the Poconos before I was born for their last hurrah- but the term has become part of the big business that is baby making these days.  And Ivan and I ate it up- telling several people on our journey that we were on our babymoon, only to be regarded with a strange expression and a "What?"  We didn't care though- we were delighted to be part of the cliche yet again.

Admittedly, as excited as we were, we really left our planning until the last minute.  Even up until Wednesday of last week Ivan would ask me, "Do we have plans for Friday?" and I would reply, wide-eyed, "We are going away this weekend." causing him to laugh, as he had made this same mistake no less than a dozen times.  We had thrown around a couple of ideas, some more extravagant than others:  our "go-to," Mystic, Connecticut, Nashville, Tennessee (I want to see all 50 states before I die and I'm stuck at number 23 right now), good old NYC, and Ivan's suggestion, Atlantic City, of which I had zero excitement.  But as we procrastinated, flight and hotel prices rose and we ended up spending part of Thursday furiously trying to book rooms for the trip that seemed to be the least amount of fuss at the last minute- AC.

Now, I'm not much of an AC girl and the prospect of spending our babymoon there was, frankly, a little depressing to me.  But it was that or nothing at that point, so the search for activities in the area commenced.  While I was searching online a friend of mine (Hi J!) happened to send me a gchat and I mentioned our little babymoon plight.  She told me about a B&B in Cape May she had stayed at and loved and I immediately looked it up.  Right away I noticed the photos of the beautiful rooms but then became distracted by the link on the side of the webpage that said Babymooning.  At that point, I don't think it even mattered what it said there- I took this as a sign that we should look into this place and within 30 minutes we had a room booked for Saturday night.  It seemed to make perfect sense, after a night of "partying" on Friday in Atlantic City, we'd head to sleepy Cape May (neither of us had ever been before) to recover.

So on Friday, Ivan picked me up in Edison after my professional day and we set the plan into action.  I'm not going to lie- on the drive down I got a little upset in a spoiled brat kind of way that after months of anticipation, this was our "big" trip.  I was so mad at us for not prioritizing our excursion and were ending up just a few hours from home as opposed to an exotic island or something.  I really was a grump and I'm not proud of it- it was a pregnant lady temper tantrum that Ivan had to soothe by telling me that it was a good thing that we were not too far away and who knows what could happen and that we were going to have an amazing time.

I will save you the suspense- we did have an amazing time.  We checked in at the Chelsea- a retro-themed, trendy hotel.  Our room had a great view of the ocean and an amazingly fluffy bed- I love a fluffy bed!  I promptly climbed in to take a quick power nap to overcome my grouchiness in an attempt to to start fresh.  Ivan began making reservations- tickets to a comedy show, arrangements for dinner at the Palm, and best of all massages at Blue Mercury for the morning.  What was not to be happy about when I opened my eyes 30 minutes later?

Me the next morning in our super-cool room at the Chelsea.

I put on my new blue dress I had ordered online from a company based in London recommended  for their maternity clothes by one of the aforementioned websites.  I felt pretty good in it- I even put on real heels (not wedges) for the occasion.  We set out for dinner- just a block away at the Tropicana and upon making our way up the escalators we realized why AC is not a top ten destination for pregnant ladies... did you know that they still allow smoking in casinos?

Yikes- how quickly we have become spoiled.  I guess it was not that long ago that smoking was allowed in bars and clubs in NJ (maybe 5 years?) but it is long enough ago to make me feel like I was now in some sort of barbaric torture chamber.  Luckily, smoking wasn't allowed in the restaurant, so we could truly enjoy our more than indulgent meal of steak and seafood.  We ate so much that- wait for it- we didn't order dessert.  Even though the dessert menu boasted a "Warm Bag of Doughnuts with raspberry and chocolate dipping sauces."  Before you start to get too upset-  don't worry, we totally went back later and ate them at the bar.  No, I'm not kidding.  More on that later!

Seriously, though, dinner was delicious.  Though my festive Shirley Temple didn't pair as well with my petite filet mignon as say, a glass of Pinot Noir the size of my head would have, we thoroughly enjoyed everything and basically rolled out of there to go to a show at the Comedy Corner, also in the Trop.  On the way, we stopped in the non-smoking section of the casino for Ivan to play a little black jack.  This consisted of me actually sitting at the table with Ivan standing behind me telling me what to do while my heart pounded and I began to sweat.  I don't know- maybe I've seen too many movies, but casinos make me nervous.  Not so much in an "I'm scared I'm going to do something to get myself whacked" way but more in an "I'm going to do something to really embarrass myself and annoy the other people at this table, who by the looks of things really need to win this next hand" way.  We seemed to escape with only a little embarrassment on my part and with fifty extra dollars than we had sat down with- score!

On line to enter the comedy club I caught a glimpse of myself in the tackily mirrored walls.  And I almost died.  Clearly, I had looked in the mirror before heading out, but apparently only head on.  Because from the side, I looked GINORMOUS.  Even Ivan had to admit that the way the dress flared out really exaggerated my bump.  It was actually kind of humorous- especially considering that every other woman in the entire casino was wearing these teeny tiny sequined dresses with platform heels.  And, oh yeah, they were all like 12 years old.  Now, later that night we walked by a group of fabulously dressed African American women and Ivan told me that he heard them say, "Oh!  Look at the pregnant girl!"  "She look good!"  I'm not gonna lie- this made me feel a heck of a lot better.  I don't know why, but when I get paid a compliment by an African American woman, I believe her.

Even though I looked like a blue whale, it didn't stop me from devouring those delicious little doughnut munchkins at the bar at the Palm after the comedy show (which, by the way was pretty funny and included some pregnancy humor which I appreciated.  Luckily I wasn't spotted and made part of the show- that is my worst nightmare.)  And believe it or not, I didn't need to go right to bed- we were determined to stay out and party it up as much as we could, so we headed off to Cuba Libre for what we hoped was some fun salsa music.  Ivan and I have been taking ballroom dance lessons for a little more than a year, but we rarely get an opportunity to practice our stuff outside of the studio- especially these days, so we were stoked.  We waited on line to pay the cover and get our hands stamped- our hands stamped- when was the last time that happened?- and were immediately greeted by some young chippy in a skimpy outfit who placed a string of beads around Ivan's neck and told him that he was to put them on the hottest girl in the bar.  I mean, seriously.  His response was, "Well this is a no brainer," as he placed them around my neck, which is, of course, the only acceptable action, but this should be setting up for you the type of scene we were in for.

The DJ was playing a lot of merengue- not our favorite, but we danced.  My feet were KILLING me.  We found a place I could sit at the bar but the whole thing felt so weird.  It was like I wanted to be there but I didn't.  It felt like I was forcing myself to try to be my old self, but my current, pregnant self was screaming, "This is wrong! People are weirded out by you!  You're making everyone uncomfortable face it- you're not comfortable."  The thing is though, that I love to dance- it's just that my body was betraying me.  I just couldn't bring myself to do it, even when the music was good- I just felt like people were kind of disgusted by me.  I know I'm probably giving myself a little too much credit and that people probably couldn't care less- or were too drunk to notice- but I think of my own judgmental self and wonder what I would think of someone as pregnant as me out at a club just a few months ago.  I'm sad to say, I probably would have thought, "What is wrong with that girl?!"  But I don't want to just sit like a lump on the couch- what is a preggo to do?

We changed venues shortly thereafter- to the karaoke bar on the upper level.  Ivan can't resist a karaoke bar and certainly can't resist singing at one if we're there.  I used to be the exact same way until I joined the band. The way I feel now is that I get to sing out often and I get to sing all of the songs- with a captive audience- how great is that?  Why would I wait for an hour and a half to sing with some crappy accompaniment when I get to sing with a live band all the time?  And wait for an hour and a half is exactly what we did.  In fact, Ivan's song never even got called.  What did happen was that we watched 21 year old after 21 year old sing songs from their youth (we're talking Back Street Boys and even a rendition of Hakuna Matata- Ivan's Sweet Home Alabama probably wouldn't have gone over as well as usual) while trying to dodge their drunken stumbles and spilling drinks.  One particular young lady took quite an interest in me and my belly.  She drunkenly slurred to me how excited she was for me and how beautiful I looked and showed me pictures of her sister's new baby. She was pretty funny.

Here's the thing though- I'm sure each of us has had the experience of being the only sober person in a situation at some time or another.  It's not exactly the most fun thing in the world- people can act pretty stupidly and if you can't join in the stupidity you can become annoyed by it pretty quickly.  Couple that with being the oldest people at the bar- by like 10 years.  Yet another situation which is not fun on it's own, but facing it sober is well, sobering.  And combine both of those things with being the largest female in the vicinity and you have a recipe for not so much fun.  I looked down at my sparkly silver peep toe pumps and saw that my feet were puffing out of the tops of them like little peach pillows and I had to laugh at myself.  Try as I might- this just wasn't the scene for me at this stage of my life.  As Ivan and I set back to our room, we walked down a corridor that held no less than 25 young girls who were "partied out."  We're talking barefoot, running mascara, sleeping on the floor- it was the Boulevard of Broken Dreams and I shudder to think of the creeper guys who would be out of the club shortly to prey upon these poor young things.  If anything, maybe my belly served as a Public Service Announcement because I don't think there were two many winners in those clubs that would put a ring on it and be walking by these girls' sides, giving up their blazers for the chilly walk back to the room.

2 am is late for me now- like, really, really late.  So when the alarm went off at 8, the only thing that dragged me out of bed was the fact that I'd soon be in a different warm, cozy bed, but this time with someone kneading out the knots in my back which had manifested from the previous night in heels.  Our massages were heavenly.  At one point the therapist wrapped my feet in hot towels and I had to mentally whisper to Baby H, "We can't be getting used to this."  But we reveled in the indulgence of the massage and then in the rainfall shower back in the hotel room before having breakfast and heading down to Cape May.

It was a little too early for check in when we made it down there, so, like good tourists, we drove to see the light house and check out the town.  We got dinner recommendations and took photos on the beach and even walked around the downtown shops- something I LOVE to do and something Ivan despises, but he was very agreeable, being it was our babymoon.  It also didn't hurt that there was a gourmet popcorn shop, so the white cheddar corn kept him content and distracted.  There was a catholic church at the end of the street, and being that Mass was starting in 10 minutes, we decided to attend right then so that we didn't have to worry about anything the next morning besides sleeping in and eating a decadent breakfast- pretty good tasks to have!  After a lovely afternoon, it was finally time to check out our digs for the night.  We made our way to the Mission Inn to meet our hosts.

 Ivan thinks he's funny.

The Mission Inn is difficult to describe, but I'll try.  Unlike almost all of the other bed and breakfasts in the area, it is not Victorian-style, but more California-Spanish.  It is appropriately named, as each of the rooms is named for a different mission and the walls are hand-painted to look like that mission.  We stayed in the San Juan Capistrano room and our headboard was actually the face of the mission.

Our room- the San Juan Capistrano

The room was incredibly beautiful and had a fireplace, and a little sitting area with sparkling cranberry cider and Ghiradelli chocolate- they certainly knew the way to my heart!  After letting us settle in, the inn keepers directed us to the gorgeous common rooms, where they had tons of homemade snacks and appetizers, coffee, tea, and wine.  We had to partake in it all (well, minus the wine) while we got to know the inn keepers who, as you'd imagine, absolutely LOVE what they do.  You'd have to to put that much effort and attention to detail into what you do.  There was a huge DVD collection from which you can borrow for your room.  Ivan was convinced we'd do just that after dinner, but knowing him so well, I had a more accurate picture of him falling asleep hard during SNL- right around 11:45, which has, sadly, become the Saturday night ritual with us.

Ivan in one of the main rooms of the Mission Inn

A few hours into our stay, we opened the door to our room and sitting on the floor in front of us was a light green gift bag filled with the most wonderful goodies:  baby books, lotions, a photo album, and snacks- including pickles!  I don't need to tell you that I was overjoyed.  These little details can seriously just make my life.

This is the cutegift bag they left us.  Pay no attention to my gigantic arm.  I did a poor job posing.

I am way cuter here.

Suffice it to say, we were completely charmed by the house and the people that ran it.  We would definitely recommend it to anyone and it was just what we needed after our "wild" night in Atlantic City.  We had a seafood dinner (kind of a necessity when you're at the beach) and a nice snuggly night in bed- we were both still pretty exhausted from the night before- and if that makes us lame, we're okay with it, I think.  We were happy to be together and on an adventure and the low-key-ness of it all was just what we needed.  That and the insane breakfast we had the next morning which included a choice from 8 different freshly squeezed fruit juices, a lemon-poached pear, a  four cheese and roasted tomato tart, cranberry corn muffins, and pepper bacon.  Sigh.

So for as close as we were, it really was an escape for us- no band practice, no running to Home Depot, no laptops with work stuff crowding our vision.  It was just the two of us navigating a new experience, running into some bumps, but mostly just having an amazing time and sharing it together.  All in all, some pretty good practice.

Nesting, Nesting Everywhere and Boy, I'd Love a Drink!

Last weekend, Ivan and I (but mostly Ivan) went through that storied rite of passage of first time parents- the assembling of the baby's crib.  I cannot accurately express to you just how happy and excited this made me.  First, as I have previously mentioned, our amazingly generous parents surprised us by buying us our crib and mattress.  As I have also mentioned, the delivery of said crib was a cause of much frustration and stress for me.  We finally were able to coordinate after three unsuccessful attempts at delivery when the UPS driver actually called me from the road to confirm he'd be there in 20 minutes and I confirmed that my husband would be home.  I was beside myself with joy when our crib was finally in our home- in a large box that sat in our living room- for two weeks.

Ivan had told me that he was going to set it up on the morning of the Super Bowl, while I was singing at church.  Lo, and behold, when I came home, excited both to see the crib and to put on my custom made maternity Giants shirt, I was greeted immediately by the sight of the large cardboard box, untouched, still in our living room. Incredulous that Ivan had skipped church to worship at the alter of FIFA (his current favorite Play Station game) I went on a mission to find him.  Surprisingly, he was not on the couch, still in his pj's, but was out of the house at Home Depot (still in his pj's).  When he arrived home a few minutes later, he asked me-beaming with pride- if I had noticed the work he had done around the house.  Ummm.... All I could think (and gratefully did not complain out loud about) was that the crib was no closer to being a crib than it was a week and a half ago.  But Ivan  led me upstairs to show me what he had been up to:  changing the outlet and light switch plates for the entire house.  


Let me tell you, ladies, he was quite pleased with himself- nay, overjoyed with himself and the look of the new outlets.  He seemed a little miffed that I wasn't more excited about it myself.  Don't get me wrong- they are very nice new outlet covers- they look really good.  It's just that outlet plates are probably the last thing that I'd ever notice about a house, ever.  Especially if the house had a gorgeous crib in an exquisitely decorated nursery.  But clearly, the old plates had really been disturbing Ivan for quite some time and he was exceedingly proud, having banished the demons of the offensively plain outlet covers.  Phew.

Now, Ivan has been working insanely hard at his job for weeks now.  He is always a hard worker, but lately he's been killing himself burning the candle at both ends.  So, as a good wife and a generally decent person, I knew better than to start nagging him about the crib.  Even though I was chomping at the bit to have it all set up, we were still 12 weeks (hopefully!) out and I knew it would get done in good time.  So I enjoyed our new light switch plates for the rest of that week.

Then I enjoyed all of the new door handles on all of our upstairs doors and closets that Ivan decided needed to be changed.  Then I enjoyed all of the new hardware on the kitchen cabinets in our basement.  Yes, that's right- Ivan has become Customer of the Month at Home Depot- improving the aesthetic quality of our home one knob at a time.  He also decided that we were in desperate need of new curtains in the guest bedroom/Ivan's office.  So off to Bed Bath and Beyond we went.  He chose new fixtures and rods and ordered fancy new curtains which came in two days ago and- ready for this?  He ironed and hung them himself.  Yesterday.  While on business phone calls all day.

You must understand- up to this point, Ivan has claimed fear and ignorance of the iron.  The day before his business trips would find him begging me for last minute touch-ups on his favorite shirt.  So what this proves is that he was really, really, really excited about these curtains.  Because, let's be honest- ironing curtains is the sort of punishment they should reserve for the worst kinds of criminals.  Seriously.  For my tax dollars, I should be able to ship off my drapes to the local prison and have them delivered back, clean and starched.  But now, apparently, that isn't necessary because my husband has become Billy Homemaker overnight and is sure to be trading good housekeeping tips with my Grandma, who might be the only other person in the world who I don't think minds ironing curtains.

Isn't it funny that the nesting phenomenon has hit Ivan maybe even harder than it has me?  Not that I've been a slug in this area myself, it's just that I'm limited in my ability to actually "nest."  More like I can burst into tears at a moments notice at the thought of being unprepared for this baby.  But now that crib is assembled (I took pictures as Ivan sweat it out- it was the cutest thing ever!), the curtains are up, and the adorable wall decor is hung there is not much to freak out about.  On the contrary, there is a lot to go into the room, clasp my hands and spin around with a ridiculously silly grin on my face about.  I mean, the room is just the most darling thing I've ever seen.  I can't wait for you all to see it.  There are no more boxes of stuff to unpack- it's just a waiting game now!  Sometimes I go into the room and try to picture Baby H at various stages in his or her crib:  as a tiny newborn, all swaddled up, as a growing baby, pulling him or herself up and peeking over the edge at me, as an emerging toddler for whom we'll need to lower the base to contain him or her.

Speaking of picturing the baby- I had another dream about the baby.  This time there was just one (thank goodness!) and Ivan and I were meeting my Nanny at a giant produce market to go shopping when I realized that I hadn't fed Baby H in about 3 days.  No doubt, my subconscious is accessing my family's accusations of me starving my pet hamster to death when I was 11.  I maintain that Buttons had the flu.  However, clearly I have been traumatized by the mere implication that I might not have cared for my pet as well as I should have and now I'm terrified that Baby H is going to have a delinquent mother in me.  Sigh.

In other news- I stopped at 7Eleven on my way home last weekend and when I brought Ivan's two bottles of Diet Coke to the counter, I was greeted by the kindly Indian man running the counter asking me, "How much longer?"  It took me a few seconds to figure out what in the world he was talking about.  Because obviously my coat functions as an Invisibility Cloak, ala Harry Potter and so others can't tell I'm pregnant when I'm in my outerwear.  Or so I thought.  Anyway, I thought it was semi-adorable that he was curious about the baby and it kept me smiling halfway home when he wished me luck with everything.  I just love when people are nice.

In direct contrast to this lovely man was the Jerk at the Gym this morning.  The pool was exceptionally crowded for 6am on a February morning and all but one of the five lanes already had two swimmers in it.  So I, using proper swimmer's etiquette, waited until said man got to the end of the lane, caught his eye, and asked if he'd mind splitting the lane.  (For the record, it is considered poor etiquette to ever refuse to share, it's basically just a formality to ask.)  This guy was a little older than me- maybe in his 40's, but cut up.  He was in excellent shape.  So between that and the rolled eyes he gave me as he begrudgingly moved over, I could tell that he thought that this big-bellied, pregnant lady was totally going to cramp his style while he trained for the 2012 London games or something.  I have to admit that I was a little nervous that in my condition I might flounder a little bit- it's getting harder and harder to do the things that only months ago felt like nothing.  However, I am happy to report that I complete schooled this guy.  I lapped him so many times that I was tempted to make it my Facebook status for the day.  Something like, "Yes, rude man at the pool this morning who thought I'd be too slow to share a lane with, that was an 8 months pregnant woman who was kicking your butt, but don't feel bad.  I had Baby H on my team and he or she has a a pretty powerful kick!"

So, in conclusion I guess, men are funny.  Especially my Ivan.  But I certainly can't complain, as not only is the nursery ready to go, but the house is beautifully lit (did I mention that he changed all of the recessed light bulbs in the house as well?) and has lovely door knobs and outlet covers.  What more could a mommy-to-be ask for?

Child Rearing Philosophies are Like Noses...

About a month ago, I arrived home and plopped a heavy Barnes and Noble bag on our dining room table.  "What is this?" Ivan asked of my nearly $100 purchase.  "Baby books," I replied.  "Don't we have, like, 20 baby books already?"  "No, we have 20 pregnancy books- these are books about what do do with the baby."

Ever the first-time parent cliche, Ivan and I are slightly clueless (and maybe a bit panicked) about what to do once we are wheeled out of the hospital and left to fend for ourselves with new little Baby H.  I am left wondering, for about the billionth time in my life, how it is that you don't have to get certified to become a parent.  I mean, I needed all sorts of documentation stating that I was competent to lead a bunch of ladies in a series of leg lifts at the gym.  I have paperwork proclaiming that I can properly shake my booty to Zumba music.  As a school teacher, we are put through a dozen trainings a year- some of which are informative and necessary (anti-bullying) and some of which are a waste of my money as a tax payer and time as a human being (allergens in the classroom).  So while I can tell you how to breathe as you execute an abdominal exercise (on the most strenuous, lifting part), how to move your body to Cumbia music (leg alternating back and forth while wiggling your hips seductively), and how often classrooms should be dusted (twice a week minimum) and I have the certified documentation to back it up, I don't have the first idea about how to care for a baby and guess what?  I get to have one anyway.

So into the world of child care education I have delved.  Ivan and I are signed up for three classes in March at St. Peter's University Hospital where we'll be delivering:  Child Care, Lamaze/Childbirth, and Breastfeeding.  I am also excited to say that Thomas Sweet Ice Cream shop is right down the road from the hospital, as my mom, when she and my dad went to these classes three decades ago, decided that she needed a chocolate milkshake after each and every visit and I think that it would be just grand to carry on the tradition.  We have been told by some that the classes are completely unnecessary and that the whole thing is the most natural process in the world.  I'm just happy that Ivan and I are in the same, "No way- more information is always better because if there's a way to screw this up we're probably going to do it" camp because guess what?  We're going.

But right there- therein lies the problem.  It is impossible when starting a family to not get bombarded by well meaning but conflicting theories and practices.  Even the two books I have read so far have vehemently disagreed with each other on some seemingly important points- and both appear to have substantial evidence to back up their claims.  I'm talking about sleep schedules, demand vs. scheduled feedings, sleeping arrangements, pacifiers- yes or no?  And let me tell you, if I read the word "nipple" one more time I honestly think I'm going to pass out.  (On a side note, I had a dream about a week ago in which I gave birth to six babies.  Well, I was pregnant with six but gave birth to the first three, as the next three considerately decided to stay inside while I adjusted to the first three.  I must have dreamed for 2 straight hours that I was breastfeeding. I'd feed one, burp him or her, put him or her down and then travel down to the basement to get the next one and start the process over again.  Why were the babies in the basement?  I don't know.  But this is why I need to get certified to become a mom- so I don't do that.  Needless to say I woke up in a cold sweat.)

And of course every family member and friend who has had a child (and some who haven't yet) has an opinion on how things should be done.  I have been quite lucky, I must say, that everyone has taken the "You have to do what's right for you" approach and has been respectful of the idea that Baby H is ours and so the decisions are ours to make.  Even so, it is a tough predicament in that I desperately want and need advice so I will take all of the information I can get, but I don't want to offend anyone if I end up taking the exact opposite approach from theirs.  There are some emotionally charged issues out there- spurred by the fact that everyone has the baby's best interest at heart.  I have people in my life that fall towards the more extreme ends of parenting philosophies and people everywhere in between.

When it comes down to it, Ivan and I will probably be "in between-ers" but it's funny how at 2 1/2 months out I can already feel the pressure to choose a side.  And I know that that pressure is coming largely from inside my own head, as no one in my life would ever want me to feel stress for not doing exactly as they did/do, nor do they probably care all that much.  We're the ones that have to live with our baby at the end of the day, so if we want to put the baby in the basement, it's our choice.  I'm just kidding!


Another way in which the stress of discrepancy has manifested is the Baby Registry.  Some of you may know that I hate registering.  I just feel like there is something awkward about picking out your own gifts and I honestly would rather not do it.  But I seem to be in the vast minority when it comes to this mindset.  And listen, I get it- it's more convenient for everyone else involved.  Still, registering makes me feel like a toad.  But register I did.  Or at least I tried.  See, I hated registering for my wedding- it gave me heart palpitations- and I know what you need for a house.  I have no idea what you need for a baby.  It has taken several trips to BabiesRUs for me to create some semblance of a list of things that I'm having a hard time imagining using.  Wedding registries are easy- I've used plates before, I'll just get pretty ones.  I know how to use a towel- I'll get fluffy ones.  I have never used a nasal aspirator and I'm not really looking forward to it all that much.

The first trip into Baby Land was with my all-star team of ladies- my mom, Zandar, and Cecelia.  They were much more excited than I was.  We didn't buy anything, we just wandered around wide-eyed at the seemingly endless options spread before us.  Cecelia and Mom took charge though, and before you knew it they were folding strollers with one hand and cooking omelets with the other while I tried to slow my breathing.  All in all, it was a good first trip- just a way to wrap my mind around what we may need.

I may have even started registering during that trip except for the fact that Ivan insisted that he be present for the registering process.  "Are you sure?" I asked, "That's what you said for the wedding and after 35 minutes you were so frustrated that you said I could do the rest myself."  "Yeah, and it was the biggest mistake of my life," he replied, "because now we have silverware that is way too back heavy."  (Yes, this conversation actually happened.)  So, the following weekend it was off to Ikea for a dresser for Baby H's closet and then to BabiesRUs.  And, wonder of wonders, 35 minutes into the baby store, Ivan was done.  He was scanning things at a rate that would make you think we were on some bizarre version of Supermarket Sweep where the couple that can complete their registry the fastest wins a free case of diapers.  Needless to say, I needed to do a lot of addition work online (including emailing him to find out how a stuffed guitar, among other things, ended up on there).  Finally, a trip with my friend B helped me to navigate the vastly intimidating "Infant Care" section of the store and finish up.  Honestly, if she had told me that I needed a dinglehopper (yes, that was a Little Mermaid reference!) I would have frantically tried to find one and scan it.  That is how desperately I need the help of experienced moms.

So I'm reaching out for help in all types of places- the websites, the books, the magazines, the classes, some less than helpful t.v. shows, and the people in my life. But I'm trying to read and listen with a grain of salt, so to speak.  I mean, you read these comments on these websites and realize that people can get heated just discussing what type of stroller is best.  But I guess part of the fun (and if not fun, the rite of passage) is getting to make our own mistakes along the way.  Just like anything else in life, you cannot shelter others from hardship by having gone through it yourself "for" them.  I can't solve every new teacher's problems before they get in front of a class by relaying every lesson I learned the hard way.  I can't help a student choose a college because I vetted out my options and found what was right for me.  I can't help a single girlfriend find love because when I was single I had some mild success on eHarmony.  And no one can save us from the trials of first-time parenthood because they have done it before.  We all have to go through these things ourselves.  In the words of the incomparable Alanis Morrisette, "You live, you learn/You love you learn/You cry you learn/You looooooooooooooose you learrrrrnnnnn."

So while I am slightly confused and bemused, I am largely happy right now to have the privilege to go thorough this process.  Baby H is kicking up a storm and Ivan could hear him/her hiccup last night.  A few nights ago he or she made me laugh so hard by jabbing me in what I guess is a ticklish rib over and over.  He or she is the size of a butternut squash and we'll be 30 weeks along on Sunday- 3/4 of the way there!  My toenails are painted Valentine Red and fingernails are Hot Cocoa- both make me exceedingly happy.  Tomorrow I'm going for a pre-natal massage.  Life is good.

If you'd like to throw your parenting suggestions my way, I'd be glad to have them.  I can't promise I'll use them, but I can promise I'll respect them as coming from one of my favorite ladies in the world!

Funeral for a Friend

Forgive the melodramatic title of this post, Ladies.  The third trimester hormones are rearing their ugly head and I'm starting to feel a little like a high school version of myself who takes everything not only personally, but as a matter of life and death.  In high school my despair was inevitably about some dopey boy or something dramatic that went down at play practice (theater kids being dramatic?  No way...).  These days it's about the UPS driver trying to deliver the crib during times when I explicitly stated no one would be home or the fact that I forgot that I agreed to make a quiche for a school event and the thought of running to the store to get ingredients seems like the most daunting task in the world.

You see, no one has died.  The "friend" I'm referring to is myself- or at least my former self, who is seeming more and more like a distant memory to me these days.  My former self was so motivated and ambitious and perky.  Current Self is a grump who is settling into her after school "Law and Order and peanut butter" routine a little too easily during this home stretch.  Former Self was a busy bee with grand plans for the weekends.  Current Self wants nothing more than a nice romantic Saturday afternoon with the couch and Bravo TV programming On Demand.  Former Self would realize when she was in a slump, create a Master Plan to fix it, implement it, and be back to her healthy and happy ways within a week.  Current Self has made about 10 Master Plans but never makes it to Step 1.

No matter how hard I have tried to be the exception to the pregnancy rule, it seems I can't escape the exhaustion and emotions that go hand and hand with the experience.  I guess I'm not Super Woman.  Crap!  I really, really, really thought that I was.

This past week has been a particular pain in the neck- or to be more accurate, the back.  Baby H has taken up residence on top of my sciatic nerve and it is a new brand of discomfort.  Sometimes I wake (for the 3rd, 4th, or 5th time) to use the bathroom in the middle of the night and I literally hobble there.  I'm sure it would be quite amusing for an outside observer, especially considering the fact that I am usually naked, save for some undies in the middle of the night.  No, I'm not one of "those" girls that feels so comfortable in my own skin that I enjoy sleeping in the buff.  On the contrary, I usually go to bed in flannel pj's and super-comfy-fluffy socks, but by my first trip to the bathroom I feel the uncontrollable need to strip down because I am just so darn hot.  On second thought, it would probably be much more horrifying/disturbing than amusing to the outside observer.

I've been driving to and from work with a baseball between my back and the seat.to try to relieve some of the pressure building up against my spine.  When I lean back just right the electric heat courses down my back and through my thigh.  It's quite the science experience.

Monday morning found me in tears, because I had yet again failed to get up and go to the gym and I was so overwhelmed with my to-do list.  Ivan, ever the problem solver, tried to take control and speak rationally to me.  I don't know about you though, but when I've worked myself into a really good irrational froth, the last thing I want is for someone to try to explain things rationally to me.  I like to marinate in my irrationality.  Also, I could tell that Ivan was a bit amused (not in an unkind way) by my mini-breakdown.  Which is all the more infuriating.  I know that he thinks it's "cute" that I've fallen victim to the dreaded hormones and that I'm such a cliche.  But if there's anything more annoying than someone trying to talk to you rationally when you are enjoying being irrational, it's someone telling you that you're adorable when you're clearly distressed and may or may not have snot on your face because you never really learned to cry in an attractive way.

I ended up missing my mother-in-law's birthday dinner this week because I was such a mess.  If you know me, and I think you do, you know that I do NOT like to miss social occasions.  The idea of my friends or family or, God forbid, my friends and family hanging out without me is enough to give me an ulcer.  Apparently, I have always been this way.  I've been told tales of how, when I was a baby, an entire room full of people would need to sit silently in the dark while I was being put to sleep because the anxiety I felt from missing the party would be enough to make me a screaming terror.  The point is, that it is completely unlike me to miss a social engagement- especially one where there is sure to be delicious food.  This is what I mean when I said, "Funeral for a Friend"- I feel like I'm parting ways forever with the woman I used to be.

The woman I used to be was a really good wing-woman for my single girlfriends.  Not that there are many of them left, but I always prided myself on the idea that even though I was an "old married woman" I could be counted upon for fun nights out at bars or dancing- with or without Ivan.  And I'm hating myself now, because post-10pm is starting to feel like the middle of the night, what are you nuts? 

And let's face it, it's not going to get any easier.

It seems just a little unfair that immediately after your pregnancy, during which you gave up your regular activities (drinking, eating cold cuts, staying out late, wearing cute clothes, going on roller coasters- okay, not an every day occurrence, but still, wearing high heels) you are catapulted into a whole new realm of exhaustion which includes sleep deprivation, being peed on, pooped on, spit up on, sore, leaky boobs, not showering, still not going out late or wearing cute clothes.  When all is said and done, it's well over a year before you may start to feel somewhat normal again.  And even then- and this fact is just beginning to dawn on me- you are never the same person you once were.

The thing is, it all happened so fast that I feel like I never got to say good-bye.  Maybe it's the fact that women of my generation are waiting later and later to have kids.  We are establishing ourselves in our careers and our lives as individuals, for the most part, much later than our mothers did.  We are finding it harder and harder to say goodbye to the person we've worked so hard to become.

I should temper the melodrama by admitting that I do not do well with change- I never have.  My high school graduation pictures are ridiculous because my face is tear stained, blotchy and red.  I think I was depressed during my entire first year of teaching out of mourning for my college life.  I literally sobbed as I packed up my dinky little apartment to start my life as a married woman in a new, beautiful house.

 But now, I barely think of that apartment- save for when I drive by it and see evidence of someone else living there (they don't even have the air conditioner in the right window- how dumb are they?).  I love my house so, so much.  Each and every day I am grateful to live there and I tell Ivan how much I love it on a weekly basis.  I'd be happy there for the rest of my life.

Now, I go to RU football games and I'm appalled by the college students. The apartment I lived in for junior and senior year, which, at the time, seemed like a palace now appears to be what it actually is- a dump that I'd be scared to walk into.  And while I'll never turn down a free meal swipe at the dining hall (cough, cough Cousin that lives close to Neilson) the college lifestyle- while amazing and perfect for that time of my life- is simply not appealing anymore.

And I think it goes without saying that you could not pay me enough money to go back to high school.  Ever.

So, I guess the moral of the story is that while I'm mourning my Former Self I'm actually just making way for Current Self (who is a little emotionally confused mess for the moment) to become Future Self.  If my past is any indication, the next step will be so much better than from whence I came- complete with a fabulous little new person to bring sunshine into my days.  Baby H is already bringing countless daily smiles to me as he or she maniacally kicks and punches and hiccups- even during the middle of the night.  At the size of a Chinese cabbage (I had to look it up too) it's no wonder that the movement is so noticeable now.  As Former self fades, I'm seeing glimmers of Future Self and she's happy.

Still, it's nice to acknowledge Former Self- she was pretty cool and she served me well for several decades.  And just as High School Self, College Self, and My Own Apartment Self all helped form Current Self and all make appearances from time to time, I'm sure Future- Mom Self will be a product of all that has come before her.  And while some things will never be the same again, I can take solace in the fact that my future holds turkey sandwiches, an occasional glass of red wine, and by God- there will be high heels.