Showers of Happiness

Last weekend was chock full of maternity milestones!  I took off on Friday and Monday, being that I have dozens of sick days left and if I don't return to work, they'll be gone forever, and also being that if I'm going to work up until the final hour, I feel like taking a day here or there to prepare as best I can is in order!

Friday began with getting maternity photos taken.  I highly recommend getting maternity photos taken, if for no other reason than it's pretty awesome to get your picture taken without having to worry about sucking in.  Under non-pregnant circumstances, if I had to stand in front of a camera for an hour, you'd better believe that I wouldn't be eating anything until after the shoot- at which time I'd stuff my face with any number of things.  But in pregnant circumstances, I can stuff my face with any number of things beforehand!  Hooray!  Ivan and I went to one of his clients who owns a studio in Montclair.  This husband and wife team was amazing.  They were the sweetest people and you can tell that they more than knew what they were doing.  They had a way of making me feel beautiful, even being as large as I am right now.  Under the warm lights, I channeled my inner Tyra Banks and tried to employ the techniques I've honed over years of watching America's Next Top Model- particularly the "smize" (smiling with your eyes- it's intellectual stuff, I'll tell you).  I was doing just fine- until the clothes started to come off.

Now, that's a bit of an exaggeration.  I had come to the studio in a black tank top and jeans and the first round of photos was taken in that and I felt very comfortable.  After awhile, though, they brought out these swaths of black fabric in varying sizes and they became my new attire.  The large one was great- they wrapped it around my waist like a flowy skirt- totally fine.  The other one was super-small and they twisted it around my top, creating a makeshift bandeau top.  If you're doing the math, that leaves a lot of exposed, pregnant skin.  Ivan could tell that I was teetering on the edge of my comfort level and politely said as much, but we wanted to be compliant, as they are Ivan's clients and they claim to have had much success with said swathes.  So I bared the belly and finished the session.  I cannot imagine that the photo we select will be one of the half-naked ones, but we'll see!  We get to see the photos on Thursday, and we're so excited!

On Saturday, Ivan and I headed to St. Peter's for the third week in a row for Lamaze class, which, as you know, I had been really looking forward to.  I'm so happy to say that I wasn't disappointed.  The instructor for the class was hilarious and teeming with information on what to expect.  We watched the videos of births which managed to have the effect of both scaring the crap out of me and reducing me to a blubbering mess as soon as the little baby was out.  The men practiced massage techniques on their partners- score!  We did the storied breathing exercises and even practiced while holding ice cubes in our hands as our husbands coached us through a "contraction."  Not that holding an ice cube in your hand is actually comparable to a contraction, I'm sure, but it served the purpose of helping us to block out the thought of the pain.  It was super helpful also, for Ivan and I to get on the same page as to what constitutes appropriate coaching.  Read:  If I am not amused by your silly faces and making light of the situation while I'm holding an ice cube in my hand, I probably won't be amused when a watermelon is forcing its way through, well... you know where.

The highlight of the day though, by far, was the tour of the maternity ward.  The rooms are actually quite beautiful- both the labor/delivery and recovery.  But... the newborn nursery.  Don't even get me started.  In no way am I exaggerating when I tell you that I stood in front of that window and sobbed as the nurses held up these hours-old babies-all pink and disoriented- for us to see.  I mean... to think that one of them is going to be coming out of me in a few short weeks is so incredible.  I can't stop thinking about them!

To top off this fabulous weekend, my baby shower was on Sunday.  And it was the most beautiful shower that ever was.  Honestly, the amount of work that my family (and of course I am including Ivan's family when I say "my family"!) did to throw this event is mind boggling.  Many of you were there, so you know the exquisite details that made it so very special.  It was tea party themed, complete with big hats, fine china, and the tastiest treats.  It almost embarrasses me to think of the time and money spent to pull it off.  I am tempted to itemized the tasks that each person took on to make the shower a reality, but I'm scared I'll leave something or someone out.  So, I'll merely state that I was humbled and blown away by how elegant, thoughtful, and fun the event was

In addition to being blown away by the event itself, seeing so many of the gorgeous ladies I am blessed to have in my life was such an emotional experience.   As I felt after my bridal shower:  They say it takes a village to raise a child and it is over-whelming to see so much of your village gathered in one place.  And if that's not enough to over-whelm, the generosity certainly will do the trick.  Our house now looks like a baby bomb has exploded within it and I daresay that Baby H is pretty set!  The nursery is looking adorable and he or she has outfits to get through the entire first year incredibly stylishly.  I cannot accurately express how grateful I feel- I spent most of the shower and much of this week in a stupor.  I don't think that anyone exists who deserves that kind of attention- least of all me.  The only way I can justify it in my head is to think that it was for Baby H.

So, clearly, I am one lucky lady.  Baby H and I are living a pretty charmed life and we're enjoying this last stretch of time as a bundled set.  As I finish this post, it is Monday morning and we're officially, as of yesterday, at 37 weeks which is considered full-term.  It's a great feeling to know that any day we could meet our little miracle and he or she would be ready to face the world.  At the size of a watermelon, he or she should be!  Yes, it is getting harder and harder to move and my bathroom trips have doubled in the past couple of weeks.  My feet and hands are swelling to ridiculous proportions (more on that later).  On top of that I have a cold, which, of course I can't take any medicine for, and I gave it to Ivan, who, by the way, can take medicine but prefers to lay on the couch and look at me with puppy-dog eyes that say, "No one has ever or will ever experience this kind of discomfort."  I'm scrambling at work to make sure that everything is set up for my leave and also trying to prepare for the "last gig for awhile" for the second time.  But I'm so happy and I feel as though a mug that I received at my amazing baby shower sums it up best:

New Mommy-  Too Blessed To Be Stressed.

A Touch of Class

Even though it is widely said that nothing can prepare you for parenthood, that doesn't stop us as a society from making every attempt to do just that.  There are a ton of books (most of which I own), magazines (some of which I read), and websites (a lot of which I look at) out there that try to delude us into thinking that we have some kind of a handle on the situation.  To that end, Ivan and I have been attending classes at St. Peter's Hospital (where Baby H will be born- as were my siblings and I, by the way!) the past two Saturdays.  Two weeks ago was Breast Feeding, this past week was Baby Care, and we'll finish up this Saturday with Lamaze.

As I've mentioned before, we've been told by some people that the classes are completely unnecessary and that the process is the most natural thing in the world, but Ivan and I are of the mindset that the more information we can get our hands on, the better and we also feel that it's a bit of a right of passage.  Recently, my mom had me cleaning out some memory boxes of mine that were still at her house.  She and Poppy (my dad!) have completely re-done my brother's old bedroom to be a couples'/baby suite (complete with crib!) and with the renovation came the decree that we need to "get our crap outta here."  (By the way, they totally put us to shame, completing their baby room when we were just getting starting on ours).  While going through my baby box, I found all kinds of amazing things- a calendar on which my mom marked all of the important moments from my first year of life, the outfit they brought me home in, newspapers from the day I was born.  Among the most endearing things, however, were the hand-written notes my dad had taken at the classes he and my mom took in preparation of my arrival.

They say that girls marry men who remind them of their dads.  There have been many times when I have thought this to be true of myself (like when Ivan talks like Donald Duck- one of my dad's classics- or makes fun of me (teasing his children is my dad's favorite pastime).  Luckily, though, the similarities don't end with their penchant for mockery.  My dad has always been extremely "hands on" when it comes to fatherhood.  Hmmm... that makes it sound like he beat us, which he did, but only in our nightly wrestling matches which to this day have a possibility of occurring, depending on the severity of the insult that is hurled in my dad's direction (usually by my brother).  Actually, I can add "Haven't had a good fight with my dad or been able to jump in when he's tormenting Zandar or my brother" to my list of things that I've missed since becoming pregnant.  Anyway, what I meant by "hands on" can best be illustrated by the assertion that both of my parents, after bringing me home from the hospital as a newborn, would literally race and stumble over each other to be the first to get to me when I cried.  My dad has never shied away from anything parent-related, saying that it was my mom's territory or anything like that.  On the contrary, he was involved in every aspect of our upbringing and I know that Ivan is going to be the same way.  And for having both of these amazing men in my life, I know I am truly blessed.

All that being said, Ivan did balk just slightly on precipice of Breast Feeding class.  About five minutes before we got in the car, he asked me, "Wait, should I bring my laptop, in case they won't let me in?"  "Um, what?" I replied.  "Well, do you think I'm going to be the only guy there?  What if they don't let men in?  I should bring it just in case."  "What- exactly- do you think is going to happen in this class?" I asked, through slightly narrowed eyes.  "I don't know- I'm just nervous, like if you all have your boobs out, where am I gonna look?"

(a pause so that can sink in.)


Me:  We are NOT going to take our BOOBS out.

Ivan:  Are you sure?  What if you have to?  And what if you had to go to a class where all of the men had to be exposed.  Wouldn't you not know where to look?

Now, this conversation led me to believe that my husband of 2+ years does not know me in the slightest.  Because a room full of exposed men sounds to me like the seventh circle of Hell and the only place I'd be looking would be at the door- longingly, planning my escape.

I wish I could say that I make these conversations up for your amusement, Ladies, but alas, this actually happened.  It was one of those moments where I just couldn't muster up anything to say.  I just wished desperately that there was a camera that I could turn to and give a blank stare, a la The Office.

I don't need to tell you that Breast Feeding class was far tamer than Ivan had imagined.  In fact, it was taught by an elderly woman, which I found to be a little strange, but she obviously knew her lactation, and the class was only slightly scary.  I could have done without the diagram of the compressed nipple in the baby's mouth, but what are you going to do?  I don't know why I have so much anxiety surrounding the idea of breast feeding.  It's weird, as I sit here now, it doesn't freak me out, but I know that I have this anxiety  because of the dreams I constantly have about this activity.  I know I've shared a couple of these dreams that plague me about 2 times a week.

There are few motherly issues that are as emotionally charged as breast feeding- whether or not you are able to or want to do it, how frequently to do so and for how long (duration of sessions and until the child is how old?).  Because it is so emotionally charged and because I think it's another thing that comes down to the "you have to do what's right for you and your baby" philosophy, I'm not going to elaborate on the merits of different philosophies.  All I will say about the class is that we got to play with baby dolls and Ivan had to tell me to stop cradling and caressing the doll as though it were real- I guess those instincts are starting to kick in!

Baby Care was also interesting.  I have to say, I was the Hermione Granger of Baby Care class.  For my non- Harry Potter fans (what is wrong with you?!) that means that I was kind of the teacher's pet.  Every question the instructor quizzed us on, my hand was in the air.  Now, it helps that I have a fabulous student teacher so I can sit at my desk and read a million baby books, soaking up information like a little mommy-to-be sponge.  I'll be happy to pass along these books the next first time moms to be- and they'll be pre-highlighted for you!  I'm sure the rest of the people in the baby care class were super-impressed, and by super-impressed, I mean probably annoyed by me.  I didn't care though- some of the questions they were asking our instructor made me literally cringe in fear for their unborn children.  We got to play with the dolls again- this time dressing them, diapering them, "bathing" them, and if you're Ivan, balancing them on one hand while looking at your wife expectantly for some kind of recognition.

I'm most interested in this Saturday's class though- Lamaze.  I've been pushing (no pun intended) most thoughts of labor out of my mind for these past 8 months, thinking that if I can ignore it, maybe Baby H will will magically and painlessly appear on a magical puff of cloud, preferably pre-diapered.  It could happen, right?  Well, just in case it doesn't, it will be nice to get some kind of idea of what to expect.  Of course I've seen hundreds of scenes of childbirth in movies and on TV, but we know that artistic license is taken with those.  And there are the stories of others' experiences, but of course it's going to vary dramatically from woman to woman.  So again, I guess there really is no way to prepare oneself, but if anyone has any good ideas, I'm open to them- send them along!

So, as I write this, it is March 22.  Do you know what that is?  If you guessed one month until my due date, you win the prize.  In fact, the over-arching theme of the past week has been people telling me how close I am.  When I called to make an interview appointment with a pediatrician (we are, admittedly, behind the eight ball on this) the receptionist squawked, "Five weeks?!" when she asked when the is baby due.  The photographer for my maternity photos (being done tomorrow!) said, "We have to move very quickly," when he heard the response to the same question.  I've had a couple of co-workers tell me that they don't think I'm making it to my due date.  I hope they're wrong!  As excited as we are to meet Baby H, there still seems to be a lot to do!  Although, at a certain point, I guess we're going to have to stop reading the books, taking the classes, and trying to organize and just dive right in.

Ready or not.

Good Day Sunshine

Well, there's nothing like Daylight Savings Time beginning, coupled with some super-early spring weather to give you a refreshed perspective.  I mean, how beautiful has it been this week?  In general, I am a much happier person once we have a little more warmth and sunlight, but to have it this early just seems like a gift.  I'm glad that I only have 4 1/2 weeks of work left, because this weather makes it feels like there should only be 4 1/2 weeks of school left in general.  If this keeps up, I cannot even begin to imagine how zany the kids are going to be come June- I'd want to kill them.  As it is, it's a real blessing to have my student teacher right now, because the amount of sleep I'm getting (or not getting, as the case may be) would have me biting off my students' heads by now.  But despite being super-sleepy, and in general, a little gross, when spring comes, I just can't be kept down.  I mean, get your Frappuccino-making pants on, Starbucks, because Mama's hungry.  On a related note, I was nearly late for my class at the gym on Tuesday because I was sitting in my car licking the caramel off of the inside of my Frapuccino lid.  Ironic?  Maybe.  Delicious and worth it?  Definitely.

Before I delve into the fabulous mood I've been in for the past few days, let me enlighten you to a couple of things that would seemingly be working against this mood.  First, I am peeing.  A lot.  I'm running to the bathroom after every class, and as I filled you in on last week, at least 6 times throughout the night.  Alas, though, the peeing does not end there.  It started several weeks ago, when in Target, I sneezed and straight up peed my pants.  We're not talking a little trickle here.  We're talking a significant amount of liquid, enough to soak my jeans but, thankfully, not enough to reach the floor.  Also thankfully, I was wearing my long winter coat, so the only person who had to be disgusted by me was me.  And boy, was I disgusted.  I had been on the way to my mom's house, so I did the only logical thing- abandoned whatever mission I was on, immediately walked to the candy aisle, picked out a ginormous box of chocolate that was on sale for $10 (score!), bought it, drove to mom's, put my pants and undies in the wash, and ate myself sick.

Then, on Monday, I was sitting on the couch at home, with my feet up at the suggestion of the doctor (my feet, along with my fingers have started to swell and I have to lay off the salt for the next few weeks- and I love salt) when I sneezed and subsequently left a huge pee mark on my skirt and couch.  Ivan, of course, found this quite amusing, and I, of course, did not.  This culminated with me running (well, the pregnant equivalent of running) upstairs to change yelling, "Shut up! Shut up!" in response to Ivan's laughter.  My only source of comfort is the fact that I have it on good word that this is not the first time that this has happened on this couch.  And no, I'm not telling which couch or cushion.

Despite all of this, I've really been trying to "savor" these last few weeks of pregnancy and soak up all of the good things that go with it.  I will elaborate shortly, but a quick story to add to the not-so glamorous side of things:

This morning I was feeling pretty cute.  With all of this warm weather, I've been breaking out some of the hand-me-down tops that friends have provided me with, as most of what I've bought is winter-y.  Today, for the first time, I am wearing a peasant-y type top, empire waist- you know the kind that makes you look pregnant even when you're not, so I feel as though I might as well live it up.  It's really pretty- it's got the red-orange color that I die over, as well as some blue, khaki, and yellow in the pattern.  I put it on this morning with my "skinny" khaki pants and some jeweled gold flats and I was pretty pleased with how well everything went together.  Some blue and gold earrings and a chunky yellow and orange ring from Zandar completed the whole look.  I felt pretty darn good about myself.

Now, I was too lazy this morning to pour my usual cereal and milk that I bring to school with me everyday.  I would have had to wash the container and that seemed like an insurmountable task and since I had gotten up early and worked out I rationalized that I had earned a morning trip to Starbucks for a decaf skinny cinnamon dolce latte and an oatmeal- yum!  While on line for said treats, the door opened and in walked a girl that I and everyone else in the store had to do a double take towards in order to believe she existed.  She, first of all, was an Amazon.  It honestly seemed as though she were two heads taller than me.  Not only that, but she was thin, nay, lithe.  She was wearing a charcoal wrap-dress and knee length, black, leather, high-heeled boots.  Her jewelry was perfect, her hair was long, glossy, and impeccably straight  She was the type of girl who, I'm ashamed to say, I think, "It doesn't matter how smart this girl is or what crazy talents she may possess- the only thing she should be doing is modeling."  How progressive of me.  I know, I'm ashamed.  I just know that if I looked like that, I'd be strutting around like crazy and I'd be getting paid for it.  But instead, I was there, in my "cute" outfit and all I could do was (audibly) chuckle and think (not audibly), "I'm an oompa-loompa."

All of this being said, though, the weather has given me a renewed outlook and with it, a renewed appreciation for being pregnant.  I cannot believe that we are only 5 1/2 weeks away now!  And who knows-  it could be less, (I hope not too much less!).  In many ways, it feels like I've been pregnant forever.  It takes a long time for that little baby to grow!  I particularly feel this way when I think about the last time I had a glass of wine or a turkey sandwich.  Or was able to shave my legs or bikini line easily.  And yes, I am still shaving everyday.  It's kind of my thing.  I have been told by more than one friend or sister that I have shamed them into shaving as well.  As in, if they know that we're going to hang out and they haven't shaved in something like 2 weeks, they will break down and do it, just so they don't have to hear me berate them.  The way I see, it, I am doing their boyfriends/husbands/society in general an invaluable service.  And it's for their own goods too- I mean, who doesn't love the feel of silky smooth legs?  Crazy hippies, that's who.  Now if only I could get my cousin to consistently pluck the eyebrow that hides under her bangs.  Anyway, the point is that ridding myself of offensive body hair is important to me and I'll be a hairless monkey's uncle if I'm going to let pregnancy stop me from doing so.  (I don't think that actually makes sense.)  But the point also is that this chore is becoming increasingly difficult as my belly grows and some areas need to be done quite carefully, with just my hands and a prayer to guide me.  But I digress.  The point actually is that sometimes (like when having trouble shaving) it feels like pregnancy lasts forever.

Sometimes, though, it feels like it was just yesterday that I was shocking Ivan and then our families with the news and that this whole ordeal has really taken place in the blink of an eye.  The fact of the matter is that I have been so blessed to have the opportunity to carry this child and all of the little complaints along the way (and let's face it, peeing aside, I've been pretty lucky) are so minuscule in the light of the privilege. And the "long time" that it takes to grow is really only 40 weeks.  It is nothing short of miraculous that by 6 1/2 weeks (only a week after realizing I was pregnant) the baby had a beating heart and now, 27 weeks later- roughly the length of baseball season- that little clump of cells is a baby!  How does that happen?

As I marvel at the craziness of it all, I'm trying to appreciate the process as much as possible.  As I've mentioned before, pregnant ladies bring out the best in people.  I absolutely love the smiles I receive, the questions, even the little rubs of the belly (in most cases).  I try to take advantage of the perks- the doors being held open, the reserved parking at Babies R' Us, the extra free samples of chocolate that I've been offered because "the baby needs one too" (duh, no brainer!), the fact that I don't have to KILL myself at the gym and no one expects me to- I'm actually enjoying the low-impact versions of the dances in class, the foot and back rubs that have become a nightly occurrence, among other things.  I have to remember that all too soon, they will end:  doors will be slammed before I can reach out and grab them and I'll have to park with the rest of the minions at Babies R' Us (which, by the way, I can only imagine is a huge slap in the face to all of the new moms who registered for all of their stuff there.  You just need to get a case of diapers and you have to struggle with a new baby and all of the equipment- from that very store- that comes along with the baby... you're juggling a million things and something that should take 7 minutes tops has turned into an all afternoon outing, but no love in the parking department.  Real nice, Babies R' Us.  Real nice.)  Pretty soon I'll be getting the stink eye from the people offering chocolate samples.  I know what their looks will be saying:  "Do you really think you should be having that?  Don't you have some baby weight to be losing?"  The same thing will be happening at the gym- "If she thinks she's getting back to her pre-baby body with that form, she's got another think coming..."  (Is it horrible that I assume that people think this way?)  And surely Ivan and I will both be so wiped out by the end of the day that any requests for massages from either party may result in laughter, slapping, or some combination of the two.

I even have a renewed appreciation for my pregnant body.  It helps that I've been pretty darn good about going to the gym lately, if I do say so myself, and that always helps with body image.  Well, at least it does for me.  My belly is so cute, and it's a home for a very special person!  I've even been inspired to take some maternity photos to document this time in my life.  At first I was a little self conscious, but I gave myself a little pep talk. remembered that "big is beautiful" and dove right in.  So without further ado, I'm going to do the big reveal right here on my blog.  Ready?  Drum roll, please!

Hahahahahahahaha... sorry, I just couldn't resist.  I mean, honestly.  I just love the debate over whether this is appropriate or not and how society kind of forgets that it would be inappropriate even if she wasn't pregnant.  In all honesty, I am planning on getting some photos done, but believe you me, there will be clothing.  Just a personal preference.

In other news, Zandar accompanied me to a very successful doctor's appointment on Monday.  The scale showed me at 6/10 of a pound below my "Do Not Exceed" goal for the entire pregnancy, so looks like that's not going to work out.  Oh well!  My belly is measuring just right at 34 weeks.  I am not dilated at all yet- good!- but my cervix is thinning out- also good.  Baby H is positioned just right- head down- and is moving around a ton!  In fact, at both of my last appointments, my doctors were amused by how active he or she is.  I've been having a bunch of Braxton Hicks contractions each day and it's incredible to feel just how hard my tummy gets!  I can't imagine what the real thing is going to feel like, but I'll maintain the upbeat nature of this post and save my paralyzing fear of labor for a later date.

In conclusion, it's a good thing I get a beautiful little baby at the end of this whole ordeal, because I'm honestly going to be a little bummed to not be pregnant any longer.  I'm sure that getting back into some of my old clothes, having the occasional cocktail or the frequent turkey sandwich, and a slightly less achy body will be of some consolation.  But in the end, for all of my whining, pregnancy is not a sacrifice that is worth it all in the end, but a blessing and privilege in and of itself.  And with any luck, the majority of the time it's pretty fun!

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream...

Ah, Sleep, my friend.  I feel as though we may have parted ways for what will be a long time.

The explanation that women in their third trimester have difficulty sleeping because their bodies are preparing them to function on less sleep once the baby arrives may be true, but is in no way comforting.  Getting a good night's sleep at this point in my pregnancy can be likened to a kind of obstacle course that would challenge even the most adept American Gladiator.  Allow me to elaborate.

Starting Line:
I prepare for the obstacle course of sleep like a seasoned sleep athlete.  I arrive to the starting line (my cozy bed) early- around 9:30pm- feeling completely ready for the challenge ahead, as I am usually exhausted.  I am prepared with all of the necessary equipment: maternity pj's, fuzzy socks, a glass of water for my night stand, and a dark bedroom with television turned off.  I go through my standard pre-race ritual:  take my prenatal vitamin, slather anti-stretch mark lotion all over my belly, say my prayers, turn off the lights, and snuggle up.  On your mark... get set... GO!

Obstacle No. 1:  Gymnast Baby
Unfortunately, while I am well-acquainted with the significance of the pre-race rituals, Baby H is a little less informed.  While the constant motion of everyday activities serves as somewhat of a rocking cradle, lulling Baby H to sleep, the welcome quiet of my body seems to mean just one thing to him or her:  party time.  Bedtime has become the witching hour.  For anyone who has never tried to fall asleep with a tiny person doing somersaults in their belly, I'll save you the suspense- it is no easy feat.  Sometimes the movements downright tickle, sometimes they feel strange, and almost all of the time they make me laugh and shake my head.  At times, I picture the baby dancing in there the way that Elaine does on Seinfeld, with limbs flailing while singing, "I know you're trying to sleep, Mommy!  La la la la!"  It can take an hour for the baby to relax enough for me to relax, so right out of the gate, I am running behind.

Obstacle No. 2:  Heartburn/Reflux

When I do manage to drift off after Baby H settles down, it is not uncommon to wake up after an hour or so with a wretched burning reminiscent of whatever dinner was that night creeping up my throat.  This is a sensation that I had never experienced pre-pregnancy and I hope to never experience post-pregnancy.  The pain, caused by decreasing room inside my body and the relaxation of all of my muscles, including the one that's supposed to keep food from traveling back up the one-way street of my esophagus, is intolerable.  It immediately sends me reaching for the water I have brought up to my room, but, alas, it seems to have the opposite of the intended effect.  The more fluid I try to take in, the less room there is in there, and the more the heartburn persists.  The problem is that the heartburn is usually accompanied by a case of dry mouth and I simply can't not drink something. The logic does not exactly work when you are so rudely awakened in the middle of the night.  Tums has become my new BFF.  I also try to prop myself to a semi-seated position to work against gravity.  Some ladies have told me that this was the only thing that saved them during those last few months.

Obstacle No. 3:  General Discomfort

This one is no big surprise- when you are carrying 40 extra pounds on a 5'2" frame, things start to hurt.  I've taken to wearing a back brace for part of the day each day to get a little relief.  During sleep, a giant belly can get in the way of optimal snuggly positions.  Turning over from one side to the other becomes a cardiovascular activity.  

Obstacle No. 4:  Bathroom Visits

I get up to use the bathroom no less than 6 times a night.  The dry mouth and subsequent chugging of water throughout the night does not help the situation.  Again, the non-existent logic.  In conjunction with obstacle number 3, the physical act of pulling myself out of bed and walking to the bathroom, a mere 5 paces from my side of the bed,  has become the physical equivalent of the Iron Man.  I audibly groan, as is my right as a preggo, just to make sure Ivan or any ghosts in the room know just how difficult everyday living has become for me.  As though Ivan would even be conscious to acknowledge the sound, but I do it all the same.

Obstacle No. 5:  Snoring Husband

This one is pretty straightforward.  When Ivan is sawing wood at a volume that would wake the neighbors and I am desperately tossing and turning as I deal with obstacles 1-4, it throws me into a murderous rage.  So as to add to the physical workout I'm receiving at all hours of the night, I begin trying to manipulate Ivan's position by any means necessary- pushing and shoving, kicking, poking, whining, it's all fair game.  All I can say is that it's a good thing that we took down the decorative swords that used to hang in our music room next to our bedroom (Ivan got them all as awards from Cutco, he's not like a medieval culture hound or anything) because I fantasize about grabbing one of those suckers off of the wall and brandishing it, Joan of Arc-style, as I set off to slay the Great Snoring Dragon. 

Obstacle No. 6:  Weird Baby Dreams

When I do finally manage to drift off to Dream Land, chances are that it will be filled with images reflecting my own fears of inadequacy when it comes to impending motherhood.  I know that I've shared a couple of these dreams with you in past posts.  They do not occur every night, but at least 3 or 4 nights a week I am plagued by baby dreams that are pretty much terrifying.  Just last night, I dreamed that Baby H, after attempting to latch on, looked up at me and spoke, to tell me that she (in this dream she was female) hated the taste of my breast milk.  For some reason I was not thrown by the fact that my newborn could speak, but was highly insulted that she didn't like what I had to offer.  And so I began to reason with her that since this was the only the first time she was trying it, it was the colostrum (for you ladies who are not moms yet, colostrum is the type of milk the baby receives for the first few days before the "actual" milk comes in.  I didn't know that myself, but my obsessive consumption of baby care reading material has educated me and it is clearly rearing it's usually ugly head in my subconscious) and that maybe she'd like the next stuff better but that she'd never get to that if she didn't drink this.  Because we all know that newborns respond very well to rational conversation.  I know, I know, I’m sick.

Finish Line:
Needless to say, most days the alarm clock goes off at what is actually a reasonable hour and what feels like the dead of night.  I have usually failed in my quest to get a decent night's sleep and the process of the day starts all over again.  I hit snooze an unconscionable amount of times and push my limits of being able to get myself ready in time- which is starting to take a little longer, considering that the amount of time it takes to lift my leg to put it in a pair of pants has quadrupled in the past few weeks.

Experienced parents love to hear about the fact that I can't sleep and all have the same reaction:  a good old, "Ha ha!  You think you can't sleep now!  Get used to it!"  They evilly get so much joy out of the fact that someone else is joining the sleepless club and now gets to experience what it was that they went through.  I'm going to try to remember this when I am a veteran parent and make every attempt to keep the glimmer of amusement out of my eye and try to sincerely empathize with any mom-to-be who is telling me of her struggles.  What good does it do to try to scare a poor woman who is feeling a little loopy as it is?  It doesn't. A pregnant woman's body may indeed be trying to prepare her for the exhaustion that lies ahead, but we certainly don't need to be reminded of that fact.  Instead, it's helpful to reminisce with her about all of the really fun things about being pregnant (which, I'll admit, my posts as of late have been pretty cranky and we're due for one that's a little more upbeat, so stay tuned!).  I've got to try to remember this as I join the mommy club- we must welcome our sleepy sisters with open arms.

Rockstar Mommy

As many of you know and some of you even saw, our band played out last Friday night as kind of a last hurrah before Baby H arrives and we will need to take some time off from our hardcore rock n' roll party lifestyle.  We played at Butch Kowal's in Rahway, which can only be described as a dive bar, and that's putting it kindly.  It really is a dump, but all in all a super fun place to play.  It's one of my favorite venues, because unlike some of the other places we've performed, there is no stage- we're ground level, right there with the crowd, and the layout is conducive for people there to rock out but also have a conversation with friends, dance, whatever.  No one is chained to a chair, sitting there and staring at you which not only makes me super nervous, but is also not the appropriate way to experience rock music, as far as I'm concerned.

I was particularly grateful for the setup at this gig, because unlike most former gigs where I would workout excessively for weeks beforehand, meticulously plan my outfit to look "casual rockstar but super hot", and spend an extra 20 minutes on make-up, I looked and felt truly busted for this performance.  First of all, I was exhausted.  I had attended the NJ music teacher's convention earlier in the day and the last session ended at 5:30 and as everyone knows, teachers cannot handle working past 3pm.  (Please catch my sarcasm here!) By the time I made it back to Union, it was nearly 7pm.  We didn't start playing until 9:45, so there was only one logical thing to do- nap.  So I promptly passed out in bed until 9 and woke up to an egregious case of bed head and smudged eye make-up-not in a sexy way.

I had just enough time to try to flatten the cowlicks in my hair, pull on my skinny maternity jeans (there's an oxymoron if I've ever heard one!) and flat boots, and choose a plain, black 3/4 sleeve jersey shirt.  The "wildest" thing about my outfit were the dangly earrings I had borrowed from Zandar.  I don't know- I guess I felt like it was weird enough that I was there singing at a bar at all- no need to get all dressed up and pretend to be attractive.  For once in my life I wanted to blend into the background.  As I discussed in the previous post about our trip to AC, pregnant women in bars make people feel uncomfortable.  If you don't entirely agree, take a look at this photo from our second most recent gig:

Before you get yourselves in a tizzy, let me point out that there was a fog machine creating the "smoke."  It still makes you uncomfortable though, right?  At least it makes me uncomfortable, and it is me.  And consider that fact that my belly is 10x that size now.  It was quite a (literal) stretch to get into that non-maternity zebra striped tank for that gig.  This time around I opted for a much more, "Please ignore me," type look.

Even with my conservative dress, I still felt incredibly self-conscious.  This feeling was not assuaged when Zandar told me, affectionately, that I looked like, "typical white trash."  Granted, she was drunk, and granted she really deserved and needed to be drunk and I know she was just teasing me.  Nevertheless, I wanted to get into my car and go straight home after that.  Well, straight home after stopping for Chicken McNuggets and maybe a chocolate shake.  If someone tells me that I'm white trash, I'm certainly going to eat like I am.

I made it through the gig pretty uneventfully.  It wasn't my best singing and it wasn't my worst.  It was probably my least energetic performance, but I really did try and I had a great time.  My best friend since middle school drove up from Pennsylvania with her husband and parents to surprise us and it completely made my night.  She and Zandar and Cecelia were dancing it up- well they were either doing that or dodging creeper townie guys (the motions can look similar and there were a lot of creeper townie guys).  It seemed like the crowd had a great time, though judging by the amount of alcohol that was consumed it would be a sad comment on our band if people didn't have fun.

The end of the night presented a little drama- complete with some chair throwing, patrons that refused to leave, and the clean-up of the now slimy microphone cords covered with a mixture of spilled beer and whatever diseases were lurking on the floor of the bar.  I didn't hang around for too long- my SIL walked me to my car and we avoided the crazy scene inside and I didn't even help with any of the breakdown of equipment (yet another pregnancy benefit).  And I did stop for Chicken McNuggets- I couldn't help it.  I usually end up craving them after gigs, probably out of relief.  This time though, it was probably more related to stress-eating than anything else.

Why stress eating, you ask?  Well, I'll tell you.  Because at some point during the third set, my husband the "front man" started announcing to the crowd that they were really great and they should sign the email list because we'd be back there playing in April.  I foolishly laughed.  "Ha Ha!" I thought, "The baby is coming in April!  What a funny joke."  Alas, ladies, it was not a joke.  As it turns out, the owner of the bar approached Ivan between the second and third sets and told him that they "Needed to have us back" because we were "awesome."  More likely, the crowd, and therefore all of the money they were spending on beer was "awesome" and this guy saw dollar signs.  Mind you, the reason the crowd we brought was so big was because it was advertised (to an obnoxious degree, by said front man) as the "last time for a long time" that we'd be playing out.  And all of our friends, being trusting, believed him.

One of the things that I love about Ivan is how excited he gets.  He loves playing music so much and he will jump at any opportunity to play out or sing in public (remember the karaoke?).  He loves it so much that apparently it gives him temporary amnesia.  Like about the fact that he is about to become a father in just a little more than 7 weeks- if all goes according to plan, which, let's face it, it usually doesn't.  When I found out that he was serious, I was in shock.  

Now, we had discussed some options for keeping the band together once Baby H arrives.  We are both nervous that the band is going to completely fall apart during our parenting hiatus and we love playing and we love the guys we play with.  We really want to try to stay together, but we know that is going to be a tall order with a newborn.  Ivan is convinced that the only way to prevent the band's demise is to get someone to fill in for me for awhile.  I have decided that the only person in the world that I would be okay with standing in for me is Zandar.  Even then, I have a hard time wrapping my mind around it.  I get depressed when I think of  myself sitting at home, alone, ready to pop, while my band is out playing without me.  It's something I'm willing to do, though, if it means the band can stay together and I can eventually sing with them again.

And of course it will only get more challenging once Baby H is here.  I know my mom and some of my other mom friends are reading this, shaking their heads, saying, "Girl, you have no idea how your life is about to change.  The only band you're going to know anything about is the Wiggles (or whatever is the rage at the time- clearly I'm going to have to familiarize myself with Yo Gabba Gabba I guess... yikes)."  I know, I know- we have no idea what we're in for here.  It's just another example of us trying to make sense of how our lives are going to change and figuring out if it's even possible to not completely forsake something that means a lot to us.  Once again, our vision of the future is cloudy because we only know our current lives- it's so hard to picture what say, 10 weeks from not will look like.  It's yet another thing that we will need to figure out on our own, in our time.  Hopefully Ivan and I can get on the same page soon, and even more hopefully that page will be somewhere near reality.  We will see!

Baby H is getting big- pineapple sized this week!- and is running out of room inside of me.  I know because it feels like he or she is climbing into my rib cage half of the time!  At my now bi-weekly doctor's appointment on Monday, upon listening to the heartbeat, the doctor remarked, "Woah!  This kid is moving!" He or she is.  The movement has felt crazy as of late- not so much kicking anymore- rolling, I guess, and changing positions, which can look pretty funny.   Everything looks good and healthy- so far, so good!  I can't believe that we are 7 weeks away from meeting him or her- we really can't wait.  And hopefully when he or she gets here all of our fogginess will lift and answers will be crystal clear.

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?