I'm back! And I'm still pregnant.

Honestly, nine months is just an absurd amount of time to wait for a baby to be made. One might surmise that over the course of hundreds of thousands of years, evolution could render the nine-month gestational period more streamlined and more efficient, and, as a result, whittle it down to something like twelve weeks. Right?
I mean, NINE MONTHS. That's three-quarters of a year! It was early summer when I first learned that I had been successfully knocked up. Now it's late winter, for Christ's sake. And we're into 2006. And I'm STILL pregnant. It's been an ETERNITY.
Of course, I'm grateful the baby has not come prematurely. And I'm certainly hoping she doesn't sneak out before March 15th, my estimated due date. It's just that I'm getting pretty tired of being preggers. I'm at the point where I entertain lurid, slow-motion fantasies of drinking icy margaritas and fully caffeinated coffee. And working out! Strange as it sounds coming from a lazy ass like myself, I miss exercise. I mean, I can take walks and do some limited stretching at this point, but that's about it. I'm far too huge and ungainly to do anything like yoga or Pilates, never mind a short jog now and then.
But enough with the complaining. I'm thrilled that in six-ish weeks, Maya will make her debut and fill S and me with the kind of intense love that will change us forever, for the better. I know the joy we will feel is unimaginable at this point, but just knowing it's coming is exilharating! And we just can't wait to share so much with her: smooches, hugs, music, stories, laughter.
We're not so naive that we're unaware of all the hard work, sleep deprivation, frustration, and feelings of self-doubt that will present themselves along with our new baby, but they do seem a small price to pay for the privelege of raising a child.
All right then, that's it for now...

Of Face-Eating Tumors and Water Births

This post is going to be about things I've learned from watching roughly 15 episodes of "A Baby Story" on TLC in the past month. But first, did you know there's another show on this same cable channel called "Face-Eating Tumor"? (They spell it without the hyphen, but I just can't omit a perfectly necessary bit of punctuation in good conscience.) I've not actually seen "Face-Eating Tumor," but I have seen it cheerily advertised right alongside "Bringing Home Baby" and "The Adam Corolla Project." I can't quite believe it each time I see the words "Face-Eating Tumor" flash up on the screen against the red TLC background, with a jaunty TLC tune playing all the while. I mean, even the Fox network would stop short of actually naming a show "Face-Eating Tumor," wouldn't they?

Anyway, on to Things I've Learned From Watching Roughly 15 Episodes of "A Baby Story" on TLC in the Past Month:
1. Water births are not for me.
2. Figuring out a Diaper Genie is harder than learning calculus.
3. The typical new-mom short haircut is just as frumptastic as I thought. Keep those scissors away from my head.
4. Babies look pretty gross when they first come out.
5. They set that slimy, greasy baby right in your arms after you deliver it, without washing it first.
6. The OB always assumes Dad wants to cut the umbilical cord. (S's thoughts on this event: "Let's just leave it to the medical professionals.")
7. The epidural is like heaven in a needle: "Oh, did I have a contraction just now? Huh! I didn't even feel it!"
8. Babies delivered by C-section have rounder, prettier heads.
9. If you turn the TV picture off but keep the sound on during any "A Baby Story" delivery scene, you'll swear you're listening to porn.
10. Seriously, a water birth is NOT FOR ME.

Taut, Like a Drum

So, for those of you wondering what a five-months-pregnant belly looks and feels like, let me try to describe mine for you.

For starters, I'd say its radius, if I may use a mathematical term without knowing for sure whether I'm using it correctly, is about four to five inches. In other words, my belly sticks out that many inches from my body. When I look down in the shower, I can't see my lady parts. I can still, thankfully, see my knees.

It's very round. Not quite round enough that any stranger on the street would know beyond a shadow of a doubt that there's a fetus in there as opposed to, say, several thick insulating layers of fat (although there is some of that, too), but still, quite round indeed. I think it's the roundness that lends a degree of cuteness to the pregnant belly. Round, roly-poly things are sort of cute, generally speaking. (Hello Kitty's head comes to mind.)

My navel has not popped out, exactly. But it's shallower than normal, and flatter. Not quite flush with the rest of my abdomen, but getting there. This was sort of fun to watch until the skin around my navel ring began to get red and irritated. Now I'm worried and want the ring removed, but I don't know how to do that. (It's the bar kind with a jewel on one end.) I'll ask the doctor about it when I see him in a week and a half. (What will remain when the ring is removed, though? Holes? That's weird. I've read you can insert a bit of fishing line where the ring used to be, to keep the holes open. That's not a bad idea. Not that I have any fishing line handy, and not that I would relish threading it through my flesh if I did.)

The funniest part of the five-months-pregnant belly is the tautness. Taut like a drum, I'd say. S finds this amusing, as do I. Also kind of reassuring, because it proves there's a big old uterus in there, expanding as it should. (By the end of pregnancy, I read, the uterus has grown so huge that it butts up against the rib cage. Whoa.) It does make bending over difficult, however. And you should see the sorry state of these pants I have on today. They're my old, regular pants, from like, twelve pounds ago or whatever. They are SO STRAINING. They're like, gasping for breath. Sweating from the effort of staying buttoned, practically. And they are so freaking tight around my butt (which is totally bootylicious and shelf-like now, I might add) that they're almost obscene. I've been keeping my coat on all day to cover it. Oh! That's another thing: My coats and jackets don't zip up now. That's one mild bummer about being preggers in the winter: I guess you have to go buy new coats! And coats aren't cheap, of course.

So, that's the Belly Report. I got a BabyCenter.com update yesterday in my e-mail that starts with, "You're 19 weeks pregnant! Think you're big now? Wait till you see how fast you grow over the next several weeks!" And really, I almost soiled my drawers reading that, because YIKES. I mean, how will my belly skin accommodate all the added poundage that's to come? How much farther out can my butt travel? Will the girth of my thighs increase threefold?

??

Ah, well. As far as I know, all seems OK with Baby of M at this point, so that's the important thing! (Of course, I'm still waiting on blood-test results that were supposedly ready on Monday...)

I’m Not an Ungrateful Jerk

(Honest)

It occurred to me that my Debbie Downer post makes me out to be an ingrate, and I want to make it clear that I'm not. After six solid months of precisely timed trying, S and I are quite delighted and over the moon about being preggers. By about May or so, we'd kind of resigned ourselves to the idea that maybe we weren't ever going to be able to make a baby without some sort of assistance, and we'd gotten pretty down (and, of course, anxious) about it. So please don't think we're all, "Shit! A baby! Damn it!" That's totally not it. We're more like, "Oh my god, it finally happened! We've made a teeny person together! We're going to be a family! Is this too good to be true? Can we really pull this off?"

So, I'd like to share some of the things about which I'm very excited, with regard to the lil' fetus and his or her future (assuming all goes well).

1. Can't wait to see what this wee little lad/lass looks like. I'm guessing Baby of M will have S's deep-set blue eyes and strong browbone. Perhaps my nose (gah!), which I'd characterize as "very British" as opposed to, say, "really huge." Obviously, bright blond hair. And for Baby of M's sake, let's hope he or she gets S's thighs.

2. Really curious about Baby of M's personality. Will he or she be happy-go-lucky, always grinning and laughing? Or, will he or she be more guarded and introspective and contemplative?

3. What kinds of things will Baby of M be good at, later on down the line? Where will his or her talents and interests lie? Will he or she love to read, like Mom and Dad do? One might think Baby of M might take an interest in writing. Perhaps he or she will be lucky enough to inherit Dad's talent for cartoon-style sketching. Will Baby of M love school and all things academic, or will he or she be more of a daydreamer? Will Baby of M be athletic? Musical? Creative? Logical? Mathematical? Ambitious? Laid-back? A smattering of everything?

4. Family vacations! Can't wait to show Baby of M my favorite places: the Northeast, London, the beach...

5. Teaching Baby of M compassion and respect for others. I want him or her to care about other people, and animals.

6. Just generally taking Baby of M out and about. You know, on little outings about town.

7. Watching S interact with Baby of M. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he'll be a tremendous dad.

So, these are the types of things I let myself think about, on occasion, when I’m feeling relatively relaxed, calm, and confident.

Debbie Downer

I'd like to explain why my preggers experience is fraught with panic and nervousness. There are a few reasons.

1. I am a worrier. It is an inherited trait. I fret like crazy when given the opportunity.
2. Being pregnant makes me feel out of control. I can't see what's going on in there! There's no little window into my uterus through which I can peek to monitor what's happening on the fetal front. And there's only so much I can do to try to make a healthy baby. I can avoid heroin, for example, and cut back on the thrice-daily Long Island iced teas. (Kidding.) But really: beyond feeding myself adequately and following the general do's and dont's of pregnancy, there just isn't a whole lot I can do to affect the outcome---or to guarantee a positive one. It's an exercise in faith, I guess. Don't smoke, don't drink, don't eat sushi, and cross your fingers. This is not my style. I like to have CONTROL.
3. I read too much. I'm not the kind of gal who reads one chapter of What To Expect When You're Expecting per month, the way you're supposed to. No no, I devour the whole damn thing the weekend I buy it. So one little month into my pregnancy, I was already reading about the Stages of Labor and Potential Complications at Each Stage, and making myself sick with anxiety. And then there's the Internet. A few days after learning I was pregnant, I could have given you a pretty thorough description of preeclampsia, ectopic pregnancy, placenta previa, and anencephaly, to name a few. In an effort to be an Informed Pregnant Woman, I read too much. I learn about every potential problem and become convinced that I will get it. Even my doctor tells me to knock it off with the Googling. I'm trying.

And now, as if this post hasn't been tedious enough, I present to you M's Many Worries of Pregnancy. (Have I driven you away yet?)

Miscarriage
Ectopic pregnancy
Alcohol I drank before I knew
Meds I took before I knew
Fetal deformities
Neural-tube defects (spina bifida and the like)
Down's syndrome
Mental retardation
Autism
Mercury poisoning
Toxoplasmosis
Lysteria
High blood pressure
Too-fast weight gain
Not getting enough folic acid
Inadequate nutrition (read: "too many Fritos, not enough lettuce")
Inadequate finances?
We don't own a house
Day care versus staying home
How to find good daycare
Lame-ass maternity leave benefits
Figuring out breastfeeding
Will cats hate baby?
Will cats claw baby in jealous rage?
Should I have gotten pregnant younger?
Should I get pregnant again?

...and finally, will the baby get my ginormous nose?

That last one's a joke (although I do wonder), but the rest of 'em sure as hell aren't. This is the kind of stuff that whips me into a frantic lather. I'm amazed at pregnant women who are relaxed and normal and excited and happy and picking out cribs and Diaper Genies and tra la la, because how do they do it? How do they not worry?

To come: A post that doesn't involve my wearing my neuroses on my sleeve. And a post that isn't about pregnancy! I promise.

Interstitial: Feed Me

For your entertainment, here are my pregnancy cravings to date, in order of how bizarre they are, listed from least bizarre to most.

Bagels
Pizza
Hamburgers on the grill
"Chili Cheese" Fritos
Mustard
Mustard on tuna-fish sandwiches
"Easy Cheese," which is that spray cheese that comes in a pressurized can, doesn't need refrigeration, and features such baffling flavors as "bacon cheddar"

You'll notice that healthful food is conspicuously absent from this list. Nary a green to be found. Apparently Baby of M isn't interested in lettuce or broccoli. This is perhaps why, when I went to see the doctor this morning and asked about my weight gain, he agreed that I'm gaining a bit too fast and need to rein things in a bit if I don't want to be staring down a 40-pound weight gain at Month 8. A-hem.

Suffice it to say I'll be visiting the gym this evening. And keeping away from the rest of the "Ralph's fudgy chocolate bundt cake" that's in the fridge.

Time To Let It All Hang Out

Part II: I'm Pregnant. Both My Pee and My Blood Say So

The same day that I took my second pee-stick test, I made a covert call to my doctor from work to schedule a blood test. My understanding was that, while pee-stick tests are pretty accurate, a blood test is always needed to confirm a positive result. And I should mention here that it's always great fun making personal, private calls from my office building, which offers NO PRIVACY ANYWHERE. I always have to either whisper as articulately as possible into the phone that's in my cubicle, or take my cell phone out of the office suite into the corridor, which feels a little more private but sees plenty of foot traffic thanks to the restrooms and elevators located there. You never know when someone's going to step off the elevator and overhear you on your cell scheduling a Pap smear or describing the color of your cat's diarrhea to the vet.

Aaaaaanyway, I found a relatively quiet, solitary corner and made the call. When the receptionist asked for the type of appointment I needed, I whispered, "I think I might be pregnant" into the phone, to which she of course replied, "What?"

"I think I might be pregnant!"

"OK. So you want a blood test?"

"Yes."

"OK. Hm. We could fit you in in two weeks."

That killed me. I mean, two weeks? A whole fortnight? Who on earth has that kind of patience?

"Are you sure you don’t have anything sooner? I mean, like, this week, even?"

"Oh. Well, we could squeeze you in this Friday."

Even that sounded like an eternity, as I was calling on a Wednesday, but it sure as hell beat two weeks, so I took it.

Two days later, sitting across from Dr. A in her office, I learned that pee-stick tests are, in fact, extremely accurate. False positives are very, very rare, she told me. If I took two tests and both told me I was pregnant, then I was. She agreed to do the blood test as a formality, but in Dr. A's mind, I was pregnant beyond a doubt, and that was final.

"But what about all the alcohol I drank before I knew I was pregnant?" I asked.

"Don't worry about it."

"But also the ibuprofen and the Claritin-D."

"Don't worry about it."

"But..."

"M, did you smoke any crack recently?"
(First time a doctor's ever asked me that.)

"No."

"OK then. Stop worrying."

Well, OK. But that's easier said than done. More on THAT later.

On the drive back to work from Dr. A's, I first called S. He was excited, but he didn't want to do any celebrating of any kind until the blood-test result was in. That wasn't supposed to be until Monday, so we were in for a long, suspenseful weekend. After I called S, I caved and called my parents. I'd told myself I wouldn't do that until I knew absolutely, positively for sure, but the temptation was just too strong. I called and told them what the doctor had told me: the pee stick doesn't lie. They were, predictably, happy and supportive. It reduced my anxiety a tad. I was still feeling more terrified than anything else. They agreed not to share the news with any other family till that damn blood test was in.

Mercifully, Dr. A received the blood-test results from the lab the following day, a Saturday, and called us that day to let us know. "Break out the champagne!" she trilled into my voice mailbox, "Or in your case, M, the sparkling cider! You're pregnant!"

At which point, the REAL panic set in.

Time to Let It All Hang Out

...of my ever-straining, overworked, stretched-to-the-breaking-point, no longer adequate, wee little size-six pants

Part I: Holy Crap, I'm Pregnant

All righty. The time has come to bore you all with Tales of Pregnancy, M-Style. Now that everyone at my work knows that I'm befetused, I'm feeling ready and willing to blog about it. It ain't pretty, I'm warning you. Seriously, Scott and Brother of M and any other male readers I might have out there in the cyber-ether, you may want to take a collective manly vacation from Waxing Prosaic and just totally tune out for the next five months, you know? It's football season, right? Go watch some.

OK, then, girls. Here's the scoop. Having just returned from a whirlwind trip to Albany, NY (my hometown), where I'd attended my very bestest friend's wedding and visited the fam for the fourth of July holiday, S and I threw our suitcases into the living room, stripped to our skivvies, tossed some affection our cats' way, and climbed into bed. (It was past midnight, we were exhausted, and we both had to work the next day.) As per usual, S fell asleep instantly, damn him. I, on the other hand, lay awake feeling odd and unsettled. With sore knockers, I might add. (Again, Brother of M and Scott: Somewhere, in some stadium or another, someone's kicking the winning field goal. Right now. You don't want to miss it. Go grab a beer and some Doritos and make your way to the couch, immediately. Step away from Waxing Prosaic before somebody gets hurt.) So I decided I needed to take a pregnancy test RIGHT NOW, just to rule that crazy idea right out. Some nagging little feeling was really insisting that I stumble into the bathroom and pee on a stick, and it just couldn't wait till daybreak.

So, I blindly made my way through the dark to the bathroom and fumbled around for a test stick in the full-of-crap cupboard beneath the sink. Found one. Peed on it. Put the cap on the wrong way. Yanked it off and reattached it, correctly. Set the stick on the sink. Waited, with Toonces at my feet, for the result, feeling utterly certain that "Not Pregnant" would pop up on the little display, as it always had.

But sweet Jesus oh dear god: "Pregnant" appeared immediately. Immediately. Like, not even fifteen seconds after I got that freaking cap on right. I know it sounds theatrical, but I truly did rub my eyes and come in for a closer look, because I COULD NOT BELIEVE WHAT I WAS SEEING. I was utterly paralyzed and frankly, confused. I went cold and started shivering. I was just wholely unprepared for this result, and I so hate to be unprepared. Denial set in pretty fast, and I came up with the notion that the result was wrong because I had fumbled with the cap and put it on wrong the first time. That had to be it. That was the only logical explanation. I'd take another test first thing in the morning, being sure to attach that stupid cap the right way right from the get-go.

Regardless, this was such a baffling, freaky event that I had to tell S about it that minute. It couldn't wait. I slunk back to the bedroom and propped myself on my knees right next to where he lay sleeping. I hovered over him, staring at his face. (This is an effective, if spooky, way to wake him up without actually shaking him or making noise or hissing "S! S!" into his ear.) His eyelids started quivering and sure enough, he woke up and barked "What happened?" all disoriented-like. I told him what had just occurred. He stared at me. I stared at him. He broke out in a half-smile. I didn't. I was still convinced the result was wrong, and I told him so. "You're definitely re-taking it in the morning, then?" he asked, not sure how to react to this maybe-true, maybe-not news; appearing a little frightened by my intensity; and not seeming to want to jinx anything. "Yes," I stated. "And I'm sure it will be negative."

Hours passed. Not much sleep on my side of the bed. Waves of anxiety. Etc.

Took it again in the morning, bright and early, cap accurately positioned. "Pregnant." Unbelievable! What the hell?!

I know my first reaction should've been sheer joy, but I have to admit, that wasn't it. At all. I was utterly panicked and terrified, not because I didn't want to be pregnant (I did), but because it caught me so off-guard. S and I had been trying for SIX MONTHS---very precisely, I might add---to no avail whatsoever. We'd been getting worried that something was wrong, actually. And then, besides the slightly sore knockers, there'd been no indication that a wee little M + S zygote had finally been created and was floating around in my lady parts. So I felt like my body had played a huge trick on me: "Ha ha! You're pregnant, M! Surprise! Try not to feel too panicked by all the white wine, vodka-cranberry cocktails, Amstel Light, ibuprofen, and Claritin-D you ingested back in Albany, ‘kay?"

To be continued.

Down With Circus Peanuts

So I'm reading this book called Candyfreak, by Steve Almond, and it's got me thinking a lot about, well, candy. The book is a thoroughly delightful bit of nonfiction that is part humorous personal narrative and part history of candy manufacturing in America. Best of all, it's well-written AND funny. Finally. I'd been reading books that were either one or the other, and it was getting me down.

Anywho, the author's obsession with All Things Small and Sugary is rubbing off on me, I'm afraid. (I think I'm especially susceptible now that I'm PREGNANT! PREGNANT! PREGNANT! More on THAT soon.) Lately I've been tempted to buy candy bars, which really aren't anything I'd normally purchase or eat, I guess because my parents raised me to expect them on Halloween only, which always seemed pretty reasonable to me. (Good work, Watsons!) But the way Steve Almond describes the Clarke Bar, for example, borders on the pornographic. I find myself indescribably aroused by the thought of crispy peanut-butter filling "enrobed" (industry term) in rich chocolate.
You get the idea.

But today's topic is Candy That Never Should've Been. You know, those decades-old drugstore staples that make you ask, "Why?" They look gross. They sound gross. They taste gross. What's the attraction? Who keeps these brands in business? What gives?

I present to you my list:

-Necco Wafers
-Mentos (no offense to the Foo Fighters)
-Boston Baked Beans
-Good 'n' Plenty
-White jelly beans
-Black jelly beans
-Circus Peanuts
-Those miniature soda bottles made of wax that contain colored syrup

Just thinking of most of these makes me almost gag. Yet they've all been around forever.

Why?

These all need to be cleared permanently from the drugstore shelves so that more room can be made for the illustrious Snickers, Twix, and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.

Hey, that reminds me: According to Candyfreak, most Americans "hadn't even heard of chocolate," let alone eaten it, before 1893. That astounds me, for some reason. You'd think our European forebears would've introduced it to us long before then.