Week 26: "Bump" may be an understatement

I sort of can't believe I am posting such a horrid, grainy dressing-room self-portrait. BUT WOULD YOU GET A LOAD OF THAT BELLY?!

The heat is starting to get to me, so last night I went to the mall in search of some cool summer dresses. And I remembered way back when I was 8 or 9 weeks pregnant, I practically had a breakdown in the Old Navy dressing room. I was already starting to feel uncomfortable in my regular clothes, so I set out to see what maternity wear would look like. Turns out, it looked ridiculous. I was like a chubby ragamuffin with all that material sagging over my not-yet-fat-enough belly. And I couldn't tell which was worse: feeling fat and constricted or feeling thin and dumpy. So I decided the best thing would be to cry.

When I pulled this dress over my head yesterday, though, I couldn't believe the difference. It's like a basketball shoved under there! This takes me by such surprise, because I don't really FEEL like that. I'd say 90 percent of the time, I feel like my normal, pre-pregnancy self, with the same old body and same old everything. So it's a shocker to look in the mirror and see this crazy pregnant lady. I did a happy jump-up-and-down dance right there in the Baby Gap dressing room. And then I took this picture. Wheeee!

Presents!

I love presents! One for me, one for you! My friend Robyn did a cool thing on her blog that I am going to copy, because I want a free present. And if you are among the first five people to leave a comment on this post, then you will also get a present, made with love and smooches by me. But you have to do the same thing on your blog, and make something for five other people.

The details are as follows, and if you want to play, copy the following onto your blog and leave me a comment:

1. I make no guarantees that you will like what I make. Whatcha get is whatcha get.
2. What I create will be just for you.
3. It’ll be done this year (2009).
4. I will not give you any clue what it’s going to be. It will be something made in the real world and not something cyber. It may be weird or beautiful. Or it may be monstrous and annoying. Heck, I might bake something for you and mail it to you. Who knows? Not you, that’s for sure!
5. I reserve the right to do something strange.
6. In return, all you need to do is post this text on your blog and make five things for the first five to respond to your blog post.
7. Send your mailing address - after I contact you.

Hop to it!

Feeling a little ranty

About halfway through my body pump weightlifting class earlier this week, the instructor chirped that we had just finished what was voted "most challenging squats track of the year." Yay, us! But I was also reminded, for about the millionth time, that I'm still pissed off at Vicki Iovine, author of "Girlfriends' Guide to Pregnancy."

I discovered this book years ago in the waiting room of my OB/GYN office. I'd often pick it up and thumb through a few pages, feeling sorta guilty for peeking ahead but being unable to resist reading about this most mysterious topic. So when I became pregnant myself, I was excited to have an legitimate reason to read it.

The book claims to explain what REALLY happens during pregnancy, stuff your doctor won't tell you but your girlfriends will. A lot of it is fine, I suppose, but when I got to the chapter on exercise, the entire book was pretty much ruined for me. In this chapter, Vicki offers up eight reasons pregnant women shouldn't bother to exercise. And now I am going to share that list with you, along with my own personal opinion about why each and every item is total bullshit.

1. You will be too tired.
During my first trimester, the exhaustion was absolutely crippling, and it was indeed tougher to drag my ass out of bed in the morning. And nausea kept me off the elliptical a few times. But even during those morning (...noon, night...) sickness weeks, I tried to get out for a walk or two. And when I got back to regular workouts, I realized I had far more energy (aka fewer midafternoon naps at my desk) when I was getting regular exercise. For me, activity = energy.

2. You won’t like yourself in harsh gym mirrors.
Oh, right. I forgot how the most important thing at the gym is to look gorgeous! I seriously can't believe a woman wrote this. Vicki says she would prefer to "sulk and stop exercising" before becoming one of those "die-hard" pregnant exercisers who wear their husband's T-shirts "to camouflage things." She also warns that regular gym clothes "take on a whole new identity when stuffed with pregnant bellies, pregnant thighs and pregnant knees, and topped off by pregnant arms." I guess I am supposed to be ashamed of this? Well, I'm not. Look, I'm quite aware that the giant-T-shirt-over-a-beach-ball look isn't sexy, and that I'm likely plumping out all over right now. But I still feel a little proud when I look in the gym mirror. Watching my body doing lunges or shoulder presses is cool, like I'm still a strong and motivated person despite the increasing physical limitations of pregnancy. And guess what? If I wasn't at the gym, I'd probably be staring in the mirror at home, feeling depressed about the weight gain Vicki thinks I should do nothing to control. Fun!

3. You will get fat anyway.
No shit. Hey, Vicki, nobody thinks you can exercise away a pregnant belly. But just because weight gain is inevitable doesn't mean I should let the flab just wash over me. My doctor said I should gain 25-35 pounds during pregnancy, and so far I'm within the ballpark. If I wasn't working out several times per week - especially considering the volumes of food I'm eating - I don't think I'd stand a chance at achieving this perfectly reasonable goal.

4. Exercise will not help you during labor and delivery in any way.
I am going to go out on a limb here, since this is an area in which I have no experience. But I'm pretty sure I'm right that LABOR IS HARD. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. Vicki explains that exercise won't make your vagina more delivery-friendly or your contractions less painful or more productive (did anybody really think that anyway?) But I believe the mental endurance and focus I have learned through exercise - particularly with running, yoga and weight training - may indeed come in handy one day in October. Another book I read suggested that you get lots of sleep as your due date nears, since you never know when you'll have to get up and perform the gynecological equivalent of running a marathon. For 18 hours. So to me, it seems that, in the months leading up to this feat, a little activity for the ol' ticker and the rest of your muscles MIGHT not be such a bad idea.

5. You might endanger the pregnancy.
I know there are situations in which exercise is a bad idea for pregnant ladies. But those ladies have received those instructions from their doctor, and it's just silly of this writer to alarm the pregnant population at large. This might be a good time to mention the benefits exercise can bring to your pregnancy, including alleviating constipation, making your back feel better, and helping you sleep at night.

6. Even if you don’t, and something goes wrong, you will forever wonder if your exercising caused it.
Well, I wasn't GOING to wonder that, but maybe I will now. Thanks a lot, "girlfriend."

7. It’s nine months up and nine down no matter what you do.
It's stupid to make a blanket decree like this. Some women drop the weight in a couple of months. Others take a year or more. In fact, pretty much all advice about pregnancy can in some ways seem worthless, since every complaint, every body change, every labor and delivery story, is different for every single woman.

8. Our compulsion to exercise when we are pregnant is a reflection of our inability to surrender and let nature run its course.
This is when I had to put the book down and laugh. Guess what. I surrendered the moment I saw that positive pregnancy test in February. And nature? Well, from the look and feel of things, it's running its course just fine, not hindered whatsoever - and perhaps even helped - by my dedication to working out.

And let me share my favorite part about working out while pregnant: When I go to the gym these days, I am heaped in admiration. My locker-room pals marvel at the fact that I'm still working out at nearly 6 months. They pat me on the back. They tell me I look great. And believe me, when a person is getting fatter, zittier, crankier, sweatier, and ever more uncomfortable living in their own skin, there is no quicker way to feel like a million bucks.

Spaghetti squash and a Subaru

Lots of big news and fun updates from the past couple of weeks, which has been a flurry of budgeting, buying, selling, list-making, fixing and organizing. The goal, I believe, is to be "ready" for the baby by the beginning of September, giving us a month or so of just-in-case time before we hit the real home stretch. So let's just say I'm feeling some pressure right now. But the good news is, I really dig shit like this. Diving headfirst into seven projects at once - especially when they have nothing to do with actual work! - is about my favorite thing. So here's what's been going on.

First of all, we realized several months ago to that to change our second bedroom from office/guestroom to nursery, we had to get our act together in two or three other rooms to find places to put all that stuff. We started with Sal's office, getting rid of some junky furniture on Craigslist and buying several large bookcases to organize our 1.8 trillion books. We also made one of Sal's lifelong manly dreams come true, buying him a cool leather chair. (And he totally tested out the baby-holding allowability of this model at Cost Plus, using a squishy long pillow from a nearby patio set. See? Manly!)


We also began the rather terrifying process of figuring out what we want in things like a stroller, car seat, crib. To do this, we took the advice of many and drove all the way up to Lullaby Lane in San Bruno. Everyone who tells you this is the ONLY place to do major baby shopping in the Bay Area is, I'm sure, 100 percent correct. We dealt with three salespeople about three different products and all of them were friendly, spectacularly knowledgeable and low-pressure. But this is not to say that the day was easy, so around noontime, we took a halftime break here:


We didn't make any purchases that day (we'll do that next week) as this was just to test the waters. But as we drove back to San Jose, we began to feel kinda bad about the idea of spending our money in another city. So just to play fair, we also visited San Jose's Babyland, which is famously located next to the Pink Poodle adult theater. Well, nobody talked to us, the selection wasn't nearly as good, and the whole 20 minutes we spent there just felt deflating. So we head back out to the car. And as I'm opening my door, Sal goes, "Want to know another reason we're not buying at Babyland? Because at Lullaby Lane, you don't find THIS in the parking lot."


Don't miss the fine print on that bad boy! Ahem. OK, so moving on, last week we sold my little green VW Beetle to a lovely young college student who answered my Craigslist ad. This was the first time I have ever sold a car privately (probably because it's the first time I was ever not selling a total hunk of crap) and I must say it was overall quite a pleasant experience. I LOVED that car, and I bawled as I turned the keys over. But this young woman was so sweet and barely acted scared of me at all. And a few days ago, she even sent me a photo of her and my car on a road trip to Napa. She wrote that she is in love with the car already and promises to take very good care of it. Adorable.


Then it was time to find the new, baby-friendly car. So on Tuesday night we went to the local Subaru dealership to look for a Forester, which we love because it's a teensy bit tall and a teensy bit wide, but it's not a big honking SUV. (Bonus: It's the 2009 Motor Trend Sport/Utility of the Year!) I saw a color I immediately loved in the exact trim I wanted, we took a test drive, and it was perfect. So we headed into The Scary Room with our salesman, who said the price they could give us was a hefty chunk off the sticker price, plus we qualified for an outstanding finance rate.

At this point, it had been a good 20 minutes since my last meal, and I was starving. So I told the guy we were heading out to get dinner and we'd be back. He paled, then offered to send someone to buy us dinner. Er, no. We're leaving. So he tosses us the keys and insists that we take the car. DAMN, that's a good trick. We drove it over to the nearest Round Table, since in this family, all important decisions and discussions are required to unfold over pizza.


Seriously! We had pizza twice when buying our home (once to discuss what kind of offer to make on our house, once when meeting with our financing guy) and we had pizza after the first time we saw our baby in the ultrasound. These are but three of many, many examples. We also have lots of pizza for non-important reasons, but that's not my point right now. Anyway, what we had to discuss was this: How to bargain with this guy when (a) we knew their offer was actually pretty good, (b) there's nothing more I want or need regarding the car, (c) we have a down payment, so there's no trade-in to haggle about, and (d) oh yeah, we've never done this before and are kind of clueless.

So I decided to be honest. We went back and I told the guy, "Look. The truth is, I love this car. I want this car, and I want to buy it from you. And I know you are offering a fair price. But the thing is, only a moron would walk into a car dealership and pay the very first thing the dealer offered. And I just can't be that person." And he's like, "So, you NEED something." Yes, I need something. So he went to his boss, got me a few somethings, and we shook hands. Could we have done better? Probably, but I feel pretty good about this considering it was our first time out. (Plus, don't tell Phil or whatever his name was, but we would totally have paid that first price.)


I would have posed in that picture with the car, but I didn't want to obstruct the view. HA! Jokes. But I have popped out a little bit. My helpful weekly BabyCenter e-mail tells me that the Appleseed is now the size of a spaghetti squash, hence the title of this blog post that probably should have been explained 18 paragraphs ago. Anyhow. Here's the grainy BlackBerry self-portrait taken of me and my baby at week 22!

New thing to save if the house burns down

I had the loveliest surprise on my front porch when I came home from work yesterday from my friend Robyn, who creates the prettiest things you ever did see, right out of thin air. Check this out:


It's a baby quilt, WITH MY DOG ON IT! Chickens on a blanket! Isn't it marvelous?! And since we aren't finding out the gender of the baby until it's here, Robyn cleverly used a nice balance of pink and green with a soft brown lining that will be perfect in either case.

How Robyn found an applique that looked so much like Chickenbone is beyond me. I'm not sure if you're aware of this, but he's a somewhat peculiar-looking dog. Handsome, for sure. But unlike any other dog anywhere, ever. This patch is spot-on, though, especially with the shape of the ears, the tilted head, and those ridiculously short legs. In fact, this is exactly how he looks after he sprints into the kitchen when he hears me grabbing cheese out of the fridge!

Thanks, Robyn, for a present that includes BOTH my babies!

Week 17 ultrasound

Here are some pictures from yesterday's peek at the baby, aka the best television show ever. The technician said our child is "gorgeous" and "cooperative" and "a real character." Therefore we like her very much. (The technician, not the child, whose gender we won't know till it's here. I mean, we like the child, too. But you see what I mean.)

At this visit, we could actually see organs for the first time, including all four chambers of the heart. We also saw two legs, but only one arm. I'm opting not to dwell on that.


Here's a closeup of the face, wherein my child looks like a bald, grinning, one-eyed clown pirate.


Some people may think this photo shows the baby trying to suck its thumb. But if it takes after me, Sal or Chickenbone, it is probably saying "Uh, trying to sleep in here, do you mind?"

We named him "Ratbone"

Had a little excitement during the Mother's Day brunch we hosted this weekend. After the meal, I was sitting at the dining room table chatting with my mother-in-law and our other lady relatives when Sal walks in and calmly explains "Well, we have a situation. There's a rat in my office."

A-WHA?????

Turns out that while Sal and his two dads were lounging in the back yard, they watched a giant, hairy rat zoom out of the garden and right into the open door of Sal's office, a big room that is part of our detached garage. So what do the dads decide to do? Why, shrug their shoulders and have another gulp of beer, of course! "He'll come out eventually," said one. "I'd put out some D-Con!" said another. "That thing is huge!" they chortled.

Well, I am not the kind of person who can just forget about a giant crazy rat in a room, any room, of my house. Also, I was curious to get a look at this monster. Sal said it ran into a corner, beneath one of the metal shelving units that hold his fourteen hundred thousand comic books. So I get down on all fours (waaaay on the other side of the room) and flick on the flashlight. And let me just say that this was hardly a scary beast. In fact, it was the sorriest excuse for a rat I have ever seen. It was pale and raggedy, and it cowered in the corner with little black frightened eyes that were wide as saucers.

I stand up. "We are not killing it."

For a moment, Sal stares thoughtfully around the room. And then he instructs me to start grabbing comic book boxes off the shelves. "We're going to build a run!" he exclaims. How deeply I love this man. So we dragged the heavy boxes across the floor until we had barricaded this area from the rest of the office. There was only one way for this devil to run, and that was OUT.

(The dads think all this is hysterical, and they keep getting up to look inside and snicker at what we're doing. One stands by the door with his foot raised. "When he runs out, I'll get 'im!")

We finish constructing the run, and I rattle a broom around back in the corner. The rat squeaked in terror, which totally hurt my heart, but he did run out. Unfortunately, we forgot to block one important crevice - the space behind the tall, heavy filled-to-the-brim bookcase - so naturally that's exactly where he runs. Swearing ensues. Especially when we realize he was hiding in a small space beneath the bottom shelf, where we couldn't even shoo him out with the broom.

So we begin the process of removing all the books. And once they were out, Sal tilts the shelf over and I do my broom-waving thing, adding for good measure some yelps and shrieks and "GETOUTTAHERE! GETOUTTAHERE!"

This poor, sad fellow. In broad daylight I realize he is half-bald. And what fur he does have is a sickly looking, mottled grey. He keeps running in circles and bumping into boxes, so I bang the broom on the floor in a strategic manner, and the rat finally makes his way out the door and into the woodpile near the garage.

Here's a picture of the run. We are quite proud of ourselves. (You can also see Chickenbone, who was too much of a pansy to face the actual rat itself, but still wanted to growl at the scent lingering behind the bookcase.)


As for the rat, he stayed in the woodpile, no doubt petrified of the giant red dog who kept shoving his snout into the wood and barking. A couple hours later, after Chickens had gone inside, the rodent (now affectionately known as Ratbone) creeped out and headed toward the garden area, and then down the driveway and behind our trash cans. We assumed he probably escaped under the fence, because what kind of nutjob rat would want to stick around all this broom-waving, dog-slobbering craziness?

But a little while later, Chickens comes out to inspect the woodpile again, and from there we watched him slowly sniff out the exact trail the rat took, all the way around the yard. Next thing we know, he's lunging at the trash cans barking and snarling up a storm. Actual spittle is flung from his jaws as I pick up the writhing little dog. Sal runs over, moves the cans and opens the gate, and our friend the rat makes his exit.

And that is the story of my very first mother's day! I also got flowers and a lovely card from my husband, and I ate bacon. It was a really good day.