Post-Doctor's Visit

The good news is that the baby is head down and the doctor said she is not likely to move. The kid has good instincts and is inching her way to the light. I like that in a baby. They estimate her weight to be about 6lbs 14oz, but there is a 25% range either way. In other words, that measurement means next to nothing about the size of the Peppermint. The doctor also checked my cervix, which was not comfortable one bit, and also informed us that nothing is happening to indicate that birth is imminent. I am not dialated or effacted. There's been no thinning or contracting or signs that this baby is making her southernly exit any time soon. Mostly that is ok with me. I am still 2 weeks and 5 days from the due date, so it's too early to panic and start posting entries about how I think this baby will never leave.

But. But.

It's a little nervewracking to be waiting. Next week I will on official maternity leave and then it will be my full-time job to wait. Oh, and to worry. WORRY WORRY WORRY. I can't explain the hell that the worrying creates. I can't stop it. I just read a post about a woman whose son didn't make it through delivery because the cord was around his next. WHY DID I READ THAT POST? It's too late now. Now, I have a newly minted worry. I actually already asked my doctor about the danger of the cord being around the baby's neck, and I was assured that it's very rare and the doctors know how to deal with it. Today the doctor emphasized that I need to keep doing my kick counts: three times per day I should feel 5 to 10 kicks in an hour. DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT THESE KICK COUNTS ARE DOING TO ME? They are freaking me out. I can't concentrate because I just want my baby to kick all the time until she's born. She can relax when she's born.

I know. It's unnatural for me to wish that upon my daughter who should be allowed to gestate in peace while I take care of her. But the terror. The terror. When I get up to pee at 3:30 a.m. and get back into bed, I can't fall asleep until I feel her kick or move 6 times. Guess what? Sometimes my baby is actually sleeping at that hour, which for most "normal" mothers is a good thing. A very good thing. Not me. Nope. I lack the gene for trust so I need the external proof. And that's why these freaking kick counts are making me insane. I will be happy when they are over, which is the only reason I want the pregnancy to end. I am hoping it takes some of this paralyzing worry with it.

So, deep breaths and biscotti and distractions from my job and my beloved band of friends are helping. In my spare time, I enjoy feeling guilty about being pregnant with my little miracle when I have friends who are struggling to get and stay pregnant. I feel like I have to apologize to them everyday for loving my body, my baby, her nursery, and the promise of this new miraculous life growing inside me. I wish for anyone who wants a pregnancy that she or he can have it. It's extraordinary and if I was in charge it would be a free gift for anyone, like air or water or freedom. But, I am not in charge and bad things happen and reproduction is startlingly complex and it's probably somewhat codependent for me to think it's my job to apologize for it or that it has anything to do with me. Perhaps a better course is for me to remain grateful and to use my own gifts to connect with others, most importantly, with my daughter and my husband. To celebrate the coming days that will usher a whole new life into my house and into the world. There is joy to be had and me apologizing for someone else's route to joy is no way to honor the Pepps or my marriage or my own gorgeous and flawed journey to get to where I am right now.

Jeff and I talk often about what "fair" means. Is it fair that I am pregnant when people who have been trying for years aren't yet? Is it fair that I still have a job in this economy? Is it fair that I was born into a family that really valued education and encouraged me to use that as a route to self-actualization and personal growth. During the summers my mom would pay us $1.00 for every book we read. What a great idea. I made a lot of money during summer. I used to tell my mom I wanted to work in a diner like Alice, Flo, and Vera who worked for Mel at Mel's Diner. My mom would say to me, "I think you want own the diner." That's an amazing thing to tell a little girl in the 1970's. Was it fair that I got that message and had the inner belief that I could be a lawyer at a big law firm and be a capital P professional?

Then again, it's not my favorite fact in the world that I grew up in an alcoholic home. That doesn't seem like the most fair thing I have ever heard of. And, the alcoholic in my home got into recovery and got sober and stayed sober, so what about the people who grew up with active alcoholism and had to watch parents, siblings and loved ones perish to a disease that ravages the liver and destroys the spirit? It also wasn't fun being bulimic in college, but I too found recovery. Which part of that is fair? That I ever had to suffer through active eating disorder or that I found recovery at the tender age of 19?

It depends on how you look at it.

Life is grossly unfair. And, in some respects, it's staggeringly fair. I don't yet know if the unfairness outweighs the fairness in my life. Does it all balance out? I have no idea and I am ok with the fact I may never know. Thinking about it reminds me of an M.C. Esher drawing-- are the stairs going up or down?

I do know that I would like to believe that maybe there are more important things for me to focus on right now, letting other people fight their battles for themselves. My job is to hydrate in this ridiculous Chicago humidity and to show up for my final days of work before my leave and to pay attention when Jeff asks me what color grout I want for our tiles. That's my business right now. To participate in my life and my partnerships. I can leave the notion of fairness to the philosophers and theologians. I am a lawyer-about-to-be-mother and, while I am willing to work for fairness in my corner of the world, I only have one uterus (actually I have two if you count Peppermints) that is mine to mind, so perhaps a little less focus on everyone else and a little more focus on my own gifts. Isn't that what everyone is striving for in the first place? The grace to relish and cherish the gifts we do have while waiting patiently for those not yet in our grasp?

Heatin' UP

We are on our way to our 37-week appointment where I will have an ultrasound to determine which direction the baby is facing (we hope head down with her butt forward) and to get an approximation of her weight thus far. I have been up since 4:00 a.m. after a very fitful night of sleep. I can't seem to sleep through the anxiety that comes the night before a doctor's appointment. I keep reading about women who went in for their appointments and were sent directly to L&D (that's labor and delivery) because of major dilation or protein in urine or something else. I don't feel unusual at all-- except this heat is making my feet look like Shrek's feet-- but just in case, I am putting my bag in the car. I may be doing myself a disservice by reading my Mommy message board on babycenter.com, but the real injustice would be if I torture myself by reading it and then take no steps to heed what I have read. So, into the car my bag will go. I just shoved some extra snack bars and rubber bands in there, just in case I feel the need to corn row my hair or eschew the phat dining available at the brand new Prentice Hospital in order to chow on some organic date bars.

So back to the baby. I am told that if she is breech or not in the right position the doctor will "take measures" to see if we can turn her. These measures include the doctor trying to turn her from the outside by spinning my belly like she's a contestant on the Wheel of Fortune. I saw it once on the Baby Story and it looked really painful and ultimately difficult to pull off. She may not have enough room to get into a different position and I may not have enough stamina to let the doctor push and prod me for something that ultimately won't work. I am trying to brace for the possibility of walking out today with a date for a C-section. Is it the worst thing that could happen? Absolutely not. We just want everyone to come home safely from Peppermint's birth. However, I detest the though of a C-section because it's so medical and involves incisions and hugely interventionist procedures. Mostly, I would be very sad because I really want to hold my juicy little Peppermint the minute she comes out-- as in, before they clean her up and weigh her. I want to go primal and have her near me, but if I have a C-section, that's not possible. From what I have seen and heard, the best they can do with a C-section is to parade her before my face while my innards are stuffed back into my body's cavity and I won't even be able to touch her. I will surrender to whatever the doctor says, but I will NOT be pleased if I have to go that route.

Thinking about all of that last night and counting Pepps' kicks last night didn't leave much room for sleeping. I am also getting used to contending with the 80-degree heat and the high humidity. Everyone has always told me how lucky I am that I won't be pregnant in August and now I know why. Yesterday, when I was walking to work, I could only walk about a block before having to guzzle some Gatorade. By the time I made it to my office, my hands looks like Polish sausage and I didn't recognize my feet. Ankles? What ankles? I kept wondering how women in the South do this because it's hot for months down there. What about poor women who have no access to central air conditioning or the comforts I take for granted? Being dehydrated can cause contractions and early labor, so you better believe that I was all over that yesterday. I was sipping ice water all freaking day and sending well wishes to my Southern and less fortunate sisters who have to navigate extreme heat while trying to carry a baby.

The Next Generation

Here's me and my mom at my baby shower last weekend. I pray to age at least 1/2 as well as she is! She could be my sister! I am thinking of the impending arrival of the next generation. Miss Pepps is moving like crazy today-- it feels like she is trying desperately to stretch out in the womb, but there is no room in the womb. I want her to stay as long as she wants, but judging from the jabs and movements I am feeling, she's starting to get pissed about the cozy confines. I don't blame her one bit. Like her mama, she has a heart that yearns to be free. On my July 2009 mommy message board, you wouldn't believe the birth stories that are coming fast and furious. I know more about mucus plugs and water breaking than I ever thought possible. It makes me feel a little bit paranoid about every ache and pain. Last night I was convinced I was in labor because I was having some menstrual-type cramps. In retrospect, it was maybe the extra Peppermint Pattie I had right before bed and the 10 glasses of water I had after that.

I am relieved to hear that there is normal to feel like this whole thing is surreal, especially until you see the baby. We've been waiting all these months and weeks and now it's so close. Closer than our next mortgage payment and still....I still can't believe we are pregnant and about to slide down the parent rabbitt hole, which I hope is better lit that my own birth canal!

Bastille Day Baby Nursery

Back on November 6, 2008, about 7 hours after Jeff and I took our pregnancy test and found out about the Peppermint, I called my friend Cynthia who asked me if I had figured out my due date. To her dismay, I hadn't so she promptly looked it up for me: July 14, 2009-- Bastille Day. Thus, when the theme of our nursery took shape, it was totally fitting that we chose a French theme: the toile, the Paris map, the Ballooning Over France print. I gotta say, I am pretty proud of this because it's fresh, original, not-too-gender stereotypical, and it's my favorite room in our house now. At this point, about 3.5 weeks away from Bastille Day, we are only missing the diaper genie, the first aid kid, and the breast pump. Not bad for first-time parents.
We'll probably spend a lot of time here: the changing table. Here's where diaper magic will happen. By "we," I mean Jeff, who has expressed a deep longing and desire to handle diaper duty in all its glory during her first year of life. Maybe not, but a woman can dream. He did inform me yesterday that his college friends informed him that a breast-fed baby's poop tends to be a mustadardy color. From that, I infer his interest and desire to take the lead in all things diaper. Am I reading too much into the conversation?


Here's a Land of Nod Shelf that houses her first Cubs cap and a vintage book of Fairy Tales from France. We included some of our first and most precious Peppermint-themed items, including portrait by Joyce Polance and Peppermint Bark, a Hannukah gift from Jeff to me. And of course, her first ultrasound picture! She's such a dear one, that Peppermint.
The map of Paris, which really catapulted us into this whole French theme. We found this interesting little curio at Target, which is very similar to a Parisian flea market, no?
The final decorative piece arrived today: Ballooning Over Paris, which we got custom framed from Art.com. I love it. There is plenty of time for princesses, or bunnnies, or Disney, or horses, or ballet. For now, we are keeping it french and fancy.
I love this bedding so much it makes me want to be a baby just so I can sleep with it. It's from Babies R Us, and I think it's by Laura Ashley. Holy crap it's really beautiful. The bumpers have to go when she's sleeping in there because SIDS guidelines warn against anything at all in crib bedsides baby in a straight jacket, but for now, the bumpers make mommy really really happy when she walks in the nursery.

Bang Up Job

Last week I went to get my hair trimmed since it's unclear how trips to the salon will go when I have a wee Peppermint in my care. The whole point of the trip from my vantage point was to discuss a plan for growing out my bangs. They had gotten to that unbearable stage-- too long to really be bangs and just a smidge too short to go behind my ear. In other words, it was so damn irritating that I thought that I should have a professional intervene before I got out the buzz clippers that Jeff uses on his "hair." I think my communication with Ricky went astray at some point, because I walked out with 3-inch bangs. I was thinking we would just trim them up a little bit, but now I have bona fide bangs, which I haven't had since fifth grade. It feels really strange to see a version of my fifth-grade self staring at me when I am actually about to something really mature like have a baby. (Yes, I know that plenty of fifth graders have babies, but this isn't an episode of Frontline so I am pretending that only adults have children and I am pretending that I am an adult. It's my damn blog.)

Anyway, I have decided that growing out my bangs is probably harder than having a baby. At least when I give birth, there will be an option for an epidural. What's the medication for the traumatic haircut? Cutsie hair clips? Telling myself lies that I don't care how I look? Please pass the percocet.

And, when I am not busy self-indulgently thinking about my hair growth and 5-year hair plan, I am thinking about our nursery. We got the bedding for the crib last night, which my mom sent to us. It's gorgeous. I love it so much it makes me want to be a baby so I can sleep surrounded by all that comfy French toile. The theme of the nursery is Paris and as soon as the print of "Ballooning Over Paris" arrives, I will post pictures of little Peppermint's lilypad. It's such a cute room I think I will enjoy hanging out there even at 2:00 a.m. when I am feeding her for the 4th time in 5 hours. That's how much I love toile.

More solid and familiar ground slips away this weekend as my office is moving locations. And I thought moving my single self around the city was traumatic. Watching several hundred people pack up their offices and deal with hundreds of legal files borders on gothic. I keep thinking to myself that it would be nice to have a little bit of stability right now-- I am still getting used to Jeff not working right now, I am mourning the loss of my crappy and too-tiny shower stall in the wake of the Great Master Bath Renovation of 2009, my office is moving and my singlehood and childless existence is waiting to appear in my mental rearview mirror. Yes, I know all of these are good and great and sublime things that are coming to pass, but is it too much to ask that I could pee in the same toilet every night I have been peeing in for months or to come to the same office and brood about the economy or my legal prowess for a few more weeks?

Apparently so.

36 Weeks, People

We just had our 36-week visit at the doctor's office, which marked my first internal exam in a long time. Turns out my cervix is not doing anything worth reporting as of yet. I am glad. I think I would have had a heart attack if I was already dilated or if my cervix was thinning out. The doctor casually mentioned that if I was to go into labor right now, she would not do anything to stop it. Hearing that from my ob/gyn certainly added to the crumbling of my denial. As far as she's concerned, this baby is cooked!

And, thankfully, the internal exam was not as bad as I feared it would be, especially since I thought that today was my day to meet with the only male doctor in my practice. Looks like my luck is turning because it wasn't my luck to have my first internal exam with a male doctor. I also got the paperwork signed so that I can start my maternity leave 2-weeks prior to Pepps' due date and the doctor wrote on the form under DIAGNOSIS : "Normal Pregnancy." Is there anymore more poetic and blessed than having a normal pregnancy? I didn't even know to wish for that explicitly. I feel a tremendous sense of surrender when I think about wishes coming true that I hadn't even gotten around to wishing.

And, there are some wishes that I wish all the time that haven't yet come true. For example, I wish I could walk into any public venue and use a clean, well lit bathroom. Every time I go walking, I have to think long and hard about where I can use the facilities. Most mornings I try to walk part of the way to work. I can usually make it to the Jewel, 40 minutes into the walk, before my bladder explodes on Milwaukee Avenue. It's trickier if I walk home from work. The Jewel is about 50 minutes into the walk home, and it's tough to go 50 minutes without a pee break. The only other bathroom I have found on the way is at the Bucktown Library. Debilitating it is not, but it's damn uncomfortable to be trying to find a bathroom all the live long day.

And, my latest pet peeve is a bookstore in my neighborhood that does not have bathrooms. A bookstore? Come on. You want me to browse through your two floors of books and spend money on USED books, but you won't let me pee? That's the worst policy I can think of, besides the military's don't ask/don't tell. Who can spend less than 20 minutes in a used book store? After all, I don't know what's in there. The whole point of going to a used book store is to lose myself in the stacks and stacks of used books-- enduring the strange smells and narrow corridors-- and not feeling rushed. I want to support the independent book stores and locally owned businesses, but you HAVE TO LET ME PEE. To state the obvious, every Barnes & Noble and Border's I have ever been in have bathrooms that I can use so that I don't have to rush from the self-help section to the children's section and then sprint through the fiction section because my daughter's head is sitting on my bladder. I'm just saying.

Anyway, yesterday we received a changing pad and all the accoutrements to deal with the diaper situation that will commence when Peppermint arrives. That means we are officially ready, as in, really ready for this baby to come. I think the only thing we are are missing is the breast pump, which I am hoping comes in pink. If I hold out long enough maybe I can get one that matches my Chi flat iron!

Proof We May Be Insane

Yep, here's the nesting we're doing. We couldn't just get new bumpers and wash all the baby's clothes. Nooooooooooo. We had to demolish a wall in the bathroom and tear down some tile and dry wall. It's moments like this when I realize how much more alike Jeff and I are than I ever realized. I think of myself as the dramatic, grand gesture sort of person. We always joke that I don't have a medium speed and I don't do gray because I am busy with either black or white. In other words, not a lot of sublty coming from me.

Then, 4 weeks before I give birth to our first child, Jeff decides to demolish the master bathroom. To his credit, he hasn't been glued to the baby message boards where July 2009 babies are being born early by the dozens. He's not worried. This is a man who is not concerned about any potential early dilation or passage of the mucus plug. Actually, this is a man who isn't worried about much of anything.

And here's the best part of the remodeling project-- aside from now being only about 10 days away from a new rain shower and travertine floor: Jeff hired a former boyfriend of mine to do the remodeling. Could I make this up? No, I couldn't. When I think of hiring one of his ex-girlfriends to come into our home and perform manual labor, I just about asphixiate from the weight of the absurdity of that fantasy. Not Jeff. He learned that someone I used to date is now a contractor who does really great work and he began negotiating with him about our project. Twice in 3 days I have called Jeff during the day to say hi and he has had to hang up on me because My Ex The Contractor has been either on the other line or ringing the doorbell.

As if pregnancy wasn't strange enough.

In the meantime, I am still working for two more weeks. I have a brief due next Thursday so after that I may really be coasting. I won't mention that I thought I was coasting until this brief showed up on my desk yesterday. It's probably not the worst thing in the world to have something to focus on besides my belly and my cravings. Friends keep asking me whether I have had any cravings, but the truth is I have mostly had aversions. There are foods I used to love that I cannot touch now: brussel sprouts, sweet potatoes, curry, dates, hard pretzels. Just the thought of them sort of turns my stomach like it did back in my first trimester. I am told that the baby is doing a great deal of growing in these last few weeks, mostly packing on baby fat and getting her systems in order (circulatory, digestive, nervous, etc.) Not only am I much more hungry, I am having some pretty strong cravings. Today I thought I would die if I didn't get some peanut butter and mangos. I had to settle for peanut butter and pear, but I am going to get a mango on the way home because in some small way it feels like my life depends on it.

The baby is getting the hiccups more and more. She probably gets them once a day now, which is so fun. I can see my belly moving with her hiccups in a perfect little staccato rhythym. The other night she woke me up when she kicked me straight in my ribs. It didn't hurt, but if she doubles in weight in the next few weeks, she'll really be packing a punch. I am proud of her, growing so strong in there. Wait til she sees the adorable outfits waiting for her on the other side of the placenta. I am still tweaking the birth mix so it's a good thing she seems content to hang out in there for a little while longer.

In the meantime, I look forward to coming home from work everyday checking out the progress in our bathroom and timing my arrivals and departures perfectly so I just happen to miss my Ex.

Shower The People You Love With Love

We had our shower on Sunday, June 14, 2009, which is exactly one month before Ms. Pepps' due date. It was so lovely and for once we got nice weather in Chicago. I am still recovery from the love hangover-- there was so much love and abundance showered on me, Jeff and Pepps from the second I stepped into my friend Krista's house. My mom came in from Texas and Jeff's mom was there from LA. There were Peppermint balloons and peppermint candies. The best part of all is that we are now ready for the baby. We got some critical purchases such as the car seat, the leopard print snow suit, and baby books to last through kindergarten. Honestly, the only thing missing is the baby.

This is all taking a turn for the very, very real and imminent!

I also requested the paperwork to initiate my maternity leave today. I am lucky to be at a firm that has very generous leave for mothers. 18 weeks of leave once the baby is born and short term disability for the 2 weeks prior to my due date. While I confine my professional complaints to oral expressions of displeasure and do not indulge in this forum, for all my complaints I know I am lucky to have this time off to focus on my relationship with my daughter and getting to know her and what is next for my family.

Exhausted from the shower yesterday, I decided to come home this afternoon to rest and take a nap. Unfortunately, I forgot that today Jeff is doing "demolition" on our master bathroom today so it's not the quietest environment for resting. I just went to check on him and he was covered in dust and knocking down a wall. To my great pleasure, he had on safety goggles and a mask. In my much wilder youth, I may have relished the opportunity to take a slug at the wall with a hammer, but I am content to lay on the bed catching up on the NY Times and complaining to Jeff about how loud demolition is.

So, yes, at 36 weeks pregnant, we have decided now is the time to make over our master bathroom. It's something that, if I read about another young couple doing this at the tail end of a pregnancy, I would judge them for being chaotic or having a poor sense of timing. I have decided it's our version of nesting and if at the end I get a baby and a rain shower with slate stones, then so be it. Who am I to fight against Jeff's nesting instinct? I wouldn't win anyway!

I will post some pictures of the fabulous shower gifts we got shortly. For now, I need to go check on Jeff to be sure he hasn't impaled himself on any sharp objects or left any of my Philosphy shower gel in what is left of our old master bathroom.

Blended Family

I love baby clothes and baby booties and baby blankets, but I really love our new baby blender! I saw it from across the room in the housewares section of a major department store and just knew I had to have it. Look how cute it is! Jeff and I already planned to make Pepps' baby food ourselves once she can eat solid food, and this is the perfect accessory. We have a great cook book for her called "Le Petit Apetite" by Lisa Barnes, whose philosphy is that infants/toddlers should not be forced to eat processed, manufactured, crappy tasting food. It's hard not to agree with that. It might be funny when I sit down to dinner in about 9 months and give Pepps her organic sweet potato and some organic bananas while my Mac 'n Cheese T.V. dinner is heating in the microwave. But you know, you always want better for your children than for yourself, right?

We also joined a CSA where we pick up our fresh vegetables every Sunday. We started last week with lettuce, arugula, spinach, radishes and garlic chives. Pretty leafy start to the whole summer season. I was hoping for asparagus and tomatoes and peaches, but funny thing about CSAs is that they tend to grow according to seasons so I just have to wait my turn for tomatoes. The peaches thing won't work out because it appears that the CSA I joined knows the difference between fruits and vegetables. Oh well, win some and lose some.

Other than that, I just spend my time trying to stay awake all day and then trying to fall asleep at night. Actually, it's pretty easy to fall asleep, but staying asleep is more challenging than before. (Before I had a human being in my stomach, that is.) Back in early May I made a little trip to the hospital because I wasn't feeling as much baby movement. The doctors rely on moms' reports of baby movement to assess, in part, the baby's health and progress. I have literally almost driven myself psychotic doing this movement assessments or "kick counts." It's torture on the days when the baby wants to rest or God forbid take a nap. Anyway, back in May, the hospital did an ultra sound and discovered that my amniotic fluid was a little low, which could be problematic if it goes any lower. This low amniotic fluid may also be a reason to feel the baby less. They discharged me on the same day and told me to stay hydrated.

Well, that's all it took. Since then I have been drinking between 180-200 oz of water EVERY DAY. That's a lot of water. I asked my doctor how much to drink and she said 64 oz. I was thinking to myself, "64 oz? I do that before 10:00 a.m." Needless to say I have taken this to an extreme as I am wont to do. Last time I was at the doctor, I turned in my urine sample, and when I set it on the counter, I could see that next to all of the other patients' urine samples, mine was BY FAR the lightest in color. The other women looked like they were peeing golden saffron. My urine looked like water with a dash-- merely a dash-- of Country Time lemonade. Here's me trying to be the Most Hydrated Mother in 2009. Always gotta be the best.

In a fun psychological twist, I have also developed a habit of dreaming about people drowning. It's a very touchy subject given a traumatic incident in my early teenaged years, so it's very upsetting to me. On Sunday night, I had not one but two dreams about drownings. Those two dreams were separated by another very typical occurrence: a potty break for mommy. Because the dreams are distressing and frighten me, I mentioned them to my therapist. Guess what? That crazy kook thinks that my drinking 200 oz of water everyday may trigger drowning dreams. Hmmmmm. I never thought of that and it actually sounds plausible. Usually when I tell him about a dream I had-- like the time I dreamed that Luther Vandross and I were making out on the set of Soul Train-- he usually says it's an unconscious desire to have Biblical relations with him. When he didn't make my drowning dreams about my repressed desire for him, it automatically raised his credibility about twenty-fold.

So, today I have had only a modest 56 oz and by this time I have usually already consumed at least 100 oz. I'll have to report back regarding my dream life after these changes.

What's Black, White and Red All Over?

As you can tell, Jeff is getting really good at photography -- learning how to use his new camera and manipulate color, lighting and shadows. Now that I am officially sporting about 38 extra pounds (and counting, thank you very much!), it's hard for me to look at images of myself. Yes, I know, it's a baby and I am likely to not stay at this weight, but what I can say, it's difficult for a lot of reasons. So, when Jeff points the camera at me at my dirty hair and my unweildy breasts and this body that I truly do not recognize, it's hard for me (at times) not to rip it out of his hands and throw it down the stairs.

And, then sometimes I surrender. It's not all about me, after all. These are also pictures of Peppermint and when I can get out of my own way, I can see what treasures they are. We were getting especially creative yesterday with our bag of Starlight mints-- also known as Peppermints-- and we've invested in a black velvet drape to have the professional effect. I hate to admit it, but I really love this picture. When Jeff reads this he's going to have extra ammunition next time he wants to do an impromtu photo shoot at 9 p.m. after I have had two excursions on the CTA and waddled around town. The secret yesterday was that he got me before the sun went down. That's going to be key as we head on into our final 5 weeks of pregnancy.

And, speaking of these last 5 weeks, I have no idea what to expect. Yesterday, in my beloved prenatal yoga class, there were 5 women there who were at 39.5 or 40+ weeks. Each of them seemed totally calm and relaxed. I wondered how they could just sit there and do sun salutations while their cervixes were like ticking bombs about to thin and shoot out their offspring. It was good for me to see that level of surrender and peace. I hope to have it when it's my turn to be a senior mommy. I don't have that now, but there is nothing to say I won't have it then, right?

I can tell I am anxious because I have lots of scary dreams about people drowning almost every night. I miss those days of the second trimester when I dreamed about hanging out with my newborn daughter and cooing to her in a very comfortable hospital bed. I am told that at some point I am going to be ready to let go of being pregnant and the process of birth will begin. I would like to say back that I am sure the process of birth will begin whether I am ready or not!

This weekend is my baby shower. I keep thinking to myself, "I am pretty sure we just had a wedding shower," which we did as recently as September. But, showers get bunched up when you are lucky enough to get pregnant 7 weeks before your wedding. I have always been a lucky girl! I have searched high and low for the perfect summer shower dress. In the maternity world, "high and low" isn't hard. And if someone forced me to say what the hardest luxury I had to give up during pregnancy was, I would say something about shopping. It's so hard to find good maternity clothes. Sure, there are high end boutiques, but just like their non-maternity sisters, they are designed for women whose breasts are smaller than at 38 E. By the time I get those little $80.00 t-shirts to fit in the breasts (and I am not saying I would buy them anyway, Jeff), the rest of it looks like a pool tarp surrounding my body. So, I finally settled on a non-maternity cotton dress and employed the oft-chanted mantra: "Christie, this is not about you and it's not about the clothes." I don't know where I got the idea that having the perfect outfit is the sine qua non of having a good experience at a Life Event. The life event should probably be about life and not about the clothes. I guess you can take the girl out of the South, but you can't take the South out of the girl.

24 Miles and Counting...

When I was 24 miles into the first (of only two) marathons I ran, I burst into tears because I knew I would make it to the finish line--running and maybe even smiling. I was listening to my trusty iPod Shuffle and a song from the smash-hit musical Wicked came on (For Good) and there was I was, on the hot, humid Nashville asphalt running and sobbing the first true tears of joy I had ever known. Two peppy runners came up beside me and gave me a "chin up, you'll make it" talking to, and I just looked at them and said, "I'm crying because I know I am going to make it." They shrugged and took their little Katie Couric act on down the road.

I am starting to feel like that with this pregnancy. It's June. On my message board there have been 34 babies born to moms whose original due dates were July 2009. Some of those little ones are still struggling to find breath outside the womb, and some of them have already gone home because they were far enough along when they arrived. My baby is 34 weeks and 2 days along, which by all accounts, even on the morbid Internet, is a pretty safe gestational period for a human baby. I wonder if she is 4 lbs or 5 lbs and I wonder about her lungs and whether she's starting to get that all-important baby fat that will insulate her body when she leaves my quarters. I feel her all the time now. I was in court this morning and when the Judge started talking, she started moving all around, which made me wonder if she was picking up on my anxiety about appearing in Court or whether she was showing an early aptitude for legal advocacy.

When I stop and think about the fact that Peppermint is most likely in the clear even if my mildly fluish symptoms today mean I am at the beginning of pre-term labor, I get that feeling in my chest like I did back in Nashville. Instead of "holy shit, I am about to complete a marathon on my own two legs," it's more like "holy shit, I am about to give birth to a little person who is half Jeff and half me." There is a reason why there are so many mommy blogs and parenting websites and magazines and books: This is a big fat deal. And, we're about 6 weeks from the due date. If you saw me try to bend over and pick up yet another something I dropped (clumsiness is a side effect of pregnancy), you would be shocked that I have to live like this for a whole 6 more weeks. Someone yesterday told me I looked like I could go at any minute. For some inexplicable reasons, I took that as a compliment.

And, deep down, I am not ready yet. I am still enamoured with every move she makes inside of me. I still can spend hours at a time just feeling my stomach and she elbows me and switches positions. Sometimes, in the early morning hours when I am just waking up, I feel a kick and I realized I have been sleeping without touching my stomach, and I feel so sad to have missed a closer connection with Peppermint. I want to feel every kick while I can, because for only 6 more weeks it's my exclusive privilege to feel those from the inside. They haven't started to hurt yet, but sometimes they tickle me, especially if she catches me by surprise. I have never been closer to anyone in my life. And, I never, ever thought I would be able to manage enough closeness to wind up pregnant. I remember telling my college boyfriend that if I ever got married, I would always want my own house. I also remember him saying that was sort of "fucked up," but at the time, that was as close as I could allow anyone to get to me. Until certain forces acted upon my spirit, I was destined for the kind of distance that would provide me an entirely different address than my own family members. Let's hear it for some hard core therapy and some after-school-special worthy meltdowns.

Last night when I got home from work, Jeff told me he had backed his bag for the hospital. This is the same Jeff who packed for a two-week honeymooon in Argentina 30 minutes before our ride came to take us to the airport. I have never ever known him to pack with more than 13 hours before a trip. And I packed my bag so long ago, I have no idea what's actually in it.

Other than keeping my eye out for a cute dress to wear to my shower, most of the preparation now is the internal kind. I just read Heather B. Armstrong's memoir about the birth of her first daughter, and I appreciated her refreshing honest about the parts that were really, really hard. I am having trouble articulating my own fears and ambivalence, but trust me, if I read enough of this mommy memoirs, I will sooner or later give myself permission to admit, however grudgingly, that some of this is a real pain in the ass. Not the baby, but the way this Mommy tells herself she has to be be for the baby. Which is to say: perfect. Just like I have to be a perfect lawyer, and a perfect wife, and a perfect friend to everyone all day everyday.

It's ironic that one of the "life lessons" I would like to teach my daughter is that she does not have to be perfect or to be a super woman. She doesn't have to be a human "do-ing" she can be a human being and be loved and cared for me without having to dance on a hamster wheel. The ironic part is that she is teaching me that. I have new limitations now-- besides just the whole "don't eat soft cheeses" thing-- I have limited time and energy and enthusiasm that I would like to spend with my husband and my close friends. Some activities I used to have time and energy for are no longer possible for me. I have to say no in ways and in places I have never had to say no. And, it's good for me to say no and be less available. It's uncomfortable because it's a new role in the world, but it's also making some room for a new category: Family. And my role in this family includes the role of Mother, one who needs rest, lots of nourishment and lots of rides because public transportation and pregnancy do not mix well.