So THIS is What They Mean by HORMONES

Some of the more stereotypical pregnancy symptoms are appearing for me now that I am safely ensconced in the second trimester. Suddenly, my sense of smell is so acute I can tell if someone on the 20th floor at work is popping popcorn. And, I sit on the 14th floor. It's a blessing and a curse because I can tell where the good food is coming from, but I can also smell that panhandler from three train cars away.

And, these hormones. Holy Weepiness! In my first trimester, I probably only cried about 5 times. For those of you who aren't thinking in trimesters, that means I cried 5 times in 13.3 weeks. For me, that is unheard of. I can cry 5 times during a re-run of Happy Days, which, thanks to TiVo, only lasts about 23 minutes. Now, when I did cry, it was an all out, "is the baby ok if I shake this hard while I cry" kind of cry, but only 5 instances in all that time. It seems that now I am making up for all those days without cries. I melted down 6 separate times today. I cried to a group of strangers about being afraid of what kind of mom I would be. I called my professional mentor and asked her if she supported me in quitting my job, which she emphatically did NOT, especially when I explained that the reason was that (i) I was bored, and taking the lack of work personally, and (ii) someone had edited a brief I wrote and I decided it meant I shouldn't be a lawyer.

I thought my logic was impeccable, but apparently, people who have thoughts that come from somewhere other than MY HEAD, think that quitting a good job because you are taking the recession as a personal failure or expecting a senior attorney not to add her $.02 to a brief is more about hormones than injustice.

Later on I cried because I was eating my daily dose of Cracker Jacks (and, excuse me, but where the hell are the peanuts in the Cracker Jacks these days?) and I had such a vivid memory of my Grandmother Tate's farm where we would feast on snacks made of Cracker Jacks and Hershey's products. Is there anything more sublime than a doting Grandmother who also has a wicked sweet tooth? Come to think of it, most of the "strange" foods I have been eating really are nostalgic picks. There's the Cracker Jacks, and every night I eat an ice cream sandwhich. There is no single food that more reminds me of Virginia Tate than the ice cream sandwhich. She had a deep freezer in her car port (that's a garage to you city folk) that always had two things in it: Frozen pecans and boxes of ice cream sandwhiches. I am not the first to link food to memory, and I think Proust http://www.fisheaters.com/proust.html probably wrote about it best, but the memories are starting to flood back to me. Let's hope we can keep it on the sweet side because this is the same Grandmother who used to use leftover bacon grease and onions as salad dressing. Wish I was kidding. She lived into her 80's on a diet consisting of more butter than biscuit and more bacon grease than lettuce. A size 4 she was not, but she was awfully fun to visit.

I wish my kids were going to know her. I also wish Jeff could know her. It's one of the drawbacks of being a late bloomer-- my grandparents are gone and Jeff has only 1 left, Grandma Ruth. I think it would be so funny if my kids came back with the same stories we would come home with after some time with Grandmother Tate. She used to tell me that the inside of a Fig Newton was made of little girls' boogers. That actually backfired a bit because I kept tasting my boogers and wondering why they didn't taste sweet and delicious like Fig Newtons. Maybe hers did and maybe that skips a generation and little Pepps' boogers will taste like Keebler snacks. That might help me down the road when I use that little suction thing to get boogers out of my kid's nose. Once, I saw a woman who I consider an excellent mother just put her mouth up to her young son's nose and suck. That is now the benchmark for motherly love: will I love Pepps enough to sick my mouth up to Pepps' nose and suck with all my might so that my child can breathe easier? While I can't be sure until it happens, I can feel a love like that growing inside of me. Plus, I sort of think I am off the hook since my kid is coming in the summer and probably won't get a booger nest clogging the vital passage ways until about January, and by then, we will have taught Pepps only one thing: How to blow her and or his baby nose!

You have to have priorities.

Portrait of Peppermint

Is there anything cooler than having your child's portrait painted before being born? Jeff and I agree that this portrait of Pepps is the greatest gift anyone has ever given us. It helps to have a best friend who is a world-class artist (see http://www.joycepolance.com) and a handy nickname for your fetus that lends itself to portraiture. We have this little gem on our mantle and it is the absolute essence of perfect present. We love it.

Peppermint, We Take Ourselves VERY Seriously

One of the first things our child should know is how seriously we take ourselves in the Ellis-Tate clan. We are very important people and we maintain our decorum and dignity at all times. This state of presenting our "best" selves to the world is best exemplified by Jeff's dad, Steve, and his brother, David:


These future babysitters of one marinating Peppermint will show my child the ins and outs of propriety. And when Pepps is in their care, I will probably install a nanny cam!

I kid. I kid.

Accessories

Jeff and I have not started buying much for Peppermint, mostly because we will find out the gender, which will likely affect our shopping trajectory. So far, Pepps has two items: this little hat from Old Navy, which I tell myself is gender neutral:


And this super cute bib that Jeff got me for Hanukkah, which in reality, truly is gender neutral. I love the bib and wore it around a little after Hanukkah. The whole experience makes me wonder why we give up such a useful piece of clothing at such tender ages. I could use a bib almost every day. Like this morning, when I had a bag of Chex Mix for my breakfast, a well positioned bib would have saved me the time and trouble of getting all those Chex bits off my chest. Though, at the rate my chest is growing, it's going to take a pretty ample baby bib to cover the necessary parts. But that is another post altogether.

I have to say that I can't wait to find out the gender (and get further confirmation that Pepps is growing and getting all the necessary ingredients to become a straight-A, well-adjusted, Rhodes Scholar with aspirations for a Cabinet position in the year 2036). JUST KIDDING.

I honestly just want a healthy child with all the parts that come with having a healthy child-- limbs and a perfectly four-chambered heart and little toes and fingers and easily discernable gender parts. Other mom friends have told me not to buy anything because we will get so many gifts. Anyone who tells me not to shop clearly doesn't know me well or needs a medication adjustment. Not shop for my baby? Ok. And then I will stop inhaling and exhaling. Not going to happen.

And, speaking of shopping. Can I please say how much I love Target? It bears repeating. I am wearing a non-maternity light wool dress from Target today that I love, love, love. I confess that I woke up feeling svelte and decidedly unbloated so I thought I could have one less hurrah with my non-maternity clothes. That little experiment was another lesson in how I feel about my body doesn't always translate into a little limitation we call reality. I shimmied into a little J.Crew skirt and all was well as long as I didn't want to zip it. So, at 16 weeks and 1 day, I admit that I am fully moving on to a new era, a new wardrobe and a new size. I love it. And as long as I wear the bras from the new era, everything is going to be just fine. I learned the hard way that getting ready in the dark has its hazards when I ended up wearing "old era" bra yesterday. It looked more like I put a thong on my chest than an article of clothing that would actually support the situation.

In case it's been too subtle, I have a growing fascination with my new breast size.

There. I said it. Hope Peppermint has a big appetite and a big mouth.

Update: Avocado

The babycenter.com just got tricky on me! Today's report says that Peppermint is the size of an avocado as of week 16, and in the next few weeks Pepps will double in size. That would explain my increase in appetite and the 4-starch lunch I just ate!

This week Pepps got toenails as well, so that's a great development. Pedicures are a wonderful mother-child activity!

Fruit During Pregnancy

In every pregnancy book or website I have ever seen (when I used to look at them), a baby's growth is always compared to a piece of fruit. So far we have progressed from grape, to kumquat, through small navel oranges, pears and apple. It's a funny convention that seems universal. I got this postcard in the mail from my friend Krista, honoring Pepps' 15 weeks of existence:



Our sources said that Peppermint, at week 15, was the size of a small apple, but this postcard says mango. Either way, it was such a lovely surprise to see that outside of the myopic world of pregnant families who log onto the babycenter.com or other sites there are sources in the "real world" that subscribe to the theory that babies in utero development can be measured by comparison to fruit.

And today we are at 16 weeks and I am waiting to get my weekly check-in that will tell me which part of the produce aisles is living in my womb this week. Other fun developments include shortness of breath (thanks to the progesterone), feeling faint (thanks to the increased blood volume), and more weepiness than previously. Just ask Jeff how I reacted when he gently suggested that he would like a wee bit more help around the house. Certainly a valid and reasonable request, since I have done nothing except get up and go to work and schelp back to the couch as soon as possible for about 16 weeks and counting. I, however, fully loaded to the brim with hormones coursing through my entire being, heard the request as a condemnation of me as a wife, a roommate, and of course, a mother. Is it ever too soon to start feeling like a bad mother? I want to be well-versed in guilt and shame before the Peppermint comes out so I will have a good routine ready to roll out.

I have always been precocious.

And, sixteen weeks. Two weeks into the trimester that is supposed to be the most enjoyable. I am sleeping really well, despite my high level of anxiety related to the economy, job security, health of the baby, etc. I do feel better and that fog of nausea has mostly lifted so long as I continue to eat regularly and avoid situations that would put me face-to-face with people whose hygeine is questionable. It's really energizing not to labor through life with a case of the "I may throw ups," but I admit I am a little wistful about the passage of time. I will never have my first trimester with Pepps again. I will never have my first trimester of my very first pregnancy again. I may never actually have morning sickness again. I am grateful it's moving quickly in some ways because I am dying to meet Peppermint and start our out-of-womb life together, but also, if time moves quickly now and I am sad about letting go of vomiting and supreme exhaustion, how will I feel when Pepps starts walking or stops breast feeding or goes to school for a full day for the first time. Just thinking about it makes me cry. It's the highest class problem I have ever had and the most gratifying tears I have ever shed.

Overheard at Dinner Last Night...

The Scene is dinner with 5 female colleagues who all get together once a month for "Supper Club." At this meeting, 2 of us disclose that we are in the "family way."

Non-Pregnant colleague to me: You're pregnant?! I had no idea.

Me: Really? I think I look bigger so I was sure you could tell.

Non-Pregnant colleague: Actually, the other day when I saw you you looked really frumpy, and it crossed my mind that you could be pregnant because you don't usually look frumpy.

Me: Hmmm. Thanks.

Are You Pregnant?

If you think that a good afternoon snack during a work day is the decadent combination of peanut butter and coconut lovingly rolled in the U.S. of A. and turned into a Chick-o-Stick, then you may be pregnant. I swear to Christmas everytime I get up to get a snack in the afternoon, I come back with some little sugared bit of nostalgia that has no bearing on actual nutrition or logic. I haven't bought and eaten a Chick-O-Stick since I was in fourth grade visting my paternal grandmother in Waxahachie, Texas. And, I am certain that the only reason that I picked it was because there were out of Hershey's Almond Bars.

Who would eat this crap?
And, yes, that Chick-O-Stick is resting on the 2008 copy of the Federal Rules of Civil Procedure. Nothing says snack like the federal rules!

Using the Tools

It's not a secret to anyone who knows me what a worrier I am. My brain doesn't have the function that allows me to project into the future and see peaceful, serene images of joy and fecundity. I don't operate like that and just consider it something I happened to not inherit from my forebears....just like an aptitude for drawing human figures or long legs.

I am finding myself comforted by images that seem maternal and feminine and protective. I love this figurine I got in Argentina:

It reminds me of my vast group of friends and supporters who are helping me navigate my own neurosis, as well as the general ups and downs of pregnancy. And while there are lots of men who are doing the exact same thing, there's just something about the women. Law school friends, college friends, colleagues, sisters, mothers, Facebook friends-- I picture them all rooting for me and my family and keeping close by to each other and to me. What would I do if Carmin didn't give me tips on where to buy pants suitable for the workplace? Or if Kelly and Cindy didn't talk me off the ledge after I ate what I was CONVINCED was listeria-laden turkey? And what about Krista and Joyce and Debbie and Trish who take my calls day after day patiently listening to me process each inch of the experience from genetic testing to having a baby about 8 months into a marriage. With the audacity that I imagine only a first-time mother can possess, I have emailed everyone on Facebook I know who is pregnant or recently delivered asking the MOST personal and intrusive questions. In turn, these women have greeted my in-box questionnaires with love and kindness and compassion. Hollis and Ann and Jennifer and Leslie... such wonderful and open women.

And all that just happened this week!

Like my friends, I like to keep my Argentine lady friends close. They are on my nightstand, next to a picture of Pepps and the pee stick that started it all. Very sanitary, I know, I know. It's ironic that I worry about getting an extremely rare bacteria from turkey, which I have eaten exactly once in 15 weeks, but I think nothing of sleeping next to my own urine-soaked pee stick. What can I say? I am a woman of contradictions.

Peppermint Pumper

Like all proud parents, I would be remiss if I didn't show off the very first picture of Peppermint, when the total length of said Peppermint was only 1 centimeter:


Pepps at 7 weeks. I think the resemblance to Jeff is totally uncanny. We got this snapshot 5 days before our wedding. I had never heard more beautiful words than when the ultrasound technician said: "There is a pregnancy in your uterus and there is a heartbeat."

*sigh*

Week 15

We have officially moved into week 15 and those maternity pants have come in quite handy. Every time I put them on (twice now), I think to myself that I am going to make a Sesame Street doll called the "Panel Me Elmo." Not sure who my market is but it definitely amuses me and assuages my vanity when I put on my highly flammable pants that are all for the greater good of Family.

When we were in LA, Jeff took me on a tour of one of the golf courses he used to frequent when he was a young co-ed at UCLA. It's the cutest little park in the fanciest neighborhood. I swear I saw Gwen Stefani and her brood having a picnic over by the 5th hole. Jeff and I wandered over to the playground area and sat on a bench watching the super rich Southern California kids, clad in Hannah Anderssen, play in the sand and on the swings. We stared in silence. I was thinking about how one day sort of soon we'll be the type of people who know our way around a playground (and I'll probably know my way around Hannah Anderssen!). We had an honest conversation about how overwhelming this adventure is when we really think about it. It's what I like most about my marriage so far (almost 8 weeks and counting): Jeff and I usually audibilize (is that a word?) whatever emotion or thoughts come through our heads. I feel safer knowing that my partner is just as scared as I am. In some ways it makes it feel safer and more OK to be scared about what's coming. Or WHO'S COMING!!! Before I swore off baby books, I read over and over again that's "normal" and "natural" to be apprehensive about becoming a parent. I like to roll that comforting tidbit around in my head over and over again.

Another place that offers some measure of comfort is a chat group I joined through the Babycenter.com for mothers expecting children in July 2009. Mothers post musings about being sad to be fat or devastated they are having another boy. I find it comforting to know it goes with the territory to be anxious, moody and WORRIED. I do get into trouble there when I read the posts about a mother getting "bad" news from a genetic test. I get so upset to learn about disabilities I had never heard of, which adds to my already abundant bag of worries. But, when I reign in the morbidity, I can draw a lot of comfort and humor from the other mothers out there worried about anything from their mother-in-law's comments to how to discipline a child that is still a 14-week-old fetus.


Most of the time, I can breathe and remind myself that I am not in charge of any of this. My job is to take care of myself, put on the panel pants, and go on about my life. Beyond showing up for my prenatal visits and eating when Peppermint so directs (like this morning at 4:15 a.m. when I had french onion dip and Tostitos), the rest is really up to Nature and God in some benevolent combination.

Bumpy Business

This weekend while in LA for some much needed sunshine and balmy breezes, Jeff and I found our way to a maternity store for some much more needed maternity pants for yours truly. I had no idea how fun it would be to shop for the most comfortable pants on God's green (or snowy white) earth. My favorite part was the practice bump that you can strap on while you are buying clothes. Jeff and I had a good time trying to figure out where exactly on my expanding core the bump should be resting. Jeff says this is too low:


So we moved it up and here's how it will look if I end up carrying Peppermint "high." We had a good time and my inner shopper is so thrilled to have a collection of new stores that I have never ever patrolled before. Goodbye Ann Taylor Loft and hello Motherhood Maternity. Although, in truth, most of the clothes in Motherhood Maternity looked a little skanky, more like something Brittney Spears' sister would wear than a woman with a professional degree in a large urban city. But when you are desperate for pants, you too will take up your spot in the check out line along side Jamie Lynn Spears and a host of other teenaged mothers.

So, what does my non-enhanced bump look like at 14.4 weeks? You can see from the below picture there is a real pressing need for some maternity pants. My vast collection of "fat" clothes that I have on hand for the days I feel a little bloated or want to polish off an entire plate of nachos at Chili's by myself without any waistline discomfort, just won't work any more. Here's why:

Inside that sexy brown paneling is Peppermint yearning for space to be free to stretch his or her budding limbs and to roll around in mama's fatty-rich placenta. The ascetic upside is that my butt looks amazingly slim next to the bulbous developments in front. I literally feel like I have a totally flat ass. Maybe I should get one of those bumps and strap it onto my ass! I would at least be more balanced!

I am excited about the process of picking out an outfit to wear to work tomorrow because it will not longer hurt to zip my pants at the end of the day, thanks to the paneled beauty of my new baby-lovin' pants. I'll be the hot one whose panel will show when her sweater rides up above her waist line.

Holy Frijoles!

You cannot talk to anyone in Chicago or the surrounding areas without marveling at the temperature. It's idiocy to live here, but millions of us do it, even though our snot freezes and our eye lashes stick to our eyelids during a commute by public transportation in NEGATIVE FOUR degree weather.

So, while it's super fun to be pregnant and mortally afraid of slipping on the ice that is virtually ubiquitous, as well as hopelessly nauseated by the shivering the body does to survive in such frigid environs, I am off to LA to celebrate a belated Hanukkah with my Beloved Husband's family. I will always be thrilled to travel to see my in-laws during the winter months in Chicago.... in part because I genuinely love them and it helps that they live in LA and Las Vegas.

I do not relish the long plane ride but I have enough granola bars, trail mix, and goldfish to tide me over, even though I may have to pay an extra $25.00 for the privilege of not starving to death on an airplane. My favorite part of pregnancy travel is telling the screeners that I won't go through the X-ray machine. I do it to cut in line and it, so far, has backfired each time since I end up practically going to third base with the female TSA agent in a glass both behind the X-ray machine.

But, we're showing Peppermint the ocean this weekend and also introducing Pepps to potato latkes. And if it's anything like Pepps' reaction to french fries, we will be seeing lots more latkes in our future.

Step Away From the Pregnancy Books

This morning was the first time I picked up something recreational to read that was NOT related to pregnancy, prenatal nutrition, nursing bras, morning sickness or maternity clothes. It felt as foreign as reading Sanskrit or Hindi. And I liked it. I liked it a lot. The best part about reading non-pregnancy material is that when I was done reading and ready to move on with my day, I hadn't just acquired a new worry or new way to gauge whether (i) my pregnancy is "normal", (ii) I am doing this pregnancy "right", or (iii) I should be worried about some benchmark mentioned in the text. And because I am totally neurotic and pregnant, I can pick up almost anything with letters and find a reason to start worrying. I almost had a panic last week when I was out for brunch because the sign in the bathroom, "Employees Must Wash Hands Before Returning to Work," launched a fear fest about whether our not my server had washed her hands....and what about the cooks?.... or the produce guy who dropped off the veggies for my salad?....I mean, it's cold and flu season so maybe I just contracted something horrible that will hurt me or the Peppermint.

So you can see why even the most innocuous pregnancy book could really do some damage to my oh-so-fragile serenity. A friend of mine who is a brilliant ob/gyn (lucky her to have me at a dinner party describing each and every little pang, twinge or ache in my ever-growing body) gave me the Girlfriends Guide To Pregnancy and told me to STOP READING WHAT TO EXPECT WHEN YOU'RE EXPECTING, because it has inaccurate information and tends to scare women. I didn't tell her that I had already read, highlighted and tabbed WTEWYE, and didn't recall that it was all that scary as long as I skipped the chapter on the "M" word-- (I can't even say it. I can't write it and I can't say it, but you can imagine a young, first-time pregnant woman would be scared of a word that starts with an "M" and is the greatest fear of my life to date). Anyway, because my mind is cunning and wily, I was able muster up a worry. I worried to myself, "women all over the world are wigged out by WTEWYE, but you were never freaked out at all. Are you sure you know how to read? What's wrong with you? Don't you love your baby enough to be scared witless when reading a book that millions of mothers (who are better than you) found to be abusive in its inaccuracies and scare tactics?"

Of course, what's done is done, so during my latest bout of not sleeping, I dove into the Girlfriends Guide and mostly enjoyed it. The only parts that were a little hard to stomach were the author's insistence on stereotypes about men: "your partner won't read any prenatal books..." or "your partner will be annoyed if your water breaks during the football game..." or "your partner may fear the arrival of the baby, because he wants to be the baby." I find stereotyping shallow and destructive for its power to reify false ideas and further divide the sexes, but her stereotypes also don't speak to my own experience. I am a bigger baby than my husband will ever be. I am the one more likely to be inconvenienced if the water breaks during Top Chef or a group therapy session. Jeff has read as much as I have and has a nesting instinct that makes mine look exactly like it is: thus far nonexistent.

The other thing I didn't like about the book was it's heteronormative viewpoint. In every instance I read, the "partner" was always a man (and he was always bullheaded, insensitive and needed lots of coaching from his Beloved wife). I know lesbian couples who might want to check this book out, but I would never recommend a book that completely ignores the myriad ways that people can have a baby.

Finally, the author is a little too body-hating for me. As she describes the later parts of pregnancy (third trimester), she has a lot of contempt for the oversized pregnant body but doesn't seem to own that. Chapter 10 is called "Looking the Best You Can," which perhaps has a place in a pregnancy book. I have no problem with the premise-- it's tough to find maternity clothes that don't make you look like Carol Burnett in some zany 1960's skit with Harvey Corman and Tim Conway--but her admonitions to women to eschew sleeveless tops when their arms get too big seemed misogynist to me: "Clearly, sleves that come down to just above the elbow can be our friend." She also reminds women to take at least a 6 second look in a full-length mirror before leaving the house, since our butts have a mind of their own and may embarass us with their girth.

Call me crazy pregnant lady, but I don't need to read about how I should hide my butt during pregnancy with a monochromatic wrap dress. I want to embrace every inch of this experience and I am done hiding. No thanks.

Did this book trigger any pregnancy fears or just my vigilant graduate-school-indoctrinated feminism? Of course! While the book is very gentle on the medical do's and don't's of pregnancy, there are some rare instances where she tells you to call your doctor right away. One of them is the obvious: cramping and bleeding. But, there was one I read about in the first few chapters which caused a tailspin that lasted a good 28 hours: She says that the build up of protein will cause your nails to grow faster and stronger. She cautions, however, that if you notice that your nails are still splitting and fragile, then call your doctor right away because you are not getting enough protein (and presumably neither is your baby).

WHAT?

I have been wondering where my pregnancy talons are. My nails aren't worse, but they aren't Patti LaBelle's nails either. I perseverated for a good 12 hours about my nails and the consequences before mentioning this to Jeff. Jeff heard me out and then reminded me that I pick my nails on a mostly contstant basis. My response to that was, "So?" I can't bring myself to call the doctor, but I am still sort of worked up about this. I told my co-worker, who is a new mom, about my nail concerns. She was not too impressed and remarked, "Well, it's winter. Winter is always hard on nails."

I am still processing this development and will bring it up with the doctor next week during our 15-week check up. I did get a manicure (formaldehyde-free polish) yesterday to see what happens if I stop picking. We'll see.

One thing's for sure: No more pregnancy books for me. Period.

Chef BoyarDON'T GO HERE

Now that I am 14 weeks and have experienced about 3 nausea-free days, I have gotten smug. Luckily, my little Peppermint is keeping me humble because just when I think I am never going to feel that nauseating little tingle in my gut, I see Jeff cutting up steak chunks and know that if I eat them, we will be dealing with a different kind of steak chunk. If I had to pick a low point in my first trimester eating, it would be the Tuesday night that I feasted on this:

Yes, I stooped low enough to open a can of Chef Boyardee mac'n'cheese and a can of water-packed chicken. I wish I was kidding. All the freshly ground pepper from a William Sonoma pepper grinder could not stamp out the distinctly white trash flavor of this meal. In my defense, Jeff was working late-- eating pounds of fresh sushi on the Man's dime-- and there was a snow storm and I was really, really craving mac 'n' cheese, but felt too exhausted to wait for water to boil so I could have the more bourgeois treat: Kraft Mac'n'Cheese. Truth be told, I was craving tuna casserole, but the whole "if you eat a high-mercury fish like tuna in pregnancy horrible things will come to pass for the being attached to that heartbeat you fell in love with" has kept me from my real love, the chicken of the sea.

So, like any good parent, I made a sacrifice. I concocted a little chicken casserole for myself made from products that should really only be eaten if a famine of Biblical proportions hits Chicago. And then, only if I have already eaten human flesh and found it too salty.

In other words, canned mac'n'cheese is tastes no more nourishing than a pixie stick. Don't let that cheesy color fool you. If it tasted like that delicious cheese that comes on nachos at a baseball game, I would have gotten in the car, driven to Costco, and loaded up the trunk and the backseat with cases full of this canned cheesy goodness. But, not everything that is an unnatural yellowish, orange color tastes like scrumptous melted Vel-veeta. This had a metallic aftertaste that was so strong that I had to brush my teeth twice just to get back to that yummy biley-vomity taste that I was used to. I haven't come across many edible substances worse than my own puke, but this produce was able to achieve that feat.

In the future, when Al Gore does a documentary on landfill hazards and the demise of our good planet Earth, there will be aerial shots of two things that do not decompose: Pampers and Chef Boyardee Mac'n'Cheese.

Meet the Peppermint

As a companion to my wedding blog, Bridled With Joy, http://bridledwithjoy.blogspot.com/this blog is the chronicle of my journey from egg dispenser to Mommy. As of today, we are 14 weeks pregnant, the official start of the Second Trimester. When writing your gratitude list tonight, you can count among your blessings the fact that I didn't start this blog one moment sooner or you would have been subjected to long dissertations on nausea, vomiting and so-called morning sickness that struck me like a tidal wave for weeks around 2:00 p.m. But, we've turned a corner and there is so much more energy and vitality that it just seemed right to start this new project.

The baby has the current moniker, Peppermint, because that little pregnancy test we took on November 6, 2008, at 2:30 a.m., pretty much looks to me like those little candies you get after a garlicky meal. It's a perfect name for our little fetus because it's gender neutral and I don't have to run around calling my Beloved unborn "it."

What else have we done during the first trimester? Oh, besides get married, have a honeymoon, come home early from the honeymoon because morning sickness in South America just isn't glamorous or desirable in any way, coast through the holidays of 2008, bought a few pre-natal books, seen Peppermint's heartbeat, heard Peppermint's heartbeat, freaked out about 400 times over everything from gas pains to the not-so-rapid growth of my fingernails.

The good new is that at 14 weeks, God willing, there will be approximately 26 more to appear on the virtual pages of this blog. We will be finding out Peppermint's gender and living through all the physical changes that are coming down the river towards us.

I can say that so far pregnancy has been the most mysterious, glorious, frightening, and unusual experience of my life. I can't believe the things I have eaten (chicken wings and mac 'n cheese in multiple helpings at ONE sitting) and how little I have exercised and how my whole life experience is infused with a very passionate desire to keep Peppermint safe and to give Pepps exactly what he or she needs at every moment of the day. It really helps me cut down on the bullshit, because nothing matters more than the Pepps.

I am blessed beyond words to be 14 weeks pregnant. Not one day goes by that I don't count this mystery in my womb as the most tremendous privilege thus far in my 35 years of life. (Yes, 35 years so they are coming at me with all kinds of information about genetics testing. We are declining for reasons that will appear in a later post.) My husband, to whom I have been married 6.3 weeks, is a saint because all those emotional symptoms of the first trimester I have in exponential proportions. I am hoping that has gone the way of my nausea. And, let me tell you, that they have many many products for nausea-- ginger chews, ginger tea, Peppermint tea, ginger snaps, Saltines, just to name a few-- and I haven't yet seen a single product for my irrational, bitchy, over-the-topness. Jeff takes it in stride and still has the gall to describe his life as blissful.

We know we are in for an adventure if the first trimester is any indication of what is to come. I think I am sleep deprived now, because I am awake a few hours at night. I am a little hestitant to think about how sleep deprived we will be in about 26 weeks! And sore. And much much larger. This is going to be fun.

We are bundled with joy.