Oops!

I just did it again. Too cute.

Seal BROKEN

Ok, well I did it. I bought my daughter a real, live bona fide, I-know-my-baby's-gender dress. LOOK how cute. I am so excited. I love all baby clothes-- actually, I love all clothes-- so I know that now that I broke the seal and bought the Pepps an outfit that the Baby Gap and Hannah Anderssen will be send me presents all the time. And, all I have to do is pick out the cute clothes, give a few credit card digits, and voila!

Little Miss Sunshine

I have fallen hopelessly in love this face. That's my daughter's face. Just saying that I get choked up with awe and gratitude. She's 10 ounces, which is hard to believe because she's sporting a very fine spine and that gorgeous profile. I can't look at it without spontaneously bursting into prayer of thanksgiving. When I was in Omaha on business, the days were quite long, and somewhere around 10:00 p.m., I realized that I missed seeing a picture of Pepperminta. Jeff was kind enough to email me a copy of her profile so I could see her and quell the longing til I could get back to my hotel and stare at the pictures again.

This gender information is sinking in a little more day by day. The biggest change I can see in myself since we found out about the Pepperminta is that I am suddenly in love with all of the mothers that I see. There is a new space inside of me that is full of reverence and respect for mothers, especially mothers of little girls. And, this morning on the train I had an experience that showed that I, too, am ready to having more mothering in my life. (Is now an appropriate time to mention I will be seeing a new FEMALE therapist tomorrow who has had two children of her own?)

So, I get on the train platform this morning excited to have a few minutes to read the new David Sedaris book before the week takes on a life of its own and I have to limit my reading to legal documents and personal emails. When the train finally comes, I am pretty much frozen solid from the 20 degree windchill that cut through me as I stood on the elevated platform. When I got into a train car, however, it was packed full of people and hot. Really hot. I tried to concentrate on Mr. Sedaris' funny antidotes, and the last thing I remember reading before becoming convinced I was going to faint was something about how he and his partner bonded over a mutual fear of group sex and abandonment. Even that little discussion was not going to keep me conscious during this ride.

I didn't know what to do. I was standing and holding a pole, and I certainly don't look pregnant, so I can't really fault any morning commuters for not examining my pale visage and giving me their seats. I took off my coat. I took off my gloves. I was still spinning and things were getting blurry at the edges. I was four stops away from my desintation-- which, since you asked, was also a therapist's office. You can never have too much therapy-- that's CLEARLY my motto. Anyway, I decided I need to take action if I didn't want to end up on a CTA stretcher headed to the nearest emergency room. I crouched down to a squat and put my head between my legs. And, then, thank goodness, this elderly woman who was dressed head to toe in black schmata, with big reading glasses and salt and pepper hair pulled loosely in a bun, looked up from her Bible reading and asked me if I wanted her seat. Since I was practically laying on the floor of the el train, I decided to take her up on it. I was so grateful that she observed me and offered me her seat. I felt better once I sat down. A few minutes later the guy in the adjacent seat got off the train and the Bible lady sat down next to me. She asked me if I needed medical care. I wanted to say, "you have no idea," but instead said, "I am pregnant and if I get too hot and thirsty this is what happens. I am almost at my stop. Thank you."

She had a thick accent, which I tell myself was Polish. She was reading the second chapter of Leviticus in what looked like an old King James Bible. I got off before she did, but not before thanking her for her kindness and consideration. But for her, I would be on the el floor riding up and down Chicago's northwest side trying to catch my breath.

I tell myself she's a mother. Actually, I have a vivid imagination, so I tell myself she is the mother of 7 children, from back in the day before you could harness medical technology to have a litter of children. I tell myself she used to have to ride the train through Siberia (is that in Poland? Near Poland?) with her children to get some hearty brown bread to make it through the winter. I tell myself her husband died in the war and she never remarried. Instead, she found Jesus and the Bible and rides around helping young women who haven't quite learned to speak up for themselves when they are about to faint on public transportation.

She's amazing. I want to be a woman like that. Lifting up other women, paying attention, offering up my seat where possible. I would rather read David Sedaris than the Bible, but they both have multiple references to sodomy so it's more similar than you would think.

It's this exact experience that makes me feel happy about bringing a baby into this world, this city, this train line. A baby girl no less. I would like to teach her to gravitate towards people who will help her and share the ride with her, making it more comfortable and pleasant along the way.

Midwives

People, we have hit the 20-week mark and that means that if Ms. P comes on schedule, we are half way done. Incredible. There are lots of halves to celebrate:

1. Half way to meeting our daughter
2. I only sleep about HALF the night
3. My breasts are only HALF way to the floor now
4. Half of my maternity clothes aren't fitting (It's the breasts again)
5. Half of my brain works half of the day

I am indebted to the lovely ladies who came to my house on Sunday afternoon to do a vision for me: we created a vision about the rest of my pregnancy, my early motherhood, my marriage (oh, yea, I am married), and my career. I got lots of good ideas and will soon be researching doulas and options for getting support when Pepps lands.

Half way. Incredible. Half way there and already double the joy in my life.

Thank God We Don't Live in China

...Because we are having a BABY GIRL!!! We are over the moon. We are shocked and thrilled and during the ultrasound I keept looking for the penis that I was so sure was there. The ultrasound technician was laughing at us and then she showed us our Peppermint's girl parts.

WE LOVE HER!!

The U.S.S. Pepperminta is riding the high seas of my placenta!!! I love her. This is one hell of a journey. I can't wait to shop. Actually, it has to wait because I have a business trip to Omaha until Saturday. I am going to get Pepperminta some cornhusker onesies!!

Faith and Technology

So we got a new camera, and I am slowly getting used to that constant clicking sound which is my husband learning all the ins and outs of our new SLR by taking pictures of me in every conceivable mood, and believe me, that's a LOT of pictures. Pictured above is me making my Sad Face, after growing weary of smiling for the camera for two days straight. I actually really was sad as I had just gotten off the phone with a loved one who mentioned a conversation she had about me during her book club. When the book club member asked my Loved One ("LO") if LO thought I would have a family, LO said, "well, we think so. She is having a baby in July, but she can't take care of a purse, so we aren't sure how this is going to go."



When I heard this, I naturally thought I misheard my interlocutor. A purse? I can't take care of a purse? That's news to me. I never heard my Furla complaining, or the Burberry I bought after I got my first Adult paycheck. I was hurt, but I didn't say anything during the conversation. But, boy, when I got off the phone, Jeff got such an earful about how hurt I was that LO would have the opinion about me that (1) I can't take care of a purse and (2) therefore I can't take care of a baby. And you know what, does it really matter what anyone thinks about my mothering? The answer is no, because it only upset me so much because I have my own quiet, deep down doubts. It's hard not to notice how fragile babies are. I mean, they weigh about 7 lbs out of the chute, and they can't defend themselves or carry mace or say when they are being held too tight or not enough. Just because they are mostly made of cartilage doesn't mean it's ok that I have no idea what I am doing. My point is that babies are small and I am clumsy.

I won't be coy. I am scared. I scared more than any other adventure in my life. Dating until the age of 33 had it's total suckage value, but it wasn't like this. I always knew that the world was full of men, and I had a back up plan to go to a small, third-world country to offer myself up for an arranged marriage if I simply had to get married. I can't think of what this equates to. Being broken up with is horrific, and usually permanent (if you are lucky), but it's adult. It's two people who have volition and teeth and can support themselves separately or apart. Not so with our little fetal friends. It's just not so.

Blog readers, I am a nervous wreck. I have sobbed three times today, and it ain't over yet. The occasion for this drenching of my face with my own salty tears is that tomorrow we go in for our ultrasound. It's the "big ultra-sound" also known as the "20-week" ultra sound that, somewhat confusingly, takes place anywhere from 18-22 weeks into pregnancy. Thinking about it for more than 3 seconds reduces me to more sobbing. In part, it's very scary to be so in love and to not be sure if everything is ok. Tomorrow will be a chance to see Peppermint and ensure that our little one is growing and getting everything necessary to join us in the outside world soon enough. I feel so out of control. There is no way for me to really impact this process: whatever is happening genetically, is happening. Same with Pepps' gentitals and organs and all of it. I can't buy my baby's good health. I can't buy my own peace of mind about it. I know we had good reason to eschew genetic testing, but the ramification of that is that I have no idea. I just have no idea.

Billions of healthy babies are born every year to moms less educated, careful, and healthy than I. I know. I know. But I also know that I suck at statistics. The night before the Bar Exam I thought about the statistics over and over again. I was sure that 90% passage rate for my law school wasn't good enough. I would somehow go from valedictorian of my law school class to bar exam flunkie. And, because my brain has no medium speed, I went straight to losing my job, losing all my friends, my hair (don't ask, it's just so catastrophic inside my brain), and my ability to proceed through life as a literate adult. And, this is about 80 billion times worse.

So, I am here to say that I am a putative mom who is terrified beyond speech right now and it's really hard to get me to a place that is beyond speech. I would trade anything in the world for this to come out ok. And, the really annoying part is that I build up these doctor's appointments, work myself into a total apopletic seizure the night before, and forget there is another reason to worry coming. It doesn't here with this 20-week ultrasound. Hell no. There's kindergarten and then driving and dating and getting (and keeping) a job. Then there's worrying about my offsprings' ultrasounds.

Hey, look at me getting all optimistic about my kids' futures! Go me.

On a slightly less neurotic note, we will find out Pepps' gender tomorrow as long as Pepps opens the legs for a shot at the goods. I begged my husband to dream a little bit about names for both genders because after tomorrow, we 50% of our options are narrowed. The dreams get more focused and more real, but we also have to say goodbye to the opposite gender. Today, and for 16 more hours, the world is open to every conceivable possibility. Little boy. Little girl. Tomorrow, the game changes-- definitely for the better, but a change nonetheless. And I really struggle with change.

This is the hardest thing I have ever done in my life without exception. Without even a close second. My mom friends tell me to hang in there because there is so much joy coming. I hope to bequeath to my kids a capacity for joy that reaches even 10% of my capacity for worry. That would be such a lovely legacy.

Here's to technology and faith and clarity and gender and terror and dizzying love and the power of commitment to my Peppermint no matter what happens.

Hairbrained Schemes

This is a big week for us. Only 3 more days until our big ultrasound, which will give us lots of information about Peppermint, including whether Pepps is blue and white striped or pink and white striped. Honestly, I am a nervous wreck. I really just want to have a healthy baby-- I want the untarnished pleasure of seeing Peppermint dance around the screen with all his or her baby parts in place.

Latest developments include being asked my a virtual stranger if I am pregnant. I was stunned. I felt like saying, "How could you tell? Is it my lustrous hair or my radiant glow?" I am pretty sure it had something to do with my belly and my new style of wearing a super long maternity shirt and a matching long sweater. My new outfits scream MATERNITY, so it's not hard to pick up on it. Shopping for maternity clothes is like trying to shop in an alternate universe. Even at a place I have been shopping for decades, like the Gap. First of all, you have to go to a "flagship" store to find maternity clothes. Then, the maternity section is on the basement floor, back in a corner based the baby and toddler clothes. It's disorienting to shop in a section next to onsies that won't even fit on my feet. The clothes that they market to women are feminine, but somewhat infantile and frilly. There are lots of bows and sashes and feminine prints. I don't know what to make of it, exactly. It's not like I want to run around looking like some hot sex pot, but the bows...the soft feminine colors... the sheer dearth of choices. It's just disorienting, that's all I am saying.

Then, there is boutique shopping. That's just a whole other world itself. I saw a tank top at a boutique that said, "Due in July," and it was totally precious and cute and totally $68.00. I applaud my own restraint and decided I would buy some Hanes men's wifebeaters and get out the be-dazzler to make my own damn shirt. I'll use the money I save to get a prenatal massage.

Speaking of style, I am having a strong and possibly self-destructive urge to get a new hairstyle. I am not talking "take a few inches off the bottom to clean it up," I am taking new color, new length, new shape, new me. I suddenly am thinking that now is the perfect time to get a little pixie cut, which makes perfect sense: as my body expands, why not make my head look even more like a pea sitting on top of a rugged mountain. Last night I saw that Katie Couric has chopped her hair off, and I assume her higher ratings can be attributed to her new do. But, then again, remember what happened to Felicity when Kerri Russell cut her hair? There was a backlash that culminated in the show's cancellation. Before I swore off pregnancy books, I read that this desire to have a drastic hair transformation is actually common. From what I recall, the author of the book BEGGED women not to do anything drastic to their hair. I hate that my obsessions are so unoriginal. I may do it though. The good news is that Jeff just got a new camera-- a big fancy kind with a lens that weighs about 75 pounds-- so if I do something stupid we can document it thoroughly to remind me next time to stick with what I got.

Tummy Time: 18 Weeks

I have been very conscious of letting Jeff in on the pregnancy process. The other day I asked him if he felt left out so far since Pepps and I have a special bond that he can't physically partake in. Yet. He said he felt like he was on the roller coaster with me. I took that as an affirmation that all of the hormonal ups and downs -- those darling rage attacks and fits of insanity-- were really about bonding with Jeff and keeping him "under the tent" as they say. GO me. I knew my psychosis was going to come to a good end. I took a picture of his stomach at 18 weeks so he will have the experience of us celebrating his stomach as well.

And that wee obsession with my growing breasts and stomach has not abated one bit. I constantly look down amazed to see what I see. Yesterday, I had to go to court, and I put on a jacket that has always been super roomy. Yesterday, I could only button the top button. My bra size is currently an "E"-- where the funk do you go from there? I am guessing "F" but I have literally never heard anyone say they are a 36 F. Are you kidding me? Where do they hide these bras? I bet they need bigger racks. I am consoled by remembering how ample Christina Aguilera's breasts were when she was pregnant with her first child. I am taking my cue from her and getting some bright red lipstick and platnium blonde hair, which will distract me from any discomfort about my chest size.

Now my stomach is a whole other story. Stomach. Belly. Womb. Tummy. Whatever. It gets bigger by the end of the day. As you can see below, this is not the body dysmorphia talking. This is pregnancy and that's a baby that is allegedly the size of a bell pepper this week. That bell pepper is living large in its placentaed home. I feel Peppermint a few times a day. The only consistent time is around noon each day. I think Peppermint may take after mom, which is to say that when it's time to eat, it's time to eat. I keep asking Jeff when I am going to look pregnant and not just "midwestern" and I think he should just refer me to this picture next time I go down that road with him. I think I look pretty freaking pregnant. The only time I have seen my stomach bigger is Thanksgiving 1990 when I binged on Teddie Graham's, which is not an altogether pleasant memory. These days, bigger is better all around.

When A Middle Child Has Her First

Dear Babies Who Come After Peppermint,

I didn't become a mother until I was 35 years old, and when I got pregnant with Peppermint, it was the single most shocking and thrilling discovery of my life. I am almost halfway through cooking the Peppermint, and I have worried and loved and stretched and prayed every step of the way. And, I know for a fact I will have the same routine for each of you: shock, worry, let go, feel joy, soar, pick up a worry, let go, feel joy, soar. It's my cycle and it's hard-wired inside of me just like my raunchy sense of humor and my stubborn propsensity to stand about 5 feet 5 inches tall.

Pregnancy is really weird. It's weirder than high school and stranger than any dream I have ever had during feverish nights of my all-too-frequent bouts of strep throat. You spend weeks walking around hoping you can spot a trashcan to puke in if you need it. You learn where all the good public bathrooms are all over the city so when you are out shopping, because you have to pee all the time. You buy shea butter to combat stretch marks and you ride the waves of hormones, which are about as gentle as a feral bull. And in the middle of all of this, you fall in love with a promise first suggested by a 8 inch stick that you pee on that takes about 10 months to turn into a you. A flesh and blood you. I don't know of a thing-- real or fictional-- that is as strange as all of that.

Can you tell I was a second child?

Can you tell that your mother wants each of her children, long before they appear on the pee stick-- much less in the flesh-- to know that the birth order doesn't translate into worth. I hope there are blogs for all of my children. I surely have plenty of love, neurosis, and breast to go around for all of my children. Hell, I should lend some to that lady who just had octuplets. I will never get tired of feeling the kicks and tickles in my belly, the first gestures you initiate between us. There will be as many pictures of you as there are of Peppermint. There will be as much wonder and joy and vigilance for each of you. Whatever parts of this process are products of my love, there will be plenty for you. There will always be room for you. You may not be first, but you are imminently beloved.

Love,
Mom

"Luck" of the Irish

Today I made a comment about how hard it is for me to hold on to feelings of joy and how much easier it is for me to brood about the economy or all of my colorful shortcomings. Subsequently, someone passed me a note bearing the following quote:

"Being Irish, (s)he had an abiding sense of tragedy which sustained [her] during temporary periods of joy."

-- Yeats

Perfect. Pitch perfect.

The Sexy Side of Pregnancy

Time: 8:30 p.m.
Day: Saturday
Location: The couch
What: Sleeping soundly making little piggy-like snores.

I post this picture as proof that I did eat something besides ice cream sandwhiches and Chex Mix during pregnancy. In case the resolution on your computer is not high, that is an orange peel in front of my face.

Hot, I know.

This Is How We Roll

This weekend marked a significant shift in our household. As first time parents, there is a fair amount of suspension of disbelief about what is actually happening. I think that may be another way of saying that, sometimes, Jeff and I are in denial. I will speak for myself. Sometimes when I crawl into bed, laying on my side, I can see this belly and I wonder, is there a baby in there or is that just the aftermath of 17 weeks of eating exactly what I want. But now that I am feeling little flutters, which are so dear as to practically break my heart when I feel them, I am significantly less confused about what is in my burgeoning belly.

And, it's probably no coincidence that Jeff pulled out his Hanukkah present this weekend. Yes, I got him a shirt that says, "World's Greatest Dad," on the front and "That's How I Roll" on the back. We are not fighting the cheesiness of parenthood either, apparently. When I finally get on board with something, I like to go big. Very big. And, it's not a surprise that I usually start the ball rolling with clothing. As I like to say, you must dress your way into right thinking.

I am officially entering the joy phase. Yesterday, Jeff came with me to the Gap, and after finding some decent maternity clothes (on sale, no less), I felt such surges of joy about the whole damn thing. The morning sickness, the flutters, the fears, the unknowns. All of it. I have wanted to be a mom for a long time. That desire became truly ardent in June 2004 when I was in the delivery room with a friend when she had her second son. It was the second most life-altering day of my life. I remember taking a nasty cab from the Evanston Hospital back to the city after the baby was born at the crack of dawn. The sun was coming up and Lake Michigan on my right was still and partially lit. I can remember thinking to myself, "I really want to do that. I must do that some day." I also thought, "I better get a new boyfriend," because there was no way I could picture going through birth, much less actually raising a child, with the man I was dating at the time. Needless to say, nothing was the same in our relationship after that moment of clarity.

And, four boyfriends later, all equally improbable candidates as Mr. Tate (or as the father of my children) for various reasons, such as sexual orientation, already married, raging ED, and a wee cocaine habit-- here's where I landed: the long, lean, tall glass of water that is now stuck with me for the rest of his days.

Dreams

Last night I had one of my first pregnancy dreams. Actually, it was a post-pregnancy dream. In my dream, Jeff and I were shopping in J. Crew -- which is funny because the morning of our wedding I walked to J. Crew by myself to try on chinos, so it's a place where I go during major milestones. I walked in front of the mirror at J. Crew and lifted up my shirt to see my stomach. I was surpised at how flat it was considering I had just given birth. The feeling was utter joy and amazement that I ever got my pre-pregnancy body back. Then, I went to find Jeff in the men's section and, on the way, I saw a little baby in a stroller and started crying because I wanted to get back to my baby.

This is full of good signs.

First, I am very happy that somewhere deep in my subconscious I am willing to walk away from shopping to be with my baby. Sure, I always hoped that would be in there, but it's nice to get some confirmation from my very own psyche.

Second, I am not aware of any conscious fears about my body, but they have to be there right? I am an American woman after all and it would be statistically impossible if I wasn't worried about my weight. But, it's not a conscious worry. I am only aware of wanting to give Peppermint whatever the little one needs and avoiding the substances that would bring any complication to the process. On the pregnancy chat rooms there is a great deal of "chat" about losing baby weight. I am happy to be free of that. Right now, I don't care what happens to MY body during this process. Frankly, I am much more focused on what is happening with Peppermint's body. I just assume if my body is capable of making a human being with a little input from Jeff's body, then I am pretty sure that it will find it's way to an appropriate weight come about August 2009.

I guess there is more faith inside me than I give myself credit for. That is another VERY good sign.

Another good sign is that I project that my future does include clothes at J. Crew. While conscious fears about the SIZE of my body are buried, there are very real fears about what kind of woman I will be after the experience of pregnancy and full-blown motherhood. Will I wear sweats and elastic waist bands all weekend long? Will I still have any taste or will I just shop the Sears Spring collection on-line? Will I be so tired/harried/busy that showering will appear lower on my daily priority list than, say, number 7?

Because I don't know what I will look or feel like when this is over, I sometimes try on different flavors of mother-style. Will I be wearing high heels and 7 jeans by Labor Day ... of this year? Will I be carrying around my 6-month old baby in cute Lulu Lemon outfits or will we wear matching Lily Pulitzer outfits?

I would be lying if I didn't say that I liked the idea of Jeff accompanying me to J. Crew and wandering into the men's section on his own. I can totally see him as a metrosexual dad. I think I may be able to lure him there once I show him the extensive SALE section.

On another note, I think I am feeling the baby. This is slightly ironic because I sent out an SOS call to my new mom friends asking them when their first felt their kids. Both of them said not until 20 weeks. I am only 17 weeks and 3 days, but after all that crying and hand wringing, I realized that there is another senstation I started feeling last Sunday that is not GI business, but may seriously be the Pepps' going all Mia Hamm in my belly. When I lay down on my left side, and breathe with my hand on my belly (actually below my belly button, which I am told is actually NOT the belly-- whatever, I am a lawyer, not an anatomy expert), I sometimes feel this little jolt and feels sort of like a ripple that sends a sensation from my belly all the way to my heart. It's a weird feeling. Honestly, it feels a little like butterflies. It just kills me that I have been crying about not feeling the baby all week and despite all the evidence I didn't realize I actually was. This is so me. Vintage Christie. I literally have to be smacked in the face all week long, go through my little "I'm not as good as other mothers" process, and then I realized that I had what I was looking for all along. Could this be any more Wizard of Oz?

Dear Peppermint...

Dear Peppermint,

You mom really wants to do a blog entry right now full of rants and witty observations about the insane "advice" that people give pregnant women. Suffice it to say that it would be insightful, scathing and humorous. But, I decided to lean to the other side of my emotions-- away from the rages (hormonal and otherwise)-- and towards the love and tenderness I hope to share with you in equal measure with the rage and terror that you will no doubt see in me early and often in your life.

My number one priority in my relationship with you is to be a real person. And this real person has very intense feelings about any number of things, situations, people, memories. These intense feelings sometimes scare me and I often think about whether they will scare you too. Your dad does a good job of being mostly amused by my intensity, so I am hoping you'll have a good role model for detachment in him and a good role model for intense emoting in me. We are going to have a long and intimate life together and there is no use pretending, now or ever, that I don't feel things deeply or that I don't have extremely strong, fire-like reactions sparking almost all the time. I do. I am learning to love those parts of myself and when I see them in others. I actually can't wait to see them in you. The upside of emotional intensity is that I feel really alive and present. And, as for the downside, there really isn't one so long as I don't tell myself (or you, God forbid) that emotions of any flavor or intensity are "bad" or "wrong" or something to be ashamed of.

Another gift I would like to share with you is creating a home where you can see and experience your parents in a very happy, real, and loving marriage. Your dad sent me flowers on Tuesday with a card that said, "Happy 17th Week," referring of course to you! My vision is to be explicit with you about my love for your father and my commitment to our marriage and to our family. I believe that you will be enriched for being cared for by parents who love each other. Sometimes your dad and I fight and experience anger or loneliness or fear in our relationship, but that is part of having a real relationship. The best news of all for you is that you don't have to take care of either one of us. We actually take care of ourselves and one another so we can take care of you. I will have a very different relationship with you than I do with your dad, because he is my partner and you are my child. It's a good thing that I have certain emotional needs met by your father and that I believe my role is to meet your emotional needs. I promise to work on my relationship with him one day at a time so that you don't end up playing a role that an adult or a parent should play. I really love your dad and when I feel angry in our relationship, I have a lot of places to discuss and process that anger. I don't think that anger should be shared with you, because you deserve to develop your own anger and feelings both in your relationship to me and in your relationship to your father.

Also, I have no idea how to do any of the things I am visioning and promising to you. I am sure hoping it's a good start here at 17 weeks and 2 days to express my hopes and ask other parents how they do what they do. I think it's ok if we don't know what we are doing. Either one of us. I hope I can teach you to ask for help, which actually may be more important that really knowing what to do in the first place.

There is more to say about all of this, and I surely will stay in touch with you and myself and my world to get greater clarity on how to parent you and take in all that you will offer to me in my life.

I sometimes feel like I am holding my breath, literally, and perhaps holding back the intensity of my attachment to you until I see you again on the next ultrasound or see you in person. It's not working that well. You see, regardless of what I see or learn on the next ultrasound, you are mine and I love you and I am preparing for you like I have never prepared for anyone in my whole life. I am already utterly changed by you and your presence in my body and my mind and my heart. Of course I want you to be healthy and have all your parts, and waiting for confirmation about all of those things is not a good excuse to withhold my love from you (or myself). It's not a test. You don't have to have the right sized head or the right number of digits for me to love you and welcome you into my life. I love you no matter what and it scares the shit out of me.

I wouldn't have it any other way.

Thank you.
I welcome you.
I love you.

Love,
Mom

PS: This is so much better than a rant, but I will confess that it hurts my heart to be so in love and so vulnerable.

PPS: And, still, for all that, I wouldn't have it any other way.

17 Week Bump

Morning sickness has officially worn off so there has been no more french onion dip at 3:00 a.m. or quesadillas for breakfast. It's kind of a relief to feel like I am no longer being stalked by nausea, but it's a little bit disorienting to just be flat out hungrier, watching my body expand.

We hit 17 weeks on Tuesday, which is super exciting. We peeked ahead and found out that Peppermint is the size of a turnip. In my mind, isn't an avocado bigger than a turnip? Come to think of it, I know next to nothing about turnips. This is about the time that some women start to feel baby movement. If I have ever wanted to be an early bloomer, now is the time! Last night Jeff and I spent a while trying to feel the baby, but if I was honest with myself, every gurgle and wiggle was really just gas. In the middle of the night, however, I was tossing and turning a lot and at one point, around 4:30 a.m. I was laying on my left side and I put my hand to where they tell me my uterus is. And I swear to Christmas, after about 35 seconds, I felt something on the inside. It felt like a little tiny mouse scurrying across the inside of my womb. The image I had was a little mouse on a harness scaling the outer dome of my womb just like that guy who was running on the roof of the Beijing stadium during the opening ceremony of the Olympics this summer. It lasted less than a second. I think that was Pepps' debut as a kicker. They say the early flutters are called "quickening" and feel like popcorn popping or butterflies in your stomach. It's completely fantastic and making it seem like someone is really in there, not just the remnants and legacy of my unorthodox eating habits of late.

I have a hearing at work today and finding a suit that fits has been a real challenge. I am sporting the "Bella Band," a black tube top looking article of clothing that allows women in my condition to put their pants on as far as they will go and then slip the band on to compensate for the fact that the zipper won't zip and there ain't no way those buttons are getting buttoned. I have never worn it before and I am thinking I should have done a test run before a day in court. Every time I sit down I can feel the zipper inch down a little further....and it doesn't have that far to go. I am trusting this little band to keep me from being found in contempt of court for losing my pants in front of the Judge. I console myself with a considerable up side if my pants fall off: Our case has some weak facts that would be overshadowed by my public nudity. Come to think of it, this is really just good lawyering. If only it weren't 8 degrees outside, I could get a little more excited about the whole potential lack of clothing aspect of the day.

Really, I can't wait to come home and lay on the bed and wait for my little mouse to scurry across my belly some more. How, oh how, can I figure out how to get paid for laying in bed?????

Snack Attack!

Being pregnant has made me very popular. Mostly because hungry lawyers looking for snacks know that I have a not-so-secret stash of mostly carbohydrate goodness in my office. Most of these snacks were items I just had to have at one point during the first trimester, but once I had a single serving, I moved on to other starchy goodness. When I think back to the first 14 weeks, I remember feeling so overwhelmed at the direction to eat at least every two hours, especially in the afternoon when nothing sounded good except for a dark room and a cold pillow.

So, if you are carb loading for an upcoming road race or training for the Iron(w0)man and find yourself in Chicago's Loop area without your wallet or a viable means to get some quick fuel, stop by and see me. I can for sure hook you up.

It's All Fun and Games

Jeff and I have our best moments right before bedtime. Well, I guess I should speak for myself. Whatever grumpiness or bad mood I have schelpped around all damn day seems to disappear when I finally have sight of the finish line: my super comfy bed with my five favorite pillows. I love it when the lights go out and there is no more striving or fretting or pushing to do. It's just me and the pillows and Jeff. I have a little habit of going manic for about 4 minutes before I fall into a deep, deep sleep. During those 4 minutes, I tend to laugh really loudly in Jeff's ear, or practice crying like a baby (I think I am confused about who will be the baby crying in about 6 months, but for now, it's me), and I push as many of Jeff's buttons as I can. Which means I have to do my daily search for any fat on his body. Apparently, it isn't comfortable to have someone pinch the three centimeters of skin covering your ribs. So he says. How the hell would I know?

I am not sure how I will curb my antics once Peppermint comes ashore, but I am pretty sure Jeff will have to tell me to be quiet about 20 times a night using the threat heard in millions of homes around the planet: "Shhhhhhhh....you're going to wake THE BABY."

But, as I said, for now, I am the baby, and the baby mama, and the baby daddy's wife, so I can be as loud as I want.

For example the other night, I thought my toothbrush smelled strange and wanted to see what Jeff thought about the situation, so I found him in the office and pretty much stuck the toothbrush in his face. The small drawback to the plan of having him smell it was that I was actually brushing my teeth at the time.

Something about the whole exchange made both of us start laughing so hard that I ended up spitting the whole thing on the floor in the office. My dearest Beloved, rather than help his incapacitated wife, who was quite possibly about to choke to her death on Colgate Cinnamon Toothpaste, opted to grab the camera and take pictures of the whole thing.

If this doesn't demonstrate how ready we are for parenthood, I really don't know what does. And when I get all weird, cheap, and coupon-clippy a few months into motherhood, I am going to remember that toothpaste is a good way to clean those hard wood floors. It will be one of my many "home remedies" designed to save money and time so I can start working on the home schooling syllabi.

Lord help Little Peppermint!