As I begin this tale, know two things:

One, when you are pregnant the urge to pee is pretty undeniable and quite constant.

Two, once you are a mom you will never, under any circumstance, be allowed to forget that you are, in fact, a mom.

Got that? Okay, good.

Last week was a pretty crazy week. (This week is no less crazy but thinking about that makes me want to cry.)

I flew around the house Friday morning trying to make absolutely certain I had everything I needed to take Joshua with me to at least part of our basketball games that evening. Snacks? Check. Some toys? Check. The iPhone charger for his Youtube addiction? Check. And out the door we ran.

I picked him up from daycare that afternoon, grabbing a couple of diapers from his cubby just in case, and back to the school we went. Joshua loves to go watch “baskissball” at the school. Or, you know, climb up and down the bleachers like a crazy man and flirt with my cheerleaders by pretending to ignore them or be embarrassed when they say hi. I’m infinitely grateful for his willingness to be dragged around that school. Infinitely.

Midway through one of the games, Dan came to pick Joshua up and take him home so he wouldn’t miss bedtime. I kissed my boys goodbye and went off in search of some other teachers for adult conversation.

At some point, I reached into my right jacket pocket for my Chapstick and realized that the pocket also contained three diapers, a trial sized pack of wipes, an ink pen, and my car keys. Feeling unbalanced somehow I checked the other pocket and discovered my wristlet, a dozen or so crayons poached from various restaurants, and a couple of race cars–Lightning McQueen and Francesco Bernoulli from Cars 2.

I chuckled at the randomness of it all.

Our student section turned out in decent force on Friday night to watch a pretty intense couple of games of basketball. As such I had to sit on the opposite side of the gym from where I normally like to sit. Our gym is one of the most bizarre things I’ve ever seen because there’s not, at least in my opinion, clearly defined home and away seating. You enter on one side of the bleachers and to get to the bleachers on the other side of the court you have to cross behind the goals. All that exists on the far side of the gym are seats. And to go to the bathroom during the game, as pregnant women often need to do, you have to pick the perfect moment to cross the gym in the space behind the goals in order to take care of business.

As a pregnant lady, I am nothing if not somewhat reluctant to waddle my way across a gym, up some stairs, and into a bathroom. So I decided I’d just hold it until after the game. And drink a Diet Coke while watching the game and holding it.

To say I had to pee upon the conclusion of the game is kind of an understatement.

Once the final buzzer sounded, I said goodbye to the people I’d been sitting with, gave some announcements to the cheerleaders about the following day’s game, and then headed to the toilet to get some relief.

Just when I thought I wouldn’t make it, my pants were down and relief was mine. At the exact same moment that I started peeing, I heard the voice of Lightning McQueen say “Man, I’m glad to see you!”

It was like the toy in my pocket read my mind.

I’m pretty sure The Universe chuckled. I know I did.

Even when Joshua’s not with me, I’m reminded of all the ways my life is different–better, funnier–with him in it.

Tomorrow is the first of the last doctor’s appointments I’ll have with my current OB. But not because I’m close to the end of my pregnancy with New Girl. (Even though technically, no matter how much I want to deny its approach, the end IS growing nigh.)

Tomorrow is the first of the last because at 28 weeks pregnant I’ve decided to switch care providers and hospitals.

After my last appointment, the one with Dr. Blowhard, unease grew in my belly almost as rapidly as New Girl has. I’ve played that appointment over and over in my head trying to figure out if I read things in the doctor’s words that he didn’t intend. In short, I just don’t think I did.

Last Tuesday I called my current OB’s office to ask a simple question–what happens if the doctor I do not want to see, Dr. Blowhard, is on call when I go into labor?

The receptionist didn’t have an answer. In fact, she seemed downright puzzled. Like she understood the idea that some women may prefer not to see certain doctors but no one had ever questioned the on-call practices before.

She referred me to the office manager.

He never called me back.

That was my sign.

Despite any reassurances I may have gotten from the doctor, my doctor, whose name is on the door, I know that staying with this practice will greatly inhibit my ability to VBAC this baby and for reasons I’ll explain in another post (one that isn’t being typed on my phone while I’m “coaching” at a high school basketball game) I desperately want to VBAC this baby.

I think in some ways I’ve known this entire pregnancy that a VBAC was made less likely by staying where I am right now. By staying comfortable.

I think I’ve tried to rely on naïveté to get me through this delivery when that’s anything but my usual approach to unknown situations. I’m not one to fly into the big things lightly.

And this, y’all, is a really big thing.

So last week I called the most highly recommended OB for VBAC mamas in the area and, with few questions asked, I became his new patient.

When the receptionist asked why I was seeking a transfer, I told her, simply, that I wanted to VBAC. There was no scoffing at my wishes or condescension for my desires. When I told her how far along I was, there was no balking, no “oh, we don’t take patients that far along.” No excuses.

There were no questions asked at all.

There was only acceptance.

So tomorrow I’ll wake up, shower, drink that orange drink they gave me at the last appointment, and drive myself to the office for the blood draw. And on Thursday I’ll go back to discuss the results. And as long as I passed the one-hour test when I check out I’ll turn in my request for a transfer of my medical records to a new practice. One with a doctor who believes in the kind of delivery I want–a delivery concerned not solely with the outcome of a healthy baby but also in the process of helping mothers–helping me–have the birth others tell them is unlikely or impossible.

One in which I am not labelled a failure no matter the outcome.

Some of you know that last year I had a little thing going that I started on Facebook as a way of keeping Idol out of my status updates and annoying my friends because you were there with me. That sort of grew into a little group of us who got together every week to snark on the contestants and judges. And soon enough, I had the crazy idea to spread Idol Snark over to Twitter using #idolsnark as a hashtag. And other people joined in. And I was excited.

**sidenote: I completely blame Dan for my watching Idol. He watched it and I started watching it because he watched it and for a long time it was the only show we watched together. I also blame him for my love of those crazy bitches on the Real Housewives of Atlanta.

Anyway.**

Are you ready to be let in on a little secret?

Sometimes the internet does not suck.

It’s true. I know I’ve written about the internet and how it can suck before. (And yes, if you’re wondering, the friend request is still just sitting there. In friend request purgatory.)

But sometimes, the internet is the complete opposite of suck.

Today is one of those days.

(Except for that whole SOPA/PIPA thing. That is most definitely The Suck.)

ANYWAY.

So y’all know I love The Vampire Diaries, right?

(Stop rolling your eyes that I’m talking about this again and just stay with me.)

One day, I was just Tweeting up a storm about my new-found love for all things Salvatore when I suddenly found myself the recipient of the contact information for one of the guys who runs TV Fanatic. And they were looking for a new reviewer for their staff.

I pretty much grinned from ear to ear and my head exploded with happy at the thought of even maybe having a chance of doing two things I love:

• watching television
• writing

Then you throw in the third aspect:

Getting PAID to watch TV and write about it. INCONCEIVABLE. (If you can’t name that movie, I disown you.)

To say that I was interested is putting it mildly. I was interested on steroids. And crack. And speed. (ON not IN.)

I sent off an email and waited. And checked my email about 493832484 times. And waited some more.  And then checked the clock and realized that it’d only been about an hour and it was a Sunday and normal people did normal-people things on Sunday and I should just calm.the.eff.down.

And then I got an email back that, yes, they were looking for reviewers and could I send a list of shows I watch.

COULD I SEND A LIST?

Psha. I have a color-coded calendar complete with which show is being recorded at what in which room and when it premieres and goes on hiatus for the duration of its season!

(The above is a slight exaggeration. I do make a calendar at the beginning of TV season so that I can make sure my DVR and TiVo are set accordingly. [Yes I have both.] And so I can include any new shows into my schedule so that I don’t forget to record and/or watch them. The calendar is not, however, color-coded.)

The show they needed me to review?

American Idol.

Tonight is the season 11 premiere of Idol. And it’s my tv reviewing debut.

I have always said that my dream job would be one where I could get paid to write about TV.

Sometimes, dreams really do come true.

You’re coming with me on this new adventure, right? I couldn’t do this without you.

So, in case you didn’t know, I’m pregnant. (If you didn’t know this, I need you to send me ice cream as penance. Immediately.)

I was technically pregnant when I went to San Diego last August. I just didn’t know it yet.

One of my roommates, Suz, was undergoing fertility treatments. There may have been talks pre-BlogHer about progesterone and awkward moments at airport security when she’d have to explain what, exactly, she had in that cooler.

Another of my roommates, Alena, had an entire conversation with me in our hotel wherein at some point she randomly declared in a most confused fashion that she’d just spend the previous 15 minutes rubbing her own stomach.

I think Diana may have cried a time or two when talking to her own mother on the phone about her daughter Bella and how Bella was doing in Diana’s absence.

I got home on Monday and tested and discovered our Happy Accident.

The following month, Alena was pregnant.

And then one Saturday morning we all got an email from Suz with an ultrasound picture OF TRIPLETS.

Today? Diana announced that there’s a bun in her oven.

Yes, people. You did that math correctly.

ALL FOUR OF US ARE PREGNANT.

Between us, SIX BABIES will be born this year between April (that’s me, practically on deck ) and August.

Just call us the BlogHer fertility genies. We accept payment for belly rubs in the form of ice cream, pickles, donuts, and salt & vinegar potato chips.

(Our friend Amy from Baby Baby Lemon announced today that she’s pregnant as well. With twins. EIGHT BABIES. FIVE WOMEN.)

I wrote last night’s post and it felt kind of disjointed even as I was writing it. So when I re-read it and then read some of the comments (which, thank you for those) I felt like perhaps I’d been misleading in my writing by mentioning the Mommy Wars.

Yes, posts about the Mommy Wars were published this week by women I consider my friends.

No, my post about opinions is not based on my desire to respond to either of those posts.

(My whole e-spiral from Monday night actually started because of a post on a message board about The Vampire Diaries. True story. And I only sort of wish I were kidding.)

I referenced those posts because those posts sparked an outpouring of opinions in others, but also because of what I added to the bottom of my post after I remembered what had been my entire point in posting all along while brushing my teeth.

Posts like that, which are based on the opinions and experiences of the author, often leave me feeling like I’ve somehow done something wrong, or am doing something wrong, or will do something wrong. And I have a deep-seeded (seated?) desire not only to not be wrong because I enjoy being right but also, and mostly, because I don’t want to disappoint people.

I am an opinionated people-pleaser.

Contradiction much?

I think my desire to please others is what keeps me from saying some of the things I really want to say. I’m rational enough to know that while there will be those who will disagree with me, there will likely be those who don’t. But it’s those who will disagree who keep me from speaking up or out on just about anything. And that’s maybe slightly irrational.

::sigh::

I didn’t used to be this girl.

I don’t even know how to begin writing what I’m about to write. In my head, this is all over the place. Maybe it’s just a little more word vom for your week and you’ll go “OMG AWFUL!” and click the red X and run away screaming. That’s cool. I just feel like I need to dump this out before I quit the internet for realz.

If I had to list qualities about myself that I see as being both good and bad, opinionated would be at the top of that list. (Though I say “passionate” when I’m being positive.)

I’m opinionated, y’all. About pretty much everything. Except what we’re having for dinner. And the fact that I usually have no opinion on what to have for dinner pretty much drives Dan nuts on a daily basis. But that’s not even kind of the opinion I’m talking about here.

I’ll be the first to admit that I can sometimes be…hmmm…how should I say it…forward? with my opinions? Outspoken?

Because I can be. And I know this. And KNOWING this has caused me to pull back in some ways, especially online. (Yes, people who know me. I’m being honest. I don’t say nearly as much as I want to say half the time. Weird, right?)

True story: I’m not nearly as opinionated around here as I could be, or even as I’d sometimes like to be, because I realize that my opinions might be alienating.

But there’s something stifling about that.

Because these opinions that I have? They’re my opinions. Just like your opinions are your opinions and your friend’s opinions are their opinions and so on and so forth until the ends of the Universe. And the world keeps spinning despite the fact that we all have these opinions that are sometimes radically different from those of our neighbor.

And yet I feel compelled to hold back when it comes to my opinions on issues for fear of 1) making y’all angry and tearing down what’s been built up here, 2) attracting all kinds of drama, or 3) both.

I’m of the opinion ( o_o ) that not all opinions are of the horrible variety just because they are opinions. Some can simply add to the discussion in thoughtful ways that shed light on a different side of the story.

So yesterday when posts were published on various battles in the “Mommy Wars,” I sat here and read them and formed opinions (not necessarily opposing ones, at least not completely) about these topics, but I don’t know how to share them here. Or there. Or anywhere, really.

Because of the charged nature of those two discussions, I feel like my thoughts would automatically be lumped into the horrible category no matter how I couched them. At least some people would think those opinions are horrible. And if they think those opinions are horrible, does that mean that by extension, I become horrible?

(See also: Miranda has issues.)

I don’t know what, exactly, to do with that.

In the entire Blogoverse, it seems like there’s room enough for all of us to share our opinions in thoughtful ways. There should be. But more often than not, it feels like there isn’t space for all of us. For me.

But maybe that’s just my issue. (Likely.)

How do you deal with knowing that you have something to say and knowing that you really want to say that something but worrying that you’ll offend people, or hurt people you care about, when that’s not your intent? Because I’m stumped. And I certainly don’t want people to think I’m horrible.

Update-ish:

People, I think I just had an apostrophe. (Name that movie.)

I lost my train of thought no less than 47 times while I was writing this thanks to Shipping Wars and tried to wrap this post up so I could go to bed. A place I should’ve been 2 hours ago. But I remembered part of why I think opinions are so difficult while brushing my teeth (Don’t pretend like you don’t get your best ideas while doing mundane things.) and thought I’d come back here and add this little nugget of thought.

Opinions are tough for me because I have issues. (This has been previously established, yes?)

So when I read other people’s opinions, my rational mind accepts that as that person’s opinion independent of my own and moves along.

My irrational mind, however, is a psychotic bitch.

The irrational part of my brain reads an opinion different from my own and sees judgment for having a different opinion, or for having done things differently, or for wanting to do things differently, even when absolutely no judgment is implied.

Conversely, I think I’m scared to share my opinions on here because of the same thing. Crazy, irrational, psychotic bitch minds that think I’m judging when I’m not.

So NOW what?

I wrote a while ago about my smoke nose. The chronic, disgusting, burning sensation that there is always someone smoking a cigarette in my presence. Except no one is.

I finally screwed up the courage to consult Dr. Google and found the word “phantosmia,” which basically means “olfactory hallucinations.”

So the tiny person who runs my nose is tripping on acid and smoking like a chimney at the same time. Or something like that.

People, here’s the problem when you consult Dr. Google like I did.

You find all sorts of people who are convinced that they are dying.

A Google of “I smell smoke all the time when no one around me is smoking” yields results that would make Dr. House happy. (Yes, that’s what I Googled first, followed by “pregnant smelling smoke all the time” and variations of the same. Keywords are not necessarily my thing.)

What I found first was that I’m most certainly not alone with my smoke nose. There are others like me. We should get together and form a support group.

What I found second was that no one seems to know what causes this but everyone loves to speculate. Probably because everyone loves to go on those message boards proclaiming “THIS IS THE WEIRDEST THING EVER!” and then never go to a medical professional about it.

Possible causes, as far as I can tell, include, but are not, I’m sure, limited to:

• a brain tumor
• a nose tumor
• indigestion
• sinusitis
• blocked smell receptors in the brain
• depression
• acid reflux
• trauma of the head, face, or sinus variety
• drainage issues in the ears
• a tiny person in one’s nose tripping on acid and smoking like a chimney

Seriously. The most jumped-to conclusion on the message boards I found were “I have a brain tumor. I must be dying. Get me an MRI, a CT scan, and a transplant. STAT!”

All the boards were full of people going “OMG! I HAVE THIS TOO!” and no one actually offering up what his/her doctor had to say about it. Which means that either they went and the doctor said “Oh, look, a CIGARETTE lodged up your NOSE” and they felt stupid or they died and couldn’t come back to tell us all about the brain tumors since apparently there’s no internet in the afterlife.

So, I’m stuck with a nose that imagines it is smelling cigarette smoke all the time for no apparent reason. Except I’m pretty certain I don’t have a brain tumor so we can probably rule that one out.

I’d intended to come here and write about the ongoing issues I’m having with Smoke Nose, but then I went to class tonight and decided to just come here and word vom in my dashboard.

Hope you don’t mind.

Want to know why I haven’t blogged much in the past five months? Believe me. It’s not because I don’t want to.

I haven’t had time.

When my plane landed in Atlanta on the Sunday after BlogHer, I hit the ground running the very next morning with a full teaching load, learning the process of creating a yearbook, taking classes to earn my gifted certification, coaching cheerleading, and a surprise pregnancy.  On top of the wifing and momming and general attempting to be more than mediocre that I was already doing.

I’m pretty sure I’ve failed at even being mediocre lately.

I just sort of drifted through the past five months with wistful glances at the dashboard and a head full of thoughts waiting to be spilled out. And then I took my (un)happy and ridiculously tired ASSets to bed.

(We’ll just nevermind the two TVD benders I’ve been on that sucked (ha!) all my time, mmkay. You’d be hooked too. Just ask the people I’ve converted to Team Salvatore.)

Winter break was so, so good for my soul. It gave me a break from all the things I had swirling in my head. All of the work-related responsibilities got to sit firmly on the back burners of my life for two great weeks.

I went back to work on Monday and I planned out the next three months of my semester and realized that when I get to the end of these calendars, I’ll be having a baby. A tiny little bundle of lungs and poop and cute.

And then I came to my gifted class tonight and y’all, I just don’t know when I’m going to have time to get anything done at all much less do it well.

If I start to look at all the things I need to do in the next 14.5 weeks (assuming she’s on time or late), I get so unhappy I just want to get a bowl of ice cream and cry about it instead of actually taking care of business.

I’m so, so overwhelmed right now.

So, I had a doctor’s appointment this morning. Taking Joshua with me was actually quite humorous. Like when I took him to the bathroom with me so I could pee in a cup and he kept asking “Where Joshie cup!?!” So there’s that much, at least.

But this appointment was scheduled with Dr. With the NIH Fellowship. Hereafter and forever known as Dr. Blowhard.

He came in and seemed slightly annoyed that Joshua was there, like he’d never seen a small human before. Joshua, as if to give the man his toddler-middle-finger, was a dream child, sitting in the chair the whole time Dr. Blowhard and I “talked” and while we listened for New Girl’s heartbeat.

Joshua was probably more calm than I was. In fact, I know he was.

Dr. Blowhard walked in and said, “So, they did your ultrasound last time. Did you find out the sex?”

Did you fail Chart Reading 101??

Instead I said “Yes, it’s a girl.”

“Oh, congratulations! Did they look at your ovary to assess the cyst we found at the ultrasound in August? I don’t see it in your paperwork anywhere.”

So you CAN read a chart. INTERESTING.

“No, I don’t think so. Actually, no. She didn’t look for it.”

**Hold on to your horses kids. I’m about to lose it.**

“Well, when we do your c-section we’ll take a look.”

WHAT THE MOTHER LOVING LOVE!?!?!?!

” O_O. I AM NOT A C-SECTION. I AM A VBAC.”

“Oh, okay, so you’re a VBAC. Okay.”

“Yes. That’s supposed to be in my chart per Dr. iLike and my last visit.”

“What was the reason for your last c-section?”

::head explosion::

::deep breath::

“Failure. to. progress.”

“Oh, so how far along did you get?”

::more deep breath::

“7-8 centimeters and 90%. And then Dr. Impatient said my water had been broken for 24 hours and it was time to do a c-section.”

“Oh, so you didn’t get stuck at 7 for a while?”

“No. I NEVER GOT A CHANCE TO GET PAST 7-8!”

“Well, we’ll do an attempt at VBAC and I’ll put a note in your chart that we need to follow up on the cyst postpartum. How much did he ::waves hand nonchalantly in Joshua’s general direction:: weigh at birth?”

“9 pounds.”

“Oh, so he was a big baby! Did you have your blood drawn already this morning for the glucose test?”

Uh, no. Because we decided I wouldn’t do that until 28 weeks like normal people and the last doctor to see me didn’t think it needed to be done until then and I trust his judgment more than yours.

Except I just said “No. Dr. iLike didn’t mention it at my last appointment.”

“Well, you were supposed to have that done at 24 weeks and repeated 28 weeks.”

o_o

“We’ll get you the glucose drink before you leave and you can do it at 28 weeks.”

o_o

“If you fail the 1 hour, we’ll have you back in for a 2 hour.”

“Oh, so you’re not doing a 3 hour test anymore?”

“Oh, so you had that done last time? You know, mothers who fail more than one screen are at greater risk for gestational diabetes. Did you have gestational diabetes with your last pregnancy?”

CAN YOU READ A FACKING CHART?!!?!?!?!?!?!!?!?!? Or is your ability to read a chart limited to only the parts you WANT to read?

Me: “No. I did not. And I passed the 3 hour test perfectly.”

“Well, failing that test is only one indicator of gestational diabetes. You still failed the 1 hour screen and then had a large baby. That’s an indicator of a problem.”

Except it’s not. The 1 hour glucose test is a screening test. The 3 hour test is the real test. Mothers routinely fail the 1 hour test and go on to pass the 3 hour test, which is the actual test. (See also: Me.) If failing the 1 hour test and passing the 3 hour test was an indicator that a mother had gestational diabetes then 1) there’d be no need for the 3 hour test or 2) there’d be no need for the 1 hour test and all mothers would go straight to the 3 hour test. But who am I to point out the fallacy in someone’s logic.

Instead I said: “His dad was a large baby, and is about 6’2″ now. Joshua was 22″ at birth. And he’s a tall almost 3 year old.”

“So some of his size may have been constitutional.”

GEE, YOU THINK?

More polite response: “Yes. I expected he’d be a large baby based on family history.”

At this point I climbed up on the table and laid back and Joshua, sweet boy, just kept sitting in the chair being awesome. Dr. Blowhard felt for my uterus, declared its positioning “perfect” and gooped me up to listen to New Girl’s heartbeat.

“Strong,” he said.

“Like her Mama,” I thought.

At this point, I was completely over being in that room with him. Completely. But I needed to ask him about the recurrent pain in my vagina bone (which I’ve neglected to write about because I’m afraid of what loonies I’ll attract with the phrase “vagina bone.”)

But, because I was there, when he asked if I had any more questions, I asked.

“Well, my only concern is some pain I’ve been having when I stand from sitting or if I’ve been in one position for too long. I sometimes feel like an old lady when I try to walk.”

I indicated the general region where I’m having the pain.

He says “Oh, that’s just your ligaments stretching so that your pelvis can accommodate the fetus.” And he went on to give me a quasi-anatomy lesson about how pregnancy works and how the body changes during pregnancy. While I just looked at Joshua and thought “This ain’t my first rodeo, pal.”

So then I asked another question, apparently because I’m stupid.

“At what point does this pain move from normal to abnormal pain that should concern me?”

“Oh, well, preterm labor is the same as regular labor except it occurs before38 weeks, but we can always try to stop the preterm labor with magnesium. If you’re having more than 4 or 5 contractions in an hour, you need to call us.”

Scccrrreeeeeech.

Yes. That conversation went from one wherein I asked a very specific question about my vagina bone pain to one where he assumes I think I’m in labor. Because every woman who has ever had a pain during pregnancy MUST THINK SHE’S IN LABOR.

o_o

And then he says “I don’t think you’re experiencing preterm labor, but I can check your cervix if you want me to, though it’d really just be exposing you to a lot of unnecessary discomfort right now.”

Uh, no thanks, pal. Really. You’re not coming anywhere near my vagina–ever–if I can help it.

“Uhh, I really don’t think that’s the issue here. I’m pretty certain that I’m not in labor. Or preterm labor. I might have a few Braxton Hicks contractions here or there, but no, I’m not in labor. I’m good.”

So then I, because I cannot help myself, ask him if there are any suggestions for managing the pain.

And then he told me I should be exercising 5 days a week for an hour at a time–brisk walking, swimming, weight lifting.

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAAHHAAH.

o_o

(I’m not laughing about exercising during pregnancy. I should be exercising during pregnancy instead of eating bowls of ice cream and Nerds every night. I know this. But 5 hours a week? In my week? BWHAHAHAHHAHAHAH.)

At this point, he handed me my paperwork and I collected my things and Joshua and I walked down the hall toward the appointment desk. While we were walking, he called out and told me that the fact that I intend to VBAC this baby is, in fact, noted in my chart already, thanks to my conversation with Dr. iLike at the last appointment.

When I scheduled my next appointment, I made sure to tell the receptionist that I didn’t want to see Dr. Blowhard and she said “Is this something I should pass on to The Administrators.”

“Yes.”

So she made a note on a separate piece of paper. I have no idea who The Administrators may be or where that note went or who might see it.

But I will not be seeing Dr. Blowhard again.

(If you finished this, you’re not a douchebag. Unlike Dr. Blowhard. My apologies for the length.)

My Fridays are dotted with emails and iPhone notifications that New Girl is growing. And in doing that growing, we’re all growing closer to her arrival.

Fridays are my “turn days” where I advance from one week of pregnancy to the next.

Today, I’m 24 weeks pregnant.

In so many ways I feel completely unprepared for this new little baby.

And then I just tell myself that as long as my boobs work, we’re good. At least for a little while.

::sigh::

I find myself grabbing my belly, reveling in her kicks and wiggles, imagining whether she’ll look like me or Dan. I dream of the future.

And then I see Joshua. Or I hear Joshua. Or I feel Joshua because he’s crawled into my lap for the 214th time that day. I live in the present.

Sometimes I’m holding him in a Mama Snuggle and I feel her move and then I realize that in a way I’m holding them both at the same time.

I know my Mama Heart is big enough for both of them now.

Twas three days before Christmas
When all through the house
Not a creature was stirring,
Not even a mouse.

The toddler was nestled
All snug in his crib (finally)
When Mama decided
She’d just go take a whiz.

She sat down on the toilet.
She let the pee stream.
She didn’t even care
That the bathroom didn’t gleam.

Then out in the living room
The (damn) dog started barking!
The UPS man! In the cul-de-sac!
His brown truck he was parking!

Away to the living room
She flew like a flash!
She’d jumped up so quickly
Her pants only came up to cover half her ass!

She grabbed the dog’s snout!
“NO BARKING!” she exclaimed.
“If you wake up the toddler,
I’LL GIVE YOU THE MANGE!”

And then keeping one hand
Placed firm on dog’s nose
She reached to her thighs
And her pants, up they rose!

Out on the front porch
Was the last of her gifts.
No need to visit Wal-Mart
Some time on third shift!

She sat down on the couch
To eat a Candy Cane Joe Joe.
And that’s when she heard it.
The toddler crying–Oh no.

The half-bare-assed running
She’d done moments before
Had not been fast enough
To keep the toddler a’snore.

With nap time now over,
No more free time in sight,
The only thing she had left
Was hope for a good night.

(This is based on 100% true events of my afternoon, complete with the pants-half-up running through my house to stop the (damn) dog from barking. Thank God for curtains on the windows, right?)

Here’s the deal.

I’m not hardcore pushing the potty training thing. I know my child isn’t 100% ready for diaper-free living based on various signs of readiness.

But I do need you, wise People of the Internets, to talk to me about poop and how to get it in the potty. (The toddler’s, not mine. Just in case you were confused.) Because I’m baffled as to how, exactly, this works.

We can get Joshua to pee in the potty with some regularity when we ask him if he has to go. This may be partially due to the fact that there are candy bribes involved thanks to Dr. Schneider’s lecture on potty training his daughters in my Psych 1001 class as examples of classical and operant conditioning a decade (GASP!) ago.

So then we started talking to and asking Joshua about “going stinky” in the potty. To which he says, quite pointedly, “I don wanna go stinky in dah potty.”

And then last night I think we nearly gave him an anxiety attack.

Here’s how it went down:

He came to us around 7:00 and said “I got a soaky butt!” (which he sometimes says but more often does not say). Dan took him to his room to change his diaper and instead of putting a diaper on him, I thought we’d just let him wear some Thomas underwear. There were only about 30 minutes until bath time and the chances of him peeing were slim. I didn’t want to potentially waste a diaper if we could get him to the potty to pee on time. Except he hadn’t pooped in a while and he’s a pretty, uh, regular guy. So we knew we were taking more than just a pee risk.

He was standing in front of the TV and we smelled what smelled like he’d pooped, but he hadn’t, so we took him to the potty and put him on it and told him he could have a popsicle if he went stinky on the potty.

He passed gas and proclaimed “I DID IT!”

Except he didn’t. I was sitting in the floor with him and he kept trying to get up and I kept saying “No, Joshie go stinky on the potty!” all excited-like. And he got less and less amused with my antics and began to cry. Which made me FEEL like poop. Because I was stupid for pushing this and should’ve just cut my losses.

He came back into the living room and played trains and then ventured into the dining room where he turned off the light and got quiet. Dan and I were all “JOSHUA! LET’S GO STINKY ON THE POTTY!!!”

And he got kind of hysterical. So we offered to put a diaper on him so he could poop and when we laid him down in the floor we discovered he was mid-poop and he kind of freaked on us a little bit.

“I DON WAN A DIAPER! I DON WAN A STINKY DIAPER! I DON WAN A STINKY!” ::sob sob sob::

I fastened a diaper with lightning speed, scooped up my wailing toddler, and snuggled him until he was ready to go back into the living room where we waited on bath time until he’d gone back into the dining room, turned out the light AGAIN, and finished what he’d started 15 minutes prior.

I felt awful for the kid.

And last night I realized I have no idea what I’m doing when it comes to potty training except to know that he’s probably not really ready and I don’t want to push it because it’s more “convenient” for me. (And really, after reading my friend Suzanne’s post about a potty-trained toddler, I’m not so sure it’s more convenient.)

His reaction last night also tells me that I am in no way entertaining the idea of Boot Camping him into using the toilet full time.

But tell me, y’all, am I doing this even remotely right? Or should I study up on my Freud and his theories of anal retentiveness?

No, this isn’t THAT Santa situation. We’re firmly Team St. Nick over here at Casa de NSJM. But a conversation on tonight’s car ride home has proven that we (Dan and yours truly) do not see eye-to-eye on how, exactly Santa brings the presents.

Here’s a recreation of our conversation:

Me: “I really need to wrap some presents.”

Dan: “We really need to find a place to hide the wrapped presents.”

Me: o_O ::scratches head:: “Uh, we put them under the tree.”

Dan: “But Santa brings the presents.”

Me: “But they’re not all from Santa. Some of them are from us.”

Dan: “But Santa brings those, too.”

Me: o_O “No, Santa brings the big presents. And Santa doesn’t always wrap his presents. Some of them are just ready and waiting for play when you wake up on Christmas morning.”

Dan: O_o “That’s dumb. Because then you wouldn’t want to open anything else. I think you need to ask The Twitters about this.”

Yes, he really suggested asking The Twitters.

We’ve been together for 8 Christmases now and until tonight had never shared our Santa stories with each other which proves that there’s always something new to learn about those you think you know.

When I was little, presents showed up sporadically under the tree throughout the holiday season. No tags were used so we didn’t know which presents were ours. Mama just had her super secret way of knowing which gift went to whom and in all of my life, we never opened a present belonging to someone else.

(She’s magic, that one. There were no assigned wrapping papers. There were no names written in secret on the packages. She just knew. I tried this and it drove Dan insane.)

When we woke up on Christmas morning our “big” presents (a.k.a. the Santa gifts) were unwrapped and waiting for us.

The year I got my Cabbage Patch doll, she was laying in a wooden cradle. (I named her Christy Lee.)

The year I got a Nintendo (old school, with the big square cartridges) it was hooked up and the demo screen was playing when I stumbled into the living room at an ungodly hour of the morning because Daddy was a bigger kid than we were and was always waking us up at something like 4 a.m. (Not joking.)

Dan’s family, on the other hand, has a tradition of receiving gifts from everyone, including but not limited to Ayatollah Khomeini, Boba Fett, Porky Linkster, various pets, reindeer, and Condoleeza Rice. None of which show up before Christmas morning.

(This tradition of labeling gifts as being from random people is hilarious and awesome to me and is one that I’ve adopted wholeheartedly.)

When Dan and his sister were little all of these gifts showed up underneath the tree after they’d gone to bed on Christmas Eve. Santa presents were wrapped. Gifts from his mom and dad were wrapped. Everything was wrapped. And nothing showed up before Christmas Eve (except gifts from out-of-town family and friends of the family, which had to go under the tree not to be opened until Christmas morning). Otherwise, Santa brought everything. Even presents from his parents.

For the past two years, Santa’s been kind of a moot point around here. We’ve each bought Joshua three things and we’ve kept those three things a secret from the other person because otherwise, Christmas was kind of pointless since Joshua was way more interested in the boxes than anything that was inside them. But this year is a little different. He sort of gets it. Or at least he gets the opening presents part of it. Sort of.

But this Santa background thing? Is proving quite difficult.

I like my way because 1) it’s what I know, 2) it takes a lot of the focus off of Santa and keeps it real that he’s not the only gift-giver in town, 3) it’s what I know.

Dan likes his way because 1) it’s what he knows, 2) it’s a surprise, 3) it’s what he knows. (Oh, and he thinks my way is weird.)

How do we blend these two traditions to make something new?

So, last Friday, after a 15 hour day at work (thank you, basketball season and games that go into overtime following games that ran long), I hobbled into the house completely exhausted.

I pretty much headed straight for the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face and all that jazz. While I was standing at the sink, trying to decide whether flossing that night was worth the effort, I noticed my legs felt…tight.

Puffy.

I braced myself.

Took a deep breath.

And looked down.

THE CANKLES WERE BACK.

If you don’t know what a cankle is, first, you’ve been living under a rock. Second, it’s when your ankles swell so as to be indistinguishable from your calves.

And I haz them. See Exhibit A:

Please to excuse the ashy legs.

Yes, people. Yes that is the line from the socks that had only been on my feet for a whopping two hours this evening.

Two hours!?! And sock lines!?!

When I went for my 20 week ultrasound with Joshua, my right leg was twice the size of my left. It was so big, in fact, that it alarmed the doctor and she sent me for a special ultrasound on my leg to make sure I didn’t have a blood clot.

(I didn’t.)

I did, however, have some of the most ridiculously swollen legs, ankles, and feet known to mankind, and long before I delivered, the left leg had joined the right in swelling. As had my hands, face, and nasal passages. (Sounds lovely, right?)

Up until last Friday, I’d had ZERO swelling with New Girl’s pregnancy. None. Nada. Zilch. My ankles were perfectly formed and not at all sausage-y. I was all ::happy dancing:: that maybe the swelling wouldn’t occur this time because of all the Digestive Exit issues and nausea I had in the first trimester. You know, kind of The Universe’s way of saying “Miranda, you’ve been so good this trimester we’ll put you on the non-swollen pregnant lady list.”

Since last Friday? There has been ZERO REDUCTION in swelling, y’all. None.

Sad Miranda is sad.

If this means I have to try support pantyhose again the ugly cry might happen.

::sigh::

The internet? Does not suck more often than it sucks.

(Example: I’ve typed this post twice [suck] but this post gives you an opportunity to do something good for someone else with the internet [double not suck].)

Another example of the internet not sucking? It brought me my friends Jessica and Heather.

Jessica and Heather are the kind of girlfriends you want to be around because they are as inspiring and encouraging as they are beautiful. And while I’ve never gotten the opportunity to hug the faces of either of these women, they’ve been important parts of my life for several years now. So when Jessica emailed me last week to ask for help with a mission, it took me about .02 seconds to say “YES!”

(Okay…it took me overnight because of how busy last week was. Kind of beside the point.)

Heather is an active member of the Air Force Reserves. While Jessica and I were about to give birth to toddlers, Heather was sent on her first overseas deployment.

Jessica, in addition to being the mom to a nearly THREE year old (!!!) and rocking her day job, sells thirty-one gifts as a way to supplement her income.

Jessica’s thirty-one venture + Heather = Operation Zipper Pouch

Operation Zipper Pouch is a way to say “Thank You” to some of our troops currently serving overseas deployments.

Between now and December 21st, you can purchase a zipper pouch from thirty-one gifts in any print and personalize  the bag (or not) in any color and font you choose. I think you can even choose your own wording!

100% of the commission earned from the sale of these pouches will go toward buying items that will be used to make care packages for the recipients–chap stick, ink pens, notepads, small snacks, puzzle books–you name it. If it will fit and is on the list of items approved for shipment, that’s what Jessica will buy to put in these pouches. (And feel free to leave a comment with a suggested item if you have firsthand knowledge of what items would be of use to someone deployed, man or woman!)

When I asked Jessica what motivated her to do this, she replied, “I want our troops to feel appreciated even if it is just a small token.  They are putting their lives on the line, away from their families, and if this gift gives them a smile then it is totally worth the effort for me.”

A personalized zipper pouch is $22.16 (tax and shipping included) and a non-personalized zipper pouch is just $14.

You can shop Operation Zipper Pouch right now to purchase your gift. The pouches are expected to be delivered to their intended recipients in January, so not in time for Christmas, but the gift of thanks and gratitude is always on time.

The deployed members of Heather’s unit, the 45th Aerial Port Squadron which is part of the 349th Air Mobility Wing out of Travis AFB, CA, will be the recipients of these pouches. I’ll be giving you updates along the way of the progress of Operation Zipper Pouch as well as sharing with you any news we have once these gifts arrive at their final destination.

As if doing something nice for someone else isn’t incentive enough, Jessica is also giving away THREE prizes to THREE winners from those who purchase a pouch between now and December 21st via Operation Zipper Pouch.

One person will win an Organizing Utility Tote in Paparazzi Dot, one person will win a Cinch-top Thermal Tote (a brand new item to thirty-one!), and one person will win a $20 gift certificate to thirty-one gifts.

Winning!

Jessica will choose the winners at the conclusion of Operation Zipper Pouch. I’ll announce them here, but she’ll contact the winners as well.

Again, 100% of the commission from the sale of these bags is going to the troops deployed overseas. Jessica is doing this NOT as part of an initiative of thirty-one gifts but because she wants to do something good for others and let you in on the doing good.

We hope you’ll join us in spreading a little cheer to these deserving men and women!

Let Operation Zipper Pouch BEGIN!

This has been a week, y’all. A long, busy, tiring week.

Three nights of basketball, one night of gifted class, and one night spent frustrated because Joshua decided to “decorate” the couch cushions with an ink pen while I was making Christmas presents.

Add in a healthy dose of anxiety over his picky eating and whether or not I’m a complete screw-up [yes, again] and his being switched to another class at daycare and you’ve got a recipe for Meatloaf Meltdown. Which is exactly what I had today. Minus the meatloaf.

This morning I needed rest. But Joshua woke up at 6:00, ready to start the day. And Dan had to go to work.

When it was clear that Joshua was not interested in having a calm morning and insisted upon turning the Christmas tree lights on and off, throwing his crayons all over the living room, and slinging his animal alphabet flashcards from one end of the rug to the other, and when it became clear that my only choice would be to take him with me to the craft store, we loaded up and left the house.

What a mistake.

A mistake I’ve made before.

He refused to ride in the cart at the store. But he also refused to walk.

He wanted to be carried. Because lately he always wants to be carried. By me, of course. The woman who is currently carrying another human and whose vagina bone feels like it’s being ripped into two pieces on a near constant basis. The woman who cannot really handle carrying an additional 35 points of wiggling toddler simply because he doesn’t want to walk or ride.

Yes. Me. Only me.

I tried to resist. But when you have to get things done so you can leave, how do you have that fight? How do you have a battle of wills with a 2 year old in the middle of Hobby Lobby over holding hands and walking or riding in the cart?

At one point I plopped him in the seat of the cart and let him protest. I bribed him with “games” on the phone and that worked for about 5 minutes. I grew increasingly frustrated and angry with his protests. My voice got erratic. My skin started crawling. It was a million zillion degrees in that store in the middle of December.

By the time we got to the register, he’d managed to climb out of the seat which meant I had to grab him before he kamikaze’d to the floor. And at the register, I couldn’t exactly put him down because of all the things he could get into right there.

So I held him.

And he asked for this and that and “I need get down.”

And then I felt it. I felt the warmth and the wetness on my hip. The telling feeling of having just been peed on. A feeling I think most moms know all too well.

The diaper that had been fresh when we walked out the door an hour earlier had been completely soaked through thanks to the water he had in the car.

I huffed and the cashier apologized for the wait. So in my absolute classiest voice I said “Oh, no big deal. I just got peed on.”

Finally, it was my turn. I had to unload my cart one handed while I held Joshua on my left hip. No one even bothered to help. Which kind of made me want to cry. I feel like it was clear I was struggling at that point. And there I was, taking care of things on my own.

I paid and took Joshua to the car and changed his diaper in the back. I wasn’t nice about it, which makes me feel like shit on a stick. It wasn’t his fault the diaper leaked.

As I picked him up and didn’t put his pants back on he started protesting. I put him in the car seat and he started wailing. I wasn’t nice about that either.

Almost the entire drive home alternated between him screaming and crying because he wasn’t wearing pants and shoes to me screaming at him to stop crying which led to me crying so hard at one point my sunglasses fogged up.

And then I just felt terrible and started apologizing to him for having me as his mother.

I don’t want him to grow up afraid of me and my irrationality. He deserves so much better than a mother who can’t keep it together. So much better.

I need a clear head and a clear heart.

It’s been my experience over the past 2.5 years that cute, non-puppy, non-cartoon character-laden, non-UGLY inexpensive boy clothes can be kind of hard to come by, so shopping’s difficult.

I’ve spent hours scouring the few stores that carry semi-decent, in-my-price-range boy clothes endlessly for Joshua’s outfits (at least the non-play clothes ones). Even if that means I’m scouring the same 3 racks of clothes.

In light of this, I have a confession to make that is absolutely INSANE.

Being a girl mom is hard. And New Girl isn’t even here yet.

Because shopping for girls is equally as hard as shopping for boys but for totally different reasons.

You see, I heard “It’s a girl!” at the ultrasound and visions of ruffles! and dresses! and tights! danced in my head. I thought “SHOPPING!!!” Most likely because I’m a girl.

And then I got home and started paying attention to my Zulily emails and Old Navy’s girl’s section online and putting stuff into and out of my online shopping carts. (And that’s pretty much the only two places I’ve “been” because, hello, Hell Week).

Want to know what I discovered?

THERE ARE TOO MANY CHOICES.

If there are 3 racks of little boy clothes, there are 30 racks for little girls. Do you know how hard it is to decide between the pink romper and the pink romper with little white flowers and the pink romper with little white and yellow flowers and the pink romper with the little white and yellow and blue flowers?

BECAUSE IT’S HARD.

And it’s hard to even choose between two solid pieces, too. Because how many solid purple onesies does a girl need? (Multiple, if you ask me. I mean, let’s not talk about the fact that I buy long-sleeved black t-shirts nearly every time I see them on sale, mmkay?)

And then I think “If I put her in too many dresses, will she rebel one day and become a female body builder? Or will she develop some sort of princess complex?” Like, can I screw my child up by what I put on her? (Judging by Toddlers and Tiaras, maybe.) I mean, I certainly don’t want to ruin her by dressing her in a way that typecasts her for the rest of her life.

Then there’s the practical side of me that thinks about the cute things I bought for Joshua that he never wore because we never go anywhere. (I’m looking at you linen pants and embroidered linen shirt screaming Panama-Jack-meet-ADORABLE BABY BOY and still hanging in his closet.)

All of these layered, jean-skirt and leggings outfits make my ovaries all twitchy but they scream “PAIN IN THE ASSETS!”

Because there will be poopsplosions, y’all. Probably more than one.  I know enough to know that much.

And spit-up. And knowing my track record, a lot of spit-up.

I’m neurotic. (That’s not new information, people. Move along.)

How do I dress girl babies?

Joshua’s kind of in love with Angry Birds.

“I play Angry Birds Daddy’s phone!?”

“I needa play Angry Birds on da cahPEWder!?”

“I play Angry Birds Joshie’s phone!?”

(Yes, he has a phone. No, he’s not ordering pizza or scheduling playdates. Yet.)

These are constant comments at our house. Constant. And I’m pretty sure Dan played Angry Birds on the computer for nearly an hour on Sunday morning because that’s how much the toddler loves the game (and how much Dan loves Joshua and me and values my sanity).

Last night we went to the grocery store and lo and behold the Christmas toy display!

Which, not coincidentally, is right as you walk in the door no doubt to  con harried parents into buying whatever will hold Little Johnny still long enough for them to grocery shop. 

o_O

Right atop said display? Plush Angry Birds characters as big as my toddler.

“ANGRY! BIRDS!,” he shouted.

So, being the good parents we are, we walked over to the display and talked about the birds.

And then the following scene took place:

“I needa RED Angry Bird!”

We handed Joshua the red Angry Bird plush toy.

“Daddy needa yewwow Angry Bird!”

Dan picked up the yellow Angry Bird plush toy.

“Mama needa pig!”

o_O

I picked up the green Pig plush toy.

“OINK!”

And then a red Angry Bird was launched at me from across the grocery store aisle by my toddler kamikaze style.

End Scene.

I love that kid.

We used to say that we were “tanking” Joshua up when we’d feed him right before putting him to bed at night. He’d nurse or have a bottle (while I milked myself o_o ) and then we’d put him to bed and hope he slept through the night.

(He didn’t.)

Lately, he needs a different kind of “tanking up.”

His Mama-Love Tank seems to be running on empty. All the time. And apparently, Joshua drives an 18-wheeler because his Mama-Love Tank is enormous.

Nearly every morning since September, he’s been protesting and crying  at daycare drop-off in the mornings. Some mornings, I cry, too. I know that he’s loved and cared for at his daycare, and I know that he stops thinking about me by the time I reach my car.

But it breaks my heart to leave him crying every day when I know that he wants me. It’s also hard to go through my day and do my job when the last and most poignant sound in my ears is that of my child crying as I walk out the door.

This kind of thing breeds a lot of resentment. A lot.

When I pick him up, he practically shoots sunshine and rainbows out of his face and he screams “MA! MA!” and runs to me and I scoop him up and smother him in kisses and hugs.

**Sidenote: please see Life is Beautiful immediately if you haven’t already seen it. Like, see it yesterday. Pack tissues.**

When we get home Joshua is All-Mama-All-the-Time.

If I sit down for a minute, I have about 2 seconds until I hear “I needa sit Mama’s wap!” and his boney little toddler butt is glued to my leg. Glued.

And then there’s “I need you hold you me!” (formerly known as “Mama up!”) with his toddler arms stretched up toward my face asking to be picked up just to, presumably, be close to me.

The latest “trick” to get me to hold him is “I need you snuggle Mama.”

HOW DOES ONE RESIST THE CUTE OF THAT?

The “problem” (I hate even calling it that) comes from the fact that we, Joshua and me, we speak different Love Languages. (You’ve heard of The 5 Love Languages, right? I mean, I haven’t read it, but I’ve read a lot about it. And there’s even one for children.)

Joshua?

He’s Physical Touch. 10000000000000%.

I?

Well, I’m not.

Joshua came out of the womb speaking this language. By the second or third night in the hospital he was asleep on my chest instead of in his bassinet because it was the only way he would even dare to sleep at all. And he’s spent many a night (And afternoon. And morning. And evening. And…) asleep on my chest since then.

So the “problem” is that I cannot possibly have someone touching me that frequently and not feel like my skin is going to crawl right off my body. I am a creature who craves personal space.

Saturday morning, he woke up at 6:15. From the time he woke up until the time Dan picked him up at the basketball game, he was on me or asking to be on me–sitting in my lap, asking to be carried, holding onto my leg–except for when he was napping. (A nap which almost didn’t happen.)

Sunday was a repeat of Saturday and at one point, I got up and went into another room so I could sit on more than 10 square inches of the couch. (In case you were wondering, my assets? Bigger than 10 square inches. Our couch? Also bigger than 10 square inches.)

When he wouldn’t take a nap on Sunday, I physically had to leave the house to prevent his sitting on top of me or asking to be picked up because my earlier strategy of leaving the room didn’t work.

I guess the real problem is that I’m away from him so much because of work that most of the time, I don’t mind his wanting to be that close to me. I recognize it for what it is–his desire to reconnect with me after being separated all day. And I want to reconnect with him, too.

But that line between “enough” and “too much” is very blurry.

Very.

And I just feel like a jerk.

Thank you for the excitement yesterday! To say that I’m over the moon is maybe an understatement. I mean, RUFFLES, people!

But that’s not really what I’m here to talk about right this second.

No, what I need to talk about is my nose.

Yes. My nose.

I spent the entire first trimester (or most of it) unable to breathe through my nose. I took cold medicine. I used nose spray. I used saline. I took hot showers and relied on the steam to open my passages. I used Vicks Vapo-rub (up my nose!) to be able to breathe. And then I guess I “grew out of it.” Or something.

So now I can breathe.

Hooray, right?

Sort of.

Here’s the thing about my new(ish)found sense of smell.

Ready?

Everything smells the same.

And that “same” is the smell of smoke.

Cigarette smoke to be exact.

Everything.

No one who lives in this house smokes unless the dog has sprouted opposable thumbs and is lighting up while we’re at work. I thought that perhaps the wind was blowing the cigarette smoke from the neighbor’s house (half a football field away) and it was somehow getting sucked into my house’s exhaust system and I was smelling it because I have Super Snout right now.

But then I smelled it at the doctor’s office yesterday. And all day at school today.

Smoke. Up my nose.

There is no reason the smell of cigarette smoke should be perma-bound to my nose hairs. And yet it is. And it is disgusting and freaking me out. And annoying.

I’ve showered. It’s still there.

I’ve lit candles. It’s still there.

Occasionally, I get a temporary reprieve from the ashtray up my nose and I smell the languishing flowers from Thanksgiving. But that lasts about 10 seconds and the smoke smell overwhelms me yet again.

I’m afraid to Google this because Google will tell me I’m dying. Or giving birth to an elephant. Or a dog. Or one of those truffle pigs.

But this is maddening. And I forgot to ask the real doctor yesterday because GIRLPARTS! and RUFFLES!

So, former pregnant people, current pregnant people, or people who just know more than me in general, what is this?

WHY is this?

SAVE MY NOSE. Please.

The New GIRL!!

Coming to a family near you, April 2012!!

I have ruffles to buy, people! I’m off to shop!

The day has almost come.

I’m nearly half way through this pregnancy.

::gulp::

That means it’s almost time to find out what this baby is. And by that I mean this baby’s gender because clearly it’s a baby. I’ve seen pictures. And felt kicks.

Part of me says it’s a girl. Because I want to buy ruffly things.

Part of me says it’s a boy. Because I know boy babies what with already having had one and all.

Some stats:

I’m down in pounds gained so far but I started this pregnancy at a higher weight than I did my first.

I prefer sleeping on my right side or my back and this baby doesn’t seem to mind.

I am thirsty all the time and cannot get enough orange juice.

I threw up once. Pizza. From Domino’s.

My legs and hands are not yet swollen (and so help me Universe that is not an invitation).

What do you think?

I wasn’t sure what “rolling in the deep” meant. So I Googled it. And it fits what I’m feeling right now.

According to Yahoo! Answers, “rolling in the deep” references a ship out on the ocean being tossed around in deep water. Feel free to correct me if that’s wrong, though I suspect it isn’t. Because, you know, everything you read on the interwebs is true.

Anyway.

I am kind of just floating right now. In deep waters of…not despair…blah, maybe? Yes. Blah. I’m in deep waters of blah.

It’s kind of boring and exhausting at the same time.

It’s the same thing every day. Over and over. Which is why I don’t write more. Because nothing incredibly noteworthy is happening.

And it’s weird to me that boring can be so exhausting. But it is. And maybe a little sea-sickening, too.

Not that I’m clamoring for crazy excitement a la sea lions and tiger fish and bears (Oh my!) or anything. Because I’m not.

There’s something to be said for mundane days. For routine. It’s certainly nice to have predictability in my life.

But I’m ready to find my niche here again. I’m ready to have things to say and time to say them when I’m not crashing onto the couch and willing my eyes to just.stay.open. long enough to say…anything.

Gah.

Routine makes me itchy.

There’s something transforming about blogging. Something peace-bringing. Like flinging my words out on a keyboard actually flings them across the Universe where they are not only read but heard by The Powers That Be.

Writing that post Wednesday night–coming clean about how I’ve been feeling–lifted a burden off my shoulders. Made my heart a little lighter.

I woke up the next morning and I felt better. More like myself. Like the simple act of saying “I AM NOT OKAY” somehow made me more okay than I’d been in a week.

I’m not saying I’m perfect or healed or whole, but I’m better now than I was even just a few days ago. And that’s worth something.

I’m starting to see the world in color again instead of just black and white and shades of gray.

Thank you for your good thoughts and prayers and words of kindness. They meant (and mean) so much.

This post is sponsored by Tempur-Pedic, the brand millions of owners trust to deliver their best night’s sleep every night. Enjoy our Buy 2, get 1 free pillow offer now and give the gift of custom comfort to someone you love.

_____________________

Let’s play a little word game, shall we?

When I say the word “holiday,” what comes to mind?

What about when I say the word “comfort”?

What about if I combine the words “holiday” and “comfort”?

Did you get food and yoga pants, too? Because that’s totally what I think about when I think about holidays and comfort.

(Mostly food, but yoga pants are a close second if only so that I can eat MORE food. Which necessitates me buying MORE yoga pants. Gah. Such a vicious cycle.)

Before meeting Dan, my family had our own traditions surrounding meals for Thanksgiving and Christmas. And those meals were always delicious and something I still look forward to every year.

I love my Mama’s “set-it-and-forget-it” approach to making a turkey or a ham. Put it on the night before on the lowest oven setting, go to sleep, and know that everything will come out perfectly in the morning.

Hers is the approach I’ve most adopted in my life. Because it’s easy.

But Dan?

Well, see, my husband is kind of neurotic when it comes to being in the kitchen. And he spares no neuroses when it comes to cooking a Christmas dinner.

Neurotic husband, party of one.

Dan and his dad share a love of Christmas roast and yorkshire puddings and there’s something quirky and awesome and comforting about knowing how much care these men take in making sure Christmas dinner is nothing short of amazing.

Even though it’s neurotic, there’s something about it that’s also weirdly comforting. It’s our…way. And I wouldn’t change it.

There’s always been something to me about holiday food and looking forward to sharing a meal with friends and family that brings a little more peace to my heart.

This year is no exception, no matter what. Bring on the food, y’all. And don’t forget the yoga pants.

__________________

Comfort is the perfect gift for everyone on your holiday gift list, so be sure to take advantage of Tempur-Pedic’s Buy 2, get 1 free pillow offer! I was selected for this sponsorship by the Clever Girls Collective.

I spent most of the first trimester of this pregnancy in kind of a dark place.

I didn’t say anything to the doctors, and that was probably stupid.

I didn’t say much here, and that was stupid, too.

I didn’t say much at home, and that was stupidest of all.

And then I started to feel better.

I thought “Oh, hey! That was just a first trimester thing! I am so better now! Hooray!”

And then, inexplicably and out of the blue, I started to feel bad again.

Maybe it’s the time change. Maybe it’s the weather. Maybe it’s lack of quality sleep. Maybe it’s being caught up on The Vampire Diairies and only having one episode a week to occupy my time now.

Or maybe the wiring in my brain is just faulty and shorting out. Broken.

But I cried yesterday. And today. And I might cry again tomorrow.

I feel completely crushed by the weight of life and living it. By the everything of it all.

I hate that knowing I may never be free of this is a truth for my life.

That this–depression–is my life. Or at least part of it.

I hate this.

I have a sickie on my hands this morning so we’re off to the pediatrician soon. But before we go, I thought you’d like to know the winner of the Hank Player review and giveaway. So, without further ado, here goes:

Amanda @ The Lungos!

Hooray! Amanda, you have 24 hours to contact me via email at notsuperjustmom at gmail dot com. Happy Thursday to you!

I completely slacked and didn’t get Joshua’s Halloween costume until this past weekend. I was kind of afraid I’d never find it. I’d seen it on Old Navy’s website and I even kind of harassed them on Twitter over the fact that it would show up on one page and I’d click on it to add it to my cart and then it would disappear.

It was the Houdini of costumes.

So on Saturday, in an effort to get out of the house and change Joshua’s whining to something…uh…not whining, he and I headed out. I browsed the Halloween rack at the front of the store and was all “shucks” about the fact that the only costumes left on the shelf were for dogs. And not for Annie-sized dogs.

“Oh well,” I thought. “I’ll just go see if there’s anything on sale.”

And there, hanging on the clearance rack in the little boy’s department, was THE costume. Perhaps the last costume that I can choose FOR Joshua. And it was perfect. And $5.

AHH! Real monster!

People, there was an Ugly Cry when we put this on him this morning. The kind of Ugly Cry where there are snot tusks and crocodile tears. I pulled back the shower curtain and the bathroom door was flung open and there was Dan, holding an Ugly Cry-ing Joshua.

Dan said, “You might want to get a good look at him in this now, because this is not staying on.” And I’m all blind without my glasses and unable to see ANYTHING. Including the toddler on the other end of the bathroom.

But I could hear him.

(Truth be told I could hear him before I’d even turned off the water in the shower.)

I took his costume to school with us hoping his teacher, the fantastic Ms. Cindy, could work her magic. And work she did.

I got a text part of the way through the morning that said “Got his costume on!”

When I picked him up, he was back in his “street clothes” and I anticipated an epic battle to get him back in it.  And should said battle ensue, I’d decided ahead of time I wouldn’t fight it. I’d just turn off the lights and banish Dan somewhere else in the house while I curled up with another episode or 12 of The Vampire Diaries.

(What!? It’s Halloween!)

I bribed Joshua with “corn candy” to get him back in the monster suit once we got home and then bribed him with going outside to keep him in it. And he happily accepted my bribes and we were off on the great candy quest of 2011.

If only he actually knew how to pedal. ::sigh::

This candy quest is hard, yo.

Four wheels good. Two wheels bad.

For the past two years, we’ve had trick-or-treat plans for weeks prior to the actual event. And for the past two years, Halloween has been on the weekend. But this year, we didn’t have those same plans. We actually kind of had no plan.

So I called up a friend who was more than happy to let us come over and trick-or-treat with her family and trick-or-treat we did.

Once Joshua got the hang of things, he was leaving us on the sidewalk, going up to doors, sticking out his pumpkin bucket, and sneezing on old men.

(That last part only happened once. But when it did, there were snot tusks o_o )

"I need more trick-or-treat!"

One lady asked “Can you say ‘trick-or-treat’?” And Joshua looked straight at her and replied, “Yeah!”

I laughed. Because that’s funny, y’all.

Joshua kept randomly bursting into laughter while we walked around their neighborhood. Which made me burst into random fits of laughter.

My heart is happy tonight, y’all.

Happy Halloween.

Uh, people, we have a problem an obsession. Except it’s more like *I* have an obsession. Unless you’re obsessed too and then we should start a fan club support group.

And I feel all foolish and ridiculous for this obsession, mostly because it’s only been about 48 hours and I’m totally searching for my next hit.

Of this:

Suck on this, Edward Cullen.

Dan had his yearly inventory at work on Friday night and since the World Series has sucked the life (HA!) out of my regularly scheduled programming, I turned to Netflix to cure my alone-ness. And I found this little morsel of one-part vampire, one-part teen drama goodness.

When I say I’m obsessed, I mean exactly that.

My rational mind is going “STOP THE INSANITY!” and my irrational mind is going “Fire up another episode! Who cares if it’s midnight!?”

I’ve seen 10 episodes since Friday–mostly since Saturday–so you can guess which side of my mind is winning.

When I bite onto something like this, I really sink my teeth in. (HA HA!) Like that time in college when I ripped through seasons 1 through 3 of Buffy in about two weeks.

(Huh. More vampires. I’m sensing a trend here.)

Dan called it One Twilight Hill and I punched him in the leg.

I was kind of deflecting because I’m borderline ashamed of my obsession with this show.

I can’t decide if I’m borderline ashamed because he makes fun of me for loving teen dramas and not because I’m nearly 30 and still watching teen dramas.

(I’ve had a revelation in the last 20 minutes. It’s totally because Dan makes fun of me. But HE is the one who started watching Real Housewives of Atlanta.)

It’s totally true, by the way. Teen dramas? I love them. Especially when there are vampires involved.

Know how I know this is crazy and I’m totally addicted? I cannot stop thinking about when I can watch my next episode, including but not limited to being really, really glad I have next Tuesday off thanks to a furlough day and Joshua will be at daycare because I have a dentist appointment at 9:30 that morning. While I’m waiting on the Novocaine to wear off, I can watch. And watch. And watch.

And watch I will.

Oh, Vampire Diaries, I just can’t quit you.

I’m beginning to think that I missed my calling in life and instead of being a teacher I should’ve found a way to make money watching television. Because if I could ever find a way to get paid for this? I’d be in career Heaven.

Yay winners! Remember, you have 24 hours to contact me via email at notsuperjustmom at gmail dot com to claim your cards!

Becca!

Ashley Thames!

Lauren!

Woohoo!! I’m off to scarf some Zaxby’s and wrestle the remote away from the husband so I can watch more Vampire Diaries. Happy Sunday, y’all!