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Listening for the locusts...

On this, the most momentous of Thursdays, I am 37 weeks. FULL-TERM, LITTLE CHICKADEES. Not that this means much more than time slowing down to molasses-pour levels. This is the long, dark teatime of the pregnancy. In fact, what could possibly be a better time to...

Have pestilence enter my home.

Last week, the girl had a short virus of the puke and fever variety, no big, I came through it unscathed. Today? The husband has some kind of death plague that for the moment includes unspeakable achiness and fever, and I am expecting worse. Exactly how long can my pregnancy-hampered immune system hold out against such a heavy onslaught? Wouldn't it be wonderful to supplement my 4 hours of excruciatingly awful nightly sleep with vomiting and fever? Possibly sleeping on the bathroom floor just to avoid having to walk 25 feet to pee* 6 times per night? I'm trying not to let my hormone-addled brain invent too many disaster outcomes involving going into labor while both of us are exhibiting symptoms of ebola, then volunteering a friend to toss the toddler at through the moving car window.

I've been on a pretty restricted diet, despite passing my glucose test with flying colors. At 32 weeks, the doc was concerned about my weight gain coupled with large-baby prediction, so I had to cool it big time. I've slowed down considerably, but he'll probably still be big. Like... induce a little early big. Quick! Someone come to my house and begin the nesting process! I don't have the time or inclination! There are window sills to be cleaned! Tiny hand-me-downs to be washed and folded and put... somewhere. Oh yeah, we don't actually have a plan for where any of his stuff should go. Oh, the lackluster preparation that goes into preparing for subsequent children. I promise, dear child. I will definitely have the energy to sweep the stack of swaddling clothes out of the co-sleeper before I put you in it. My gargantuan knockers will be all yours, and you'll have at least one clean outfit. 

I'm reviewing all my labor and delivery materials, but half-heartedly and without the eager, nervous anticipation I had with J. Really, I'm just hoping the epidural works this time. Also, if he'd like to make his entrance without inducement, that would be swell. With that, I'm off to gorge myself on fresh pineapple, walk three miles a day, and bounce on the exercise ball. I can't imagine my home induction methods working, so all of this will be coupled with sighs and tears of futility.

*Upon returning from work at 3:30 in the morning a few days ago, A witnessed me writhing, shrieking and grimacing in pain and asked what was wrong. In my half-sleep I answered "Catheterize me."

"She was being harassed by her internal organs." *

I seem to have skipped the part of pregnancy where people exclaim about how adorable you are. Straight from "Hmmm..... is she just getting fatter..." to "Good gravy , so any day now, right?" Here at almost 32 weeks, I have been politely telling well-intentioned idiots that no, indeed, it is not twins, and I am also not due yesterday. I had some hope that this pregnancy would be less, um, planetary, but I guess that's just how my body works.

What's weird about the second kid is how much you really aren't thinking about it. I am usually vaguely aware of my gravity-dragged heft, but the whole "babybabybabybaby" mental thread is mostly background noise to the toddler. Who has the mental fortitude to worry about swaddle blankets when you're busy cleaning pee off of every flat surface of your home? (Did I mention we potty trained the girl? Because only some of that pee is mine - I wouldn't want you to get confused.) Really, the toddler part of this is the most difficult part. I am not as fast as her. I am not as lively as her. My bladder control is only marginally better than hers. The only way I resemble her at the moment is the quick to escalate white-hot-rage over not very much. Nothing makes you feel like a good parent more than screaming back at an incendiary 2-year-old with a true Sam Kinison "AUGHHHH!AUGHHHH!AUGHHHH!" I can only hope that when newbornhood calms down, I will be back to my Zen patience state. I miss it.

Also, it's a boy! Hooray! Pee on all the things!

*From Thief of Time by Terry Pratchett

Carefully bulleted list, or hormonal mouth-breathing screed?

It's as good a time as any to announce my new pregnancy to the internet. "Hello Internet, have you met my 17-week fetus? Fetus, did you know Internet is very well connected in your future career?"

Would you like to hear about my weird pregnancy symptoms? I thought you might.

• There is a truly impressive amount of earwax being secreted from my head-holes. Like... startlingly  large amounts, and this also happened to me during my first pregnancy. This is not one of the symptoms I have read about in the supposedly comprehensive gestation books.
• I've got The Stupids something FIERCE. Seriously, what has happened to my...uhhh.... brain words? Smart sounds? I'll get it - just give me a godddddammmmitfuckkkkkk minute.
• Turret's of the typing fingers.
• Vocabulary! That's what I was trying to think of!
• My right hip is trying to rotate clockwise, in order to twist my leg clean off.
• The wormhole of terrible thoughts is swirling. I can't think about anything without my brain inventing worst case scenarios about violence, sickness, and death happening to my family. Not in an anxious, hyperventilating way, but the calm-rational problem solving sort. It's very weird how non-emotional I am this time around.
• Don't give me anything breakable to hold. Not if you want it to stay in one piece. It WILL get smashed on the kitchen tile or burst in my Marge Dursley grip.

All-in-all, pretty great. Really, this is hardly complaining. I'll save that for when I'm 20 weeks and people start asking me if the baby is overdue, or if it's multiples. Anyway, Internet, welcome to the discussion of my innermost ladybits. It's comfy in there. 

Time is like a drug. Too much of it kills you.*

I'm trying desperately to hang on to these last few days of the girl's babyhood. On Monday she'll turn two, and despite my fierce imaginary rearranging of her baby fat, she is quickly turning into a little girl. Oh my girl, of the round cheeks, stormcloud eyes, wispy blondness and scandalously long legs. She of the 4-year-old's vocabulary and 1-year-old's grace. My extrovert baby that hugs and kisses everyone she knows, immediately memorizes everyone's name, and introduces herself to retail mannequins with a hearty handshake and "nice to meet you!"  

I am very aware that I am one of the lucky ones. My baby was a dreamboat, comparatively, barring the occasional developmental tantrumsleepshriekhungerstrike blip. I keep thinking of her birthday and bursting into tears. I don't fear a single thing about her growing up, but I do grieve the babyness.

*from Small Gods, by Terry Pratchett

 

What happens in Palms Springs, stays in Palm Springs...

Except here, where I tell the sordid details. My girls weekend can only be described as a stellar success, considering that I did not get either sunburned or hammered enough to cause collateral damage. I can't say the same for everybody, seeing as I ended the night carrying a passed-out roommate up to the room, but the point is, IT WASN'T ME. Excellent.

By far, the most interesting part of the trip was the plastic surgery-watching. Out of the six of us, only two had our original breasts, and the other woman is pregnant, and therefore has non-surgical gloriousness in her bikini top. This left me as the only one with average breasts. I am not at all concerned about my own assets, but I did find it sort of mind-blowing. The rest of the resort guests were in various states of un-original parts, but the most fun ones to spot were the pec implants on the dudes. Little rectangle shapes under silly putty fake tan monstrosities of chestal-regions. It sounds like a small thing that I noticed, but I counted at least a dozen of these bros. Every single one of these guys was entertaining to me in the way that regular dudes are not, so well done fellas. For the women, it was actually more fun to play "spot the real ones" because they were so firmly (ha!) in the scant minority. It was basically me, a lesbian couple, and some pre-surgery minors.

The toddler did not miss me at all. Daddy took her to a work party, and somehow she learned a new dance. "Shakeabootie!" is performed by leaning forward, putting arms parallel to the torso, and whirling the posterior around. Splendid.