Barefoot, Pregnant, in the Kitchen: Maternity Leave Day 5

Despite my mother's advice, I am not wearing sneakers today. Instead, I am deliciously barefoot and unshowered, standing in the kitchen observing my projects. I have decided, ambitiously, to make strawberry/peach sherbet, mint-chocolate-chip ice cream, and probably brownies today.

The neighbors have lent me an ice cream machine, which I have had chilling in the freezer since they delivered it last night. I waddled over to their garden and stole 3 cups of peppermint this morning, too, and bought the rest of the stuff (really just the strawberries and a pint of cream) on my way home from Crossfit this morning. I am ready to rumble, kitchen!

I plan to chronicle this adventure because I have never attempted to make anything frozen before. This is a new arena in food production for me. Phase one was the ice cream, because it needs to rest longer than the process of making the entire sherbet. Alton Brown (my go-to guy of late for cooking) suggests 8 egg yolks in his mint ice cream recipe. The instructions with the machine have no egg yolks. A woman I found via google suggested 6, so I went with her as a happy medium. This is going to work really well because the brownie recipe calls for 3 eggs, but if I just use whites I should double anyway. Voila! No waste.

Currently, I am infusing the stolen mint in the heavy cream. This will take one half hour, which gives me time for a game of Catan/Michael Jackson tribute.

My next step after setting the pre-ice cream to chill is to make sherbet. I have decided that it's too much hassle to wash the food processor, so I am mashing the fruit in a plastic bag with a meat tenderizer (best wedding gift ever!). I will combine this with lime juice and simple syrup and dump it into the frozen ice cream machine while the mint delight continues to set. I have opted out of using corn syrup as the recipe suggested. I substituted honey measure for measure. There was just something about the idea of corn syrup that went against my local food and anti-factory farm leanings.

Forty minutes into the churning of the sherbet, nothing has happened at all. It barely even got colder. I have dumped the splashy mess of it into a plastic container and shoved it in the fridge.

Currently, the ice cream is churning around in the bowl. Although there is certainly far less than one quart of ice cream in there. Either I missed two cups of something from the recipe or I have been had.

Halfway into Family Fued, the ice cream machine shut itself off. I took this to mean my dessert was creamy and ready to eat, but this would be a mistake. It's just as soupy as ever, slightly colder than last time I touched it, and sitting a fragrant, minty mess in the freezer while I try to decide what to do to salvage this day.
Luckily the brownies have turned out just fine. Worst case scenario, I have brownies with strawberry-flavored shaved ice for dessert. Now. What do I do with several cups' worth of minty cream that is not ice cream but no longer just cream?

Final assessment: the ice cream is softer than the softest soft serve, too sweet, but very minty and delicious. The sherbet would have been fine without the honey and is also too sweet, a weird consistency, and probably not a repeat experiment. Though I will consider making popsicles. The brownies are wonderful. Especially with the too-sweet "ice cream" on top. I might try the ice cream again just to prove I can make it.

New Maternity Shirt

Why, yes! That IS an image of me, 35 weeks pregnant, wearing an early 70's era Penguins jersey! Thank you for asking! How did I get it? Interesting story!

My father has always been a weird man. His support of various sports teams has surrounded underdogs and misfits (the man grew up in Eagles country a die-hard Coywboys fan, after all). Evidently, back in the 70s, he supported the Pens, even though they sort of sucked.

At that time, he had a baby (my sister) and a wife (Deb). He and Deb decided to get divorced and Deb took the Pens jersey with her on the way out, giving it to Chuck, my dad's brother.

So, for roughly 30 years, this beat up old Pens jersey--that may or may not have been an actual practice jersey for Dave Burrows--sat in my uncle Chuck's closet. I don't even think Chuck watches hockey. Not that I ever saw my dad watch hockey.

I never really watched hockey, either, until I started dating this Australian dude who loved Mario Lemieux like I love rugby. So all the hockey I've watched in life has been either Penn State Icers hockey or Pittsburgh Penguins hockey. I digress.

A few days ago, my parents were eating dinner with Chuck, who said he had a gift for me--the jersey! The long lost jersey! It occurred to Chuck as the Pens made the playoffs that I should have it.

Everyone started freaking out--first, how soon could my mom get it to me to wear and help the Pens to victory? My dad wanted to know why his brother had stolen his precious jersey all these years. My older sister wanted to know why she wasn't the rightful recipient of the game sweater (she didn't even know what the Stanley Cup was, so that argument ended right there).

Needless to say, it arrived in today's mail, just in time for the game, and it fits over my pregnant belly. I shall wear it all this week. It will be like my playoff beard, this holy, well-loved, tattered, actual 1970s era Penguins jersey. It has real armpit stains! Who knows where this shirt has been?!

UPDATE: My dad has added new information. Uncle Chuck says the jersey definitely is a real life practice jersey worn by an actual Penguin. My dad says the jersey came from 1972, when his first wife traveled to Pittsburgh for a field hockey tournament (high school, you know...) and purchased it. That would make it for real a Dave Burrows jersey, possibly stained with his defensive genius.

I also want to point out that I had the jersey on all evening, and then made myself a watermelon/coconut drink. I turned around, all ready to sip my new not-booze, and banged into the wall and spilled watermelon all down the front. The result? No drink, had to take off the jersey to clean it, and the Pens went down 2-1. I scrubbed the juice out and slapped the wet jersey back on my body, and we went up 3-2. Just saying.

Crossfit Returns

In April, I decided I would stop going to Crossfit starting in May. I seemed too large and unwieldy, plus we were starting childbirth class and work was kicking me in the rump. I initially intended to go to prenatal yoga from that point on and end my pregnancy in peace and meditation...

If you are just meeting me for the first time, I'm not really a relaxed, meditative person. In fact, I'm hyper, super-competitive, anxious, and really rely on strenuous, intense exercise to calm my mind into submission.

After a few weeks of crazed working, no yoga, and basically no body movement, everything rebelled. The baby got restless. My body felt sluggish. I had difficulty sleeping. I felt like a greasy blob. It was the first time since I wandered to rugby ten years ago that I had gone without working out for 2.5 weeks. It was bad.

The Crossfit trainer emailed me and told me to come in and work out. I listened. It was such a good idea! I went two times at the end of the month when I had some time, working on the rower and empty bar one night and, on Memorial Day, doing the same workout as everyone else, only with modified pushups and the lightest kettlebells and good mornings instead of back extensions. I guess I skipped the rope climb...

I felt so damn good when I got home! I slept that night, all the way through. My hip didn't hurt as badly. And I felt normal, like my regular self. Sure, I was going super slowly on the exercises and lifting weights my unborn child could probably handle without much effort. But I was moving and my body was getting to say, "look at me! I can almost exercise!"

I decided to renege on my plan and return to Crossfit for June. As a final nail in the yoga coffin, the prenatal instructor really, really gets under my skin and makes me want to punch her...this is in all ways a better choice.

Tonight is my first return workout. Then I can't go the whole rest of the week because I have other commitments, but that's ok! I'll just be back next week. And the next. And the one after that...

Great Big Whiner

Here are the things I want to do on Memorial Day weekend:
Play rugby on Saturday
Slip n Slide with my rugby teammates at JG's bbq on Sunday
Sail on the lake in Moraine State Park
Kayak or canoe on the same lake
Ride my bike on one of the many trails in the area

Here is the number of those things I am able to do: 0 (though I am helping administratively with the rugby match)

Last night at dinner, Corey pretty much told me I suck because I couldn't even duck out of the way of the boom on a sailing vessel if we drove to Moraine. He's right. I might be buoyant (I actually have no idea because I haven't submerged myself this pregnancy) but I am not agile. I feel like a big drag, like I'm spoiling his fun and mine.

To make the weekend more exciting, technical difficulties with the online class I'm teaching mean that I'll be spending a great many hours over the weekend making up grading because the students got deadline extensions.

I have decided to throw a pity party, starting right now, and I am the only guest. The menu includes caramel Frappuccino, cake, and a really ripe pear. Potential party games include transplanting tomato seedlings, buying crib sheets at Macys online, and watching Family Fued at lunch time. It actually sounds like a kind of fun party...

Belly Haikus

My God! Look at that
glowing full moon on my front
It shines and pulses.

Have you seen my feet?
I have not seen them for years
They play peek-a-boo

Perhaps it is good
to not see my feet because
they look like blobs now.

I smear cucumber
butter on the belly each
morning. It smells nice.

At baseball games, drunk
men bump my belly, pushing
past me for more beer.

My hips hurt. This gut
is heavy and its contents
are restless. Come out!

You, belly, are just
the right size to hold ice cream
bowls or mugs of tea.

"Can I touch it, please?"
When people rub you, belly,
Your tenant jiggles.

Corey calls you a
parasite. I think of you
as my sweet lichen.

I wonder whether
water balloons would bounce off
my belly or burst?

I am filled with awe
that my body knows how to
grow a human being--

nobody taught me.
I've just always known how to.
What else can I do?

My Feet

It was 90 degrees both days this weekend and I was playing the piano in a wedding on Saturday (despite the fact that I've not played the piano for ten years). That meant that in the 90 degree heat, my feet were dangling from a piano bench or wedding reception chair from 2 in the afternoon until 11 at night.

I woke up Sunday with so much water in my feet, I could literally feel it slosh as I walked (thundered?) around my parents' house.

I have ugly feet. I'm not under any misconceptions about the long, skinny, bony monkey toes and craggly flippers I have. As I wrote in my graduate thesis, my feet are so flat I can make a suction sound when I slap them on a wet floor. Well, not any more.

Somehow, tons of extra water entered my pregnant body and sank into my feet, which now look like balloon animals or dinosaur paws, cankles included. I kept hearing this voice, nagging and reminiscing since my birth, telling me: The one thing your Gommy always told me that was true was that pregnant women should put on sneakers first thing in the morning and never, ever take them off until bedtime. No matter what.

I remembered working at K-mart that first summer, when this monstrously pregnant woman would come in every day in flip-flops, teetering around on engorged animal feet. I used to wonder if it was appropriate for a 16-year-old K-mart cashier to pass on my grandma's wisdom and decided against it. Now, experiencing it, I wish I had spoken up. I also wished my own mother would stop repeating it as I rolled around on the couch and moaned. "Sneakers!" she kept saying. "You need to go out and get some sneakers!"

Well I didn't have sneakers with me on that trip home and I sort of thought the whole swelling thing would sneak up on a girl gradually, like the baby bump or the awful bowel movement troubles. Appartently, swelling is a different category altogether. When we got back to Pittsburgh I shoved those yams into some Pumas and made Corey wait on me as I elevated them. This morning, things are slightly better, but I still have cankles oozing over the tops of my shoes. Things have begun to get interesting.

I hear you breathing and I smell your breath

I was teaching the other day when, mid-thought, I became overwhelmed by the smell of maple syrup. "Who's been eating French toast?" I asked the class, "I smell your syrup." They all looked at me, unsure whether to laugh or fess up or what. One of my students started laughing and sort of sheepishly raised his hand. He told me he'd been eating a butterscotch candy that did, he agreed, smell sort of mapley.

I have always had a strong sense of smell and bat ears. I've always been able to hear the lights screaming in our living room and the high pitch sounds of computers and our television. Working in an office became unbearable for me toward the end, and only partly due to the miserable wretches who filled my days with negativity. I additionally could hear the wheels of each printer, the hum of each monitor.

Now imagine those already strong senses magnified by my pregnancy. I think, in retrospect, I knew I was pregnant when I first sat down in my office on the 6th floor and smelled the frying sweet potatoes in the basement cafeteria. I can hear the students' phones vibrating in their sweatpants pockets, I can smell their deodorant, and going into any store that carries anything fragrant is completely out of the question. I'd die!

I try very hard not to talk too much about being pregnant with my students. They are, after all, 18 and more concerned with their GPA/ABV combination (that's alcohol by volume for you old heads who stopped binge drinking on Thursdays). But after I smelled S's butterscotch breath, I couldn't avoid explaining things to them.

Suddenly, we were talking about white flour and avoiding bagels and then, I was horrified to hear myself discussing prunes with a student who wrote an exercise about her hatred of prunes and her grandparents' discussions of them for increased bowel health. I talked about bowel health with a student!

My only explanation for doing such a thing is that Corey bought cheap light bulbs for the recessed lighting in the living room, and these bulbs are more high pitched than a dog whistle. I hear them constantly, even from up in our bedroom with the door shut and my head beneath a pillow. He insists he can't eat dinner without light, and the table lamp just won't do. So if I walk around saying crazy things or lacking a filter, it's because Baby Love's dad has made me nuts, torturing me with the lights and then finishing me off with his dirty plates crusted in barbecue sauce. I blame the pair of them. I think I hear them snickering at me right now.

Glucose

Today was a pretty nerve wracking visit to the midwives for several reasons. First, I had my glucose test. Last month, the midwives warned me of this test. I'd have to come in super early in the morning and drink sugar juice. Not just any sugar juice, they said, but uncarbonated soda. Nothing to me sounded more vile than syrupy sugar juice. This from the girl with the sweet tooth!

They make pregnant ladies drink this goop so they can test our blood an hour later and make sure we process sugar properly and don't have gestational diabetes. My sister, with her wonderful Arizonan midwife, got to eat a candy bar. I go to a major research hospital and had to drink the syrup, which came in a medicine vial with a label and bar code and everything.

For some reason, I imagined this juice would be brown and thick and gross. I got myself a little worked up over it, actually. When I got to the lab at 7:20, the tech said, "ok. You have five minutes to consume the drink. Starting now."

Man! This woman CHALLENGED a rugby player to something. A competitive freak like me, who has to win at the dentist and beat Corey at toothpaste conservation. Five minutes? Please! I prepared to chug the sludge in under a minute. When I saw it, clear and watery looking, a wave of relief washed over me.

It actually tasted ok. Like sprite. Maybe even refreshing? In no time, I had the whole cup in my gullet and had to make a mad dash to the midwives' office so I could pee out my urine sample in their special bathroom, stat. I find out the results on Monday. I'm thinking I won at glucose testing.

My visit was also frustrating because we had to discuss the follow up to my last ultrasound. Call me a conspiracy theorist if you like, but I am convinced (after a solid six months of research) that the American medical system has done everything in its power to medicalize birth and operates not to promote this natural, wonderful experience, but to avoid litigation and industrialize or somehow efficiently process labor or something.

Because I see the midwives within this major medical research hospital (Magee Women's Hospital), I get my ultrasounds with not just techs but highly trained obstetricians with many years of college. They are trained to handle the most troublesome pregnancies in all the universe, and thus are highly aware of every little abnormality on their super sonic ultrasound machines. This is why they noticed that Baby Love has a "bright bowel."

When they first pointed this out, I researched the problem. 90% of the time? Just bright bowels. Sometimes it means the baby has Down Syndrome, or CF, or a virus. So Corey and I got tested and got Baby Love tested for all these things. Negative. But his bowel is still bright. I like to think it's his shining, poopy star, because 90% chance of normal feels ok to me.

These ultrasound folks? They are doom-sayers. They tell me he is breech, as if a 25 week fetus doesn't churn around all over the place. They go on and on and on listing everything in the DMV ever associated with bowels, and it makes me panic, which makes Baby Love upset, which pisses me off and it's a viscious cycle. I hate how they're trying to convince me that something is wrong with my very normal, squirmy wormy baby.

Today, the midwives measured my belly and my fundus and told me things are beautiful. They listened to his heartbeat and told me everything is beautiful. They monitored my health and my blood and my urine and it's all beautiful. Add in the super fancy technology? Disaster. Fear. Death. They support my decision to not be worried and view the pregnancy as normal. I like having them on my team.

I just want to move to a place where birth and pregnancy are still normal parts of the life cycle. Where people understand that my body can push out a baby without drugs because the female body has been doing this for millenia. I am blessed with a healthy pregnancy and a wonderful baby. I don't like sitting on a table with goop on my belly while a bespectacled man talks at me for over 15 minutes, making me fear things that have a 1 in 5000 chance of happening to my baby. You know what? One in six women are victims of sexual assault. I have like a one in 250 chance of getting breast cancer.

So take your scary news and save it for the pregnancies that really need your attention, because Baby Love and I are just fine. Stop trying to scare us and make us upset!

Friday Night Construction Project, Plus First Load of Laundry

Pee

Dooce blogged about peeing while pregnant today, and I can't pretend I haven't been having the same experience for months. There is nothing more disturbing to me than the way this pregnancy has affected my ability to relieve my body of waste.

Take last week. I was on an adventure and really, after it's over, what sticks out the most to me were bathroom excursions. Waiting in the security line at the airport? Torture because I had to pee so damn badly the whole time. Going to the Botanical Gardens? Eventual torture because I had to sprint/waddle to the bathroom and then only one drip of pee came out, while my bladder still felt like it was bursting.

In talking to other pregnant women, I've learned some of the tricks. Lean forward, spread your legs to make space for your belly, lean further forward until your face is on the disgusting bathroom floor, then pee. You know what happens when I do that? Farts. Farts happen. But not pee.

I have to pee right now. I just peed! Baby Love is kicking the crap out of my bladder with his long, strong legs (which I encourage! Be active, my love!) but I just cannot pee out the 36 ounces of chai I just drank this hour.

When my sister Betsy and I took Ananda to the park, I looked around in search of a toilet. I saw a little hut in the center of a den of vagrants. Betsy, in fact, thought one of the vagrants was an overturned tree stump and shouted, "What IS that??? What's that thing on the ground???"

Turns out that thing on the ground was a sleeping man, who was lying sideways in front of the park "bathroom." This facility was a hut with no door containing three "stalls" with dividers in between, but no doors. Unless you squatted in the third prison-style stall, the vagrant could see your every move through the lack of doors. Such was my peeing emergency that I went into the third "stall," pulled down my elastic-waist pants, and bent forward until I looked like one of those lawn butts. I am happy to say the experience resulted in actual urine.

But then we had to cut our park visit short because I had to go again twenty minutes later and refused to go back in that gharish place.

The rest of the trip was more of the same. Want to know the best bathrooms in Vegas? The one by the cash cage in Cesar's is nice, but the one outside the wedding chapel is better. Phoenix airport? Try the one before the security line. Pittsburgh airport? I go for the one on the international departures floor because nobody knows it's down there, to the left of Franco Harris and one level down. Cathedral of Learning? Go for the bathroom on the 6th floor because it's less busy and you can wail in frustration without embarrassment.

Want to know how to help a pregnant woman pee, like poor Dooce? I have no idea but would love to find out.

Colace

We met with the midwives today. Everything is coming along swimmingly with our little baby. I even have an extra high fundus, which is good because nothing else on my body is extra high or tall in any way. Yay! Tall fundus!

Today marked the first day the midwives whipped out a tape measure and took note of the distance between my pubic bone and my fundus (or top of the uterus for those not in the know). There was something very strange and unsettling about being measured, as if I were buying a dress or being examined likea zoo animal. But I digress. Even though I am 20 weeks pregnant (halfway there!!!) my measurement was 22cm. Thus, tall fundus. The midwife looked at me and asked whether I have a short torso. Of course I have a short torso! I'm a short, stubby front row forward.

Anyway, my only complaint has been the same one that's plauged me the whole pregnancy: constipation. Between the progesterone and the baby squishing my works, I have been in some serious pain and had a serious slow-down. So now I have to take Colace. The only thing I know about Colace is that the crazy chicken-eating girl in Girl, Interrupted begged for it to help her go to the bathroom. It sounds upsetting and old fashioned and I fear for my bowels.

I'm also supposed to make the following modifications to my diet:
1. Stop eating bananas. Did that months ago. No sweat
2. Eat lots of fruits and vegetables of the non-banana variety. Pretty easy task for me as well.
3. Stop eating white flour. This means pasta, bread, white rice. This one makes me upset.

I was giving myself a pep talk in the car on the way home that the bread and the rice would be no sweat, since we usually buy 12 grain bread and brown rice. But then of course I ate frozen matter paneer for lunch and that had white rice in it. Already I failed on my assignment!

And what the heck am I going to do without regular pasta? I feel like the whole wheat pasta just tastes yucky, and pasta is such a staple of my diet. Pasta Roni on nights I don't have time to cook? Gone. Kraft Mac N Cheese on days I feel nostalgic? Nope. For the next five months, it's wheat or spinach pasta from the bulk bins at the Co-op for me, and that just might make me cry a little bit.

Here's hoping the dietary changes make things move a little more smoothly. Prepare to celebrate the birth of my son with a pasta party at my house. Ziti for everyone this July!

Belly Rubbing

I never thought I would be one of those belly rubbing pregnant women. In fact, ever since I watched pregnant week on the 5pm edition of Let's Make a Deal (Or is it Deal or No Deal? Who can remember...) I was a bit put off by the 30 preggo women rubbing their bulging bellies.

But this weekend, I started rubbing my tummy. At first, I was totally selfish. I was doing it repeatedly in line for the restroom at the crowded conference, hoping that one of the 20 women in line in front of me would take pity on a gal with a foot in her bladder. No such luck. I waited and waited and waited, rubbing my tummy raw in vain.

And then I couldn't stop rubbing. At one point, I looked down and noticed that my belly button is getting really shallow and weird looking, like almost gone, and that made me rub more vigorously. It's like I can't help myself now, want to always be in contact with my son somehow, even through a massive layer of epidermis.

And yet I hate when strangers want to rub my belly. I know this will only get worse. I don't mind when my friends or loved ones dive in for a quick polish, but strangers? On my tummy? Step back! Back off! This is my rubbing area.

Maybe I'll become so preoccupied with belly rubbing that I'll stop picking my darn zits (which have grown in mass number since becoming pregnant). I'll have something else to absentmindedly do with my hands. This would fill my mother with massive joy, I'll tell you what.

I'd still like to understand the mechanics of belly rubbing. Why must I do it? Why must others rub the belly of pregnant women? What is so magical about the bulge of skin protecting a developing baby? I'm not entirely sure yet, but I'm finding the discovery process surprisingly enjoyable.

prenatal yoga

So my sister wanted us to have a fertile sharing moment and we went to prenatal yoga together. I am uncertain as to how I feel about this experience. For starters, I don't think I'm quite pregnant enough to go. I had by far the smallest stomach in the room and I felt like people were staring and judging my belly, questioning why I should be there for their attempted zen moments when I don't yet have feet kicking my ribs.

And then I farted during camel pose. Audibly. This was initially extremely embarrassing. So much so that I almost left. But then everyone started farting. Pregnant women always fart, it seems. That room smelled like a big, stinky butt.

The teacher began walking around and showing us how our partners could assist us into the postures to relieve pressure and rub the baby to stimulate motion and love, and it started to seem like a really nice place to be. And the postures all felt so good and involved such audible exhalations. Even though I'm not super pregnant, it all felt wonderful and, actually, zen-like.

However, there were negatives. Like the teacher was a little weird and people kept coming in very late. I am such an anxious person that it takes me forever to quiet my mind and get in a place of calm. Once I got in there, in tune with my breath, etc., another woman would stagger in late (up to a half hour late) and make us all get up and slide our mats over to make room for her. Let's just say I don't want to be friends with any of those women. I don't think that my overly expressive face emitted kind looks in their direction, either. I might have given them all the raging stink eye. Or willed my fart smells toward their personal nostrils.

I'm going to give yoga two more chances, though, because I purchased a multi-class pass (can't overlook a bargain...). My goals for next time are to NOT eat chili the day of class, to move my mat close to the front where I won't be asked to move to accommodate an asshole tardy person, and to have a bigger stomach so as to better fit in with the moms-to-be.

And Again

Yesterday I got up pretty early, knowing I had only a small window to go to the grocery store. I spent an hour drinking fruity tea and planning out our week of meals and the corresponding shopping list. I had already snipped coupons from the paper the weekend before, so I had those ready to go along with a gift card. I got dressed, brushed my teeth, asked Corey for any additions, and headed to Giant Eagle.

I pulled into the parking lot, pretty darn proud of myself for conquering my pregnancy brain and remembering all the cloth bags. I sort of skipped a little as I neared the produce, reached into my pocket to pull out the list and start shopping. Then I remembered that the list, coupons, and gift card were on the dining room table.

I must tell you, this was a low moment in my life. I'm still recovering from the events earlier in the week and the realization that I am really and truly going to be helpless left me in tears. Of course, everything makes me cry these days--from commercials to produce sales to songs --but I am not generally in public when this happens.

I tried calling Corey, but he is comatose when he is asleep and just snoozed right through my four phone calls. I had to recreate the list from memory and drive home, sort of dejected. I did an ok job, but the experience left me feeling really blue the whole day.

I told Corey I really need him to be my partner through this process. When I leave the house, I need him to review where I'm going, what I'm supposed to have with me for such excursions, etc. Like how he helped me remember my wallet when I left for a radio writing class later in the afternoon, because I can no longer remember such things on my own.

This is going to be a long, arduous process.

How Could This Happen?

I forgot to go to my midwife appointment yesterday. Just forgot to go. It was written on the calendar in the kitchen. It's a pretty important thing, a midwife appointment. You know, to verify that the human being I'm gestating is doing ok. Seems pretty monumental. But I forgot!!!

I discovered the forgettal at around 7 last night--way too late to call and deal with it. That meant I had to suffer anxiety overnight and into this morning. I'm anxiously awaiting 830 so I can call and deal with this.

Corey can't understand why I'm so upset. He thinks people miss appointments all the time. And he's right. But I am NOT those people. I'm just better than them. It's in my genetic makeup. I keep appointments. Always. And they live in my brain regardless of whether I write them down. Not only do I remember all my appointments, but I remember Corey's. In high school, I had a flaky friend and I used to remind HIM of his appointments...for CHEMO. Katy does not just forget things. It's appalling.

The worst part is this is the second time this has happened in a one week period. Last Wednesday, I was supposed to go see the new slavery exhibit at the Heinz History Center with my friend Libby. We talked about it for weeks, even discussed the day before: meet there at 1230.

So at 1230 Wednesday, Libby calls. I'm in my pajamas, teeth unbrushed, working on a draft at my desk. Completely oblivious to our plans. I had to race down there, fight the parking gods in the Strip, and explode, breathless, into the museum.

I feel like someone has hijacked my body and I'm standing outside, pounding on the door, begging to be let back in. I just don't recognize myself and it makes me afraid, honestly. What else have I forgotten? What editor is sitting out there furious with me for missing a deadline? What interview subject is pissed that I missed an appointment? Whom have I forgotten to invoice???

I read that pregnant women become forgetful and drop things, but I never believed that something so integral to my being, my iron trap memory, would fade away from me. This is a terrifying wakeup call for me. Something very, very complicated is happening in my body and I'm not sure how to make it through.

Update
Just called maternal fetal medicine and talked to Kim on the phone. She said, "uh..ma'am? Your appointment is for January 21. It has not happened yet..."

My God, what has happened to me?

Maternity Clothes

Me: I got new pants
Corey: Let's see
(I put on the pants...in the living room)
Me: What do you think?
Corey: (Looks. Turns back to the Eagles/Giants game)
Me: What? You don't like them because they have a big elastic band instead of a waist?

Today I am wearing maternity clothes. I didn't really think I had grown enough of a belly to warrant such things, but after trying on the clothes in the store and realizing how comfortable they were, I actually became excited to wear them full time.

My shirt? It actually fits over my bosom. I'm not completely self conscious about the taut material stretched to the bursting point over my gangas. Instead, I'm just sitting back in my chair letting my belly slurp over the top of my elastic waist pants, hidden by the extra long, flowy material of my comfortable shirt. The pants are jeans to the outside world, but I know that instead of a fly there's a 2-inch thick blue band.

Remember that episode of Friends where Joey wears Phoebe's maternity overalls and calls them his turkey pants? I think that I have found my own turkey pants, only I'll use them for rice and big bowls of pasta. This is the best outfit ever.

Fight Gone Bad Part Deux

Today was Fight Gone Bad at CrossFit for the WOD. I have managed to finagle my training sessions so that I conveniently miss Fight Gone Bad ever since the first time I did it in June. I must say I'm glad I finally went back for more. Despite having a baby inside, I still lifted more weight than when I first began CrossFit and got a way better score. Last time: 215. This time: 247.

I remember when I began CrossFit I couldn't even shoulder press the 30# bar, had to use little dumbells. Now it feels like torture to only use that bar, when I know I can do so much more. I of course am aware that I am scaling down the weights to protect the tiny baby growing inside me, just waiting to out-thrust me and beat me in deadlifts, but that doesn't make it easier to lift what my rugby-brain tells me are whimpy weights while the rest of the athletes to "real work." Each day I add to my mental list of the things I'll do in August (climb a rope to the top, deadlift my body weight, shoulder press 100#...) and these thoughts get me through the light lifts.

I'm pretty proud of the progress I've made in 6 months. It's pretty wild that my pregnant body is stronger than my flubbery pre-CrossFit self. I love the added motivation my pregnancy gives me to stay fit, like I know that each healthy heart beat helps deliver more oxygenated blood to my womb and sets a precedent for my wee one to lead an active life. Maybe I'll be like Carla Overbeck and have a baby so addicted to working out, I'll have to bring him or her to the gym for naptimes, where the sounds and rhythms of the workouts lull the baby to sleep instead of a singing glow worm.

I'm currently experiencing the euphoria I only get when I've improved myself, met and surpassed a challenge. I hope the baby is enjoying this rush along with me. Today, the Fight went well.

Bladder Olympics

I haven't really had trouble with overactive bladder thus far in my pregnancy. I've been drinking my midwife-recommended 80 oz of water each day to even out with my activity level, but I've been peeing what I consider to be a normal amount. Until today.

I went into New York City with my mother-in-law and Corey's cousins. We stopped first at a fantastically wonderful chocolate shop for hot cocoa. And I saw they had a bathroom. I used it twice during our half hour visit. Then we met the owner and learned all about how she silk screens her designs using cocoa butter and go to talking and soon enough I had to go again! But we were already on the move.

I tried to breathe deeply and pray for McDonalds, then sneaked into Giggle as a diversion. I thought I could look at frog shoes and hippo onesies and not concentrate on my exploding bladder. And then a door opened, right by the bath toy scoopers, and a golden light as if from heaven shone down upon a toilet! Right there in a cute little Manhattan boutique. It occurred to me that stores catering to babies and moms must ALL have bathrooms. I think that might have been the best pee of my life. You know how when you have to go super bad, like so bad you think you'll burst, and then you finally pee and it feels so wonderful? That was this pee in this baby store. It made me want to buy something. I think when the baby comes along I actually will buy many of the things in there in gratitude.

Finally, we made our way to the Pearl River Market and tried to ogle the three floors of cheap, Asian-themed stuff. I was halfway through the aisles of chopsticks when I had to pee. Again. Now, I never imagined there would be a restroom on the premisis. This was, after all, a super crowded store packed with cheap, cheap, cheap goods. But Ellen asked a little man carving narcissus bulbs and they indeed had a bathroom! For a store with a slight film of crud, the bathroom was actually quite excellent. There were even three stalls in there, so many people could pee at once. Best bathroom of the day for me.

We ended the evening at a restaurant, where I only had to use the bathroom once. I would say that my bladder is slowing down and returning to normal again, but as I type this I feel the urge to empty it again. Luckily I am not crammed into the sidewalks of Canal Street and the bathroom is just a few steps away. This is only going to get more pathetic as the months go on.

The Most Beautiful Sight in the World

We had our ultrasound today! It was such a relief for me to see our tiny baby alive and well and hiccupping all over the place. I had myself convinced last week that I had somehow killed the baby. This is mostly because of babycenter.com, where all the mothers have some sort of catastrophe and don't like me because I spoke negatively about Suzie from Survivor.

(I should know better than to lurk around a place that disapproves of people speaking their minds about television characters)

Anyway, as soon as the technician put the wand to my belly, we could see a fully formed human lurking inside there. With ears. And little arms that he or she waved around like mad. I never felt anything so powerful in my life as I did looking at that screen. There's a person. Inside me. For real. This is really happening.

Of course I knew all of this before, but looking at the baby move around really solidified everything. There's a baby in there, and I love that baby so much, so fiercely that I feel completely empowered.

Fruit Salad

Each week, I check various websites and books to read about what's going on inside my body, how big the baby is and what he or she has grown recently. This week, my baby is the size of a grape, has some teeth and a face, and his or her heart is divided into four chambers. Last week, the baby was the size of a kidney bean (or on some sites a raspberry). Before that a blueberry. Next up? Kumquat.

I believe they use fruit comparisons for several reasons. First to give moms and dads something readily identifiable. We have grapes in our fridge. We just have to open the door and look at one and know that's how big our offspring is right now.

But I think the second message is more of a subliminal reminder that moms need to eat lots of fruit. Because otherwise we won't poop for nine months.

I feel quite lucky to have had a nausea free experience so far. Apart from that one day where I exploded in the yard, I have felt awesome. Cranky, a little weepy sometimes, but generally awesome. Except I can't poop.

I force myself to eat prunes and apricots each morning, drink hot tea, only buy fibrous cereals and sprouted wheat bread. I put leafy greens in everything and work out regularly. That little grape has me backed up beyond belief. I learned that this is due to increased levels of progesterone in my body and not yet because the uterus is in the way of the exit (That happens when we're dealing with more of a peach sized baby).

Perhaps the only silver lining in this fruit bowl is that I am now without question the best gas passer in my household. Corey can't hold a candle to what I've got going on. If he did, he'd wind up blown out into the street with his beard gone missing.