New year... New baby!

At approximately 20 weeks along, we’ve reached the halfway marker. Since becoming pregnant, I’ve found the whole timing of this to be somewhat perplexing. I keep redoing the math in my head, and am still unsure why people refer to pregnancy as a nine month term. In pregnancy land, everything is weeks. 40 weeks is a full term. The first two weeks, actually don’t count, because those two weeks are including simply because the egg is ready and waiting… it hasn’t been fertilized, and so technically you’re not ‘pregnant’ even though a waiting egg is still an important part of this whole process.

Still, subtracting that 2 from 40, you’re left with 38, which is really about 9 and a half months, a whole ten if you include those first couple bogus weeks when you are still waiting to get laid (forgive my crass humor). So, I suppose 9 is just a rounded number for those of us who think counting to forty is too much work.

Every time someone asks me how many months, I get to do this neat little math problem in my head. I subtract two from the number of weeks, then divide the remaining number by four. Then I kind of round it out. Ok, so now I’m four and half months along, but I still have five months to go to get to May, and oh yeah, since my due date is the 15^th, I have two weeks.. so really it’s five and half months. But wait.. that’s still ten months. Are the doctors doing a different math problem when they do the ultrasound? After all, they are the ones that clocked me at 19 weeks last time I was there, then pronounced I was at the halfway marker, which I would assume means they are referring to gestational age. So what the hell? Why is this so hard to do one simple conversion. Somewhere, someone got a few lines crossed, and/or was never entirely clear with me. To make matters worse, every time I think of the baby’s age I ponder this, and since I have no precise answer, I’m starting to get annoyed. So I got to site that actually breaks it down for me. According to this site, which divides the weeks up in occasional groupings of five (they average a month at 4.445 weeks) I’m in month five! WTH? Really? Ugh.. I’ll have to pass this question on to my nurse. I don’t understand why  this isn’t more simple. Who the hell decided to make a math problem as hard as doing your taxes for pregnant women… was it to annoy the heck out of us? To test our mental capabilities or keep us in check (after all, we all know that sooner or later baby brain kicks in). Ugh…

The most common weeks to months breakdown used for the 9 months of pregnancy:
*This is just a guideline and the exact weekly breakdown may differ from source to source. (from baby2see.com)

Your First Trimester:
1^st Month = Weeks 1,2,3,4
2^nd Month = Weeks 5,6,7,8
3^rd Month = Weeks 9,10,11,12,13
Your Second Trimester:
4^th Month = Wks 14,15,16,17
5^th Month = Wks 18,19,20,21
6^th Month = Wks 22,23,24,25,26
Your Third Trimester:
7^th Month = Wks 27,28,29,30
8^th Month = Wks 31,32,33,34,35
9^th Month = Wks 36,37,38,39,40

Ahhh, so now I see. By adding an additional week to the ends of each trimester, you have months with approximately five weeks instead of the traditional four. Strange.

Ok.. now that I have successfully solved that riddle (all done while in the process of writing about it, no less) I can continue on in peace.

I had a nice, quiet Christmas. Vincent was working, and so I sat around most of the day, cooking and doing a small amount of organizing. For some strange reason I was unhappy, perhaps because all of the stress I had become so addicted to as far as building up to the holiday was suddenly alleviated, and so quickly I could hardly cope. I’m not sure what I expected, but I was in a sentimental, disgruntled mood. It’s odd, thinking that next year I’ll have someone else to shop for. Oh, don’t get me wrong, first year, I’m certain he will be so amazed by the wrapping paper alone I won’t need to buy him anything extravagant. I could probably buy at least one package of diapers and he wouldn’t know the difference. Truth be told, I’ve never been a supporter of parents who want to make that first birthday “unforgettable,” or for that matter, the birthday after that. Let’s be honest, the first unforgettable holiday, is more for mom and dad then it is for the baby, who won’t remember anything but what really counts. Oh, and I suppose you want to know what it is I think that really counts? Why, the shiny colors naturally! The spirit of the holiday, the joy you emanate from it is what the baby will pick up on. For that matter, who wants to get in the habit of spoiling a child who won’t have any real appreciation for what he/she is getting? So yes, there will be those special, little toys, I will just have to have, but it’s so important to try and find a good balance, and I can only hope I’m on the right path.

Speaking of the right path, I’m headed into the new year. Vincent calls me lame, but my resolutions are pretty typical. I want to curse less, speak more appropriately. I also want to really focus on baby buying. Once again, I stress that I don’t want to spend money frivolously, but there’s quite a bit to consider. First, being at the halfway mark, I’m not guaranteed that the baby won’t come early, even if it’s just by two weeks, which means I want to get some preparation in. Secondly, even if money is a little short, I don’t want to have to settle for everything. Just because I get some hand me down clothes doesn’t mean I should have to stick my poor child in some atrocious purple outfit. I shouldn’t have to lower all my standards. It’s like a wedding. You may not want to spend 50,000 dollars on a dress, but you don’t want the clearance sale at Wal-mart out of desperation either. With that in mind, and the major holidays over, time to get started. I want to make at least one major buy (car seat, stroller, crib) every month. That’s not very much time if you think about it, so I may even have to squeeze in a couple in one month, not to mention scattering as much little stuff as I can around all that (I ordered a couple of pacifiers already.. cute!).

One thing I have been seriously considering is giving the old cloth diapers a go. At least, in the beginning, while he’s not really got poops (they say that doesn’t really start til you switch over to solids), it’ll give me an idea of whether or not I can handle that kind of work, plus if we chose the right brand it’ll save us quite a bit of money. I especially liked my friend’s idea to compromise. She uses cloth diapers at home since she’s there so much, but disposables while she’s out. The startup fee is quite a bit heavy, but in the long run it would pay off, just like using breast milk over formula is a definite must (as long as he takes to it!). No reason to go out and pay for something my body is producing… and it will help me drop weight!

Unfortunately, I don’t quite understand all of Vincent’s thoughts. The most I can typically get out of him is a joke here and there, a small remark, or, “we’ll have to see.” All of which basically means he really hasn’t put a lot of thought into it. I can’t blame him though. He has his car which he is trying to get worked on, and unlike my own job which is fairly lenient with it’s down time, he’s always focused, so he doesn’t have all the time to consider these options like I do. Still, I feel somewhat bad, like maybe I’m denying him part of the process of decision making or will come off seeming bossy. I’m just used to making decisions on my own, and it’s not in my nature to wait around until the last minute to research something if I have the time now. Plus, I don’t want to nag him into it, because then the whole process will be just as frustrating for him, when I figure if he trusts me I can do most of the work really. Anyways, I can (and will have to) nag him about other things, besides diapers, like the car seats, cribs, things that demand quality but that should be aesthetically pleasing for a boy and his dad as well as me.

Meanwhile, on the lighter side of things, supposedly Cesar (if that remains his name… I think it should!) can hear me and the outside world about now, even though the internal sounds have been described as being “louder than a vacuum cleaner.” For that reason, I encourage Vincent to say something here and there, because I want so very much for Cesar to understand our tones! Also, he’s swallowing lots of fluid to practice digestion, and the amniotic fluid is said to taste differently depending on what I eat. How interesting! I never knew that. This means I should eat a nice variety of healthy foods so he’ll take a liking to them. I’m so grateful the holidays are over because I really pigged out on candy, so now I can get back on track, and get Cesar interesting in healthy foods.

One of my friends described to me “candy” for her children as being fruit, which I thought was interesting. They are too young to actually learn the error, but she sticks with it.

Oh the things to think about. I get excited, and then occasionally anxious. I sometimes think I can’t do this. I hear that’s a natural fear, and so I ignore it. After all, if I can’t do this, well really, what option do I have? Of course I can. If some of these other parents I’ve seen can do it, I can, even if my standards are a little high!

Above: My Christmas photo, I suppose. I actually got a camera for Christmas, and even though I can't stand cameras, I figure that I can be in control of all the shots! Nice.
Below: Vincent, procrastination at it's best. What can I say, he makes me laugh.

It's a...

BOY!

Well, I won’t lie. I, being a female myself, imagined watching girlie cartoons with a daughter, of teaching her to be her own fashion stylist, of giving her advice about boys and teaching her how to be confident in herself.

As I lay on the table, I began to feel anxious. I had both Vincent and my father beside me. It occurred to me that I was surrounded by men. Hell, even the cats are boys.. and I’ve often considered myself someone who could hang around with the guys, listen to their lingo and their disgusting banter, and get along with it to a nice, balanced degree, without losing my own feminine mystery (shaving my legs, yes it’s a must, even while pregnant). I’d hoped to pass this on to Alice.

We got underway with the examination. First glimpse at the face, and apparently he’s as camera shy as me, since he rolled over so much so that the technician said, “Well, we’ll just come back to that.”

And then, before I knew it, she was pointing out two legs, and my dad was making that, “I know where this is going,” sound, for he had already guessed the answer. It took me a minute, for I was off in wonderland, momentarily checked out of reality. I don’t remember who said it first or how exactly the line went, because I was hearing it in my head, watching the technician put a nice little label on the picture before it printed out declaring, “I’m a boy!”

Above: Photo not for pervs!... It's a boy

Somewhere around then, as the technician shifted and began to look over organs and other measurements, I remember distinctly thinking that I was tired, and wishing I could go home and resume this later. I don’t know why I thought that, except I’m fairly keen on assuming I’d entered into a state of shock. Seeing this moving, writhing, little person was very overwhelming. Everything, the tech explained, was fully developed, just not mature. We could see the four chambers of the heart, the spine, the kidneys, and all were measured for documentation. To top it all off, this nameless little thing, a dream that had been within a dream, now was capable of having a name, and a future beyond just speculation. We are no longer wondering, “If it’s a girl, maybe this… or that,” or “If it’s a boy, I hope he’s this… or that.” It’s a sudden reality. It’s a boy. He’s got a heart, a brain, ribs, arm bones… he can do math or play sports. What  kinds of conversations would I have with him? What would I ever have in common with him?

So some people like to play the game of, “Well it doesn’t matter if it’s a boy or a girl, as long as it’s healthy.” Oh whatever! That’s what I think of those people. Someone who says that either  A: hasn’t put the amount of thought or dreamed about their baby at all, or  B: they just don’t want to admit it because we like to pretend that it would be rude to say that to our children. It’s as if, we aren’t supposed to hope too much, because any disappointment will cause our children to feel unwanted. “Aww… mom wishes I was a girl, she must really hate me.”

Such silliness prompts me to laugh. After sharing this with my mother, she was so supportive, letting me know that when I was born (she never had a sonogram), she had hoped for a boy herself. It doesn’t hurt my feelings or make me feel like she loves me any less. It makes me laugh, especially since she says, “you’re father knew you were a girl though. He just knew.”

Same with this situation. I n retrospect, I should have paid more attention to my dreams and moreso, Vincent’s. After all, I wanted a girl, so it’s as though I turned that want into a belief that he was and now feel incredibly stupid. Vincent dreamed about having a son, and though he won’t admit it (yeah, he’s one of those that likes to say it doesn’t matter just as long as the baby is healthy!), I know he wanted a boy. He’d had a dream that I had twins. The first to be born was a girl, and he wasn’t there when she was born. Yet when the boy was born, he was in the delivery room and held him. So subconsciously, he wanted a boy, so the dream interpreters would say. I think, for my feelings though, he kept it private.

That being said, I’m so happy it’s a boy. Vincent claims he wasn’t in shock like I was. Yet he was oddly quiet most of the ride home, even went straight away to take a nap after we got home. It’s probably a good thing we both got to go to work today. Sometimes, I know the reality that this is all real takes a while to absorb, and that’s hard to do when you have someone around trying to do the exact same thing. I believe at times it is best to separate, and interact with the outside world so that the information is absorbed, and as daily life continues you begin to realize that this is special and that it has not stopped or railroaded your life. Not to mention you have the opportunity to discuss it with others, observe other people, or just zone out and let your thoughts run wild.

On a side note, I’d hate to give the impression that the whole visit was a solemn occasion. No, it wasn’t a funeral like feeling and I wasn’t miserable at the thought of having a boy. We had a great time. My father asked lots of questions about what the technician was examining, even guessing different body parts. In all honesty, I think she was a little put off by seeing the two of them in there, as my father is fairly intimidating, and Vincent looks extremely young. But even she began to loosen up, sharing more with us, and even laughing.

One thing I will say, our son has a demonic face! I know, I know, all babies look strange. Yet I was so proud to see his evil little face, when we finally did get him into camera view. We were all laughing and joking, so much so, that I think it caught the technician off guard. I’m sure most of them are used to surreal moms, talking about angels and how perfect their baby is. Don’t get me wrong, I’m so proud, but hey, I’m not an idiot either! He’s a little monster, and better to have a demon son as a mama’s boy than not.   

Above: If you tilt your head to the right you are looking straight at his face. Check out his awesome devil horn and evil eyes.

After we got his face into view, he continually put his hands up, maybe trying to block us? He probably hates pictures, just like me. Then again, he was getting pummeled with sound waves, which as I understand can be quite loud and uncomfortable, so there is that.

He is his father’s son though. My dad once joked that if the baby took on the best of his family’s genes, along with Vince’s looks, he’d come out like Antonio Banderas (I think my dad figured it was a boy as well). Well, at this time I must say the side profile looks excellent. He should grow up handsomely, which is very wonderful, since my reply at the time had been, “Well what if he gets the worst of all our genes?” Danny Devito?

Above: Big lips, and a nice, perky nose.

Lastly, more good news. The doctor finally came in, letting us know first that everything looks excellent. He’s right where he should be, and at 11 ounces. He’s 19 weeks and 2 days according to their measurements, and on schedule for delivery May 15, 2011.

Also, the specialist informed me that I am indeed, RH negative. They’ve verified my blood type. However, the antibody that was discovered is something called a “cold gluten (?)” meaning it is not active until it is in a cold environment (like 70 degrees and under). The antibody I carry was recognized because when my blood was placed in the test tube, the lowered temp caused it to become active. Thus, in the future, she said this antibody my appear, but they are only specifically interested in something called the D Antibody, the antibody that directly is a result of the RH factor.

So hah! Hahah! I am so thrilled about that. Finally, that’s loads of stress. No more silly doctors asking and double asking if I have ever had abortions or miscarriages before, or blood transfusions. No more of this wondering and waiting. No more speculating about how bad the antibodies might hurt our son, or feeling low because my body is out to attack everything.

I am so grateful. We are having a boy! I was joking with Vincent earlier, saying, “Well, if he ever has a problem, I’ll just tell him, ‘Go talk to your father, I wanted a girl.’” Of course I’m joking! I’m too opinionated to not want to give him all the advice in the world. Especially since he is, after all, our little Damien, and out to conquer the universe.

I hope he’s geeky, smart, but with just enough strength that if someone makes him angry he can defend himself with first words, then a good amount of power. At least Vincent will have someone to work out with! And I’ll have someone to impart all my knowledge too (I’m joking again). I hope he’s a hard catch for women, that he’s work focused and interested in solving complex problems rather than solving the silly ones of some confused girl or entertaining the needs of some gold digger. I’ve seen too many good men go to waste on a bad woman. And my son, well he’s going to be great.

Tonight the moon will disappear...

I take the lunar eclipse as a very good sign, since tomorrow is my appointment with the specialist. I finally will have some answers as to this RH mess, and, if we are lucky, we get to find out the sex of the baby! The former has me somewhat anxious, however, knowing that my father will be there, along with Vincent gives me some comfort. Plus, since I have not received any emergency calls from the specialist to tell me that they urgently need me to come in, I think I can safely assume that the situation is not at a critical point.

Being a first time mom, it is hard to decipher whether or not those twitches are the kicks of the baby I feel! However, I am pretty certain that those initial pops and flutters were the movements of the baby after all.

My friend tried to describe how they felt for her. Cleverly, she described them as being akin to “gas bubbles.” Unfortunately, I had to admit, “I’m afraid I don’t know what that feels like either.” Apparently (at least I think so) I am incredibly lucky. Or (and this is more likely) due to my significant diet change, consisting of no carbonated drinks for the most part, meats, veggies, and cheeses (as few carbs as possible thanks!), I’m afraid I don’t know what gas bubbles are, or what the whole mess about being gassy is all about.

I think though, that my problem was I am  searching for too logical of a definition as to what those kicks should feel like. I read over many more descriptions (popcorn popping, flutters, butterflies) and was always second guessing myself. Who knows for exactly how long I have felt these movements and doubted them, or passed them off as my uterus expanding. So... whoops. Lesson learned. Babies aren’t an exact science, even if we treat them as such.

So… with the baby moving about, the lunar eclipse, and after finding out today that one of my old friends from high school, who also lives here in San Antonio, is one month pregnant, I must say I am a happy person! Not to mention, I saw my mother for a couple of days (Friday and Saturday), and since she lives all the way in Michigan, it was wonderful to see her, even if it was only for a short amount of time. My mother and father spoiled me like crazy, I must admit. I got maternity clothes too. In the past week (ever since I crossed that four month mark), I’ve exploded! It’s amazing the difference a pair of maternity pants can make. It definitely helped my ego a bit. I can see how some women get so depressed, and/or start to dress poorly. After all, it’s such a strange phase, to go from not showing, to starting to look like you’re eating too much chocolate, to being bulbous. Thankfully, my parents were there to help me, and give me back my glow. Now, I can sport my baby bump with some style, and I think that’s very important to a mother-to-be’s health, almost as much as her Prenatal vitamins. After all, the worse you feel about yourself, the more stress and depression you are passing on to your baby. We are often terribly concerned about the physical side of our child’s development, but I think mentally our own well being must play a large role in all of this as well and yet it is often times ignored.

Also, while my mother was in town, Vincent’s parents met mine. It was a quiet meeting, on Friday evening,  in my father’s living room. Vince’s little sister, Miranda was there, listening to her headphones, and I imagine incredibly bored. I remember being that age, in foreign places while “adults” talked. I certainly empathized with her throughout the night, and hope that I never forget to have that ability, no matter how much older I get. Still, I was happy that she kept herself as occupied as possible. Vince’s mother and stepfather each had a beer, while light discussion commenced between them and my own parents. Vincent and I were quiet but for a few things. For the most part, it was light, “safe” subjects, with minor pauses of awkward silence which were quickly filled with more talk. Yet, I must admit, on our end I believe things went nicely. For such a strange meeting, it would be ridiculous for me to expect that they would have engaging conversations. In fact, the comfort that we achieved is probably the very best we could have hoped for.  Vincent has yet to hear back from his parents as to whether or not they cared for us at all. Oh well, with families one can never be too sure.

On a funnier note, Vincent managed to kick me in the stomach last night. First hit taken to the gut since I became pregnant. Completely by accident, of course, although I like to joke with him that it was his subconscious acting out.

You see, his car doors can currently only be opened from the inside. We plan to have them fixed after Christmas, but for now he has to crawl through the trunk before opening the doors for me. His trunk, however, also has the issue that the bars which normally prop the trunk open (for say, when you are loading a large amount of groceries) are not working, and so I usually hold the trunk open while he crawls through (btw, he has an Eclipse, two door, sporty, and older, for anyone trying to imagine the car). It was late, and I was not only standing too close, but forgot I’m bigger. So as he swung his foot up, in the same manner you would to throw your leg over a horse, it came right up and smack! Into the baby! And I mean, right into the baby, not my upper tummy or my thigh. Immediately, we both started laughing.

                “You are so lucky that when I get hurt, my endorphins kick in,” I managed between giggles. If the baby was peaceful, he sure as heck woke her up with that!

                His reaction? “Oh my god. Don’t ever tell the baby I did that.”

                Of course, tummies and babies are resilient. It would be an overreaction for me to really assume an angry stance, or to think anything might have actually happened. My friend Pat warned me that toddlers have no respect for moms, and have pummeled into her belly once or twice. If every little to medium hit caused damage there’d be very few babies at all! We have to be able to take some amount of damage (not that I’m condoning it!). Still, it has been a pleasure to make all sorts of threats to Vincent, such as, “If something goes wrong, it’s officially your fault,” and, “I’m going to tell my father!” How can I resist? After all, he used to accuse me in the same sarcastic, playful manner, “If something’s wrong, it’s because you drank too much,” or, “smoked too much,” or, “ate badly.”

Finally, some payback!

Above: Forgive the poor picture quality. Taken at work, with my camera phone, where I discovered after coming back from my minivacation that my shirt doesn't button all the way down anymore!

Oh kitty, kitty, what's in a name? Why can't I just call you kitty?

With my family in town, the holidays so close, an appointment to find out where I stand with my blood on the 21^st, and work scheduling me as much as they can, I’m beat. I’m becoming increasingly tired, and some of the unavoidable symptoms of pregnancy are starting to kick in. Of course, by unavoidable, I mean, I escaped the nausea, the mood swings, the bloating. But, the body still has to adjust for the balloon in my gut, and no matter how you look at it, that means the spine is going to be pushed back into a “tail.” So my back hurts, and the blood which has generously decided to pool evenly in my legs causes my ankles to feel weird, and for reasons “unknown” according to researchers (perhaps it has something to do with how active you are plus the increased blood in the legs?) my calves spasm a bit in the middle of the night (at least I can be grateful I haven’t had any Charlie horses). The other night, I would wake, still partially dreaming, to these spasms, which by the way are best and most efficiently gotten rid of my simply flexing the foot, toes towards the knees.

Speaking of waking in the middle of the night, I have been so exhausted lately, partially because of my vivid dreams. Last night I dreamt of a pretty blonde woman, but she had a terrible secret for she was a monster with silver, gloomy eyes. She wanted to tell her son about what she was. Strange? Well Vincent woke this morning, telling me he had a dream we had a boy. When I asked if he was cute, Vincent told me that he was; he had brownish blonde hair but that’s about all he could recall.

I think Vincent really wants a boy, but I still think we are having a girl! Yet, we finally managed to pick out names for either, which we are both satisfied with (well, I didn’t get my way completely with the girl’s name, but I did get the name I wanted for the boy). I hesitate when people ask me names. When I first told my mom about Alicia, she said, “I don’t like it. Sounds too much like Tanicia.” Tanicia, being a girl she didn’t care for, not one tiny bit, stuck in her mind well enough to ruin Alicia’s name at first mention!

Since then, I’ve been wary of telling people. I liked Alicia (well, I prefer Alice). It was listed as being Old German in origin, the meaning being, “noble, exalted,” and is  a form of Alice anyway. So, I have to say in the end, I agree with some women who prefer to keep the name a secret. Seems like once the name is chosen, no one minds and all are accepting. But before hand, it’s as though your friends and family are very liberal with their opinions, as if they are trying to save your child from some devastating fate! Of course, I’m being a bit dramatic, but I see why some people chose to keep it quiet.

Yet, being that I already began telling people the names, I stand by it. I’m happy to announce if it is a boy, we agreed on Cesar. I would have liked the spelling Ceasar, but no matter. I realized it the other day, as I was watching the history channel about Cleopatra. It’s such a noble name, and Vincent likes the name (variation Cesar), so that makes me happy.  The truth is, no matter what, at some point in time or another, my child is probably going to wish she/he had a different name. I do all the time! After all, a name is something like your face. We grow up seeing the same face in the mirror all the time, and we lose appreciation for it, wishing we had a smaller nose or prettier lips. So it’s natural that at some point or another, we’re going to wish for another name, especially if you were cursed like me! In retrospect, my name is not all that awful. It’s the movies featuring Amanda that typically offend me, although there have been a few nice ones (all featuring Amanda as a ‘cute’ sweetheart). Yet I’m ranting again. I stand by our names and if someone doesn’t like them they can kiss it!

However, the middle names are in need of some attention. Vincent favors Siouxsie for a female. I understand he really likes the spelling, but I have never much cared for that name. It sounds so… baby like, and doesn’t seem very complimentary for Alicia. The spelling may be fascinating, but people are not always spelling your name, it's the sound it produces as it emerges from the lips that counts. The boy’s middle name hasn’t had much consideration. The truth is, in my family we follow tradition, in which the middle name is the name of the mother (or in my case, Jean was my grandmother’s name) for females, and the same with males. My brother carries my dad’s first name as his middle name. So that’s what I’ve always come to expect. I don’t view a middle name as something to make up, but rather as a tribute to mother and father.

Well.. I have until the 21^st to think about both names, and then we should know for certain if it’s a boy or girl! So there’s still time to think about it, but once I have an itch, I want to scratch it right away!

Above: Random photo of Beowulf, my cat! I helped to name Vince's cat, Draco as well. I wonder if cats ever want to change their name? Or if they secretly laugh at our attempts to "label" them.

Um… a camera what? Plus, being pregnant is like being injured... the healing part.

Shouldn’t camera’s be banned in delivery rooms? Well, I’m sure some mothers out there are proud and very pleased to know that they have the option to bring a camera in for pre and post picture moments. To you I say, “You, my lady, have far more confidence than I!”

For those like me, however, hearing my mom mention what her picture looked at after delivery, (“..yeah just wait til they take pictures of you after”) made me take pause.

“Uh.. excuse me? I don’t think so.”

             I’m sorry. Forgive me for being a brat, but a camera? Are you insane? Isn’t it enough that I have already had to face my number one dislike in the entire world (doctors), and now you expect me to put up with number two (cameras)?  

             And surely, I’ve done my part by giving birth (HELLO!), why on earth would anyone insist on taking a picture of me in all my, well, not glory. Oh, I’ve seen pictures. Once again, I commend ladies who are comfortable with these replicas dancing all over magazines, books, and movies.  Seriously, I admire their pride. I, however, am not that feminine, and I am far from all natural.

I say (forgive my language), “Hell no!” If you want to take a picture of someone, how about that little person I just squeezed out of me? At least give me a minute to put on some makeup. It’s unfair that dad gets to look oh so smooth, holding him/her with his hair perfectly set and wearing clothes he looks great in. You want me to smile whilst I am tired, unkempt,, and wearing some gown made for the biggest  sweat fest of my life?

                I just don’t get it. In older times, birth was a private affair. Men weren’t even allowed to see women give birth in some instances! And now you expect me to take a picture? No thanks. I’m putting Vincent on camera detail.

                Of course, my mother, upon hearing this, laughed and actually agreed with me. Poor thing got taken advantage of in her moment of weakness. At least dad had the sense not to post it everywhere.

                If you can’t tell already, I hate pictures, just beneath doctors (and I mean just a fraction). I don’t even like taking them when I feel good about myself, let alone when I’ve undergone some crazy activity.

                That rant aside (I figured I had to share that), my last doctor’s appointment (12/08/10), went surprisingly well. The nurse was a little kinder, and a little more ready to admit even she wasn’t fully in control or at a complete understanding of this whole RH disaster (bear in mind, this is the typical clinic, not the specialist’s appointment). I lost a bit of weight thanks to my diet! It made me extremely smug, until I laid back, and upon feeling and measuring my belly, the nurse stepped back and proceeded to comment, “Huh. The growth is bigger than what I would have expected, for its gestational age.” Nice… I’m having a fatty. At least, he/she has a heartbeat, and a good one too. Sounds nice and strong, and the swishes of his/her motions over the Doppler made me very proud. I should be feeling her in a week or two. I hope, I hope. Supposedly she can hear my voice within. I don’t really know what to say, in fact it’s awkward since I still can’t feel him/her, but Vincent had good advice. He suggested I just talk to the cats, to him or whomever, assuring me she’d still hear me and would grow accustomed to my voice until the awkward phase dissipates. So now, I continue waiting for the 21^st, when I see the specialist again, hopefully this time with some answers. I can only assume the situation is not detrimental, because I have not received a call yet except concerning the Quad Screen (a test to determine the chances for Down syndrome ect. By measuring protein levels in the blood). Side note: mine was negative. I have only about 1 in 12000 chance for one issue, and was quoted as 1 in 6000 for another. I didn’t really pay attention to exactly which percentage went with which because all I heard was “negative.”

                Sometimes I wonder if I am too cynical as I write these blogs. Perhaps it is because my artistic side is naturally dramatic. I always failed at comedy, and while friends and family have described me as being funny, I always failed horribly at improvisation, comedic plays, or including comedy in any of my stories. They are just much more powerful when dramatic. Perhaps that is why I am so goofy in person, saving my sharp tongue for times when it is only necessary. It seems I let much more of my heavier emotions out in art, while my life itself is quite entertaining, if not typically serene.

                This pregnancy has been a blessing in that I have had it incredibly lucky. While I have said it before, I must point out again that I have experienced no heavy symptoms like some unhappy individuals. In fact, sometimes I fail to feel pregnant at all. Today, I was doing some Christmas shopping, walking all downtown, up the stairs in the mall, and realized that unlike some sights suggested, I wasn’t winded or out of breath (some say you will start to feel winded by now). However, that might be because I quit smoking since becoming pregnant, and so my lungs are working more efficiently, making any difference in air intake difficult to notice.

My mom, thankfully, assures me that she was the same way, and that I won’t really start feeling down until the third trimester. Neat. Well, we will see.

                I have, however, noticed that my tummy is enlarged. Being pregnant is kind of like… well, having a cut heal. Throughout the day you don’t see too much change. The wound usually just sits there. Then, after a good night’s rest, you wake up and realize that wow! That sucker is healing! Most of the work seems to occur at night, and noticing changes in the womb is somewhat the same. I’ll wake up, and feel like there’s a large, thick bubble (well, there is) in my abdomen. Throughout the day, at times the sensation decreases as the baby settles, but when I lie down I can most definitely feel the crust of that little world beneath my fat.

                I cannot wait for Vincent to be able to feel him/her. I was shocked when I saw a drunken post online, from last night (five this morning), in which he publicly announced he was “Excited about being a dad. I wonder what my son/daughter is thinking right now....Just inside Amanda's stomach, just waiting to start kicking away soon. No need to put, "will I be a good dad", because I know I will.”

Those were his words exactly! I haven’t even had the heart to say anything about it because I don’t want to embarrass him (even though he received 12 responses all wonderful), but it makes me feel so happy, and lucky. I know he’ll be a great dad, but I can’t give him that satisfaction too soon, or else he might just get too big of an ego!

Humor… the glue that holds me together

This holiday season has become extremely rough. For some, such as myself, it is as though karmatically we are prepaying for a fantastic year ahead. Of course, that’s looking on the bright side. It might be that we are just paying the price for the other half of the universe, which seems to be doing just dandy. Strange how that works. Sometimes, I wonder if someone out there isn’t paying the price for me to be happy. Well, for now the roles are flipped. As of late, I have had friends who have rushed husbands or children to the ER, only to encounter unsettling doctors. Some have had car wrecks, or large amounts of money scammed, and some unfortunate few have even had heartaches. And still others carry blissfully along, reminding us that with this holiday season, “there’s no reason to get so upset.” I especially get irate with the latter even if (and I hate to admit it) they have a point.

                Besides filing for a claim number, there’s not much I can do about the fact that USPS is currently claiming a fifty dollar package was delivered when it wasn’t. Nor can I help it (beyond yet another complaint) that they failed to leave notices for two other packages which might also be lost, or that the worker at the office for pick-up put me on hold for fifteen minutes before I had to hang up because he was just too “busy to take my call.”

                I also can’t help it that despite my high hopes at my last appointment, I still haven’t heard anything in regards to my results (so should I just forget about the problem or what?), or that Vincent has a house key in the hands of someone who I don’t necessarily trust, mainly because she keeps saying she will get her things conveniently when no one is home (and in general I don’t t rust people who have full access to your home and refuse to give it up).

                When these disappointments come full force, I have to be appreciative for the one thing that manages to pull me out of my slump. I think of myself as an easy going person, with an appreciation for odd humor. In fact, when I think of Vincent one of the first things that pops into my head is how very much he makes me laugh, and that I am so very grateful for that. Some people have accused us of being mean, or unsympathetic, and countless others have misunderstood our open jokes, which is also something else of an annoyance (you have to cringe when a jealous girl says that you are ‘mean’  ect. for pulling a prank on your partner) with all of the free commentary we receive. Yet at the same time, probably even more so, it makes our exchanges a bit more meaningful to me, as if our whole attitude is one great private joke that we share. On a side note, I can only hope that our baby grows up and can get in on this when she’s the right age.

                People are far too overprotective when it comes to laughter, and they read into jokes and sarcasm with a vengeance. I think it started with the whole Politically Correct movement, but extremists pushed that further and further, until jokes lost their freedom entirely, both for the telling and the enjoyment.

                “You want to hear a dirty joke?”

                “OK.”

                “A white horse fell in the mud.”

                Oh hah hah. Yet this joke probably sums up the extent of our PC humor. Then again, calling the horse white might be taking it a bit too far.

                So the other night, as Vincent and I struggled with a doomed attempt to make our Christmas lights blink, I took my jab.

                “It’s not working,” Vincent whined, plugging the string of lights in again to discover that no, switching out the extra bulbs had not worked as it did in the older versions.

                “Ugh, just pull it out and plug it back in.” Honestly, I didn’t think he would do it, so when he did, I almost lost it too soon. After returning the plug to the outlet, he sat slumped in his chair, his mouth agape, eyes wide with confusion. I added, “There. Did you see? It blinked.”

                Of course, he has been notorious for his assaults on me, such as when, after leaving my facebook open, he sneakily updated my status to read: My cat is so gay. Will someone please come and run him over?

                I had my revenge though, as when I discovered he had left his open just recently, I updated his to read: I hate my cat, Draco. Someone come and pick him up or I will have him put down in the morning.

                Perfect example of how people overreact - he received ten comments all angry with him, and then me. I think he actually had to take it down. (For those of you who don’t get it, Beowulf is my cat, Draco is Vince’s.)

                Still, considering the stress as of late, the mass amounts of laughter we share alleviates quite a bit of tension, and we all know tension is bad for baby.

                Speaking of the baby, I have decided I am actually carrying Jesus. You see,  thanks to a convenient billboard announcing the date of his return as being May 21, 2011, I am now aware of why my beautiful little baby is so calm all of the time and has given me hardly any problems. My due date is May, 15, 2011… and while this is a few days shy of the 21^st, we all know that women rarely carry to the exact date of their due date. So, I’m expecting her (that’s right, Jesus is a girl this time around) on the 21^st. Thanks crazy billboard, for taking that stress off of me! I know, I know, I’m not Christian. Though that may be the case, it’s tough carrying Jesus, and someone has to do it. Just so happens that someone is me! (That was a joke, for anyone getting ready to write complaints.)

Above: The billboard making the news, stating that Jesus is comnig again next year.