I helped a woman select a purse at J. C. Penney. After demonstrating how to move the straps to make a bag cross over the body, I realized she thought I was an employee. Thinking how embarrassing it would be for the both of us if she knew I wasn't, I just committed and kept going. Is this a gift? Pointed her away from the ugly purse to the less ugly one. Employee of the month right here.

"You know what would make this story better? If it were in my mouth." 

-- Felicity every time I read to her

What a prick

When we speak of plans for future events -- eating dinner, going to the mall in two hours, waking up in the morning -- my mother-in-law always follows with, "Si Dios quiere," which literally translates to "if God wants," and more practically to "God willing." It's so morbid that, while I normally flinch at god talk, me gusta.





Saying good night, I'm reminded that, well, we just might not see each other in the morning, afterall. One of us may die. Si Dios quiere.

g-l-a-m-o-r-o-u-s

Felicity likes pulling herself to a standing position using my shirt. I sit her on my lap facing me, and she pulls herself up. When she's feeling curious, once standing, she pulls my shirt open and sticks her head in, not so subtlety sneaking a peak at my chest. She kept doing it this morning. I laughed and laughed, then she lifted herself up one last time, opened my shirt, stuck in her head...and threw up. A lot. Merry Christmas!

You know you've spent too much time on Internet baby forums when you're reading and think indignantly, "This book should have come with a trigger warning."

I think Felicity is sneaking out in the middle of the night to eat at a buffet somewhere. I'm contantly amazed by how much poop comes out of her little body. 

Happy holidays. 

It's 7 am and my upstairs neighbor is vacuuming. We got home from a weekend trip to San Antonio last night around 7:30 and she was vacuuming. When we left for that trip on Friday evening at 5, she was vacuuming. She vacuums and does laundry every day, often more than once. 

She sounds fun. I'm going to invite her over to do my place. 

http://jezebel.com/fit-ab-baring-mom-issues-faux-pology-over-judgey-faceb-1445844576

Maria Kang posted this obnoxious photo of herself on Facebook and is getting shit for it, and rightfully so. She admits to being a former bulimic.

Something that hasn't been said, or that I haven't seen yet, in all the social media backlash: Me thinks she is not recovered. She played condescending tough-gal in her non-apology response to all the criticism, so I'd like to throw the shade back at her. Honey, your eating disorder is showing.

When I say this, it's not,  "She's clearly still purging, look at those ribs." She may very well be eating perfectly healthy and fine. It's not about the food consumption nor work out obsession nor abdominal muscles. As a "former" bulimic myself -- there's the question, are we ever really recovered? -- I believe that a huge part of recovery is recognizing the bullshit in wrapping your self worth in what your body looks like and how much space it consumes.  Rise above that shit -- or at least try! Or at least don't become part of the problem!

I don't take issue with the picture. If she just posted the picture itself, in all its self-aggrandizing greatness, with the ages of her kids and her stupid pose, with her coiffed hair and makeup, that would be fine, I guess. Still obnoxious, but no different than any other attention seeking Facebook post from anyone ever. The caption, though. How condescending, mean, short-sighted, and disordered of you.

I'm no psychologist or psychiatrist, but clearly she's obsessed with her body...and everyone elses. I see a manifestation of her eating disorder wrapped up in a pretty picture with an asshole caption.

I'm still body obsessed too. I feel like most people are, whether they be Maria's acceptable image of fit or not. But I try so hard not to be. I fight myself every day about it -- remembering the eating disorder hell that I've been through and looking at my daughter, feeling how much I don't want such a life for her. I'm embarrassed by my concern for my body, those thoughts that I can not escape, but I can intellectually and through time will them away. I wish I was so easily above it all. Maria Kang embraces body obsession in a way that I find so gauche, especially considering she's a "recovering bulimic." I suppose I wrongfully assume or hope that people recovering from disordered eating make it their mission in life to "not go there" anymore. 

Usually I try to squeeze in a work out video while Felicity naps, but today I purged my thoughts instead.

Tidbit from last night's conversation.

Eugenio: You should listen to I'm Not a Human Being II. Some songs you'll find offensive but on other songs there's like, piano. *Mimes piano playing* You'll like it.

 

I'mma -- that's not a word, just type out I'm going to, damnit! -- take a hot minute -- Wait, why is the minute hot?-- to discuss a few trite phrases that we should consider removing or replacing from our Internet vernacular. I may or may not have uttered/typed the very phrases I'm about to malign.

Now that we've moved on and people without celiac disease are consuming gluten again (I think? I hope!), everyone keeps saying how they're eating "clean," which makes me want to talk about how dirty I've been eating.

When someone likes an article, to show appreciation and demonstrate ardent agreement, she profoundly declares, "This" in the comment section.  Let's change it up and start saying, "That."

I haven't heard this one recently, but when I do see it, I must walk away from whatever I'm reading, as my reaction is so visceral, I can't stomach any more. It's the worst  -- no, it's not worth such hyperbole --  but I dislike it immensely when amazeballs -- I had a hard time even typing that -- is used in a text I am otherwise enjoying. It's ketchup on a steak eaten with fingers. Cringe worthy. You guys -- hey, let's stop pretending we're all buddy-buddy -- I don't even have a replacement for amazeballs. Just never ever say it.

Ugh, such annoying hackneyed Internet phrases. Amirite?! No. You are wrong. That is not a word.

We're in Dallas for a weekend trip. Feels good to be back to civilization. Never thought I'd think so highly of Dallas, but hey -- relativity. I'm going to return to Oklahoma kicking and screaming and probably crying. I've seen the light! 

Oh, and, I found America's Next Top Baby. All the other babies can crawl on home now. 

 

Just another day in the life. 

Another thing that kept me awake at night, that I can't stop perseverating over -- the pediatrician said Felicity has a flat head. I've been obsessed with making sure that she doesn't get a flat head since birth! I've been like the Jillian Michaels for babies drilling Felicity with tummy time every day.

                                           Do not phone this one in!

Eye of the tiger, Felicity. You got this.

                                    Lift that head!

And even when she gives me this:

"Today's my break day, Mom. Imma just lay here."

We do what I call The Lazy Baby's Tummy Time: 

 

Additionally, I make sure she spends ample time in her carrier, instead of more lying back like a baby in the stroller. She hated the baby carrier when she was smaller, but for the past month she's been loving our walks and trips to the grocery store. It's sunny with no shade here, and Felicity is too young for sun screen, so I'm the pale nut walking around the lake carrying my papoose and holding an umbrella, fighting the wind, under the clear blue sky. We look cool, though. 

In one laughing comment, the pediatrician belittled our ardent effort. She didn't seem concerned about it, though. She was just, "Ha! Ha! She has a flat head, " like it was cute. Responding to my despondent look, she added, "It's not as bad as other babies I've seen, where their heads are all lopsided." Then she giggled some more, taking delight at the thought of all the alien headed stupid babies.

"But we've been doing tummy time! And I carry her whenever I can! I've been doing all these things to prevent the flat head and she still has a flat head," I whined.

"You don't want to carry her too much," was her grave response, all laughter gone.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, because then you'll spoil her."

Most would say you can't spoil a baby this young. Such an opinionated comment from a pediatrician might have another parent running for the door, but I've started to find her nutty conversations charming. She's a character. Someone I can write about in my journal instead of the normal what-is-my-life, I'm-such-a-loser rants.

Dr. X is the shortest person who isn't technically a little person whom I've ever seen. Every time I see her she's wearing no smaller than five inch platform heals, and I still tower over her like a basketball player. After a moment or so of her looking up to speak to me, I take a seat to give her neck a rest. I get a funny visual when I try to imagine her picking up a chubby 25 pound baby.

The first time I met her, I was annoyed. She's a bit forgetful. Felicity needed a follow-up ultrasound and she forgot to complete the referral. During that appointment she also kept saying, "I'm going to refer you to a Filipino babysitter." She was very insistent that the babysitter be Filipino, like her. I was all for it. We needed a sitter and I knew not one soul on the prairie. I was looking forward to getting that number. Like the nephrologist referral, she did not follow through, leaving me with the impression that she was someone who said things she did not mean, just to make conversation. Like, "We should get together sometime!" might be something she'd say to be polite to an acquaintance she had no intention of seeing again. Upon leaving she told me, "I hope you like it here. We lose a lot of good doctors because their spouses don't." Well that sounds promising, I thought.

I decided to give her another chance, and I've changed my mind. She keeps me on my toes. I have to look shit up myself to make sure it's sane advice.  Besides, one look at any baby forum and you know, everything is debatable. Just find a doctor who amuses you, that's my philosophy.

So, this funny, small doctor keeps terrorizing my mind all night. "Ha! Ha! She has a flat head."

I'm not so convinced Felicity's head is flat, anyway. Maybe I'm in denial, but it feels normal to me. At any rate, I'm stepping up her training. Baby boot camp is on in this house. There's no crying in tummy time! 

As we entered the restaurant, Eugenio looked at me with a smile on his face.

"You smell so good," he said getting a wiff of perfume.

There was romance in the air.

"Oh, haha! That's not me." 

My heart sank with the thought that I will always smell vaguely like curdled breast milk. Sorry, babe. 

Post Kittens Body

Inspired by the Baby Center forums, I wrote this silly post while nursing Felicity late one night.

I was lurking in the Kitten Center forums the other day when I read another frantic,"I-Can't-Lose-the-Kittens- Weight" post.

This cat had her litter two weeks ago and she was all, "I've tried everything-- eating the Fancy Feast, not eating the Fancy Feast. Eating only local, organic mice, not eating anything at all. Chasing my tail for hours on end. Throwing shit off the table. No matter what I do, the weight won't budge. I think it's hormonal. Has anyone else had trouble losing the kittens weight while exclusively teatfeeding? I'm so frustrated! SO has been itching to DTD, but I just don't feel good about my body right now." 

I repeat, this cat had her LITTER of kittens TWO WEEKS ago. And she's not the only one! If I hear the term, "post-kittens body" one more time, I swear I'm going to claw my human's eyes out. It's their fault, after all. It's bad enough that we have to deal with the way they portray us in the media, and here we are blindly inheriting their stupid neuroses. We're cats. We're supposed to be better than mind numbing obsessions over diets and bodies. Let the humans keep their miserable existences while we live more meaningful, albeit shorter, lives. 

Now I know what you're thinking, "Great, one more cat with an opinion and the Internet." I agree. Who am I to tell you how to live your post kitten life? Starve yourself down a few ounces for all I care. No one else will notice, by the way. They're busy simultaneously criticizing and admiring their own reflections while taking selfies in the bathroom mirror. I'm not immune to the idiocy myself. Let's be real, I downloaded the calorie tracker app on my cPhone a few weeks after my little ones were born. I went down that road, but then I turned my tail around and realized it wasn't worth my time or energy. I have kittens to care for and enjoy before the humans come and break us apart. What's more, I don't want any bad obsessions to influence my babies' minds. The little ones are so impressionable, you know. Just the other day I overheard the kitten sisters next door talk about how hard it was to avoid carbs when the humans insist on feeding them nothing but dry, processed food. Kittens! Talking about carbs! I didn't even know what a carb was until...wait, what's a carb? 

My point-- it's true, I'm just another cat behind a keyboard, but I'm not going to engage in any conversations about losing the kittens weight anymore and I urge you to do the same. Our bodies are amazing, aren't they? We birthed these living breathing (ah! Kitten breath is the best!) teeny tiny cats. We nourish them with our teats. We put up with a lot of humanshit on a daily basis and we have more responsibility now. Why waste valuable cat life time worrying about the infinitesimal amount of space our fur consumes. 

And don't even get me started about how this is such a privileged cat issue. 

My apologies if this seems preachy. Let us go in peace to love and serve the humans (haha!) and each other.

I've been making shower art. I call this one, and every one, The Great Post Partum shed.

I feel a constant, creepy crawly sensation of an adrift hair somewhere on my person. Like a spaz, I'm always whipping my arms or legs around to find, often unsuccessfully, the wayward nuisance. 

Felicity drank from the bottle! Hallelujah! After a very long, patient process of elimination, scouring the globe for every bottle and nipple combination in all the land, we met our match. Everyone said 

we were just going to have to suck it up and do a battle of the wills, that it wasn't about the bottle. I was weak and couldn't handle letting her cry while I withheld my overflowing bosom, but lo and behold, my instincts were right. However, note to future self and word to the wise, because what the Internet needs is more advice on how to raise your baby, amiright: don't wait too long to introduce your babe to a bottle if it's necessary or important to you.

Now, let us all bow our heads and pray that it wasn't a one time deal. 

And look at this cutie: 

This is my five year old nephew doing his Insanity workout. My sister says he does this from time to time on his own, unprovoked and she lets him because she doesn't want to discourage exercise. Lol lol lol.  

Can we get him on some promo material? I think he has an 8 pack. 

All the Housewives are getting married.

I don't have the time to watch all these shit shows right now, Bravo. I don't have the time.

But, OK. 

"How am I supposed to live in a place that only has a Walmart?!" 

When we first moved here, after a few

days of inward panic, I resolved to make the best of it and search for the gems. The very hidden gems in a place described by former inhabitants as "shithole" and "God forsaken."

Last night we had food at a Thai food restaurant called Thai Food that also sold donuts. Well, actually it was really a donut shop that also sold Thai food, the only Thai food in town. Of course I had to go! The food was OK; it will suffice. Any place that hands out a free bag of the day's assorted donuts upon my leaving is definitely a gem. Dinner, dessert, and tomorrow's 4 A.M. breakfast, what's to hate about that? Felicity decided she had enough sleep at 4. After fruitlessly attempting to coax her to sleep, I drowned my seething, nearly raging, sleep deprivation with coffee and reached for that donut bag.

Silver linings, gems, coffee, light and positivity, donuts, love, love, love, coffee...

My mission impossible for the week is to get my adorable fart monster to take a bottle. So far we've tried almost every bottle on the planet. Nothing takes, not even the odd squishy, teeny nipple bottle from Korea that Eugenio's coworker lent us. I just bought a cheap, less than $3 bottle at Walmart, the last bottle on Earth. It's gonna be the one. Right? That's how the world works? Tell me yes. I need this to work. 

Yesterday we bought a Keurig. We're closer to the 1% now, so going after big dreams. It's the first coffee maker I've ever owned. I've been drinking instant coffee for over 13 years. After a crappy night waking up too many times with a growing Felicity, I needed that fresh brewed cup followed by a cappuccino followed by another cup, but regretfully decaf. I was so happy gulping down all that money. But then I started thinking about upkeep cost of all those individually packaged mini coffees. What a stupid idea! What have we done?! We're going to be poor again! 

"I live [sic] and adore children, especially babies. They are so small, like little aliens." - A response I received when asking one of our applicants if she had experience with and if she was comfortable caring for young babies.

We're currently looking for a babysitter to help out when I have doctor's appointments and for occasional date nights. Not knowing a single soul in this city, it's a bit rough -- the process of finding a caregiver and making do without one. My gyno appointment was an embarrassment. The office staff had to take turns babysitting Felicity while I urinated in a cup and had an exam. I have two follow up ultrasounds soon and they politely hinted that I should bring someone to help me with the baby, as if I wasn't aware of the hassle I created. I said, "Yes, of course. I apologize. We just moved here and I haven't been able to find a sitter yet." 

I've started the process searching online. I used to work as a sort of head hunter for sitters and nannies as my first job out of college. I know the questions to ask and standards to set, but it's a completely different feeling when it's your own kid. I'd be so much better at that job now that I have this perspective. That said, I might have to have this woman who referred to babies as aliens help me next week at my appointment. 

Wait, why does fat-free half and half exist? What's the point? How was I supposed to know to be wary of this nonsensical, icky product when reaching for my coffee staple at the grocery store? My day was ruined. 

"We're like the couple in Hope Springs," he said with a smile after a goodnight kiss and a wave good bye as he shut the door. We wave good bye now.

I had pondered out loud whether or not we'd ever share a bed again. I've gotten used to sleeping on the blow up mattress in baby's room. We bought an expensive video monitor, but it seems to have been a waste. I can't trust it and it makes too much static noise ensuring that no one would sleep. Felicity and I have gotten into a wake, change diaper, nurse, burp, back to bed rhythm while sharing her room. I think we can continue it through college. Kids thrive on schedules. 

Have you seen Hope Springs where Meryl Streep and Tommy Lee Jones play a middle-aged couple with a shit marriage? They sleep in separate rooms. We've watched it twice on my movie nights. Sad-funny, middle-aged seems to be my genre. 

Of course we aren't ever going to be that couple, but it was a funny way to bid me adieu after I expressed sadness about not sleeping in the same bed. "We're like the couple in Hope Springs."

Eugenio also sometimes refers to our room as his room. "It's in my room," he says. Next time we get in a tiff, I'm going to scream, "Go to your room!" Got my comeback ready. 

Reading at last while Felicity naps on my lap. Also, please note the blue cup in the background. When we first moved into our new apartment, the leasing agent warned that drinking alcohol around the pool and picnic areas is strictly prohibited. She told a tale of people putting alcohol in red Solo cups thinking they could get away with it. "I mean, hello, it's a red Solo cup. They were clearly getting drunk," she went on.

So Neno purchased blue Solo cups. 

I'm pretty sure I have an ulcer. That makes me feel super old. It's either that or gastritis or cancer. Going to a GI doctor tomorrow. So this is what I get. All that bragging about having a wonderful, lovely, better than yours pregnancy. Since giving birth I've had several boughts of mastitis (breast infection, it's as pleasant as it sounds), and the most heinous stomach aches I've ever experienced. Now that I'm feeling fine and the pain that had me thinking of the ER is but a memory, I can shrug and say it's not so bad. I wouldn't even go to doctor about it -- ugh, what a hassle -- if Eugenio hadn't scheduled the appointment for me, knowing I didn't intend to go. 

I also have a gyno appointment on Friday, which I'm also not looking forward to. Gotta get cleared for all that running I've already been doing. When the doctor and midwife told me no running for six weeks after giving birth, my lips said, "OK," but my brain said, "Fuck that." Clearly I'm fine. Minus my intestines. 

Since I've been living under a baby lately, I just found out two days ago that Lauren Graham wrote a novel and it's already a New York Times best seller. Of course I have to get it...and remind myself that Lorelai Gilmore did not write it. God I hope it's good.

Someone needs to design a nursing pillow with a small pull out table/flat surface attached. That would make reading possible. I think of really good ideas while feeding my babe in the middle of the night. It's not really the middle of the night, though. It's the middle of the morning. Can we start saying that? 

I'm sure to text Eugenio with important entertainment trivia, with random capitalization, while we're both hard at work. Nursing isn't so bad while watching Gilmore Girls, noting where many actors and actresses got a start. Eugenio, smart husband of mine, gave me the complete series this past Christmas. This is a dumb thing to say, but let me have my stupid TV spawned fantasties, I hope Felicity will be Rory to my Lorelai. Nevermind, forget I said that. It's dumb. OK, back to work... 

I bought a treadmill and was so excited to finally have it delivered and set up yesterday. I was slightly worried, and amused, upon seeing the man flipping through the manual as he struggled to put it together. I paid an extra $80 to have it assembled assuming the person assembling it would know what he or she is doing. At any rate, three hours later he had it complete. We gave him a tip, thanked him for his work, and sent him on his way with a diet coke. Southern hospitality, man.

And then I tried playing with my new toy and it set off all the power in the room after 20 seconds. When we tried to remedy that with the breaker switches, we managed to turned off the power elsewhere in the apartment. Meanwhile, Felicity was tired and hungry and needed her bath. After some frustration, we eventually figured it out and were not without power all night. My treadmill just sat there, sad and useless.

Damn, I was so looking forward to running on it. This is my life now: running on a treadmill is euphoria. I'm instantly a much more pleasant person once I'm drenched in sweat. I'm sure I'm developing a reputation as the crazy lady who brings her baby in a stroller to the apartment gym. I try to get there in the morning when no one is around while Felicity is sleeping. If I work it right, I can get a decent 4 or 5 mile run in before she wakes up, but it doesn't always work out the way I hope and I'm left feeling like a lazy, unmoving blob some days. It's too hot outside and Felicity is too young for me to run with her in a jogger.

Anyway, I spoke to a lady in the office and she's sending a maintenance person over tomorrow to switch something or another on our breaker. Wait, is that even the right word? Or is it braker? What is it breaking? What is electricity? Why do I not know these things? I just want to run in place while staring at a wall; that's all I know.

Also, I haven't read a book or counted on my abacus or used my brain almost at all since Felicity was born and I'm afraid it's turning to mush, so I hereby declare that I will start reading again. They have boarding schools for babies, right? That would really free up a lot of time so I can pursue my hobbies full time again.

Happy two months to the real royal baby, princess poopy pants.

She had her two month check up today where she received her first vaccinations. That was that. You know, a baby getting shots. She's now a little over 11 pounds, and slowly resembling the late, great James Gandolfini: 

Sorry, baby. I love the extreme close-up double baby chin photos. Here's a more flattering angle, saying hi to daddy in the morning: 

Now we're home from the doctor's office, which was a major hassle and small victory on my part. Getting ready and out the door with a small, dependent, hungry, poopy, tired baby is something I'm still figuring out. 

So you want to hear all about my labor and delivery? Every last detail? How my vagina is fairing? No?

I was obsessed with reading birth stories when I was with child and then not at all when she was no longer squirming inside of me. I made a note to self to maybe not share the expulsion of my baby with the Internet. So here's a photo rendition instead! 

Last belly shot, 38 weeks and 3 days. I really wanted that shirt at Target and figured I'd go back post baby. HA HA! There's no way I can shove my chest into that now.

Like a million hours into labor, Eugenio asked to take a picture, to which I said hell to the no. "Your sister said you'll regret it later." I don't think I'd be terribly sad without this precious moment, but OK.

Felicity's first photo. She was so swollen but I was relieved that she was cute. Imagine over twodays of labor for an ugly baby. No thank you. 

The one second I got to hold her before she was taken away for two hours for observation. She had fluid in her lungs. I was mischievous and snuck up to see her anyway. A cool nurse let me feed her, as she was sticking out her tongue in obvious hunger. 

See.

After I fed her. Eugenio was so excited to hold his baby. Swoon. 

My content babay, still a little swollen.

Going home outfit. On our way out people kept asking if she was a boy. Ladybug, hello. People always comment on what a handsome boy she is, even when she's all decked out in pink pants, heals, lipstick, all that. That's fine. I'm not about instilling gender norms anyhow.

At home in her crib. MTV just left after filming. She was tired. 

When she saw my engorged breasts for the first time. "Oooohhh chile', them is some big titties." We're working on her grammar.

One week. She gets my jokes.

And some more cute pictures and then I'll stop. Maybe a look-at-my-baby! photo post is even worse than providing the details of her expulsion. Whatever. I'll delete it later. Pictures, pictures! 

Felicity will be two months on Tuesday. We're already planning her Halloween costume. I'm a mom now. How bizarre. It seems as if I've forgotten how to write. Typing on my iPhone is really a pain in the ass. I hope you enjoyed this picture post.

OK, bye. Until another nursing session.

I'm so smart.

Just realized blogger has an app. I can now blog all day long while nursing my baby. I celebrate this. I find myself once again in a new city with no friends, this time with a baby on my boob, so I'm clearly in desperate need of attention. 😀

At long last, my ass in sitting in a chair, at the kitchen table, in front of the laptop. I may have to switch my blog to Tumblr, though I think this one is prettier, because it's easier to post quickly from my phone. I spend a lot of time on my phone these days...

Rul quick, before I get rolling, let me say, I probably won't have time to edit this like, at all, so don't hate on the mistakes...

So my new boss is a real piece of work. Love her to death. She sharts all day long and doesn't give a f*** ( I feel the need to censor myself now? WHHHHYY??? Ugh). She's the reason I haven't had a chance to sit in a chair in front of a laptop to type. Very needy, this lady. She eats non stop and keeps gaining weight, but she can afford to gain a few. Without further ado:

Welp, never mind. I was going to upload a photo, but the internet here is so damn slow.

Fuck a duck, I sense I'm being summoned again. Quick update: in the past two months I had a baby and drove across the country with my husband, said newborn, and MIL in a teeny car (NEVER. AGAIN.), and spent my time figuring out this new job. My breasts got ginormously, freakishly huge and I cried and cried for days (they eventually went down a little, praise the lord) and anyone who saw me in the first few weeks post partum was treated to the big titty show because I still haven't figured out to feed my kid discretely and eventually stopped caring, almost. I'm a stay at home milk dispenser for the time being. Felicity, child of mine, is a smiley, happy baby. I can't complain, though the first few weeks were "fun."  We finally have that welcoming king sized bed I've been fantasizing for the past four years. It even has a head board! So grown up. But I sleep on an air mattress in Felicity's room. LOL LOL LOL

And that's all I have time for today. Sad face. This wasn't the post I was hoping for. I've written so many witty updates in my head in the wee hours of the night. So many. You're missing out. Sorry.

Posting from my phone is hard.

I haven't been able to blog or write almost anything in over six weeks and that makes me feel like I don't exist. I hope to write a very long and melodramatic post after Tuesday when we finally get the Internet in our new apartment. I got a new job, which has required all my energy but plan to make more time to embarrass myself here. Gotta get my priorities straight.

Lochia sounds more like a topping I'd add to my frozen yogurt, though I don't quite know what it is. Like mochi and lychee boba balls. But alas....

Having a baby is so fascinating and gross. A bloody miracle.

http://www.buzzfeed.com/mattbellassai/the-creepiest-things-a-child-has-ever-said-to-a-parent


He was being sweet! I've seriously said this to Eugenio. I'm 28. Is it still creepy?

"I would help you but I have to play," Eugenio said last night. He was really sincere about it too, which made me laugh. He then added, "but I'll rub your back when we watch the movie." I wasn't expecting his help anyway. We never assembly line the dish situation.

Last week on his day to do the dishes he was also on call. After eating, he looked at me and said, "I have some business to attend and then I will do the dishes." I knew he said this to assuage my inevitable seething over the lingering dishes, and I felt slightly guilty that he felt the need to explain this while he had work to do. I'm not that mean, gosh.

"Don't worry. Since you're on call tonight, I'll do the dishes."

He smiled, kissed me, then walked away to get down to business. 

Five minutes later I turned around and noticed, to my amusement, that the business he had to attend was playing his video game. I appreciate sly moves. I motioned for him to take off his headphones.

"Hey! I thought you had work to do. Like, you had to call some patients back." 

"No, I already did that earlier," he explained quickly before returning his attention to the screen.

I have some business to attend. 

I would help you but I have to play. (No longer mincing words.)

Writing these down to use later....

Everyone on the pregnancy forums that I follow -- lurk without ever posting -- seems absolutely miserable right now. I see complaints of swelling, insomnia, trouble breathing, constipation, body aches and pains, excessive weight gain, cavities, and general unhappiness along with the intense desire to get-this-baby-out-now! Before getting pregnant I heard pregnancy wasn't a cute and fun thing. I heeded the stories of misery.

But, hey, I know I'm an annoying asshole, but it hasn't been at all that bad! I actually like it. I'm happy. For the first time ever I'm not self conscious about the way my stomach looks in tight clothing or after eating lunch. It's nice to just let this belly/uterus hang on out. The exhaustion I spoke of a few weeks ago at the beginning of the third trimester was temporary. I have no real complaints. My feet swell a little from time to time, especially if I wear heals to work, but that happens to me normally. I've started a nightly routine of icing my ankles and feet to keep the edema at bay. Meanwhile, Eugenio rubs my back without the expectation of reciprocity. Poor pregnant me. I'm not experiencing any aches or pains. I'm still able to run about 30 miles a week (much slower than normal, obviously), which may be a contributing factor to how great I feel. A friend let me borrow her pregnancy support belt, and I have yet to open it. I don't completely understand what it's for, since I don't feel like anything needs support; everything is just there, growing comfortably. I never experienced the round ligament pain I was warned about by all my friends with kids. I've had it easy.

I am reminded of important transitional periods in life. In kindergarten the teacher admonished us about how much harder first grade would be. We needed to buck up. Bullshit. We learned to read and got stickers on our work.  In fifth grade, the nutty counselor gave us a speech about the perils of middle school. We would have our shoes stolen, be stuffed in lockers, and occasionally beat up by giant 8th graders -- get ready. While some of that was true, it wasn't nearly as bad as we prepared for. I kept my shoes and was only subjected to the endearing pet name "The Stupid White Girl" in gym class.  In high school, they warned about how tough college would be, how much more competition would abound and how crippled we would feel. We were about to be brought to our knees and no mercy would be granted. Kids sat in early morning lectures still drunk. There were classes I hardly attended in which I still received As. I didn't study engineering.

So, what I'm saying is, I'm a perfect human being unaffected by the woes of others. Suckas.

But seriously, my pregnancy has been super pleasant. I'm annoyingly happy. At night Eugenio and I take turns placing our hands on my belly to feel our baby squirming around. Yesterday while watching Mad Men, we embraced spontaneously during a commercial break, as we sometimes do because we are in love and gross, and I told him, "One day we are just going to burst," because that's how happy it feels.

Every pregnancy is different. I'm glad to be a lucky one escaping misery. There were people who didn't believe Beyonce carried her own baby and they especially didn't believe her after hearing her talk about it in her HBO documentary special, whatever it was, I didn't watch. They say she spoke of it oddly -- a little too lovingly and wistfully, as if it were pleasant, which is NOT POSSIBLE, UGH. I'm here to say, leave us alone. Me and Bey, we're just blessed. Get over it.

But really, pregnancy isn't all that shitty for everyone. So, yay! I sincerely hope I'm not speaking too soon. And good riddance if I am, right? Only three weeks until the babe's full-term! Six weeks until her due date. I'm excited about the prospect of seeing our baby finally, but I'm not ready for pregnancy to be over just yet. People warn that this is the calm before the storm and that postpartum hormones are insane. Please be another over sell.

I wish I could press pause. Time is going by way too fast. I'm slightly terrified of what's to come. I went to the hospital to pre-register this week and the lady entering my paperwork looked at me and said, "Does it freak you out that in less than two months you're going to be someone's mother?" A minute before we were talking about the gloomy, rainy weather and I added that I was happy with it since it was my day off and I was just going home to lay on the couch to watch Bravo. She had me pegged.

My days off go something like this: I wake up, spend an hour to an hour and a half actually waking up -- drinking coffee (not the whole cup, I pour out half, get off my back), eating a waffle with peanut butter, playing on the Internet -- then I go to the gym for about an hour or so, come home to play on the Internet some more while I eat my second breakfast, take a shower, spend about three to four hours getting dressed while watching TV, playing on the Internet, doing laundry, and then I eat lunch and finally go to the grocery store or run whatever one errand was on my to do list for that day. When I get home, I'm absolutely exhausted.

I've babysat babies and small children before so I know that day is going to look a bit different when Felicity arrives. I'm not so much terrified by that prospect. It is what it is, and I know I'll survive. I've already planned that I can watch my shows while breast feeding. I'm prepared. LOL.

I am, however, increasingly burdened about how I will possibly get this baby from my uterus to the outside world. I have my calm, collected moments where I'm like, "It will happen. Women have done it from the beginning of time. I can too." But as time approaches my moments are becoming more like, "Can't I just throw her up? That sounds much easier." I was bulimic for thirteen years and I managed to purge the impossible -- I was the best there ever was! -- so I'm fairly confident in my ability to purge a seven-or-so pound baby through my esophagus. I always thought bulimics would make the best competitive eaters. Replace all those beefy men with long-time bulimics and world records would be broken, I'm sure. Another side-note to that side-note, I've meant to write something about my eating disordered past for some time, but it's also like, I'm just amazed that I made it out alive so I don't even want to look back. Perhaps this weird paragraph about throwing up my baby is all I'll ever say about that bygone time in my life, but for what it's worth, recovery is possible. I used to think it was going to kill me or I was going to die a bulimic, like I was going to still be binging and purging as a little old lady, hobbling with my rocker to the toilet after I'd devoured everything in my kitchen. I'm still amazed that I made it out. And I've come full circle and found a purpose to all those years with my head in the toilet -- giving birth. If only it worked that way! This post has taken a morbid, twisted turn. My apologies.

THE POINT IS, I'm not as confident in the nether regions of my body. Logically, I know it's possible, but I still clench up when I think about it too much, especially when I hear about tearing and stitches. But, OK, I'm taking the attitude of, "This too shall pass." I know preparation sounds like a good plan, but I honestly don't care to hear about hypnotism or the Bradley method or Lamaze or whatever mind-trick worked/didn't work for so-and-so. I can't sit through a yoga class; I'm not going to listen to any child birth voodoo CDs. I am, however, going to a Lamaze class, because it's mandatory by a program I enrolled in through my insurance. I enrolled in the program to take all the How-To-Keep-Your-Child-Alive classes for free, as opposed to paying over $200. I know nothing. My youngest nephew is five, so it's been a long time since I've held a baby. A representative calls me once every two months to ask me the same questions, making sure I'm not shooting up or binge drinking, and in turn I take the classes for free. We'll see how helpful this birth prep class is. I'll try not to be so cynical, but don't act like I can be trained like a dog. YOU DON'T KNOW ME, SIT DOWN!

I've had several people say, "Oh! You're so active. I bet you'll have a fast labor." Sadly, there's no such trade-off. I acknowledge that I have had an incredibly easy pregnancy. My rings still fit. My biggest complaint is the size of my tits. What comes after DDD? I don't even want to know so I've given up and I'm wearing a bra you can purchase in a box from your local drug store. (Yes, the Genie Bra. It's ugly as shit but it sure is comfy. That would be my contribution to the infomercial.) I have a feeling that the real trade off is about to be made -- easy pregnancy meet death, or easy pregnancy meet demon child. Just kidding, Felicity will be an angel as all children are. ; D

The first trimester exhaustion is back. Everyone says this cliche, even I did, "It feels like I've been hit by a truck." Or sometimes I think we say train. Either way, I'm sure being hit by a large, fast moving vehicle would be much worse; we'd all be dead. But that's all to say that, I'm feeling rull tired again. Lethargic. Everything is too much. Like this morning after getting dressed I noticed a penny-sized hole on the right leg of my stockings,no  pantyhose,no tights. Even the thought of changing into another outfit made me want to lie down for a minute, so here I sit, writing because reading my work email seemed too tiresome, with a hole in my tights. Also, my hair is wet. I have 15 minutes before I have to start talking to other people through faux enthusiasm.

An odd thing about feeling exhausted by this pregnancy, is I still manage to run jog/waddle every morning. I have the energy to do that, but then everything else feels like stumbling forward through heavy wind. I went to the mall with Eugenio yesterday. Normally the mall is an exercise in maintaining sanity, even more so when I'm sweating with bloated feet and I'd rather be anywhere else curled up in a ball. I made the mistake of telling Eugenio that I was going to the restroom once again and that I'd meet up with him when I'm done. He was looking for shorts in Macy's. I couldn't find him as easily as I imagined and became irrationally panicked, calling him 4 times in a 15 minute period and sending 3 text messages. "Donde estas?" I beamed; Spanish is always more chipper. Then, "Where are you?" Ending with, "I'm getting tired looking for you, I'm going back downstairs to sit on the couch by the women's dressing room."  I knew better than to leave a voice mail message. When I become impatient I loose my ability to speak. I once left him a whiny message, which I've heard replayed about 50 times, that went something like, "Where are you?! You have my thing! I need the thing to open the thing! Ugh!" I was so flustered I couldn't think of the word "card" and "gate." Whenever we are in the middle of an argument, Eugenio will pull out his phone and replay that message over and over again. I never like hearing my recorded voice, much less my whiny, flustered, idiot recorded voice. Where was I going with this? Yes, I was at the mall, which was exhausting and now I am at work which is also stupidly daunting...

I'm not so much complaining of lethargy as taking note. I'm trying to savor these last couple of months, as I'm told this is the calm before the storm. You think you're exhausted now, just you wait, sister....

Last night I dreamt that I gave birth to a watermelon.  Eugenio and I were alone and completely panicked -- our baby was a watermelon. I scooped out the inside of the melon, I guess hoping to find the baby, and, in a moment of relief, the bottom rind started pulsing.

"It has a heart beat!"

But then we realized that there's no way this watermelon was going to make it as our baby. Solemnly, we threw it away. Then we had to pack up our apartment and move to Oklahoma.

What a nightmare.

PS: Did I mention we're moving to a small town in Oklahoma a few weeks after Felicity is born? I'm getting a minivan too! Just kidding about the minivan. I just like saying that. A minivan would be an improvement for me, anyhow.  

After I awoke from my dream, I went running, showered, ate breakfast, got ready for work, hauled ass to my car, then realized the time was 10:30 and I don't work until noon on Sunday. I'm going bananas already. So much to do to prepare for this hopefully-not-a-watermelon baby and crazy, crazy move to Oklahoma. Not really to do, we can only do so much -- shop for shit, build it, hire a moving company, etc -- but more like, so much to process. In less than 3 months I will have a child and then an Oklahoma driver's license. (Actually, let's be real, I won't get around to that for awhile). What is my life? I'm most nervous about the move, despite all the comments about how I will never sleep ever again with a kid, but I guess it doesn't matter where we live, we'll be too tired to notice...????

Queue I Dreamed a Dream with Anne Hathaway. I had a dream my life would be so different from this hell I'm living...


Just kidding! It will be great! We're getting a king sized bed!

Let me be an adult with perspective. Honestly, I just want a healthy baby. I'm so nervous about that. (Did you know pimple cream, along with anything else you fail to ask about, is off limits in pregnancy. I didn't until about a week ago. Shit!) The move is just a blip on my lifetime. I'll move to Utah and join a cult of polygamists with really long hair and homemade dresses, just no watermelon baby, please. 

I received a sample of a large pad in the mail. I see I've been moved to a new marketing bracket. This will fit nicely in my droopy drawers. Thank you.

I've tried several times, but I just can't do it. I can't stand to have the windy, greasy hair smell wafting towards me. How do you not wash your hair every day? Hair dressers are always saying its healthier for your hair, but it's just too gross.

Here's to another day of feeling like a greasy mess. Like the shower I took this morning was pointless. I've heard people talk of training their hair, like it's the Olympics, but I guess my hair is just too damn lazy for that. I'm throwing in the towel again. Don't even talk to me about dry shampoo, because no me gusta, for real.

This has been a very important update.

And it's chilly in Orlando! 48 degrees. A gift from the Universe in celebration of day that I was expelled from my mother's uterus 28 years ago.

It is my birthday. This is on the table but I have instructions not to open the gifts until I get home from work tonight, so Eugenio can be there too. He left for work at 7. So far it's been a great day. I slept a full 8 hours. Sleeping through the night after days of not doing so is such a cosy relief. 

I drifted to sleep last night around 11 after Eugenio left to go to the hospital to see a patient. He was just about to finally get into bed too. He's been on call this weekend and it's been busy. On top of having to be there every morning by 7:30, he takes calls all through the day and night, ensuring that he gets little sleep. He never complains. He's a hard worker, very concerned about his patients, doesn't sleep because of it, obsesses over their charts, goes to the hospital late in the night to see them when other doctors probably wouldn't.

I have no idea when he had time to get my gifts and I feel unworthy. I was just looking forward to eating a 10 inch sandwich from Which Wich and crunching on the pellet ice that they have afterwards.

I feel like updating my blog, but I'm also tired and sluggish and at work on a slow work day, so how about a short pregnancy questionnaire. I told y'all I'm a mommy blogger now, right?

Weeks pregnant: 26 weeks tomorrow.

Weight gain: Last I checked I was up 16 pounds. I'm supposing all of that weight is in my middle and chest region, as I don't notice any changes otherwise. Maybe my arms are a little meatier too.

Stretch marks: None yet.

Symptoms/Problems: I've had a fairly easy pregnancy so far. I no longer pee my pants when I cough or sneeze. I don't know why. I thought it was going to get worse, but it just went away. I'm sure that incontinence will come back as I get bigger.

I'm still not uncomfortable. The belly isn't that big yet. I can sleep how I please, though I'm paranoid about sleeping on my back because I'm told that it can constrict blood flow. Sometimes I wake up during the night for no apparent reason and it always takes about an hour to fall back to sleep. Hence my sluggishness today. I'm not too bothered by missing an hour or so of sleep. Might as well train for sleep deprivation now, though I am secretly dreading the impending sleep deprivation because I love sleeping so much. Who doesn't, I know. I had severe insomnia in high school and college and never want to experience that soul numbing feeling again. According to all the pregnancy forums that I now mostly read for entertainment purposes, YOUR LIFE IS OVER THE MINUTE YOU GIVE BIRTH. YOU ARE DOOMED. YOU WILL NEVER SLEEP OR SHOWER AGAIN. DON'T YOU FORGET THAT, FIRST TIME MOM, YOU SELFISH TWIT, YOU. Jesus, OK, I just said I was tired.

One of my biggest pregnancy complaints is that I'm so fucking hot all the time and I know it will only get worse as summer approaches. I'm normally hot and prefer to sit in the comfort of cold, manufactured air, so being pregnant has made work, where it sucks the most, that much hotter. At home I can blast the AC. The department I work in is full of  long time Floridians. They keep the thermostat at 75 or above. One day I couldn't take it any longer and sneakily put it at 73. Immediately I heard, "It's so cold. Who turned the AC on?" I remained quiet and sweaty as a coworker hastily stomped by to raise the temperature. I learned my lesson. Cold-blooded Floridians, whew.  I bought a fan this weekend for my desk. It helps, though I'd prefer the AC.

My biggest, biggest pregnancy gripe is the size of my growing breasteses and, specifically, the impossible task of dressing them. My initial attitude of, "HA! HA! They're going to get huge!" quickly became, "Call 911." I finally caved and went to get measured, despite my anxiety and embarrassment. Everyone says my bump -- I kind of don't like that word -- is small for being 6 months, but I think there's an optical illusion going on.

Cravings: I'm not sure I can blame any of my food cravings on pregnancy, because they are mostly more of the stuff I always want -- spicy Indian or Thai food and anything sweet. I do drink orange juice every morning now, which I never did before. I mostly didn't before because it costs almost $4, rounding up. I do the grocery shopping, so I'm really cheap about what we eat. If Eugenio were to do the shopping, I'm sure I'd add orange juice to the list every time. Just kidding. I justify that I never buy any wine now, so I can handle the juice. I drink the 50% less sugar/calories stuff, because I'm worried about my sugar intake. I eat something sweet every day, despite my daily affirmations that, OK. This is the last gummy bear/piece of cake/block of sugar/shot of tequila/etc, etc. 

Oops. Clearly I can't stick to the short answer questionnaire format...because clearly I have so many interesting things to say. Who doesn't like sleep and juice? 

Birth plan?  Everyone has so many -- so many! -- opinions on birth and child rearing that we are doing our damnedest to consider them fully. To that end, we've solidified where we are giving birth and our birth plan so that no one messes with our ideal experience under any circumstance, ride or die: in a tree, unmedicated, while hanging upside down as nature intended. I won't have an overly educated and highly trained doctor tell me otherwise. She hasn't read the blogs or seen the documentaries that I have, that idiot. I'll feast on the placenta to regain strength afterwards. And I'll be carrying and breast feeding my child for 18 years or until she takes me to court to formally announce that she's had enough. They say she'll be super bonded and also independent if I follow these steps.

Don't take offense, or do, whatever, I'm only kidding. Some people are over zealous with their suggestions and generalizations about everything birth and child rearing related. I find it comical.

I will be 23 weeks along tomorrow and it will also be the five year anniversary of my mom's death. Umph. I already journaled about my so many feelings. I won't get into those here. I plan to wallow in the car ride to work by listening to sad songs that remind me of her. Tracy Chapman's The Promise and James Taylor's You Can Close Your Eyes are good ugly-cry songs, FYI.  Maybe it only works if you've lost someone close to you. I can't not cry listening to them.

On another note,  I've we've decided on a full name for the baby: Felicity Marie. I feel the need to get it out in public, or in writing, lest someone steal it from my mind. I know a lot of pregnant women -- at work, friends, and family members -- so there's a very real and delusional fear in my mind that any day, one is going to tell me that she named her unborn daughter Felicity Marie and then I will hide my disbelief and anger by saying, "That's great!" Let it be noted: we have dibs. No one else ever can name their kid this name, minus all the many people who already have.

I wanted to honor my mom somehow with our daughter's name. I knew I wanted her first name to be Felicity. I've loved that name since I received the Felicity American girl doll in the second grade. It wasn't just that melodramatic late nineties, J.J. Abrams show, which I also adore and own. Eugenio bought it for me on our four month anniversary. As in, we were dating exclusively for four months, and he gave me the entire series as a commemorative gift. I thought, "Damn, he's for real serious." That was a huge aside. As I was saying, I wanted to honor my mom somehow. Her name was Norma Jean (yes, my mother was Marilyn Monroe), so I was thinking Felicity Jean would work, but it doesn't flow well. My mom was super Catholic. Like, we had rosary beads in the bathroom drawer growing up so we could grab them during a storm, lock ourselves in the bathroom, and say Hail Marys while all the other children played in the rain. My friend Sarah will tell you a funny story about the first time she spent the night at my house in the 4th grade. "Hanna, what are we doing?" Sh!! Pray. Mom wanted all of our middle names to be some version of Mary. My middle name is Marie, common as it is. I figure, Mom would approve of it for Felicity. So, done: Felicity Marie it is. It sounds good yelled out loud, too, for those first and middle name situations. Felicity Marie, I said, bring your momma some more wine!

If Eugenio doesn't know about something, he quickly dismisses it with, "Well, we don't have that in Mexico" or "In Mexico...."

I sent my sister the baby shower address list that I've been working on for the past few days, and now he chimes in with his suggestions. "Oh we should invite so and so and so and so."

"I already sent Molly the list. If you want to invite them, I need their addresses soon."

"Just send them that email you made."

"That's just a save-the-date Evite."

"That's fine. They don't need an invitation."

"But it says, "invitation to follow." They'll be expecting an invitation."

"Bah! Whatever. They won't know. We don't have that in Mexico."

"Just because you've never seen it, doesn't mean it doesn't exist. Until five minutes ago, you didn't know what fresh spinach was. I guarantee you there's spinach in Mexico."

A few weeks ago he came out with this gem as we argued about whether or not I was eating an orange: "Well in Mexico the oranges only have four slices."  I know what he's thinking: Boom. End of discussion. Yeah, OK. 

I feel guilty relaying these tales considering he's out buying me a McFlurry. To be fair, I don't know anything. And I didn't get the phrase "birthday suit" until about two years ago. I always thought it was like, he's so happy it's his birthday, he's going to go naked. Then at the tender age of 26 I finally understood -- birth day, when you come into the world naked. OOOOOHHHHHHHHH. HA HA!

Right up there with pictures of unlikely animal friendships -- the monkey hugging the dog, the rat cuddling with the kitten, those sorts -- in heart melting factor, is watching your significant other pick out clothing for your unborn child. Among others, Eugenio chose a onesie that says, "Daddy's little girl." It's so bizarre, these teeny-tiny outfits hanging in our closet.

We were wrong. It's a girl. Eugenio didn't pick that onesie because he thought it'd look great on Nikolai. Speaking of which, I can stop antagonizing Eugenio by referring to the carrot length babe inside of me -- this week at least, I don't know what vegetable she'll be compared to next -- by the name he hates. Leading up to the anatomy scan last week, I kept telling everyone that now that we've been referring to it as "he" and telling everyone we think it's a boy, it would be perfect to learn that it's actually not. And lo and behold...

We didn't have any preference either way, but I'm surprised by my reaction. I cried silently to myself after the ultrasound tech announced the gender and we saw for ourselves that it was unmistakeably female. My sister Molly says she doesn't believe it, adding that our mother put a curse on all of us. She would always say, "In my next life, I'm having all boys." My niece was the only one vocal about a gender preference. She's been wanting a girl cousin for years. When I first brought Eugenio to meet my family about four years ago, the first thing she said, just breaking the ice, was, "Are you two going to have kids? I really want another cousin," by which she meant of the female variety as she was surrounded by boys. I'm not interested in all the gender reveal parties and announcements that are popular now, but I did announce over Facebook by telling Brit I was happy to announce she was finally getting that girl cousin.

Eugenio: Did you eat all the gummy bears?

Me: The baby did.

I woke up early and couldn't go back to sleep. The baby was up and kicking too. I'm sure everyone says this, but it's my favorite, such an awesome feeling. I'll be 20 weeks on Monday and the baby is kicking and thumping around a lot now. Eugenio can feel it too when he touches my stomach and we can even see it when I lift my shirt. I'm a little worried about how my stomach is possibly going to grow and stretch for 20 more weeks. I've been googling pictures of 35 to 40 week pregnant bellies to prepare myself for the destruction ahead. I saw one that almost made me cry until I noticed she was having triplets. 

I had a dream about my mom last night. She came back to life and I was talking to her and crying about the way she died. In my dream, when she knew she was about to die, she asked me to take her to this river or lake where we floated on a raft and then I let her go under -- something like the scene in Titanic. This was her request, to go peacefully. (Because drowning is always peaceful? Dreams are weird.) When she was gone, like 20 seconds later, I felt panicked and went under to try to bring her back but couldn't find her anywhere. In my dream life afterwards, I felt so guilty and remorseful that I did the wrong thing, that I shouldn't have let her go. And then somehow, years, or I really don't know how long later, she came back and we were discussing her passing. She comforted me and assured me that I did the right thing. I was so indescribably happy to see her again -- in my dream and in waking life. To crudely analyze, I've always felt guilty, as most do after the death of a loved one, about everything -- like I wasn't there enough and obsessing over any mean or selfish thing I ever said or did. That guilt never really goes away, even though I know my mom wasn't harboring any resentment.

Even when they are somber and awful, I love dreaming about my mom because I feel like I get to see and experience her again. I get so sad now wishing she were here; that desire is always lurking, but it's a more pronounced feeling when I'm going through any major life changes. I'm sad that Eugenio never got to meet her. She would have loved him dearly and he would have loved her. I'm sad my kids won't get to experience her as grandma. She slipped into the spoiler role with my niece a little too easily; it was fun and horrifying to watch.  I have so many pregnancy related questions to ask her and experiences to share with her. The woman had 7 kids! When I was whining about something, she always said, "Did I ever mention how painful it was to give birth to you?" I would only respond, "Well I didn't ask to be born." But now I would say, "Do tell! And tell me about all the others too."

I'd also like to know how in the world, after 7 kids, she had not one stretch mark. Please let my stomach skin be that elastic!

Picking up the Poise pads (alliteration, ugh.) from the table as I unload the groceries, Eugenio asks concerned, "What are these for?"

"For when I pee myself."

"For when you cough," he says with a little too much delight.

"Exactly. Cough, sneeze, laugh...." I trail off.

Pregnancy is going well. I'm glowing, y'all. Shine bright like a diamond.