Uncertainty, Misery and Failure

I'm diligently trying to enjoy this last little bit of pregnancy. With this being our last child (I know, I know--strange things happen), I feel like I owe it to myself to treasure these moments so I can stop bitching to my coworkers about my misery look back and remember how amazing it is to carry a child--all safe and snug inside of me.

Turns out, I think I'm failing. If there are two things I dislike, it's failing and uncertainty, in no particular order. I'm fairly uncomfortable. . . not horribly so, but just enough to keep my complaint-meter in the red zone. And oh, the uncertainty! I am thrilled that pre-eclampsia seems to have been avoided, but the not-knowing about WHEN this kid will arrive has sent my predisposition for analyzing and over-analyzing into over-drive. Evidently, there is no magic formula to predict when I will go into labor, despite typing in all kinds of variations on the internet searches.

Le sigh. Last week's tonsil check at the OB brought news that I was 3cm dilated and 50% effaced. I'm holding out hope that this week will bring more progress. . . or better yet that I'm one of those women who doesn't know they're in labor until the doctor announces it. I'm guessing the chances of that are slim?

I know Brooklyn will be worth the wait. I can't wait to hold her, sniff her sweet skin, marvel at the tiny-ness of her body and see if she looks like Elliott. I am hoping she does, because remember? He's the best of Chris and I combined. Let's hope the chance of that happening for two kids is fairly high.

What if?

I have to admit, my toddler is adorable. Not just because I'm his mommy, but because he's got the right gene distribution to be one cute kid. See?




I mean who wouldn't just swoon over eyelashes such as his? Ell's eyelashes are direct from Poppy, who said that women fussed over his eyelashes constantly when he was a child and it just annoyed him. Not fair, is it? And the color of his eyes? Sweet button nose? Okay, I'm verging on obnoxious, so I'll stop now.

So my "what if" of the day is this: What if Brooklyn isn't cute? What if, instead of the just right combination of genes Elliott received, she gets the. . .ahem. . . less complimentary combination? I feel like it's assured that those gorgeous eyelashes will pass her by, simply because she has two X chromosomes and would actually appreciate the length. What if acquaintances say, "Oh bless her heart, her brother is so cute. . .?" What if I look at her and wonder the same thing? I guess time will tell. Three-ish weeks and counting.

Pregnancy Equals a Loss. . . a Loss of Wittiness

I think pregnancy has rendered me incapable of wittiness. I keep trying to come up with a brilliant blog post. . . an nothing. My accidental wittiness or gaffe is all I have. For example, I announced to the entirety of my baby shower that "it's hard to keep your legs together when you're pregnant." About half-way through the utterance was when I realized that lack of keeping my legs together was exactly how I ended up in this delicate state.

Did I tell you?

That in the face of overwhelming options (as mentioned here), I did it. I found the perfect coming home outfit for Baby Brook-Brook. Not only did I find it, but I got a hell of a deal and free shipping. I've impressed myself on this one. Curious? Okay, okay you've prodded it out of me:



Not the best image, but the website totally wouldn't cooperate, so if you really want to check out the outfit, look here: Magnolia Baby Romper.

I'm That Girl

I'm that girl--the one who stalks her registry to find out what's coming my way. It's really a conundrum because I also HATE knowing what Santa brings or what gifts are coming from the people in my life. I justify my registry-stalking by reasoning that I don't know who bought each item. Totally legit, right? The downside is that then I get sad about the items that haven't been purchased. Le sigh. Truthfully, I get ridiculously excited that anyone has bought me anything.

Disturbing Freedom of Ideas

It turns out, as every pregnant woman knows, that there is no shortage of advice and observations for those with child. Just today (in ONE. SINGLE. DAY.), I had 3, count 'em THREE, people basically tell me that I'm a whale and there was no way I'm making it to my due date. Um? Really?

Equally disturbing are the people who tell me how difficult my life will be with two kids. And how exactly should I respond? "Oh, if it gets too rough I'm giving the new one to my mom?" OR "Darn it, I knew we should've consulted you before deciding to enlarge our family." OR "What do you think I should do about 'it' now?"

Luckily, I'm still on the anti-anxiety/anti-depressant and these comments did not send me into a total meltdown of epic pregnant-lady proportions. Nope. I just kind of giggle and walk away, all the while looking at my ever-protruding belly wondering how it's possible to get bigger. . . and how to keep my shirts from shrinking.

Progress in the form of. . .

my dear friend Heather. Turns out that Deana and I managed and flitted about while Heather worked her magic. I found her to be far more efficient at completing items on my husband's Honey-Do list. So what does progress look like, you ask?



There was more completed--it's far from finished (I still haven't washed a lick of B's clothes), but I finally feel as though we are on our way.

The Compulsive Loop

I am huge. My pelvis burns with pain when I try to put pants or underwear on while standing. Turning over in bed is a 10-step process and causes significant pain. I make involuntary moans and groans with standing, sitting and bending over to pick things up off the floor. I am chronically short of breath and in need of a quick trip to the powder room, where the urgency is totally disproportionate to the amount of urine stored. By the end of my workday, my ankles transform into what my sister calls "lunch lady legs." In my head, I am in super-nesting mode but it seems that no matter how hard I try, our house is a disaster. I have yet to wash even a load of clothes for Brooklyn. The crib's not put together. There are spots on the carpet. ARGHHH.

Can you say overwhelmed? Don't worry. My amazing friend Deana has been called in to the rescue. This is not to say that my husband hasn't done a large amount of work, it's just that he has a completely different sense of urgency than me. In other words, this means that he's not at all concerned with the nursery for Brooklyn actually being ready. He is comfortable in the knowledge that I'll just direct him in his tasks, which, let's face it, is true. And further complicating the issue is that my dad's time is more limited now than ever.

I know that it will all work out and nothing has to be perfect to bring a baby home--blah, blah, blah. I also know that once Brooklyn is born, our already messy house will explode. It makes me feel all anxious and sweaty to even think of it.

A Woman on a Mission

Yep. That's me. I'm on a mission to find THE perfect coming home outfit. The problem is that I'm no good with too many choices. And obviously the interwebs makes the shopping possiblities endless. That's a problem. I am torn between the somewhat trendy and bright Baby Nay options vs. the more classic light pink or white smocked-type item. Of course, I need to decide soon. Really soon. The estimated arrival is 5 1/2 weeks away and that is way closer than which I feel prepared. Maybe I need a poll of opinions on what to pick. . . I'll have to update this entry with that tomorrow. Tonight I need to catch a few more pages of The Hunger Games and enjoy the pliability of my muscles after my prenatal massage.