More wokkas to live by

It's as though the medical establishment has finally accepted my pregnancy.

Today I went to the OB-GYN and it was different from all of my panicked, "Oh Christ fire up the ultrasound machine because I think I've lost it!" visits.

Oh, I was still panicked. Don't get me wrong. I was sure that we'd lost the baby, as I hadn't felt anything since that single kick on Friday night.

But I was wrong, yet again! The baby lives!

I'm reading a Cara Black mystery right now, and she's writing about a detective (Aimee Leduc) who's suffering from blindness. The blindness seems to be lifting, and she's seeing foggy shapes and lights, but then the character says, "I'm afraid to hope."

YES! That's exactly it. That's the mantra of the pregnancy after loss: I'm afraid to hope. I see these foggy shapes and lights, but I don't DARE think that a baby might actually be coming our way.

Anyway, there was a heartbeat resounding through the Doppler, then I had a REAL pregnancy visit! The doctor checked my boobs for lumps and my urine for protein, listened to my heart and lungs and took down my entire history.

So, yeah, I'm a normal pregnant lady, as far as the doctor is concerned. But talk to me for about 2 minutes, and you'll be disavowed of that notion.

Breezy school choice

When God closes a door, he always opens a window...

I spoke with Chebbles' current school today, and, to my surprise, they've "promoted" her beyond the toddler program. So my desire to have her connect with new, older kids will be fulfilled.

And I also got the call from the *Dream Country School* -- they want to see Chebbles again in November. I'll have to give her a kiddie 'lude to keep her away from the beads, but we'll take another run at them.

So we're in a good holding pattern now -- she'll have a new teacher and some new classmates and challenges, with the same commute and no additional paperwork.

Huzzah! OK, I'm going to go close that window now, the A/C is getting out...

Beads a No-Go

My children have been acting up today, and I don't quite blame them.

First, my embryo. What's up with the nightmares, kid? We're fifteen weeks into our relationship, and I'm beset with these horrible bleeding nightmares, waking up convinced I've lost you. I know it's not your fault. We could get technical about it and blame your lost wee siblings. But nevertheless, it's a frustrating phenomenon related to this pregnancy, so I'm pinning it on you for the time being.

Second, my firstborn. This morning's preschool interview did not go nearly as smoothly as I'd envisioned. It was something of a disaster.

Everything was going smoothly with Chebbles' interview at my dream country preschool until she spotted the giant Montessori BEAD DISPLAY on the wall. What's a Chebbles supposed to do? The kid loves beads. And unfortunately, at this school, some toys that are visible are not supposed to be in the hands of the two-year-olds.

She had escaped her "area" -- the toddler transition place where they gradually learn to conform to the Montessori principles (put your "work" away when you're done, don't grab things from people, etc.). And outside of the toddler area, she found a fantasyland of toys -- including maracas, bells, and the BEAD DISPLAY.

Ordinarily, the two-year-olds don't wander out into the forbidden zone, but we were talking and there were no other kids around.

The teacher asked if I could try to coax her away from the beads, and interest her in something else, but Christ lady! It's a BEAD DISPLAY.

So she wept copiously as I pulled her away, trying to engage her in other activities for thirty long minutes, where I felt observed and FAILING.

So now I'm waiting for the call from the new school, the Call of Doom.

Sunday Summary

* Cramps are normal, right? I'm not having heavy cramps or anything particularly painful, just kind of a heavy, occasional uncomfortable tingly feeling. No bleeding, just those cramps that seem to indicate that my abdomen is giving way to the child. So many of my friends are experiencing premature labor that I'm paranoid.

* Hub-D came home from Germany Saturday night, and as we lay there talking, the baby kicked for the first time. Go, kid! Nice timing.

* Grandma is at the BART stop now. Hub-D is picking her up. I feel as though I hear hooves approaching on the roads as the calvary approaches. I hope she doesn't mind cleaning out my refrigerator.

* Why can't I drink juice or eat fruit? I can drink soda. That's just not fair to a developing embryo, getting all that ginger ale instead of good vitamins and fiber.

* Hub-D brought home a Nintendo Wii, to cheer me up in my days of isolation, but it's such a physical videogame console. What happened to the days where you could sit motionless on the sofa and play a game while eating potato chips? The Wii makes you jump up and swing your arms. I worked up a sweat, then had to collapse for awhile, feeling like the damn thing was giving me cramps.

* I have "Hyperemisis Gravitas." In case anyone wants to give me flack for pissing my days away around the house feeling sorry for myself -- I have Hyperemisis Gravitas, which is the medical term for "The worst morning sickness imaginable. Sorry about digging around for your veins."

* Chebbles has a bizarre memory -- she remembers what the guitar player was wearing at a wedding we went to in May. (I had forgotten there was a guitar player.)

* Also, music makes Chebbles very emotional. If we sing a song or play the piano and she's not "ready" for it, she gets extremely upset. I thought this was just normal freakish toddler behavior, my professional musician friend told me that she had the same affliction growing up. The power of the tunes is too much!

* OK, I'm going to change the Chebs before Grandma gets here. It's the least I can do!

Whereupon I heap my own educational aspirations on my child

OK, this is ridiculous. I am more nervous about Chebbles' upcoming preschool interview than I was for my own university scholarship interview. I am putting way more thought into her demeanor, hairstyle, dress, and general grooming. What's up with this?

I want her to succeed! And I don't want to screw anything up for her along the way. I don't want her bangs in her eyes, or her to be underfed and cranky. I will have failed her!

It took a lot of hard work to find this school, and this interview will determine whether she is a fit there.

I understand, intellectually, that if they don't accept her, it's because she truly isn't ready for preschool -- she's just turning two, for cripe's sake! So no matter what the outcome of this interview is, we will be doing the right thing.

But I'm starting to get all "stage mothery" about it, and I've started idealizing this school. It is close to our house, but set up in the beautiful hills in the country. Philosophically, it jibes well with our family's educational philosophy and her personal demeanor.

It's a Montessori school that adheres strictly to the Montessori philosophies, and what I find appealing is that they mix the children of different ages -- people aren't cordoned off just because they're young -- they get to jump in the mix. Chebbles loves that kind of environment.

Also, Chebbles really focuses on things. I can't relate to this skill of hers, and she certainly didn't get it from me. I like to have 10-12 things going at the same time, so that if I become slightly bored with Task A, I can dick around with Tasks B,C, and D for awhile. Not The Chebs. If she's working on the abacus, moving the beads from one side to another (calculating the costs of her education?), then that's all she's doing. And if you interrupt her -- even if it's for a pony ride in the backyard with all of her grandparents -- she's going to be pissed.

So when I toured this school, I noticed that the way they adhere to the Montessori philosophy absolutely gels with Chebbles' way of focusing on the world. In addition, I continue to fancy the idea that my daughter is gifted, and this particular school is especially recommended for bright kids in our area.

The school also goes through sixth grade, and many of the upper level students have been together since they were toddlers too. Their rapport was incredible. I wanted to sign myself up, retroactively.

I had started Chebbles' education somewhat by default -- by enrolling her in another local Montessori school a couple months ago (note the non-coincidental timing with my pregnancy). She could join up before she turned two, unlike my first choice school, and that had a great appeal in that initial desperation.

But now she is turning TWO, and a whole new bevy of educational opportunities are open to her, including this dream country school for the gifted. So if I can just dress her PERFECTLY, nix "vagina" from her regular vocabulary, and convince her to include the letter "F" in her recitation of the ABC's, we should be all set, right?

Returning to the rubble

I'm going to miss being in Washington State -- we're leaving this afternoon, heading to my messy home, and my backyard filled with construction workers.

But the calvary are on the way! My mother has changed her flight to arrive on Sunday, and Hub-D caught an earlier flight out of Frankfurt, so he's coming home tonight. I will not have to be alone in the house with an active toddler and an active esophagus.

It sounds kind of superfluous, on top of all the other help I have from friends and house cleaners, but we've decided to hire a housekeeper for this terrible time. Our bills aren't getting paid, and our counters are turning into disaster areas -- stacks of things that I can't deal with. We receive packages and I don't even open them. No, the UPS man comes and I emerge like a little vomitous troll from the house, dragging in the packages, dumping them by the front door, then heading back to lying on my left side.

I haven't run an "errand" for months now. Dry cleaning piles up, a pre-pregnancy Zappos return rots in my office, and I have a pile of cleaned casserole dishes that need to be returned to various friends -- that is, if I ever expect them to cook for me again.

I don't know what to look for in a "housekeeper"-type person. I've had dozens of responses to our ad on Craigslist -- everyone from a male chef who wants to organize my house before work in the evenings to a Brazilian woman who loves cats and babies. I struggle with feeling like an incompetent -- I'm not working, why in the world can't I take care of these things myself?

I suppose it's because I take care of Chebbles if/when I feel OK, and everything else falls to the wayside. I used to spend every evening, after she went to bed, cleaning up the rubble, cooking and sorting and paying bills. But now I collapse on the sofa with my Netflix selections, and lurch to bed by 9:30.

And we're living in a mountain of chaos. So I need help, but who?

Hydrated

I checked myself into the Hood River (Oregon) Hospital this morning and got to hear the heartbeat (wokka wokka wokka) and then was jabbed with two full liters of fluid! You read that right -- two big fat liters of solution.

I feel better -- oh, I'm still sick as hell, but my gums no longer ache. My joints feel lubricated. I look younger, rather than the sallow ghost I'd become. I can think better. While I was nearing the end of the second bag of IV solution, I thought, "I want to go to VEGAS before I have this baby!"

That was a crazy thought for a woman who can't hold down any fluids, but it was my first optimistic, forward-thinking thought in a long time.

It hurt like hell to get the IV, mostly because my veins were so deflated. The nurse had to "dig" for my vein, then finally gave up on my left arm and attacked the right one. I started to cry uncontrollably. Digging for a vein -- so painful, and so fruitless when they pull out the needle in frustration.

As I sat there crying, in so much pain, I had a flash of a realization, which is that I love you guys. Thank you for truly paying attention to my troubles and encouraging me to go get that fluid (by comment and by phone). You are my friends. The definition of "friend" just sang in my head, as though it were surrounded by lights on a marquis.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Thirsty

How do I hydrate myself?

When I drink water, I throw it up. Sometimes I can sneak in small quantities with a lot of ice, but otherwise, no dice. The same deal with tea: it doesn't stay down.

When I ingest sugar of any kind, I'm seized with fresh bouts of nausea.

So that eliminates the soothing qualities of my beloved popsicles, or fruit.

I'm so dang thirsty. I'm having advanced fantasies about getting an IV that administers subcutaneous fluids during my waking hours.

In the meantime, I'm drinking ginger ales, and dealing with the incumbent nausea. I've heard "stevia" recommended, but I am incapable of darkening the door of a grocery store in my current state -- where does one acquire such a substance? Is there a black market that delivers?

In the meantime, I feel like Luis in that old Spanish language skit on Sesame Street, crawling through the desert, "Agua!... Agua!"

Resting in the Cascades

I've become impatient with Chebbles in recent weeks. Sometimes we just have a confluence of NEED, both of us at the same time. She NEEDS to have "anover gummi baaawe (sic)" and I NEED to have some Nutella on toast -- also immediately. Our needs clash and we end up staring each other down in the kitchen, like gunslingers of yore.

We had the get out of our house. Hub-D is away, and that exacerbated the situation, as we didn't have him to slather us both with sweet love -- we just had each other. It was both of us acting like 2-year-olds, wrecking the kitchen and getting pissed off about WHO messed up the bathroom THIS time. (Usually me, by the way).

So yesterday I found a flight up to Portland, and our marvelous cousins in Washington State picked us up at the airport and took us home. They are sheltering us from each other, and filling us up with love and well-being while we wait for Hub-D's return.

Even though the airport and flight were pretty rough for me, and I am so sick as to be on the verge of puking almost 24 hours a day, it was totally worth it. We are in a land where NO ONE would dream of closing a door on us. Chebbles is utterly adored by a pack of five older cousins, and I can cordon myself off from all human contact without a whit of guilt.

They should rent themselves out to pregnant mothers of toddlers, these warm and wonderful people. They've saved at least three lives this week.

What if...

There were a Nutella-flavored popsicle?

OK, back to the gestational grind. But, I'm just saying.

Also, I'm having trouble differentiating between TRUE emotional reactions and pregnancy-related emotional reactions. A woman at preschool, whom I've known for two years, failed to hold the door open for me this morning. That door locks once it's closed and you have to ring a doorbell to have it re-opened by the preschool staff. We were 15 seconds behind her.

Should I BANISH HER FROM MY HEART?

Probably, yes?

Wokka Wokka

* Hooray! I heard the heartbeat today, and it's such a marvelous, melodious sound. I've my next appointment for next Thursday, because Mama Needs Proof.

* Chebbles has developed an unfortunate habit of hollering every morning at around 5am. I've been taking her into my bed out of sheer desperation, and we've had some marvelous moments snuggled up together. She will sleep next to me as long as I whisper about 100 times: "It's NIGHT. You can sleep HERE, or you can sleep in your CRIB." (Thereby removing "reading" "jumping" and "cat-chasin'" from the table...)

* In a somewhat un-Chebbles-y move, she also likes to sleep holding my hand. Ordinarily, she eschews any and all forms of physical affection, and she used to hate sleeping with me. But now, we lie next to each other and she reaches for my hand, holding it tight in her little fingers until she falls asleep. And it helps me fall asleep too, feeling her little heartbeat against the back of my fingers. It's almost worth the gales of vomit one has to endure in order to create progeny.

* Our backyard is packed with laborers who are ripping out the deadly backyard deck (no railings, no stairs, and slippery tile -- genius!). Yesterday they discovered a bunch of OPOSSUM BONES. Does the feline-related death toll never cease? Or perhaps our old deck was some kind of sacred opossum burial ground and we're due to be haunted by ghostly opossums who will steal my child and screw with our TV. I ought to smudge it, just in case.

* Chebbles likes her birthday party invitations so much that she thinks it SUCKS that we're going to give them to other people. If they are HER invitations, which I suppose they are, then why do other fools get to manhandle them and take them away from her? I'm going to remove her from the invitation distribution process.

* I had learned that babies like it when you say, "Shhhhhh" when they're crying. It re-creates womb sounds or something like that. So this morning, when Chebbles couldn't stop crying, I held her close and said, "Shhhhhh." She quieted down just long enough to say, "Mama, don't say 'Shhhhhh.'"

* Oh, and who's this? "Wokka wokka wokka wokka wokka wokka wokka"... answer: my embryo.

The daily upchuck

* All I want to do is eat sugary things. Licorice, popsicles, etc. It is possible to give yourself gestational diabetes?

* Yesterday night, I threw up everything I ate all evening. It was so gross. It reminded me of my crazy college party nights, including the one where everyone was standing around my bed deciding whether to take me to a hospital for alcohol poisoning, and all I could do is speak French, "Non L'hopital!"

* I have an appointment tomorrow at noon to Dopplerize my belly. I need to hear that heartbeat so bad. I feel like an addict, jonesing for a hit. But this morning I discovered more spotting. No thanks! Enough with the spotting.

* I have fallen in love with Chebbles again. Last night, despite her protests, I shampooed her hair, and this morning, as she danced around my sickbed, I could see this marvelous halo of fluffy blonde hair bouncing around the bedstead. She is incredibly cooperative, except for when she shut the toilet seat on my head while I was throwing up.

* Oh wow, I suddenly really want another Popsicle. Is it possible to ingest too many Popsicles? Have you ever had the special flavor box that includes banana, root beer, and lime? Dear God, where have these been my whole life?

* The construction workers showed up this morning to rip out our deadly back patio and install a redwood deck in its place. They are also removing the hot tub I inadventantly destroyed by turning it off for six months and allowing the motor to flood and rust. I think that native Californians learn hot tub maintenance in elementary school, but we transplants have to learn the hard way.

* Chebbles has announced that she wants the ABC song at her wedding. After watching a singer perform at Nanny D's wedding, she is preoccupied with picking out the right song for her own wedding. I ask her if she has a guy in mind, listing a few of her favorite boys, and she says, no, "I'm still looking." It's going to have to be a guy who likes his ABC's, that's for sure.

* I have become obsessed with Netflix. When they ship me a movie, it always arrives within a day -- so juicy, so speedy, satisfying.

The Chebs is home from preschool and it's time for a nap. AND A ROOT BEER POPSICLE.

Fraud

I know it's ridiculous, but I feel like a pregnancy fraud when I haven't heard the heartbeat for a week.

I think, I have no verification that I'm still pregnant, and the longer I go on erroneously believing that am AM pregnant, the more of a fool that I'll feel like when I find out I'm not.

There's just something about having been tricked twice last year that has made me needy like this.

But the good thing about all of this anxiety is that I've stopped giving a crap about some things. For example, I don't think about what the doctor's office thinks of me when I call and say, "No, I can't wait the traditional three weeks at this point."

My doctor's office is closed this week. They offered to schedule me for an appointment next Monday. But that won't work for me.

I don't need an ultrasound, I just need someone to wave a Doppler over my belly and conjure a heartbeat. I don't care if it's a trained ape. But I need that reassurance.

The doctor has wisely warned me against getting a Doppler of my own. Sometimes the heartbeat can be quite evasive, and if I tried to find it late at night and couldn't, it could lead to some over-the-top and possibly inaccurate anxiety sessions.

So anyway, the office is closed this week for remodeling, and the doctor is on vacation during this week. My first inclination was to leave them alone and try to "tough it out" this week.

Then my very next inclination led me to pick up the phone and leave an insistent message that they refer me to someone who can wield a Doppler.

Interestingly, I saw an acupuncturist today, who told me that the baby is fine, based on how my body reacts to a small vial of something like, uh, essence of placenta. I was happy to hear that. But I need to hear it.

Or...

Hub-D brought home a box of Froot Loops the other day, to cheer me up in my gustatorial hell.

Then he made the critical mistake of eating a bowl of Froot Loops in front of Chebbles, who immediately clued into the fact that Daddy's food is way better than any of Mama's offerings.

She bird-dogged him until he gave her a few of his Loops, and was she immediately enchanted. That's when we had this exchange...

Me: Chebbles, would you like (counting on fingers) a WAFFLE or a BAGEL?
Chebbles: (tilting head to the side, counting on fingers as well) Or.... Froot Loops?

It was another Jedi Mind Trick by The Chebs, whereby she tries to convince me that I simply left out one of her options.

She got a waffle. With a couple Froot Loops for "dessert."

Odds

I just got off the phone with the perinatologist's office and we got what I think is great news:

Our risk for this child being born with Down's Syndrome is calculated, based on their bloodwork and the measurements of the embryo, at 1 in 3,500. And a trisomy disorder is even less likely at 1 in 10,000.

This outrageously healthy baby continues to make me sick, though -- sicker than ever, I'm sad to report. But now I'm making my way through all of the Harry Potter films while Chebbles grows up on the streets of our town, begging for food from the neighbors while I languish on the sofa, clutching the DVD remote like a lifeline.

And today, the unborn child desires Popsicles and sourdough bread. Uh, OK. Whatever you want, you GREAT NUMBERS baby!

Really, I'm so thrilled to be 36 and pregnant with a healthy baby. I did get scared by turning 35 -- you read so many negative things ("The Memory Keeper's Daughter" did NOT help), and you hear of so many women considering 35 to be a reproductive stopping point, due to the increased risks of Down's. And who doesn't love the term "Advanced Maternal Age?"

But we marched merrily past that point, and other than the two miscarriages which are probably attributable to our ages, we seem to have won a healthy embryo.

So now for the greedy, greedy part. I know I'm only 12 weeks pregnant with this child, but I'm feeling heady from these results. Now, assuming that this baby makes it to term and we're awarded another child at the end of this process, I want to do it AGAIN.

Perhaps it's a Vegas-like phenomenon. Once you win at the craps table, you just can't walk away. Maybe we could have THREE children? Do you think? Is this abject greed?

Could I endure the threat of more miscarriages if it meant I could continue reproducing? Basically, I feel very balls to the wall right now, so to speak.

Offerings

I am so bowled over by the amount of love being heaped upon our family now. Our marvelous friends are taking beautiful care of Chebbles while I descend into terrible waves of nausea. And the FOOD train is extraordinary.

Something occured within the collective subconscious of my community -- everyone is bringing me chocolate. EVERYONE.

(Note: If you are one of the people supplying me with chocolate, don't stop. This post is simply a spiritual observation of how the universe seems to "provide," and you are one of the sacred conduits of its provisions.)

I have received a massive package of Ritter Sport and other German chocolate-covered marzipan delicacies. I have received two massive brownies from a local bakery. I have received an extraordinary selection of gourmet chocolates from around the world (including jalapeno chocolate and something covered with multicolored edible paint).

The chocolate infusion has been so persistent that it seems EATING the chocolate only brings a new wave of more delectable chocolate into our home. For example, when I finished our second massive brownie, licking my fingers and feeling like a real chocoholic, my doorbell rang. It was the teenager next door... with a plate of brownies.

I haven't mentioned the tiramisu yet, nor the coffee Bundt cake, which I gnawed through like a rat. They aren't chocolate, but close enough. Oh, and the spaghetti and meatballs, and the new lasagne gleaming from my freezer shelf.

But I'd be remiss in appreciating this tidal wave of food and offerings if I didn't include Prince the cat. Not one to be left out of universal phenomena, Prince went searching for gustatorial delicacies today, and happened upon a glorious one!

I heard him hollering today, and sought him out. He had just arrived in the house and was beaming with pride at his accomplishment. It was for ME, that was clear. And it was quite alive.

This is one food offering that need not be duplicated (not chocolate):

The blue dress

Chebbles was perusing her "One Step Ahead" catalog last night, looking for new ways to injure herself (the pages are filled with anti-toddler-mischief devices), when we arrived at the Halloween costumes.

I spotted a little 1950's get-up, and pointed it out to her -- "Hey, Chebs, you could dress up like Sandy in 'Grease!'"

I thought this would be an instant hit, because Sandy is much beloved by Chebbles. (nb: The only TV she ever watches is the movie "Grease," and only when I'm cutting her nails. When she was 8 weeks old, I cut off the end of her thumb while attempting to give her a manicure. So now we watch "Grease," which immobilizes her while I trim her talons.)

She sneered at the poodle skirt and was instantly drawn to the FAIRY COSTUME above it. "I want to wear THAT DRESS!" she said. I had to search around online (of course, online, as I only ever leave my house for ultrasounds), but I found one that should fit.

She's over the MOON about the fairy costume, and I fear, in a moment of desperation before October 31, I'll have to unveil it early.

See, we have dressing problems. Specifically, she only ever wants to wear a DRESS. This morning, I tried to con her into putting shorts on under her dress and she was outraged.

"But you can't even SEE the shorts, Chebs."

"OFF! SHORTS OFF!"

"OK, dude, let your diaper hang out all day long. Fine."

We're constantly having conversations about which dresses are available and/or appropriate for her to wear. She's been asking for "the BLUE DRESS" every morning and I don't have a clue what she's talking about. I lift her up to inspect the dresses hanging in her closet, and she again affects her "Meryl Streep as Anna Wintour" expression of disgust. "Not THOSE dresses!"

She has what she calls the "Easter Dress." It wasn't worn on Easter, nor did we even possess it during Easter time, but nevertheless, the torn, stained pink hand-me-down is revered before all others. But this means that, early in the week, it's out of circulation due to poop, dirt and other spills.

I can hear a chorus of haughty mothers out there, saying, "I just put my child in whatever clothes I can find, and he/she can just DEAL with it."

Hahahahahahahahaha. You crack me up!

Imagine my child's reaction to your dressing her in, say, a pair of practical overalls and a cute pink T-shirt. Perhaps with some sensible tie-on Stride-Rites?

Chebbles would react like you set her ON FIRE. She would roll around and wrestle off every garment she can, screaming in agony and damning the offending clothing to HELL.

This performance would continue until you concede defeat, and help her look for the mythical "blue dress" and settle, after fifteen minutes of hot negotiation, on the purple flowered dress paired with her rainbow Crocs.

So when she pointed to that fairy costume and indicated that it was acceptable, I leapt at the chance to add it to her repertoire. Perhaps this is the messianic blue dress we've been looking for?

Nuchal Fold A-OK

I've just come back from the perinatologist's office, and we were delighted to learn that this child is sporting a saucy little nuchal fold -- too skinny to be of any worry to the genetic counselors of the world. They also took blood, for further Down's-related and trisomy tests. But so far, everything is just fine.

What a kick! We're actually at 12 weeks with a pregnancy, and the kid looks great!?? How do I process this information? My temptation is NOT to process this information. The less joy I let in, the less sadness I may have to contend with in the future.

The child won't be born until late February, so that's plenty of time to accept and/or bond with it. For the time being, I'm planning to continue my regular program of vomiting and complaining, lurking around the house and harboring hormonal grudges.

One interesting thing about the ultrasound was the technician's comment regarding the sex of the baby. Although I do not want to find out the baby's sex this time, I was curious if she could tell at this early date. This is what she said:

"No, I can't tell. But I have my suspicions."

That was an interesting clue. Because who has suspicions about embryonic vaginas? I've got to wonder if she saw a "third leg" in there.

Udders

Today Chebbles realized that cows have boobies. She knows that women have boobies and men have boobies, and today: cows. But then I got stuck as I tried to explain it to her, because, although men do have vestigial nipples, bulls don't have vestigial udders, right? I know that our boy cats have nipples, but do other boy animals have vestigial nipples?

She's really getting us stuck, lately, trying to explain things. She befuddled Hub-D as they were looking at the stars, cornering him into saying, "Well, those stars are other galaxies and universes, Chebbles."

I was gesturing to him through the dark, whispering, "No! I don't think that's right!"

But The Chebs is so inquisitive that she corners us into desperate, poorly considered explanations of things.

We're failing her. I think we need a staff philosopher.

Still alive

I haven't posted for awhile, but I've been sick as a dog. I'll usually have an hour or two of functionality, sometimes in the midmorning, followed by a lot of moaning and whimpering.

But all is not lost!

I've finished "Harry Potter and the Deathly Gallows." I was living in a state of media blackout because I was terrified of someone revealing the ending to me. And I did it!

And I've made my way all the way through the first season of "Lost," and begun the second season (Thanks, Netflix!). It is so thrilling, watching these people fight to survive while buffeted by dozens of shocking revelations. It's so much like pregnancy, I can relate to them all.

I'm only two days away from my birthday and my nuchal fold ultrasound. By coincidence, a friend of mine has her nuchal fold ultrasound scheduled for the exact same time with the exact same doctor. So that's probably Jesus interceding again, making sure I have comraderie in the waiting room.

Speaking of Jesus, I won't be back at Gymboree until next week, so it looks like I won't have my praying friend to rely upon for a nausea break.

In the meantime, I haven't paid any of our bills and my refrigerator's contents are ALIVE. Well, who can be concerned with those petty things while John Lock's kidney was stolen by his dad!? Obviously, "Lost" has got to take precedence.

All is well

The doctor did an ultrasound this afternoon (looking through my belly for the first time, rather than the "other way") and the baby was cooperative, well developed, heart beating like a champ. Then, for good measure, it waved to us.

So WHY did my symptoms so suddenly abate? That terrible nausea was the only day-to-day convincing proof that I am still pregnant. It was like a disgusting security blanket, all that time I spent at the toilet. And today, somehow, or at least this morning so far, I've been miraculously well.

Although I am told that it is not unusual for symptoms to suddenly disappear between weeks 11 and 12, it's unusual for me.

So who do I have to thank for this break in the storm? I pick... Jesus.

See, yesterday I was at Gymboree, feeling highly vomitous while Chebbles dismantled the room. I groaned and lurched around the room after her.

I shared with another mother, one I liked because she praised Chebbles' taste in fashion, that I was feeling very sick. I was looking for sympathy, yes, and was offering an explanation should I suddenly bolt to the bathroom.

That's when she said to me, "Can I pray for you?"

Who can say "no" to that kind of offer? Damn straight you can pray for me! Invoke any and all gods and goddesses in the interest of my better health. (Unitarianism comes in handy at times like these.)

I thought she meant that she would go home that night and kneel by her bed and ask God to make my life a little easier. But she stood by the red foam steps to the bouncy wooden plank, and placed her hand right on my belly and started up a very juicy prayer.

It was something to the degree of, "Dear Lord Jesus Christ, please give this woman relief and take away her suffering as it is your will, please bless the child within her and grant this woman strength, in Jesus's name I ask this humbly of you."

I know I should have said, "Amen," at the end of this, but I was so shocked and intrigued by the woman's Gymboree prayer that I just said, "Thank you. I do feel better."

I was a lie, as I felt just as bad as I had before the prayer.

Then I went home.

And I went to bed.

And I woke up feeling GREAT.

So, Jesus, you can take some credit for this victory, my friend. I haven't thrown up, or groaned once today from terrible nausea. And my baby is healthy, and seemingly growing a jaw precisely like his/her father's. So thanks, pal!

Amen.

Who says you can't have whine during pregnancy?

I woke up this morning feeling eerily great -- no barfing, lots of energy. This freaked me out immeasurably, and the doctor's office is staying open during their lunch hour today to give me an emergency check-up.

I'm just tired of having this much anxiety surrounding this pregnancy. I'm upset almost all of the time. I caught my reflection in a mirror this morning and saw that my eyes looked CRAZED with worry. How long can a person sustain this level of anxiety before she's shipped off to the funny farm?

I envy most everybody else's pregnancies. People who were able to forget they were pregnant for hours at a time... people who remained active... even people who had sick pregnancies, but with no incumbent worries. People who have sick, worrisome pregnancies, but without a toddler who bird-dogs them, looking for the love she deserves in the midst of my self-involved pregnancy anxiety.

Two and a half hours until that appointment. God bless the doctor's office for catering to me in yet another moment of need.