Can't write long

Did you notice the contraction in the title of this post? Yes, well that seems to be the order of the day.

For some reason (and PLEASE don't panic, because you will make me panic), I've been having a bunch of contractions (uterine, not grammatical) over the last few days. They're of the "serious" kind -- not all that painful, but long-lasting and consistent.

I'm going to go lie back down and watch the rest of "Mrs. Brown," starring Dame Judi Dench (Hub-D likes to tease me about how much I loooooove DJD) and then finish Krakauer's "Into the Wild," although I recognize I'm the last person in the United States of America to read that book.

Anyway, the contractions go away if I lie down, so that's what I'm going to do. Chebbles is in school this morning (thank God), and I have no shame about having dropped her off 15 minutes late with a face full of crusty boogers and no pants on.

So anyway, Dame Judi Dench, take me away from all of this contracting!

House of Viability

Hello from the second tantrum-free day in our home!

I am also happy to report that the new baby is officially 24 weeks in gestation today, which ups her chances of viability by a whole lot. There is something oddly comforting that she doesn't need me QUITE so much, and if, perchance, she were born tomorrow, she would have a fair chance at survival. Of course we want her to stay in the womb until the last possible second, but it's just nice to know.

I also have a weird satisfaction in knowing that I'm LEGALLY two people right now. Say, if someone were to off me (I told you this was weird), because the baby is at 24 weeks, it would officially be a double homicide. You'd think that this distinction would apply to carpool lanes as well, but it does not.

Another nice thing going on in our house is Chebbles' trend toward empathy. This is brand new. We were looking at pictures of newborn babies, and she saw a fresh-out-of-the-oven baby crying just after she was born. I told her that the new baby was surprised by the lights and the cold, and Chebbles said that she wants to give that baby her blanket, so that it won't be so cold.

As we suspected, she is a magnanimous princess.

Don't talk to me

It's been many months since I've been circulating in any kind of social situation. I'm rusty. But the things I've been SAYING at parties lately make me want to do a "Thelma and Louise" on the way home from the party, as I repeat my idiotic statements outloud to myself and descend into, "No WONDER no one wants to be my FRIEND! Chebbles, will you be my best and only friend?"

So sad that I have to manufacture my own friends.

Anyway, you may be thinking, "Mama, it can't be that bad."

Oh, it's bad.

I hadn't seen M. for months, and when I did, I found her brooding at a get-together about her son's speech delay. She openly told me that it's depressing her to no end, wondering what the heck is wrong with her beautiful son.

So this is what I said: "Well, M., the good news is that there are a lot of resources in the educational system, should your son in fact be learning disabled. Heck, it's almost better to be learning disabled than gifted nowadays!"

Killllll meeeee.

Then what happened last night makes me think I should be cordoned off from all society...

I met a wonderful woman at a Halloween party, and we hit it off like gangbusters. She's a week overdue with her latest baby, and she's extremely anxious about her plans for natural childbirth because last time it devolved into 19 hours of a pitocin drip with no pain medication, then an emergency c-section.

I was trying to offer her comforting words about how common VBAC's are today and how everything will be fine, and second babies are supposed to be soooo much easier than the first, blah blah, then somehow I got started on talking about my labor with Chebbles.

"The only low point of natural childbirth for me is when this asshole on-call doctor walked in and said, 'Unless you want an epidural, I can't help you,' then left me gasping and alone in the delivery room."

"That sucks!" she said.

"Yeah, that Dr. Craig. What a jerk!" I said, stuffing another cupcake in my mouth.

"Oh my god, that's my doctor."

I mean, what are the odds that of all of the doctors in the East Bay I would openly disparage HERS? I shouldn't have taken those odds, no matter how small! My new/never-to-be friend left the party limp with worry and anxiety despite my pathetic admonitions that I'm sure it was a one-time thing and she's probably excellent.

Can I please be institutionalized before I attempt to communicate with another human being?

(And yeah, that's the doctor's real name.)

Sometimes I just want to bang my head

Mama, don't try to stop me from banging my head. And don't try to move me to a carpeted surface so that I might safely bang my head.

I'm mad as HELL at you, Mama. The way I choose to express this is to bang my head on our laminated kitchen floor. So what if I get a bruise? It's my head! This is my one-person MOSH PIT so back off.

Did you REALLY have to pull me off the top of the slide and call me a "Slide Tampon" in front of my friends? It is my God-given right to block my own slide, MOTHER.

So I'll holler all I want, and bang my head and nose straight down onto the kitchen floor, getting madder and madder all the while.

And if you're getting frustrated, just remember who STARTED this whole thing.

Slide Tampon, indeed.

It is fair to say that Chebbles was unwilling to go to the dentist yesterday morning. Our morning devolved into Hub-D pushing her screaming, writhing form into her car seat and hissing at her through clenched teeth that she MUST GO TO THE DENTIST.

I don't know why she thought to dread the dentist. Perhaps it was my bubbly enthusiasm regarding the subject that put her on edge. Regardless, she was pissed as hell when we eventually overpowered her, and, oblivious to her pleas, I drove her sorry self to the pediatric dentistry center.

She was still whimpering by the time we arrived, but became more willing to enter the establishment once she spotted some toys and Halloween decorations through the dentist's windows.

I must say that pediatric dentistry has come a LONG WAY since I was a kid. Dang, they have their act together. When I was Chebbles' age, I would just go to the same place my parents went, and once I had submitted to a draconian cleaning and various inevitable fillings, I could choose a tiny animal-shaped eraser from a treasure chest they had stashed in the office.

Chebbles made BANK on her trip to the dentist. The dental hygienist lured her from the waiting room with the promise of a BALLOON. And the tricks and gifts and stickers and sweet stuff kept rolling throughout our visit.

They took us to a little room where I reluctantly admitted that I rarely brush Chebbles' teeth because tooth-brushing grosses me out and I'm sick and pregnant and barely able to shovel food in her mouth, let alone pry leftover food particles from the corners of her teeth. The hygienist politely recommended a more regular dental regimen for The Chebs, and I was suitably chastened.

Then they asked Chebbles what her favorite flavor is.

"Pink," she said shyly.

"We've got that," assured the hygienist as she led Chebbles by the hand to a big green reclining chair and the tooth-polishing station. With the aid of a Gordon the Tank Engine sticker, she was up in the chair in no time. And sure enough, they had some kind of strawberry ice cream flavored toothpaste. Chebbles happily submitted to the cleaning, even opening wide "like an alligator" so they could reach her two-year molars.

I was fascinated. First, Chebbles was shockingly complacent throughout this process, sucking up the toothpaste remnants with glee. Second, I'd never really seen her teeth before, despite living in such close quarters for more than two years. I didn't even know she HAD two-year molars in there (the first set are 90% in, and the second set haven't emerged yet).

Then she allowed the hygienist to take x-rays of her teeth. This involved chomping down on a black plastic thingee and wearing a highly unflattering lead apron. I was sure we'd be a no-go on this one, but I think she was just as dazzled as I was by the pageantry surrounding every aspect of this dental visit. When told to clamp down on the plastic "cookie" and to stare up at the bat on the ceiling, she did just that, and held it long enough for me and the hygienist to vacate the room and snap a photo of her gorgeous pearly whites.

Miraculously, they now have marshmallow-flavored flouride treatments, so she thoroughly enjoyed the application of the treatment to her teeth. And by the time the actual dentist came in to "count" her teeth and check out the alignment, she was jollied into a state of toddler ecstasy. She'd been allowed to choose a toy from a huge bucket, she'd been awarded another sticker, and a purple toothbrush.

So she did whatever the dentist told her to do. I mean, what was next? A free PONY?

I basked in the glory of the dentist's news that Chebbles' teeth look perfect and great and that I'm "obviously doing a great job with brushing," (ha ha ha). But the extraordinary news is that Chebbles got Hub-D's permanent teeth. They are not porous and maniacally crooked as mine were. We could see from Chebbles' X-rays that her permanent teeth have plenty of room and are gorgeously proportioned.

She'll probably need spacers in her back teeth due to all of her thumb-sucking, but from the look of things, there will be NO BRACES in my child's future. And as one who suffered from a full decade of orthodontic torture, I say, HURRAH!

So they took this picture of the two of us, to celebrate her visit. She's "showing her teeth" and I just can't get enough of her lovely choppers. So we survived the pre-dentist tantrum, and we have the purple toothbrush to prove it!

Are they really so horrible?

Before I had a daughter, if someone had asked me, "Will you ever consent to a Disney Princess item entering your household," I would have said NO!

I was knee-deep in gender-neutral toys and clothing, preparing to raise a little girl who didn't have to value her hair or boobs or clothing in order to value herself.

Time has mellowed me.

Chebbles LOVES the Disney Princesses, as she loves pink clothing and dresses and everything lovely and charming. I was reminded of this topic by wonderful dad-blogger Jonathon, and I've thought a lot about it since I read his thoughtful post.

He complained that Cinderella was good because she's pretty, and her stepsisters are ugly because they're bad... and he absolutely has a good point. Except, I started thinking more about it. I wonder if it's not the other way around -- perhaps Cinderella's goodness makes her look even prettier, and the stepsister's bad choices have led them down a path of unattractiveness.

Ultimately, I think that the DP's shouldn't be judged just because they're gorgeous and have excellent fashion sense. My own kid shares these traits, and I don't want her written off as a judge or a senator because she's so friggin' beautiful or she's wearing a well-tailored pink suit.

And let's look at the other good things about the DP's: They don't engage in premarital sex, they value their femininity and their partners' masculinity, they seem to make good decisions (Can we hold it against Aurora that she touched the spindle of a spinning wheel on her 16th birthday? She was under Malifacent's spell and everything...), they are charming in difficult situations, they are musically talented, they are loyal to their parents (excluding evil stepmothers), and they do not obsess about their victimization, rather move on readily to healthy, committed relationships.

Sure, they're not perfect. I'd rather they wait 18 months to decide to marry their Princes. And I think a gal should wait until she's 30 to tie the knot, if at all possible. Plus, their outfits don't tend to be all that... practical.

But there is plenty to admire about them if you can get past their abnormally large eyes and waspish waistlines. We're not going to watch their movies until Chebbles is old enough to discuss their pros and cons. But I'm not going to freak out when they enter our house. They've got a lot going for them, the DP's, if you just look below the surface a little.

Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Mama

I guess every parent has their hard-won sleep theories -- and mine are all derived from Dr. Weissbluth, of "Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child" fame.

It really is as if my child read this book before she was born. Every suggestion that the man makes for having a happier, well-rested child WORKS on Chebbles. Even the outlandish or cruel ones -- they all work, and the result is our robust, outrageously well-slept wunderkind.

I have elevated Dr. Weissbluth to "god-like" status after enacting a new theory of his today: the TIMER. Chebbles was being a TOTAL PILL when I put her to bed last night. She was so outraged that I was leaving her in her crib at 8pm that she dove headfirst right out of her crib, straight onto her enormous noggin. It was the most horrifying thing I'd ever witnessed.

But the floor is very padded and her head is, as mentioned, very big. And she just rolled to the side and kept screaming and flailing her arms in rage.

So I hollered at her to NEVER do that again, chucked her back in the crib, shut the door, and dug out my Weissbluth bible while she cried for another half-hour before going to sleep. Why in the WORLD was my formerly complacent child suddenly having a COW at bedtime?

Apparently, I discovered upon reading the chapter dedicated to kids Chebbles' age, I'd been dicking around with her sleep too much. I was always a sucker for 10 more minutes of cuddling before bedtime, and she'd become a master at extending our pre-sleep routine with repeated curtain calls and MORE milk, reading, rocking, etc.

Plus, I've been running in to her when she cries out at night and rocking her back to sleep. She's fully capable of falling back asleep by herself, and my interruptions had been fully wakening her and rewarding the brief intervals of wakefulness. Why the hell was I running in to her room at night? Probably residual guilt from all the IGNORING of her I've been doing while struggling with this pregnancy.

So Dr. Weissbluth said: Set an earlier bedtime, then set a timer at bedtime. When the timer goes off, get the hell out of the room, turn off the light and don't look back.

I tried this at naptime today and it was AMAZING. I told her, "When this timer goes off, Mama's leaving the room and you're going to sleep."

So. She did.

She totally did.

It was as though the timer was making the decision about her naptime, and not me. I put her down a full half-hour before her usual naptime, and she happily drifted off to sleep, immediately.

And at bedtime, we were ripe for another grand mal tantrum -- she was tired, she was enjoying playing with Hub-D, and she's still goopy and sick. But I set the timer again.

This time, she cried and looked at me plaintively, as if to say, "Can it be so? Are we to be parted so soon?"

And I put her in her crib, even though she was crying louder and louder.

Hub-D and I walked out of her room, closed the door, and she cried for approximately 5 seconds. Then, silence. She went to sleep. Because the TIMER said it must be so.

It was so enjoyable, having a whole, peaceful evening together with my husband. Thank you Chebbles, for subscribing so vehemently to Dr. Weissbluth's methods!

The Goopy and the Pukey

Somewhere along our Midwestern journeys this past weekend, Chebbles picked up a bug. It's a grody bug that started with goopy eyes, the progressed to a goopy nose, then a big fat fever of 102.5.

Today she's feeling a lot better, but I'm keeping her cloistered in her fuzzy PJ's all day long. I don't want her to go out and expose other kids to the Dreaded Goop Disease. So she and I are sitting here in the house, staring at each other -- the Goopy and the Pukey.

One thing I'm determined to do, now that she's feeling better, is re-enact the Cry-It-Out principle. This weekend's retirement community hijinx wrecked our ordinary policy, which is: "It's bedtime/naptime. I'm putting you in your crib. What you do for the next 11/3 hours is up to you."

This has served us well for almost two years now. She's happy by herself and has learned to fall asleep like a champ. But we're having a setback, and, as I type, she's hollering, "Mama! Mama!" from the crib.

How heartless can I be, just leaving her in there? But I know she's tired. I know she needs sleep to fully recover from this bug. And she needs to re-learn her going-to-sleep skills.

Oh, plus I've got some chocolate chip scones I want to eat BY MYSELF.

Don't tell ME to "shut up"

I wouldn't say it was a MISTAKE to go to Indiana this past weekend -- after all, Chebbles did get to meet real Indians and feel their bear skins and admire their face paint. And she did get to frolic with her cousins and explore creeks and parks and the fatty foods of the Midwest. But let's just say it's GREAT to be home.

Our grossest planning error was attempting to stay in Oma's retirement community -- it shouldn't have come as such a surprise to me that the sounds and activity of children are frowned upon by a big group of retirees -- after all, they're done raising their kids and they want some peace and quiet, dammit!

But I guess I've been cosseted by my little surbuban community, where there is a great deal of understanding and accommodation when it comes to kids.

At Oma's retirement community, we had to be quiet a lot.

And Chebbles also discovered that if she hollered in the middle of the night, that her mother would not make her "cry it out," but would rush to her Pack-n-Play and soothe and cuddle, and work to make her quiet. Why is this? Because, apparently, if you cry out in the middle of the night from a guest room at the retirement community, it activates an alarm system, and a nurse's booming voice echoes through your room: "IS EVERYTHING ALL RIGHT?"

So there I was, in my preggo PJ's in the middle of the night, bleary from no sleep mixed with insomnia, hollering back into the speaker embedded in the wall, "YES WE ARE OK!"

Then when Chebbles had a nightmare about the guy in a Halloween costume she saw on the street corner, and cried out, "No, scary man! NO!" I could hear the intercom crackle to life, as the Old People Big Brother Nurse started listening in.

Just getting from Point A to Point B, through the silent hallways of the facility, was a huge challenge. Luckily, there were elevator buttons and door-opening buttons to be pushed along the way, so by threatening to push these buttons myself, I could get Chebbles to hustle in relative quiet. It just got really... old. All this trying-to-be-quiet activity.

If the kids started chirruping in any public place, there were surprisingly unfriendly leers from every direction. Yes, some people were really nice and sweet about the kids. There was one lady in particular who kept remarking on how cute Chebbles was -- but I discovered later that she was also a guest of the facility, not a resident.

The lowest moment of the trip was the hall-nudity incident. I had to do a load of laundry, as Chebbles had peed through everything she owned. So in the community laundry, I pulled off the dress she was wearing, and she pulled off her diaper and ran around enjoying her nakedness.

As the load spun in the wash, I made my way back to Oma's apartment, with my happy nude toddler in tow. There was no one in the hallway. It was about 7:30pm. When we arrived at Oma's door, Chebbles asked if she could, instead of going into the somewhat cloistered environment there, "dance in the hall."

"Yeah, dude, you can dance in the hall. Just be quiet out there."

And she was. She just twirled around in her naked solitude. And I made the critical error of telling Oma (who is blind), the exact scene that was going on:

"Hey Oma, the laundry's in the washing machine, and Chebbles is dancing naked in the hallway."

"Ach NEIN!" Oma said, "Anyone could SEE her out there."

"There is no one out there, Oma, she's quiet and just twirling around."

"Any MAN could come and watch her out there."

(Note, there are maybe three men who live on Oma's hallway, all of whom are about 90.)

"No one's watching her out there except me. She's fine."

"PLEASE don't let her do that. Go GET HER."

So I did, I told Chebbles that we'd have to go into Oma's apartment, and it pissed her off. But I tucked my child under my arm and hauled her into Oma's apartment, as she protested.

When we entered Oma's apartment, with me holding the uppity nude dancer under my arm, Oma said, "You are TOO LOUD! People are trying to sleep! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!"

So I made an about face. "That's our exit line, folks," I told Oma, and my sister who was sitting with her. "See you tomorrow."

And the next day I got a lecture from Oma regarding my permissive nature with Chebbles ("When the new baby is born, you will regret giving her so much freedom") and the fact that I EVER carry my child ("Just tell her that you can no longer carry her. You could hurt the baby if you keep carrying her.")

Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!

So I retreated to our guest room, gave Chebbles 100 stickers to goof around with, and collapsed. No one was going to be happy in this crazy combo -- kids in a retirement community. Error! Error!

Heading out for The Feast

Chebbles and I are headed to the Feast of the Hunter's Moon in Indiana this weekend.

It's our annual tradition with Oma, who lives in West Lafayette, but now that I'm looking at the website, I realize... is this going to terrify the HELL out of my toddler? Indians with nose rings and gunfire?

Well, we'll see. As usual, I'm focused on the food. When they say "Feast," they're not dicking around. It's got buffalo stew and BBQ'd corn and various pioneer-themed "pones" and desserts. So I should be able to distract Chebbles with plenty of foodstuffs, oh, and stuff my piehole as well.

We'll be back on Tuesday, have a good weekend all!

Get OUT

I suddenly have no patience for any extra stuff in our house.

My fantasy is to open our front doors and tell people that everything that is not ALIVE is for SALE.

Hub-D seems to have caught the fever as well, and we just divested ourselves of 90% of our CD's and DVD's. Just get OUT, Sarah McLaughlin. I mean, I loved you very much when I was in college, but it's over!

My poor sister is visiting now, and I'm torturing her with this project, pawning off mountains of clothing on her. "What USE do I have for any Size 8 pants?? BEGONE!" And if she doesn't take them, they go immediately out the door and to Goodwill.

The way I see it, by the time I fit back into normal lady clothes, all of my pre-Chebbles clothing will be absolutely OUT OF STYLE, so... get OUT. My designer suits from pre-Chebs trade shows? BEAT IT. And every single tailored white blouse is going. When in the next decade will I have use for them?

There is no area of our house that is safe from my ministrations. This morning, I zeroed in on Hub-D's pants. I don't think they fit right and I want them out of the house. He successfully argued that he should be able to keep his current pants collection until such time that he has NEW pants, but I am chomping at the bit to get rid of those pants.

What he's coming to understand is that I wouldn't mind if my family had to walk around naked, just to slake my thirst for getting rid of STUFF. Too much STUFF. It grosses me out and pisses me off -- if it's not pulling its weight with daily usefulness, I find it a repulsive waste of space.

As for the stuff that we DO want to keep, I am dedicated to finding new, better ways to store it. I knocked over Pottery Barn Kids this week, purchasing their entire stock of espresso-colored cubbies and baskets. Toys will no longer reign surpreme in our house! They will be cowed and subservient, and they will live in labelled cubbies, God as my witness!

Oh, were it legal and practical to build a bonfire in our backyard and just toss all of our papers and magazines and anything flammable, just to be rid of it. As it is, I'm spending every afternoon on the phone with every company who sends us a catalog, "Cease! Desist! I cannot accept your missives that advertise more STUFF for our STUFFY house!"

This is all to say, that unless you are a burglar, please come over to my house and take things. And if you want to give me a Christmas present, please play the "Grinch" and TAKE stuff from my house, leaving a perfectly sanitized home that gleams. Because I can't take it anymore. I want the stuff to get OUT.

Venturing into the BabyCenter minefield

I've started to brave the waters of BabyCenter -- always a dangerous place for a high-anxiety pregnancy. But I wanted to see those pretty little pictures of babies in utero, so I could better envision the little sprite who has started kicking so hard that the undulations of my gut are visible from across the room.

I tried to look at BabyCenter last week, but I was inadvertantly guided to a post about a woman who lost a late-term baby, and I had to lie in bed for a few days, coaxing myself to return to normalcy with the mantra, "Very Rare. Very Rare. Very Rare."

I visited the site again today, and successfully averted my eyes from everything but the joyous facts of a 21-week-old fetal girl (She can hear us SING! She has a vagina!) and I stopped scrolling down when I saw the "How to identify preterm labor" article below the joyous facts. NO THANKS! I think I'm going into preterm labor every time I'm constipated, which is every day, so I don't need that info.

And I also signed up for BabyCenter's e-mail updates, which is a huge step for me. I had signed up for these e-mail updates with the last two pregnancies, only to have to go to "Account" and "Remove a Child" in order to stop getting the upsetting updates after the miscarriages.

But today, I did it. I added this pregnancy to my "ticker" -- so our new baby is counted with her sister in my BabyCenter experience. And I got to ogle the 21-week-old fetus pic -- SO FANTASTIC.

I also like the fact that SOME babies SOMETIMES can survive outside the womb after 24 weeks of gestation. It just makes me feel more confident, having her just three weeks to this age of potential viability.

And am I the only woman who once eschewed the idea of commercial 4-D ultrasounds who is now ENCHANTED with the notion? I want to see this kid!

See, if I'm going to continue to vomit for the next five months, I'd like to know it's for a kid who's incredibly CUTE, at the very least.

It's hard being The Chebs

This afternoon was such a struggle for The Chebs.

I put her down for her nap at 1:15pm, and she popped up soon thereafter, having pooped. So I changed her and put her back down, but she would NOT sleep.

I tried everything. Waiting her out for a long time. Letting her sleep in Mama's bed. Then Aunt E. tried her hand with the situation, reading books, then leaving her in her crib. She just was DONE with the idea of a nap.

So by 4pm, we gave up and let her out of her room and start playing. And by 5:15, she was a complete wreck. And when I say wreck, I mean, banging her FACE against our hardwood floors, backing her head (purposefully, in a rage) against the corner of the television. The screaming just became a background drone. We all tried to comfort her in a dozen different ways, and everything only pissed her off.

Two of her favorite neighborhood friends came over, and she was briefly happy, then lapsed into an even worse, squirming, self-destructive rage. Finally, she fell asleep, hiccuping and miserable on her bedroom floor.

I want someone to blame for all of this!

When she woke up 45 minutes later, the tantrum only continued, with more screaming and tears. Finally, she calmed down and drank some warm milk, followed by an ingestion of dinner, made possibly only by the presence of the Von Trapp children performing the puppet show scene... over and over.

I love that girl, and I hate seeing her in so much pain. I try to track down my own actions -- what in the world did I do wrong? Should I have forced her to eat more lunch before the nap? Tried an earlier nap? Left her in her crib for longer?

Or maybe it's just a storm that must come and rain down on us, no matter what I might do to try and protect us.

It's just sad that she (and we ALL!) have to go through these times.

October 15th

I have been fishing around for awhile now, trying to figure out a way to memorialize my own pregnancy losses, particularly as I try to "make way" in my heart to welcome our new baby girl next February.

I have come across this very nice website, October 15th, which focuses on October 15th as a Day of Remembrance for the babies we have lost. There are SO MANY women who have suffered from pregnancy loss, that it is marvelous that someone is working this hard to memorialize them with, at the very least, a meaningful magnet on my car.

But for myself, I kind of want something... different, art-wise. I LIKE the idea of October 15th, and I very well may participate, but I want to do something a little more ME. I'm not a sweet pink butterfly kind of person. I'm more of a righteous lady with a stretched-out womb and ragged heart.

I'm looking for something a little more "Take Back the Night-ish" and cultish, and secretive. Their images of a little tiny fetus in a woman's heart are ACCURATE to my feelings, and the sweet pink butterfly COULD work well on my back bumper, but would anyone be pissed if I started something different?

OK, there is NOTHING rockin' about pregnancy loss, but I want something more mysterious, something that women have to be "in the know" to identify. And I want to share this logo magnet with all my friends in the neighborhood, or anyone online, who wants to commemorate their pregnancy loss(es) but may also not harbor a pink butterfly-ish feeling about it.

I just feel like such a pill, because the women who run the October 15th website have clearly put a lot of their energies and feelings into making products that are right for THEM to symbolize their losses. But nothing there feels right to me.

Am I a jerk for going off the rails and not using their art? I would be willing to link back to them and refer their products to anyone who would like to go that route (They even have pregnancy loss earrings! That's cool.).

Anyway, for now I'm going to hard-headedly follow my original dreams of making a circular badass logo that is intended to tell the world, "Hey, I have a cool, mysterious logo on my back bumper, and if you know what it means, then you are part of our cool, mysterious club as well. I'm sorry that you are in this club, because it's very, very shitty to endure pregnancy loss, but we might as well be cool and mysterious about it, what say?"

I think part of my desire is that I don't want EVERYONE to know about my miscarriages. Sure, I want 90% of people to know, but not the lawn guys, or the new neighbors across the street, or everyone (who doesn't already know) in Chebbles' preschool, until I'm ready to chat with them about it.

I've found a graphic designer who is honored and happy to do this. He's a cool, urban guy who designs videogame packaging, so with his help, I'm going to see if I can't make pregnancy loss commemoration a little more, well, me.

And for those of you out there who are in the "club of shittiness" -- who have experienced pregnancy loss, either personally or vicariously -- I would really appreciate your feedback and suggestions.

OK, I'm ready. Now what?

Suddenly, I'm impatient for this baby to arrive. We know she's a girl, and we've seen her beautiful profile. She already looks so much like Chebbles to us, and Chebbles is GEARED UP for the baby.

We've got a birthing plan in place: I will labor at our friends' house that is a few blocks from the hospital, then head over when the contractions get "serious." I'm pretty sure I want to have a natural childbirth again, but seeing the epic dimensions of our new daughter's head, I am slightly wavering in my determination.

We've got some good names picked out.

Everyone's all set. We've got all the clothes we'll need, and she'll sleep in the bassinette until Chebbles is ready to hand over her crib.

But now I have 20 more weeks to wait. Just wait. Sure, we'll have Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas to distract us. By next Valentine's Day, I STILL won't have this baby out. It's JUST SO LONG. And in the meantime, I'll be hobbled by the ever-growing belly, just waiting. 20 more weeks! It's absurd.

I suppose it's because this pregnancy started so EARLY -- it was so intense in the early weeks, with the miscarriage scares, the constant bleeding and doubt, the million ultrasounds -- and now that seems like the distant past. Yet now I've got 20 more weeks to hang out and twiddle my thumbs, waiting for Baby Girl's arrival.

Yesterday, after I told Chebbles that she was having a baby sister, she crawled up into my lap and lifted up my shirt and said, "COME OUT, BABY!"

Now, don't think I'm gunning for a premature birth here -- far from it -- give me another rosy-cheeked full-termed, thank you very much -- but is there some way to make the time speed up between now and late February?

Tutus

For those who were in the minority, predicting that our new baby is a princess, KUDOS. We're having another baby girl!

I am in shock, as I've spent the last four months anticipating a boy -- looking at miniature Steelers jerseys, learning about circumsion, etc. -- nope! It's a girl, a sister for The Chebs.

She's completely healthy, this child. We meditated on her kidneys, her heart, her spine, her femurs, feet and face -- and she's as healthy as a horse from head to toe. We spent the whole ultrasound session grilling the sonogram technician... "What does that mean? What are you looking at now? Is that normal? You say you're looking for the umbilical cord... DID YOU FIND IT?"

And the technician was marvelous with us. She was particularly impressed with the size of the baby girl's cranium and brain matter. Chebbles was the same way -- she comes from a long line of big heads and outsized brains. She kept talking to the baby, "Hi baby! Hi gorgeous! Can I see your bladder? C'mon, show it to me!"

Finally, I told her that I felt too much suspense -- were we going to have a life with tutus and football, or a life with a LOT of tutus? She zeroed in on the telltale three dots in the pelvis, and said, "Tutus."

And we have an actual due date: February 18. The baby is mapping exactly to that date, as she has from the beginning. And now that she's thriving and looking so marvelous in there, we can start thinking about it: around February 18th (or the 28th, if the Chebs' late arrival is any indication), we'll welcome a new baby girl into our family.

Ain't life grand?

Gestating royalty

Tomorrow is the big ultrasound, where we will find out the baby's sex (and health, which I'm trying to assume is A-OK). Chebbles predicted the sex this morning, so I figured I'd allow you the same choices I gave her...

Chebbles' younger sibling is a...
	Prince
	Princess
pollcode.com free polls

What Chebbles says when she's lying in her bed by herself in the morning

I get more Paris. (parents?)

...

Little song. Little song. (sung)

...

Burrito? Burrito? NOT BURRITO! (laughs)

...

I'll be. I'll be. I'll be. I'll be. I'LL BE! (First spoken, then sung to the tune of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star")

...

It's not MY birthday. It's C.'s birthday. It's NOT my birthday. It's NOT C.'s birthday. It's not her birthday. Its's NOT (lists her stuffed animals in succession) birthday. NO! It's NOT your birthday!

...

Mama. MAMA? (That's my cue!)

We escape disaster... again

I've written before about how the former owner of our house was probably evil. When he sold it to us starry-eyed newlyweds, he knew that practically every improvement he had made was half-assed or wrong.

We've lived here for three years now, and we still find things that are weird and wrong with the house. Almost every contractor who looks behind our walls comes out scratching his head, "Who BUILT this place?" they ask in wonderment. We could probably make money giving tours of our house to contractors for Halloween -- that'd really scare them.

Our siding is installed sideways. We had no subfloor ventilation (we fixed it after the house started to reek of mold). Everything slopes down from a little peak in our kitchen. Most of the construction materials were stolen in one way or another. Everything was installed in the most shoddy way possible. You know, good times.

But it's the electrical idiocy that really gets me down. A few days ago, in an attempt to warm up Chebbles' chilly bathroom, I switched on her rarely-used ceiling heater. It quickly evolved into a light show -- the light attached to the heater started to flicker on and off, and a lovely burning odor cascaded down upon us. OK, nevermind! I turned it off and concluded the bath.

When our handyman arrived today, I asked him to take a look at it. What he found would be the scariest bit of our Contractor's Haunted House -- we just barely escaped having our house burn down. Because the former owner neglected to use any wire nuts to suspend the wires when he installed the heater in his children's bathroom, it was a matter of time before they caught on fire.

Did he hate his children? Why would he install an electrical nightmare over their bathtub?

Well, anyway, we escaped disaster once again. And Chebbles' bathroom will be safely toasty in no time after the careful ministrations of our horrified handyman.

(Note: exposed copper wiring and half-assed electrical taping, along with overlapped wires that result in... fire!)