Rip Van ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ...

I'm SO very, totally, absolutely sorry for not updating and possibly even worrying some of you. The truth is, I've been meandering through each of these recent days in a zombie-like state. Everything is fine so far. I feel kind of in limbo because I haven't had proof that things are still okay since my ultrasound two weeks ago, but since nothing has fallen out, I'm operating under the assumption that things are still hunky-dory. I feel a little naive for it, but I'm not beating myself up or anything.

I'm 10 weeks and 3 days today. Wow. Double digit weeks. That's exciting.

I haven't been as sick as I'd like, to be honest. But my one true symptom is exhaustion. On Saturday, I retired to the bedroom under the pretense of watching a stupid Lifetime movie. Those aren't allowed to air on the living room television, at least when Zube Boy is around. Apparently, my husband found me out cold at 6:30PM. And I didn't stir until 7:30AM. With the time change. Thirteen hours of sleep. Sheesh. I am a very lame wife these days. And blogger.

We've taken to calling Odd a new name. The Turtle. I like to think of our little fetus (whee, supposedly it's gradiated from embry status) as The Odd Turtle. And seriously, in the first ultrasound? I'm totally carrying a turtle. Without the shell, of course, because that would be biologically impossible.

I don't have much to say. I have another ultrasound on Wednesday. I'm biding my time until then. The folks around Zube Boy and I seem to be getting really excited. I guess I'll let them do it for us. 'Cause we're simply not there yet. We're still living in Things Could Still Go Wrong Land. Self preservation. Sometimes the excitement in my wake makes me nervous. But other times is nice. Nice and normal, I should think. Maybe we should be getting excited. Soon enough. Two more weeks and I might be breathing a little easier.

Meanwhile, we're just hanging out. Catching some ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ's.

Take care.

Take That

A while ago, Zube Boy got his hands on my cell phone. This happens quite a bit. One day, I'll look down at my phone and where it once said 'Zube Girl' it will say 'Zubesmell' or something equally as assy. Anyway, I hadn't realized this particular time that he'd been screwing with my phone until one day, while sitting at my desk I hear, "Halllllllllllllll-lelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallllllllllllll-lelujah, halle-e-lu-jah!" After a few unanswered queries of, "Who the hell's phone is that?" I realized that, "Oh, mine the hell phone that is! What the..." I hadn't assigned that particular ringer to anyone on my contacts list. When I looked down to check the caller-ID, it said, "God." Fuck. God was calling me.

It turned out not to be God at all. Which was probably a good thing because I'm fairly certain I wasn't on my best behavior that day. Or any other day, for that matter. I'm counting on an infestation of locusts to warn me of God's next call. So I can make amends and shit first. Anyway...

It was Zube Boy. Mr. Funny Man. And since, I never changed it because sometimes my laziness knows no bounds.

On another note, perhaps, an angrier note, sometimes things get me all fired up and rambunctious. Imagine that. Mostly, it's websites I seek out for advice about being pregnant after a miscarriage. They seem to like to tell me, in a sparkly and optimistic way, "Try not to worry! ENJOY your pregnancy."

Hmph. Enjoy pregnancy my ass. That's about the most useless fucking advice I've ever heard. But, being the adventurous soul that I am, I'd be willing to give it a whirl if the advice givers would do me just one favor.

Go to the Grand Canyon with me.

And while we're standing high up on a cliff, admiring the view, I'll push them off.

And then? We'll do it again.

And? Again.

And once they're sufficiently tore up and broken, I'll suggest we head up just one more time. While we're up there, I'll saying things like, "ENJOY the view! Isn't it beautiful? Really, relax and look around!"

If they'll do just that one thing for me, I'll certainly return the favor by enjoying pregnancy and not worrying.

Somehow, I think I'll be left to my own worrying devices.

But, uh, so far so good in that department. Nothing's fallen out today. That's my mantra these days.

For Now? WOOT!

I've REALLY got to do this thing called work, but I just had to share. And I figured ya'll would kill me if I didn't do so expediently, because your good like that at keeping me on my toes. Anyway, Odd measured 8 weeks and 4 days. Somewhere along the line s/he picked up an extra day this week and is measuring ahead, which rocks socks.

The heartrate was 188. Apparently, Odd is not so chill as I thought. I asked the doctor if that was too high. He said it was fine. Jesus. I thought it was gonna burst right out of little Odd's chest cavity. Crazy shit.

And? S/he was kind of flitting about. Like a little swimmer. It was so fucking cute I almost threw up. And maybe even a tear did stir in mine eye. Anything is possible.

The Waiting Game

I didn't mean to leave you hanging, but I'm kind of waiting to hear back from the doctor's office. They said they'd call after 4PM and so, since it is only quarter 'til, I'm not gonna get my panties all twisted yet. Really, since the previous debacles, of which there were many, they've been quite on the up and up.

Anyway, the spotting stopped yesterday. And really, it wasn't much AT ALL. More like a tinge to be honest. I had a tiny bit more this morning, then nothing more all day.

The thing is, I don't think it was the bad kind of spotting. Am I totally naive? Am I in oblivious denial? Actually, I think you all know how absolutely grounded I am about this pregnancy = baby thing, and I don't feel like this is denial at all.

I'm well aware that any kind of spotting is not good. But, I'm no longer freaking out. We'll just wait and see what the doctor says. Also, given that all three of the other miscarriages were accompanied by spotting much worse than this, and cramps, and a complete and utter feeling of horror because I knew deep, down inside that it was over, this episode is different. I feel like I would *know* if something was awry. And I'm not getting that 'knowing' feeling at all.

I'll definitely keep you all updated of things as I learn them. I guess for now we just wait and see. Which is no fun at all, let me tell ya. But I don't have much of a choice in the matter.

Hang in there Odd. I'd really like to meet you someday.

Sunday, Fucking Sunday...

Or, it would be fitting to not have even changed the lyrics at all.

I'm spotting again. And again it is only a tiny bit. And it's brown. And I know that last time it was nothing. But still. I'm scared.

And the thing that really bothers me is WHY, WHY, WHY do my spotting episodes have to happen on Sundays? When I can't call the office for a little reassurance. My only option would be to go to the ER. And this is SO not an ER amount of blood. It's hardly even enough blood to warrant a paranoid patient call to the office, I don't think. But, you know, it's blood.

Up until now, things have been great. So great, I was afraid to tell you about them. Zube Boy and I have fleeting moments of, "Huh, could we really be on our way to having a baby this time?"

Ah well. We'll see what happens. I'm chillin' like a villain. Or like the laziest person you've ever seen. Take your pick. Though being parked on the couch for as long as I have does seem a little villainous. So it could be a little of both.

If it continues, I'm going to call the doctor tomorrow to see if they can get me in this week instead of next. But if it stops, which it may have already, I'll probably hang tight, crossing my legs among other things, until my scheduled appointment.

Thump Thump Thump

Because I'm remiss to leave you hanging on the edge of your seat until a time when I'm feeling all witty and compelling, I'll just give you the dirt. 'Cause that's what's important anyway.

Heartrate = 152 beats per minute

This is excellent. And sounded even better. Better than excellent.

I'm not breaking out the party hats and noisemakers just yet. But I am somewhere in between cautiously optimistic and unbridledly joyful. Probably a little closer to the 'cautiously optimistic' to be honest, given my uncharacteristic sensiblity when it comes to being pregnant.

Oh, and between you and me, I kind of don't know how to be this pregnant. We're definitely in uncharted territory here, folks.

TGI...Nevermind...

This whole business of having ultrasounds scheduled on Mondays needs to stop. I'm wishing my weekend away.

The other day, Zube Boy and I were discussing flying...

Z-Girl: I hate flying. It just doesn't seem right.

Z-Boy: What do you mean.

Z-Girl: I don't know. It's like, I totally don't get how the plane flies when nothing is, uh, flapping. Ya know?

Z-Boy: Flapping?

Z-Girl: Yeah. Like a bird. I mean, birds fly because their wings flap. So...

Z-Boy: *trying not so successfully to disguise a I Can't Believe My Wife Is Going to Say What She Is About to Say smirk* So what?

Z-Girl: I'm getting there. Geez. SOOOOOO, for flying in a plane to make sense to me the wings should FLAP. Then I would get it.

Z-Boy: Wow.

Anyway, we're idling by around these parts. Avoiding any discussion of all things pregnant. It seems the safest route. I'm really nervous. I hope with all my heart that the ultrasound will go swimmingly on Monday. But, I'm prepared for the worst.

O to the D and D

Dear Odd,

I can't believe you're still hanging in there. That's nothing short of awesome. A few minutes out of the day I've even gotten quite excited about it. But then the emotionally conservative voices in my head get all frantic and shoosh me. Sorry I'm not all squeeing and knitting you baby booties or anything just yet. It's self preservation really. And besides, by the time I learned to knit, you'd probably be learning to ride a bike. A Harley. Also? With Zube Boy's exasperating habit of poking me in the tits because he doesn't think they really hurt THAT bad and the frustration of learning a new hobby that involved knitting needles, someone would most certainly lose and eye. And it wouldn't be me. Or you. You don't quite have those yet, I don't think. And even if you did have eyeballs, far be it for me to stab MYSELF in the stomach to get to them. So, for Zube Boy's sake, we'll keep all squeeing and knitting at bay for the time being.

I've been feeling a little bad about calling you Odd, but at the same time, well, not so much. See, Zube Boy calls me honkytits and donkey legs and I call him taco head and asslips, so really, you totally lucked out in the nickname departmemt. Why, if I recall correctly, the last embryo to take up residence in my womb was affectionately called Stinky. I think we might have pissed that one off, though.

Also, I think I kind of want to make out with Bonanza for her comment about the whole fetal pole thing on my last entry. Which reminds me, you fucking rock that fetal pole, dude. Get all Zen about it and BE the pole. That's the way to go. It should be pretty easy, too, because you kind of ARE the pole anyway. For now at least.

And with the heartbeat. I so don't want to be that pushy mom. As Phil noted, I bet you are totally chill and not very excitable. Like Zube Boy. Which would drive me mad. I'm halfway there anyway, so I'll let you get away with it. Could you just boost it up a bit? I mean, I know the magic cootchie ultrasound wand probably caught ya when you just started and being brand new at the whole heartbeat thing you might've felt a little naked and all with us just storming up in there. I felt a little naked just then, too, if that makes you feel any better. I feel ya. I'll just say that I hope you've got it down, or rather up, next Monday. The low end of average would suffice. You can save going big for when you're on the outside. I'll buy you ice cream at some point in the future if you'll just do that one thing.

I was talking to My Belle yesterday and I told her that if you'd stick around for another, eh, eight months or so, I will TOTALLY hide that F you get in Algebra from Zube Boy. Because seriously, math loses me once letters are added to the mix, too. I rambled on about all kinds of things I'd let you get away with. And then My Belle suggested, "Odd can even be a Republican." Huh? What? Hm. Well, okay fine. I'll admit that one gave me pause, but hell, I'd really like you to stay. For the record, I'd prefer if you were a Libertarian or something. Because being outnumbered by Republicans in my own home would only fan the furiously burning political flame I have under my ass these days. But, that would probably entertain Zube Boy at the very least. And you, too, when you're old enough. Which, if you are a Republican, you likely will be. Just think for yourself. That's all I ask.

Well, rock on, Odd. I'm going to go to bed because your robbing me of all my energy. Which is fine by me. When I'm sleeping, I don't worry. And that's probably better for you.

Love,
Zube

Good News

Sort of. Or at least I should appreciate that it is good news and stop being so consumed with the negative shit. That's difficult, to say the least.

We have a yolk sac, a fetal pole, and a heart flutter. In laymen's terms, the important shit is there and fits the timeline. The heart flutter is a little slow, but the doctor said it is still very early and it is possible it will speed up.

I go back next Monday.

I don't really know what to say. I'm kind of afraid to say anything.

Odd? Would ya speed it up with the heartbeat? Pretty please?

When You See No Rhyme or Reason...

Is it reasonable to sing a rhyme?

Mary had a little lamb...

I'm spotting.

Little lamb...

I know that many women spot, but...

Little lamb...

I'm not really like many women when it comes to this being pregnant gig.

Mary had a little lamb...

It's Sunday, so there's not much I can do.

It's fleece was white as snow.

But wait 'til tomorrow. And hope it doesn't get worse.

And everywhere that Mary went, Mary went, Mary went.
And everywhere that Mary went, the lamb was sure to go...

La la la la la la la...

In other news...

I pulled my fingers out of my ears and stopped furiously belting out Old Mother Goose tunes long enough to find my husband growling at our new spice rack. Hmmm...


I see nothing menacing about this do you? Eager to understand the fucked up, crazy, erm, I mean, delicate intricacies of my significant other's inner workings, I asked him what he found so threatening about our new spice rack that would cause him to puff-up all WWF-style and growl at it.

Z-Boy: GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR...GRRRR..GRRRRRRRRRR...

Z-Girl: Honey?

Z-Boy: GRRRRRRRRRRRR...What?

Z-Girl: Why on earth are you growling at the spice rack?

Z-Boy: It's the turtle.

Z-Girl: The turtle?

Z-Boy: Yes.

Z-Girl: But honey, you made that turtle when you were little. Your Mom gave it to me when we were visiting. I thought it was cute. Why don't you like it?

Z-Boy: It doesn't like ME. Look at it! It's gotta mean face.

Z-Girl: I think it's a cute face.

Z-Boy: Yeah, right. Every time I walk past I can feel it giving me the old stink eye.

Z-Girl: Whatever. I think it's totally cute and it's staying there.

Z-Boy: Fine. That's just because you hate me, too.

Z-Girl: Yup. Hey, how old were you when you made it anyway?

Z-Boy: Eh, I don't know. Eighteen or something.

Z-Girl: Nice job. Your Mom seemed really proud. Heh.



I don't think it looks so mean. But if it's getting up in Zube Boy's face, I will surely consider it an ally.