Greetings From Sleepyville

Dude. You guys are the bestest. Truly. I can't believe we did it! We fucking did it! And you all were integral. I can't tell you how much I felt buoyed by your encouragement, thoughts and prayers. I'm on Cloud 9. But, believe me, it's an exhausting place. I'd love to tell you that fluffy bunny rabbits and skittles tumble out of Cora Jane's little bum and that her vocal chords are capable of tunes that would make the angels envious, but, uh, no. She's a newborn after all. And newborns are hard fucking work. But it's not a thankless task at all, and I adore the everloving shit out of the kid.

I figured I'd share a couple of photos because I'm all Braggy Mom this week. I've earned it. And please don't fret over the oxygen tubes. That's just a way of life when you happen to get borned at 10,000 ft above sea level. She'll likely be off of it after her two week appointment and I absolutely can't wait because I swear I'm going to topple over the cord and land on the kiddo one of these days. She also has a couple of red patches above her eyes that totally freaked me out, but the doctor says those will disappear in time.

I was thinking the other day about a blog name for our newest edition. I've decided that, for the purposes of this blog, she'll be Zee Baby. I think it's cute.

Anyway, I now present to you, Zee (cutest EVER) Baby:






Last but not least, I can't believe I had a baby girl. I totally thought boy. But now that I've got a kick ass chick for a daughter, I'm reminded of the poem I shared with you all a while back. The first verse keeps running through my head:

One day I'll give birth to a tiny baby girl
and when she's born she'll scream and I'll make sure
she never stops.

Hell's yeah.

Introducing...

(This is PaintingChef posting for Zube)

Miss Cora Jane.

Born 5/16/2007 7:50 am.

6 pounds, 3 ounces.

18 inches long.

Reported to scream. A lot.

Pictures to follow. All snark and bitchiness uncharacteristically witheld due to the overwhelming awesomeness of the day.

Congratulations Mama Zube. The words "you've earned it" don't even come close. The internet loves you.

UPDATED with photos from Zube Girl.








Zube Boy and I are smitten. Thank you all! I couldn't have done it without you.

Because My Pregnant (Still!) Brain Can't Be Bothered to Stick With Just One Subject...

First things first. Barring anything crazy, like my stubborn ass kid-to-be deciding to flip over like most other good little babies have already done by now, or the Turtle deciding to make an early entrance, her/his birthday will be May 18th via c-section. I'm pretty sure. There is a small possibility that the kid will be born on May 21st, but I'm hoping and hoping that the surgeon will be able to do it on the 18th. I'll receive confirmation of that next Wednesday. Among other, very sensible reasons, like the fact that then Zube Boy would have an additional weekend to spend with us without having to take vacation time, I think a Taurus kid would blend a little better with my Cancer and Zube Boy's Pisces than a Gemini. But, you know, I really just want the kid to be healthy. That's all.

My god-daughter/niece? Is totally a Zube.



Check out her little hand. Hee. She's a wondermous foul-handed little cutie, that one. And I totally can't believe that MY brother, whom I used to raise bloody hell with is a Daddy. It's bizarre. And I'm sure he's probably going to be thinking the same about me. We have already determined that we're in for it when our kids are teenagers. You know, retribution and all.

I was talking to My Belle the other day, and we got around to the subject of pregnant bellybuttons. And how weird they are. And we were both surprised to learn that neither of us had outies, but rather, flatties. As in, no longer cavernous lint collecters. I sent her a picture of mine over e-mail and she called me and told me it looked weird...



I got all, WHATEVER, dude, I bet yours looks weird, too, on her ass. So, she sent me a picture of hers...



And together we determined that they both look...very weird.

On that note...holy shit. There's the very likely possibility we'll have a baby in just two weeks and two days. My head is spinning.

It Must Have Been So Funny She Just Forgot to Laugh...

The Scene: I'm in the hardware store for, ahem, the THIRD time that day buying plumbing supplies. For Zube Boy. I really don't want to complain though because I'd rather be buying shit pipes than installing them. Anyway, I'm consulting Zube Boy via phone about my potential purchases...

Z-Boy: Okay, I need two 3" couplers.

Z-Girl: Black?

Z-Boy: Yes, black, like all the other stuff you bought.

Z-Girl: So everything will match and be all pretty under the floor?

Z-Boy: Exactly.

Z-Girl: Hmmm...Here's a 1 1/2" coupler.

Z-Boy: Honey, your poo won't fit down that. I need 3".

Z-Girl: *talking to myself* 3" coupler, 3" coupler, for my poo...AHA! Got it!

Z-Boy: Cool.

Z-Girl: So you need two?

Z-Boy: *shuffling stuff around* Umm, you know, maybe I only need one.

Z-Girl: So one?

Z-Boy: Um, I don't know. *shuffling more stuff around* Maybe two.

Z-Girl: So I'll get two.

Z-Boy: Oh wait, nope. I just need one.

Z-Girl: Honey.

Z-Boy: I think.

Z-Girl: Look, I'm buying two because I am not coming back here a fourth time.

Z-Boy: Okay.

*I waddle up to the counter, because that's how I roll these days, and plop my merchandise down in front of the cashier, who recognizes me from being there twice earlier*

Cashier: She's baaaaaaaaack!

Z-Girl: Yup, and I swear if you see me in here again today, I'll be spitting nails. Which would be cool for you because then you could sell them.

Cashier: *silently checks out my items*

Z-Girl: You know. This being a hardware store and all. Heh.

DUDE! I totally thought that was funny! What the fuck? Clearly I have lost my edge. She didn't even crack a smile. Eh well.

PS- No baby yet. However, it looks like the Turtle will be entering the world without a cone-head. In other words, s/he is still breech, and has dropped which will make turning even more difficult, so I'm probably going to be having a c-section. We still have a couple of weeks, so it's wait and see time. So I guess we'll just, wait and see. I'll keep you updated.

Stats for those who are so inclined to care:

As of yesterday, I am a fingertip dilated and 50% effaced.

Ah, But to Be a Fly...in My Soup...

Zube Boy and I have been going out to eat quite a bit in recent weeks. For three reasons, mostly. Reason the first: I really, really don't feel like cooking. In fact, I think I'd rather gouge my eyes out with a wooden spoon than throw together a one pot meal of hamburger helper. Reason the second: I think we're taking a teeny bit of advantage of the fact that we CAN go out to eat quite easily. He calls me up five minutes before he's due off of work and asks if I'd like to go out to eat. I say, "Yeah." He says, "Okay, I'll meet you at Fatty's in fifteen minutes." Something tells me things won't be easy like that in the very near future, goddess-willing, of course. And lastly, reason the third: Recently, it has become quite apparent that when I want a chimichanga right now, well, I want a goddamned chimichanga RIGHT fucking NOW! No time to go buy ingredients or scour the 'net for a decent chimichanga recipe. It's far easier to head out to a restaurant where someone has so thoughtfully put together all of those ingredients already. Just for yours truly.

Anyway, our dinner conversations have had an interesting slant.

Z-Girl: *pushes her half eaten cheeseburger away* That's it. I'm done.

Z-Boy: You full?

Z-Girl: No. I just know that if I finish that burger, I'm going to be up all night with heartburn.

Z-Boy: Heh.

Z-Girl: What?

Z-Boy: Nothing. Heh heh.

Z-Girl: Well, what the hell are you laughing at then?

Z-Boy: I don't know. It's just funny. I mean, you used to be worried about having a little too much to drink at a party and throwing up or not being able to get up in the morning. And now you're declining to finish your cheeseburger because you're worried about heartburn.

Z-Girl: *snort* Man. Makes me feel kinda old.

Z-Boy: You should probably get used to that.

*********************************************

Z-Girl: Dude, that childbirth class was pretty stupid, but at least we get to eat at Ruby Tuesdays while we're in the area.

Z-Boy: Yeah.

*silent happy chowing down*

Z-Boy: You know, I noticed something the other day.

Z-Girl: What's that?

Z-Boy: Well, at work, we have these welding masks.

Z-Girl: Uh-huh.

Z-Boy: And I put one on the other day. And I had to loosen up the straps.

Z-Girl: Okay.

Z-Boy: And I started thinking that I always have to loosen up the straps.

Z-Girl: Yeah.

Z-Boy: And that's after whoever wore it before me already LOOSENED the straps to take it off.

Z-Girl: So?

Z-Boy: So. I have a big head. I'm just sayin'.

Z-Girl: *realizing where this is going*

Z-Boy: Like, a REALLY big head.

Z-Girl: Great.

Z-Boy: Just thought it was interesting.

Z-Girl: I'm ordering dessert.

Z-Boy: You deserve it.

***********************************************

Z-Girl: I don't know if we really have to go all crazy with waterproofing the room, though. Seroiusly.

Z-Boy: But, honey, NEW BED! NEW CARPET! Do you really want your water to break all over that stuff? We spent a lot of money.

Z-Girl: The thing is, though, most people's water doesn't even break until their at the hospital, in labor.

Z-Boy: Most people's?

Z-Girl: Yeah.

Z-Boy: Well, do most people have to take aspirin and progesterone when they get pregnant?

Z-Girl: Um...

Z-Boy: And do most people have crazy cervixes and get bedrested for two months?

Z-Girl: Okay...

Z-Boy: And are most people's placentas in the front?

Z-Girl: Alright...

Z-Boy: And are most people's babies still breech at 35 weeks?

Z-Girl: Okay! Shut up! I'm smelling what you're stepping in.

Z-Boy: And?

Z-Girl: Why don't we get a waterproof sheet for the bed. And I'll keep towels next to it so I can sort of throw them around me like an adult diaper on the way to the bathroom if my water happens to break while I'm in bed.

Z-Boy: Sounds like a plan.

Well Slap My Ass and Call Me a Bird

*Click to Biggify*

I'm nesting like a motherfucker. The feathers are flying.

No Turtle debut yet. And hopefully s/he'll hang on for one more week. I'm 35 weeks today, 36 being considered full term by my OB.

Just thought I'd update.

And now, since I'm arms deep in my laundry room and, er, cat fur, I'll be on my way. This nesting shit is crazy. I've found energy I didn't know I had this late in the game. Yikes.

All About Me...And Then Some (More About Me)

Sometimes, while I'm waiting for ass-puncher carpet installers to show up, I like to play a little game. It's called, "What the Hell Was I Doing a Year Ago Today." So, I clicked on my April 2006 archives and scrolled down to April 11, and what I saw there made me feel like a ginormous ass. See, I had a Superhero Contest, which was awesome fun. And there was a winner. Namely, Phil. And being a winner meant that Phil deserved a prize. And did I ever fucking send one? No.

That's got me thinking about a lot of stuff. Which is good because I have plenty of time because these fucking carpet installers are now two hours late and according to the idiot woman in the office, they're finishing up another job and then they'll be here if they have time, so I've got a whole fucking vacation day to waste waiting for them and thinking about what a self-absorbed brat I've become.

And I'm sorry for it. The self-absorbed brat part. I'm sorry about the carpet asses, too, but they'll be more sorry once I tell everyone and their goddamned brother how much they suck and not to use their useless fucking company EVER. Ahem. But, with regard to the self-absorbed brat situation, I'm simply at a loss as to what to do about it. See, I've been through so much in the past year and a half. Not that I'm telling you all anything you don't already know. Most of you who are still hanging in there with me have been there through it. First miscarriage in September 05. Second in October 05. Third in March 06. And now the Turtle. And all the drama that that has entailed.

There's something I'm trying to say. Something that's itching to get out. And it might take a while to get there because I'm not so sure what it is. So bear with me.

I feel like I've been holding my breath since September 11th, when I got my positive pregnancy test. In hindsight, it was kind of a life affirming thing to happen on such a sad day, but at the time I really had no idea that this pregnancy would turn out any differently from the others. So that life affiirmation was lost on me. Carrying on...Subconsciously I credit my sheer willpower for the success of this pregnancy. Kind of like every time I fly I'm convinced we didn't crash because I willed it not to happen the whole time in air. And both scenarios are stupid and totally false. I know this. But I can't seem to stop my mind from being consumed.

And the end to that means is neglect of, mostly, people in my life. And my work has suffered to. But that'll recover. It's the people I worry about. Friendships I haven't been so good at maintaining because I can't seem to get my head out of my ass. Or my uterus. More likely my uterus. And that worries me. I just hope the people in my life will be around when this kid gets born and I find myself craving meaningul, adult interaction.

I've also neglected my writing. And that sucks. Writing has always been this great escape for me. And I felt that, after blogging quite consistently for over a year, I was really starting to understand the art of using the word fuck. Among others.

I'm a little scared. I'm scared that when I have this kid, that absorption won't stop. The obsessiveness. And it MUST. I am a firm believer in Mom's having lives of their own, ya know? I don't think kids learn squat about what it's like to be a grown-up, in particular, a grown-up woman, when Mom's sole purpose in life is her children. I think that kind of maternal smothering actually says the opposite of what I want my child, boy or girl, to think about women.

So, where do I go from here? I seroiusly don't know. I'm allowing myself six more weeks (or hopefully at least 3) to let this whole pregnancy thing rule my life. And then? And then there'll be a kid, hopefully, who eats and poops and cries. And it'll be completely independent of my body, so I won't have to worry about the chance of me fucking it up. Physically anyway. Heh. I have no doubts that my kid'll be at least a touch fucked up as a direct result of me. I mean, everyone's screwed up a little because of their parents, aren't they? I just hope I can be honest about my shortcomings.

I guess what I'm saying, and taking fucking forever to do so, is that if you'll hang in there just a little longer while I keep sucking, there is a light at the end of the tunnel. Now, if you were a male on the receiving end of a blow job, I'm sure you wouldn't mind one bit. But given that that's not the situation, your mileage may vary.

I'm hoping that someday soon I'll remove my pregnancy blinders and be able to take note of the other Super Heroes in my life. Because life outside my box, erm, eh, heh, I mean, the box, is lovely and insane. And I'd miss me if I stayed away much longer.

Now, if that made a bit of sense to any of you, I'd offer up a prize for your super hero understanding skillz. But, just ask Phil, I suck at giving prizes. So I'll just say, damn. You're good. And even if you didn't get it? Damn. You're still good. 'Cause neither did I. And damn, I'm good!

What's on My Mind...

Dear Mom,

Yeah, yeah. You need a vacation and all. I know. But really? Couldn't you go somewhere where the cell phone reception doesn't suck all hell? Because as much as I feign annoyance when YOU worry because you haven't talked to me in a day, it's, well, the feeling is mutual. My 7am Colorado time, 9am Jersey time phone call to you is sorely missed. How the hell am I supposed to know if my vocal chords work first thing in the morning if I don't have you to call and confirm?

Anyway, hurry back.

Love,
Zube Girl

*****************************************

Dear Vermont,

Um, I think some more cell phone towers are in order. Just sayin'.

Regards,
Zube Girl

*****************************************

Dear Carpet Salesperson Lady,

Firstly, fuck you.

Secondly, Farrah Fawcett wants her hair-do back.

Thirdly, I don't know what possessed you to lock us into an order without a call of warning that the carpet we picked was SPECIAL ORDER and would sit and wait in cue until enough people had ordered it to warrant the factory pulling the shit of the shelves for a cutting. I was no great shakes as a door salesperson, or maybe I was, but if a customer wanted a door, and I discovered upon ordering it that it would take weeks longer than they anticipated to arrive, I would have called them and asked them if they preferred another door or wanted to wait a while for the particular door they picked. We didn't have our heart set on that carpet. It was something to cover the fucking floor with. And, when I ordered it, you even commented that it would be here WELL before any baby arrived. Yet, somehow, that may not happen. I hate you. But I won't tell you that until the carpet gets in and I HOUND your fucking ass to get your installers over here posthaste. After the carpet is installed, I will bitch you out. And badmouth you around town. That's how advertising works. Both good and bad.

Fourthly, I am totally onto you. Coke-head. I know your little secret, Ms. Sniffles.

Sincerely,
Zube Girl

*******************************************

Dear Rings,

I will see you in a few months. The "Let's See If I Can Still Take Them Off" game was getting a bit too sketch for my taste.

Love,
Zube Girl

*******************************************

Dear Birthing Class Lady,

Overall, considering that Zube Boy and I had no interest in attending birthing classes due to the fact that women have been doing this shit for thousands of years without education on the matter, spending our Saturday with you wasn't so bad. We got to meet that really neat couple who is due a week before us and ALSO doesn't know what they are having, so it was kind of worth it.

Anyway, we really could have done without the closing Relaxation Exercise. Talk about the 10 most UNrelaxing minutes of my life.

See, first of all, the relaxation tape with the lady with the most NON-soothing voice I've ever heard? Skipped. Totally NOT relaxing. Though, her heart was in it. She deserves some sort of mention for all of her eager encouragement to relax every part of our body from our toes to our head.

But, the thing is, when I'm in a pitch dark room, with four other couples, seated and reclined between the legs of my mate, and someone, on tape, or in person I would imagine, instructs me to focus on my buttocks and release the tension there-in, well, said someone has managed to transform me from a relaxed blob into a snorting, convulsing, trying not to laugh, mess. And, when my husband? Has to tell ME to settle down in hushed tones? And other people start giggling? And so I start giggling HARDER? It makes the whole relaxation trip from the buttocks up to the top of the head utterly pointless. Because I'm so not there.

Ditch the tape. Other than that, I kind of appreciated the lifesize illustrations of just how squished up my innards are by the Turtle. I think it helped the mister to be a little more understanding of my heartburn, nausea, starving but can't eat a full meal whining, seeing as how my stomach is flat as as a pancake up under my also very flattened diaphram. And that is much appreciated.

Yours Truly,
Zube Girl

Who's Your Daddy?

Z-Boy: You're getting really excited. I can tell.

Z-Girl: Well, yeah. Aren't you?

Z-Boy: What's so exciting?*

Z-Girl: I don't know. Aren't you looking forward to someone calling you Daddy?

Z-Boy: Heh.

Z-Girl: I mean, someone who isn't a prostitute.

Z-Boy: Or your Mom?

Z-Girl: Ew. That wasn't even funny.

*Just so you know, of course Zube Boy is excited. But any excitement he feels does not hinder his inherent need to fuck with me.

PS- Because some of you are too kind for words, and have asked about our registry for the Turtle, I've posted a link over yonder under the 'First and Foremost' heading. Please know I'm NOT fishing for gifts. We have hand-me-downs coming out of our collective arses, so we really aren't in need of much. But since some have inquired, there it is.

Your Ninth Life Is Up, My Feline Friend...

When your Mom tells you it's time to update your blog, it's, uh, really time to update your blog.

Do you ever feel like, sometimes everyone is in The Know? And you are out of The Know? It's a rather awkward feeling, especially when you're me. And you like to pretend you freakin' LIVE in The Know. I'm, like, the Mayor and shit.

Anyway, the other day I was totally NOT in The Know.

The Scene: I'm driving to the bank. Whee!

Z-Girl: Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god! I LOVE this song!

Z-Girl: *turns up the radio loud enough so that everyone within 20 feet of my car and The Turtle can hear it* In the aaaaaaaaaaaarms of an angel...far away from here...

Z-Girl: Dude, why are people looking at me? I'm not singing that loud...

Z-Girl: Hmm, now they're pointing...

Z-Girl: ...in this cold dark hotel room...

Z-Girl: What in the fuck is that guy's problem??? Flashing his lights! Is he trying to tell me something?

Right about now, my lifetime membership to the Genius Club should have been revoked. Immediately. And perhaps the Mental and Visual Acuity Guild should reconsider my application.

Z-Girl: Okay, now he's waving his arms, trying to get my attention. Something is up...

Z-Girl: *Turns down the music and pokes her head, annoyedly, I might add, out the window* WHAT?!?!

Dude in the Car Behind Me: Blah, blah, blah, BLAH!

Z-Girl: What? I can't hear you!

DITCBM: THERE'S A CAT ON YOUR CAR ROOF!

Z-Girl: *silence*

As I'm driving down Main Street in the middle of March, in a ski town, SPRING BREAK 2008, RAAAAAAAAH!, people, hordes and crowds of the fuckers, begin to gather around me.

Z-Girl: *smacks forehead*

Z-Girl: *Turns, slowly, onto a side road*

The crowd of people follow.

Z-Girl: You have got to be fucking kidding me. *steps out of the car* Indeed, no one is fucking kidding me.

There sat, or rather, should I say, splayed out as flat as she could be, was Zoey. I'm sure the folks gathered 'round me enjoyed the show. A pregnant lady, trying to fish a cat off her car roof without smooshing her unborn. I finally got my hands on her and tossed her into the car, while everyone cheered.

It was embarassing. And also? A little freaky. I had driven two miles. Going a maximum speed of about 40. Ish. Maybe 45. Because the speed limit is 40 and I abide strongly by the '5 miles an hour over' rule.

Anyway, we're all safe and sound now. Though, hopefully, next time Zoey will know to jump the hell off the car when it starts. I don't know how I missed her when I left. All I can think is that she was laying down, baking gloriously in the sun, like a cat on a hot car roof, and I drive a jeep and happen to not be all that tall, and missed her.

Anywho...

Things on the Turtle front are still hunky dory. Here's a gratuitous photo for your viewing pleasure. Have you ever heard of orbs in photographs? Some think they are spirits of the deceased. Check out the orb floating right by my belly. I like to think it's a dead relative keeping an eye on things in there...

An Ass-Kicking Fetus and Other Such Nonsense

-Last night I had a dream that my blog was funny again and didn't talk about being knocked up. Then I woke up.

-I've been hiding out in a little cocoonish world lately. I'm not sad or depressed or anything like that. At least I don't think I am. I'm just really, really hoping this works, and I plod through each day working and watching tv, only to look up at the clock in the evening and go, "Holy shit, I can't believe another whole day has gone by."

-This morning, I was spooning Zube Boy. His ass was all up in my belly. The Turtle started kicking. Zube Boy said, "Did the Turtle just kick my ass?" I said, "Smart kid, that one."

-I'm really, really looking forward to that moment in the delivery room when the doctor sees the kids bits and says, "It's a GIRL!" or "It's a BOY!" Imagining how cool that moment will be has gotten me through many an ultrasound without the temptation to find out what the Turtle's sex is.

-We've settled on a few girl's names. The middle name will be Jane, for my maternal grandmother, Janet. First names in the running are Cora and Fiona. I also really fucking dig Esme, but how the fuck do you pronounce it? I say it Ezmee, but I don't know if that's right. We'd like to have a few names picked out, because what if the kid comes out and totally doesn't look like the one name we've settled on? We're having a bit of difficulty with boys' names. The middle name will be Michael, 'cause that's Zube Boys first name and it's his family tradition to do that. I've got my heart set on the name Otto, Zube Boy's maternal grandfather's name, but I think I may be losing the battle on that one. Seamus* is on the table which goes very nicely with out Mc-Last Name. Naming a kid? Is fucking hard.

*Pronounced, and sometimes spelled, Shamus. It's Irish for James. I think some of you might be pronouncing it See-mus. Just thought I'd clarify.

I Laughed...I Cried...'Cause I Was Laughing So Hard...And...Let Me Check...Yup...Still Laughing...

Phil, I have to tell you that you have truly outdone yourself. And abso-fucking-lutely made my day. But, before I get to the good stuff, I have to ask you a favor.

STOP having my handwriting! Seriously. It fucking freaked me out. When I received the package, I honest to goodness had to think for a moment about whether or not I'd sent myself something. It was scary. Here, have a look...



This is how the package was addressed. And yes. That is my PO Box. I feel safe putting it up here. You know why? Because if I got to get my mail and some creepy motherfucker is standing by my box (heh, I said box) with a trench coat on looking a little too interested in my box's visitors (heh, again...okay, I need to grow up), then I'll just fucking turn around. Because really, it's not every day that people send me cool shit. Mostly I get bills. Lots of 'em. I'm still getting bills for the little embryos I never got to keep. So, I'm usually more than happy to put off a visit to the post office. Ya hear that Brad? Eh, who am I kidding. I think Angelina's got a tight leash on him because he hasn't been bother me as much these days. And he knows where I live anyway.

Where was I? Oh yes. Now, for shits and giggles, I've rewritten the address for all of you in my own handwriting:



Uncanny, eh? I thought so.

But now, onto the important stuff. Check out what this package contained...





The Turtle is going to wear this ALL. THE. TIME. As soon as it fits. And until then, I think I'm going to wear it. On my leg. Because this turtle outfit is too fucking cool to sit in a drawer.

Thank you profusely, Phil. I love it. Zube Boy (who, by the way, knows you by the name of Volume 7, for your comment over here, which he thought was perfect and swore was true!) thanks you, and the Turtle thanks you! I've been smiling like a goon for hours now. Heh.

Well, It's No Pulitzer...

But I feel all cool, nonetheless. I've shared with you a couple of poems from Valentine's Days past that I've submitted to the Love Notes section of our local newspaper. This year's poem won me first place! Do I kick ass or what?

Here 'tis:



Mike,

In last year’s poem
I got on your case
About being stuck on the couch
With your leg in a brace.

And now it would seem
That the tables have turned
And it’s the image of my butt
On our couch being burned.

I had always thought
Pregnant women start nesting.
But oddly, you’re cleaning
While I’m here bed-resting.

Let’s hope that it keeps
The little one cooking a bit longer
With each passing week
He or she is getting stronger.

So thank you for fetching me
Bon bons and juice.
Here’s to hoping in May
You’ll be tying my shoes.

With a Valentine like you,
My life is certainly complete,
But I know that we’ll swoon
When our family welcomes two more little feet.

Love,
Zube

PS- You are going to be the best Dad ever. I just know it.

**************************************************

AND, for those of you playing along at home, my appointment on Thursday went well. My cervix measured 3cm. Totally and completely average. Never did I think I'd be so happy to settle for mediocrity. But I am.

I'm also 26 weeks and a few days. My initial goal of at least 28 weeks seemed quite daunting when I was only 21 weeks. But now, it's seeming attainable. Whew.

Now, Before You Start Yelling...

Hear me out. I wanted to share with you the testimony I read on Monday to the Senate Hearing Committe who would decide whether or not to pass SB 60, a bill that would require hospitals to inform rape victims in the ER about emergency contraception, onto the Senate floor.

But first, let me disclaimer away...

-I have an appointment tomorrow and the doctor said he would actually like to see how my body handles a bit of activity since, at the last appointment, things were looking good.

-I only spoke for four minutes. Not much standing at all.

-I think the stress of NOT speaking out would have been more detrimental than anything else.

I think that's all. Onto my testimony...

I am here today in the hopes that my story might encourage you to vote yes on SB 60. When I was a twenty-year-old college student, an acquaintance offered to give me a ride to the grocery store upon hearing my car was broken down. At the end of that evening, I was a survivor of rape. A few weeks later, eleven years ago on Valentine’s Day, my college housemates bought me a pregnancy test and encouraged me to take it in the hopes that I’d stop worrying about something as unlikely as a pregnancy resulting from the attack.

I remember taking that test as though it happened just yesterday. My three roommates anxiously gathered in the common area. Me, leaning against the sink in the bathroom, hands trembling, reading the pregnancy test instructions. The second pink line showing up immediately. Running out of the bathroom, past my roommates, slamming my bedroom door and collapsing on my bed. Sobbing into my pillow. Hearing the shuffle of my roommates in the bathroom, whispering confirmation of what my reaction had already told them was true.

I remember thinking why me? Why would I be one of the unlucky few? So many of the statistics I’d heard, in all of my Pro-Life upbringing, proclaimed that getting pregnant as a result of rape was extremely rare. As in, a 1% chance. And I’d clung to that statistic, trying desperately to ignore the queasiness and exhaustion of early pregnancy. Surely I’d be one of the 99%.

I can never fully convey the horror of that day. I felt violated. Not once. But twice. First by a friend of a friend. And then, by my own body. My body, which, according to my rudimentary understanding at the time of what my Pro-Life compatriots had always told me, was supposed to release chemicals after the rape that would reject a pregnancy.

Now I know that those statistics and the talk of one’s body rejecting a pregnancy after rape are not true. For the simple reason that, as many times as I have shared my story, which is many in the past few years, at least one woman has pulled me aside and told me that, she too, became pregnant as a result of rape. It happens more than we know.

I can only imagine what life would have been, and would be like now, for me if I had not become pregnant. I’ve since learned that, while emergency contraception wasn’t widely available at the time, doctors were able to prescribe a number of birth control pills with a similar effect to Emergency Contraception. If I had only known, I might not have become pregnant at all. I might have been able to celebrate Valentine’s Day at a restaurant having dinner with my incredibly supportive boyfriend. Instead, I spent the evening contemplating just how and when I would tell my Mom and Dad.

In the end, with the support of my parents, family, and friends, I terminated the pregnancy. The experience left me with a greater understanding of what it is like to face an unwanted pregnancy, no matter the circumstances. I now support Choice and the rights of women to make decisions regarding their own medical care when it comes to their reproductive lives.

It would be my dream that no woman would have to endure the trauma of being raped. More so, I dream that a survivor of rape would never have to face a pregnancy resulting from the attack. Those dreams are unlikely to ever be realized. However, providing rape victims with information about Emergency Contraception is one step in the right direction. I can only hope that all of you here will understand the importance of providing rape victims with all of the relevant information regarding their care. And that includes information about Emergency Contraception and the possibility of preventing pregnancy.

I am now 25 weeks pregnant. My husband and I are expecting our first child. It has been a struggle to get here. We suffered three miscarriages last year. With each loss, I struggled with the question of why. Why would my body maintain a pregnancy after rape while failing to keep those I’d made together with a loving man? A nice man. A man who would never, in a million years, dream of harming me. I will never know. Had I been able to prevent the pregnancy eleven years ago, I would never wonder about that one aspect of an already heart wrenching situation.

Life as a survivor of rape is difficult enough. The overwhelming sense of not being in control of my body and my fate is a feeling I’ve shared and discussed with other survivors. Withholding pertinent medical information from someone on the threshold of a struggle to regain control is unspeakable. Please put control back in the hands of those to whom it belongs. The rape victim.


And...drumroll please...the bill was passed on UNANIMOUSLY by all eleven committee members. Which was a complete surprise. I feel like I made a difference, somehow.

It's Raining...Uh...Zube's.

Some of you have asked to see my belly shots. I didn't have any to speak of, up until now. That can be blamed on my being incapable of remembering that the digital camera charger has been safely stashed in my luggage since, hmmmm, September when I went to Chicago to see Zube Boy's and my family.

Anywho, I give to you, a knocked up Zube Girl...And some stray toothpaste spittles on the mirror (which are really damn high, now that I think about it...sorta makes me wonder if Zube Boy shakes his head after brushing his teeth all doggy post-doggy bath style while spitting the stuff out...hmmm):



In other news, I'm an Auntie. It's true. I hope I can be that screwed up crazy aunt whom my little niece feels that she can come to with any problem, big or small. I now have a wee one to empart my timeless wisdom upon. It'll be nice to impress upon her that if EVERYONE would just sit on the goddamned public restroom toilet seats already, germs wouldn't be an ISSUE because we wouldn't have to worry about sitting on some germophobes piss, thankyouverymuch.

Without further ado...Bro and little Kayla on her birthday, 1/25...Mom is recovering from 22 hours of labor and an emergency c-section and not quite up to smiling pretty for the cameras. I SO do not blame her one iota...



Last but not least, My Belle? My Little Baby Sister Belle? Is all knocked up. Apparently she heard my mother clucking about wanting grandkids and thought she'd step up. Mom made it clear that she hadn't been talking to HER so much as her older two siblings. Anywho, My Belle is due on July 4, 2007.

So, in the span of seven months, my mother, goddesswilling*, will be grandmothered not once. Not twice. But thrice. She's beside herself.

And, I can't wait to buy two of these and one of these so the kiddos can all wear them when I go home for Thanksgiving to visit.

Sheesh, I'm sounding awfully optimistic. You know, I still have this painfully nagarific voice in the back of my head wondering if I'll be the one who fails to bring the Zube Grandchild Trifecta to fruition. I've been telling it to shut the fuck up.

In Hoot news, not wanting to leave a sibling out, she swears off sex for eternity. All of these knocked up people are freaking her ass out. Heh.

*I was going to edit that to read goddess-willing, but the imagery of a goddess swilling made be giggle. And maybe snort a little, too. This goddess isn't presently swilling, though I'm sure a couple of beers would certainly make bedrest much more tolerable. But I'm sure there's SOME goddess out there swilling something. And that makes me smile.

I'm Bitter...Just a Little...

I'm sorry to leave you all hanging! My cervix measured well on Wednesday, so the bedrest seems to be doing something. I'm kind of, eh, pissy about this whole thing. Not the bedrest, necessarily. I'm pissed about the fact that I've been so 'good' this whole pregnancy, not allowing myself to tempt fate and get too excited, and I just don't understand why I have to go through this shit. I told my Dad, the night before the Big Ultrasound, the scary one, that after that appointment I was thinking about finally letting myself be happy. And now this. So I went 21 weeks keeping a low profile, and now 2 1/2 more doing the same. I haven't bought one single baby related thing. I think at six months pregnant, other women are finishing up nurseries, so they don't have to worry about doing it when they're all big and round. Then there's me, who's sifting through the shit ton of Baby and Parenting magazines at the doctor's office to read some TV Guide or AARP crap because I just can't bring myself to read magazines having to do with babies. Bleh.

I'm feeling sorry for myself, and it's not pretty.

I'd like to share a photo with you. If you can find the kid, you win my admiration and respect. Because it took me quite a while. Like an hour or so. Here 'tis...



I'm hanging in, sustained by some brownies Painting Chef sent me and wearing the most adorable pair of PJs she and Bonanza sent my way upon hearing that I had no maternity pajamas, just Zube Boy's pajama bottoms. Physically, I'm doing pretty okay. Mentally, sometimes, not so much.

Ah! PS- From now on, I have to approve your comments. It's a pain in the ass, but I'm sick to death of deleting 10 spam comments on 10 different entries a day. Seriously, it's that ridiculous. And I figure I'm on the computer most of the time anyway, so I'll approve them quickly. You don't have to agree with me. EVER. You can piss me off even. Just don't try to direct me to some website that sells girl on girl BDSM porn or some shit like that.

Edited to add:

Does this help with the interpretation of the ultrasound photo?

Because Nothing Compares...

To you and how much you all rock. PaintingChef and I are nothing if not collaborating bitches. How to drive our husbands crazy. How to make stupid people see the error of their ways. Which, in case you were wondering, is impossible. But fun to try, nonetheless. And most recently, we've figured out just how to fucking rock. I'm stealing her words and posting them here because, frankly, I've spent all day cajoling my dynamic cervix into, hopefully, submission in preparation for an appointment to check just how long she's decided to be this time. Very long I hope. And I don't see this conversation ending until around 3:30PM or so. When I have a date with the dildo-cam. Transvaginal ultrasound wand. Whatever. You get the picture. Wish us luck. The cervix, the Turtle, and I. Without further ado, in the words of Painting Chef...

There are certain songs that, as soon as I hear them, I’m instantly taken back to a very specific time and place. Driving with the windows down, age 16, never knowing what freedom and independence felt like until I was able to just get my damn self somewhere all own my own, thank you very much. Sitting with friends in a basement or a living room, sipping the beer we’d persuaded someone’s older brother to buy and trading gossip. Riding home in the middle of the night after a post-concert Vic & Bill’s run spent scarfing cheese fries and swapping hair and makeup tips with the drag queens from the club next door.

Somehow, while I was getting ready this morning, five or six of these songs played in a row on my iPod and I started wondering what songs did this same little time travel number on other people. My accidental playlist happened to place me squarely in the middle of my senior year in high school. 1994-95. So from this and a few conversations with Zube Girl sprang forth the idea for “Senior Year Soundtrack.” What are your senior year songs? Are they from high school or college? What are the stories behind them? And most of all…could you be persuaded to share them with the internet?

Here are the rules…

1. Pick a senior year.
2. Comment here or email me (paintingchef at gmail dot com) and let me know you’d like to participate. This is going to be a CD swapping situation…
3. Choose your songs (they don’t strictly have to be from that year only, just something that you listened to that year), burn an as yet to be determined number of copies.
4. Send them, along with the address where you would like your set of CDs sent, to me.
5. I will make everyone a set of CDs and send them back out. If you’re really sweet you can send me a few bucks to go towards postage… I tend to send sweet people cookies and puppies and rainbows and unicorns.
6. Put this little graphic on your blog if you want. But save it and post it your damn self. Don’t link to it here. That’s just mean. And mean people suck. So don’t suck.

He Loves Me...He Loves Me Not...

Z-Boy: How was your day, honey?

Z-Girl: Lame. How was work?

Z-Boy: Busy. What'd you do?

Z-Girl: Laid around missing you and wishing you were here to entertain me.

Z-Boy: Aw, I missed you, too.

Z-Girl: Well, honey, you know, you could set up a couch at your work and take me with you everyday and I could lay there and we could hang out together.

Z-Boy: I could also smash my nuts in a drawer over and over again for fun.

Z-Girl: Heh.

It Might Be Incompetent...

But at least it's dynamic. Though I prefer sparkly just a little bit. But, potayto, potahto. They both significantly describe my personality. And my girly bits.

My cervical length has changed three times since last Saturday when it was less than 2cm. Yesterday it was over 3cm, which is considered normal. I did a little happy dance, naturally nothing too strenuous given the activity restrictions I'm currently on. Which is probably a good thing because then today it was 2.2cm. Which is below normal. The specialist is thinking that I have a dynamic incompetent cervix. I blushed a little when he said it. I mean, he could have been hitting on me, ya know? Between the dildo-cam and calling my dynamic, this guy was pulling out all the stops.

Anywho, I get it checked again next week.

He definitely thinks there was some sort of small placental abruption, but looked for evidence of bleeding via ultrasound and could find nothing.

We're in a holding pattern for now. Though it's one that's a little less fraught with terror than the holding pattern over the past few days.

Thank you ALL for your love and support. I really got all comfy-cozy thinking that I'd earned myself some Normal Pregnant Person street cred what with all the miscarriages. But I guess it's just not in the cards for me to be a Normal Pregnant Person. Which is fine. So long as I get the poopy diapers and sleepless nights at the end.

Because...

...Typing while laying down sucks.

...I can only tell the tale so many times without losing my shit.

...You all are like family to me anyway...

I am posting a message here that I e-mailed to my family so you all know what we're up to. It's not as peppered with foul language as some of my posts are, but that's about the only difference between what I want to share with the people I love like family and the people I love just as much on the internets. Please keep us in your thoughts.


Hey all!

Sorry for the mass e-mail! I just wanted to let you know how we're doing. You might have heard through the family grapevine that I was in the hospital Saturday night showing signs of preterm labor. I'm 21 weeks along and had a routine ultrasound where they check the baby to make sure everything is measuring okay and all the essential organs are present. The good news is that the baby looks perfect. Sucking his or her thumb and somersaulting all over the place. The bad news is that my body has prematurely decided to get a little lazy with this business of cooking up a human. For any of my fellow Google-aholics out there, what I have is called an incompetent cervix. In any future pregnancies I'll be given a cerclage at 14 weeks as a preventative measure.

They were going to give me a cerclage on Saturday but in pre-op I was hooked up to a moniter which said that I was having minor contractions and unfortunately, once contractions have started, a cerclage is a bad idea. For now they've prescribed bedrest. I'm allowed to get up and go to the bathroom. And that's it. It is SO not fun. Especially given that I'm not a big fan of soap operas or those annoying injury lawyer commercials. But, hopefully, it will all be worth it in the end.

Incompetent cervix and contractions aren't the only things we have going on. They did a blood test which shows that I have a small amount of fetal cells in my blood. This can signify a placental abruption (another Google-worthy phrase). If that is the case, it is only a minor one. Women do stay pregnant with partial abruptions, we just have to moniter the growth of the baby closely to make sure the placenta is still doing it's job of nourishing him/her.

In addition I'm awaiting several cultures which will tell us if there is some kind of infection. A very, very bad thing would be if I have an infection in my blood. If that is the case, I'll have to have an immediate amniocintesis. If that shows the infection is in my uterus, things are dire. I'd rather not think about it, but you all can feel free to hope and pray like hell that that's not what's going on here. The doctor did say that she doesn't think this is the case as my white blood cell counts have been okay and I haven't had a fever. But it is a possibility.

If you wouldn't mind sending us some thoughts and prayers they would be greatly appreciated. Heck, we'll take voodoo and naked dances under the full moon if that's what you're into. We certainly don't discriminate against well wishes and whatever form they might take.

We're doing pretty well considering. I'm bored out of my skull but trying to keep my chin up. Friends have offered to help with the shopping and have already started bringing us dinners to help Zube Boy out since I'm pretty well incapacitated. Zube Boy is just incredible. Though he did daresay, I think buoyed by the fact that I'm unable to leap off of the couch and bitchslap him, "So, honey, I've done the dishes, the laundry, vacuumed, fed the animals, and made dinner. What do you do around here that takes up so much time anyway?" Hee. He'll be lucky if he survives this, I think. But really, he's handling being the only mobile human in the house fabulously.

My boss is going to get me set up to work from home, so fortunately we'll be able to endure this without losing my paycheck. She's also offered to send one of the hotel housekeepers over once a week to clean up because she rocks like that. I'm really lucky to work where I do.

Despite keeping up my general good spiritedness, I'm pretty damn sad. To be honest, it's entirely possible that this just might not work. I have an appointment on Thursday and I promise to keep you updated, but in the meantime I could use all the encouragement you can muster. I'm not really good at asking for stuff like that, but I'm a little desparate. Being stuck laying down 24 hours a day makes it really difficult to distract myself from worry.

I hope you're all doing well. Let me know! I have plenty of time to read your updates, both mundane and life-altering.

Thanks for reading my novella,

Love,
Zube Girl

Kind of like a party being busted by the cops...but the complete opposite.

Hey! Its PaintingChef, I've hacked Zube's blog so don't tell her because she would probably beat me up. Well, you know, except for the part where she sort of told me to post this.

So. Update on the Turtle...

Zube had a doctors appointment and an ultrasound and first thing first, the baby looks great. Everything is fine, it is measuring just right and hosting quite the kegger up in Zube's inner sanctum. The fetal football team are all congregating around the bar doing flaming shots while ogling the chicks and there are a couple of drunk sorority fetuses (fetii?) passed out in one corner but nobody is paying them any attention because those bitches can't hold their liquor anyway. Although I do think that someone drew a moustache on one of them

The not so great news, however, is that the party is quite full and threatening to be busted by the cops a little earlier than expected so Zube is having to have a small procedure called a cerclage to make sure everyone stays all tucked up in the house until the party has run its course.

So Zube and family are living it up at the hospital for a night while things get all squared away. She wanted me to let you all know what was going. And now I have.

~PaintingChef

This and That

-I am fine. The Turtle is fine. So far everything, save a few bumps in the road, looks okay.

-Work is really working me over. How appropriate. So, on top of the utter exhaustion I've been feeling as the Turtle sucks every spare and non-spare ounce of energy out of me, I've been working six days a week here and there. Fun stuff.

-The Episcopalians returned. I still love them as much as ever.

-I've been spotting for the past five weeks. It's kind of shut me up about this whole pregnancy thing. It is disconcerting to say the least, but totally explainable, so try not to worry. I've got worrying covered. I have a 'marginal anterior' placenta. 'Marginal' apparently means that my placenta is low and partially covering my cervix. This, I'm told, usually corrects itself as the pregnancy continues. But before it corrects itself, spotting is bound to occur. 'Anterior' means that instead of attaching itself to the back of my uterus, the Turtle implanted in the front. Which doesn't mean much at all except that, unfortunately, I won't feel those reassuring kicks and such until later in pregnancy because the placenta adds yet another buffer between the Turtle and my nerve endings.

-Yesterday Zube Boy and I went to dinner.

Z-Girl: Honey, do you know what's coming up?

Z-Boy: What?

Z-Girl: Well, January 8th is our six year dating anniversary.

Z-Boy: Ooooh. Six of the best years of my life.

Z-Girl: Aw.

Z-Boy: Down the drain.

Z-Girl: Bastard.

-I'm 19 weeks and 6 days today. You know what that means? I'll be 20 weeks tomorrow. And do you know what that means? I'll be about halfway there. That's been astounding the shit out of me, to be honest.

-I really want a brownie.

-With ice cream.

-And chocolate syrup.

-And whipped cream.

-I'm going to go have one.

-Now.

Sorry I left y'all hanging, YET AGAIN. I've just been plodding along trying not to count days, and that's meant I've kept myself really busy in both totally meaningful and totally meaningless ways.

So, I Married Prince Charming...Or, Maybe Not...But At Least He's Not An Ax Murderer...

The Scene: Zube Boy is cleaning up his work shop. Putting all the big tools in their places. Kind of like how I feel when I'm checking people in at the front desk sometimes. Heh. Anywho...

Z-Girl: Honey, it looks really, really good in here!

Z-Boy: Thanks...

Z-Girl: What's this?

Z-Boy: Oh, it's just some notebook...

Z-Girl: Awww, honey is it your diary?

Z-Boy: Yeah. It's my diary.

Z-Girl: *Grabs notebook from its position high upon a shelf*

Z-Boy: You should read it. It's filled with all of the happy memories I've had since we got married.

Z-Girl: *Opens notebook*

Z-Boy: Heh.

Z-Girl: You're a dick. It's empty.

Z-Boy: There's still plenty of time to fill it up.

*************************************************

The Scene: Zube Boy and some buddies, including our roommate at the time, Zig, went to Vegas for Zube Boy's bachelor party. Whatever happened there, stayed there...for the most part. There was one photo of two gentlemen, and I use the term gentlemen loosely here, sporting boxers, well, one was kind of not sporting them so much, that involved a Holy Bible, but other than that no evidence of the weekend made it home. I'm in the dark as to what occurred at Zube Boy's bachelor party, and I kind of prefer it that way. Anyway, upon returning home, Zig and Zube Boy dumped their luggage on the living room floor and Zig regaled me with some, ahem, 'business cards' in his wallet that he'd received from a few ladies down in Vegas. Some very fetching, and, er, naked ladies.

Z-Girl: Honey, you better not have any pictures of hot chicks in YOUR wallet.

Z-Boy: Oh, don't worry, I don't.

Z-Girl: *Opens up his wallet*

Z-Boy: *Smiles his ass off*

Z-Girl: *Sees that the only picture in his wallet is of...her*

Z-Boy: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Z-Girl: Shut up. You know, I really can't even say anything.

Z-Boy: Nope.

Zig: Dude, you kind of walked right into that one.

Z-Girl: Yeah.

Monkey Business

The Scene: We're watching The Omen. Damian is at the zoo freaking the fuck out of the monkeys.

Z-Boy: Honey...

Z-Girl: Yeah...

Z-Boy: I want a monkey.

Z-Girl: That's cool.

The big ass ape starts thrashing his body against the glass enclosure and Damian's mom is looking around, all wide-eyed looking like 'Dude, I totally think my kid is a fucking freak.'

Z-Girl: Honey...

Z-Boy: What?

Z-Girl: If you had a monkey, what would you name it?

Z-Boy: Hmmm...

Silence

Z-Boy: Teresa*.

Z-Girl: Fuck you, honey.

Sometimes I wonder if the Turtle is totally bored. Doesn't seem like there's a whole lot to do up in my cooch, ya know? Oh well, at least if it's a boy he's got something to play with. And if it's a girl, I'm sure she's thinking wickedly evil thoughts like her mother and that's quite a time passer.

Did I mention to you all that we're not finding out what The Turtle is? I wonder how crazy that will drive me? And you? But really, if it drives YOU crazy, well, then, that's the fun part. Me? Not so much.

*For those not in the know, that be my IRL name. Kind of like Zube is my IRL nickname. Or something.

I'm Like a Fucking Mathematician...

Heartbeat + Second Trimester = FUCKING WOOT!

She's a Zube Girl...

In her Zube World...

Would you like to know what happens in Zube World? Well, why don't I tell you...

Firstly, somehow three cats without opposable thumbs will manage to open a childproof bottle of aspirin and splay said aspirin all over the floor while you are sleeping. The floor, which will happen to be scattered with little tiny tufts of hair. Black hair. White hair. Gray hair. No blonde hair to be found. And, if you happen to be a Zube Girl, you'll have to pull pieces of hair off of said aspirin so that you can eat one because you woke up late and don't have time to stop at the grocery store and buy a new bottle and it is entirely possible that the only reason you've managed to stay pregnant this long is because aspirin is preventing any clots that might harm your precious little fetus.

Secondly, you will live in one pair of pants. And have to wash them every other day. Because they are the only ones that fit you. Well, they don't actually FIT you, persay. Unless one could consider the use of a hair band looped through the buttonhole to the button to fall into the definition of 'fit'. And it will probably be this way for a little bit. Because buying maternity clothes? Scary. It means that I totally believe this will work out. Which, well, I would like to. But, ya know. It's just scary to throw money at the idea.

I'm hanging in. 12 weeks and 4 days. I have an appointment tomorrow where I hope to hell we'll hear the heartbeat. After that? I think I'll breathe just a teeny bit easier. Because then my risk of miscarriage will fall to 3 or 4%. Not that I necessarily trust that I'd be lucky enough to be on the heaping end of odds. But I'll try.

I Could Just Die...Or Puke...You Never Can Tell...

But the cuteness overload is, at least to me, almost too much to bear...



I like to call this masterpiece The Odd Turtle.

Heartrate - 180 beats per minute

I'm measuring 11 weeks.

Holy shit, you guys. I might just be excited.

I do want to say that I know some of my dear readers may be a tad OVER it with the pregnancy talk and hoping each day that maybe, just maybe, I'll post something about yelling at police officers or pant shrinking gnomes, but I'm simply consumed with this subject. And since, in real life, I curb the pregnancy talk, it sort of oozes out of me here.

Somebody'll piss me off soon, I'm sure. 'Cause let me tell you, these hormones? Are sure to fill a woman with a little piss and vinegar.

I mean, those clueless assholes who were strutting down the center of the parking lot to get to their car while I idled behind them have NO idea how close they came to being my newly acquired bumper decor. Truly.

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.