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.