44. The Waiting Room

Wesley - have I mentioned Wesley yet? We call him Wes, and other things. He was Inside Baby just six weeks ago. Now he's outside, BABY! I like him a lot more on this side, out of reach of my bladder and ribs.

So, Wes and I were in the waiting room of my OB for my six-week check-up. It was a busy day and there were probably 8ish other people waiting, waiting, waiting, including a couple people with anxious toddlers. It was silent in there and you could cut the MY-APPOINTMENT-WAS-SUPPOSED-TO-BE-20-MINUTES-AGO tension with a knife, or speculum, or pap swab.

Wes is chilling in the stroller and then, "Pfffffft!" A fart. A really good one. There was a small chuckle from one of the ladies and I said, "Excuse you, Wesley!" And then the little girl toddler (complete with high pigtails and ribbons - I DIE) says with a sly grin on her face, "Baaaaabyyyyy." I died again and everyone laughed. It was possibly my proudest moment of Wesley so far.

43. Back in the game.

It's been several weeks since my last post. These silent weeks were arguably the juiciest, blog-worthy weeks of my life so far what with all the EXTREME PREGNANCY and DELIVERING A HUMAN and then KEEPING A TINY HUMAN WORM ALIVE. But I was busy.

The bud offered a moment today to get me back in the game.

I was changing his diaper and he said, quite matter-of-factly, "Mommy workin' the poop." 

Yes, bud. Mommy is most definitely working the poop.

42. Because it's real.

I'm eating every single emotion of this pregnancy.

Every.

Single.

One.

.
.
.
.
.

LAY OFF ME I'M STARVING AND PREGNANT AND SHUT YO' MOUTH AND THOUGHTS BECAUSE I CAN HEAR YOU.

41 and counting

Let's talk about the Duggars. The Duggers are a family with two parents and NINETEEN CHILDREN. They have a reality show, naturally, which started out as "17 and Counting" (I think) and it went up from there each time they made a person.

Two things. Just two of one hundred thousand thoughts and questions I have about baring children non-stop.

1. How the hell do they remember all their names? Really. And they all start with the same letter! I don't know all the names but I've heard some and I'm like MMMMMMMM nah. That's a stretch. Just assign them a number.

2. I get that when you have two, three, four, five, six kids that a parents' love does not get divided but multiplies. But when you're talking twelve, thirteen, fourteen AND MORE kids, when are you like, "Okay, hi baby, welcome to The System." And sure, care for them and treat them with respect and everything. But does a parents' love truly expand to NINETEEN?!?!?!

... asking for a judgmental friend ...

40! Wait a sec.

Is it really called menopause? MEN-o-pause? I know it's like latin or something, but were there really no other versions of the root words that could be used?

Maybe it's ironically accurate - something about men taking pause. There's a joke or a proverb in there somewhere.

It's already so annoying when a man, referring to him and his pregnant partner, say "We're pregnant!"

No, baby cakes, only ONE person is pregnant. And if that person is me, then I'll probably never let Wayne hear the end of it.

For the record, Wayne doesn't say "we" are pregnant. He's a wise, wise man. But there are enough other things about pregnancy, labor, birth, recovery, and breastfeeding for me to discuss [rationally, always] for the rest of time so he could literally never hear the end of it. Good thing he says he's always so interested in this stuff! (Just. Kidding.)

39 - All about dat gas

With pregnancy comes gas. The kind that passes through one's ass. During this, my second pregnancy, I care EVEN LESS about being courteous - or whatever - about this side effect. Sometimes it's controllable, but many times it's not! It's just a thing. Everything is squished in there and the clinch & hold is not eeeeven happening right now. I'm having a hard enough time keeping pee inside of me.

I could regale you with stories of 'tooting' in public but for some reason I'm feeling shy about it. Hehe. So just give a pregnant lady a break - that's all I have to say about that.

Except for this one thing, which is to say that my backup plan in any scenario in which I don't want to own up to a fart is to blame it on Emmett.

#38

As if it weren't enough that I'm sacrificing my body and basically my entire existence for the sake of growing this new person - my BRAIN is affected, too. Studies show that late in pregnancy a pregnant person's brain can shrink between 4-8% (sited at thatstudythatcameupongoogle.com by That Person Who Wrote the Article). THAT IS SERIOUS!!! And I. Am. Feeling it.

At my OB's office recently I was filling out some pre-admission paperwork (for when I get admitted to the hospital to GIVE BIRTH, no big deal). I was using a clipboard. That was difficult because do I awkwardly put the clipboard on my "lap" that barely exists anymore (#bump) or do I even more awkwardly use my bulging torso as a table?. I really had no choice but to do the latter. As much as I hated it.

I went up to the window to return the paperwork and clipboard. As I approached the window I extended the clipboard out to pass it through to the lady behind the desk and *CLUNK/RATTLE/BOOM* I ran that clipboard right into the window. I could have sworn that thing was open! No. It was closed. All the ladies in the office started laughing (as did I, because WOW) and one of them said, "I'm only laughing because it's YOU!" Which I decided to take as an endearing nod of friendship. Taking it any other way would be too damn embarrassing.

And I mean for reals, the waiting room was SO QUIET and everyone was a little on edge because our doc was running 45-60mins behind that day and BOOM I run into the window. I guess I have a knack for cutting the tension. With a clipboard. :\

(At least it didn't shatter, or even crack. Whew.)

37. That moment. That thing.

That moment when you squeeze through a partially open door by turning to your side and doing a little shimmy. #nailedit

That moment when you turn to your side but you still don't fit, then suck it and tuck it and barely squeeze through the partially open door, but made it. #babybump

That moment when you turn to the side, your belly hits the door like OOPS (but really you're thinking, wtf?, as you bounce off the door, surprised at how hard your bump is). No way you're gonna fit, so you walk through the opening belly-first holding your shoulders up to make yourself a little more narrow. THIS IS THAT THING. When your side-to-side measurement is smaller than your front-to-back measurement and turning to the side to squeeze through places is no longer an option for you. #HUGEROCKBELLY #squeezingthroughacrowdedrestaurantisespeciallybad #headsarebellyheight

36 - Domestication.

I recently began learning how to cook in a real way. Do you know how easy it is to bake chicken breast?!

This weekend I challenged myself to make meals for the week using the stuff we had on hand. (Okay, I cheated a tiny bit and got a couple things from the grocery store to complete some recipes.)

This meant meal planning. Meal prepping. And me, barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen. Oy. I AM ALL THE CLICHES.

I spent 5 hours in the kitchen making meals. It was crazy. Like actually crazy. I was racing against the clock because we had a babysitter coming promptly at 7pm. The babysitter coming means drop EVERYTHING and run out the door. Because. Babysitter. Get da hell outta there and be toddler-free.

I was crushing it, nailing it, so pumped. I made so much food and some of it is even truly delicious.

Time was ticking away and I hadn't eaten dinner yet. Surrounded by all this food, and hadn't eaten! The time came. The babysitter arrived. I had to do something. I'm pregnant, for God's sake! Feed the baby('s mother's thighs).

You know what I ate? After all that. I walked out of the house with a baggie of pretzels & cheese, and an apple wrapped up in a paper towel (which doubled as cutting board then napkin on-the-go).

WTF is my prob? Am I actually a toddler? (Well, cheese IS delicious. Who am I kidding.)  

35. The age that feels like real adulthood, no excuses, and people start saying things about women's reproductive parts. Screw you people.

I'd like to point out that the title for this post is my longest yet and it might be my favorite.

This post is actually a note about strollers and the life one lives when the stroller reigns. But before we jump in, I would like to give a nod toward the title I mentioned and say that people should mind their damn business when a woman turns 35 and doesn't have kids. In general people should mind their business, but there is such a THING about women and turning 35 and people being like, "OOOOOH her eggs are all automatically shriveled up" and "Now [one day later than yesterday, when she was 34] it'll be SO HARD for her to get pregnant and when she does the kid will probably be developmentally delayed, like, for sure" and "She's 35? I wonder if she wants kids. She should really think about that" and BLAH BLAH.

Full disclosure - I have totally had these thoughts. More disclosure - I recognized those thoughts, blew them up, and asked forgiveness from the females of the universe for making all the judgements. (They forgave me. Thank you, females.)

I've read so much about pregnancy and asked my OB and other medical pro's so many questions, especially the absurd ones. PEOPLE - let's just shut up about other peoples' medical business, agreed? Let's send blessings instead of judgements. Wish happiness instead of guilt.

The lady parts are powerful. Let's respect them.

Now I don't want to talk about the stroller thing.

#imwithallthehers #andalltheutes

34: The Pregnant Olympian

I was headed to the grocery store. I didn't have the bud with me (grocery store with no bud is my equivalent of a spa day, thank ya, Jesus!). I was flying solo. I had parked and was riding up the escalator from the parking garage. Now in my third trimester and feeling every bit of it, I was challenging myself to walk briskly up those escalator steps even though I didn't have to. I did it - really a great pace. As I was nearing the top I saw a woman coming toward me. She was coming at me at such a pace that we would arrive at the intersection of my escalator exit and her walking-towards-the store entrance at the same time. I decided I wouldn't let this happen. I WOULD beat her to the intersection and I WOULD clear her path without any doubt of my physical dominance no matter how pregnant I am. By the way, this was an older woman - my senior by at least thirty or forty years. Also by the way, I've been watching the Olympics and I am a total super fan of anything Olympiad. I felt this particular competition was in the bag. I picked up my pace, really focusing on my breathing to get maximum power. And - I made it. I took that corner like a freaking pro - probably set an OR (Olympic Record) if not a WR (World Record) and snuck right past my competitor, keeping up my pace through the turn and right into the grocery store. To say I was pleased with myself would be an understatement. In my mind I had a gold medal around my neck.

I crossed paths with the woman again in the produce section. My competitor had heart monitor stickers on her upper chest. But my medal was still legit.

33: A List

Toddlers are:

1. Neanderthals
2. The most high maintenance employers one will ever have
3. Tiny drunk adults
4. A terrible investment
5. Stand up comedians
6. REALLY bad at knowing what is and is not to be to put in one's mouth
7. Always looking good and feeling good
8. Capable of turning a dreadful day into the best day ever with just one giggle or hug
9. The worst roommates ever
10. Our future! THESE people are our future! THESE ONES!

32: This is my age! I am 32!

How many of you baby-wipe-carrying people use baby wipes to wipe things other than a baby and operate as if that freshly-wiped thing is now completely sanitary?

Anyone?

Asking for a friend.

31 - One more thing I should probably not state publicly.

I'm jumping into the middle of a whole storied day, here, so just a few tidbits of context first:
 - Emmett's sleep schedule was thrown off all day because of an accidental car nap in the morning (read: NOT ENOUGH SLEEP)
 - At the time we start this story it was 30 minutes past bedtime
 - We (the bud and I) were driving in the car

This scenario is a ripe for a car nap exactly when one should NOT have a car nap.

The bud also had an early dinner and by this point he needed at least a snack before throwing him in the crib for the night.

Well, GOOD THING I HAD A BAG OF TORTILLA CHIPS WITH ME!

I passed him one tortilla chip (excuse me, organic blue corn tortilla chip) at a time back to his little hand wagging in the air from his back-facing carseat. This accomplished two things:
1. Kept him awake on the way home, and
2. Put a little something in his belly - it was chips, but at least it was something.
Actually, here's one more thing - 3. It was great entertainment for me because his little hand wagging in the air from his carseat in the back, awaiting a gift from the front, is just about the cutest thing you've ever seen.

When we got home I lifted him out of his carseat and low and behold there were several partial chips there on the seat that snuck through the bud's hands and fell down off his lap. I didn't want to leave them there (because I'm so annoyed at my past self when my current self goes to put the bud in the car and finds a small pile of stale food from the last round of car snacking waiting for us in his carseat - gross). I was out of little trash baggies that I would usually use for this type of thing and we don't have a trashcan nearby in our parking garage. So without hesitation I popped those chips in my mouth. All of 'em. Scooped them up and tossed them back like it was absolutely normal. I did have a fraction of a second of logical thought about it - and this was still my best conclusion. To eat the tortilla chips that my tiny son probably slobbered on, rubbed around in his sticky little hand, dropped in his seat, and rested his [clothed] butt cheeks on for 20 minutes.

I felt pretty great about my decision (they were still a little crunchy!) until a few chews in and I tasted the essence of diaper. A couple more chews and the diap taste was overpowering. But CLEAN diap. And his carseat was ready and waiting for our next hurry-we're-late dash out the door so all in all, WIN.

30. The new 20.

This has nothing to do with 30 being the new 20, but I think it's a funny thing to put as a title.

It's been rather hot where we live and I've been unmotivated to go outside in such heat with my tiny person whose skin is as fair as mine, and me with my pregnant bun-oven already cranking up my internal temp.

So today the bud and I went to the mall. The nearest indoor mall to us (which is not the nearest mall to us) and we were greeted by magnificent air conditioning and new sights to see. I really rallied myself to get us there. Errands and going about town don't usually take so much out of me but as per my previous post I'm still getting past the "meh" in my head and the tired in my body, particularly with the part of life that is figuring out how to entertain the bud with things he'll enjoy, and ideally things I'll enjoy with him. You might be thinking - why would a toddler enjoy the mall? And I will tell you - the people to watch, the bright things to see, and the comfy, COMFY, air conditioning.

I had no solid plan of what to do when we got there. At the very least I figured I'd find a 70-yr-old mall-walker and follow that guy's path until Emmett's internal alarm for TIME FOR SOMETHING NEW went off, then we'd leave.

And now this is the story of The Gifts from The Mall:

My phone battery was at 8%. May as well take me out back and put me out of my misery if that thing dies (no WAZE?!), so I had to figure something out. I remembered to bring a battery pack but left the charging cable at home. Classic. Not 20 seconds into our mall adventure I walk by a small kiosk in a department store and thought - they must have a charging cable at this $10 And Under kiosk amongst the neon paraphernalia and furry keychains. They did (a hot pink one, score - so anyone 'borrowing' it will be caught pink-handed) and I happened to have a very, very old gift card for this department store that came within coins of covering the cost of the cable.

BOOM. Gift.

We were trolling for mall-walkers when I decided to pop into Baby GAP, just to see (maybe check out their maternity clothes area?) and imagine my disappointment when the clerk told me they cleared out their maternity section and will only be selling it online now!

Dear GAP - This is dumb. We pregnant people may make up a small percentage of your customer base but I assure you, when we are no longer pregnant WE HAVE BABIES and then CHILDREN and we want them to wear your clothes. Please treat us well while we are arguably insane and our bodies are changing every week and we are just trying to look cute and feel good so please, please let us try on these weird, paneled versions of your 1969's in the store and not have to deal with online returns if something doesn't fit because we will already be devaaassstaaaateeed that even though the size chart says "we" should be a Medium based on our pre-pregnancy size, "we" are truly a Large. And if I get this pregnant bod and that toddler to GLENDALE then I'll be damned if you can't just put some clothes on a friggin' rack.
Thank you,
Meg Miller

Anyway.

The clerk said to me, "We actually have a few maternity items here behind the counter, though, if you want to look through them."
I hesitated, figuring they're all either tiny sizes or super frumpy.
She said, "These items came here from another store just to clear the inventory and everything is marked down."
Marked down, eh?
"And everything is 90% off the ticketed price," she said!!!!
What? I mean, "It's 90% off the already marked down price?"
"Yes," she said!!!!
"Well, sure, I may as well take a look," I said. (!!!!)

I walked outta that place with two pairs of pants, a shirt, and a dress for a grand total of $3.49! USD! Including tax! Okay, GAP, okay. Thanks for that.

BOOM. Gift.

I also walked out of that place with a little bud who made himself a very stinky diaper while vrooming around the fitting room with his dump truck (the irony). And zero diapers. Yes, I left the house with ZERO DIAPERS.

We went directly to Target where I thought pretty hard about what diapers to get - the cheap ones just to get us through? The slightly more expensive ones we usually get [20% off from Amazon Mom, delivered to our door] because those are the ones we like the best? I went with the cheap ones, purchased them, had a tally of just three dirty looks from people with keen sniffers, went into the bathroom, and discovered/remembered that Emmett wears size 5 diapers. Not the size 3's that I just opened. Whatever. I went for it because dude's poop was kinda watery and it soaked through to his shorts. He's on the table, pant-less. There is no time, NO TIME!

The bud wasn't having it. The toilets were flushing, loudly. Everyone was opting for the hand blow-dryer instead of paper towels, loudly. There were a hundred people in there. Emmett was real bummed, like, reeeal bummed. I calmly sang Old MacDonald and Wheels on the Bus as if he gave a shit (pun) and as if he could even hear me over the chaos. Eventually the loud noises stopped, the bud was happy and diapered, and remained pant-less and strapped into his stroller, wagging his finger toward everything we passed asking, "Whussat? Whussat?" as we exited the bathroom.

I decided to try returning or exchanging the pack of diapers. Thankfully I got a 40-something, mom/aunt type lady when I stepped up to the Guest Services counter. As I glanced at Emmett's bare baby thighs and exposed diaper, I said, "Ummmmmmmmmm, we just had a sort of diaper emergency and I purchased this pack of diapers which is actually two sizes too small. I used one, but I'm wondering if I may exchange them, or...?" The lady asked for my receipt, gave me a reassuring look, scanned the diaper pack and handed me $7.07.

BOOM. Gift.

THANK YOU, TARGET. Thank you for the complimentary diaper that barely covered my son's pant-less cheeks because of my baby brain moment. Thank you, mom/aunt lady for being caring and understanding of this mall-walk gone wrong.

And thanks, again, GAP, for practically giving me those maternity clothes which will help me feel and look good while I set my Gratitude sail and raise my Sense of Humor flag. (See previous post.)

Thanks also to the bud for hanging in there and being awesome and not carin' to have no pants. And for refusing to even wear shoes during this whole ordeal which made us look EXTRA ghetto.

And to the lady warrior within me for the RALLY.

And to you!

And you!

And YOU get a car, and YOU get a car!

And thanks to Oprah. Because of the YOU get a car joke.

Twenty-nine. Meh.

Do you ever have those days that are really meehhhh and the days turn to weeks, months, etc.? I've been in my head about stuff (all kinds of stuff) and have had the urge to crawl into my cave and hide away until things are more...something else. Just more something else.

Hence, no Not-Blog posts. I didn't want to gooooo there in my posts and also couldn't bring myself to document any funny, informative, or otherwise intriguing stories. But sometimes things are just shitty and that's wussup. Or they seem it, feel it, smell it.

I've been very tired in all the usual ways. Physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. Trying to be a lady warrior always and do all the things and be pumped while doing them. What is the point of being or doing anything other than that?! Attitude does not have to be dictated by how much sleep I get or what my circumstances are that day, that week, or that season of life. Right - ?!

And then there are times a lady warrior steps back and says, "Okay, then." And sits on the bed, maybe lies her head, and feels all the feels and and reads Oh, the Places You'll Go! by Dr. Seuss to herself and no one else and grieves and celebrates the parts of her that are on trial in her mind.

Then that lady warrior's little bud wakes up from his nap and he's groggy and whiney and she picks him up and snuggles him close and he quiets down and lies next to her, sucking his thumb, and she stares at his face with her face so close she's fogging up his eyelids and she remembers that she can and she will. She'll do all the things and be pumped about it because LIFE, that's why, and GRATITUDE is her sail and she will raise it and go.

Then that bud opens his eyes and takes his slobbery thumb out of his mouth and promptly pushes her face away leaving saliva on her cheek and nose and she's like - Oh, right. Life. - and continues raising her Gratitude sail, and also raises her Sense of Humor flag and carries on.

28: Parts!!!

Our new baby has a penis!!! We will have BROTHERS! I'm so excited.

Finding out the gender...or sex...or, let's just call it anatomy - is a surreal moment. Both times (the first time with the bud and this second time with the nugget) it was like meeting this baby for the first time. The little blurry cloud of "a baby" in the family picture because much more clear. It's not just a hypothetical baby anymore. It's a boy! A tiny boy. A full, separate, unique, new person in this family. Similar to the one before but not actually at all. Maybe in his looks (he definitely has the same nose). But that's all! We have a whole lifetime with this person to learn all about him and I CAN'T WAIT!

I wonder if his farts will smell like peppery eggs and if I'll like it as much as I did with Emmett.

27: Parts

At this stage of pregnancy if the baby is a boy his testes will start descending into the scrotum and the penis is fully developed. If it's a girl, her ovaries are fully developed and are holding about 7 million eggs.

So, in my uterus there is either:
1. A penis.
2. One half of any potential grandchild I'll have from this kid.

We find out tomorrow!

26: A Host with the Most

This baby is moving and grooving in my uterus and IT FEELS WEIRD. It's never really something I got used to with Emmett and it feels just as strange this time around.

I mean, it was regular and fine and sometimes neat. But I was never like, "I LOVE FEELING A HUMAN INSIDE OF ME!" Because that's weird.

A human - IN MY UTERUS. Living in my body like a parasite. It eats what I eat, it drinks what I drink. It's sucking life out of me so that it can live. To be clear, I'm really happy that it does all of this because I want it to thrive in there, since that's the current design of procreation. But I've got some major suggestions for improvement, as I've mentioned before.

For example, though - why does it have to be in a uterus? We know about marsupials! We know they've got the pouch. And in my opinion, that pouch should be removable, adjustable, and shared. Like the Ergo (not an official endorsement - but clearly is a rad baby carrier).

Then there's the seahorse. Their reproduction process starts with a lady and a mister dancing and swimming together for hours - then the female deposits eggs into the male's pouch (after she decides, based on her intuition, his dancing skills are good, and so must be his pouch?) and DUDE carries those babes until it's time to release them. Just read this (from awebsitethatifound.com):

"Before breeding, seahorses may court for several days. Scientists believe the courtship behavior synchronizes the animals' movements and reproductive states so the male can receive the eggs when the female is ready to deposit them. During this time, they may change color, swim side by side holding tails or grip the same strand of sea grass with their tails, and wheel around in unison in what is known as a "predawn dance". They eventually engage in a "true courtship dance" lasting about 8 hours, during which the male pumps water through the egg pouch on his trunk which expands and opens to display its emptiness. When the female’s eggs reach maturity, she and her mate let go of any anchors and drift upward snout-to-snout, out of the seagrass, often spiraling as they rise. They interact for about 6 minutes, reminiscent of courtship. The female then swims away until the next morning, and the male returns to sucking up food through his snout.^[14] The female inserts her ovipositor into the male’s brood pouch and deposits dozens to thousands of eggs. As the female releases her eggs, her body slims while his swells. Both animals then sink back into the seagrass and she swims away."

There are so many things to note here. But come on. "Her body slims while his swells." And then "...she swims away." [Probably to get a mani/pedi.]

This. Is. What. I'm. Talking. About.

25: Baggage

The bud and I recently took a trip to Seattle. Walking through the airport, pushing a VERY loaded stroller (arms out-stretched, head down, huffing and puffing to get that thing to the gate), I noticed that all the tiniest people have the most luggage. And they have little to no ability to carry it themselves.

The oldest people barely have any luggage at all. We've got 80-yr-olds rolling with a wind-breaker, fanny pack, and - let's get real - one of those secret hide away wallets under their shirts and they get to have airport staff wheel them around like kings and queens (which, they are).

Meanwhile, I'm over here juggling one hundred thousand baggage items, a toddler, and the dirty looks of judgy people who are annoyed that my kid makes a peep. (Or a scream, maybe... but do I need to remind you, 29-yr-old hipster with your vintage leather bag, overpriced headphones, and iProducts popping out of every worn-out pocket of your skinny jeans, that we all started as toddlers?! EVEN YOU. You and your bearded face.)

I can easily pack everything I could need or want in one carry-on bag. If I really had to, I could even consolidate to the size of my JanSport backpack from 1998. But Emmett. EMMETT. He requires a full suitcase, a gate-checked stroller, a carseat bag, and a fully-stocked (read: over-stocked) diaper bag with all the essentials plus emergency measures. And of course, he must have his tiny, adorable backpack with his special items that he gets to carry. While I (read: the pack horse) carry the rest.

What. Is. Up. With. This. Picture.

(Disclaimer regarding the hipster reference: Wayne and I have hipster bags and all the major iProducts, skinny jeans, and worn out denim --- but we certainly do not have over-priced headphones.)

24: Party Time

The politically correct way to talk about one's Very Important Parts is "sex," not "gender."

So if we throw a party to reveal of the sex of this baby, do we have to call it a Sex Party?

That just doesn't seem right. Please advise.

23: The Word Maternity and The Pant and The Peeing of The Pants

Maternity pants are fabulous and terrible for several reasons.

Terrible:
- They sag down because there is only an elastic band keeping them up. It's like trying to keep pants on an egg with a slightly stretchy ribbon. It just doesn't work. Gravity and the maternity pant are not friends.
- I mean. They're called MATERNITY PANTS. How much more frump can we get?
- I thought of several other reasons that maternity pants are terrible but I didn't include them here because I realized the issue is actually with the design of the maternity body rather than the maternity pant. But that pants on an egg illustration is pretty accurate and "It's a real problem, Tina."

Fabulous:
- Relief for the growing belly, even if it "grew" a couple inches in 30 minutes because of a big, delicious burrito.
- They are SO FAST to pull down in an emergency pee situation.

I can't even tell you how many times I've peed my pants a little bit since being pregnant on the first go around, the decline of continence since having that watermelon pass through my vagina, and now this pregnancy. It's like my muscles down there are on strike. I was less than excited when I recently had to make the switch from regular pants to maternity pants because of the things I loathe about maternity pants - and the fact that they're called maternity pants.

But then I had my first emergency pee - the kind were I had already peed a little because of a sneeze or a laugh or simply misjudging how full my bladder is and how serious my muscles were about their strike - and if I didn't get to the bathroom FAST it was all going to come out no matter how hard I crossed my legs. And MAN did those maternity pants earn their keep. I pulled those puppies down so fast it was as if they were pre-lubed. They slid down and BOOM I was hitting the pee target. Which is always inside the toilet bowl.

(Or really anywhere but the inside of my pants.)

22: Apple Sauce & Big News

I had a crazy dream. Here is that dream:

I was in Australia having some business meetings. I was meeting with a head honcho (who, in the dream, was played by a recurring character on Scandal) and he and his team were giving me a tour of their facility. We walked into one of their conference rooms which had a huge, beautiful views of their golf course. We were chatting and laughing - their socks were being charmed right off their feet by yours truly - AND THEN. I had the urge.

TO BREASTFEED.

This was weird because Emmett stopped breastfeeding at the end of last year. But I was desperate! I was surprised at this sudden biological urge, but I knew I had to get this stuff dispersed. Immediately. I crept around, "touring" a little side room on my own and then in my arms appeared my baby. I started breastfeeding, which was a relief.

But instead of breastmilk, out came apple sauce. Apple. Sauce. From my boob. My first thought was, "Oh shoot, the little baby shouldn't be having this, Emmett needs this. It's his favorite." Followed by, "Wtf is applesauce doing coming out of my body?!" Then I thought, "Well, it's all I've got so hopefully it'll work." And the baby gulped it down. I mean, who doesn't love apple sauce?

Okay, so I looked up the meaning of this, and since everything on the internet is true I think I'm really getting down to the root of it all. My search started very specific - "Dream meaning applesauce coming out of breasts" - I figured Google would take me more seriously if I said 'breasts.' That search wasn't terribly fruitful (pun intended) so I just looked up the meaning of breastfeeding and apple sauce, separately.

I learned that, according to www.whateverthewebsitewas.whatever, "To dream that you are lactating or that there is breast milk coming out of your own breasts suggests that you are thinking about motherhood." There's a lot of other weird stuff, too, like if you're a man and you are carrying milk in your breast, or are breastfeeding another man and all kinds of things (and the meanings are mostly financial things) - it's cray, but I digress.

And according to www.otherwebsites.otherstuff, "To dream of applesauce can mean that you will experience happiness in an unexpected way. It could also signify your happiness has changed." And, "applesauce means favor that is displayed in a less rewarding manner, i.e. flattery."

It's true that I am thinking about motherhood, and I am experiencing happiness in a new way, and I am favored in a less rewarding manner (i.e. incontinence) - because, I'm pregnant. There's a baby in this uterus. Growing. Like a parasite. This dream confirmed that, YES, Meg, you will be doing this ALL OVER AGAIN. (Couldn't be happier about it, btw.)

Also confirmed: the next several posts will include facts and thoughts about pregnancy. And people. And people being weird and hilarious about pregnancy. And relationships. And the bud. Ima lay it all out there because WOW. Growing a human is WOW. I'll try to keep it interesting for all the people of the world, not just those with uteruses. But if you have a uterus then WOW. That is one freak of an organ.

21. A wedgie.

Okay you guys. This is real life wedgie stuff. The stuff of wedgie nightmares!

I wore some undies the other day that kept riding up on my left butt cheek. OKAY?! This is a post about a wedgie so we are GOING THERE, people. It was the left butt cheek.

I went for a walk that afternoon, as usual. When I go for walks with the bud I always listen to podcasts. I've got earbuds in for my listening pleasure so I can't hear people walking or running up from behind me very well.

You can see where this is going!!!!

While walking the undies were out of control. I couldn't handle it! I looked around, waited a bit - then made my move. I shifted the left side back into place and ahhhh, my butt was so grateful.

Not two minutes later, the undies were up to their slippery ways. I had to honor my original effort and let those undies know who's boss.

I shifted them again. YES! Felt so good.

Then, a couple minutes after my second HUGE UNDERWEAR ADJUSTMENT (i.e. butt-pick) I hear the wheels of a stroller behind me. I whip my head around in horror and there he is. A dad with an infant not two feet behind me.  The look on his face... OMG. He saw BOTH picks. He had to. He was clearly maneuvering to pass me... because who wants to follow...a butt-picker?! UUUUGH. Those undies are OUTTA HERE.

20! A date night.

Wayne and I had a real date night this week! A real one, without a toddler, or a stroller, or a carseat. There were snacks, though, because I always have snacks.

I wanted to do something we can't do when we have the bud with us. We can go out to eat with the bud (to some places) and go for drives (this is actually one of our favorite things to do, because we are both 80 years old on the inside).

But we cannot GO TO THE MOVIES!

I looked around at what's playing at which theaters, weighing the pros and cons of having to go somewhere besides the Hollywood Arclight (which is basically down the street from our place and a superior movie-going experience to almost any other theater). I watched some trailers, checked out some reviews.

Finally I had made the decision. I went out on a limb and bought tickets without checking with Wayne because I was certain this was the right movie for our grown-ups-only night out.

We saw.........ZOOTOPIA! And it was amazing!!!!! #skunkbuttrug

19: Farts

Occasionally the bud's farts sound like adult man farts and he'll look up at me and smile.

THIS IS ONE OF MY FAVORITE THINGS IN THE WHOLE WORLD.

Numero 18

Sometimes when we go out with friends or to church or something like that, Emmett will be held by people other than Wayne or me. Emmett is quite the charmer so he loves this, we love this, and all who get to squeeze his little old man belly LOVE this. It's a real win-win-win - he gets to woo people, we get to socialize, and the world gets to gaze at those dreamy blue eyes of his (and smell his breath, if they're smart).

When we get him back from one of these excursions he usually picks up the perfume of at least one person. It's similar (but possibly more off-putting) than smelling another lady's fragrance wafting from my husband's jacket. It's weird to smell another woman's (or man's) fragrance on my tiny person. MY person. Like - what you be doin', child? Who you been with? As if he was sneaking off behind my back to get snuggles from someone else.

Spotlight: projecting irrational thoughts onto my innocent baby! Sorry, bud. Send me the bill for your counselor.

17

While I'm on the topic of the bud's "eating" habits...

Months ago, the three of us (Wayne, the bud, and me) were having a regular morning - wake up, breakfast, play time, get ready, Wayne and I tag-teaming the bud throughout.

Wayne was jetting out and I was almost done taming my bangs with the hair straightener in the bathroom. We hollered g'bye, and I was tagged in on supervising the bud.

Wayne was gone about 10 seconds when I heard him come back in the house - "What did you forget?" I said from the bathroom.

I heard Wayne say to Emmett, "What did you...??"

[I will pause here to explain that sometimes - rarely - Addy, our cat, will have a little dingleberry. You know... a little turd that doesn't quite release and gets stuck in the fur around her butt. It's gross and hilarious. But on this day it was EXTRA HILARIOUS because it turned into a snack for someone.]

"Emmett just ate poop!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I rushed into the living room where both the bud and Wayne looked equally stunned - Emmett stunned at Wayne for having such a reaction to this obviously delicious snack, and Wayne stunned by the poop on his finger that he had scooped out to investigate what in the heck was in Emmett's mouth.

I picked up the bud from under his armpits and carried him to the bathroom with my arms outstretched. He was smacking his lips a bit with a sly shit eating grin on his face - literally.

And how exactly do you clean poop out of a baby's mouth? Really. HOW. He doesn't know to spit it out, can't tell me if it's all out, is unable to brush his own teeth or use mouthwash or gurgle saltwater, etc.! So I scooped the rest of the *bigger*chunks* out with my finger, and use water and his toothbrush for the rest.

Emmett was very cooperative. He had already gotten what he wanted.

#16: The bud eats something with a warning about not eating that thing.

I was planning a trip to Target the other day and my husband asked if I could pick up some deodorant for him. If your local Target is the one on the corner of Santa Monica & LaBrea, then you know deodorant is a very important item to not forget when going to Target because:
 1. One must never be without deodorant
 2. Target is an additional stop - it's not part of a normal grocery run (which includes Trader Joe's only)
 3. As much as I LOVE Target, this particular location is kind of a pain in the ass because you have to park in the parking structure and you only get one free hour! Who can get in and out of Target in an hour? That leaves absolutely no time for browsing the $5 movies that I won't purchase or the end-of-the-aisle sale shelves with worthless items that I must see and touch (each and every one).

I wanted to make sure I got the correct flavor of deodorant (we've all made that mistake before) so my husband set out his nearly-gone stick for me on the bathroom counter.

Enter: the bud.

I was finishing getting dressed in the bedroom, then went into the bathroom to grab the deodorant stick. It wasn't there.

I followed the sound of silence to the living room where I found Emmett standing with the deodorant stick in one hand, the cap in the other, and a bewildered and satisfied look on his face as he rolled his tongue around in his mouth.

I went to him, bent down, and smelled his face. OCEAN BREEZE.

I wetted a washcloth and wiped his mouth out as much as possible, trying to get the just-showered-after-football-practice-going-to-meet-my-girlfriend-in-the-parking-lot smell off my baby. (Not that Wayne smells like that, but smelling Ocean Breeze on the bud gave me a flash of him in 15 years and I just wanted to sloooooow that down. Bye bye Ocean Breeze. Come back, baby breath!)

Fifteen!

I'd like to take you back to a time when I was still breastfeeding all day, everyday.

I was at Target, the bud in tow. I was there just a little too long and the vortex got me. You know the one. Where time and space stand still and you black out a little while roaming the aisles looking at coordinating bathroom sets and trying on shoes you don't need. Then the bud made a peep, reminding me I have a child, and it was time for a feeding.

I made my way to the women's restroom hoping for a chair or stool or something, anything, to sit on in the sanctity of a dude-free zone. Aaaaand nothing. I contemplated solutions - none of which are ideal - and I determined that sitting on a toilet is the best option.

This is a pretty logical thing - using a toilet as a chair. Right? But. Remember that this is a public restroom! Would you want to eat your lunch sitting on a Target toilet?? I did it anyway (sorry bud).

What I didn't expect was the serious vulnerability I would face by sitting on a toilet with my [maternity] pants on.  Have you ever sat on a toilet with your pants ON? The urge to pee was so fierce I had to hold a Kegel for 15 minutes straight.

Ladies - do not make this mistake. Do not succumb to the toilet-feed option. Next time I'll walk right up to the rocking chair floor models and give one a real test drive. If they're lucky I may even write a review.

14

Walking the bud around in the stroller is an interesting adventure, especially in Los Angeles - nay, HOLLYWOOD - where babies are a rarer sight than B-list celebrities. People are pretty curious about the babe riding around in that chariot. It was even more of an attraction when we were still using the carseat as the chair - that screams "THERE IS A TINY ADORABLE INFANT IN HERE!" and people would crane their necks to get one glimpse of his cheek pudge. I don't blame them. I do the same thing, especially now that I have a small human to compare and contrast to those I see strolling down the street. When I see one I go through the checklist in my mind:

- Approximate age of kid
- Cuteness level (in the face)
- Cuteness level (in the outfit)
- Would my kid want to be that kid's friend
- Who's pushing the stroller (Mom? Dad? Nanny?)
- Does that person still wear dirty shirts (see post #8)
- What kind of stroller is it and why do I think that person chose that stroller
- How big is the cargo basket
- ETCETERA

As you can see, there's a lot going on behind one little sun visor. So I get it, people want to sneak a peek.

However. Please do not stop me and force me to engage in a conversation if I am clearly on the move somewhere. Do not insist on saying so many words that if I do not take out my earbuds then I will be the rude one in this scenario.*

Here, I'll answer all the questions in advance in case you see me on the street and have the urge to stop and chat -
- 1.5yrs
- Off the charts adorable
- So cute that you can't even
- Yes, obviously
- What difference does it make (Mom)
- Sometimes
- A good one, because it's good (also the color of the sun visor is bomb-diggity)
- Huge, which is another reason for choosing it

And let me get back to my podcast in peace.

*free pass to all people under 5yrs old and over 75yrs old, especially those who primarily speak in a foreign language and do so in a baby-talk voice to the bud, who loves it (me too)

Lucky #13. Face Sneeze.

I'm so glad that this is truly not a blog because otherwise I would be failing at providing, you know, stuff to be read regularly. But here I am again because this little experience was too perfect to keep to myself.

Last I wrote, I most often referred to our little human as The Tiny. We've come to calling him 'the bud,' or, when addressing him directly, simply, 'Bud.' So henceforth, you know to whom I refer.

I love all the bud's smells. When he was still The Tiny his little newborn farts smelled like peppery eggs and I loved it. I know that's probably gross to 99.99999% of people in the world, but THIS IS A MOTHER'S LOVE. I also love the smell of his little sweet head (maybe that redeems me a bit for some of you), and sometimes his face smells like Elmer's glue and I love that just as much.

And then there's the breath. A baby's breath is reeeeally something else. It's wonderful, and hard to come by. So whenever I see an opportunity, I take it.

Fast forward to the other day when I got the bud out of his crib after a nap. He was still in a snoozy daze with crib sheet crease marks on his face and was as cute as ever. I was holding him belly-to-belly, face-to-face with me. Then, the moment. He leaned his head back, opened his mouth - what a treat, a yawn! So I leaned my face in to the perfect distance, approximately 2 inches away from him, and prepared myself to take in the scent of angels - and...

He sneezed.

A Big. Fat. Adult-like. Sneeze.

In my face.

Then he smiled. (He loves sneezing, he smiles every time.)

I'm not sure what's worse - the sneeze in the face, or the let-down of not getting a whiff!!