Oooh! Stuff!

Even though little Slagathor Megatron III is perfectly happy renting my uterus these days, he's now got his own room too. My desk has left, the crib is up, and we managed to find a toy car rug that really ties the room together. Naturally, the poster of Johnny Cash flipping off the camera is still hanging. It just works so nicely with our "puppies and social discontent" nursery theme.

Stuff.

Sweet baby Jesus there is a lot of stuff out there for babies. It's a little overwhelming to sort through it all. There's stuff you want, stuff the baby actually needs, and a ton of completely useless stuff advertised as "totally and completely necessary for the mental well-being of your child!" (like the Zaky Infant Pillow, because nothing shows a mother's love like creepy disembodied hands).


After strolling through the baby aisles at Target in a total daze of stuff overload, I found myself asking questions I never thought I'd end up asking, like, "Should we get a baby wipe warmer?" Luckily, I was prepared for the lust of consumerism, and came completely unprepared with any form of payment. When I finally shook off the fog of vibrating baby slings and bottle warmers, I realized I had to get my priorities straight on what constituted a true necessity.

Sure, most people would say that diapers are the only universal must have item, but really, who needs diapers when you've got hardwood floors? No, the only real necessity is our sanity.

So, obviously, having a pump track in our backyard has taken top priority. (It's like a teeny tiny BMX track for you non-bike folks)

Now, some people think this is totally impractical and is just our way of pretending that we intended to kill our lawn in less than a year (it turns out those things need watering, whoulda thunk it?) But, really, the pump track will be a great way to blow off steam, sneak in exercise after Slaggy Mega 3 is born, and...uh...okay, mostly is just cool as hell.





As far as the other baby stuff, we're having some problems. Namely, the animals are convinced that we're suddenly dousing them with material love. Kitty is stoked that we've finally gotten her a bed that prevents Boudreau from screwing with her while she's sleeping.


On the other hand, she hasn't scratched our faces off in our sleep for using her as a test dummy. So I guess we're equal.


Meanwhile, Boudreau is finding it very difficult to differentiate between his colorful, squeaky, and slobbery dog toys and the new onslaught of colorful, squeaky and slobbery baby toys.


Ahh, sweet, sweet, stuff.

More fun with pre-natal yoga.

People are always recommending pre-natal yoga. They say it's relaxing and a great way to stay limber. But mostly, they say the words that bring comfort to your ears. They say, "It'll prepare you for labor."

And they even reassuringly offer that, "Everyone can do yoga!"

Except...

I'm starting to think that I...

I suck at yoga.

We begin each class with 15 minutes of breathing. This was a concept I thought I had mastered. I mean, I can do it in my sleep and everything. The instructor worked exceptionally to motivate our breathing, telling us to, "Fill your prana with air!" and "Feel your chest rise!", as though at any minute we might lose focus and accidentally suffocate.

In her sanguine voice, she explained how important this exercise was, saying "During labor, breathing is all you have!"

I interjected, "Well, that. And drugs."

Apparently, yoga is not interactive. I did not know this, because I suck at yoga.

We moved into the Tree Pose.


Seriously. Do you have any idea what a room full of off-balanced pregnant women look like trying to do this? I began to wonder if the next instruction would be, "Now, get out your Twister mats." Luckily, we moved instead to something easier - standing with our arms and legs spread out, like a star. Or a gingerbread man. Mmm, gingerbread. Oh, sorry. Damn cravings.

Realizing that standing was something I could do for hours, I was optimistic. Just when I thought I was getting good at yoga, we are instructed to, "Let our stars shine!"

I think yoga might be my personal hell.

Later, when we assumed the Goddess Pose, which is oddly similar to the Space Invader Pose, we were asked to determine the flavor of our goddesses.

I think my goddess is bacon with a side of cake flavor. Though I'm not sure what flavor my goddess is supposed to be, I'm pretty sure that's not it.

Man, I suck at yoga.

It just never seems like it's going to end and I spend every moment envisioning that I am somewhere else. And yet, after wards I find myself laughing about it all.

What better preparation for labor could there be?

So, I think I'll keep going.

Love Tentacles and Cheesy Poofs

You know things will change. You wait for it. The suspense is almost intolerable. Then one day, you wake up and everything is already different. And this ain't even the tip of the iceburg.

My belly has been growing. Fast. Damn fast. I know this because when I see people who I haven't seen in a few weeks, they greet me with a not so subtle, "Oh shit!" This was a change I'd been fearing, that is, before I realized all of the rad perks that come from ascending from "oddly fat" to "way the hell knocked up."

I can do anything.

I get automatic first in line bathroom privileges. If I ask to try a bite of someone's food, they'll give me half their plate. I'm not allowed to clean out the kitty litter or clean with toxic chemicals. People are insanely nice, even as you're swiping their empty grocery cart.

The only downside so far has been having to shake up my exercise routine. And, yes, there are incredible women who mountain biked until their last month and, in lieu of pain killers, chewed broken glass while in labor.

I am not one of these women.

My ego just can't handle going 5 mph and walking down rocks I know I can ride. Yeah, yeah, I'm pregnant, I've got a good excuse for going slow. My belly might know it's growing a baby, but my ego does not.

My solution was to start doing things I already sucked at, namely swimming and yoga. The yoga class is just for us knocked up types, which was good, because I can so kick another preggo's butt at yoga! Except, we ended up spending most of the class just sitting there imagining things, like say, giving birth. When this resulted in a collective panic attack, the teacher told us to, "Pretend our hearts have tentacles, and imagine those tentacles reeeeeaaaaaching into every part of your body that needs a little extra love."

Seriously, love tentacles? Seriously?

Later, we closed our eyes and "experienced our inner goddesses." I experienced the pain of suppressed laughter, some Cheeto induced heartburn, and a few kicks from Slagathor Megatron, the Third (we're working on middle names).

Everything we did was slow. I kept hoping that things would speed up and we'd eventually have a yoga race or something, or maybe break up into teams for some full-contact yoga, like hockey but with stretchier pants. No such luck.

The thing is, with all the cheesyness and unbearable slowness of the class, my shoulders started aching, then my quads were on fire. The next day, my everything hurt.

I am definitely not winning at yoga. Next time, I might see if my love tentacles can pick up some slack.

In other news, Ryan has been out of town this week, which means I got to do some buck wild preggo partying*.

(*Preggo Partying: Going to bed by 9PM and eating Cheetos with the dog in bed. Hoot! Hoot!)