The Great Toy Experiment

Doggie Rattle: Baby toy or tiny terror? You decide!

Eau de Blaaaaarf

The baby just puked between the couch cushions. Again.

No wonder our house permanently smells like baby cheese.

Slaggy X LIVE! (Pre-recorded)

Dun, dun, duuuuuun!

Here is Slaggy's worldwide premier in a little movie I call Infant Airplane: Playing Baby Roulette. In this particular instance, I did not lose at Baby Roulette (read: I did not end up with a mouthload of baby cheese).

But, we all know it's just a matter of time.

And yes, I do sound like an idiot in the video. My theory is that babies don't smile at your goofy noises, they smile at the ease in which they can turn you into a cooing doofus.

Oops...

Yesterday, I made a day trip without the boy while baby daddy watched little Slaggy. Since I wasn't going to be SM3's primary food source for several hours, and because I was required to be semi-coherent after a sleep deprived night, I indulged in an obscene amount of caffeine.


Apparently, I severely under-estimated the amount of time required for my body to fully process this caffeine and I inadvertently fed the baby a late night knocker latte which resulted in a) a nearly sleepless night and 2) I'm so tired I forget.

Oops.

Note to self...

Do NOT put a freshly fed baby on top of a nice clean pile of laundry. Alright, off to redo some laundry...

Yarrrrrr!

To hell with teaching the little Slaggy X III things like "talking" or "using the bathroom." I mean, really, when will those things ever come in handy in real life?

A sweet pirate impression, on the other hand (hook?), can really get you places!

Guess what Easter Bunny!

I just ate your face! That's what.

Constant Vigilance: It's pointless.

I just got firehosed. Again.

For those of you not in the know, being "firehosed" is the result of the following actions:

1. Having a baby boy.
2. Baby boy destroying his diaper, thereby requiring a swift costume change.
3. Opening up his nice, warm, and incredibly goopy diaper to the cool air.
4. Cool air gracing his baby boy junk.
5. Baby boy deciding that cool air on his junk means, "PEE! NOW! EVERYWHERE*!"

*Everywhere includes, but is not limited to: Your face, his face, the dog's face, the wall, the ceiling, the ceiling of another room, the outfit he is wearing and, most definitely, the outfit you were going to change him in to.



Baby Daddy hasn't been firehosed yet. He thinks this is because he's much more vigilant than I when it comes to covering the baby wang. I think this is because he's been lucky.

"You've got to use the washcloth," he says.

"I do," I say.

"It's all about constant vigilance," he says.

"That's impossible. There is always a moment of vulnerability," I say.

"Constant vigilance," he says.

"You just wait. Karma is so going to kick your ass," I say.

This is when Slaggy X III interjects with a knowing smile followed by, "PPBBBBBLLLLLPPPPBBBBBLLLLL." And because he's a baby with few words and much to say, he emphasized his comment by exploding it out of his diaper, through his pants, and all over Baby Daddy's shirt.

"Constant vigilance," I say.

Lesson learned: Beware of this face.

74 Hours...

Guest post from the new dad:

Momzilla is feeling good and has energy that comes in spurts. She even ventured out to the momma and baby store for some mean deals on momma and baby stuff.

Slaggy X III is 3 days old now. He makes smacking kisses when he’s hungry, smiles before he farts, and can’t get enough of the sacred milkjugs. I think he likes the Talking Heads. And farting.

Weapon X prepares to blow off some steam

The Hound and Cat-dog (or is that Dog-cat?) have adjusted nicely. The Hound seems to know that he has a new little buddy to watch out for.

The napping is world class.

Being a dad is awesome. There’s tons more to say, but awesome pretty much sums it up.


Thanks for all of the well-wishes.

BLADOW!

Slagathor has landed!

Launch began at about midnight on Friday, continued through a completely sleepless night, and ended at 7:55pm Saturday evening.

There were smiles. There were tears. And there was a big ass placenta. Oh, and there was a baby. This baby:



Weighing in at 7lbs 8oz and measuring a lanky 21 inches, Slaggy has arrived, complete with a mini-pompadour. We've nicknamed him Logan Xavier (Weapon X!), but we all know his real name will always be Slagathor Megatron, the Third.

Needless to say, we're all tired, healthy, and very very happy. It's time for us to do a little bit of sleeping and a lot of eating, but a full report on the entire adventure is forthcoming.

Until then...

Game on!

Slagathor has decided he's done cooking and ready to make his way into the world. We're headed to the hospital. So, uh, BRB and stuff.

Game on!

Miss Pregnancy.

I think I'm going to miss pregnancy. Now, this isn't to say that I'm not chomping at the bit to once again sleep on my belly, enjoy the oddly appealing taste of a dirty martini, or fit into a normal pair of jeans without exposing the top few inches of my butt crack. But, there are definitely some things I'm gonna miss.

• Stretchy maternity jeans. I never realized how much of my life has been wasted zipping and buttoning my jeans over all these years. They have all the ease of sweat pants, but don't scream "I've given up on life!"
• Cake. It's awesome. I don't know if it's ever tasted this awesome before, or will again, but for now, every bite is like a forkful of butter magic.
• The other day I was folding laundry when I saw a stain on one of my preggo tank tops.
  It was a ring from the bottom of a cup and was positioned exactly where the top of my belly is. As I looked through my tops, I saw that nearly all of them are stained in the exact same manner. I'ma miss the convenience of my 24hour bellyside table. For that matter, so will my cat who has deemed this spot her new perch.
• Need your bags carried or a seat on the bus? No problem, Miss. From salespeople to complete strangers, they all revert back into a 1950s-esque mode of chivalry.
• My belly is poor man's television. It wiggles. It thumps. It routinely reenacts every scene from Alien where the alien is just about to bust out of the stomach. Yup, my belly is currently more entertaining than a ball of really shiny foil.
• Realizing that I can grow people.
  
• Being able to walk up to a complete stranger and have a bite of their food.
  
• Not having to hold my gut in. Ever.
• More back rubs than I'll ever have again in my life.
• The anticipation.

and lastly...

• Having knockers. Man, they were cool while they lasted.

Look at Mah Belly!

I began this blog with the following picture of my belly at 8 weeks, knowing that one day that body would seem like a distant memory.



It turns out, that day is today. Except, instead of feeling like a distant memory, it feels as though that body never really existed and I always have and always will be wearing my squirming yoga ball. It's odd to know that a year from now, my bulbous belly will be just as surreal seeming as the body that could once slip through crowds unnoticed.

Here I am, at 38 weeks - big, bulbous, rotund, huge, and very, very happy to be so.






And finally, it's Preggo Flashdance (with dog)!



As you can tell from my naval nose-cone, the missile is ready to launch. The countdown says we're at three days, but we'll see when Slaggy decides to rear his head which leaves us with one big question:

Will he be born with a pompadour? Or with a pompadour and sideburns?

Warning: Hijinx Have Never Been So Gross.

No, I'm not in labor and this story isn't about playing placenta darts. I've been sick this past week with an upper respiratory infection, so in lieu of posting or doing anything remotely productive, I've been in bed going stir crazy.

Which brings me to last night...

(The following is the grossest story ever. Or if it's not the grossest story ever, it certainly is up there. So, fair warning and read at your own risk.)

After five days of congestion, my chest was finally starting to clear a bit last night. I nodded off around 10pm only to wake up a half hour later with that familiar feeling of impending doom.

The type of doom that sounds like, "Oh shit. I'm gonna barf! NOW!"

I waddled out of bed as quickly as I could, which wasn't quick enough.

"BLLAAAAAARFFFF!"

I now know the meaning of projectile vomiting and am very thankful we have wood floors. Stepping over my massive puddle of puke, I raced to the bathroom and immediately sat down to begin simultaneously crapping my brains out while puking in the tub. Multitasking at it's best!

It occurred to me that this would be easier a) without a big yoga ball attached to my belly and b) if I had eaten something that would fit through the bathroom drain.

While I was busy being the human party favor, I hear the worst noise possible (and given all the noises that were happening inside the bathroom, this is really saying something):

"Slurp. Slurp. Sluuuuurp."

"What the? OH! Boudreau, no! NO!"

I had awoken to my body exploding from all ends. My dog, on the other hand, woke up to an unexpected floor dinner.

Gross.

After spending the night expelling everything that even thought about going into my body, I'm finally starting to keep liquids down. The docs say everything is cool, even if a little miserable. I can't help thinking that once I do kick this bug, I'll feel like a million bucks - pregnant or not.

Four more days left. Cross your fingers for a quick recovery or a late baby. I am.

In semi-related news, I got a brilliant idea last night (pre-pukage). Now that I'm so close to my due date, it seems every email I get begins with, "So, if you're not in labor yet..." In my moment of brilliance, I decided to create an automatic email response to let people know when I was in labor. It'd be all nice and typed out, and when the time came, all I'd have to do was turn it on.

Except, moments of brilliance are often accompanied by complete brain farts. The message was left on last night. Naturally, my mom, aunt and sister in law all ended up emailing me, only to receive the very innaccurate response of, "I'm in labor!"

My aunt told my grandma, who told everyone (which is her job as Cheif Family Networker). My mom told the lady at Blockbuster. And my sister-in-law passed along the good news as well. After all, this is the moment we've all been waiting for.

So, today has been spent calling family members up and pulling the proverbial, "Psyche!" In one of those funny moments where I'm equally grateful and impressed by our families, I realized that not one of them (not even mom) was pissed that they didn't receive a call. They were all just happy for us.

They have now been assured and reassured that when the time does come, they sure as hell won't be finding out by an automatically generated response.

The trials of pregnancy

...have luckily been limited to incessant urges to pee (even when the tank is empty), perfecting my waddle, and realizing that my width is now narrower than my girth.

So, screw the trials of pregnancy. Instead, I offer you my pregnancy trials.




Now kids (and preggos), don't try this at home. As for me, I've spent way more time hopping around on a bike than, say, jogging. I think I would have been scared shitless to go for a jog while that pregnant, whereas I still felt right at home spinning around on a bike. Go figure.

With around 10 days left to go, I am officially too huge, bulbous, rotund, and the latest adjective addition: nose coney, to do this kind of riding. But, as is the way of life, it's only a matter of time until things change.

Bucket full of babies.

I just got back from yet another birthing class.

All I can say is that you haven't really lived until you've seen a 60 gallon bin filled with fake babies.

Practice Makes Perfect!

The other night, I woke up at 3am to the sound of my dog (in bed) making the following sounds:

"Hoooorfff."

"HOOOORFFF!"

"HOORBBLGHGHGH!"

In my sleepy stupor, I had no idea what was going on, but I knew it wasn't good. Luckily, Ryan and his newfound fatherly instincts knew exactly what was going on and gave the dog a hefty boot to the butt just in time for him to throw up on the floor.

Of course, since this was the same vomit that the dog had thrown up, and then re-eaten earlier that day leading to this awkward conversation:

"Honey, did you clean up the dog barf?"

"No, I thought you did."

"Eww..."

So, we got a 2 for 1 special on dog barf cleanup service that day.

While I went back to sleep, Ryan cleaned up the floor and put the dog back in his own bed.

To me, this seems like damn good practice for the future. Of course, we should also start practicing squealing, "Oh! Isn't it ADORABLE!" while running for the camera to fully capture the experience.

Breathing is complicated.

This is a direct quote from our birthing class:

Instructor: "Okay, everyone. Now we're going to practice the 'strong blow' breathing technique before moving to the 'soft blow.' Ready? One, two, three...CONTRACTION!"

Preggo: "I find that I'm getting a little dizzy doing this"

Instructor: "Well, are you breathing in before breathing out?"

Seriously. What would we do without this information?

Nesting: Now with more sticks and dirt!

"You know, this isn't what most people consider nesting."

This was my neighbors comment to me upon seeing the 15 tons of dirt sitting next to our house and the mini excavator perched in our driveway.

"We're building a pump track in our back yard," I explained. Apparently, this didn't explain anything at all, so I tried another route.

"The way I figure it, as fun as those bouncy baby swings are, I can't fit in one. This is for me to play on."

Finally, my neighbor got it.

For those who are not completely and totally and unreservedly obsessed with all things biking, a pump track is like a tennis court, except it doesn't suck. It's a small track full of rollers and berms that you ride to your heart's content (or until you collapse with exhaustion, which normally happens in 15 minutes). It's like being able to surf your backyard.

We'd been trying to create a backyard pump track by hand for quite a while (and by "we," I mean "the man beast"). It turns out that moving a zillion tons of dirt by hand is both difficult and demoralizing. When a friend of ours came to town, a friend with an expertise in building pump tracks, we realized this was one helluva opportunity.

It was time to bring in machinery and a big ol' pile of dirt and Git. 'Er. Done.




We had a plan, a big machine, and a few good friends to help out. Since I'm way the hell knocked up and useless when it comes to moving dirt, I've taken to making beer runs. It turns out that few things draw dirtier looks than a preggo in a liquor store with a case of PBR under one arm and a set of tallboys in the other. I figure, since I'm getting the dirty looks anyway, next time I'll ask, "Do y'all know a beer that won't clog Junior's bottles so quickly?"

Alright. Let the games begin! Below is a game we like to call, "Oh shit! The mini-ex is going to tip! No, wait. It's all cool."


Eat your heart out, Johnny 5.


After a warm day's work, a chill set in and we woke up to a beautifully snow dusted track. Still soft and under construction, the frozen snow made a perfect canvas for first tracks.


In just a few days, big piles of dirt became flowy waves.


Of course, some people are more adept at riding those waves than others.

Watching these folks (like Jason here) dance their bikes along the track triggers this insatiable curiosity within me. I always wonder the same thing. How much practice will it take for me to do that too?

I hope to find out, sooner than later.

Our back yard pump track started out as a joke. Somewhere along the line it became a fantasy that began to seem like a good practical idea. And though I'm officially too pregnant to ride the track, I find myself perfectly content just staring at it. I picture riding it for the first time with the baby on the patio. And then I picture him riding it for the first time on his first obscenely tiny bike.

And that's about when my placenta tree planting neighbor walks out and says to me, "You know, this isn't what most people consider nesting."

This just in: Sleeping Beauty was a drunk.

I want whatever Sleepy Beauty was on.

Man, I'm tired.

I keep waking up.

I wake up to pee. I wake up only to realize that someone put a bowling ball in the bed next to me. Flipping from side to side, I wake up having to focus all my strength just to rotate my body 180 degrees. A lot of times, like tonight, I just wake up.

After several nights of waking at 4am just to lay in bed reading for two hours, I've stopped fighting it.

I get up, make a bowl of cereal and sit on the couch looking out the window at...nothing, because it's still too dark to see. The house is so quiet. The dog usually takes this opportunity to fully sprawl in my spot on the bed while Ryan sleeps soundlessly. The cat takes my getting up as a sign that it is morning and time for her to scamper around the house and crash into things. Loud things. After a few minutes of kitty mischief, her internal clock seems to set in, letting her know that she's well under her 20 hours of daily beauty sleep, and she crashes out on my belly a few moments later.

And then, it's just me awake in the house.

Four in the morning is a noiseless time. It's a time that should feel lonely, but doesn't at all. Instead, it feels like you're stealing a moment of the day that you weren't really meant to have. It's like being backstage during a magic show and seeing how all of the tricks work. This is the moment that sits precariously between yesterday and tomorrow.

Then again, maybe there is nothing special about 4 in the morning, and these ramblings are just my brain on sleep deprivation. I have been up since 2am after all.

But, I can't help but wonder if this is my body's way of preparing me for the sleepless nights ahead. And reminding me that being awake at 4am isn't always such a bad thing.

So, the other day...

I coughed. And when I did, I peed a little.

Apparently, I've reached that stage of pregnancy.

Just thought I'd share.

I fail at sweatpants.

Way back when, before I became pregnant, before college, and quite possibly before I was even conceived, I made a promise to myself.

"I will not wear sweatpants out in public."

Not even if I called them by their more socially acceptable name of "Yoga pants" and not even if they had some creepy and/or trendy name across the butt like "Juicy" or "Cheer!" Whether it's due to their stain and pet hair attracting nature, or in the not so subtle way they announce, "I've given up on life!" all I've known for sure was that I would not wear sweatpants in public. No matter how pregnant I got.

Except, yesterday all of my jeans that still fit (and by "fit," I mean, "I can still squeeze all but the top few inches of my butt crack into them") were dirty. And so were all of my cute preggo tops. And my back hurt, and so did my feet. So, I did what any 8th month preggo would do.

I spent the day in my pajamas.

By 5pm, I still hadn't changed out of the yoga pants and Ryan's oversized shirt that I had worn to bed the night before. To my credit, I had accessorized the outfit with a pair of leopard slippers.


They really tie the outfit together, don't they?

At 5:15, I get a call from Ryan asking if I could pick him up from work. I thought about changing, but compromised by staying in my pajamas and trading the leopard slippers for real shoes. Hell, I was only going to be in the car anyway.

"Hey, Ryan. I'm here."

"Oh. There is a birthday party going on here. Do you want to come up."

"No. I'm wearing sweatpants. I'm still in my pajamas. No way! Err...is there cake?"

"Yup."

"I'll be right up."

And with that, I did it. My craving for cake outweighed a lifetime of sweatpant prohibition. I wore my pajamas outside. In public. To a party.

Since I'm pregnant, everyone still greeted me with the obligatory, "Wow! You look great!" I think I could walk around in a moo-moo and Crocs and still be greeted with pregnant compliments.

"That moo-moo is adorable! Are those puffy paint Siamese cats all over it? How charming!"

Next time, I won't bother changing out of my slippers.

Three Dozen Days

According to my creepy little fetus counter in the upper right hand corner, we are officially at 36 days and counting. This means three things:

a) I've reached the "Holy shit! It's almost time!" trimester.

2) There is something so wrong (but oh so right) about having a creepy little fetus counter. I mean, seriously, have you even clicked the green "Tickle Me" button? This is the laughter that horror movies are made of.

iii) I'm huge.

Regarding my hugeness, after a lifetime of being used to slipping sideways through tight crowds, I've recently noticed that my stealthy crowd slide has given way to regularly assaulting strangers with my belly. It turns out that I'm now wider when I turn to the side than when I plow straight forward. I've realized that I'm actually wider from the side these days. This is a little disconcerting, and definitely hard to get used to, but Ryan reassures me that I'm not fat. He says I'm "bulbous."

Huge. Rollable. Bulbous. Whatever adjective you choose, there is only one truth - I've got a nearly full grown baby inside of me.


Unfortunately, those pictures are from over a month ago. Until I get some new pictures (which may require a fish eye lens at this point), here is a fairly accurate depiction of The Belly.


Since I've been a bit of a slacker about updating the blog lately, there is a lot of catching up to do, and I'm not going to do it all in this post. In theory, that means there will be more frequent posts from me. Then again, in theory, baby poop could taste like bacon.

So, just when my Yoga classes end, Birthing classes began. This must be the world's way of doing everything it possibly can to make sure I don't forget how to breathe in the next month.

For nearly two and a half hours, we moved into various positions, and breathed. Sitting, standing, on our side...every which way. I found myself cheating a few times, and only pretending to breathe.

Now it was time for fake labor drills

"Lay on the floor. And pretend you're having a contraction! And breathe! BREATHE!"

Well, hell. If labor was as easy as laying on the floor and breathing, I don't think they'd have invented epidurals. Then we hold ice for a minute and breathe. Obviously, this is a dead on simulation for having a contraction. The instructor tells the partners to whisper agreed upon words of encouragement. Ryan and I agree that our encouraging words would be, "Harden the fuck up!"

The instructor is not pleased with us.

A Very Merry Christmahanakwanza To All!

Yes, I know it's January...err...something. I realize that all the holidays are long over and that Easter candy is already making its way into the grocery stores (I know this because I've already eaten a fistful of Cadbury eggs.)

Seriously, is it just me or do these candies give you the feeling that the Easter bunny is having unprotected sex with a chicken?

Either way, those bastard love child eggs are delicious!

Right, back to the holidays. After listening to way too many people bemoan the ritual of buying gifts, putting up trees, and anything having to do with the holidays, I realized that I'm one of the lone lovers of Christmas. I mean, it's not like I go around dressed like an elf singing "Here comes Santa Claus" (or, at least, not on the weekdays), but I am in love with Christmas - mostly because it's the only holiday that truly celebrates gaudiness and everything shiny. And with that in mind, the tree went up and tinsel was strewn everywhere. Even the cat's turds became remarkably more sparkly.

As I was looking for gifts, I found myself wandering over to the children's section of the bookstore where two books immediately caught my attention:

Inside the Titanic: A Children's Cutaway Book


And Gizmo and the Gremlins.


Awesome. Now I have books that will teach my kid valuable lessons - stuff they can really use, not like that "treat people the way you want to be treated" crap. Ahh, yes. I can already envision us lying together and reading stories that will teach Slaggy that boats don't always float and that if your cute little fuzzy pet gets wet, it will become evil and try to eat your face.

Good times, good times.

And now, in lieu of a resolution, I offer you a New Year's observation. This being the first New Years I haven't woken up in a world of eye pain and/or slumped over a toilet, I noticed something that had never occurred to me before. People, everywhere, were constantly bidding other people a "Happy New Years!" I heard this more than any other holiday greeting I've ever heard before, which I found odd, given that I'd only ever associated New Years as a fake holiday that serves only to celebrate mass drunkeness.

And yet, here I was, being bid a "Happy News Years" every few minutes. I guess, between the people who love holidays and the people who hate them, we all love to celebrate the equivalent of the odometer hitting all zeros. So, I hope you and yours are having a happy new year, even if it is a bit late.

Car Keys are for Sissies.

I recently waddled my preggo butt through a few airports and flew a few thousand miles. Now, air travel is never fun. Undertaking the experience with a yoga ball attached to my belly was more than a bit daunting. It turns out that flying while way the hell pregnant is fraught with its fair share of upsides as well.



Pro: Chivalry is far from dead. Whether it was a seat on a bus or the next spot in the bathroom line, people routinely gave up their spots for me.

Con: I learned that pregnant women's feet do indeed swell.

Pro: Nobody looks at you funny when you're guzzling cookie crumbs from a gallon ziplock bag while sitting in the terminal on your 3 hour layover.

Con: After seeing the knocked up chick sitting in the (oh sooo roomy!) exit row of the airplane, the flight attendant asks, "Uh, just how far along are you?" He punctuates his question with a "C'mon, are you really going to be able to open that door in an emergency?" look. Nevermind the 102 year old man who smells like pee or the guy who's passed out from his zillionth airplane sized bottle of vodka in the other exit row. Nah, it's the pregnant chick who will screw the pooch should a sudden "drop in altitude" (a.k.a. plane crash) occur.

Pro: Watching his look become crestfallen as you inform him that you are NOT pregnant and punctuate that statement with your own "Are you calling me fat?!?" look.

Con: Realizing that, after 12 hours of traveling on Christmas, the car keys are in the checked bags, which got rerouted to Pensacola, a good 1500 miles from our car which is parked in the lot at the airport. Whatever, we don't need no stinking keys! We lived out of a car for two years. We're resourceful individuals. Yes, we can find a way home!

Except, it's 1AM on Christmas night and buses have all stopped running. And so have the shuttles. We also appear to be the last poor saps left at the airport. So, we used the same resources as NYC yuppies - we took a cab. As we slid sleepily into the back seat, the cabbie gives us a confused look asking, "Don't you guys have bags?" If I hadn't been so tired, I might have tried to bite his face.

Pro: Guilting the agent into a $100 credit to cover the cab fee without having to do anything but be pregnant, which also scored us a discounted rate from the cabbie.

As the hour cab ride creeped along, every mile relieving us of that awful feeling of having cash in our wallets, we fretted about whether we'd be able to even get into the house and the likelihood that the cat had decided to topple the tree in her lonely boredom. I pictured us curled up in sleeping bags in the garage, while the cat looked on mischievously and covered in tinsel.

As we found a way to enter the house, I never felt so lucky in my life. The tree was still up. The cat was still alive (albeit, a little crazy). We were finally home. Once you're curled up in your own bed, a day of misfortune immediately becomes nothing more than a giggle inducing tale of adventure.

After receiving our bags a few days later, Ryan (being a very chivalrous baby-daddy) hopped a bus back to the airport and finally retrieved our car while I took a bath.

Man, being pregnant is definitely a pro.