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.