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.

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.

Losing it

Last night was pre-natal swim class. It's a tight knit group of us preggos, and we spend as much time indulging in non-stop pregnancy talk as we do swimming.

Two of the girls were missing from the class, which didn't come as a surprise seeing they had both been bursting at the seams and were due any day. There's an excitement that permeates through the rest of us when news comes that one of our own has finally reached that point where everything - the build up, the expectations, the curiosities - become an overnight reality.

We look at them, and see ourselves.

After class, we received a message from one of the girls. It was bare in its simplicity.

"I went into labor a few days ago. Unfortunately, the baby did not make it."

A ton of bricks doesn't strike as hard as those two simple sentences scratched on a tiny square of paper. We stood there silently. We weren't crying, but I'm not sure we were breathing either. We just stood, paralyzed with the images of our own baby rooms in varying states of completion. I saw the onesie with the bike on it, the empty crib, and the changing pad the cat has now taken to sleeping on. No matter what we have left to get or prepare for the baby room, only one part of that room is a true necessity - the baby.

As the silence broke and tears welled, our hands all found there ways to our stomachs. Slaggy gave me the tiniest of kicks.

Someone asked in a stuttering voice, "How could someone go on?"

I answered with the only truth I know. We'd hurt. We'd heal. And we'd try again.

Six months ago, I was just another woman. I was strong, fit, and essentially still wearing the same body I've been in since I was 13. Over a handful of months, and without my knowledge, help, or permission, my body morphed itself in such a way that the priority was no longer on me. My body just knew how to create a baby, which is convenient, because I wouldn't have a clue where to start. Our minds and bodies came prepared to provide security, sustenance, and life for these fledgling beings. I can't help but wonder if we aren't also engrained with a certain amount of resilience to withstand the vulnerability that comes with loving someone so very much.

Last night, I slept intermittently, often dreaming about little Slaggy. During my frequent awakenings, he seemed to always be there, already awake, and punching away at my insides almost to say, "Hey! Is this your bladder? Is this your bladder? How 'bout this?"

And I appreciated every single punch.

Now, for a moment of happiness, I bring you impossibly cute dog and cat snuggling:

The Placenta Tree

When you're knocked up, you find yourself asking a lot of questions. Should I strive for a natural birth? Will I ever lose the baby weight? Where the hell are my toes?!?

Apparently, there's another question I need to be asking myself.

After the baby is born, what do I do with the placenta?

Like many of the other woefully ignorant mothers to be, I figured the doctor would just take it and toss it down the hospital garbage disposal. Then, the other day, I saw our neighbors and their family gathered in a circle, celebrating the planting of a placenta tree in their backyard. Like, they kept the placenta, put it in the ground, and stuck a fruit tree on top of it, so that one day they could totally freak their kid out and turn them off to lemons for the rest of their lives.

Or, maybe, they're just hoping that the placenta tree can open up lots of discussions about life, lemons, and the downfalls of symbolically representing your kid with a tree.

"Mommy, where did that lemon tree come from?"

"Well, after you were born, we buried the placenta under the tree, so that we could watch the tree grow as you grow."

"Then, why is the tree dead?"

"We forgot to water it."

So, now I've come to realize there is a whole world of options for post-birth placenta functionality. We could plant a tree or a nice decorative placenta hedge, but seeing as our dog has become very adept at digging up yard treasures and eating them, that might not fare so well. We could seal it in a Lucite box and turn it into a paperweight, which would be both practical and make a great graduation gift. Then again, we could always eBay it or turn it into a nice pair of mittens for our newborn.

After turning all these ideas around in my head for several minutes, I couldn't get over the fact that none of these really felt right - nothing seemed to completely capture both the longevity and fragility of life. And that was when I had a placenta epiphany.

I figured, if our neighbors can plant a placenta tree, I can make jerky out of mine. All I'd have to do is set it and forget it, and the life sustaining quality of my placenta would get a shelf life that'd rival a Twinkie. Eat your heart out, Ron Popeil (though, not literally, as heart jerky would obviously just be gross).