Shower me!

My wonderful running partner, Cindy, upon learning I was pregnant last summer, immediately offered to host my shower. And how could I refuse? Her house is BEYOND gorgeous. Aside from the view, which is all canyon until the ocean, her home looks like something out of House Beautiful. You kinda have to see it to appreciate it.

Saturday was the day. And, of course, it was pouring out. I took a shower in the morning and wondered how my hair would dry in time for me to get it wet walking from the car to her front door. I then pondered how big it would grow once it dried again in her house.

Oh well. I figured most people would be looking at my belly, anyway, or at least the hair would balance out my lower half.

I was really excited to see Cindy and Torrey, my other running partner, who was co-hosting. I hadn't seen Torrey since the summer and was looking forward to catching up.

 


It was also cool to get different groups of my friends all in one spot: women from my mom's group, who I've known for five years; a couple moms from Sawyer's pre-k; a bunch of neighbors; and then a couple random friends. The nice thing was, aside from Torrey and Cindy, everyone knew at least one or two other people there.

 

 

 

 

 



 

The place looked amazing. The food was fabulous. And I was totally overwhelmed by all the gifts and the time and effort everyone put it to make it a special afternoon for me.

 

I truly believe every baby deserves to be celebrated, whether it's your 1st or your 4th or your 14th. I couldn't have asked for a better group of friends to make everything so amazing. I definitely felt the love! The sun even came out so we could take this shot in Cindy's back yard.

 

Then, on my way, home, there appeared a double rainbow. Talk about a perfect ending!

 

The Business of Being Born

A little support would be nice. I mean, the woman IS my mother. One would think that she could keep it to herself that she's not in favor of my having a home birth.

Yeah, right. In typical fashion, I'm sure she's only focused on EVERYTHING THAT COULD GO WRONG.

And yeah, sometimes stuff does happen. Most of the time, however, the only stuff happening is normal birth. Frankly, hospital births are statiscally much more dangerous.

To help my mother out, I recommended she watch The Business of Being Born, a documentary produced by Ricki Lake in 2007.



I'd wanted to see it since it came out, and finally got to last week. It is, to put it mildly, startling. Some of it I already knew, but jeebus, people. It's crazy how out of hand the baby industry - oh yes, birthing those babies is a billion dollar business - has become.

Did you know our country has the highest rate of C-section in the industrialized world? Actually, that's probably in the entire world. And guess what? Our rate of maternal and infant mortality is right up there, too.

Coincidence?

Add to it that only 1 percent of births here take place at home, vs. almost the opposite everywhere else.

I don't mean to get all preachy, but it's really stunning when you think about it. For instance, no one knows for sure what the effect is of all the drugs that get pumped into women in labor. They used to do all kinds of things that they later realized were not so good, such as pelvic x-rays of pregnant women - until they figured out why the babies were getting cancer. Then there's that lovely drug, thalidomide, that caused all kinds of birth defects.

There's a reason why they're looking into pitocin - a drug routinely given to women either to induce labor or to hurry it along - as a possible contributor to autism.

Now, obviously, there are high-risk births that definitely need to occur in a hospital. And yes, sometimes things do go wrong. Doctors specialize in the 2 percent of those cases. But for the majority of low-risk births, doctors are there to catch the baby and that's it.

I think a lot of people don't really get what a midwife is. They either think she's an old wrinkled lady in a babushka who comes with her magic potions, or just some woman off the street who shows up with a towel and a pot of boiling water.

The reality is my midwife is licensed by the medical board of California. She's delivered more than 300 babies. This is what she does. And you know, she's real good at it. She comes with lots of equipment - and a real understanding of how a woman's body works during the process of childbirth.

She can deal with a cord wrapped around a neck, shoulder distocia, resuscitation, hemorrhaging. She's got no hero complex: if she feels the birthing is not going well, she will transfer me to the hospital before there's any chance of a true emergency.

I encourage any woman who is pregnant or wants to be to see this film. If you belong to Netflix, you can stream it to your computer for free. Ricki Lake is no Michael Moore (despite my mother saying the film is "propaganda" and that it shouldn't be in a video store since it's not appropriate for a 13-year old to rent, unlike all the violent movies out there) but it still gets the message across.

At the very least, you get to see babies born. And there's nothing in the world more beautiful than that.

I thank you, and my daughter thanks you

"On the 36th anniversary of Roe v. Wade, we are reminded that this decision not only protects women’s health and reproductive freedom, but stands for a broader principle: that government should not intrude on our most private family matters. I remain committed to protecting a woman’s right to choose.

While this is a sensitive and often divisive issue, no matter what our views, we are united in our determination to prevent unintended pregnancies, reduce the need for abortion, and support women and families in the choices they make. To accomplish these goals, we must work to find common ground to expand access to affordable contraception, accurate health information, and preventative services.

On this anniversary, we must also recommit ourselves more broadly to ensuring that our daughters have the same rights and opportunities as our sons: the chance to attain a world-class education; to have fulfilling careers in any industry; to be treated fairly and paid equally for their work; and to have no limits on their dreams. That is what I want for women everywhere."

- President Barack Obama

Amen.

Secret Agent

Let's just say the kids weren't exactly stoked when they learned the TV was tuned to something boring yesterday morning instead of that thrill-a-minute show also known as the Backyardigans - and would remain that way for the entire day.

I had to explain, at least to the five year-old, that this was a day he probably wouldn't remember but was very, very important.

"Why?"

"Because we have a new president."

"Barack Obama is our new president?"

"That's right. It's very exciting."

"But who's going to be president after him?"

Let's just see how Obama does - hopefully for the next eight years. I then said that it was also a big moment because Obama is our first Black president, and that when Mommy was born, no one thought this would ever be possible.

"But Mommy, he's not black. He's brown."

"Well, yes. People come in all different colors. Barack's Mommy was white and his Daddy was black. Just like you and Daddy are part Asian and Mommy is white."

Now, as these words were coming out, I realized I was about to careen down a very slippery slope. The fact is I have mixed-race kids (throw in that they're also technically Jewish, and my children have a lot going on!). It's part of who he is. Out here in The OC, kids who are half or a quarter Asian are not unusual at all.

But maybe five is too young to talk about it.

I'm sure Sawyer has never for a second thought about this. Which is the way it should be. He doesn't think it's odd at all that his grandmother has an accent. Or that she sometimes speaks another language on her cell phone. He probably thinks every grandmother cooks bulgogi, right?

I guess I was trying (not very successfully) to explain 1) why Obama's presidency is such a big deal and 2) point out that it doesn't matter what color you are.

I think I entirely succeeded in confusing him. Because a couple hours after our discussion, he said "Mommy? What am I? Action? I'm part Action?"

"What? No, part Asian."

"Oooh. Like Secret Agent."

Exactly.

And I thought I was slow before

I was starting to forget what life was like on the outside. You know, where you don't have a sick child with a very high fever wanting to lie on top of you on the couch, under a blanket, despite it being in the 80s and sunny outside and not much cooler inside.

This went on for an entire week.

She was finally better by Thursday, so Saturday, when David said he was taking the kids to his mother's for the morning, I felt, well, free. I set up a play-date of my own, at Nordstrom Rack, for later in the morning. I figured I had plenty of time to get in a nice walk.

I stuffed myself into a sportsbra and tank, found a pair of shorts, laced up my running shoes and set off. It was just about 80 degrees with a slight breeze. A little hot, but I wouldn't be out there that long. I wanted to do my regular route, which is just about 3 miles.

That's when I remembered running is a LOT faster than waddling.

What usually takes me under 30 minutes took me 45. And later in the day, I was hurting. Guess I thought I could pick up where I left off - where running eight miles was a short jaunt, so surely walking a few miles would be no problem, right?

Perhaps I should have taken into account that I'm now the size of a small truck. To say nothing that I'm carrying a not-so-smallish creature in my belly that completely changes my stride.

Aside from that, though, I was reminded how great it is to be out and about, moving in the fresh air. It's definitely something I've missed. People who don't run distance wonder how a 10-mile run could be fun. But with the right conversation and a beautiful day, it's awesome. Trust me.

Now that I have (hopefully) less (or is it fewer?) than seven weeks to go, I'm starting to think about getting myself back out there. I've already started my personal training fund (donations accepted!) and am looking forward to being cleared to start really exercising again.

And now a HUGE shout-out to Torrey and Cindy, who kicked ass at the Rock 'N Roll Marathon on Sunday in Phoenix, and I think crossed the finish line without peeing on themselves once over the 26.2 miles. WOOHOO!!

Ah yes, I remember you!

My old friend, Braxton-Hicks. How ya doing? I was wondering when you might come around. It's not enough that this baby is kicking me in every vital organ he can reach. Now I have you, BH, tightening my stomach into a steel band. SOOOO comfortable, you know?

I'm thinking I don't REALLY need any "practice contractions." This is my third child, I know how to do it already. Seriously. So no worries. Just, you know, GO AWAY.

Right.

The problem is that having them early has no bearing on when the baby will actually be born. I mean, if you knew you'd only have 6 weeks of these, than no big deal. But it could be 8. Or 10.

I know, I know. Look on the bright side: at least my body is doing what it's supposed to.

It's SO relaxing!

For some of us, anyway.

The thing about being pregnant is there does come a time when it hits you that you do, in fact, have to push the baby out. And sooner than later.

I finally remembered this little detail earlier this week, when David and I went to our doula's house for our hypnobabies refresher course. It is our childbirth method of choice, mainly because they somehow make the idea of a drug-free, pain-free birth so appealing. Crazy, huh?

Anyway, the idea is you go into a deep state of relaxation so that your body produces its own natural endorphins (trust me, people, this DOES work). But it takes time to learn how to do this.

To practice, your doula or husband or whoever is there for the birth reads scripts that help you get into this relaxed state. And you have to go through these scripts a few times each, over the course of a few weeks, to get yourself to become REALLY relaxed at the drop of a finger for the Big Event.

Now, if you're anything like me, whose mind begins to race with the Backyardigans theme song the second you close your eyes, it's tough.

So I'm lying on the couch. David is sitting in a chair. My doula turns on the music (oh yes, total new age-ish waaaa sounding stuff) and starts reading the script. We're about two minutes in and I'm finally shutting off my internal noise when I hear this familiar sound, kind of like a clicking/breathing sound.

I'm trying to ignore it, because I'm getting SO relaxed and comfy. But I've been hearing that particular sound for almost 10 years. It can only be one thing.

And then it happened.

SNOOOOORK!

My darling husband let loose one of those snorky snores that startles the hell out anyone in the immediate vicinity - including me, who jumped about two feet. I then broke out in hysterical giggles.

Clearly, he is the one who should be giving birth, considering how quicky and easily he can become completely oblivious. Seriously. He's the one who can quietly snore away while a child is climbing on top of him. He can fall asleep anytime, anywhere, while I toss and turn and toss vile epithets into the air over his head.

Meanwhile, when the doula continued on, it was tough to relax aaaall the muscles in my boooody when I was clenching my jaws to keep from laughing.

David had moved to a less comfortable chair and began playing with his phone to keep him entertained. And awake.

Which is kinda how I felt. Totally not conducive to the whole relaxation thing. Our doula gave us CDs to listen to and practice at home. We have to get through six weeks of the course in about five. I have no clue where we'll find the time. But I know I will regret it if I don't put forth the effort.

Hopefully, when the time comes when I really need it, I'll be fine. Quiet, too. Wouldn't want to wake my husband!

Appreciating the Hiccups

My midwife swears that every mom says each baby is WAY more active than the baby they carried before.

Maybe it's because they are. At least, in my case. This baby is crazed. He kicks and pokes me simultaneously in places I can't believe he can reach. Some days, I swear he's going to stick his hand right out Down Below and wave to me.

I'm far more uncomfortable at 31 weeks than I was with my first two.

I was rubbing my belly a bit the other day while hanging with my friend at Starbucks. The baby was swinging from my ribs after I downed a large ice tea and a cranberry-orange scone. I asked her if she wanted to feel him kick.

I probably mentioned something about how he's KILLING me.

She felt him doing the mambo. Smiled. Then sat back down.

"I really am sad that I'll never be able to know what it's like, to be pregnant," she said.

Oh.

She and her husband tried unsuccessfully for years to get pregnant. They have an adopted son, whom they adore, and she is grateful she's a Mommy. But, you know, to want to give birth and not be able to - I can't imagine.

Pregnancy is something many of us take for granted. Or see as almost a necessary evil to get to the goal: a chid.

We complain about the nausea and the weight-gain, the heartburn and the hemorrhoids, the elbow shots to the ribs that make us double over. We bemoan the mind-numbing exhaustion and the insatiable appetite, the aching breasts, the stretch marks and cankles.

Then we talk to someone like my friend and we get a slap-in-the-head reminder of how extremely blessed we are to grow a life inside us.

I have no idea why I can have healthy pregnancies and why other women can't. I'm humbled by my luck, incredibly saddened by those not as fortunate, women who receive the diagnosis of "unexplained infertility," meaning even the specialists have no idea.

Conception, pregnancy, birth - basic human functions, right? Definitely something we never consider won't happen for us. Until it doesn't.

Of course there are options available now. Artificial Insemination, In Vitro Fertilization, adoption, surrogacy, sperm donors, egg donors, embryo donors. But each comes with a price, whether financial, emotional, physical, or all of the above. And they're not right for everyone.

So I will try to savor these last weeks of pregnancy. I will remember mornings like this one, where I was awakened at 5:15 by tiny hiccups vibrating my left side like an eensy tennis ball bouncing off my abdominal wall.

I only groaned for a second once I saw the time on the clock. Then I put my hand on my belly and enjoyed the show.

I Just Won't Crunch!

The thing about choosing a midwife for a home birth, as opposed to an OB for a hospital birth, is it throws you into the category of being granola. As in, a tree hugger. Crunchy.

And really, I'm so not. Okay, yes, I'm looking into cloth diapering, and getting BPA-free bottles, and doing hypnobabies again, and, if you must know, I'm hoping to have a water birth.

But still.

My poor midwife. Bless her heart.

She came over Friday for a 30-week checkup (and yes, one of the best parts of having a midwife is they come to your house for your appointments. You don't have to get in the car, drive to the office, sit there for who-knows-how-long as your OB is called away for an emergency C-section, etc, AND you get to pee in your own plastic cup whenever you actually have to go!).

The conversation went something like this:

Her: "So, are you drinking pregnancy tea?"
Me: "Why? I'm already pregnant!"

Her: "Are you taking Red Raspberry?"
Me: "No, but I eat raspberries." (apparently, this counts)

Her: "Are you taking your calcium magnesium?"
Me: "No, but I have a big unopened bottle sitting right over there!"

Her: "Let me give you the name of a chiropractor."
Me: "HELL no!" Okay, maybe I didn't quite say that, but that's what I was thinking.

I don't do herbal stuff. Especially tea. It makes me feel like I'm drinking a big cuppa pot pouri. I'm TRYING to eat more fruit and veggies. Doesn't that count for something?

I have no use for chiropractors. I'm sure they're lovely people, but I never get why they MUST see you EVERY TWO DAYS for THE REST OF YOUR LIFE or else your back will become horribly misshapen and you'll pop out a third eyeball.

Really, just because I'm choosing a non-traditional birth doesn't mean I'm going to start wearing Birkenstocks and stop shaving my armpits. On second thought, this late in pregnancy, both have a certain appeal.

I like the medical establishment. Love my OB. I just don't like the whole hospital birth thing, Internet, as I'm sure you know by now.

So I'm guessing my midwife has no clue what to make of me, the woman who wants the home birth but not all the accoutrement.

Can she get me in touch with my inner crunch? We've got less than 10 weeks to find out.

And So This is 40...

 

Here I am. Forty. My 30s are gone, a new decade begun. Officially middle-aged.

It's very odd to have a birthday on New Year's Eve, no matter what age you're turning. You're not just another year older - you have to count down until the whole world is another year older, too.

At least I have company.

Add to it the fact my sister was born on the exact same day, six years earlier. My mother likes to tell anyone who'll listen that we're really twins. Imagine THAT gestation. The other thing that we heard constantly growing up that, since my dad was a CPA, they got some nice tax deductions.

At any rate, I never imagined I'd be pregnant at 40. Isn't that the old joke? Better to be 40 than pregnant? Well, now I'm both. Thirty weeks pregnant. Forty years old. The good news is my belly is so big I can't see if there's anything turning grey Down There, if you know what I'm saying.

So for me, this is what preggo and 40 looks like (don't worry, I won't chew off your arm if you get too close; despite how, um, chubby I appear, I do have SOME self-control when it comes to ingesting anything within reach).

 

Really, it was a fabulous day. The kids made me breakfast. They were quite proud. And I don't think anyone even stuck a finger in a nose to add some extra "flavoring."

 

David then took Sawyer and Sage on a hike and to the park. I dashed out to the mall, where, in a huge score, I purchased the dress in the pictures - it was marked at $34, but when I went to the register, it rang up at $17! Still exciting, even though it IS maternity.

We had a big night out planned. David surprised me with tickets to see Wicked up at the Pantages Theater in Hollywood. I was SO excited; I'd read the book years ago and had wanted to see the show, but we never seem to do stuff like that.

I got all dressed up and felt like, you know, a grown-up.

We grabbed a quick dinner and headed up to LA. The show was AMAZING. I swear I kept tearing up by the wicked awesomeness of it all (yeah, I don't get out much). It was David's first show and he really liked it, too, which made it even better.

So that's how I spent my first day as a 40-something. I'm feeling pretty optimistic about how this decade is going to go. For me, my 30s were full of permanent life alterations: I met and married David, had two children, conceived another, and left my career. My grandfather died, then my father.

Big stuff.

I already know we'll be welcoming a new life into our world in just a couple months. And then it's back to trying to lose all the weight I've so competently put on. Back to running. I'm looking forward to feeling my body in motion again.

I'll need the energy: by the end of this decade, I'll have two teenagers in my house.

I guess the biggest lesson I'm learning is to live in the moment instead of looking ahead all the time.

It's something easy to do when you're on a long training run or in the midst of a marathon: you can't be thinking about mile 18 or 26 when you're only at mile 4. You just have to get through it and count your blessings along the way. You have to take in the scenery. Laugh with your training partners. Be thankful for the little stuff, like cloud cover, a slight breeze or a friend suddenly pulling out a pack of peanut-butter pretzels at exactly the right moment.

And when you think you can't go one more step, when your calves are cramping and the finish line seems an eternity away, remember that this too shall pass.

Love the good times. Embrace the tough times. Be open to what might be around the corner, but make the most of what - and who - is with you right then.

Don't look back too much, mourning the passage of youth and cuteness, but instead be secure in the hard-earned knowledge that you can still Kick Ass.

And so this is 40.

Happy Holidays!

What's that stupid song? It never rains in Southern California, or something clearly assinine like that?

The weather forecasters basically asked us to start building our arks. So we cancelled our plans to head down to San Diego today, stay overnight, and make our first trip to Sea World.

We'd heard it's empty on Christmas Day. And since I'm married to someone who absolutey refuses to go to Disneyland because there are, like, lots of other people there at the same time, it was the perfect time to go to such a place.

Sigh.

Let me just say right here that it did not rain at all today. Not. One. Drop. It had better freakin' POUR tomorrow. I want seven inches of standing water in my basement - if I had one.

So today, in lieu of the Wild Animal Park, we went to a different kind of zoo: the mall. It actually wasn't awful. We decided we'd take the kids to see Santa. We had to wait about 30 minutes. So we amused ourselves (and as a bonus, you can see my almost 30-week bump).

Then it was our turn. Sawyer turned into velcro child and said he was scared. Sage assured him that she would protect him. And my little girl, who for the past two years has cried like she knew she was getting the coal in her stocking she so richly deserved, walked right up to him. And in her tiny voice said "Hi Santa!" and proceeded to climb right on his lap. A true Christmas miracle.

Even Sawyer managed a smile.

Here's wishing you all a healthy and joyful holiday season filled with miracles, both big and small!

Mine is Bigger Than Yours!

I thought it was all about the sports cars. But I was wrong. I mean, when I made David sell his red corvette four years ago, he didn't seem particularly emasculated. Especially when we ended up with new carpets and flooring, a new oven and a new dishwasher plus extra cash from the proceeds.

Still, he loves loves loves cars. Especially fast ones. But with child #3 on the way, the chances of him getting one anytime in the near future are, well, zero.

Not to worry. He found something else.

Friday night, David called our neighbor R. The two have had a bromance going for awhile now. They go on romantic mandates to Home Depot, Target, and on one especially crazy night, they went to the batting cages.

Now David wanted to get wild at Sears. So the two of them set off. A few hours later, I heard our garage door open briefly and then close. David walked in the house, set down his keys, and came right up stairs.

Busted.

He'd assumed I'd be asleep. But no. I was wide awake (What Not to Wear was on!). So it was confession time.

He'd gone out, with encouragement from his enabler, and purchased a 46" LCD flat screen. The salesman even nervously asked a couple times whether David wanted to call his wife, but David pounded his chest and said HA! He didn't need to do that.

Different story when he laid down next to me in the bed to stammer and stutter about what he'd just done.

That was nothing. It was the next morning, when he stood at the bottom of the stairs and danced to his new song "I have the biggest one on the stree-eet. I have the biggest one on the stree-eet.

"It's even bigger than R's!"

Yes, people. Flat screens are the new phallic symbol.

He had a new spring in his step. He knows R is grumbling about it right now, thinking about how he might be able to, you know, someday overtake David in the size department.

Meanwhile, the TV is still in the box in the garage. I'm surprised David hasn't been snuggling with it. He's trying to figure out if we should mount in over the fireplace or get some kind of console to put it on. I am not joking when I say nowhere in our house - other than over the fireplace - do we have the wallspace to put this behemoth on, which is why he didn't get a 52".

I'm happy he's so proud of his...size. Even though I've tried to tell him: it's not the size of the TV, its the motion of the pixels. Or something like that.

See what I'm talking about?

 

BirthGasm

I know all a few of my friends think I'm completely insane a true pioneer to be having an actual planned home birth.

Well, if they knew what I now know, they'd all be signing up. Really.

A recent documentary that aired on ABC's 20/20 has informed us that we've all been missing out on one of the great joys of childbirth: the ginormous orgasm that can occur as the baby passes through the birth canal.

The film, "Orgasmic Childbirth," is by childbirth educator Debra Pascali-Bonaro. She fills us in on one of the unknown parts of labor: that it's sexual and that, according to her website, pleasure during the process is "a neglected human right."

Sorry for this image I'm going to share, but the idea is that the child is coming down the same place where the penis goes. Of course, there might be a little bit of a size difference (except in MY house, right sweetie?).

Consider Amber Hartnell of Hawaii, who told ABC: "All of a sudden the orgasm just started rolling through and rolling through, and it just kept coming, and my whole body was spiraling and rolling, and I was laughing and crying." Said Tamra Larter of New Jersey: "It was happening, and I could hardly breathe, and it was like, 'oh, that feels good.'"

Um..yeah. I'll have what she's having!

Apparently there is no manual assistance going on. It's just the stimulation by the baby of the vaginal canal and the drastic influx of hormones - including all those crazy endorphins.

It also seems to help when your husband is caressing and kissing you throughout labor, as one couple did (personally, if my husband tried that, I would beat him over the head with the closest available object, which, in a homebirth, might just be my flat iron). The trailer of the film does show the sensual aspect of birth, such as massage and getting water poured gently down the woman's back, and is really not intended to send the message that child birth is a sex romp.

Basically, the point is that although not every woman experiences child birth as a pleasurable thing, it IS possible.

Now, as someone who has had an unmedicated home birth, I can assure you the LAST thing on my mind was the Big O. On the other hand, I did learn that child birth doesn't have to be excrutiatingly painful, as our society would have us believe.

You don't need an orgasm to have a positive experience. Pushing out Sage felt phenomenal. Not in a sexual way at all. It's just the awesomeness of being completely in control, of really understanding how strong my body is, and that a new life is moments away from arriving.

There is nothing better in the world.

I wish there was more out there about the option of unmedicated birth (I say unmedicated rather than natural, because I feel the only unnatural birth is if the baby comes out your butt. Which, come to think of it, it might feel excactly like that for certain parts of active labor) that isn't horrifically painful.

'Cause I don't think the idea of orgasm during birth is doing much to educate women. Or entice them, for that matter.

To Pee or Not to Pee

... that is definitely NOT the question. Cause really, I have no choice.

It seems I've entered that delightful phase of pregnancy where you sneeze and pee your pants. Cough/pee. Laugh/pee. It's worse when you actually have to pee, but the other day, I peed at Costco, stood up, pulled up my pants, sneezed, and peed in my undies. I hadn't even left the freakin' stall yet.

Last night I almost wet the bed watching, over and over, that guy throwing the shoes at W. I know it's bad that someone could get away with launching not one, but two shoes at the President before being tackled. But the expression on Bush's face, and his cat-like reflexes...it was hysterical. I couldn't stop cackling. And peeing.

Guess it's time to drag out the Depends liners from my last pregnancy. The good news is I know this part only lasts a couple weeks. I feel like my preschoolers, having to carry extra underwear around with me. Then again, I've been known to smell like a preschooler lately.

Hopefully you will all join me in doing your kegels while you read this.

Not helping the issue is that I always carry super-low. My midwife came over yesterday for her first visit and confirmed. His butt is right below my belly button. He is in perfect position at the moment, which is nice to hear after Sage arrive sunny-side up.

She also mentioned that I have nice strong abs. Yeah, baby! I told her to thank my trainer. Who I haven't seen in months. But it's nice to know there's one spot that hasn't succumbed to the pregnancy sprawl.

Are you still doing your kegels?

Just checking.

Trust me. Your underwear will thank you.

Modern Technology

The other day I opened an email from my neighbor R. She was forwarding pictures she took the morning before at IHOP, where our families went to celebrate Sawyer's birthday.

I almost cried. Okay, I actually sniffled. Twice. Maybe three times.

R. is a fabulous photographer and a master of photoshop. The first is obvious but now I know the latter is true because it is the best picture of me I've seen since I left the first trimester behind.

My daughter looks adorable and R. thankfully erased the boogers marching under Sage's nose. R. didn't get rid of my round cheeks that seem to be on the verge of swallowing my eyes, but she made me look, well, almost pretty, which is an amazing feat on many levels, including that it was early in the morning and I had not a touch of makeup on (even my beauty mark has been smoothed away).

And since I've been in the pregnancy self-esteem smackdown for awhile now, it was a much-needed boost.



I appreciate all my friends who assure me that, since I was in such fabulous shape before I got pg, I'll have no trouble getting back there. Unfortuately I'm guessing my body is not interested in running two marathons in less than eight months ever again.

The thought of having to drop all this excess baggage isn't a place I can go right now, as I enter the third trimester. Twelve (or less, hopefully) weeks to go.

And then it all begins.

Hey, at least I can enjoy having porn-star boobs for a little while longer - and thankfully there will be no pictures of those beauties!

High Five

Yesterday, when I snuggled with my son in his bed before he went to sleep, he was four. When he stumbled in my room this morning, he was five.

Just like that. An entire hand. Five.

I don't know why that number seems so big. Or why I'm having a tough time with it.

The first thing Sawyer did was drag me into my bathroom, turning on every light. He led me right to the scale, where he hopped on to show that surely he was bigger now that he was five.

He didn't even ask for any gifts. Not before we went to IHOP with neighbors and not even after we'd been back home for awhile. Then David arrived from a brief overnight trip. And the wrapping paper flew.

Sawyer couldn't stop thanking me throughout the day: for the Star Wars wrapping paper, for the two Star Wars ships, for his robe, his book, and, the Most Exciting Thing Ever - his Stormtrooper Blaster.

I'm guessing the thrill and ensuing dance was mostly based on my telling him he'd never be getting a gun. But as any moms of boys know, it doesn't matter whether or not you buy them one. If there isn't one at home, then there's an arsenal at the neighbor's house, and barring that, they'll find any stick, toy golf club or, if worse comes to worse, fingers will become a weapon.

It's in the genes. Just like my daughter somehow knowing the name to every Disney Princess before she'd ever seen a movie or book about them.

Really, though, Sawyer is not an aggressive kid (other than when he's playing Star Wars with all the neighborhood kids, smacking each other around with light sabers). He's actually quite sweet and easy-going. His teacher said he's open to being friends with all the kids and I shouldn't worry that he hasn't found that one special best friend yet.

The Year of Four was really a big one for him. He learned to ride his bike without training wheels. He learned to write his name. He dresses himself, puts away his clothes in the correct drawer, can get in and out of the car by himself and, occasionally, even puts away a toy or two.

What I'm most proud of is what a compassionate little kid he is. He asked me to bring in chocolate pudding for his birthday treat yesterday at school. Then he said "Wait, make sure you bring vanilla, too," because one of his friends doesn't like chocolate. What four year-old thinks of that? Or adding a toy to his Christmas list for the twins up the street because they'd lost a toy and he knows they're sad about it?

We visited his cousin last month, who showed him a karate kick and said "You don't know how to do that." And instead of being upset or competitive about it, Sawyer said "Oh! Can you teach me?"

He always tries to include Sage - even when his friends or cousin are telling her she's too little or calling her a baby. He is looking forward to showing his new baby brother the ropes.



I love seeing where his imagination takes him. Read him a page in a book, show him a picture, and he's off, creating his own adventures. Maybe he'll be a writer - if he ever learns to read!

I wish I could take credit for him, but I think he's all David. He's even-keeled, sometimes to a fault. He gets along with everyone and is really a happy, social guy. Good-looking, too. I unfortunately must claim his Spawn of Satan sister, who is stubborn, opinionated and independent.

I feel very fortunate and honored to be Sawyer's Mommy. He's not perfect, but he's perfect for our family.

Love you, Buns. Thanks for still letting me hug and kiss you even though you're now Five.

Panini Power!

You'll have to pardon me. I'm still in the midst of my happy dance - and I haven't even peed myself, which is a big victory for us preggo-with-third-child gals, let me tell you.

So, as you know, I abstained from Black Friday and instead went to Target on Sallow Sunday. I was hoping to find a panini press I saw advertised. After much searching, I found it was sold out. Shocker.

I don't know if you've ever tried to get a rain check before, but you actually have to write down the barcode and then bring it to the register. I guess this is their way of ensuring they never have to give a rain check, because who 1) knows they have to do this and 2) carries around a pen and piece of paper with them at the store and 3) has time, after waiting in line to pay, to then go back down the aisles to find the barcode.

But I was not to be thwarted. I wanted this panini maker. I mean, I REALLY wanted it. It was originally $39.99 and was on sale for $24. Much more reasonable price to pay for something that might spend more time in the cupboard than in use, but people, when a pregnant woman wants something food-related, I suggest you get it for her. Otherwise, she may chew off your arm.

I rummaged around in my purse. No pen. But hey - I'm a mom! Of COURSE I had a battered old red crayon in there. Actually, I think it's magenta. I also managed to uncrumple a raggedy old receipt on which to write.

I scrawled every number I saw on the product label that was stuck into the shelf. I triumphantly presented my tattered receipt at checkout. I got my rain check.

Today I went back to Target, only to find they were still out. Upon closer inspection of the rain check I saw that it's an item that "may not be replenished."

NOOOOO!

You will be astonished to hear that there is another Target less than 10 miles away - and right near Sage's preschool. So I decided to go before picking her up.

And there.

On the shelf.

Was my Precious. In all its shiny, silver glory. At least the picture on the box showed that it is, indeed, siny, silver and glorious.

I snatched it up.

The thrill of victory still sings through me. I slapped that rain check down at checkout and watched that beautiful sale price show up on the register.

And this, internets, is what my life has come to.

Excitement over toast. But at least it will be yummy, chewy toast!

'Tis the Season

To, you know, kill people over big screen TVs and play shoot 'em up at Toys R Us.

Black Friday took on a whole new meaning this year, when a 34 year-old temp worker was trampled to death as he unlocked the doors at 5 a.m. in a Walmart on Long Island. Not that the sight of paramedics working to revive him was enough to slow down those bargain hunters, no sirree. They just stepped over and around and continued on their merry way to the electronics department.

I'm surprised there wasn't a riot when it was announced the store was closing because of the death, but you know, some did complain that THEY'D WAITED IN LINE ALL NIGHT. ALL NIGHT!!!

Now the authorities are looking at surveillance video to see if they can indentify anyone culpable. And yeah, there were apparently A LOT of people Behaving Badly. But clearly, the ultimate guilty party is WalMart.

You have 2,000 people in line, many who arrived there at 9 p.m. the night before. Extra police were called in at 3:30 a.m. because of an unruly crowd, according to the New York Times. The mob was pumped up on adrenaline and who knows what else, ready to be the first to grab that 50" plasma TV WalMart was dangling in front of them.

Where was the extra security, or a wrist-band system, or something other than complete and utter chaos.

Ready. Set. Kill.

For a TV.

The whole idea of Black Friday is a set up for this anyway, right? I mean, it's survival of the fittest and fastest, and those willing to stay up all night. It is, in theory, supposed to be fun. You get to battle the crowds, pick up some bargains, then go home and laugh about it over leftover turkey.

Ha. Ha.

Check out my girlfriend's blog. She made the mistake of ever setting foot in a Toys R Us and got the fright of a lifetime as gunfire broke out in the next aisle - when she was separated from her husband and two kids!

The argument was not over a Star Wars Transformer; apparently two women - who eyewitnesses said had children with them - went at it over something. The men with the women started shooting - because you're always packin' when you go to a toy store - and both guys ended up dead.

By some miracle, no one else was injured in the crowded store, including my friend and her family. Thankfully.

It's a sad thing when you're happy you survived - literally - Black Friday.

That's why I'm all for Cybermonday today. I can avoid the hassle/possible loss of life at the mall. And it's just a kinder, gentler world sitting here at my computer. Until my kids try pull each other's arms off.

Tis the season!

Queen B Mommy

First, let me apologize that the pics in my last post aren't working. I don't know why, actually. But it's irritating.

Anyway.

Check out this blog called Queen B Mommy. It's all about a mom living in the OC. At least, that's probably what 99 percent of the people who don't live here think our life is like. If only! Anyway, it's a fun read. Let me know what you think!

We're back

 

We just got back from a week spent at David's brother's house in Gainesville, Florida, where it actually got down to a brisk 29 degrees one night.

It was the first time the cousins had met (his brother and wife have two boys: one is three months younger than Sawyer and the other is six months younger than Sage) and thankfully they all got along. At least, the boys did. But the older one said he did not like girls and found various ways to torment Sage. Most of the time, Sawyer stuck up for her. When he wasn't trying to hit her with a light saber.

The three boys shared a room, with the two older ones on air mattresses on the floor. There is nothing like listening to two little boys giggle over who-knows-what before they fell asleep.

Meanwhile, Sage decided she needed to sleep between David and me, which left my large pregnant self clutching the half-inch of space left on one side of the bed.

Both kids were also sick (we delayed our trip a day in hopes Sawyer would recover) and we ended up taking them both to the doctor. Sawyer needed to do breathing treatments but luckily Sage just had a cold and no infection.

The kids spent a lot of time playing and coughing on each other. We show our love by passing on whatever hideous germs we have onto our family. Hopefully their boys have immune systems.

Saturday we had a Thanksgiving dinner and Sawyer sang all his Thanksgiving songs wearing his handcrafted, one-of-a-kind Indian head-dress.

 

I will spare you the drama of the plane ride home with my, shall we say, strong-lunged daughter, who enjoyed smacking me repeatedly in the face while I tried to buckle her seatbelt. I will instead remember her cuter moments, and once again, remain thankful the windows on the plane did not open.

 

The Breakup

I broke up with my OB today.

It was sad.

But I told her I guessed it was time to cut the cord. (Har har.)

As you loyal blogoreaders know, I want a planned homebirth for my third - and FINAL - child. And my OB, unfortunately, only delivers at the hospital. In the feet-in-the-stirrups position. IF she happens to be around that day.

So it had to end. We just couldn't make it work. I have finally found a midwife, which is great. Thing is, I really like my OB. Over the past six years, I feel we've really developed a nice rapport. She is Korean-American, so she can relate to my Korean mother-in-law stories.

She also now has three kids, and two of them had speech delay. She was the one who encouraged me to get Sage evaluated and directed me toward the proper resources.

A couple weeks ago I went in to have her look at a large, painful lump under my armpit. We chatted for 20 minutes before we got down to business. And she even took the time to advise me to get a new bra, as I was spilling out all over (one of the few side benies to being knocked up).

When I saw her today for my 24-week checkup, she said she'd just read this article in the New York Times. It's about, in part, how homebirths aren't just for crunchy granola treehuggers anymore.

More and more professional women are deciding that they want a different birth than one offered at the hospital, where the nurses want you to be quiet and still and flat on your back. And where after the birth, seemingly every employee wants to come in and poke you or your child - usually when you've just gotten the little bugger to figure out how to nurse.

I know that many of my friends think I'm brave for even considering a home birth. Turns out the medical establishment here also isn't in favor. According to the Times story:

The American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists has had an official policy against home births since 1975, and this year it asked the American Medical Association to adopt a similar statement. The A.M.A. agreed, and in June also condemned home births.

“The A.M.A. supports a woman’s right to make an informed decision regarding her delivery and to choose a licensed health care provider” and “stresses that the safest setting for delivering a baby is in the hospital or a birthing center within a hospital complex,” Dr. Steven Stack, a board member, said in the statement. “Serious complications can arise with little or no warning even among women with low-risk pregnancies.”

In contrast, health authorities in Britain view home births as a safe option for women at low risk of complications. In April 2007 the United Kingdom Department of Health rolled out plans for a “national choice guarantee,” to be put in place by the end of 2009, ensuring that all women can choose among giving birth at home, or at a hospital or another facility, and still have access to midwifery care"

Kinda interesting that places with universal health care are more apt to support alternative births. I wonder if that's why the U.S. has the highest rate of Caesarian Section in the the industrialized world.

According to a story last year in the Washington Post, the rate of C-sections in the U.S. was at a record-high 29 percent of all births in 2004.

That's more than 1 in 4. Meanwhile, the rate of C-sections for those attempting home birth is well under 10 percent (2 percent of the births my midwife attends result in C-section).

My OB would prefer me to give birth in a hospital. Just in case. And I would, if there was one that allowed a midwife delivery. But there isn't, so my option is home birth - a service my OB can't provide.

In other words, it's not her, it's me.

Of course I'm nervous. Leaving security for the unknown is always a little scary. But I know it's the best decision for me.

Besides, my OB assured me she'd take me back if changed my mind. And she'll definitely take me back when she's just my GYN.

So it wasn't really goodbye, just so long for now.

The Post-Election Buzzkill

There is nothing like knowing you can look your kids in the eye and tell them, unequivocally, they can be whatever they want. Because after watching last night's thrilling victory and speech by President-elect Barack Obama, there was no doubt yes, they can.

And that's still true this morning. That is, except in California, if they want to marry someone of the same gender.

Talk about a buzzkill.

I know there are bigger problems facing the country than the passage of Prop 8, which bans gay marriage. But the fact that I live in a county where more than half the people voted for intolerance is, quite frankly, sickening.

What I found stunning was, according to exit polls for The Associated Press, African American voters who came out in huge numbers to vote for Obama also voted in favor of Prop 8. So a race that was denied equal rights for so long voted to deny them to others. I don't get it.

So while I am full of hope for what our country can become in the next four years - a place of hope, action and renewed pride - it seems right here at home fear still has a stronghold.

I can only hope that by the time my children are old enough to decide whether - and to whom - they want to marry, Prop 8 will be as archaic as, say, laws banning African Americans from marrying whites.

Perhaps Obama's platform of unity for all will help turn the tide.

Yes, we can.

Right?

We Baracked the Vote

This morning Sawyer and I made a little detour at his school: we went to vote. I was thrilled there was no line, although I tried to look as pregnant as possible in case I had to clutch my belly and moan to get to the front of a potentially huge line.

Sawyer was pretty excited about the whole deal. We've been talking a little bit about the election. He knows who Barack Obama is. He likes to say his name, as does Sage. To them, it's happy and bouncy, not scary and radical.

Last week I took the kids to Borders, and on the main road, we passed hordes of people demonstrating for and against Prop 8. We were lucky enough to stop at a light near the much smaller group of "Vote No" supporters. I honked my horn, and the kids waved.

Sawyer of course asked what it was all about. I explained that some people want to tell other people who they can marry, and that Mommy doesn't think that's right.

He thought about that for a few minutes.

"But I want to marry YOU, Mommy!"

Yeah, but, see, there actually ARE laws against that. I just told him that Mommy was already married to Daddy. But it was very sweet.

Today on the walk to school he brought it up again, and became a little upset that everyone he mentioned was either 1) married, like when he suggested Barack Obama or Aunt Inga or 2) too young. I told him it wasn't something to be worried about, that there was some little girl (or boy?) out there who he might meet and marry when he's a grownup - just like Mommy and Daddy.

Luckily there was a lizard on the sidewalk and he found that more entertaining than our discussion.

I brought him into the booth with me. He was the one who pressed the button to vote for Obama. And to vote No on Prop 4, which wants to make minors get parental consent for abortion. And he almost hit the button too early on Prop 8, but I got the No in and I think he pressed the button extra hard.

My little guy then pressed the bright-red button to cast the ballot. I felt very proud. I told him someday he would be able to say he helped change the course of the country.

I swear I got a little teary-eyed on my way home.

It's all over but the candy

Another Halloween, another 5 gazillion calories waiting to be eaten. Probably by me.

I made a deal with the kids that if they turned in their Halloween candy to me, they'd get a toy in return. Not a tough deal to strike. Mostly I did it because I feel sad for Sawyer, who due to his peanut allergy, can't eat most of the stuff anyway. The kids got to keep a few safe things, like Skittles, but none of the chocolate.

Last year, this meant David and I waited til the kids went to bed and stuffed our faces with Reeses and Snickers. But this year, we gave most of it away to my mother-in-law as I don't eat nuts while pregnant. No one's ever definitively proven a link between eating nuts while pregnant and allergy, but I'm not taking chances. I ate peanut butter a lot while pregnant with Sawyer. I ate none with Sage, but we haven't had her tested yet. We just assume the allergy until proven otherwise (we hope to get her tested this week, but YOU try to stick a needle in that girl!).

Gad I miss peanut butter. Sigh. Given the choice, however, I'd pick my son over a large spoonful of crunchy heaven. Most days, anyway.

So the trick-or-treating went great. I have no clue how many houses the kids went to, but they were at it for more than two hours. All on foot. I was brilliant and brought along an extra bag to dump their candy into so they didn't get tired of holding their own little treat baskets.

Sawyer loved being Superman. Sage refused to wear her leotard and got tired of her wings, so she ended up in a pumpkin shirt and a tutu. I don't even have a picture of her. Doh!

But I do have a couple of random shots..




And, from a couple weeks ago, may I present the 20 Week Bump.

The tough part about home birth

I have been looking around for a midwife so that I can have a PLANNED homebirth - as opposed to my first one. And now, more than halfway through this pregnancy, I'm still seeing my regular OB.

It seems it is much tougher to find one than I thought. I mean, the actual birth is supposed to be the challenging part, not finding the person to help me through it, right?

The first place I went, which gives you the option of birthing at their center or at your home, seemed okay. I was late to the appointment, but the midwife I met with was nice and informative, though I was aware I was on the clock (they also took my credit card number when I made the appointment, because I would be charged if I missed it).

Then I met with two women to talk to me about the cost. They explained how everything worked as far as pricing and my insurance coverage. There were two plans, and if I paid everything up front, I'd save $500.

"So which plan works best for you?"

Huh? I'm sorry, but was I buying a gym membership or new car or something? I just told her I wasn't going to be making any decisions at the moment (WHAT do I have to DO to get you in that CAR TODAY?!?!)and that I'd have to talk to my husband and think about it.

"Well, we only have one opening left in March, so you need to make your decision as soon as possible."

Right. So I went home and thought about it, and came to the conclusion that this is the last business that should be giving me the hard sell. Thanks, but no thanks.

The next midwife I called told me she'd love to work with me, but she was going out of town two days after my due date. She'd have back-up, but there was no guarantee she'd be there for the birth.

So today I called my doula, who delivered Sage, to vent. She told me that if I lived in San Diego or Northern California, I'd have no problem choosing from myriad midwives.

But the OC isn't quite so progressive. The one hospital that allowed midwife births closed their maternity ward earlier this year. There is an atmosphere of fear of alternative birthing here - frankly, not surprising given the redness of this county.

What's the opposite of viva la difference?

My doula told me not to give up, that something would work out.

Later in the day I spoke to another midwife, one my OB recommends. She is opening a birth center before the end of the year. So if I work with her, I'd have to deliver there. A scary proposition, given the speed with which Sage arrived. But better than a hospital birth, providing he doesn't pop out in the car on the way there.

Childbirth is surprising enough without the uncertainty that I'm delivering in the best possible atmosphere for me and my baby.

The search continues..

On a lighter note...

Every year we go to the OC version of a pumpkin patch, which is set up, shockingly, in the parking lot of a mall. They bring in straw and pumpkins and rides that cost $4 a pop (which is $8 when you have two kids. Poor #3 is going to have to panhandle if he wants to ride with his sibs).

We started going with our mom's group when Sawyer was 10 months old. We do a group picture every year, and I'm sure herding feral cats would be an easier task. It is fun, though, to look at the pics each year and see how much they've grown - along with their siblings.

This year's edition had 12 kids:


I guess we'll keep doing it until the kids decide it's not cool anymore to dress up in a costume and sit on a pumpkin. As if!

Other photographic highlights (and a shout-out to EllieBellieKids, who provided my butterfly princess' tutu):




A rare picture of me. Well, at least an eye and some teeth...



And finally, my attempt at being an artiste..

Prop H8

As many of you probably know, there is a proposition on next month's ballot that would overturn the legal right of gays to marry in California. Proponents of Proposition 8 have spent millions of dollars to convince you that, in order to PROTECT OUR CHILDREN, we must make sure that marriage stays a sacred rite between a man and a woman.

I mean, it could be TAUGHT IN SCHOOLS.



Apparently, it's better to explain that some people get to do something, but other people don't. Kind of like how women used to not have the right to vote. And blacks and whites couldn't intermarry.

Legislating hate and bigotry by hiding behind religious morals is the worst kind of blasphemy. I'm not Christian, but from what I gather, isn't there someone else who does the judging? I happen to believe that anyone can marry, regardless of gender. So why is it okay for someone else to put their beliefs on me? I think we call that a theocracy. And depsite the religious right's best efforts, this country is still a democracy. I'm astounded it's legal to deprive human beings of a basic right.

Some recent letters to the editor in the Orange County Register have made me physically ill:

I'm so tired of the No on Prop. 8 zealots calling for tolerance of gay marriage. Why can't they just tolerate what millions of people for thousands of years have defined as "marriage"? We've tolerated their agenda for the last 30 years and watched as they started by coming out of the closet, pushed for acceptance, pushed for changes in our laws and even our military to fit their agenda. They have forced changes in state laws to allow them to get all the rights that are afforded married couples, but all that is not enough. Now they can't tolerate traditional, moral people and their churches.

According to them we're all homophobic, bigoted, prejudiced and, of course, intolerant. They need to look in the mirror. The rest of us have been exceptionally tolerant of their lifestyles and choices, but enough is enough. "Marriage" is and always will be defined as being only between a man and a woman. Learn to tolerate that.

Jeff McPherson, Laguna Hills

Indeed! Of COURSE they should tolerate it, just like blacks should've tolerated having to drink out of the "colored" water fountain. How DARE they? That damn gay agenda. Who do they think they are?

On Nov. 4 we will see the people's power, not the judges' power. We must protect marriage for future generations to come, and not allow the word "marriage" to be cheapened by allowing same-sex marriages.

Lee Jay Meyers, Anaheim

Yes. Cheapened. As opposed to the union between heterosexuals, with a 50 percent failure rate.

I am thrilled that there are no "Vote Yes on 8" signs up on our street. Still, I feel like I want to go up to my married gay neighbors' house and apologize on behalf of the horrible people who populate this county.

The only thing I can really do is use my vote. Which I will. And when my kids are old enough to ask why their friend has two Mommys or why the nice guys with the awesome golden retriever up the street live together, it will be easy to answer.

"Love is love. Just like people, it comes in all shapes and sizes and colors. It knows no boundaries."

Unless, of course Prop 8 passes. Try explaining to your kids why THAT is okay.

The unfit pregnancy

This was going to be the one.

The third time around, I was going to be one of those women who ran 12 miles, uphill, in 95 degree heat, hours before giving birth. I would gain the minimum amount of weight. I would be back in my True Religions 27 minutes after delivery.

Basically, I would do what I hadn't done in my first two pregnancies: not come close to outweighing my husband.

Yes, in the span of two births less than two years apart, I gained 100 pounds.

Say that slowly. Onnnne Huuuuundred Pouuuuuuunds.

The good news is I lost it. All of it, and then some. The fact that I ran two marathons in the past year did help with the "and then some" part. And considering I ran San Diego Rock N Roll a month before getting knocked up, one would think I'd carry over that healthy living into this pregnancy.

One would be wrong.

First it was the fatigue, which slowed my pace. Then it was the bizarre nightmares that kept me up half the night, thereby making it impossible to make the 5 a.m. wakeup calls to go hit the pavement.

Next came the unrelenting nausea. I still worked out with my trainer for awhile, but then I realized I was just wasting money: any exertion made me have to sit down with my head between my knees and praying I didn't barf on the carpet. Then there was the morning someone was making cinnamon toast in the back room, which almost sent me running to fill the nearest wastebasket. I am still in mourning for my formerly awesome biceps that have slowly softened into mounds of soft-serve.

I did try to run on the treadmill once, but found that after already carrying two kids, those muscles that hold up your belly ain't what they used to be. All the bouncing was painful, to say nothing of my suddenly visible boobs that ached like someone was knifing them with each step.

I went through a phase of about a month where even thinking about water made me want to retch. So I drank Sprite morning, noon and night. Which is highly unusual, since I used to down 64 ounces of SmartWater a day (thankfully, I am off Sprite and back on water). But all those calories!

And as many of you moms know, when you feel nauseous, sometimes the only thing that makes you feel better is eating. So you do. Constantly. Not that your head is stuck in a half-gallon of Ben & Jerry's Coffee Heath Bar Crunch every night, but it's the small stuff: pretzels, goldfish crackers - anything carby - that add up. And up. And up.

The only thing that has happened recently to keep me from feeling like a complete blob is, when I went to get my amnio a few weeks ago, it actually hurt when they stuck the needle in - because I don't have any fat on my stomach. They also said I was easy to scan for the same reason.

So I guess I'm lucky they don't have to go through my ass (and no, not the poop chute, the cheeks) or my thighs. Because Lord knows, they'd still be trying to delve through mounds of fat.

The truth is, I believe in the total body pregnancy. Why let my stomach get all the glory? Why not spread it around? I like to be well balanced, so I figure I can let my butt grow exponentially.

Even at 20 weeks, women who didn't know me before will comment "You're pregnant?" if I happen to mention it. I'm all "Um, yeah, I don't normally walk around with a matching ass/belly set!"

Thankfully, the baby is perfectly healthy, despite my best efforts to drown him in mallowcreme pumpkins.

I do gaze longingly at my cute clothes. I am now into the stretchy-stuff only for non-maternity wear, and figure I will burn my black Lucy skirts after I lose this weight - unless they disintegrate before that.

Even seeing my running shorts make me nostalgic. I am aiming for the New York Marathon in 2010.

But first, I need to get through this marathon of pregnancy, delivery, recovery, sleepless nights, nursing, and - oh yeah - getting back into shape.

Until then...Popcorn, anyone?

Electra is Alive and Well

In our house, anyway.

I'm sure you're all familiar with the Electra complex. It's that lovely time when your baby, who was a total Mommy's girl, suddenly discovers Daddy. And then Mommy becomes Public Enemy #1.

Now it's all Daddy, all the time.

The other morning, I got her her milk. Then when David came downstairs, she said "Daddy? I want YOU to get me milk. Could you dump this out and get me milk?"

It's Daddy she calls for to get her out of her crib. When David was away for a few days, she said she didn't want me to get her out - she'd just wait for him to come back.

She only wants to cuddle with him. If she gets up, and David and I try to snuggle, she will scream and cry and push me out of the way. Then, when she is back in position, she will smirk at me.

It is Daddy who she tells me she's speaking to; Daddy who must pick her up when she cries; Daddy who seems to always say "yes" after Mommy has said "no."

I should be thankful that she allows only me to do her hair.

Now, when Daddy's not around, she will permit me to acknowledge her. I am asked to watch her dance or help her with a puzzle. We do have our one-on-one times when I actually enjoy being reminded of what an independent, spunky little girl she is.

I know I shouldn't take any of this personally. I want her to have a close relationship with her dad, who is an all-around good guy and great father. I try not to feel hurt when she wrinkles her nose at me like I just let out a big stinky fart.

According to Freud (and Jung) she will come back around to Mommy.

I know I'll be waiting with open arms.

A Race Like No Other Arrives!

So, as I mentioned before, my good friend Liz Robbins has written an amazing book about the New York Marathon. And now it's out on the shelves! You don't have to be a runner to enjoy the stories Liz weaves around one glorious day, but all you marathoners out there will be ready to sign up for the race like no other!

Here's the Amazon.com link. Also check out her new blog.

Anyway, great book by a great writer and an even better friend!

Is that a wink? A WINK?!?

People! What IS this?

I mean, is she just letting us know we're all in on the joke with her? Maybe SHE's just as aware as we are that her being on the ticket for the White House is ridiculous.

At least, I hope so. Because blogosphere, this is scary.

I still do not understand her popularity. "She's just like us." Really? I can name a gazillion ways she's NOT like us. For instance, most of the people I know can name a newspaper or magazine that they read, even if it's Parenting.

Women aren't threatened by her like they are of Hillary, who, by the way, has also been a working mom throughout her daughter's life. Palin has pretty hair and was a former beauty queen. No bright orange pantsuits or sensible shoes for her. Or an Ivy League law degree, for that matter.

They bristle when anyone questions Palin's priorities, as she has a pregnant teenage daughter and an infant with Down Syndrome - but they are fine with Palin wnting to legislate how we make the most private decisions in our own home, whether it's the right to choose, or to marry someone of the same gender.

It seems some want a candidate they can have a beer with or sit next to at their kid's soccer game. And while it's nice to have those people in our lives, I don't necessarily need to have them in charge of the largest superpower in the free world. But that's just me.

I want a candidate who is MUCH smarter than me. And frankly, I'm no dummy. But just because I've had a passport for more than 20 years (and no, Sarah, my parents didn't hand me a passport and a backpack after college and send me off to Europe. Some of us worked two jobs, just like you, and, in order to expand our horizons, made it overseas on our own) and live in a state that borders Mexico doesn't make me an expert in foreign policy. Hell, I used to live in South Florida, and Cuba is RIGHT THERE!

I want someone who has actually spent much of their time researching, exploring and thinking about our country and its place in the world, not someone who relies on folksy sayings, doggone it, or acts like "governing" a state smaller than the county I live in is the same as being a U.S. Senator.

That she isn't interested in the cause of global warming, just a way to fix it, is telling not only of a lack of basic understanding of the environment but an inability to go beneath the surface of an issue. And, perhaps just as egregious - a complete lack of curiousity.

What else would she like to fix without regard for the cause of the problem? The economy? Health care? Terrorism?

We can do better. We deserve better.

And we should be offended that John McCain doesn't think so.

FAL days

Tuesdays and Thursdays are my FAL days - as in, Free At Last!

Yes, for the first time in almost five years, I have a few hours to myself those two mornings while the kids are in school (unless they're home sick, like they were last week, and my husband is conveniently out of town, so it's AKATT - All Kids, All The Time. How the fuck do homeschool parents DO it??).

Let me tell you how my first FAL day went down. David walked Sawyer to pre-k and I took Sage to her preschool - yes, I have two kids going to schools in two towns at exactly the same time. I dropped her off, she shed not a tear, and I hustled back to my car, knocking over two mothers with their babies in strollers.

I got into the car. Shut the door, and let out a primal yell that sounded something like "AHAHAHAHA! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

I then went to...wait for it...Target! I had to shop for Sage's birthday, which was the next day. I ran into the mother of one of Sawyer's former preschool classmates. She was there with her daughter and her 2 year-old son, who has some "issues" and basically screamed and yelled the entire time.

I did my happy dance right in her face. OH YES I DID!

Sorry that YOU'RE with your two crazy kids and I'm free to stroll around, filling my cart with such necessary items as a Hello Kitty Toothbrush and mallowcreme pumpkins without anyone demanding a new Transformer or a 5,000 piece puzzle.

SUCKAH!

Ahem. Anyway, it's not been all fun and games. I did get myself to the gym one time and jogged for 25 minutes. At a pace slower than my last two miles of my marathon. Today it was exchanging clothes at Old Navy and going to the grocery store.

I had more envisioned mornings of pedicures and Starbucks. But I've found there are too many errands to run and stuff to get done.

But you know, it's still early. I'm sure I'll figure out how to really make the time my own - probably right around the beginning of March, when No. 3 arrives and it starts al over again.

Yeah, hello?

Excuse me, Second Trimester?

I'm wondering if perhaps you didn't get the message that, at just about 15 weeks, I'm in your realm.

I know you're busy, gestating the creature and all that, but if you could spare a moment or two, it'd be sooooo great if you could possibly remember to give me that, you know, burst of energy? Because I'm still so exhausted I need a nap to recover from my nap. And I'm not clear that the Wild Cherry Pepsi I've been guzzling is really all that good for a developing fetus.

Also, and I don't mean to be a nag or anything, but I could REALLY do without the nausea, like the kind you dropped on me for the entire day of Sage's birthday party. Maybe it was your way of telling me to back away from the cupcakes. Next time, could you be a little more subtle?

I am really trying to get on board with this whole pregnancy thing. Frankly, it would be a whole lot easier if you would work with me.

Please?

I'll even promise to smile next time I tell someone I'm preggers.

Thanks for your attention to this matter.

Love,

Your Gracious Host

Speaking of three..

Somehow, my baby is 3. THREE!

Why does it seem so much older than, say, 2? If I'm kvelling now, just wait til Sawyer turns 5 in December. That's a WHOLE HAND.

Two was a such a huge year for Sage. She went from only a handful of words to singing long involved songs about ballerinas in the sky that she invents. She learned the potty is to pee and poop on, not a place to wash her dolls. Her hair grew long enough for pony tails - and now she doesn't even cry when I put them in.



She likes to read her own books. Pick out her own clothes. Play with the trains while everyone else is playing with the cars.

She also really loves to snuggle with Daddy, to the point of shoving me or shouting "Mommy, get out of the way!" And she especially likes to tell Daddy "You're my honeybear, right Daddy? NOT Mommy!"



There were no tears when I dropped her off for her first day of preschool this summer - that is, not until the class was over. "I miss Mommy," she told her teacher. For the first few classes, she would tear up and look for me. But now she heads off like a champ. "I didn't even cry, Mommy!" she told me proudly Tuesday.

Tap and ballet class is her new passion (even more than Hello Kitty!). She smiles the whole time, like the teacher is holding a great big pink frosted cupcake in front of her. She's just waiting to be a "yittle bit bigger" so that she can play soccer like her big brother.

For now, I am very proud that she dances to her own beat.




Happy birthday, Sweet Loo. I love you.