Bugbear is...
wait for it...
putting on fat.
And getting into position to be born.
That's it.
Kicking, dancing, hiccuping, amusing friends and I by visibly wagging back and forth during exceptionally boring lectures, sure, but compared to growing ears or gaining the ability to open his/her eyes, s/he's not up to to much.
S/he's kinda squished in there, though in true medically accurate science terminology fashion, I'm measuring either 2.5 cm behind or 1 cm ahead of where I "should" be. But really, it's just time for him/her to put on that baby fat. Though s/he's technically full term now, the longer s/he continues to cook and practice breathing, the better. For all of us. And since there's nothing abnormal about or wrong with pregnancy lasting 42 weeks, when people ask when I'm due, I just respond with "I'll be a mom before December!" because that's really as exact as I'm comfortable getting, even in my head.
We're nesting to a certain degree. Things are put together, built, the car set is ready to install, and we really do need to pack a hospital bag. Given the number of "hospital bag list"s that I have, however, if that doesn't get packed until I'm in labor, it won't be the end of the world. I spend a lot more time smiling and nodding as others tell me that we're doing things wrong because we're not doing things like they did. A friend suggested that I imagine advice givers and myself as ducks in conversation, because imagining someone else as a duck allows me to have their words roll right off my back more easily. I like that. Because really, at this point, we're not going to change our minds, and I don't so much care what others think. We may not be completely "ready" for Bugbear to show up, but we're never going to be totally ready, and no number of mini-lectures or amount of "advice" is going to change that. And that's perfectly fine.
I'm also noticing that I'm really drawing inward. I get more tired by people more easily than I usually do, and I just want to spend my time curled up with Michael with my head on his shoulder, watching bad tv or doing nothing. It's a sweet sort of enforced resting, a period where my body just can't do anything else, and I'm grateful and happy that I have a partner with fabulous shoulders who doesn't mind me leaning on them for extended periods of time.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Our Bodies, Our Selves, Our Socio-Political Agendas
I don't usually read msnbc.com because it tends to tick me off.
But I needed a break from class work today, so I clicked over.
And there was this article: "Back off, pregnancy police! I know what I'm doing!"
And my gut reaction was "A-FREAKING-MEN!" without even reading the article. Because I'm not big on the whole policing others' bodies to begin with thing. And pregnancy is a time when my distended belleh seems to mean I am somehow prime for the petting in grocery stores, for the questions about my bowel movements in daily conversation, for the raised eyebrows every time I crack a Coke or put an ice pack on my ribs, or choose to eat three hard boiled egg whites and some carrots with hummus instead of the proverbial pickles and ice cream.
You just can't do pregnancy right for the general US population.
So I read the article.
And then I was annoyed. It's about a glass of wine. BUT it's a well-justified, off-the-books-doctor-recommended glass of wine, so it's okay! If only people would just leave her alone and trust that she knows what she's doing... and while I am totally down with the "buzz off, jerkwad" aspect of this, I am frustrated that the doctor's approval seems to be what makes this glass of wine better than others.
I like wine. I've even had some in the last nine months. Not because I have a differently formed uterus. Just because it tastes good. Same goes for lots of things: sushi, lunch meat, hot dogs (seriously, ew, but when you need one, you need one), three bottles of blueberry beer (turns out I still don't actually like beer), raw sprouts, medium-rare steaks, canned tuna, edamame, and raw honey. And if I could find unpasteurized cheese and it sounded good, I would have eaten that too, but it's really freaking hard to find unpasteurized cheese in the US.
It's not that I got a positive test and decided to do everything possible to flout the system. It's that I truly believe the system is broken, and the system currently in place is one that works to consistently undermine women's intelligence, power, and prerogative to run even the most basic unit of our lives, our bodies. We are watched, and have people attempting control, from every possible perspective--the well-meaning but thoroughly entrenched medical institutions and their representatives that take our blood, urine, weight, and vital signs every six weeks (and then every four weeks, and then every two weeks, and then every week); the well-meaning friends and family who share horror stories and advice and experience without thinking to ask whether we want to hear, or being willing to accept that our choices are different and yet equally valid; even the stranger who lectures us about the triglycerides in bagels and how they make people fat while glaring at our 34-week pregnant stomachs, or the friendly cashier who says "I know who doesn't get to drink this!" as she rings up an alcoholic beverage.
These are not usually people who look at us and say "person with a vagina. Must be stupid, time for me to step in." These are usually people who want to help. Who think they have valuable information that we cannot get anywhere else. Who believe we somehow want or need their stories. Who truly believe the hype around fetal alcohol syndrome and poisonous soft cheese and the evils of "undercooked" meat. To whom it apparently never occurs that I might well know what's going on and choose not to be an extremist in the same ways that they are.
Clearly, there's a desire to protect others going on here. Clearly, there are people who consider fetuses people, and want to protect them and give them the best possible start in life. But since we couldn't successfully use a flash drive to transfer Bugbear from my uterus to Michael's stomach through our navels, we've had to accept that I'm the one carrying him/her. And that means that my choices are the ones that go, because in the end it is my body.
And so I choose, consciously and with careful thought and research, to give my fetus the best possible start in life. On my terms. Which means a diet of mostly vegetables and whole grains, very little palm oil, hydrogenated oil, or high-fructose corn syrup, and healthy and realistic portion sizes with limited amounts of meat and unnecessary fats while increasing the amount of homemade, local, and organic foods we eat. Which means upping my commitment to get rid of BPA, SLS of both sorts, parabens, and petrolatum (relatively safe, but who really wants petroleum by-products on his/her skin?) in my home and on my body. Which means as few drugs as humanly possible, limited to what I truly need to get through the day.
I'm not perfect. I ate Jimmy John's for lunch, with a Coke and a banana and an apple. Only half of the flour in yesterday's zucchini bread was whole wheat, not all of it. When Bugbear demands a Snickers bar, you best believe I'm going to go "well, if you really want it..." and then eat a Snickers bar because I won't be able to concentrate on anything else until I do so. But I know my choices, my risks, and I'm making my decisions based on those.
Chances are good that our socio-political agendas aren't going to match. If you're concerned about babies being hurt in utero because they're going to grow up to be some variety of less productive and more dependent citizens, then our agendas don't match. None of us are as productive as we could be. None of us are independent. Those of us who can claim true self-sufficiency or community sufficiency aren't reading this because they're too busy producing their own food, clothing, power, and daily needs to be reading blogs. What we're trying to prevent with policing pregnant bodies is not bad pregnancies or unruly children; what we're trying to prevent is the wrong sort of bad pregnancy, the wrong sort of unruly child, the wrong sort of tween/teen/young/adult political subject who will do and say the wrong things. And if snarking at a pregnant woman seems to up our chances of making the world a better place for the children of tomorrow, then who wouldn't want to take a glass out of a stranger's hand and lecture her on what she should be doing?
I kind hope Bugbear is always a thinking citizen who never takes a glass out of someone's hand because it never occurs to him/her to judge others based on appearances. I hope that s/he responds to the inevitable "because I'm your parent, that's why" with "well that's stupid. What's your reason?" I hope s/he embodies my favorite magnet:
in his/her own way, with the addition of fighting ageism and ableism and general idiocy and unthinkingness as well. Not because I made the right choices, or the wrong choices, about what to eat and drink and wear and use while pregnant. Not because s/he wants our approval or love or extra spending money or the car keys. But because s/he grows up thinking and knowing that what we fight, and what we fight for, how we judge and how we respond to judgment, make a difference in how we know others and how others know us.
But I needed a break from class work today, so I clicked over.
And there was this article: "Back off, pregnancy police! I know what I'm doing!"
And my gut reaction was "A-FREAKING-MEN!" without even reading the article. Because I'm not big on the whole policing others' bodies to begin with thing. And pregnancy is a time when my distended belleh seems to mean I am somehow prime for the petting in grocery stores, for the questions about my bowel movements in daily conversation, for the raised eyebrows every time I crack a Coke or put an ice pack on my ribs, or choose to eat three hard boiled egg whites and some carrots with hummus instead of the proverbial pickles and ice cream.
You just can't do pregnancy right for the general US population.
So I read the article.
And then I was annoyed. It's about a glass of wine. BUT it's a well-justified, off-the-books-doctor-recommended glass of wine, so it's okay! If only people would just leave her alone and trust that she knows what she's doing... and while I am totally down with the "buzz off, jerkwad" aspect of this, I am frustrated that the doctor's approval seems to be what makes this glass of wine better than others.
I like wine. I've even had some in the last nine months. Not because I have a differently formed uterus. Just because it tastes good. Same goes for lots of things: sushi, lunch meat, hot dogs (seriously, ew, but when you need one, you need one), three bottles of blueberry beer (turns out I still don't actually like beer), raw sprouts, medium-rare steaks, canned tuna, edamame, and raw honey. And if I could find unpasteurized cheese and it sounded good, I would have eaten that too, but it's really freaking hard to find unpasteurized cheese in the US.
It's not that I got a positive test and decided to do everything possible to flout the system. It's that I truly believe the system is broken, and the system currently in place is one that works to consistently undermine women's intelligence, power, and prerogative to run even the most basic unit of our lives, our bodies. We are watched, and have people attempting control, from every possible perspective--the well-meaning but thoroughly entrenched medical institutions and their representatives that take our blood, urine, weight, and vital signs every six weeks (and then every four weeks, and then every two weeks, and then every week); the well-meaning friends and family who share horror stories and advice and experience without thinking to ask whether we want to hear, or being willing to accept that our choices are different and yet equally valid; even the stranger who lectures us about the triglycerides in bagels and how they make people fat while glaring at our 34-week pregnant stomachs, or the friendly cashier who says "I know who doesn't get to drink this!" as she rings up an alcoholic beverage.
These are not usually people who look at us and say "person with a vagina. Must be stupid, time for me to step in." These are usually people who want to help. Who think they have valuable information that we cannot get anywhere else. Who believe we somehow want or need their stories. Who truly believe the hype around fetal alcohol syndrome and poisonous soft cheese and the evils of "undercooked" meat. To whom it apparently never occurs that I might well know what's going on and choose not to be an extremist in the same ways that they are.
Clearly, there's a desire to protect others going on here. Clearly, there are people who consider fetuses people, and want to protect them and give them the best possible start in life. But since we couldn't successfully use a flash drive to transfer Bugbear from my uterus to Michael's stomach through our navels, we've had to accept that I'm the one carrying him/her. And that means that my choices are the ones that go, because in the end it is my body.
And so I choose, consciously and with careful thought and research, to give my fetus the best possible start in life. On my terms. Which means a diet of mostly vegetables and whole grains, very little palm oil, hydrogenated oil, or high-fructose corn syrup, and healthy and realistic portion sizes with limited amounts of meat and unnecessary fats while increasing the amount of homemade, local, and organic foods we eat. Which means upping my commitment to get rid of BPA, SLS of both sorts, parabens, and petrolatum (relatively safe, but who really wants petroleum by-products on his/her skin?) in my home and on my body. Which means as few drugs as humanly possible, limited to what I truly need to get through the day.
I'm not perfect. I ate Jimmy John's for lunch, with a Coke and a banana and an apple. Only half of the flour in yesterday's zucchini bread was whole wheat, not all of it. When Bugbear demands a Snickers bar, you best believe I'm going to go "well, if you really want it..." and then eat a Snickers bar because I won't be able to concentrate on anything else until I do so. But I know my choices, my risks, and I'm making my decisions based on those.
Chances are good that our socio-political agendas aren't going to match. If you're concerned about babies being hurt in utero because they're going to grow up to be some variety of less productive and more dependent citizens, then our agendas don't match. None of us are as productive as we could be. None of us are independent. Those of us who can claim true self-sufficiency or community sufficiency aren't reading this because they're too busy producing their own food, clothing, power, and daily needs to be reading blogs. What we're trying to prevent with policing pregnant bodies is not bad pregnancies or unruly children; what we're trying to prevent is the wrong sort of bad pregnancy, the wrong sort of unruly child, the wrong sort of tween/teen/young/adult political subject who will do and say the wrong things. And if snarking at a pregnant woman seems to up our chances of making the world a better place for the children of tomorrow, then who wouldn't want to take a glass out of a stranger's hand and lecture her on what she should be doing?
I kind hope Bugbear is always a thinking citizen who never takes a glass out of someone's hand because it never occurs to him/her to judge others based on appearances. I hope that s/he responds to the inevitable "because I'm your parent, that's why" with "well that's stupid. What's your reason?" I hope s/he embodies my favorite magnet:
in his/her own way, with the addition of fighting ageism and ableism and general idiocy and unthinkingness as well. Not because I made the right choices, or the wrong choices, about what to eat and drink and wear and use while pregnant. Not because s/he wants our approval or love or extra spending money or the car keys. But because s/he grows up thinking and knowing that what we fight, and what we fight for, how we judge and how we respond to judgment, make a difference in how we know others and how others know us.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Happy National Coming Out Day!
(image from this fabulous cloth diaper listing on etsy)
My facebook status has been borrowed by others. Without citation or credit, it's just floating around out there as other people's thoughts. I love this. I love that I said something worth copying. (Copy my papers, thesis, or other material on which I have worked my butt off, and out comes the "why you shouldn't plagiarize" stick, but this is a facebook status. Not the same.)
I am spoiled by the privilege in my life. I am spoiled by appearing to be a middle class 20/30-woman-born-woman who is straight, white, able-bodied, well-educated, and well-mannered. Which of these are untrue or true doesn't matter. Just appearing to be these things gives me tremendous privilege. Bugbear will inherit many of these things. But it is one of my deepest desires that by the time s/he is dealing with who s/he wants to love and how, s/he will not have to ask me why I work for a church that says "homosexuality is fundamentally incompatible with Christian teaching" when we go to Pride and protests and spend our time claiming and living that God loves all people. It is one of my deepest desires that s/he will not know people who kill themselves, or drug themselves, or otherwise harm themselves, as a reaction to others' prejudices. I want him/her to grow up knowing love, in our home and in his/her world.
One of the most amazing parents I know has never asked her son if he has a girlfriend. From the time he was little, she's had conversations with him that involve questions like "Are there people at school you really like?" or "Do you know if you want to kiss boys or girls someday?" or "If you grow up to be a daddy, do you think you want to love a mommy or a daddy?" I want to copy that. I want no part of my child's home life to assume s/he will be hetero. And I want to be active in the creation of a world where that assumption is done, and the assumption that being hetero is somehow better than anything is also done. I want Bugbear to find homophobia and hating queerness as ridiculous as we find phrenology. And if saying "yes! Use my words as your own! Enjoy them!" moves us even one iota closer to that, then you can have my term papers as well as my facebook notes.
So, not for the first time, and hopefully not for the last:
Happy National Coming Out day! Here's to the idea that every day should be a day when we love (or have consensual sex with) whoever we want, without corporate sponsorship, violence, fear, hatred, firing, excommunication, or being otherwise treated as less than human.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Let's Talk Boobs.
I like them. Mine, others, whatever. Boobs are good.
I'm really quite attached to mine, even.
But boobs and facebook...they just don't seem to click.
And when you add in breast cancer awareness month, it's a triad that is odd and hyper-sexualized enough to drive me up a wall.
In case you've missed it, there are women whose statuses read things like "Ms.SmartyPants likes it on the first chair she sees in her house!" or "Ms.StudentYouShouldn'tHaveFriended likes it wherever she can get it! LOLZTXTME"
These are supposed to refer to where we put our handbags. Apologies, women of the world, I totally told your secret. And I didn't play the game. And I'm not going to.
Partly because Bugbear has eaten my brain, and my status would have to read "Krista likes it whenever and wherever she can find it, but doesn't actually know where that is."
More because it's not actually doing anything.
Rephrase: it's not actually doing anything useful for breast cancer, breast cancer research, or breast cancer education and prevention.
Instead, it's reinforcing the notion that breasts are sexual objects for the amusement, consumption, and enjoyment of others.
Or it's reinforcing the notion that coy oversharing is somehow a feminist act that means since we can act as if we're sexual, women now hold significant cultural power. (And if you believe this, we probably need to have a talk about how Barack Obama getting elected does not mean racism is over, too.)
Or it's reinforcing the notion that my breasts are everyone's concern, without actually getting to the point that the health and welfare of all people should be everyone's concern.
I have issues with all three of those. Sure, breasts can be sexual. They can also be food dispensers. They can also be any number of things. Much like people, they're fabulously multifaceted. There is no one right use, reason for their existence, or way to think about them.
And sure, coy oversharing can be a fabulous method of flirtation. But being able to engage in minorly risque conversation doesn't mean I can prevent being leered at, whistled at, or treated like a piece of meat, and it doesn't prevent people from thinking that I am no more than my body. And that's a problem that no facebook movement is going to solve.
Sure, my breasts are a health concern. But my breasts are not a health concern that wants your "Feel the Tatas!" or your "Save the Tatas! or "I love your Boobies!" stickers, or car magnets, or other overpriced merchandise that is simply stuff with a slogan. If you feel that strongly, then feel your own tatas, regardless of your biological sex, since men get breast cancer too. Give your $3 to cancer research instead of to the magnet company (the Komen Foundation is one of only 9 charities focusing on breast cancer to get a four-star rating on Charity Navigator, and the only national organization to do so). And I don't want to hear what you feel for my breasts; I've checked, they're fine, and they do not want your dollars. They think your dollars should go to someone who will use them well.
There's nothing wrong with social networking for fun instead of for a cause. And there's nothing wrong with using social networking to do real good in the world. But there is something wrong with playing as if social networking for fun is actually doing real good. If you can't donate, can't volunteer, can't send a card to a family living with cancer, and can't find a way to support anyone in need in honor of those with breast cancer, then take your cursor, click here, and then click on the pink button that says "Click Here to Give--It's FREE!" and repeat daily for a way to use your computer to actually fund something that helps provide breast cancer prevention. Then get back to using your facebook status to describe your lunch, your child's bowel movements, or who I should vote for, the way God intended it to be used.
I'm really quite attached to mine, even.
But boobs and facebook...they just don't seem to click.
And when you add in breast cancer awareness month, it's a triad that is odd and hyper-sexualized enough to drive me up a wall.
In case you've missed it, there are women whose statuses read things like "Ms.SmartyPants likes it on the first chair she sees in her house!" or "Ms.StudentYouShouldn'tHaveFriended likes it wherever she can get it! LOLZTXTME"
These are supposed to refer to where we put our handbags. Apologies, women of the world, I totally told your secret. And I didn't play the game. And I'm not going to.
Partly because Bugbear has eaten my brain, and my status would have to read "Krista likes it whenever and wherever she can find it, but doesn't actually know where that is."
More because it's not actually doing anything.
Rephrase: it's not actually doing anything useful for breast cancer, breast cancer research, or breast cancer education and prevention.
Instead, it's reinforcing the notion that breasts are sexual objects for the amusement, consumption, and enjoyment of others.
Or it's reinforcing the notion that coy oversharing is somehow a feminist act that means since we can act as if we're sexual, women now hold significant cultural power. (And if you believe this, we probably need to have a talk about how Barack Obama getting elected does not mean racism is over, too.)
Or it's reinforcing the notion that my breasts are everyone's concern, without actually getting to the point that the health and welfare of all people should be everyone's concern.
I have issues with all three of those. Sure, breasts can be sexual. They can also be food dispensers. They can also be any number of things. Much like people, they're fabulously multifaceted. There is no one right use, reason for their existence, or way to think about them.
And sure, coy oversharing can be a fabulous method of flirtation. But being able to engage in minorly risque conversation doesn't mean I can prevent being leered at, whistled at, or treated like a piece of meat, and it doesn't prevent people from thinking that I am no more than my body. And that's a problem that no facebook movement is going to solve.
Sure, my breasts are a health concern. But my breasts are not a health concern that wants your "Feel the Tatas!" or your "Save the Tatas! or "I love your Boobies!" stickers, or car magnets, or other overpriced merchandise that is simply stuff with a slogan. If you feel that strongly, then feel your own tatas, regardless of your biological sex, since men get breast cancer too. Give your $3 to cancer research instead of to the magnet company (the Komen Foundation is one of only 9 charities focusing on breast cancer to get a four-star rating on Charity Navigator, and the only national organization to do so). And I don't want to hear what you feel for my breasts; I've checked, they're fine, and they do not want your dollars. They think your dollars should go to someone who will use them well.
There's nothing wrong with social networking for fun instead of for a cause. And there's nothing wrong with using social networking to do real good in the world. But there is something wrong with playing as if social networking for fun is actually doing real good. If you can't donate, can't volunteer, can't send a card to a family living with cancer, and can't find a way to support anyone in need in honor of those with breast cancer, then take your cursor, click here, and then click on the pink button that says "Click Here to Give--It's FREE!" and repeat daily for a way to use your computer to actually fund something that helps provide breast cancer prevention. Then get back to using your facebook status to describe your lunch, your child's bowel movements, or who I should vote for, the way God intended it to be used.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
34 weeks.
How pregnant are you? 34 weeks! That's also pregnant enough that if (and this is an IF we are NOT hoping for!) Bugbear were born next week, we would most likely be able to take him/her home from the hospital as if /she were full term. That's also pregnant enough that the countdown to November is around 40 days. That's a lot of sleeps if you're 3 and waiting until Christmas. That is not a lot of sleeps if you're a full time student, homemaker, partner, and crazy enough to be making your own baby bedding. And I am not 3.
Relate this pregnancy to objects we tend to eat or other everyday things. Bugbear is around the size of a cantaloupe or honeydew melon, or possibly the height of an American Girl doll, could weigh around an average of 5 pounds, and may well be 20" long. Of course, s/he may be just under 4 pounds and 16" and still be considered perfectly average, so we're not putting too much stock in averages or ultrasound measurements. There's a chance s/he could take after me and be wee. There's a chance s/he could take after the rest of my family, and most of Michael's family, and not be wee. And either way, we have to wait until s/he is born to actually find out, so I guess it's good I like surprises.
Tell me some random stuff about the Bugbear. It's another week where growing is the major job. The vernix is pretty much gone, but remains in his/her little armpits and behind his/her knees. If Bugbear is a boy, his testicles are beginning their final descent, and if he ever reads this, he will probably not speak to me for a week for divulging this information. Even if Bugbear has no testes, s/he is still putting on fat, which makes his/her skin smoother and will be useful for the outside world. His/her lungs are also developing, and from the hiccups s/he's getting regularly, his/her diaphragm is working away as well.
Tell me how you feel physically. Huge. And I know I've said that before. But my body's ability to just keep getting bigger astounds me. I can't imagine what it would be like if I had a proportional torso instead of being long-waisted, because Bugbear has decided that under my ribs is the best place in the whole wide world to live, and even so, s/he still manages to take up a LOT of space and squish all my other bits too. I'm also noticing swelling in my hands; they still don't look like it, but I'm pretty sure that my ring finger is a 4.5 or 5 now instead of a 3.5. Since "be able to wear rings throughout pregnancy" is no longer possible, my new goal is to avoid cankles. And I'm hoping that goes much better than the ring one.
What are you craving? Zucchini bread. Are you surprised? I'm not. But my mom brought me zucchini this weekend, so I'm totally going to have this magical stuff soon. And then I will be seriously happy. And milk. Which goes tremendously well with zucchini bread.
Are you crazy emotional? Often. This is the middle of two insanely busy weeks, where I'm booked at least four hours a day with stuff that has to get done. The pace is relentless, and so I'm tired, which makes me more likely to cry at anything. Like everything that still needs to get done but we can't really get other people to do for us...
Anything else? We have a lot that still needs to get done on the practical end of stuff (like figuring out what goes to the hospital with us besides car seat, birthing ball, and lip balm, and then packing said stuff).
The shower that Carol and Lori threw us was wonderful, and we are grateful beyond words to the loving and generous people who were there to show Bugbear just how welcome s/he is to the world. And now we need to figure out what we still need to get, and then get those things, so we're hitting the fabulous-terrifying-OMG-what-have-we-done?!? world of BuyBuyBaby and BabiesRUs this weekend to do that sort of thing.
And we need to start washing and prepping diapers.
And I need someone who's an expert in early medieval Christian history to take over my online class participation, and someone else who is an expert in United Methodist Worship practice and theory to take over my quiz and presentation for that class. I'll let you prep diapers when you're finished...
Relate this pregnancy to objects we tend to eat or other everyday things. Bugbear is around the size of a cantaloupe or honeydew melon, or possibly the height of an American Girl doll, could weigh around an average of 5 pounds, and may well be 20" long. Of course, s/he may be just under 4 pounds and 16" and still be considered perfectly average, so we're not putting too much stock in averages or ultrasound measurements. There's a chance s/he could take after me and be wee. There's a chance s/he could take after the rest of my family, and most of Michael's family, and not be wee. And either way, we have to wait until s/he is born to actually find out, so I guess it's good I like surprises.
Tell me some random stuff about the Bugbear. It's another week where growing is the major job. The vernix is pretty much gone, but remains in his/her little armpits and behind his/her knees. If Bugbear is a boy, his testicles are beginning their final descent, and if he ever reads this, he will probably not speak to me for a week for divulging this information. Even if Bugbear has no testes, s/he is still putting on fat, which makes his/her skin smoother and will be useful for the outside world. His/her lungs are also developing, and from the hiccups s/he's getting regularly, his/her diaphragm is working away as well.
Tell me how you feel physically. Huge. And I know I've said that before. But my body's ability to just keep getting bigger astounds me. I can't imagine what it would be like if I had a proportional torso instead of being long-waisted, because Bugbear has decided that under my ribs is the best place in the whole wide world to live, and even so, s/he still manages to take up a LOT of space and squish all my other bits too. I'm also noticing swelling in my hands; they still don't look like it, but I'm pretty sure that my ring finger is a 4.5 or 5 now instead of a 3.5. Since "be able to wear rings throughout pregnancy" is no longer possible, my new goal is to avoid cankles. And I'm hoping that goes much better than the ring one.
What are you craving? Zucchini bread. Are you surprised? I'm not. But my mom brought me zucchini this weekend, so I'm totally going to have this magical stuff soon. And then I will be seriously happy. And milk. Which goes tremendously well with zucchini bread.
Are you crazy emotional? Often. This is the middle of two insanely busy weeks, where I'm booked at least four hours a day with stuff that has to get done. The pace is relentless, and so I'm tired, which makes me more likely to cry at anything. Like everything that still needs to get done but we can't really get other people to do for us...
Anything else? We have a lot that still needs to get done on the practical end of stuff (like figuring out what goes to the hospital with us besides car seat, birthing ball, and lip balm, and then packing said stuff).
The shower that Carol and Lori threw us was wonderful, and we are grateful beyond words to the loving and generous people who were there to show Bugbear just how welcome s/he is to the world. And now we need to figure out what we still need to get, and then get those things, so we're hitting the fabulous-terrifying-OMG-what-have-we-done?!? world of BuyBuyBaby and BabiesRUs this weekend to do that sort of thing.
And we need to start washing and prepping diapers.
And I need someone who's an expert in early medieval Christian history to take over my online class participation, and someone else who is an expert in United Methodist Worship practice and theory to take over my quiz and presentation for that class. I'll let you prep diapers when you're finished...
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Sunday, October 3 - Baby Shower
Dear BugBear,
This afternoon is your baby shower. It's one of those rare occasions in life where the honored guest will not be physically present (in the usual way). That's pretty weird, huh? We will do our best to remember what happened, and to let you know how much you are loved by family and friends, even before you were born. Sorry - it's probably bad form to save you some leftovers.
Thanks in advance to Nana Carol and Auntie Lori for making today's festivities take place, and to your friends and family who came to celebrate your arrival in a few weeks.
Love,
-Dad
This afternoon is your baby shower. It's one of those rare occasions in life where the honored guest will not be physically present (in the usual way). That's pretty weird, huh? We will do our best to remember what happened, and to let you know how much you are loved by family and friends, even before you were born. Sorry - it's probably bad form to save you some leftovers.
Thanks in advance to Nana Carol and Auntie Lori for making today's festivities take place, and to your friends and family who came to celebrate your arrival in a few weeks.
Love,
-Dad
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