Not To Brag, But…

Yesterday at the ultrasound I was told that I “have a perfect bladder.” Not something you hear every day. Even less common to hear it in front of your husband. Don’t be jealous; we can’t all be perfect.


I’ll Never Look At Twinkies The Same Way Again.

Baby Daddy and I are beside ourselves, having learned this morning that we’re having a boy.  In order to tell us this fact the ultrasound technician pointed her cursor at an ambiguous grey blob on the screen and said, “see there, that’s something girls don’t have.”

You have to understand that from the particular angle involved the object in question did not even appear connected to our baby.  After an awkward silence during which I’m pretty sure the technician determined we were complete idiots, I managed to flaunt both my thorough knowledge of the birds and bees and my superior deductive reasoning.  I said, “I know girls don’t have penises, is that what you’re referring to?”  Uh, yeah. It was.

For some reason after that, maybe because she thought we were so dumb, the technician consistently referred to our son’s “twinkie” and his “missile.”  I’m hoping he doesn’t draw any such comparisons himself, as I’d like him to learn grown-up terms for his anatomy.  However, if he gets too lippy with me in his teenage years, you better believe I will remind him of this story.  Humble beginnings, is all I’m saying.  

Someone Please Smack Me.

On the day I got my bar exam results I was so nervous that I sweated through my suit and so punchy that I photocopied a bagel and billed it to a pretend client. 

Little did I know that the suspense of this afternoon would be so much worse! My 20-week ultrasound is in less than 24 hours and I have become completely irrational.  Good luck following my legal advice today, clients.  Just be grateful I’m not scanning my breakfast.


Meow Means Danger.

  Because my 20-week ultrasound is set for tomorrow, I’ve been thinking back to the very first prenatal appointment we had on Valentine’s Day and how weird the nurses’ questions were.  No one talked to me about smoking, drugs, domestic abuse or any number of other things you might consider relevant for a newly pregnant woman.  However, THREE different nurses came in to grill me about whether I have a cat. The prevalent warnings seemed to be “Don’t touch any cats,” “be careful about cats,” and my favorite, “don’t touch cat poop” (as if that’s just a huge temptation).  I know, I know: toxoplasmosis.  But for a disease that’s incredibly rare in the U.S. you’d think they might relax a bit regarding cats.  Especially since I’m CLEARLY a dog person!

Sadly, I’m This Pitiful.

Note to men hanging around my office building this afternoon: What about me being 5 months pregnant, hot, tired, hungry and limping along in ridiculous office heels makes you think I would like to be whistled at?

Note to self: Still got it!!!!!

Pregnancy Dreams Are Weird!!

Last night I dreamed my baby was getting old enough to stop nursing, and I was ready to be done.  However we had just adopted a six-month-old baby, prompting a question as to whether I should nurse her too.  I decided no, I would go for fomula – but as a trade off I would put strawberries in it and let her get her ears pierced.  Now you tell me, what the heck does that mean?

Is This Bad?

This afternoon, in a fit of nervousness about becoming a mother for the first time, I sat down to make a list. One, because list-making gives me a false sense of control and two, because I intended the list to summarize all the wonderful things I already know about parenting, things that will surely make me a good mother. This is all I came up with:

1) Nothing in life is as fun as feeding whipped cream to a baby.

Do you think this will be a problem?

This Is A Person.

For the moment, I’m not debating whether abortion should ever be a choice. And I hope you will never hear me condemn a woman who has already made it hers. For the moment, all I want to say is that a prognosis of disability does not make an abortion better or more legitimate. Since I’ve announced my pregnancy, I’ve been amazed by the number of folks who have casually asked me, “If the amnio is bad will you terminate?”

It’s sad when the word “terminate” is a euphemism; it’s so ominous in itself. But in this case it’s a gentler phrase for what they really mean. What they really mean, standing in the Starbucks line or on the light rail or over my cell phone, is “You’ll probably kill this child if he is disabled, right?” Asked by a co-worker in a more casual tone than I recently heard her discuss euthanizing her dog. Asked by a friend, who knows my brother is disabled, as if asking what color the nursery will be in the event I don’t decide to play God. Asked by any number of good, decent, nice people who you wouldn’t expect to pass a death sentence just because someone is disabled. Even asked by legislators charged with promoting justice and doctors whose “care” should include a reminder that panic is not a basis for decision-making.

This question and its tone, its prevalence, unearth the roots of discrimination against disabled people: that truthfully, those asking would be okay with it if such people weren’t allowed to live at all. For the sake of everyone’s comfort I won’t get hysterical and make genocide comparisons. But please, don’t assume this question won’t offend me. For it very much does.

Parenting Lesson Numero Uno

Friday Baby Daddy and I splurged on a pizza. A very large pizza. The rationale being there would be leftovers the next day, when Baby Daddy would be painting the nursery and would surely deserve some pizza. However, it appears Bambino had a different idea. For as soon as I started in on my first slice, I began to feel the most dramatic baby movements I’ve felt to date. “The baby must love pizza!!!” I concluded, reaching for a second slice. “That’s my child,” my Italian-American hubby gleefully noted. Caught up in the excitement, I ate half the pizza.

Moments later I began to question that decision. By then, the wonderful baby movements had been replaced by the worst heartburn I have ever experienced, and a very real fear that we would soon revisit the pizza in a significantly less appetizing form. And so was learned a valuable lesson: baby shouldn’t get everything baby wants. Overall, I’d say that was worth it. Otherwise 16 years from now the heartburn could be a lot worse!!!

Way To Go, Baby Daddy!!!!

A few weeks ago friends of ours put their beloved lab on feeding tubes to save him from a life-threatening digestive problem.  It was an admirable labor of love after months of expensive treatments and vet visits.  Discussing this situation in front of our pound dog Sampson, who despite his name has a chronic case of everything, hubby said, “well of course we would do the same for Sampson.”  I was glad for the moment that Sampson’s vocabulary is limited to “treat; walk; sit” and “eat it” (used for giving him his many prescriptions).  Because, frankly, I questioned whether feeding tubes might be crossing the line for poor old Sampson.  

Today, the situation gave me a great vision of what a fantastic baby daddy hubby is going to be.  He left the house at 6 a.m. in a suit to attend his Bible study and then spend a full day in court advocating for foster kids in a system that is completely exhausting.  Still, he reported in the lunchhour that he couldn’t chat; was across town putting seven different syringes of formula in a doggie-sized feeding tube, whereafter he would be cleaning the insertion point and heading back to court.  Motivated not only by the love of a friend, but by his compassion for animals.  All I could think was, “is this a guy I should be having kids with or what?”  Good thing since I’m 4.5 months pregnant!


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