Here's a sample of my internet search history in the weeks leading up to Andy:

Baby movements near pelvis
BPA stats
BPA studies
BPA studies UK
Breast milk test strips
Breastfeeding alcohol
Canada listeria law
Cephalic position 37 weeks
Daily listeria test
Deli meat
Dilated breech
Doctor can't feel baby's head 37 weeks
Fetal movement near ribs 37 weeks
Fetus hiccups
Frequent fetus hiccups third trimester
How to burp a baby
Induce
Infant sleep incline
Listeria
Listeria outbreak
Listeria Subway sandwiches
Listeria paranoia
Lunch meat and pregnancy
Lunch meat pregnancy Potbelly's
Mucous plug
Newborn take out of house
Nipples pregnancy
Organic food pregnant
Potbelly's pregnancy
Prenatal vitamins
Protein in urine pregnancy
Signs of cord compression
Triclosan pregnancy
Triclosan soap pregnancy
Triclosan studies
Unborn hiccups
US listeria meat
When does baby drop

Strange how I didn't google "How having a baby is freaking awesome." Nothing but fear. And yet everything turned out fine, and I have the best, most amazing baby boy ever. Huh.

Well, I'm back at work, which totally and completely sucks. Now I truly understand the phrase "not enough hours in the day." Not only do I not get to spend nearly enough time with my son, but there's suddenly not enough time after work for anything else- eating, cleaning, unwinding, etc. It's all go-go-go and a total reorganization of priorities. I keep going over the numbers in my head, though, and I have to work. Full time. There's no two ways about it. Sucks.

The problem with me is that I'm not good with change. At all. My friend GG put it best last week: "It's been a rough five years with you. First you got married and had to plan a wedding. Then you bought a house and that was a whole thing. Then you tried to get pregnant and it took a little too long. Now you've got a great baby, and you're depressed about working again." All these good things have happened (except the going back to work part), and it's been nothing but headaches with me. So to GG and everybody else on my planet: Yeah. Sorry about all the complaining regarding my relatively good fortune.

That being said, if any of you know of any work from home opportunites, or would like to simply pay my mortgage for a couple of years (please note that I will be unable to pay you back), please call or email me.

Andy is doing great, though. He's smiling and giggling and babbling. He's getting stronger and bigger and developing his own wonderful little personality. In a word, he's awesome.

Chris has been home with him these past two weeks. Chris has all of October off, and then my little baby doodle is starting day care in November, which I know will be a mega crisis. Not for Andy- I'm sure he'll be fine. But for me. Chris, however, has been father of the frigging year. Even manages to make dinner every night and do the shopping during the day. I think either of us would do well as a stay-at-home parent. Me maybe a little moreso than Chris just because I actually vacuum and disinfect various surfaces. But, Chris, he's been washing the dishes. Keeping things relatively neat. And the dinners. Last night: flank steak rolled around a lobster stuffing, spinach salad, and stuffed mushrooms. The lobster was imitation, so don't wet your pants too much, but man. Pretty damn good, even if I had to put the baby down in order to eat it all.

I don't like putting the baby down when I'm home in the evenings. We only have 2-3 hours together at night. If you think I'm setting that baby down other than for a quick bathroom break, man do you have another thing coming.

Motherhood so far: Amazing. Being a working mother: I'll adjust. I hope.

So. It's 9:00, which is my bed time these days, but I thought I'd say a few words on the old "Thumb" before hitting the hay. Funny- it's been almost a year since I've had a post 9:00 bed time. First pregnancy sucked all of the energy out of me, now the baby himself. Will I ever stay up late again? Stay tuned to find out this and other such queries, including why baby bowel movements always come in threes.

I wonder if I've become boring to everyone else. I know people with babies generally bored the crap out of me in the past, so it's probably safe to assume that now I'm the borer instead of the boree. I used to think, "Man, if I have to hear one more word about your stupid baby- your stupid baby that can't even talk as to say clever things- then I am so out of here." Because unless you have a baby, or want a baby, or really have some deep connection to the baby being discussed, hearing about someone else's baby is pretty torturous. I KNOW this. And yet I can't stop talking about my baby. Like, ever. Not even long enough to buy groceries sometimes. He's just so darn cute! And he smells so good, even for someone who craps his own pants, pees onto his own face, and has non-existent dental hygiene. How is that even possible?

In non-baby news, my sister's now a married woman. Her wedding was perfect, down to every last detail. You have to expect something to go wrong at a wedding, but this was one of those rare cases when everything came very neatly and wonderfully together. I guess that's what fifteen months of planning and multiple irritable bowel syndrome flare-ups will do to a wedding- perfectify it.

To be continued. Chris is standing over my shoulder telling me to get off his goddamn computer.

The song we sang today:

Who's that baby in the mirror?
His reflection is much clearer!
'Cause Mom used Windex!
Generic Windex!
And now that baby, he looks nearer!

Two more weeks until I go back to work. BOO! Big time BOO!

But! Also in about two weeks- Dan and Meg get married! Wow! I'm getting so excited for them- I can't believe it's so close!

And, when I have more time, a recap of Marcia and Mark's wedding. Which also warrants a "Wow!"

Andy has too much dignity to poop in a wet diaper, or to finish eating while wearing a poopy diaper.

He does not, however, have too much dignity to poop while in the tub.

Andy hates wearing socks. While I am feeding him, he will rub his feet against my legs in an effort to get his socks off. He is also very good at distracting us with either cuteness or fussiness while he pushes his socks off. We find socks all over the house- on the couch, the changing table, on the floor. There's probably no reason to have the kid wearing socks, but at this point, it's a matter of principle.

Andy is in the best mood after his bottle. That's when he smiles and sticks out his tongue and kicks his legs and waves his arms and babbles. So far, I think he's said the words "yeah" and "hi."

Andy is losing his hair. He still has a full head of it, but there are full nests of hair in both his downstairs bassinet and his crib. This may be a statement more about how diligent I am about cleaning up his sleeping areas as opposed to his hair loss, but still.

Andy does not look good in black. He looks pale and sickly and, with his dark hair and sideburns, kind of like a baby vampire. Which sounds cool, but somehow doesn't work.

Andy has very vivid dreams. While sleeping, he alternately cries and smiles. What is this kid dreaming about, I wonder? A poopy diaper while eating, perhaps, for the cries, and me most likely for the smiles. At least that's what I tell myself.

When Andy's mad, he punches and scratches. Hard. In the face. It's not a matter of if he's going to knock out my tooth, but when.

To get Andy to sleep, you must swaddle the crap out of him.

Andy does not want Mommy to go back to work in October. He told me so, and I told Chris, but alas it does not look like any of us are going to get our way. What a cruel punishment, to separate me and my baby for forty hours a week, every week. Screw women's lib- what happened to the days when women didn't have to work or vote and just got to cuddle with their babies? I'd give it all up, I would! Or at least most of it.

Yesterday was four weeks since my baby boy was born. Best four weeks of my life so far, even taking into account the lack of sleep and the fact that I still can't fit my old jeans over my blubbery thighs, butt, and tummy. But alas. Such small prices for a great treasure.

More to come later- baby crying, gotta run.

I think Andy might be on to me. Sometimes he looks at me with an expression that can only be described as distrustful. "You have NO idea what you're doing, do you?" his eyes seem to say below his crinkled, thoughtful forehead. "You're just winging it, aren't you? Well, it's not working. You're screwing me up!"

He's right- I don't know how to be a mother. I think I'm meeting his basic needs, but even of this, I'm mediocre at best. I half-ass changing his diapers, because it's gross and because he fusses too much for me to linger at it and do a proper wipe job. I have tried singing to him to calm him down, but I realize that I don't really know any lullabies, and I feel like I'm cheating the kid by singing "adult" songs. I do, however, know "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" and "The Alphabet Song," two seemingly different songs which I actually just discovered this morning HAVE THE SAME EXACT TUNE. So, in the interest of being honest, I only know one kid song, but two sets of lyrics. And feeding this kid. I'm trying to combine boobie and bottle, and I'm not sure if it's working out. When I try to give him a bottle of that powdered crap mixed with the special, 99 cent "baby water," Andy looks at me with such betrayal and hurt that I'm positive he's read the same articles I have- that he knows I'm short-changing him and withholding the good boobie milk out of my own selfish desires to keep my nipples from cracking and bleeding and because taking my shirt on and off every two hours is something that I just don't have the time for. He knows. And he's holding it against me, drinking the bottle begrudgingly only because a semi-realistic fear of starvation.

Andy does fuss a lot. He was a calm baby for the first week-ish, and now he is, at times, downright inconsolable. He throws his little head back and wails, his shiny, toothless pink gums on full display. And he's a squirmer- he jerks his body to the left, to the right, up and out so fiercely that I am sometimes afraid he'll pop right out of my arms. He obviously wants to go somewhere, by himself, but I'm not sure he's really thought things through. Sure he's pretty strong for a two week old- but strong enough to find his way to the road and hitchhike his way to a house with more experienced parental figures? Doubtful.

I will say that Chris has been doing way more than his fair share of taking care of Andy. Not that I thought he'd be a deadbeat, but Chris stays up with Andy during the night a LOT more than I do. I really only wake up for the kid when my aching bosom jars me out of sleep to tell me that I either need to feed something or I'm going to possibly explode. Otherwise, Chris sleeps (and I use that word loosely, sleeps) with Andy in Andy's room on the spare twin bed we have. We're supposed to be doing that in shifts, but it has ended up being that Chris kind of just sleeps with Andy until about the five am feeding, and then I take over and let Chris finish out the morning asleep in our bed while I nurse and then catnap for another hour or two, doing my best to ignore Andy's fitful fussing until about seven am, when it becomes apparent that I either need to tend to him or the neighbors are going to maybe hear him and call DCFS on me.

I exaggerate, I do. But not by a whole lot.

This all being said, for a two week old baby, even with all the fussing and the shifty looking gazes this kid flashes at us, he is a pretty good little boy. And he gets cuter by the day. I know he's technically too young to smile, but sometimes when he sleeps, he busts out a huge grin and giggles a little. Sure, I know it's likely gas, but I like to think he's dreaming about something really nice. Like warm milk or a good cuddle or his mommy taking the time to learn a couple lullabies.

I can't say it enough, though- this new kind of love, the love for baby- it's something that I've never felt before. It's whole and consuming and amazing and scary and fully, completely enveloping. And the best freaking thing ever. So even if I'm afraid I'm screwing up my kid or not being all that great at this whole mothering thing- at the very least, I know I'm doing at least one thing right because I feel this brand new version of love that didn't exist before July 12. So that's got to say something, right?

Contented. Sigh.

My baby Andy is nine days old today. I've been meaning to write a blog entry about the labor, delivery, and our first few days, but time has been getting away from me. At this rate, I'm going to be back at work before I know it. How is time going by so quickly when all we do is nap, eat, poop, and cuddle? How have I had to do four loads of Andy's laundry already when we haven't even left the house, save for his doctor's visit and a trip to Walgreens and the liquor store* in which we didn't even take Andy out of the car?

His first doctor's visit went great. We packed his diaper bag for the half hour jaunt out of the house with a week's supply of diapers, an emergency supply of formula, three different kinds of burp cloths, 80 wipes, a couple pacifiers, two changes of clothes, and a teddy bear. The diaper bag weighs more than my baby- and that's saying a lot, considering Andrew Jacob came into this world last Monday, July 12 weighing a whopping eight pounds, five ounces. Now, I know this isn't HUGE for a baby, but it's pretty monstrous for me, considering that in my non-pregnancy days, I generally weigh in just over a slim hundred.

They induced me, but I think Andy would have been born that day anyway- when we got to the hospital, I was already (unwittingly!) having contractions, and when the doctor snapped on her latex glove to break my water (who knows what that would have entailed, yikes), I exclaimed that I had just peed myself. Oh, how embarrassing! Oh, of all times to pee! Of course, it wasn't pee, it was the bag of waters, and I thought to myself, "Man, this labor is practically going to take care of itself! This is going to be a BREEZE!" Boy, was I wrong. At about 4:30 PM, the doctor turned down my epidural and casually suggested that I start pushing. Stupidly, I assumed I would lightly push a few times and out would come my baby, perhaps by 4:45 PM, just before I dressed and cleaned up for dinner. Not quite. I pushed for three solid hours with what felt like no epidural. I threw up and screamed and cried, and when it became apparent that my baby wasn't coming out without a little help, I reluctantly agreed to let the doctor use the vacuum. I don't know why they call it a vacuum; it's basically a huge suction cup that the doctor shoves up your what-not, somehow attaches to the baby's head, and then YANKS WITH ALL HER MIGHT WITH NO REGARD TO HOW BADLY SHE IS WRECKING YOUR LADY JUNK. But my baby did eventually come out. And, yes, my lady junk did get pretty wrecked. I was not prepared for exactly how wrecked things were going to be down there- how I would feel the needle going in and out when she stitched me up afterwards, how I would need a whole variety basket full of lady junk ointments, pads, wipes, sprays, ice packs, etc, just to barely make that area feel just painfully uncomfortable as opposed to ABSOLUTELY, KILL ME AWFUL. And I almost laughed out loud when the doctor told me, before they discharged me, that I couldn't put anything in my vagina for six weeks. I don't think anything's going up there ever again. I hope this doesn't negatively affect my marriage.

But, anyway. Enough about me and my lady junk. Let's talk about my perfect little angel, Andy. God, do I love this kid. I can say without a doubt that I've never loved anything like I love my baby Andy. He makes me think of that Six Feet Under episode when Nate and some guy were talking about how having a child was like seeing your heart beating outside your chest. That's how I feel. Andy is beautiful and amazing, and I'm still in shock that he came out of plain, ordinary me. He's got a head of thick, dark, luxurious hair, and Chris and I love to brush it and give him a side part, transforming baby Andy into Andy, the insurance salesman. He's got huge eyes that shine in shades of both brown and dark blue, depending. He's got a perfectly round little head and long baby fingers. His cries are adorable. The way he gazes is adorable. He's warm and smells nice and he melts my heart when he falls asleep with his cheek against my chest. He's a good baby- he doesn't fuss or cry unless he's being "messed with" or needs something ASAP, like a diaper change or a meal. And I believe all my friends and family when they tell me that he's the cutest baby ever. I know they'd probably say that anyway, even if he wasn't, but I think their statements ring with truth. He is pretty fricking cute. Pretty fricking awesome.

Which just goes to show you: the secret ingredient to creating a perfect, beautiful baby is ANXIETY. Also, egg salad, I ate a lot of egg salad when I was pregnant.

I like to sing to Andy. I like to sing songs and replace certain words with Andy. We do "Take A Load Off, Andy," and the other night I did a rendition of The Cranberries' "Zombie," replacing each instance of Zombie with Andy. He seemed to enjoy it. I like to kiss Andy and snuggle with Andy and hold Andy's little hand. One thing I don't like to do is change Andy's diaper. I'm not good at it. Like, at all. Chris is better at poop duty, and I'm much too negligent when it comes to making sure that Andy doesn't shoot pee back onto his own face. Whoops.

Here's something I want to remember forever. The night Andy was born, the nurse took his temperature and said it was a little low. So, she undressed Andy, put him on my naked chest/ belly, and covered us up with blankets so that I could keep my Andy warm. And we lay like that for a couple hours, skin to skin, Andy breathing softly against me, my arms wrapped so tightly around my little boy so that he hopefully knew, on some level, that I was never going to let him go. Mommy loves Andy. Forever.

*The trip to the liquor store was strictly for business purposes, as Chris works for that company. Also, we needed beer.

One day PAST my due date, and here I am without a baby. At this point, I have all the signs that labor is approaching- dilated to a whopping three centimeters, have lost my (way TMI for most of you) "plug," and yesterday dealt with some very rhythmic cramping which doctor assured me meant absolutely nothing. I think I'm at the point where I'm just plain pissed. I have to tell you, I was CERTAIN this baby would come early. Maybe because I thought my skinny frame couldn't handle a forty week fetus (surprisingly, it can) or because I'm always *early* to all of my appointments, almost to a fault. I'm usually one of the first to arrive to a party, and then I'm forced to drive slowly around the block six times before parking in order to kill some time so I don't look socially desperate. Of course, being pregnant has made me late for most things, namely work- these past couple months, I've consistently been ten minutes late every day. The simple solution would have been to set my alarm clock ten minutes early. But I'm not that easily fooled.

ARGGHHHHH! I hope I go into full blown labor in the next five minutes. Well, I still have to shower, so maybe five minutes after I finish toweling off. Hear that, baby? It's GO TIME. I'm begging you, let's GO.

One week until my due date. I had an appointment with the doctor yesterday who did her exam and proclaimed that I was "...still closed up. Well, maybe a centimeter." Nothing like having your doctor throw you a pity centimeter. She could tell by the pathetic, needy look in my eyes that I NEEDED her to say that I had a little movement down in my business. Please, doc- throw me something to hang on to over here.

I asked about induction, and she replied that after I'm a week late, that's when the induction would be scheduled. In a most shameless display of begging, I told her that I couldn't wait that long- that I was uncomfortable and not sleeping and couldn't we pretty please just schedule the induction NOW for the Monday after my due date (July 12th). Of course, she was reluctant. But I flashed her that same pathetic, needy look, and she pulled out her Blackberry to see if she was free that Monday, agreeing that we could schedule it. I almost jumped out of my seat and hugged her, which would have been especially awkward seeing as I was naked from the waist down. But, I was close. I had to restrain myself.

"There's a higher risk of c-section with an induction," she warned me. As if THAT was going to change my mind. Maybe I'm naive, but a c-section doesn't seem like a big deal to me. In fact, it seems a much more kinder and gentler way to deliver the baby- one clean incision, and then they gently lift the baby out into the world, pulling him up and out as if unpacking a grocery bag. Either way, I guess I'm saying I don't care- I just want this baby out. This baby needs to come out for my own mental well-being if nothing else- let's face it, for the sake EVERYONE'S mental well-being. Because this week, I gave into the devil's temptation and ate a deli sandwich loaded with lunch meat, and now I've spent the past few days terrified that I've given my baby a deadly form of listeria (google it). So, on top of every other fear I have, now I'm scared that a sandwich has hurt my baby. Oh, how ironic that would be- my favorite kind of food in the world being the ultimate undoing of.... Anyway. Baby, please come out and show me how okay you are.

It's so nice to have an end in sight. Of course, I am still hoping that I go into labor naturally sometime before July 12 (tonight would be okay), but at least I have something to cling to.

I had Culver's today, and while inhaling my mushroom and swiss burger in a secluded corner of the parking lot, I tried to imagine what my baby will look like after he's born. I can't, of course- I can't wrap my head around what baby will look like, or who he will be, or how I'm going to feel when I hold him for the first time. It's too big for me to comprehend- too wonderful. And I'm getting a little choked up right now just thinking about it, and thinking about Chris seeing him, too, for the first time. I can't believe this is happening. I can't wait to meet him and I love him so much already. If you're the kind of person who prays for other people, please add this baby to your list. Please, God, keep him safe and healthy and let everything be alright.

I don't know why saying that I had Culver's for lunch was pertinent to that last paragraph, but I'm just going to leave it in there. Gives a nice little image of a crazy pregnant woman alone in her car with beef juice dripping down her chin while her eyes get all moist and her stomach quivers with the soothing kicks of a little baby boy.

I am TEN DAYS from my due date. I am very slowly coming to terms with the fact that my due date may very well come and go without the arrival of baby; as of my appointment last week, I still hadn't made any progress, and the doctor very blithely remarked that baby would most likely be late. With that one remark, she stepped on my heart as carelessly as if stubbing out a cigarette. I want my fricking baby already. I'm at the point where I'm ready to just do this thing, and to finally meet the mythical creature that I've been slowly growing.

Now's as good a time as any to list some of the things that I've learned over the duration of my pregnancy. In all honesty, it's been a pretty good, mostly non-eventful pregnancy, but there have been a few life lessons that I've managed to extract along the way. And here they are.

1. The dollar store pregnancy tests are the way to go. While trying to conceive, it'll be much too easy to spend hundreds of dollars on tests over the course of those couple/several/many months. You're going to eventually need that money for diapers or therapy; trust me, the dollar store tests work just as good as the more expensive ones, and it was a dollar store test that delivered my good news. Followed by a more expensive test because, when push came to shove, I wasn't sure I trusted the dollar store test, but still. You get the picture.

2. Don't be in a hurry to look pregnant. The big ol' belly can be a joy to behold, but man does it get old after a while. During those first few months, be happy to wear your normal clothes. YOU MAY NEVER GET TO WEAR THEM AGAIN.

3. If you don't have morning sickness right away, don't wish for it. I didn't have any, and, like a moron, I felt somehow "cheated" by the pregnancy gods. Later when I had a few (I think three in total) instances of sickness, it wasn't nearly as glamorous as I had somehow envisioned. I don't know what's wrong with me.

4. Save your complaining about pregnancy aches and pains for the third trimester. Nine months of complaining is a lot for your husband to listen to, and if he's anything like my husband, he won't have any sympathy anyway until you reach month seven or so. And that's when you'll REALLY have the need to complain. So, save it. And, until you hit those last few months, he's right- you're probably fine to take the garbage out occasionally and keep up with the household vacuuming. So shut up and stop your bitching already.

5. Questions about being pregnant? Wondering what kind of chemicals in your environment may be inadvertently retarding your baby? Wondering about what's supposed to happen when and how things might go terribly awry? DO NOT TURN TO THE INTERNET FOR INFORMATION. DO NOT ASK JEEVES. The internet is the worst thing to ever happen to my peace of mind. The internet convinced me that a thousand different things were going to be wrong with my baby. Now, granted, I haven't actually had the baby yet, and maybe there are a thousand different things wrong with him, but I think there are some instances where a little ignorance is bliss. And if it's not in a trusted pregnancy book or coming from your doctor, then there really is no need to worry about it. It took me all this time to come to that conclusion- I wish the conclusion had come six months ago, but alas.

6. Strange and horrific things are about to happen to your boobs and the skin on your belly and ass. This isn't a life lesson, just more of a general observation. Also, your belly button is going to transform into something completely unrecognizable. Try not to look at it too much.

7. Don't scoff at high fiber cereals or eating plenty of fruits and vegetables. Pregnancy is a direct cause of constipation and hemmorhoids, and you're going to feel awfully silly using a sick day off work because of bathroom issues.

8. Pregnancy is the best excuse you'll ever have for getting out of things you don't want to do. Also, it's also the most honest excuse you'll ever have- because, quite frankly, anything that happens after 7:00 pm is not something that you'll have ANY interest in doing or be able to stay awake for. Unless we're talking about devouring a large pizza by yourself while watching HGTV. Now that, you'll find the energy for.

9. Preparing for the birth of your child will make you love your husband more. He will become your hero when he puts together the crib and the car seat or finds time to read the "what the heck to do with a baby" book you bought. Unless your husband is a jackass, in which case this time in your marriage could also lead to an ugly divorce.

10. The process of securing a daycare for after baby's birth will likely make you REGRET EVERY DECISION YOU'VE EVER MADE EVER. Don't worry, that feeling will pass. Stay tuned for when baby actually starts daycare and we have to start paying for it. Every week.

11. Registering for baby shower gifts will also make you feel pretty awful. I don't know if this is a normal reaction for every expectant mother, because, let's face it, normal women enjoy shopping and picking things out. I don't enjoy these things, and did not find it to be a fun experience by any stretch of the imagination. I was completely overwhelmed and befuddled by the task and downright irritated that a little seven pound person could possibly require so many THINGS. Just take it one item at a time, though. And register for stuff over several weeks. Because when you try to cram it all into one gruesome hour, you are setting yourself up for the kind of failure that can only result in a downward spiral consisting of adult-sized tantrums, pre-term labor-like cramping, and general bad decision-making.

12. It's probably better not to discuss potential baby names with your friends and family. No particular reason for me saying this, just a general regret on my part. Also, as far as talking to friends and family, when and if I decide to have a second child, I do not think I will make this decision public. It was too hard to tell people month after month that my internal lady parts had not managed to make a baby yet. Of course, I say all this now, but we'll see what happens when/if we do decide to do this again. I'll probably hire a moderately priced jet to fly over the northwest suburbs with a banner. And the banner will have a crude drawing of my internal lady parts on it, just for good measure.

13. It's super fun to find out the gender of the baby at the twenty week ultrasound. Do it. Find out what you're having. Why bother with the "surprise?" Have you seen gender-neutral baby clothes? They blow. They are decidedly not cute. And, as Chris says, the surprise isn't really that much of a surprise. It's either a boy or a girl. It's not like you're going to be SHOCKED by what comes out during delivery. Just find out, okay?

14. The first trimester is full of joy and wonder. The second trimester is full of crying and anxiety. The third trimester is full of waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Yet no two days will have the exact same cocktail of emotions. Have fun with that, crazy.

15. Being pregnant affords you the luxury of asking your friends with children all sorts of personal and embarrassing questions. It's carte blanche for private and gross details. So, go for it. Everyone loves a good, intimate conversation about pregnancy unpleasantries. Really.

About 2 1/2 weeks until my due date. I'm definitely starting to feel some anxiety over the impending labor. I wish I could have just hatched an egg in my closet nine months ago. That would have been a much more civilized way of dealing with this whole thing.

My doctor's visit last week revealed no actual progress, though- the baby hadn't dropped, and I wasn't at all dilated. Now, who knows what's happened since; I certainly can't tell what's going on. I'm feeling all sorts of aches and pains, but I don't know if those aches and pains are related to dropping/dilating/or what. The dilating thing is weird. You can be dilated for weeks before you actually go into labor. You can be going about your daily business- working, grocery shopping, etc- while all the time just dilating away. You can be eating dinner while dilating under the table. Now that's disturbing. Don't you think?

Anyway, we're getting there.

Fortune cookie fortune from dinner over the weekend: "A small lucky package is on its way to you soon."

Today. June 13. Heather gave birth to a beautiful baby girl, Jovie. Heather and baby are doing fine, and I can't wait to meet the new little one.

Also today, June 13. Family tragedy- my Aunt Sandi died today. It was suicide, and I'm currently unable to completely register what has happened, or its finality. My main emotion right now regarding this is a kind of pissed off anger. How could she? Why would she? Wasn't there anything...

I don't know. We started the day with birth and ended it with loss. While I know the joy I felt this morning about learning the baby news, I still can't explain what I'm feeling with the latter. It's not quite real yet.

But I did think about my aunt today, briefly, for one moment this afternoon before I learned the news. Sparked, no doubt, by seeing the baby gift she'd given me for my baby shower a few weeks ago- which is now the last time I ever saw her.

Five weeks left. This last week, aside from the daily decreasing level of comfort that I've grown to expect, I've felt strangely at ease about the whole impending baby thing. Maybe it's because we've started to make some progress in getting things ready. Crib assembled, check. Acquisition and semi-organization of major must-have-items, check. Creation and awareness of list of things that still need to be done, check. Training my replacement at work for when I'm on leave, check.

This is an odd time for me and Chris- our last month or so of it being just us, and yet we're mostly wasting it on baby-related tasks. It would be nice to go out and paint the town red one last time, or get drunk together at home, or do any other number of adult-ish things, but my current situation precludes imbibing in anything fun. And the baby- even though he's not here yet, he still takes up a major part of our time together. Preparing for him, talking about him, planning for him, arguing about naming him. Which is probably how it should be, but it would definitely be nice to have one last huge hurrah. And since I can't drink- or manage to stay awake past 8:00- or walk for longer than five minutes without getting short of breath- well, here we are.

I did have a nice "girl's day" this past Sunday with Heather and some of her friends for her thirtieth birthday. We had pedicures, went out for dinner, and then saw "Sex and the City 2." Even though I considered cancelling on her because of how tired and out of it I feel all the time, I rallied, went, and am so glad I did. We had a great time, and I realized that it's one of the last days that I'll have for a while where I can just go out, be out, and concentrate on just myself and my friends. I'm running out of time for that. Things are about to get a lot trickier with the baby. Not that Chris won't be awesome about watching the baby on days/nights when I need to get away- I know he will- but this last time pre-baby was different. And I appreciated it.

Anyway, Baby Boy is on his way, and with each passing day, he's that much closer. I just wish I knew WHEN he was going to show up. I'd like to ask my doctor about what I need to do to just schedule an induction. I'm not up for the whole waiting to go into labor naturally thing. I'm a planner. I like to know specifics in advance. So if they could just help me out in that arena, that would be great.

Here's a picture I took a couple days ago. My, how I have grown.

A little over six weeks to go until the due date- and a little over three weeks until I'm considered term and could technically have the baby at any time. Holy crap. I have to say, I have been EXTREMELY uncomfortable as of late, especially this last week and a half. I have baby parts jammed in every available space between my crotch and up into my ribs, and the weight of my belly is like having a heavy bowling ball strapped to my mid-section. I can't sleep at night because I can't find a good position to lay in, and walking has become more of a careful waddle. Not to mention, I'm outgrowing some of my maternity clothes. Isn't that the most pitiful thing you've ever heard? And, since I refuse to buy more, my day to day choices have dwindled to a few, unfortunately more "winter friendly," outfits that I keep on constant rotatation.

The baby's movements are much more brash nowadays; he pokes his limbs against my belly and squirms around so that my entire stomach bounces around every which way. It's truly the craziest thing I've ever felt and seen. Despite my extreme discomfort, though, I do think that part of me is going to miss this a little. Right now, it's just me and the baby; he comes everywhere with me and his movements are mine and mine alone. When he's out in the world and is no longer an extension of me, I think I may go through a slight case of separation anxiety. Although, it will be impossible to distinguish between the part that is separation anxiety and the part that is just plain old CRAZY INSANE OH MY GOD WHAT HAVE I DONE AND HOW OFTEN DO I FEED THIS THING anxiety. I'll let you know if I can tell the difference.

Separation anxiety aside, I can't wait to see this kid. Just trying to imagine what it's going to be like when the doctor hands him to me- I have to admit, I get a little choked up just trying to envision it. And then the baby kicks me in some vital organ, and being choked up quickly turns into grimacing in pain and swearing.

We still don't officially have a name for the baby- I really want Andrew, but I don't think Chris is a hundred percent on board. I did a Google search for "Andrew Berger" just to see what would come up, and it was mostly professors and attorneys. Sold! This kid could be our ticket into a Palm Springs retirement down the road. I was pleased that not a single serial killer popped up in my search, and when I saw this particular Andrew Berger, I thought- this could totally be our son, after he invents time travel and comes back in time to be a professor in Rochester. And when I showed this link to Chris, he said the same thing, unprompted. So- maybe our son invents time travel down the road. How awesome would that be? Super awesome, that's how awesome.

On Sunday, I had the first of my three baby showers. First of all, I have no idea where I'm going to put all of this stuff. I tried my best to register for space friendly items- things that folded up or could be tucked away easily- because I do NOT want my home over-run by baby things (perhaps that's going to be a bit unavoidable, eh?), but I'm starting to get alarmed. How the heck is all of this going to work? Me being who I am, I decided not to register for a dresser for the baby's room, thinking I didn't need a full sized dresser for tiny sized baby clothes. That was a stupid decision- where the heck was I going to put all of the baby-sized overalls and monkey themed pajamas this kid got? Just leave them crumpled up on the floor? Luckily, Chris' parents came through with buying us a crib AND a matching dresser. Crisis averted- EXCEPT, where the heck is the dresser going to go??

I think Meg (and Dan) came through with the cutest gift of the day- a burger onesie for the little Berger boy! Super adorable- I think that's the outfit that we will take him home in from the hospital. Good job, guys.

I think the shower went okay over all, although my mother, while not in rare form by any means, was definitely in typical form. Pacing neurotically behind me while I opened gifts. Repeatedly asking my friends' their names with an abrupt, "Who are you?" Asking my friend Melissa a question and then walking away before Melissa had a chance to reply. Frequent use of the microphone she brought for the occasion, even though it was a small room with a small audience, and no microphone was needed. Standing guard over the buffet for whatever reason she had- I don't know. Just to make everyone feel uncomfortable, I guess. I don't know, I guess sometimes I forget just how, exactly, mortifying my mother can be until an event like this comes up. Sigh. Super sigh. Oh well.

Anyway, I think all is going okay. I have about seven weeks until my due date at this point, which is completely terrifying. I am definitely feeling more uncomfortable by the day. The kid is squirming all around, hitting all sorts of nerves and whatnot, and everything in my belly just feels- tight. I have a heck of a time standing up from any kind of reclining position. And, overall, I'm just kind of physically miserable. Not to mention, that I'm much crabbier now than I've perhaps ever been. I'm getting a little mouthy, especially at work. I just don't have the tolerance for other people any more. I'm uncomfortable, I'm crabby, I can't sleep, I hate my clothes, and I'm completely consumed by what I've got going on in my uterus. So, everyone else who even mildly irritates me can just go fuck themselves.

I tried to relax a couple weeks ago with a half glass of wine. Actually, two half glasses of wine about four days apart. After the first half glass, I felt GREAT. Wonderful, really. After the second half glass those few days later? FULL ON PANIC MODE. What the heck was I thinking, drinking wine in pregnancy? What do I think I am, European? What if I harmed my baby, killed off a bunch of vital brain cells? Now, a couple weeks later, I've managed to do enough reading about alcohol in pregnancy, specifically the third trimester, to mostly convince myself that I've had essentially harmless amounts in my two small glasses, but, man. Let's just say that's the LAST time in this pregnancy that I try to relax. How dare I. What in the world was I thinking?

Anyway. I'm starving. I think it's time for lunch.

Tomorrow is thirty weeks. I'm officially on the two week appointment schedule for my doctor's visits, which is terrifying. I don't know how long I'm on the two week schedule until they switch me over to weekly, but considering I only have ten weeks left, I guess it'll only be a month's worth of two week visits until I have to go in every seven days. Jeez. I'm going to have a baby before I know it. And then what? And then what.

I had my last ultrasound on Monday afternoon. Holy crap, there's an actual baby in there! He was three pounds, twelve ounces as of Monday, and I was told that he was in the seventy-fifth percentile for weight. At first I was all like, "Woo-hoo, my baby's ADVANCED!" but now I'm all like, "Holy crap, he's huger than most babies- this can't be good." The ultrasound tech made a guess that, if I make it to my due date, he'll come in at about eight pounds. Don't get me wrong, I'd rather have an eight pound baby than a five pound baby, but I have to say, I was really kind of hoping for a seven pound baby. Seven pounds seems totally doable. I mean, not super *easily* doable, but definitely, kind of, manageable. But once we start hitting the eight pound mark- man, I don't know. Eight pounds is what I BOWL with. And that's what I'm supposed to push out of my whatnot? I don't see this happening.

The baby is totally adorable, though. I can tell from the ultrasound pictures that he has my nose! How insane is that? Unfortunately, there weren't a lot of great pictures produced from the ultrasound session, though, because the umbilical cord was right in front of his mouth and I guess he somehow had his foot in the way of his face, and this strange position of his foot made it look like he had a penis shaped growth on his forehead. The ultrasound technician tried patiently to explain to me how the forehead penis could possibly be a foot, and even though I didn't understand how, I guess I have no choice but to take her word for it. Besides, he doesn't have a forehead penis in every shot, so I guess that does rule out an actual growth. Nonetheless, umbilical cord and forehead penis aside, I can't stop looking at the ultrasound pics of my seventy-fifth percentile baby. It feels like Im looking at pictures of someone who exists maybe fifty or sixty miles away in some kind of baby factory. It's hard to believe that I'm looking at pictures of a human being who is inside me at this very moment, who is sharing my nutrients as I look at his picture but still somehow have yet to actually meet. This whole pregnancy thing is bananas.

Speaking of weight gain, I'm up to 145 pounds. I've always checked in somewhere between 100 and 110 pounds, so this is some pretty massive weight gain for me. Especially since you're only supposed to gain up to thirty pounds for the entire pregnancy. It's true that I have a huge stomach now (and that other parts have also rounded out a bit), but I can't believe I've gained this much weight already. I still think that, aside from my belly, I still look relatively skinny. But this 145 pound number is telling a different story. I can't imagine getting any bigger than I already am. And yet I will. What will my final weight gain total be? Am I looking at 45-5o pounds? MORE? My blood pressure is skyrocketing just thinking about it.

Anyway. My at home life this past week has focused mainly on laying on the couch and rewatching "Lost" from the beginning. Now that the show is wrapping up, I want to see it all again as part of my farewell to a much beloved friend. So far, I'm enjoying this second viewing so much more than the first. Oh, how I heart "Lost." Chris is joining me in this viewing, which for him is his first (even though he's been watching the final season with me, although I don't understand how he can just watch the tail end of such a complicated show with only "Previously on Lost" background information each week), and now he's totally hooked. Take that, Chris. Remember when you said I was wasting years of my life on a needlessly mind-boggling TV show? Remember that? Well, look at you now. I knew eventually you'd see things my way. You usually do.

Dear Baby Boy,

I have to admit, I'm kind of afraid of you. Of who you might end up being, of how you're going to be my responsibility, and of the manner in which you plan on your making your grand entrance. For the longest time, I was hoping for a C-section- that I'd have a pre-scheduled appointment at the hospital, show up, maybe have a cool glass of water, and then they'd cleanly slice me open and gently lift you out into the world, all without any real pushing or effort on my part. Then I did some reading about C-sections, especially the recovery time involved, and now I'm all about trying to have you the old fashioned way (with drugs, of course). And thinking about all that's involved in THAT whole train wreck- well, let me just say, I'm terrified.

But, aside from the birth, there's the here and now, and then there's the future. I will tell you that being pregnant is not as joyous and wonderful as I thought it would be. Please don't take it personally; it's not you, it's me. See, your little kicks and jabs thrill me beyond belief- but it is extremely difficult to be a part of this whole process without really knowing what's going on in there. And knowing if I'm somehow inadvertently screwing things up by eating, drinking, touching, inhaling the wrong things. The pressure and the responsibility I feel is ridiculous. I am so afraid of doing the wrong thing and harming you; you should see my internet search history. Every week I'm discovering a new chemical or toxin in my environment that I'm afraid is somehow making its way to you, and it scares me beyond belief. Phthalates in the plastic. BPA in the canned food. Triclosan in the soap. Pesticides in the water. It's so hard to do everything "right" and to avoid all of the possible bad things that have so seamlessly integrated themselves into our modern environment, and sometimes the weight of worrying about the negative potential is too much to carry. Being pregnant is not easy. I wonder how I will feel once you are here and there's a whole new host of potentially harmful things to worry about. How the heck am I going to handle that?

I do know that, despite this fear of hurting you, I absolutely cannot wait to meet you. What are you going to look like, and who are you going to be? Number one, I want you to be healthy and happy. I want you to have a happy, normal childhood, and I can't wait to be with you as you reach all of your little milestones. I can't wait to hear the sound of your first words or see your first smile or hear your first giggle. I can wait to hold you and to look into your eyes and to touch your little cheek. I think you're going to be pretty amazing. So amazing that my heart is going to burst every time I look at you.

I'm going to try and do the best I can for you. You just have to promise me that you'll forgive me if I'm a nervous wreck time and time again. I've never been in charge of anything this important before. I hope to raise you to be a good man. I don't want you to be a douche. Every time I see some punk asshole teenager, I just hope that that won't be you some day. I want you to be respectful and kind. And smart. And, of course, funny. I want your comedic timing to be impeccable. Oh, just so you know, you don't have to be interested in sports. At all. So don't feel pressure to want to watch football, unless it's something that you're doing with Chris- I mean, Dad- while I'm out shopping or something.

Anyway, before I end this letter, I'd like to apologize for all of the time I am spending worrying about you and imagining all of the things that could be wrong with you before you even take your first breath. That's not cool of me; it's awful that I am so afraid of something being wrong with you, because, even if there is, I'm going to love you anyway. Not that I have any indication that there will be anything wrong- so far, I seem to be growing a healthy little baby. But, I'm paranoid and scared and in wanting only the best for you, my mind has manifested fears that reflect the worst. I am sure this is normal, or at least I hope it is. But, normal or not, it's not cool of me to sit here with you inside my big, growing belly imagining every possible thing that could be wrong with you. I just hope that you're not absorbing too many of my dark thoughts. That's not my intention. If you are absorbing these bad thoughts, please just shake them off. Shake them off and realize that every time I drink a glass of milk, it's for you. I never used to drink milk, now I drink it just for you. Every time you get a vitamin or an orange or what seems to me to be a ridiculous amount of water, it's all for you. When I fall asleep on my left side, even though I like sleeping on my right side, that's for you. And all of the wonderful things that I've denied myself- wine, sushi, smoking, salami- it's all for you, you, you, you. Ever since I found out about you, 100% of the things I do (or don't do) are with you in mind. I never forget about you. And when I rub my belly, know that I'm thinking nice, sweet thoughts about you, and that I'm trying to let you know how much I already love you.

Tomorrow, at twenty-seven weeks, is the beginning of my third trimester. On one hand, time is really flying by. And on that same hand, time is really dragging. I feel like I've been pregnant forever. Oh, to taste wine again. Oh, those carefree days of not worrying about how much roofing tar I was inhaling while the guys did the roof at work. I've turned into such a paranoid freak about what I eat, breathe, touch, etc- remember those days when I'd casually light up a cigarette in the midst of dying my hair in an unventilated room? Yep, those were really the days. Some of the happiest of my life, really. Now I can't even wash my face without worrying about what toxins in my soap might be seeping into my skin, entering my bloodstream, and spewing out the baby end of the placenta.

I did a little light reading last night about breastfeeding before I went to bed. I'm really torn on what to do in that arena. On the one hand, breast milk is free and apparently the healthiest choice for the baby (even though I have a hard time believing that somehow my normal, wreckless diet is going to be super healthy). On the other hand, it sounds pretty awful. The word "engorged" came up a lot in my reading. Also the phrase "cracked and sore nipples." Also, can someone give me a straight answer on how much wine I can have with dinner before I nurse? And how much coffee in the morning? Apparently, *some* of that junk gets metabolized out, but I need to know how much. Because if I'm going to end up "pumping and dumping" after every indiscretion, then, really, what's the point of this?

So, the other day, I was looking at my 20 week ultrasound photos, and I realized that, for the past two-ish months, I haven't been correctly seeing the photo. See, I thought the photo was more of a profile pic, with most of the side of the baby's head aimed at the camera. Kind of disappointing, really. But then. The other day, I saw the blurry little ultrasound picture for what it was- a full picture of his entire little face! Two eyes, a cute little nose, and a sweet little curved smile. How could I have missed this? This whole time, I had a perfect picture of my boy at 20 weeks, and I basically just dismissed it as a somewhat useless profile shot. WHAT KIND OF HORRIBLE MOTHER AM I? I tell you, though, those few seconds when I realized how full of a picture it truly was, though- they were incredible. Now, when I'm home, I can't stop looking at it. He's a cute little guy, if you don't mind me saying so. Ridiculously so, really. I can't wait to see this kid in person. What kind of combination of me and Chris will little baby boy be? I hope he's more Chris; there's something very cherubic about Chris, in his pictures as a kid and even now as an adult. I doubt anyone would use the word cherubic to describe me at any point in my life. What words they would use, I'd rather not think about.

Oh, twenty-six weeks. That's how pregnant I am as of tomorrow. The beginning of the third trimester is frighteningly within reach, and I'm at the point now where people who don't know me all that well (i.e., customers, neighbors I don't talk to, strangers on the street handing out Jesus pamphlets) feel a little too comfortable greeting me with, "Wow! Congratulations! When are you due?" It's pretty obvious at this point that I'm packing a kid and not some huge lunch that consisted mostly of bratwurst and beer. I have four pairs of pants that fit me and about six shirts. I have a mysterious brown line between my belly button and bathing suit area. I have strange looking boobs; I have aching bones and stretched out muscles that are working overtime to accomodate my new, heavy belly.

I had a minor scare involving my gestational diabetes screening, which the doctor's office performed last week. My number came back just over the threshold, and I had to take the three hour test to see if I had the disease or not. Realistically, being diagnosed with gestational diabetes wouldn't have been THAT big of a deal- but man was I upset. I just about lost it. God forbid I have to watch my diet and prick my finger every once in a while to check my glucose levels. However, my three hour test came back good, much to my great relief, so I'm in the clear. The whole ordeal, though, really woke me up on a few levels. I've been worried sick about BPA in my canned food, toxins in my drinking water, birth defects, developmental disorders, etc, and I feel like the whole gestational diabetes thing was basically a way of telling me, "Listen, if you want something to worry about, I'll GIVE you something to worry about." So now I'm just going to do my best to relax and have a good, healthy pregnancy (at least remainder thereof) and not fret too much about things that are mostly out of my control. Also, I bought some whole wheat bread and decided to watch my carbs and sugars anyway, just for the hell of it. See how responsible I am? I'm pretty responsible.

We're slowly getting things in order for Baby Boy's arrival. I have an appointment with a pediatrician in a few weeks. Apparently, I'm supposed to "interview" this guy. My interview is going to consist of one main question: Are you a doctor? I ordered that book, "What To Expect The First Year," and read a few parts, mostly the parts about bringing baby home, how to breastfeed (oh dear, I have a bad feeling about that), and also the part about choosing a doctor. Apparently, interviewing pediatricians is supposed to this huge long process, but I want nothing of it. I want to meet the guy, make sure I don't get the creeps from him, verify that he is truly a doctor (see question from earlier in this paragraph), and then basically find out when he's supposed to see the baby. That's it- should take five minutes, top. So much of this baby stuff is turned into a long and drawn out endeavor, and it's draining to think about. For the most part, I feel like I'm going to be doing a lot of winging it. I've even decided to skip the birthing class in favor of spending those eight hours on a Saturday doing something more enjoyable, such as logging in some quality couch time. I have a feeling that taking the birthing class would cause more anxiety for me than it would alleviate. Thus, I'm just going to skip it and keep my fingers crossed that everything goes okay despite my complete ignorance of the whole baby-birthing process.

Plus, I asked my doctor if she thought it was necessary, and she said, "Not really. You can just watch some of those shows on TLC if you want." So, there you go. My ever-so-thorough and compassionate and caring doctor seems to think it's a waste of a Saturday, too.

Anyway, there you have it.

Now I've gotten so lazy that I'm just copying my Facebook posts into my blog. Here's what I just put on Facebook:

"The worst thing about being pregnant is that, every week, I'm learning about a new toxic chemical I'm unwittingly ingesting. This week, it's BPA in my canned tomatoes, which is likely setting my kid up for a lifetime of neurological and testicular issues. I can't wait until post-pregnancy when I can go back to not caring about the plethora of poisons in my food and water."

Oh, I tell you, I don't know how much more of this I can take. And I have three months to go! Three months of running across articles on the internet informing me of the numerous ways that I am screwing up my kid. Aspartame in yogurt? Yikes. And the fact that my water isn't filtered by reverse osmosis? Double yikes. Obviously, there's the BPA thing, and let's not forget about all of those herbal teas I drank until discovering that half of the herbs in my tea were listed by the March of Dimes as "Triple Yikes."

It is hard work being pregnant. And next to impossible to avoid every single poison and toxin in our food and water. Not to mention that I read somewhere that I should be filtering the water with which I shower. I wouldn't even know how to begin to do that- just tape a Brita filter to my shower head maybe? Would that work? And, the humor of this whole thing doesn't escape me- I'm freaking out about the canned tomatoes and soup I've been eating but, as of right now, am thinking nothing of all of the Cheetos and Swiss Rolls I've had, or of the fact that every morning I wake up face down in my pillow with basically all of my weight resting atop of my stomach. Oops.

Anyway- I don't know. I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow, and maybe I'll run some of these fears past a professional. Or not. I don't have a great relationship with my doctors- they kind of rush me and don't encourage questions and are generally somewhat unpleasant. I honestly think this is because they're women. I've come to the conculsion that male OB/GYN's are generally more caring because of the respect that they have for the process. Like, my female doctors can have babies, too, so what I'm going through? Not all that special or worth discussion. I'm not saying- I'm just saying.

I had traffic court for my ticket on Wednesday. I wore my pregnant-est shirt in an effort to garner as much pity and sympathy as possible, even though I went into court with the full intention of just pleading guilty anyway. Traffic court was an interesting, and thankfully very short, experience, and two thoughts come to mind when I think back to my experience:

1. Working for the court system as a clerk must be the most liberating job in the world since there is clearly no pressure to be polite or even issue actual words to your "clientele" beyond cranky, unintelligible grunts.

2. When the judge walks into the room and the crowd "all rises" as a sign of respect, it seems a little silly and finicky in a room filled with folding chairs and a decent percentage of defendants who decided to come to court wearing yesterday's dirty sweatpants. Oh, McHenry county.

Anyway, I pleaded guilty, got court supervision for 100 days, paid my $200 bucks and was back home in record time. Mostly due to speeding. Ah, but I kid. I will say that, upon turning into court, I found myself driving the wrong way on the left side of the entrance's median and had to do a quick U-turn to correct myself. And I thought to myself, "Is this the definition of ironic? Is this ten thousand spoons?"

Anyway, it's all over, thank goodness. That same morning, since I had the time off, I decided to go check out yet another day care for Baby Boy, and it was the absolute most ghetto day care I've ever seen. There were broken windows in the front of the building, for crying out loud. And it was located in an alley behind a sports bar and a hardware store. The inside was stuffed full of kids, with screaming preschoolers and infants sharing the same one room space, and the whole place was dirty and disorganized. Too bad- it was the cheapest one I've found so far. I guess you truly do get what you pay for- sigh.

I've been kind of high strung lately- my latest worries including autism, birth defects, and whether or not I've poisoned my baby due to the aspartame I've consumed in my yogurt and lemonade. I know that I need to just relax and be rational and have faith that I am growing a healthy baby- I have no reason to believe otherwise- but I also know that these fears are probably pretty typical for a first time mother-to-be. They HAVE to be. I will say that researching all these things on the internet is not the best idea for a pregnant lady in a delicate emotional state. The internet, as it turns out, is not very reassuring at all. The internet will tell you that you've unwittingly ruined your child's life and damaged their brain by eating canned soup or the aforementioned yogurt or by drinking tap water or - of course- by worrying too much. Oh, internet. I love you, I hate you. I love to hate you.

I just want this kid to be healthy and happy- not at all an atypical wish. I want him to have a good childhood and to grow into a well-adjusted, intelligent, and decent man. I want so much for him, and oh so badly. And I want to be free from my irrational worries so that, when little man does come out into the world, I can do my best to give him everything he needs.

Chris and I decided to start our baby registry today. What an undertaking! The list of "essentials" is about three hundred items long, and you have to choose accessories for each individual large item on the list. We decided to look at some of the bigger items today: crib, pack and play, stroller, car seats, etc. Easy enough, right? Well, as if choosing a crib isn't difficult enough (the difficulty, in my opinion, being in trying to find the difference between the $400 model and the $200 model), you have to figure out the stuff that goes INTO the crib- the sheets, the "sheet-savers," the bumpers (not just for bowling anymore!), the mattress pads, and the mattress itself. Perhaps I'm a moron, but I just assumed the crib came with a mattress. Of course, I was wrong. You pick out the crib and then you have to wander over to the two aisles filled with baby mattresses, and this is where things get really ridiculous. Crib mattresses range from about $80-$250, and I can't tell a difference between any of them. They're soft, they go in a crib, why is there more than one to choose from? And why does the Serta crib mattress come with a TWENTY year warranty? As Chris put it, "Are we really going to use this mattress for twenty years? Like, is our kid going to come home late after being out drinking with his friends and we're going to be so mad that we yell at him to go upstairs and get into his crib?" Ludicrous. And, as Chris also said, "No baby of mine is sleeping on a $200 mattress." I couldn't agree more.

So much of this stuff seems overpriced and unnecessary. When we got home, I went online to the baby store website and looked over the list of "registry essentials" again. After I determined I didn't have six hours to devote to the "essentials," I clicked over to another section designed to make the registry process simple based on what kind of mom I expected to be. The category that came close to fitting me was "Working Mom," but then I looked at the overpriced garbage "Working Mom" registered for and was immediately irritated. My category simply wasn't listed. My category would have been "Mom On A Budget That Doesn't Want A Lot of Useless Crap Taking Up A Lot of Space And I Hate To Say This But the Baby's Not Going to Know The Difference Anyway." I guess my category wouldn't be a huge profit-maker for the store. But they don't even have the consideration to list my category or issue an extreme basics version of their ten page "essentials" list. I'm so glad that when I was in the store I laughed so hard that I choked while drinking water and ended up gagging and spitting out a mouthful of said water all over the floor. That really showed them.

And I'm having a boy. I've had a feeling it was a boy from pretty much the second I found out I was pregnant- I'm not saying "knowing" this was a great feat, because the odds were decent either way, but still. Our ultrasound yesterday was kind of a non-event except for actually being told that it was a boy. I guess the doctor could see the testicles even though the kid had his legs crossed (ah, so modest), but Chris and I couldn't see jack. I especially didn't see very much- the doctor had the screen kind of aimed away from me, and when I lifted my head to look, she barked, "I'm going to need you to keep your head down." Oh yeah? Well I'M going to need YOU to show me what I've got going on inside MY uterus. Biznatch.

I didn't say that, of course. I just put my head down and tried to curve my eyeballs to get a glimpse.

The doc did switch to 3D for a bit, and I was able to see my son (can you believe that? My son?? Bananas!) take his little arm and appear to rub it against his forehead. Freaking adorable! Such a cute little face, too, if you don't mind me saying so. But, overall, there was not a whole lot going on. I guess the baby's breech, which isn't too much of a concern at this point, but everything else looked good and healthy and right on track. Oh, the miracle of all this stuff. So damn miraculous.

So now we have to think about getting the spare room ready for a little boy. What are good themes for a little boy? Trains, animals, sports? Boogers, farts, boobies? What are we looking at here? I've never had to decorate a room for a boy- I might need a little guidance.