On why babies are the meanest.

Contractions all night on Friday.

But, you know, they were the "fake" ones. AS IF THERE IS A DIFFERENCE.

Also my pelvis is pretty much shattered by now.

I pee more than might actually be humanly possible. Someone at a University should study me.

I'm starving 24/7. This is actually not much different when I''m not pregnant, so make the connection however you see fit.

Sleeping is a real pain in my ass.

C'mon, little girl. Let's do this.

In case you were wondering.

I know what your question is.

Please click here for your answer: HaveYouHadThatBabyYet.com

Still pregnant.

You know, in case you were wondering. Because apparently, EVERYONE ELSE is.

#feelslikeit

Hump Day, Bump Day!

bV is the size of a coconut! 
She's about 17.2 to 18.7 inches. From here on out, she won't get much longer, but she's plumping up. She's now about 4.2 to 5.8 pounds, and she'll put on a pound or more of baby fat before birth.

bV at 35 weeks 
- Now, her hearing is fully developed, and she responds best to high-pitched noises.
- If it's a boy, his testes have probably fully descended.
via thebump.com

I find it odd that last week she was compared to a butternut squash and this week it's a coconut. I mean, isn't that a little backward in terms of both size and weight? Ahhh, well. Regardless she's growing and getting fruitier by the day.

I'm down to just 16 days of work left, which only gives me moderate panic attacks every 6-7 minutes. As much as I'm over being pregnant, I genuinely hope that Harper waits until her scheduled date to arrive. I had a week off planned before Alex (like I have with Harper) and Alex decided to come on that first day off - Monday. Even if Harper decides to give me just a few days to relax and enjoy my last days as a Momma of 1, I would be ever so appreciative.

Physically, I'm over it. I waddle better than Donald Duck himself and my pelvic area feels like a war zone with every step I take. So, you know, overall enjoyment. "Pregnancy is a real dream!" ...said no one, ever.

See also: ONE MONTH EXACTLY until little girl makes her arrival.

Pregnancy, round four.

So you know how every mother on planet earth who's had at least 1 of each sex will tell you how every pregnancy is "sooooo different" and how she knows all the things and wants to impart every last bit of knowledge onto you?

As it turns out...those assholes, for once, are right.

And I guess there's really no proof as to what the differences are from, exactly, but I can tell you that Harper? She's WAY different than Alex. Let us count the ways...

1. First Trimester. Remember how with Alex I was just tired all the time? My thyroid was whack. With Harper, I never even had to take Synthroid. I did, however, throw up all the time.
2. Second Trimester. See also: #1.
3. Swelling. I'm probably totally screwing myself right now and I'm knocking on every piece of wood within reach, but with Alex I was a hot, swelly mess of cankle. Remember these feet? Granted, that photo was taken 12 days before I had Alex and I'm still >30 days away with Harper, but so far, I haven't even entered the spectrum of swelling I had with Alex.
4. Blood Pressure. Same story as my feet. My blood pressure was an issue for most of my 3rd trimester with Alex. With Harper it's been "great" every time.
5. Hunger Games. With Alex I'm pretty sure I would have eaten a tree if you'd have put it in front of me with a bit of ketchup to dunk it in. Harper has a pretty steady appetite, and for the most part, I eat pretty normally, if not lighter than usual.
6. Escape Routes. I never felt pelvic "pressure" with Alex. Harper, on the other hand, tries to escape out of my lady garden with every step I take. I literally cannot even walk DOWN stairs anymore because it hurts so bad and also I fear her feet will pop out by step #3. I sit on my butt and scoot. It's very embarrassing and I would like to take this opportunity to thank architects everywhere for inventing elevators. (And for the record, I had a c-section with Alex, so it's not like I'm all Michelle Duggar loosey goosey down there. It should be business as usual.)
7. Ninja Moves. Alex was a squirmer. Harper, on the other hand, is an extreme warrior ninja. I will be flabbergasted if she doesn't come out doing cartwheels and also punches my surgeon in the face upon her exit while simultaneously flipping off the anesthesiologist. 

What this also leads me to believe is since they were such different babies in utero, that they will be equally as opposite on the external. Please recall that Alex was an Angel child and ate and slept like a champ. 6-8 hours through the night at 6 weeks, amen, amen. 

I'm terrified of this girl. Terrified.

Pregnancy ain't pretty.

I'm sure if I sat here long enough I could come up with a laundry list of reasons why pregnancy is the most beautiful thing the galaxy. But in the here and now (see also: 31 weeks), the single good thing I can think of about pregnancy is the outcome itself. And even that can be questionable (see also: when your 4 year old learns that boogers and farts are funny).

And so, because I don't think I've done nearly enough complaining around here lately to keep you properly entertained, I give you my current top 5 list of things about pregnancy that can take a long walk off a short bridge. In no particular order, since I hate them all equally:

1. Leg cramps. Dear GOD the leg cramps. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night fearing my actual leg is being hacked off at the knee. And I eat my fair share of bananas, yo.
2. Pee. I'm not quite sure how pregnancy plumbing works, but I know it's real different from not-pregnant plumbing. All I do is pee. All the times. Peeing. Every minute. Of every day.
3. Pelvic stompings. With each and every step I take (which is a lot...please see #2) Harper knocks on my pelvis as if to ask, "May I come out yet?" I tell her YES every damn time, but allegedly she's playing a mean game of "ring and run" on me. Not cool, Harper. Not cool.
4. Food in general. Five minutes ago I wanted a granola bar. Now? I'm pretty sure granola is the worst idea, ever. This is the story of mealtime for me, 3 times a day, 7 days a week.
5. Clothes. Every single piece of maternity clothing ever made can go straight to hell as far as I'm concerned. The pants? Don't stay up. The shirts? Annoyingly too short or too boobalicious or too full of ridiculous bows or frill. The dresses? Miu mius, the lot of 'em.

I could probably take this list up to 100, but we'll keep it at 5 today so I have some more material for other posts. Ciao, gotta pee.

The very definition of 'oxymoron.'

Whilst stumbling over the pages of Old Navy's maternity section for some new miu mius clothes to wear over the next 2 months, I came across this:

  It's as if Old Navy just gave me a big, virtual middle finger. Right back 'atcha, ON. Right back 'atcha.

7 month itch.

So I'm getting to that point in pregnancy when I'm pretty much over it. Over the swelling. Over the hunger. Over the sleeplessness. Over the heartburn. Over the ninja kicks. Over. It.

And yet, there's nothing I can do to change anything about the above. But there IS something I can do about my hair. Hair and shoes. That's pretty much the only thing I have any control over as related to my person at this moment through October. And since we're all friends here we know that I'm teetering on the edge of even being able to wear shoes. Because Kim Kardashian called me and wants her feet back.

As such, I'm probably about to do something both a) drastic and 2) that I'll regret.Odds are high I will call my dear, sweet hair ninja Jenny over lunch and book myself a little appointment and I will come home as a blonde or with some terrible ombre or even worse...BANGS.

I'm on the cliff and there's no sense in talking me out of it. Because it's either that or I go out and get some maternity skinny jeans and we ALL know how that oxymoron ends.

Jenny, oh Jenny? I'm coming for you!

Hormones are a bitch, yo.

Yesterday was one of those days when Alex got a delightfully early bedtime (which he earned, let's be clear) and I retreated to the dark of my bedroom to decompress from the day and remove myself from all humankind. See also: DO NOT DISTURB. Unless you have wine. Then, please, disturb.

Alex has been especially...spirited...lately, and my energy and patience to deal with his 4 year old drama is all dried up come 6 p.m. The icing on this overcooked and dry parenting cake is that his sister has been a reeeeaaaaal dick lately herself. Pretty sure last night she had me by the ribs with her 25 week ninja deathstar grip and isn't going to let go anytime soon.

What I'm saying is I really just wanted to complain today so just keep reading along and I promise eventually I'll be back to my standard rainbows and unicorns shooting glitter out their bottom parts. Because I've got about 14 weeks left of these shenanigans and it's either I write my drama here and you suffer through it with me or I hop a plane to Cabo with nothing packed but a gross maternity swimsuit and some SPF 50 and I'll see you 'round later.

I will be able to kick back eventually, kid.

I do believe bV just kicked me. Well, kicked me for the first time that I felt it.

It's a funny feeling, baby movement. Very hard to describe but it's not as adorable and precious as it sounds, I assure you. Rather alien-y, actually.

In unrelated news, funny story about my Mom: I've been having heartburn lately and started taking Dr. approved Zantac. Upon hearing this, my Mom fliiiiiiiiiiiiipppppped out. Flipped like a flipping flapjack.

SHE THOUGHT I SAID XANAX.

Nothing to see here, nothing to see here. Just whisking Mom off to a hearing appointment...

You are cordially invited to the pants party.

Well, not really because they don't fit. Nothing does, really.

Tomorrow is 12 weeks (!!) and I've officially entered that "Today is the worst day of my life because nothing fits and I don't really look pregnant yet but I definitely look fatter so I'll just go eat some more ice cream...but wait I can't eat ice cream because the only thing that doesn't make me want to vomit is air so I'll just go to my room and sleep/cry some more" phase. It's a joyous place to be.

I wholeheartedly am 100% positive that this blog will contain 79.5% more pregnancy-related complaining than it did with Alex. Mostly because I know what's coming next but also because I legitimately look, feel and all-around am worse. Which might be optimistically glass-half-full for you people, because it guarantees some laughs in the next 6-7 months. So there's that.

Per uge, I'm happy to provide your daily entertainment whilst chronicling the events of the human growing we call pregnancy. So, you're welcome. Hump Day Bump day starts tomorrow!

The combination is obscene.

Oh heyyyyy girl, hey. Remember that one time I told you that story about how we all got the flu and it was the worst four consecutive days in our family's existence? Oh, and remember how then then next day I told you I was also pregnant and feeling like a dumpster fire 24/7?

Oh yeah, put THAT brilliant combination together and make it tango.

What I'm saying is that even when I was feeling better, I wasn't feeling better. The upside to this parade of vomit and nausea is that I haven't gained an ounce in 11 weeks, and baby is doing just fine. The downside is that my current existence and nutrition is totally dependent on buttered toast, Teddy Grahams and water.

But then, in a moment of glory, the other night for dinner I HAD to have a crispy chicken sandwich. Eegads! Food! Sounding delicious! Must. Get. Some. Now. Like, some crispy chicken sandwich magic maker probably should have just delivered it to me in 2.9 seconds with a side of light mayo and fries a-la the freaky fast Jimmy John's commercials. But no, we had to driiiiiiive to Red Robin, where they do make a delicious crispy sandwich and as an added bonus offer bottomless steak fries. Word.

But then, as we pulled into the parking lot and curses if you wouldn't imagine it, CRISPY CHICKEN SANDWICHES ARE NOW MADE BY THE DEVIL. I shall never eat again! More toast! Begone, chickens of the world!

This is my life. In rare, glorious moments, some foods sound amazing and I must have them immediately. But in the time lapse it takes to actually get said food that is not a Teddy Graham to my mouth, something goes horribly wrong and my body denies its very existence and tells my brain that it's made of poison and will likely a) kill me; 2) give me a real show of the gags; and/or c) ruin my life. Or quite possibly a combination of all three.

Because, no. Just no. I like food too much for all this to even be real. 2nd trimester feelings of Super Mom, pleasepleaseplease come soon!

Pushed Over A Cliff By A Suicidal Mickey Mouse.

Kudos to you if you get the title. We should karaoke sometime.

Been very busy this week, peeps. I might have been neglecting you a wee bit, but the bf has not. In fact, she sent this linky over to me earlier this morning as possible fodder and content for le blog. And so, here it is: the painted bump contest.

She loves me. She loves you. Aaaaaaaand there you have it. Perhaps she will even guest blog in the coming weeks. You'll love her. She's like me, only taller, wiser and a little more blunt. As if that's even possible!

In other news related to keeping you busy while I earn my paycheck the old fashioned way, have you entered le giveaway yet?

April Fool's Fail.

Well, I had all sorts of hilarious plans to freak you all Joe out by uploading a new blog banner with the "3" violently crossed out and a big "4" written over it instead.

You know, because it's April Fool's Day and that would be funny.

Except that when I actually think about being pregnant again I go into anaphylactic shock and quiver on the floor in the fetal position until someone rescues me with an epi pen of reality.

Thus, Google's "Topeka" shenanigans will have to do it for you today.

Unfair.

Why is it that the fabulous Heidi Klum aka Mrs. Seal can look like this?



And at the same point in my pregnancy, I looked like this?



FAIL.

ETA: For readers just tuning in, yes, those really are my feet/cankles at about 34 weeks pregnant.

Oh No She Didn't.

Today I went Mom2Momming with Keliann and Emily. 'Twas a 70+ table sale with no strollers allowed before 11 am. (Woot!) And how excited was I when I found THE table - perhaps even the table to end all tables? Very. The mom manning said table had (at least) a 3 carat rock on her hand and justsohappened to have all boy stuff! Polo, Tommy, you name it...she had it. And, it seemed that all the sizes were in the right season. JACKPOT!

After the M2M extravaganza (where we were all very, very successful), we grabbed lunch and continued on a quest to get me some nursing bras.

STOP READING NOW IF YOU ARE MALE AND RELATED TO ME, OR DISGUSTED BY TMI OF BOOBAGE, IN GENERAL.

I continue...

To set the stage, we were at Motherhood at Lakeside Mall. After being enthusiastically stalked by a staff of far too upbeat sales associates, we managed to sneak into a dressing room to try on the goods. I knew I wanted a sleeping bra, a few tanks and 1 "real" bra...you know, for those rare occasions where I will exit the home premises and don some non-100% cotton clothing for a social evening out on the town.

I managed to find 2 "real" bras, 1 sleeping bra and 2 tanks that I was relatively happy with. And BONUS! The sleeping bra that felt most comfortable to me just so happened to be a size SMALL. A SMALL!!! The last time I even looked at anything in a size small was...gosh, I can't even remember.

Off we trotted to the checkout, where we were once again greeted by an overwhelmingly cheerful sales associate.

No, I'm not interested in your credit card college savings program. No, I don't want to subscribe to Grandparents' Magazine. No, I'm not interested in ANY of the "free" crap you are offering me. Just freakin' ring my stuff up so I can take my non-returnable, non-refundable items that I wish were from Victoria's Secret instead of this crappy store and get the eff out of here.

After offering me everything but the kitchen sink, she finally got around to ringing up my actual purchases. Here's the part where she almost dies...

"M'am, are you sure that you want to buy the sleeping bra in the small?"

"Yes, I am sure." Why in the hell would I have put it on the counter if I wasn't?

"Well, I think you should reconsider the medium because your boobs will increase an entire cup size once your milk comes in." Gives me judging glance as if to say, "You're seriously not a small, lady."

"The small was comfortable. I will get the one I gave you, thank you."

She goes on to tell me with a smile about how awful breastfeeding is because you've got "milk squirtin' all over the place" and how "it just hurts" and she was "so glad she never had to do it again" and on and on and on and on...

Seriously lady? How did you get this job?

I could have strangled her. But I didn't.

I signed my receipt, grabbed my overpriced, non-refundable, non-returnable size SMALL bra and hightailed it on out of there.

I think in the world of friendliness, I'm really gaining ground, don't you?

Check Out These Puppies.

I hope it's clear by now that I'm not above a little self-humiliation.

Last night the swelling in my feet was ri-donk-ulous. The balls of my feet honestly felt like Jake's paws, and there was actually a ROLL over my ankle. There were a few times I nearly couldn't get the leverage required to hoist myself off the loo, but I'm happy to report I never had to actually resort to screaming for help from Joe.

I wanted to document the ridiculousness for the following 3 reasons: 1) to be able to show the doctor on Monday that I'm not crazy and that my ankles really DO grow to the size of basketballs at night; 2) to provide my readers a nice, hearty laugh on this dreary Friday morning; and 3) to show WIP someday what his mommy went through for him.



Despite the comic nature of it, they can actually be rather painful. I mean, they don't hurt like "ow that freakin' hurts!" hurt, but more of a "my skin cannot possibly stretch any further to cover this fatness" hurt. Hurt is a funny word if you type it enough.

So there you have it. My roly poly cankles for all the world to see. And for what it's worth, I can still see them...so that's something, right?

How Very Apropos.

Lately it seems that I type something in the blog and then within a few hours it comes true.

Exhibit A: The boob leakage incident.

Exhibit B: The triage visit.

Exhibit C: THE PILLOW.

Today I blogged about the amazingness that is the body pillow, and here is the text from an email tip I got from Fit Pregnancy not five minutes ago:

"To be as comfortable as possible and get the most sleep while you're pregnant, avoid sleeping on your belly or on your back. Sleeping on your belly will put pressure on the baby and may lead to complications down the road. Sleeping on your back puts significant pressure on your lower back and possibly on your intestines as well.

The ideal position for sleeping is on your side (ideally on the left), with the top leg crossed over the bottom leg, and a pillow between them. This position encourages the flow of blood and nutrients to the placenta, while minimizing the amount of pressure on your lower back. This position may feel a little uncomfortable the first few nights, but you should eventually get used to it and hopefully discover that you experience a deeper, more satisfying sleep."

To test my theory, tomorrow I shall blog about my desire for WIP to come early, be healthy and be REALLY good at (gross) breastfeeding. Oh, and maybe I'll throw in a lil' shout out for some pain management, too.

Reaching Nirvana.

I'm quite certain that the hour I spent atop a heated table in near darkness with a perfect stranger rubbing me down with hot oils yesterday was the single greatest moment in my life.

Weeeeellll, that might be stretching it just a bit, but it certainly makes the top 10. Seriously, it was uh-maaaaze-ing.

I was very hopeful that she would have one of those fancy tables with the hole in it for my tum tum, but she didn't. (Funny story - a coworker likened the image of me hauling my arse on top of one of those to getting a VW Beetle out of a manhole. A perfect, if not slightly insulting, analogy.)

I digress. Back to the rub down. So, she didn't have a fancy table, but used all sorts of newfangled techniques and pillows to make me extra comfy - and it worked! I almost fell asleep like four times.

What I found most interesting was that she had me use a body pillow when I was propped up on my side. It was GLORIOUS! What's more, Joe has been urging me to get one since he read about them in Fit Pregnancy. WHY did I not listen?!?!

Guess who bought a body pillow last night on the way home? Yeah. 36 weeks into this...I'm so behind the times.

In related news, this particular masseuse offers a prenatal massage package during the last 4 weeks of pregnancy - 1 massage a week at 20% off if you pay for it all up front. Combine that with my $10 off coupon (What, did you honestly think I would do something without a coupon!?!) and I am getting a slammin' deal on massages for the next 4 weeks. And if WIP comes sooner than expected, I can use them after he's born. Schwing!

That Would Explain It.

Caitlin, I believe I've got the foundation for our official case vs. Palmer's/Laila Ali on lockdown. Put on your fancy lawyer hat and pay attention.

To paint the backstory for those unfamiliar, I recently posted a complaint about my newfound stretchmarks. (Gasp!) I, like many other expectant mothers, fell prey to the Palmer's "Laila Ali is proof that Palmer's works" ads and rubbed my belly down every morning and night like I was Aladdin rubbing the lamp for Genie to appear in hopes to stave off the red, wormy, eternal marks.

Behold the photo from the ad in question:



Is it just me or is she like 2 minutes pregnant in this picture? Of COURSE she doesn't have stretch marks and of COURSE "Palmer's works. She's the proof" because it looks like she just ate a few too many sliders and needs to drop a really good deuce to get that bloat down.

I didn't have stretch marks when I had a bitty tum tum, either. No one would! It wasn't until week 35 that those unwelcome bastards made their way to my skin surface. Misinformed and manupulated by Palmer's, I was under the impression that my daily slather ritual would prevent stetch marks...much like they supposedly did for Laila Ali.

Kids, you have homework. Someone find me a bare belly pic of Laila at 35+ weeks and PROVE to me that she doesn't have stretchmarks. Lies, lies, lies!