the great gear parade, 31 weeks, 5 days

A cool EIGHTEEN EVER LOVING WEEKS AGO (seriously people, TIME. How does it work? Gah.), I wrote about baby gear. Or, more specifically, the insidious and pervasive world of baby capitalism. Because It. Is. Everywhere. And now, I’m its newest member. <curtsy>. Note to my readers with ADD: settle in, this is a long one.

Last weekend, I was baby shower bound and quite frankly, it was pretty lovely. Nearly all of my friends and family and loved ones, in one place, to eat good food, drink bellinis and put their hands on my bump like I’m a genie. It was all very loving and magical.

I guess this means that you also now have that terrible Christina Aguilera song stuck in your head?
You're welcome.

Also, there were gifts. So many gifts. So here, in a nutshell, is Sarah’s-totally-non-exhaustive-might-almost-be-random-despite-HOURS-of-seemingly-endless-online-“research”-guide-to-essential[1]-baby-gear. Ta-Dah!

First things first: Baby List. We used it and it was awesome. Mostly I was just swayed by that breathtakingly adorable child with lamb ears on the front page but also, I wanted a site where I could put together some wild conglomeration of all things Etsy-Amazon-Baby Gap-Honest Company. Also, luddite that I am, it was just, oh I don’t know, really freakin’ easy to use. So. In addition to all the so-painfully-sickly-cute-that-i-can-only-collapse-in-a-teary-puddle-of-impending-motherly-love clothing that we registered for – even though the one thing that LITERALLY EVERY MOTHER told me absolutely not to do under any circumstances but I couldn’t help myself because, oh hai, Elk leggings! Sloth Onesie! Ohmygosh these overalls! that bunny is wearing headphones! Patagonia, are you serious right now? – <collecting myself>. Right. Well, we also registered for what you might consider more, uh, essential items. And inherited some pretty excellent stuff from friends and neighbors. Without further adieu:

Stroller

The moms in our neighborhood seem to swing, err, stroll, one of two ways: the City Mini or the more Rolls Royce-y UppaBaby Vista. So of course, we chose neither. Hello UppaBaby Cruz. What’s nice about it is that it’s overpriced your in-laws are happy to buy it for you. Thank you in laws.

Car seat

Truth: the hospital will literally not let you leave without proof that the entire local fire station has dually inspected not only the car seat itself but also it’s proper installation and the passing of several crash tests involving your 12 year old Subaru Outback. Some of that is false.

We went with the ever popular Chicco Keyfit 30 Infant Carseat. <oohs and ahhs from the crowd>.  For no other reason than because we easily succumb to peer pressure and Amazon’s proclamation that this is the “#1 Car Seat in America!” So there’s that.

Crib

While the Oeuf Sparrow did beckon from the hot, trendy, modern nurseries that seem to appear only on Apartment Therapy and never in real life, we, ahem, restrained ourselves. Because a crib that costs more than our bed seemed to send the wrong message to our totally not spoiled child.

Enter stage right, the common man’s alternative: Babyletto Hudson 3-in-1. And now, before your very eyes, it will transform itself into <wait for it> a toddler bed!

And, for the early days (weeks? months?) and easy boob-to-baby-mouth-access, we swiped this mini co-sleeper for 70% off the going price at a neighborhood moms yard sale. #winning.

Crib Mattress

We like mother earth. And we like organic. And if all goes according to plan <menacing laughter as she wills the baby, still in her womb, to sleep like a sophisticated, respectful human person from approximately 7pm-7am on a regular basis> the baby will be spending a lot of time on this thing. Like, you know, for years to come. So we splurged. Organic, Greenguard certified, the whole freakin’ deal.

Presenting: Naturepedic No Compromise Organic Cotton Mattress

Bouncy-thingy-that-I’m-told-is-the-only-way-I-will-get-to-take-a-shower-literally-ever

Yes, this. I may be sleep deprived, but at least I’ll be (relatively, if only for several minutes in between projectile baby vomiting and arcs of urine) clean.

Speaking of Baby Bjorn, I’m kind of digging them. Which is why we decided to GIVE THEM ALL OUR MONEY FOREVER AND EVER, and also registered for[2] this bangin’ travel crib. Plus, you know, sheets for the crib. We’re not heathens.

Baby Las Vegas

Okay, I’m not going to lie. I was totally against this, at first. I mean, let’s just get real: it’s ugly. But obviously, I’m a monster because STIMULATION! BABIES NEED STIMULATION! And without some kind of multi-colored giraffe-monkey to tug on and a mirror with which to admire their good genes gawk, this baby can kiss the Ivy League goodbye. So, yeah. We got one and have now welcomed into our home a Tiny Love Super Deluxe Lights and Music Gymini Activity Gym. Because nothing says love like over-stimulation.

For the bath

I just learned that you don’t bathe babies everyday. <adds to alarmingly long list of shit-i-did-not-know-but-sure-am-glad-i-learned-like, uh, NOW>.

But for the 1-3 times per week we do decide to freshen up our offspring, we went big:

We might just dress him in this until college/he becomes properly warped. But seriously, ohmygoshbabyshark. 

And then, also, you know, the bath. Which we inherited, unused, from a friend. It hangs on the back of the door, flat. So for apartment living, I'm pretty much sold.

Also, baby nails. I remain both intrigued and terrified. How on earth am I supposed to cut them? TERROR. But these might help. Also, this and this. For cleanliness and nose cleanliness, respectively.

This is not technically for the bath – and, if dropped in the bath, would require a call to child protective services – but let’s just go with it: baby thermometer!

Swaddles

While hesitant to dip my toe into what apparently is some, heretofore unknown, Great Swaddling Debate!, we’re hoping to engage in some safe, sleep-inducing, swaddlin’.

And to that end, we have enlisted the help of these and these. Plus, C learned how to swaddle during residency. So that’s totally going to be his jam. I’ll be showering.

For carrying
As mentioned in my earlier posting, I'm all for anything that sounds like some kind of Gitmo sensory deprivation device. That's why the confusingly hooded ErgoBaby is my preferred carrier. Luckily, we inherited one. And, for when the baby is smaller, and, consequently, less Gitmo-ready, another inherited item: the terrifyingly complex seeming MobyWrap (well, well, doesn't she look happy and well rested). I find this youtube video absolutely mind boggling (also: holy mom jeans, batman!). Thank goodness I have 8 weeks to master this.

For the boobs

You may recall my extended ta-ta-related-diatribe a couple weeks back. Well, if you haven’t had enough of my burgeoning bosom, welcome back. It turns out, boobs are fussy little creatures who require kind of a lot of gear.

Lanolin cream.

Honeysuckle breast milk storage bags.[3]

Lansinoh Soothies Gel Pads

Boppy[4]

Hipstered-out-organic-bicycle-themed-homemade-boppy-cover <please judge me>

Dr. Brown’s Newborn Feeding Set[5]

And last but not least: Medela Electric Double Breastpump. Which, technically, I don’t yet own but which, I’m promised, my insurance will be covering. <fist pump>

For the little prince

Because he can’t be literally the only child ever to have walked this earth without one: Sophie!

And in second place for inexplicably popular baby accessory: Wubbanub and, closely behind it, the alliterative Sleep Sheep.

For the parents who are now required to carry the little prince’s gear all over the ever-loving place

His and Hers and then, again, also Hers. Because, you know, lady has to look good mildly presentable.

I wish I could say this was it. That this exceedingly long and complex list – which includes multiple items I did not even know existed until several weeks ago and whose utility I may only partially understand – was it. But, dear readers, we all know that I would be lying. Because we all know that there is more. That really, it never ends. There are books to read to babies, and décor[6] with which to decorate baby’s new digs, and oh-dear-lord-so-many-cloth-diapers-to-wrangle-and-snap-and-fold. This, dear readers, is, in fact, just the beginning.

Save yourselves!

(And, in the meantime, please let me know what I’m missing. Just 8ish weeks until things get real around here.)

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[1] Much of this is decidedly not essential.

[2] So that someone else could give them all their money. Natch.

[3] Yes. Seriously. Honeysuckle. No wonder no one takes us seriously.

[4] Mostly because anything named “My BrestFriend” is just not something I can put my money behind.

[5] Many a mama recommended Dr. Brown’s as being “most like the nipple” and “won’t confuse the baby.” Noted.

[6] Said in the most sneering French way possible.

thirty week surprise, 30 weeks, 5 days

Things were going too smoothly. Apparently, in all my heartburn-low-back-pain-can-hardly-put-on-my-shoes-and-I-will-never-sleep-again glory, I was just a little too comfortable. Smug, even. Enter, stage left: THE UNIVERSE.

On Friday, ladies and gentleman[1], there was blood. Of course, if we put on our remembering caps, we may recall that this pregnancy began with blood – like of the you’re-so-not-pregnant! variety. The kind where you may or may not wind up hunched over the kitchen table, ugly crying[2] into your insert-bowl-of-fattening-comfort-food-here while your partner tries to remain stoic in the face of GREAT UNCERTAINTY AND TERROR. The kind that leaves you doubting even the canned implantation bleeding speech of the fertility clinic nurse[3] and the wisdom of the goons sages on Yahoo! Answers. Because, dammit, it just feels like your period.

Of course, we all now know that I have literally zero insight into my own body because, bam: pregnant with human baby.

And so on Friday, when, at 30 weeks on the dot, there was blood, well, I was thrown. But this time it was not so much for my panic – though there was that – but more for C’s reaction. For C’s UTTER TERROR. For the wavering in his voice and the you-are-going-to-the-doctor-right-now-and-I-am-cancelling-all-my-afternoon-appointments-immediately defiantness. Of course, by then the bleeding had stopped and I had somehow managed to white-knuckle my way through coast through five solid hours of work. But the doctor agreed – I should come in. Just to, you know, make sure.

The short version of the story is that following my first speculum exam in FOREVER AND EVER, AMEN[4], I was pronounced completely fine. We even played a fun game where the nurse and C squeezed the baby’s foot and we watched his heart rate soar[5] and the nurse complimented me on the non-swollen appearance of my ankles[6].

Back at home, both relieved, I wanted to know why C was so worried – what was the thing he thought was happening. And then, just like that, out it came: BEDREST. That’s it. That’s what rendered him panicked and shaky. Sure, there was also, earlylaborplacentapreviacatastrophecatastrophecatastrophe. But really, it was just one thing, one thing that he knew, after 11 years of being together, would really screw with me: BEDREST.

Because here’s the thing, dear interwebs. If I’m not active, If I’m sitting too long, if I don’t exercise, if can’t get outside, if I’m stuck in one place for more than seven minutes: I slowly begin to, how do I say this? Lose my ever-loving shit[7]. And C, dear, sweet C, he knows that about me.

(Okay, let’s face it. C knew that his life would be a WAKING NIGHTMARE if I were suddenly confined to the couch for the next ten weeks. He was looking out for his own wellbeing. And, you know, mine and the baby’s. Maybe.)

This is me. On bedrest. 

Because this is what turns up when you Google Image search “going crazy on bedrest”. In stark contrast, Google Image searching “going crazy on bed rest” reveals a picture of Hulk Hogan with an orange boa. Because, OBVIOUSLY. I could not make this stuff up if I tried, you guys.

P.S. Yesterday I bent over to put on my shoes and <wait for it> I threw up. Sure, it was early in the morning, a time when I usually have a touch of the nausea. And yes, there is less and less room for my vital organs, food and GIANT BABY with each passing minute. But if I’m not mistaken, I bent over and, exactly one second later, the pressure on my stomach was such that there was, actually, quite literally, no more room. How is this a thing? This was totally not mentioned in any of the pregnancy books, you guys.

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[1] I’m assuming there’s only one of you, tops.

[2] Thank you Huffington Post for this Kim-Kardashian-ugly-crying-montage profound piece of hard-hitting journalism.

[3] Lesson learned: never, ever doubt her.

[4] Deep insight: I prefer to keep my pants on.

[5] It’s amazing what passes for “fun” by week 30. I’m guessing my standards will only be lowered further for the next 18 years. Noted.

[6] I’m blushing. Now if only I could still see my ankles.

[7] See also when Phil Dunphy explains that Claire is “like a border collie” and needs to get out for a run every day. Yes. That. (And no, this is not some kind of backdoor brag – more an indication that I am probably in need of heavy sedation/years of therapy.)

dairy queen, 29 weeks, 3 days

Lately, I’ve been thinking about boobs. Specifically mine. Specifically my impending role as full-time-dairy-cow-nurse-maid nursing mama. Apparently, my body is already marshalling the energy for this riveting new gig – last week I noticed that my chest is currently running at least 86 degrees warmer than the rest of my body. Because, you know, PUMPING BLOOD TO VITAL AND NO LONGER B CUP BOOBS. For the baby.

According to wise ole Alphamom, I should also now be noticing other exciting-knocker-related-changes-and-party-tricks – but not having known what colostrum was before I Google image searched it,[1] I’m pretty content to live in a world of denial – no need to contemplate that I could, at any moment, begin leaking through a business suit. We can save that frightening possibility until after I give birth and have returned to work, dazed and confused, and possibly probably covered in spit up. Pleaseandthankyou.

In the meantime, my newly sweltering bosom prompted me to TAKE DRASTIC ACTION: I signed up for a lactation class. “Breastfeeding Essentials: Part I[2]” promises to prepare me for “successful nursing” using “videos,” “photographic books,” and “props” <I’ll wait here while you snicker childishly at the double entendres, intended and otherwise. No, really, I’ll wait.> In the face of my offer – wanna come look at boobs with me for a couple hours on December 4? – C remained steadfastly mature and professional. Please label this upcoming class under strangest date we’ve ever been on.

In other mammary related news, a few dear friends gave me the heads up that my insurance company might cover the cost of a breast pump. Seeing as I’ll be returning to work a mere 10 weeks after I push a giant baby out of myself and so as to avoid the aforementioned business-suit-leakage, I have big pumpin’ plans. For efficiency and because, you know, MORE SEXY!, I plan to go for the double: you can't unsee this[3].

Trying to be a good sport because I made him, C volunteered to call our insurance company to inquire about coverage. Apparently they will cover the cost – in fact, the Affordable Care Act now all but requires it[4] – but they ask that we reach out to various medical supply vendors with the make and model that we want. Devoted husband that he is, C made the first call:

C: Hi. <Literally no transition or introduction whatsoever> Do you sell breast pumps?

Medical supply vendor: excuse me?

C: <Without missing a beat and apparently totally unable to read social cues> Do you sell breast pumps?

Medical supply vendor: <to coworker in the background> what a creep

*Click*

He swears this happened, word for word. I swear that he is either (a) lying in an attempt to get me to deal with this or (b) actually on the spectrum and totally unable to read social cues. I’m also not ruling out a combination of (a) and (b) because, c’mon! Ahem, readers, what do you think?

In the meantime, apparently the NYTimes Health section is cycling right along with me – they recently posted this timely article bringing to light the challenges women face in obtaining coverage not just for pumps but for lactation services. I guess I better plan on taking Breastfeeding Essentials: Parts II-XI before December 20.  

And that, dear blog-o-sphere, is this week’s installment in hooter related news/my feeble attempt to incorporate many different synonyms for “breast” into one post.

Also, this: how on earth am I twenty-nine weeks pregnant? GAH!

Most awkward cropped shot ever. Also, first casually-dressed-pregnant-Sarah-while-apple-picking photo.  Also, don't tell C that shortly before this photo was taken, I climbed a tree - there were really good looking apples up there.

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[1] Probably don’t do that. Not because it’s particularly racy, more just confusing: as in, why so many baby cows? Why?

[2] <Panic> there are multiple parts?!

[3] Is that white wine? Also, this. And this. The latter obviously a stock photo from the 1980s and the former uh, I don’t know, from another planet and era entirely. You’re welcome.

[4] Obama, you’re the breast! <couldn’t resist> <boob humor> <sorry>.

Side Bump, 28 weeks, 3 days

By popular demand (from all 3 of you) - and because I am a dolt who clearly didn't read the memo or take the cue from literally-every-other-pregnant-woman-on-the-interwebs, here is the much asked for SIDE SHOT:

Please note the very attractive dog bed in the background, the unmade human bed in the foreground and 

the totally awkward placement of my left hand. Ansel Adams over here.

P.S. While I was off folding countless dinosaur onesies gifted by my in laws being a bad, neglectful blogger, it appears the rest of you were getting knocked up. Huge congrats to Sadie at Invincible Spring and Kimberly at No Good Eggs!

weight for it, 27 weeks, 5 days

Spoiler: I do not have gestational diabetes. <collective sigh of relief and DEEP RESENTMENT FOR MY UNNECESSARY SUFFERING>.

Which provides the most obvious, natural and totally-not-cumbersome-at-all transition to today’s inspired discussion: pregnancy fitness and weight gain.

Otherwise titled: why every pregnancy book seems to want me to go bowling.

Ah, pregnancy fitness. Pregnancy weight gain. Pregnancy shape and body image. Let’s just all hold hand and sing kumbaya[1], shall we? <deep breath>.

When I was struggling with infertility, I used to make bold proclamations – if I could just get pregnant, I wouldn’t care what the physical cost was; I wouldn’t care if I had to spend 9 months projectile vomiting, on bed rest; I wouldn’t care if I gained 85 lbs and was never able to see my toes again; I wouldn’t care if all my hair fell out and my entire body was riddled with gestational acne. Just get that baby in me[2]!

Of course, as with most reckless proclamations and appeals to the universe, reality was slightly different. The first trimester was a nauseated mess of an affair, full of bland carbohydrates and sea bands and shingles and mystifying rashes. It was also a time of completely disrupted exercise because TIRED! and NAUSEATED! and did-I-mention-I’m-creating-human-life-over-here?!

I slept, I ate a lot of spaghetti, I took a reckless backpacking adventure on a deserted island, then I ate a lot of potato salad. For good measure. And then, because of it all, I gained nearly 15% of my body weight in 21 weeks. I was, ahem, a bit of an overachiever on the early weight gain front.

Let me be clear: I was and still am very happy to be pregnant. But, simultaneously, for the first time in all the joy and the surrealness and disbelief, I was also uncomfortable. My sudden it-appears-she-has-eaten-many-burritos gut, while a nice reminder of my freshman year of college, was new and strange. My relationship with food and exercise was upended and I began to envision my future 85-lbs-heavier-never-sees-her-toes-again self.

Meanwhile, everyone wanted to talk to me about pregnancy fitness. My downstairs neighbor, who just delivered twins, cornered me on every occasion to EXTOL the virtues of pregnancy swimming. Buoyancy! Weightlessness! Wearing a bikini! My fellow pre-natal-yoga attendees – most of whom were much further along than I – provided carefree and almost blasé accounts of their practice of Bikram until they were basically 39 weeks and pushing. A colleague of mine – apparently limited in the benefits of self-awareness – yammered on about how amazing it was that she had three kids and no stretch marks and it was all because of genetics some convoluted pregnancy exercise regimen that I could never quite pin down. And then there were the books and websites. For reasons that are beyond me – and likely have to do with the endlessly entertaining image of a pregnant woman rolling a bowling ball that might aswell be under her shirt[3] – every book and pregnancy website devoted an unusual amount of type to assuring pregnant women everywhere that BOWLING WHILE PREGNANT IS TOTALLY FINE. SERIOUSLY WE SWEAR!

Falling under “sports you may want more information about” (because, okay?) Your Pregnancy Week by Week offers the following gem of wisdom: “Bowling is OK (caps in original). As balance changes, bowling could be more difficult for you.” I’m pretty sure that the normally-sane-and-not-bananas Mayo Clinic Guide to a Healthy Pregnancy even devotes space to this hot-button issue[4]. And I’m not even going down the rabbit hole of internet pregnant-whilebowling tirades. See here, here and seriously, how could I not mention Yahoo Answers, HERE.

But where was I?

Body. Weight. Fitness. Right. Well, a funny thing happened at about 18 weeks: I started to feel like myself again. Vegetables were appealing; I returned to working out regularly; I no longer felt like I had been hit by a truck, I began (mostly) sleeping through the night, etc.

And then, after rapid early weight gain and not having made any dramatic changes – save returning to how I ate, exercised and (more-or-less-plus-heartburn) felt pre-pregnancy – I completely by accident went four weeks without gaining any weight and am now being admonished to shovel whole eggs and cans of tuna down my gullet. Well then.

I guess my point is this <brace yourselves we’re going deep>. The ebb and flow of pregnancy weight gain is not an exact science. Sure, if your body is a body that follows the book of all things pregnancy, you should be gaining about a pound a week at this point. But my body – and if I had to guess, most bodies – don’t work that way. My own ebb and flow and trying to give my body what it wants – which, in the first trimester was basically pad thai, potato salad, and sour gummy peaches[5] – has also been a reminder to trust that my body actually knows what it needs – something of a Sisyphean struggle for anyone who has struggled to get pregnant.

But here I am. Thinking creatively about how to incorporate 70 ever-loving grams of protein into my diet and contemplating whether or not to take up bowling.

 

Snapped haphazardly as I was running out the door to work yesterday.
(Professional photog in the making, obvs.)

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[1] Listen, I didn’t know there was such a thing as “Kumbaya BabyTV” either. But now we’re both better off because of it. Is that a flying octopus?

[2] Like so.

[3] Because apparently someone would want to buy this photo?

[4] I refuse to buy What to Expect When You’re Expecting because that particular breed of fear-mongering is too much even for me.

[5] I’m not proud, but I am honest.

sugar showdown, 26 weeks, 6 days

The gestational diabetes test is a shame – not because it’s a bullshit test[1] that requires a pregnant woman to needlessly suffer[2] – but because it comes during this magical time in your pregnancy[3]. This time when, all of a sudden, the stars begin to align. The nausea has (almost totally) dissipated. You’re back to waking only once or twice a night to pee, rather than the 9-12 times of yore. You’ve begun to feel much more like a human being (albeit rounder), rather than the emotional-sexless-ravenous-nauseated-train-wreck of trimesters pasts. You’re even starting to appear pregnant in a way that says glowing! rather than in a way that says I-just-ate-several-burritos-and-need-to-unbutton completely-take-off-my-pants. What I mean to say is that, at least for me, starting around five months, things started to feel pretty good. Sure, there was the occasional nighttime leg cramp – oh, the shrillness of my screams! – and my first Braxton-Hicks experience – must-stop-moving-and-stand-VERY-VERY-STILL – and heartburn, obviously and always. But overall, I was feeling good. Like, almost really good.

That is, until <drums!> the test to end all tests: THE. GREAT. GLUCOSE. CHALLENGE.

Simply put, the gestational diabetes test boils down to this:

one part 12 hour fast + one part 2 hour test + one horrendous bottle of orange-fizzy-cough-syrup-that-a-well-meaning-phlebotomist-will-assure-you-tastes-just-like-gatorade! + a million needle sticks + one seriously overdramatic, dizzy and nauseated pregnant lady – I’m creating a human life here, people! = an entire morning of unfettered joy/shiny happy people dancing/bliss[4]!

[Spoiler alert: here’s where I make it seem so-unsimple and so-very-overdramatic].

When I arrived at the office, the woman at the front desk, searching for the right word and at first not realizing the depths of her well-placed irony, asked me “did you starve?” before correcting herself and confirming that I fasted. I probably laughed too hard/too long/too maniacally at the accuracy of her initial inquiry. Because yeah. I starved. Because I am six months pregnant and not eating for AN ENTIRE TWELVE HOURS is basically state sanctioned torture. Now checked in, it was time for my first blood letting.

I have to admit, at this point in my life, I thought I was an old pro. Yeah, I have a history of blood-draw-induced-fainting but I really thought that the infertility rollercoaster had shed me of my bad habit. That the incredibly efficient resident blood-letter in the infertility clinic had restored in me a confidence, trust and ease. I mean, shucks, by the end of my infertility clinic tenure, I wasn’t even lying down anymore. I was sitting! Like a person! (With my eyes closed, tightly wringing my hands and in great terror).

All of this is to say that my backslide into blood-drawing-mediocrity was that much harder to swallow. But let me not be the only one to blame: this blood-drawer was not exactly a match made in heaven. When I warned her that I had fainted in the past[5], she grew immediately wary – of both me and her own ability. Points for instilling confidence? Check! During the first blood draw, she announced that “blood is going back in your arm and under your skin, hmmm”. To round things out, she removed the needle and confirmed what I was already feeling “there’s a lot of blood still coming out!” Super. Let’s all just close our eyes and go to our happy place…

Luckily, blood draw number one was followed by my first refreshment of the morning. A Sunny D size bottle of NOTHING-BUT-ORANGE-SUGAR[6]. After dry heaving/gulping it down, I wandered aimlessly into the waiting room where, in a fit of nausea and sudden post-fasting-sugar-rush, it’s possible that I may have taken a brief nap.

An hour later, blood draw number two and an entire hour after that, the hat trick: blood draw number three. Let’s just cut to the chase. Blood draw number three was a bust: I fainted <takes bow> and the tech only managed to eek out half a tube. She assured me that it would suffice. And I, even in my delirious state, nodded in agreement, though DEEPLY TERRIFIED of having to repeat this whole affair again if we were wrong.

The rest of the day is something of a blur. I stumbled in to work where I proceeded to try to eat like a ravenous-but-still-nauseated human being, while alternately dazed in debilitating a kind of head-on-desk-sugar-stupor. It was all very dramatic – and TOTALLY NOT A BIG DEAL IN THE SCHEME OF THINGS. But I’m never one to downplay a good bloodletting. Plus, I am again reminded how charming it is to have the forearms of a heroin addict. Thankfully this particular shade of purple-blue compliments many of my outfits.

*Fingers crossed that I don’t actually have gestational diabetes.* Because that might actually be kind of a bummer.

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[1] Totally not licensed to play a doctor. Not even on the internet. So let me be clear: the gestational diabetes test is REALLY IMPORTANT. Now I will ceaselessly complain about it.

[2] I am nothing if not overdramatic.

[3] A funny thing happens when you Google image search “pregnancy magic.” No, seriously, watch that. I’ll wait. <patiently waiting>.

[4] This just felt… right?

[5] Mistake number one.

[6] This woman knows what’s up.

confirmations of the obvious, 26 weeks, 2 days

So, as it turns out, full time employment is really getting in the way of my blogging habit. It’s hard to believe that I’ve been absent from this space for more than two weeks. <dusting off the ole computer, clearing the cobwebs from my rusty writing brain>. Bear with me while I catch up on all things blog-o-sphere and painfully rekindle some semblance of writing groove. Here we go…

As though I needed additional confirmation that I am (spoiler alert) six and a half months pregnant <brain exploding>, the last few weeks have provided ample reminders. Here, just a few:

(1) Newfound empathy for the aged, frail and morbidly obese

There came a time, probably a couple weeks ago, when all of a sudden I noticed it. When putting on my shoes became a task. When picking something up off the floor became a strained, and laborious chore. When, all at once, I realized that I could no longer bend over – as in, you know, Bending. At the waist. Straight down. Like a capable, functioning human.

Because all at once, I became awkward/waddling/rotund/oh-my-goodness-i-think-i-can-hear-my-round-ligaments-exploding! And in that moment, I shared a special kind of empathy with the more feeble, frail, aged and obese among us. Accordingly, I have alternately begun (a) squatting like some kind of pregnant duck or (more likely) (b) making C do discreet tasks for which I am too lazy everything. <cut to scene of C daintily putting on my dress shoes[1]>

(2) Nesting

Truth be told, this started a long time ago. Like, before I was pregnant and just trying and every subtle twinge anywhere near my pelvis/ovaries/eyeballs was a cue to start painting the nursery. But, conscientious pregnant lady that I am, I’ve been working hard to step up my game, lest I forego an opportunity to spend hours weeks meandering down the vast rabbit holes of the interweb-pinterest-apartment-therapy-craigslist-must-scower-every-baby-item-in-the-universe ness.

So here we are. Scouting mid century modern dressers on Craigslist - and picking them up in the distant suburbs with the help of two incredible friends - and lining the drawers with fox themed shelf paper. Wondering whether I can get away with a wall covered in reclaimed pallet wood. Ordering vintage maps off Etsy and endlessly perusing paint colors. Because, you know, my screaming, pooping infant will appreciate nothing if not my hip, forward thinking sense of style. #parentingwin!

Photography skillz remain, ahem, a work in progress.

(3) Other people

C and I were out for ice cream the other night – because I live to embody every pregnancy stereotype[2] – when the following transpired:

C: have you noticed that woman is smiling at you?

Sarah: <growing discomfort>

C: Seriously, she keeps looking at your belly and just…like…smiling? <perplexed>

Sarah: <quietly now> women smile at me now that I’m pregnant. It’s a thing.

C: Wait, are you serious?

Sarah: <attempts to change subject>

C: Umm, she’s coming over…

Mysterious-30-something-lady-in-line-at-ice-cream-shoppe[3]: <effusive> Oh-my-god-you-are-like-the-most-adorable-pregnant-woman-in-the-world!

Sarah: <UTTER MORTIFICATION/uncomfortable laughter> ... thank you.

Of course, C found this terribly amusing and excellent fodder for future embarrassment. He will now forever respond to questions about how I look with only the following refrain, <mockingly> you are like, the most adorable pregnant woman ever!

*face palm*

(On the other end of the spectrum, one of my particularly earnest students approached me during office hours and mentioned that had I not said it, she never would have noticed that I was six months pregnant. Because I’m compassionate, I immediately docked her grade for poor judgment and insight. Thankfully she recovered last week by complimenting my skinny-legged maternity pants. Flattery, it’s the best form of grade mongering.[4])

(4) La linea nigra![5]

Okay, so, hypothetically, I knew this was a thing. I was, I guess?, vaguely aware that during pregnancy, a dark, vertical line could appear across your ever-expanding-belly, just to, you know, increase the sexy. But vaguely knowing that a thing is existentially possible and even going so far as to acknowledge it by reading the (surprisingly short) Wikipedia page devoted to it, is very, very different from one day noticing that thing, on your own, ever-expanding-belly. Melanocyte-stimulating-hormone, you bastard! *shakes fist*

So. There you have it. Mark my return to the blog-o-sphere with these 4, completely-random-if-you-didn’t-know-you-were-pregnant-you-sure-as-hell-would-know-now, confirmations of the obvious.

What am I missing?

p.s. Because I’m a sucker for peer pressure, I’m contemplating the possibility of a bump page. To showcase my ever expanding gut and also to ensure that my future son will be totally warped by his pre-natal outing on the interwebs. <saving money for therapy now>. Discuss.

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[1] Truth: that never happened. A girl can dream, right?

[2] I ordered pickle flavored ice cream, natch.

[3] I’m making an executive decision that all ice cream places are shoppes. Even this one, which is a corporate chain.  It’s just quainter that way.

[4] Kidding! Our grading criteria only include objective measures, like whether or not I like the student. <deadpan>

[5] So, first things first. Every time I say this – which is, often? apparently? – I can’t help but think of La Viuda Negra! Clearly NBC agrees since they made a poorly translated (vaguely racist?) entire website devoted to it.