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.

of dogs and babies, 23 weeks, 4 days

I’ve felt a little absent from the blogging world lately – things been have, umm, a bit frenetic here. While I try to relish the waning days of summer – baking berry crumbles, eating tomatoes like apples, biking and kayaking – amidst frantically preparing to teach my first law school class, going to court and handling all manner of client needs. I’ve been distracted and a bit scattered. And in the meantime, I’ve grown a bump big enough to get me a seat on public transportation and made it (almost!) to 24 weeks. SIX holy-hell-can-you-believe-it-my-math-must-be-wrong MONTHS. It all feels a little (a lot) surreal.

And in my harried chaos, I missed something – and it had nothing to do with Miley I-am-the-worst-nightmare-of-what-your-daughter-could-become Cyrus. Although it may not have made it to the front page of CNN – such is the apparent appeal of twerking – it was serious. You guys: I missed National Dog Day. I know what you’re thinking: COLOSSAL[1].

If you’ve been here before, you know that C and I have a dog – a black lab named Luna. Of course, many of us in the infertile set have pets, lest we go lacking in a substitute for our unfulfilled parental affections. We anthropomorphize our dogs and our cats[2], showering them in the helicopter parenting that will – if everything works out – soon enough smother our human infants.

And then, when we get pregnant, we begin to imagine how our future child will interact with the bundle of barking fur that has only recently been evicted from the foot of the bed. We read up on ways to introduce these two creatures – give the dog access to the nursery/don’t give the dog access to the nursery, let her smell the new furniture, bring home a baby blanket from the hospital with the newborn’s scent, put them in a crib together and let them work out their issues, seriously-Cesar-Millan-you-are-confusing-me. We (or is it just me?) imagine how they’ll interact with one another – all the extra food the dog will get as the baby shoves it’s dinner onto the floor, how one day we’ll catch the baby gnawing on a Kong, or the dog, sleeping soundly in the crib. It all sounds magical – and, you know, terribly unsanitary. Basically ALL OF THIS TIMES ONE THOUSAND[3].

When I was born, my parents had a golden retriever – a heck of a dog who tolerated as much tail pulling, ear tugging and attempts to ride her like a pony that toddler Sarah attempted. Of course, she had her revenge, too – routinely hiding every one of my toys under the couch. Sisterly love, etc.

And it was these memories – and C’s of his own childhood golden retriever – that we keep returning to. Because – I swear I’m winding up to something, this is just surprisingly emotional so, <pulls it together> bare with me – we’re not sure whether Luna will get to grow up with the baby.

A couple years ago, we found out that Luna – our spunky, stubborn, stuffed animal loving five year old pup – had a congenital kidney defect. So we paid for special food, cursed ourselves for not buying “doggie health insurance” (I can still hear how hard we laughed when the prospect was floated by our vet – so young! so naïve!), and dropped her off for a doggie ultrasound.[4] The truth is that she was doing remarkably well – until last month.

Last month, when we found out that her numbers were up, that we would need to give her IV fluids subcutaneously every other day[5], along with a cocktail of gel caps and pills[6]. We declined the gentle offer of a kidney transplant – because apparently yes, that’s a thing[7] – and we spent many nights snuggling with her, a bit lot teary[8].

And so here we are, hoping just that Luna gets to meet our baby boy. That they have a couple Kodak moments, a little romp, a little affection. We know that might be all we get, but we’d still be pretty psyched.

In the meantime, Luna has already established her impending jealousy and baby dominance[9].

(yes, those are what you think they are)

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[1] Except of course, not. Because, you know, real news like Syria, Miley Cyrus, Egypt, Miley Cyrus, affordable higher education, Miley Cyrus, March on Washington anniversary, Miley Cyrus, etc.

[2] Please don’t make me write the words “fur babies.” It makes me cringe and picture a human baby to whom a bunch of bear fur has been glued. (And yes, I did do a google image search in a valiant effort to regale you with an illustration but no, the interwebs does not share my very warped brain. Bad internet!)

[3] Seriously, you should watch that. A giant dog licks a baby’s nose clean after it sneezes. Another baby gnaws on the face of a docile golden retriever, because, you know, kisses!

[4] Which was unsurprisingly distinct from the many wandings her mama had. She did return with a shaved belly though. So she had that going for her.

[5] Going to just go ahead and admit that jamming a needle into the scruff of my stoic dog was less fun than I imagined.

[6] Which C will not let me touch because Pregnant! Toxic! BACK AWAY.

[7] Yahoo!Answers for the win.

[8] I blame the hormones. C has no excuse.

[9] Yes, I know, I’m totally double dipping with this photo for those of you PAILreaders. Forgive me.

APB, One Pregnant Female, 22 weeks, 3 days

Hey party people. Hope everyone had a nice weekend. Today we’re doubling up – check out Fallopian Groove over at PAIL in their Monday Snapshot (thanks, Josey!) and also here with a Scintillating! Riveting! post about riding in a cop car while pregnant.

Sometimes, being pregnant means that you get shingles, and you feel nauseated, and the thought of limes and garlic make you dry heave, and you endure terrible anxiety about life threatening complications and spend too much time on Yahoo! answers and your pants no longer button and oh-my-goodness-get-over-it-already-because-this-all-means-you get a baby!.

And then, there are other days. And on those days, being pregnant means just one thing: you get to ride in a cop car.

<dramatic pause>.

I took a quick jaunt home for the weekend to celebrate my oldest, dearest friend who recently got her PhD. The plane ride back had made me uncharacteristically nauseated – dry heaving, cold sweats, the whole deal. And the thought of venturing home from the airport on public transportation with heavy luggage in tow, in humid August weather was, surprisingly, daunting. So, after a complicated series of rationalizations and justifications and consolations, like somersaults in my head, I decided that yes I could spend 30 bucks on a cab instead of less than 3 on public transportation – that’s a colossal TEN TIMES as much, for those math geniuses! who are playing at home – because, you know, I’m worth it! And I’m pregnant! And I’m hot!

And, at first, things were going swimmingly. We – me and the rather ornery cab driver whose grisliness I was trying to embrace (metaphorically speaking) – cruised down the highway with the windows down and I was relieved in the (oh-so-naïve!) correctness of my decision, practically patting myself on the back for squandering what little savings we have on an indulgent cab ride. But then, less than 5 miles from my home, DISASTER STRUCK! (as did hyperbole, apparently).

All of a sudden, we came to an abrupt halt. We had encountered the annual Dominican Parade, in full force, shutting down literally every street between the exact position of the cab and my cool, air conditioned bedroom where I would promptly be face planting myself awkwardly lying in some kind of convoluted, starfish like, where-is-that-giant-vagina-pillow-when-I-need-it![1] position, in a winning mix of exhaustion/nausea/pregnancy-ness.

After a series of complicated turns, detours, one-way streets and a dozen blue police barriers, the cab driver had had enough. And I had too. Now close to 40 dollars in fare and I was still several miles from home. Naturally, I decided to cut my losses, get out and walk – which I did in only the most overdramatic way possible, likening my couple mile trek stroll to some kind of Odyssean journey not for the faint of heart. Dragging my suitcase from the trunk, I huffed and puffed my way down major city roads now closed to traffic, darting in and out of a very raucous parade, feeling like some kind of traveling, pregnant freak show. Sweating bullets now, I decided to approach three idle looking cops – sitting ducks! – to register my grievances. I’m still not sure what my angle was – what, exactly, was I expecting to get out of them? Yeah, sure pathetic white lady, let me just shut down this joyful parade enjoyed by hundreds of people FOR YOU AND YOUR FETUS. Please, go right ahead, ruin the celebration! What can I say, I was hormonal (and subsequently kind of disgusted with myself. But alas.)

And then, it happened. As sickeningly paternalistic and generous as they could be, they offered me a ride. A ride. In a cop car. Through closed down streets. To get me home. I initially refused – you know, in the way you refuse something you desperately want, in an effort not to seem, well, desperate. But my protests fell on deaf ears – probably because they weren’t very forceful – and into the car I went. But not until I asked whether I should sit in the front or the back[2]. A question which, naturally, they found HILARIOUS.

And then, once in the car, after the officer cleared out empty plastic water bottles and snickers wrappers from the passenger seat, he turned on his radio.

Calling out his identification number across the airwaves, he announced, for all city officers to hear: ONE PREGNANT FEMALE, TO 101 MAPLE STREET. I REPEAT, ONE. PREGNANT. FEMALE. TO 101 MAPLE STREET[3].

It was pretty amazing[4].

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[1] Truth be told, our bed is definitely not big enough for this kind of threesome. That’s why I’ve asked C to sleep on the couch. Kidding! I’ve yet to purchase one of these novelties and instead just sleep awkwardly with my shoulders practically dislocated from their sockets. It seems to be, umm, working? <looks quizzically at numb hands>

[2] In my defense, this was neither my first, nor my second time in (the back of) a cop car. Sitting in the front was quite the privilege. But that’s a story for a different day.

[3] No, I don’t actually live on Maple Street but broadcasting my home address to the deep dark corners of the interwebs – and not just to all the police officers in my city – seems, well, reckless? Unless of course it means that you guys would send care packages. Because if that’s a thing, then I will totally edit this.

1. [4] And the entire time, all I could hear was Chief Wiggum from the Simpsons: This is Papa Bear. Put out an APB for a male suspect, driving a...car of some sort, heading in the direction of...you know, that place that sells chili. Suspect is hatless. Repeat, hatless.   

of anniversaries, 21 weeks, 6 days

Yesterday was our three-year wedding anniversary. Three years since we got married, outside in the August sun, danced our pants off to bluegrass music in a barn, and ate strawberry rhubarb pie until our bellies ached. Eleven years since we started dating, after sharing a Hi-C at a concert for a terrible collegiate band and smoking pot in my dorm room.

Inexplicably, we spent our last two anniversaries on a secluded beach and in a leper colony, respectively. Incidentally, both of these locales happened to be in beautiful Hawaii.

With a new job for her, medical residency for him, and a gaggle of cells beginning to resemble a baby boy on the way, Hawaii was, you know, not in the cards this year (your pity is palpable).

So here we are. Having a low-key dinner at our favorite neighborhood restaurant. Singing along to old records. And rearranging our furniture to make room for the baby who, with each passing day, reminds us with frenetic kicks and starts, that he might just arrive sometime in December.

But to prove we’re still young! hip! and very, very adventurous!, C got us a Vitamix blender as an anniversary gift. Because if I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a million times: nothing says romance like a well-blended smoothie.

I guess this is what the French call “le nesting”? (whatever it is, I'm digging it).