My Lovely Lady Lumps…Check it out!......oh wait, what was I just saying?

Ok, I know I just whined and moaned about all the weird, disproportionate things happening to my southerland area (it’s a word I made up…humor me), but one thing that boggles my disappearing act of a brain is my boobs!  I ain’t too proud to admit that I’m normally a member of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee so these orbs of fleshy goodness are like Christmas every morning!  I feel like a fat kid in a candy store! I’m well aware that I’m in the “fun” stage of the boob growth because they are protruding further than my belly so I’m going to enjoy my newfound canyon of cleavage!  And I plan on “putting it out there” for the rest of the world to enjoy too (visually, that is.  If anyone touches them I will remove their hand from their arm with my bare teeth.  They hurt like a mutha). 

The last few days I’ve been in a whole new territory; The Land of the Last Set of Hooks.  I’ve never even paid attention to the 3^rd set of hooks on a bra so I definitely experienced some culture shock.  I’m aware that it’s not just the buxom girls that are expanding but also my entire rib cage, but I’m choosing selective acknowledgment and I would appreciate being able to play in this corner of the sand box while I can.

As mentioned above, the Christmas-every-morning phenomenon also comes from forgetting everything I did, saw, ate, said, etc the day before.  I call this Gestational Alzheimers (G.A.).  If this joke is offensive to you, I apologize profusely but I’m still using it and I hope you will keep being my friend.  Feel free to start a blog about mean people that joke about Alzheimers and I will follow it. But I digress…

Yesterday, I do believe I piqued (thus far) in experiencing GA.  In 5+ years of working where I work, I’ve never forgotten my phone at work, but I did yesterday.  Now, I know this doesn’t sound so bad or abnormal or specific to us knocked up gals, but the most interesting and confusing part about this was the inner dialogue I had going on.  First, I must preface this by laying out that my parking garage is a good 5-10 minute hike from my office (5 min normally, 10 during my current state).  There are lots of stairs involved too, so really, it’s not very much fun doing it the first time around.  But anyway, I left the office, got all the way to my vehicle, totally ready to just melt into the seat and enjoy the fact that my day was over and I was finally going home, and I reached for my phone in my purse to find it (much like my mind) missing.  I frantically dug through my bag of crap hoping it was just (much like my mind) hiding from me.  The last thing I wanted to do was haul my aching, ever-expanding bod out of my truck and make the trek again.  So here is where the interesting part came in.  I actually played mental ping pong between “who can I call to bring my phone to me” and “DAMMIT! I don’t have my phone to call anyone!” for, no joke, at least 5 minutes.  After each “DAMMIT…” I would then again search my purse to make sure it wasn’t in there and then ask “who can I call…” which just led to “DAMMIT!”  After I realized I had been playing with all the personalities of Sybil for the past five minutes, I threw in my white towel and went to get my phone, adding another 20 minutes to my commute.

To all you gals who hope that playing Patty Cake with your partner will one day turn into a bun in the oven, just be aware that the pregnancy stupids (or crazies) are a very real thing and they are especially unpleasant when performed in front of a live audience.  They may get a kick out of it but you feel like you’ve just been Punked by the Pregnancy Gods.  I’m just grateful my mental theatrics were playing out in the privacy of my own car.  Also, just plan on needing extra time because this stuff happens a lot and you will find yourself resembling an OCD-stricken person that goes in and out of their house a million times before they leave (another distasteful joke…please accept my penitence).  Till next time!

Toodles!

Man, you really don't get it

Second Gripe of the day is about men.  I want to preface this by disclosing that I am not a man-hater by any stretch of the word, I am just an independent person and I've learned to look out for Numero Uno (moi) over the years because, quite frankly, I'm the only person that can't leave me, therefore I must forge a strong, respectable relationship between me and me.  I do love my boyfriend/fiance/baby daddy very much.  He is a wonderful man and a great care taker.  He has 3 boys of this own with his former wife and while we're nowhere near sitting round a fire, cross-legged, holding each others hands and singing Kumbaya, we get along pretty good.  I love his children dearly but I recognize that I am not their mother. I'm not a mother, period.  Not yet anyway.  I'm still in the process of cooking up my first one but I'm not exactly parenting this thing yet.  Moving on from the background information.
I think DB (***disclosure***this stands for Dear Boyfriend, not to be confused with douche bag, that I'm sure you will see me use in future blogs.  They are not mutually exclusive and I will be sure to clarify***end disclosure***) is a pretty normal dude as far as dudes go.  And what I mean by this is, if you don't tell them how you are feeling (prengancy related or not), not only do they NOT think about asking you to open the Grand Coulee Dam for them, but are probably secretly praising your name for every minute that goes by in silence regarding this topic.  This, I cannot blame them for.  However, it is my opinion that when it comes to my pregnancy/delivery, I get the final say because it is my body and I would never do anything to harm the baby.  Here's the thing, men, at the end of the day, we love you and we are so glad that you gave us the opportunity to be a mother, and we are glad you are there to help protect us and our new baby from hoodlums, dragons and theives, but your emotional state during this whole thing, and especially the delivery, has no bearing on the health of the baby, but guess whose does??? MINE!  That's right.  So when all is said and done, things need to be done my way so that I stay sane and comfortable and so that you don't have to sleep with one eye open and one foot on the ground for the rest of your life.  And I promise you, when it comes time for you to give birth to your own baby, I will support you in WHOMEVER you want in the delivery room:) or at your ultrasounds and doctor's appointments.  Because I care that much:)  But right now, it's my turn to freak out and want my mommy.  After all, she gave birth to me so that right there tells me that she is more experienced than you in this whole delivering-a-baby-from-my-innards-thing.  Not that you don't have a significant role to play in this because you do.  I want you there to wittness the birth of our baby, to continually reiterate that I'm not going to die from it, and to rejoice in the gory glory but Mom knows how to fix me.  She has for 31 years so I want my mom in there to fix me because I will need it. 
I'm very aware that I may catch hell for this from at least one member of the male order, but my repsonse to that is, "start your own blog then".  My overall point is this:  while this is your baby and will be forever and I couldn't be happier to be the caccoon, this is not your pregnancy.  It is not your body competing daily for World's Most Hysterical Body Proportions nor is it your vagina going from that kept little secret garden of glory to Mighty Morphin Power Giney that seems like it could bite your head off if you get to close.  So please, for the sake of everyone's well-being, but most importantly your own, I encourage you to nod and smile as much as possible.  There will be plenty of time in 18 years to reconcile with a therapist about that one time your baby's mother wouldn't let you have your way in the delivery room.   P.S. I'm going to school for Psychology so maybe I can help you then:)
Toodles!

Mirror Mirror on the wall...if you keep looking at me like that I'm going to smash you into a million pieces

There is a popular notion or "saying" written somewhere in the "Book of They" that states something to the fact that pregnant women are positively radiant or "glowing".  This is absolute horsesh*t.  Oh, well I suppose if they mean that the abundance of hormones can put off a literal radioactive "glow", then they would be right.  Or the sheen of sweat that forms just from the sheer exhaustion of hoisting your quickly expanding rump in and out of your car.  Then, sure, we "glow".  But I don't care what They say, nothing is "positive" or "radiant" about this first time pregnant gal!  In fact, most days, it's hard to stay positive at all.  Nevermind the first-timer concerns about a future that doesn't exist yet, the rush of ridiculous hormornes, the anti-Christ, aka Progesterone, that makes you drop to your knees to offer up your liquid prayers to the Porceline god and all the other bag of tricks that Pregnancy gods like to throw at you like rotten tomatos and laugh while you are sobbing uncontrollably over who the hell knows what (certainly not YOU!).  My debut Gripe is about our bodies.

All my life, I've been in fairly decent shape.  I've probably never had more than an extra 5-7lbs on me at my laziest and I've certainly never been a hard body.  But I've always been OK with where I was, knowing I could always work a little harder.  As of this morning, I am 15 weeks and 2 days pregnant and my scale is either broken or a big fat liar.  According to that stupid little white squarish thing, I've only gained 5-6lbs. This, too, is absolute horsesh*t because I've gained that much before in my SLEEP and was still able to not only button my jeans (albeit not very comfortably) but I was definitely still able to get them over my hips and rear.  Well according to my pants that I swear on the holy heavens fit last week, that waistline was going nowhere north of the equator.  This made me cry.  My stomach is definitely pooching out and that I can reconcile because that is where the baby is but what in the world do my legs, hips and butt have ANYTHING to do with the gestation of this baby??  LEAVE THEM ALONE!!!!!  They never hurt anybody before so why must they be dragged into this battle like children in a divorce??  This isn't THEIR fault, yet they have to be attacked like this??  My best friend said to me the other day, "...women's bodies are made to have babies".  Taken out of context this sounds very old fashioned, but you would have to know my best friend.  The context was actually about the fact that she knows I could handle the pain and suffering of the delivery because "women's bodies are made to have babies"...but I digress.
Anyway, my opinion on this is, OBVIOUSLY we gals have been shoving babies through some pretty tight spaces for a few years now, so you would think that our bodies (that are made for this) would have adapted and perfected the system.  We live in a society where judgement is as thick as the smog in LA so why have our bodies not caught onto this little sliver of evolution?  The book I'm currently entangled mind, body and soul in is called "The Girlfriend's Guide to Pregnancy" (best book a pregnant gal can ever read, buy it today!) and it wittily states that "thinness is next to godliness" these days.  So sad, so true.  Not that I'm even aiming at any facet of godliness, but all I'm saying is why add to the already cavernous depth of this pregnancy grab bag??  Where is the break in all this?  All I'm saying is that this darn baby better be worth it!  And I'm half tempted to repo their allowance for the first 10 years of their life just to reimuburse the funds spent on short-lived (hopefully) maternity clothes!  Gripe session over.

Toodles!