jaysaint Getting it all down on paper…

Nothing fits. I’m 48 days away from my due date and I’ve had to put aside most of my maternity clothes. I cannot bear the feeling of my waistband or button irritating my lower belly. I don’t think it’s fair to poke me somewhere I can’t see. Now I just need a friend to get pregnant so I can start handing off all my cute maternity stuff, shortly to be followed by lots of adorable baby gear. I’ll probably save a few very favorite kiddie outfits just in case China ever happens, but we’re shutting down baby making in the St. Boggess household — surgically, so no backsies. There was a time I thought I’d never have one baby, much less two. I’m grateful for all the hard work my body has done and have no reservations about sending my uterus into honorable retirement.

Bad news is bebeh is breech. I’m going to pursue all reasonable avenues to get him turned around. That, for me, is acupuncture (moxibustion) plus any other home remedies that are a) free and b) painless. I’ll at least consider a version if nothing else works, but I already know I’m not a great candidate. I’m both short and narrowly built, so not a lot of room to maneuver. We had a frank breech on ultrasound last week, but I know sometimes his legs are down — it feels like someone dragging a knuckle down the inside of my belly.

In the meantime, I’m trying to make peace with the possibility of a surgical birth. Trying. It would be such a waste, such a shame. I have a million anxieties about a c-section, most of which you can probably guess. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.

So much more to say, but I just noticed the time. Bed. More later.

I have been pregnant for 71 weeks of my life. Lord. It’s enough. Still, I’ll be going for nine more. I like a nice, round number and a nice, round baby.

Friday I went for my checkup and my OB asked me what I was thinking about birth control. I looked over at Damon and said, “I’m waiting for him to get his vasectomy because I am DONE.” (An original declaration from a woman in her third trimester, I know.) She seemed unconvinced and asked if I was really sure. That surprised me, considering that I’m 38, which I believe conventional maternal medicine views as approximately ‘late for the crypt.’

I asked her how long past the actual vasectomy we’d have to wait before we could consider ourselves good to go for repercussion-less sex and she said, “Well, it’s not so much a matter of time as number of ejaculations. You have to clear out the storehouse. So, it could be very fast or it could be months. It depends, you know…” She seemed truly entertained when I said, “Honey! You could knock it out in a week if you really put your mind to it!”

It’s all academic, because right now you could easily get me to promise that I’m nevernevernever having sex again. (Another fresh angle from the late pregnancy perspective!)

Alden was captivated by hearing the baby’s heartbeat. When the doctor took the doppler away he went over and touched her leg. She looked down at him he said, “Brother? Go get?” (He talks like Yoda these days.)

I’m typing this while I watch the finale of American Idol. From this year. Really. Don’t tell me who wins! I heard the rumor that Danny Gokey may be on Dancing With the Stars next season. I can’t tell you how happy that would make me.

The saga of the cinnamon roll:

We went to our favorite family restaurant this afternoon — The Tomato Head. I spotted fresh, from-scratch cinnamon rolls on the menu and ordered one right up. It came along with our lunch and to save my life I could not wheedle, trick or compel Alden to try it. He put one finger on that sticky icing and said, “Nay!” I spent the whole lunch darting my hand in to rub icing on his lips, eating bits myself and miming rapture, waving it under his nose for the cinnamon scent… My low point was when I ripped it up to look just like the tofu cubes he was scarfing and when that failed, I tried putting it on his pizza.

I don’t know what my problem was.

Cinnamon rolls are just SO GOOD. I couldn’t let it go.

Finally, finally, at the end of lunch, after he’d eaten every black bean on the table, he tentatively popped a little piece in his mouth. His eyes got bright and wide and he excitedly bit down, without taking his finger out of his mouth. Many tears followed and we all agreed to just go home and take a nap.

Alden’s language has exploded. It makes me happy, as a parent who likes to see her child knocking down new skills. But spend 10 minutes with him and he’ll tell you all my secrets. Current favorites are: Where keys? Where purse? Mommy tired.

Last night we met a dog and Alden put out his hand and said: Nice to meet you.
Or, rather: Ice a meet chu. Meet chu. Meet chu.
He’s just like Macy Gray.

Things are still crazy, but not unpleasant. Little guy #2 makes his presence know regularly now, and has found that same unguarded internal gate that lets him shove his feet up under my ribs in the spot that Alden favored. 12 weeks to go before I can get my revenge in person. I’m loving my new OB’s practice because their answer to almost every question I ask about their delivery practice is: You should absolutely do it any way you want to do it. We’re up for whatever.
I find, for us, small practices are the way to go. I’m sure there are fabulous groups, I’m sure there are rotten small practices. But, in general, we’ve always been happier with little indies.

I’ve buried the headline, though. My schedule at work was favorable, so we raced down to Atlanta so I could attend the international design show at the Gift Mart today and tomorrow. I hit it hard today and still didn’t even put a real dent in. Still, it’s tons of fun. I’m never buying anything boring again. Saturday morning we’re going to take Alden to the Children’s Museum. If any of my Atlanta friends would like to join, please speak up. I’d love to see you!

The best indicator of the extreme suck of this work week is that yesterday Damon called me at lunchtime to tell me that he’d booked me in for monthly pre- and post- natal massages. Normally he is pretty impervious to my grumbling, so I must have been quite a sight. I do know I’d started to get hoarse from the constant tension in my throat. I won’t bore you with all the details (as if this isn’t boring already). This work week needs to end.

I got some instant perspective this morning, though. My friend Karen’s house was hit by lightning last night and caught fire. Everyone got out safely and the fire department was quick and thorough. But they’ll still be in temporary housing for a few months.

Alden went to bed tonight in girlie pajamas. I ordered them online from LittleMissMatched.com while in a research meeting. Having one eye on the Power Point and one eye on my laptop led me to mistake flowers for dots. But by god I bought them and now he’s going to wear them. He looks pretty cute.

I’ve been a spendy spender lately. Last night we went to Target to get a baby pool float and walked out $200 lighter. I can’t stop buying baby stuff. I think, if I may analyze myself for a moment, that I’m doubling up on the experience I wanted to have when Alden was born. Buying wee onesies; folding and arranging; finding and hanging precious prints and mobiles. That all slipped out of my grasp when our apartment flooded and we wound up living out of suitcases through the end of my pregnancy and Alden’s first few months. Now we live in house that is one picket fence shy of being a cliche and I’m going to make the most of it.

Still, I need to get a grip. My self indulgence budget is not unlimited.

I can’t say I will never. I can only say I will try. I will try not to make fun of diseases that sound either hilarious or lame to me. This pregnancy has brought me more of the same from Alden’s — what I can only line up as restless leg syndrome. Lame! I know! Lame! It sounds so fake. And yet I feel a constant current running through my legs that starts around after dinner and lasts until I finally fall asleep. There are moments when I would saw them clean off to stop the constant irritation. Gah!

I’m 23 weeks pregnant — the time when the web sites start laying odds on baby survival should he be born now. That’s a weird line to cross for me. If I had the baby today the doctors would try to save him (or would at least consult with us on that effort). That, to me, brings this whole ‘second kid’ thing into greater relief. Obviously, I don’t want to see this little guy for 17 more weeks. But that really isn’t that far away.