New Arrival

On July 18th, our son Sebastiaan Haight arrived at 10:09 AM after a 31 hour drug-free labor. As promised at the start of this blog, I will refrain from cheezy references that include "bundle of joy" and "miracle," but he is truly amazing.

Thank you to everyone that shared this journey with me and helped me keep my sense of humor. I will continue the blog to share the craziness that is being a new mom. My baby is three weeks old and I've already been peed on, pooped on and in the path of projectile spit up. More to come...stay tuned.

Hot Chip

The pregnancy books say that by your third trimester, the fetus has hearing capacity and recognize voices. I do actually feel bad for baby sometimes, because he has been privy to some boring conversations and sounds when you think about it. Baby's had to sit through my work presentations on best practices for software acquisitions, the horrible Matt Damon spy thriller I watched in entirety because the remote was across the room and I couldn't muster up the energy to change the channel (really, I swear, even though Matt Damon looks really good in a suit) and conversations with my midwife on how the baby is squishing my organs. So I like to try and mix it up and listen to a little bit cool music every day. I swear though, he has musical preferences. The verdict- indie rock. Especially Hot Chip. Every time I play Ready for the Floor by Hot Chip, he goes crazy. I have my hubby as a witness. I think this kid is pretty cool so far that he likes the Hot Chip and Ben & Jerry's Americone Dream.

Nice To Meet You Too

This past weekend, my husband and I attended a holiday BBQ hosted by his cousin's extended family that we've never met. Not five minutes after we arrived, a little kid about three years old came running up to me and gave me a huge bear hug. It was quite sweet really. His grandmother ran after him, and after introductions, explained to her grandson that I had a baby in my belly. He became very pensive, then put his hand on my belly and yelled "baby!" I told him that, yes there is a baby in there. He then proceeded to shove his hand between my legs, lifted up my dress in the process and yelled "baby!" again. Um, kid, baby is not ready to come out yet and meet the family. In fact, I just met these people and wasn't quite planning on the first thing for them to learn about me is what kind of underwear I wear.

There Are Worse Things I Could Do

A dear friend of mine shared the exciting news the other day that he completed an Iron Man triathlon. I am so beyond impressed, as I see swimming 2.4 miles, biking 100 miles and running a marathon each extraordinary feats unto themselves, let alone doing all these things in one day. Given that my athleticism consists of nothing more than walking and pre-natal yoga, I realize that an Iron Man is something I will never accomplish in my lifetime. I must say that I am totally okay with that. In fact, I can't think of anything I'd rather do less, including experiencing labor, which as you all know I am not looking forward to... I got a flash in my head of the scene from the movie Grease where Rizzo started singing "There Are Worse Things I Could Do" after making out with Knickie. It made me realize that there are things in life I'd rather do less than labor, with an Iron Man topping the list. Here are other things that come to mind:

-See Dick Cheney naked
-Take the bar exam again
-Make out with Flava Flav
-Be in a Turkish Prison
-Sit through a Trace Adkins concert
-Attend a Mel Gibson film festival

I know there has to be more. Please feel free to add in the comments section.

I totally feel better now.

Large and In Charge

So I finally got the most dreaded comment of all by a stranger: "Oh, you must be due any day now!" Oh, no you didddn'ttt! I don't know if I was more irritated by the fact that she felt the need to point out that I look huge or that she did so while blocking me from the ice cream freezer at the supermarket on a 92 degree day.

My Feet Are Somewhere

I can no longer see past my belly when I look down, which is presenting a new set of challenges. Here are some areas where this new phenomenon is particularly inconvenient:

1. Cutting my toenails. I can no longer see my feet, so cutting my own toenails did not go well.

2. Dropping the soap in the shower. Now I understand the genius of soap on a rope and vow to never make fun of it again.

3. Peeing in public restrooms. Squatting to pee when I can't see the hole in the toilet seat does not
help my aim. It wasn't until mid-stream while peeing in an office building the other day that I realized the seat cover was down and I was peeing all over it. Classy.

Sweet Dreams

Apparently pregnant women often have vivid dreams, so I thought it was going to be fun when I started having some fantasy dreams. However, the topics of my dreams have turned out to be quite pathetic. Last month, I had a dream about a huge plate of sushi and giant mug of beer. Yes, I am not supposed to indulge in either one of those things while pregnant and certainly do miss them, but it would've been much more exciting if the dream was about sushi, beer and say a shirtless David Beckham. Last night I actually had a dream about sleeping through the night without going to the bathroom. While yes, that definitely is a fantasy at this point, so is George Clooney wielding a pair of handcuffs. Can we bump this up a notch please? What is even more sad is that for a brief moment, I got really, really excited last night when I thought I actually had slept through the night without getting up to pee, until I realized that it was 4:30 am and I had woken up from this exciting dream because I really did have to pee. Good times.

Don't Ask and You Still Shall Receive

Not only are strangers oversharing with me now that I am visibly pregnant, but are also pouring on the unsolicited advice. Now I welcome the advice from my friends, but not necessarily the guy behind the deli counter at the supermarket, the woman in line in front of me at the tea house and especially not the weirdo that sat in the seat behind me on the plane the other day. This random man, after asking all the usual questions (see post below) felt the need to share the wisdom of his friend's doctor. He told me that if the baby can't sleep, he is probably cold and I should put gloves on him. Hmmm. Alrighty. No sooner did I take my seat before I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around, which is no easy feat when my abdomen is completely squished by my fetus as are the rest of my insides. "I have another piece of advice," he said. I raised my eyebrows and he continued, "if the baby gets fussy, you should chop up some garlic and put it in his formula." I see. I smiled and nodded my head, not really having the energy to give the reply that was really in my head. What ass-backward planet is his "friend's doctor" from??? Oy.

Holy Boobs Batman

My boobs have completely taken over the planet. Not all sexy, Baywatch - Pamela Anderson-ish ,but in a National Geographic sort of way. I went bra shopping for the second time during my pregnancy and am now wearing a cup size I thought was only reserved for failing grades. No wonder why my back is killing me. I am surprised I do not tip over when I walk. I've been consistently warned that they will only get bigger once I start nursing. How far down the alphabet can I possibly go??? Make them stop! I think if my doctor tells me again that I am gaining too much weight (yes he really did say that to a hormonal pregnant woman), I am going to have him weigh each of my boobs.

TMI People!!!

So my husband turns to me the other day and says "your stomach is finally bigger than your boobs!" So, yes, I am at the stage where I am visibly pregnant and no longer getting the "is she pregnant or did she eat too much ice cream" looks from strangers. Instead, random people feel the need to discuss my pregnancy with me. The conversation always covers the following three topics, in this order:

-Do you know what you are having? Yes, its a boy.
-Have you picked out a name? No. (and if we did I wouldn't tell you anyways).
-When I/my sister/daughter/cousin/friend went into labor...(insert horror story)...

Ok, what on earth makes you think I want to hear this? Why, oh why, would you Mr. or Ms. Random Stranger, feel the need to tell me the gory, intimate details of a traumatic labor? That would be like someone telling me they are about to have surgery, and I go ahead and tell them the story about how last time I had surgery I woke up in the middle and heard the doctor yell "scalpel!" Not cool, man!

Paint Your Episiotomy

I've been trying all sorts of techniques to conquer my fears of labor, because we all know I am oh so stoic with pain, hospitals and the like. Guided imagery therapy, hypnobirthing, meditation- in my true fashion, I'm trying everything. My latest is a super crunchy natural birthing book I picked up at the suggestion of a few people in my yoga class. I appreciate the concept and thought I would dig this book, until it devoted three chapters on discovering your fears through birth art. The idea is to strengthen your conscious awareness and identify obstacles and inhibitions through art that may be "as raw and spontaneous as birth itself. " The book suggests that you take your art materials, such as pastels, sculpting tools and clay (already jumping to the conclusion that those of us that don't have artistic abilities beyond drawing happy faces actually own this stuff or would know what to do with it if we did) and creatively express yourself through drawing, painting and even dance. Suggested topics include "a womb with a view," "drawing on your animal" and "the opening." I see. Well, not really, but I digress. Upon sharing this with my best friend, her reply was, "what are you supposed to do, paint an episiotomy?" Apparently. How that is supposed to help, I have yet to figure out. And what are you supposed to do with that art? Hang it on your fridge next to your grocery list?

I think I am missing something.

London Bridges

Why is it that maternity pants keep falling down? I have surveyed other pregnant friends and apparently I am not the only one with this problem. I understand that they have to be stretchy, but haven't we advanced enough with technology to figure out how to design pants that stay up? I enjoy walking around with one hand yanking up my waistband all day like the messy kid in kindergarten. Really I do.

It's All the Rage

In an effort to combat my now raging heartburn, I compiled a list of every herbal remedy I found in the course of my research, however bizarre it may sound. I went to the herbal pharmacy and health food store and bought the following: chewable papaya tablets, papaya concentrate, aloe vera juice, charcoal tablets, slippery elm with marshmallow and fresh pineapple. Then I came home and took all of it at once. I felt better the next day, but now I have no idea what actually worked. Since some if it tastes like ass, it would be preferable to know these things.

It would probably help if I just stopped eating ice cream and chocolate, but that would be too easy.

Nachos Anyone?

So last night my hubby and I attended a natural pregnancy class hosted by three "goddesses," the nickname we have for the fabulous natural hippie women in our area. One goddess was nutritionist, another a midwife and the third a doula. There were many helpful suggestions that we took to heart, until the doula explained that one of the services she provides is belly casting. Huh? Now I've stopped dying my hair, I was wearing a flowy ethnic print skirt and didn't feel too out of place amongst the goddesses, but this was a level of which I was unaware.

Here is how it works. You buy plastering materials at the pharmacy, wrap it around your belly, plaster it and wait for it to harden and dry. The result is similar to a cast you would get for a broken arm, but in the shape of your womb. Now how am I supposed to keep a straight face? I didn't dare look at my husband or it would've been over, but unfortunately the man next to me had even worse composure. Once he stated burying his head with giggles than coughing to cover it up, I wasn't far behind. I was picturing people signing it and drawing flowers, but what does one do with something like this? Like I would hang this up in the kid's room next to the Ramones poster we bought for him? The doula did have some suggestions- you can decoupage it, turn it over and use it for a baby bassinet... My personal favorite though- one couple used it as a chip and dip set. Oh yes. Lets pose a question, shall we? What would you do if you went to a friend's house for dinner and they served you chips and dip in a belly cast? Perhaps nacho chips in the womb section, salsa in one boob and guac in the other. Seriously.

Damn You Stephen Colbert...

..for the best Ben & Jerry's ice cream flavor ever. I apparently thought it would be a wise idea to eat an entire pint of your fudgy, carmely, waffle cone Americone Dream goodness when I am slightly lactose intolerant. Yes, that was brilliant. I feel really great now. Thanks a lot.

It does help that you are really cute though.

Turn On The Sprinkler System

One of the lovely side affects of pregnancy is the increased need to use the loo. It's quite inconvenient when you are trying to sleep or I don't know, go anywhere. No pun intended. Although that is what I've had to resort to. Last weekend we were hiking around the Presidio in San Francisco, eager to catch the sunset over the cliffs. We were at least a mile away from the nearest bathroom and there was no way my shrinking bladder was going to wait. I've done a decent amount of camping in my life and am not above using nature when necessary. The only problem -- this was a trail in a city park with no place to roam out of sight. I had to act quickly so other hikers wouldn't happen upon my business. I used to be really good at this, but apparently I am out practice and my balance leaves a lot to be desired these days. Despite all the squats I practiced in yoga class, that didn't help my aim. My shoes, my pants- nothing was spared. I looked like I had walked through a sprinkler. I resorted to carrying my water bottle in my hand the rest of the hike so passersby would hopefully think this was my water bottle's fault, not mine. I'm just glad I didn't know any of these people...

Let Me Feel Your Body Talk

The month five chapter of my pregnancy book explains that this is the time when you really show, and pregnant women should no longer be the recipient of the "is she pregnant or is she getting fat looks." The book continues: "Most will begin to flaunt their showing body and take on a proud and pregnant pose." Then it suggests that you can really show off your pregnant belly by wearing a leotard.

Ok. Where do I even BEGIN with this one? Let's start with the copyright date. It's 1997, not 1982. Leotards, really? One of the authors is a man, albeit a clueless one, so we'll let it go. Perhaps he watches a lot of VH1 classic and they really do play the Olivia Newton John Let's Get Physical Video quite often. However, the co-author is a woman. I'm sorry, but she should know better. Was she never traumatized by dance recital costumes? She apparently never had to wear a black fringed leotard with pink sequins or a metallic silver unitard with electric blue trunks in front of people. Or perhaps she did and was warped enough to enjoy it. News flash, woman. Leotards don't look good on ANYONE. They are the thong speedos of women's wear.

Now I have the song Let's Get Physical in my head. Damn it.

Zen and Spaghetti

Each week in my pre-natal yoga class, we have to go around and introduce ourselves at the beginning and say how far along we are and how we are feeling. "Hi, I'm June, I am 30 weeks. Yay. I am doing great and so excited about the miracle growing in my belly." I am so not sitting next to June next class. "Hi, I'm Stacy, I'm 19 weeks along. I'm feeling so much better now that I don't feel like I have to hurl every five minutes, but my back hurts, I can't figure out how to bend over and get back up again in one motion and my body doesn't seem to realize that humans should eat full three meals a day, not five. Plus tons of ice cream when I am lactose intolerant."

The teacher ignored the rest of my comments, but gleefully informed me that I am almost halfway along. AHHHHHHH! I've been pretty unfazed by all of this so far, but realizing this is almost halfway over already was a little daunting. That was so not cool to remind me of that when I am at yoga to try and I don't know, relax.

I finally did relax toward the end of the class, especially when it came time for my favorite part, which is the meditation. We lay down on blankets with our head on a bolster and a pillow between our knees. The lights are dim, soothing Buddha music plays - it's quite nice. The teacher gives us these affirmations to put fear aside of our birth, etc. It's a little creepy, but I still feel bad that I ignore these affirmations. Why? Because while I should be meditating, calming my mind and thinking about welcoming my baby, all I can can think about is food. What am I going to eat for my second dinner tonight? Ooooh, what if I add chives to my pasta sauce next time I make it? Somewhere in the background is a calming voice saying "...something, something, please your baby..." and all I hear is "cheese and gravy." I don't even eat gravy. Then the lights go back on, and I wonder how the meditation part is over so quickly.

Boobsicles

When I got out of bed the Saturday before last, my husband looked at me and exclaimed, "you totally grew overnight." It was truly the weirdest thing. We were going hiking that day, and I stubbornly dressed in my non-maternity hiking uniform of tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt with a zipped up hoodie sweatshirt over it. As we started out on the hiking trail, I was a little off balance at first because of the sudden extra weight from the belly explosion. My husband informed me that I looked like I was smuggling a turkey under my hoodie. Laughing certainly threw off my balance even more...

To add to the fun, I wasn't wearing a jacket since the forecast called for such nice weather that day. Well at 9am it was still quite chilly and my boobs became completely frozen. I read about the possibility of increased sensitivity in that region, but seriously people. Nobody told me my boobs would become a meat locker and feel like they were going to fall off. I've lived in Detroit, NYC and Chicago and vacationed in Iceland in the middle of winter - I have a concept of cold. This, however, was unlike anything I've ever experienced. So how did I handle this? Why rub my boobs of course. That was all well and good until a family of five came hiking on by. I must have looked like such a class act, at best. Or a total perv.

Mom Pants

During a layover at JFK airport en route to Tel Aviv on a business trip, I headed into Brooklyn for a few hours and visited my favorite store in the city. I've known the owner for years and love her for her for her fantastic eclectic fashion sense and brutal honesty. When she saw me in my maternity jeans, she quickly pronounced that I looked like a suburban housewife and should not wear maternity jeans in public. No disrespect to my suburban housewife brethren, but I panicked. I immediately thought of Mom pants. You know, the high hip hugger pants that go over the woman's belly and stop shortly under her chest, eliminating the illusion that she might have a torso? These trousers usually involve pleats, a skinny belt and a Land's End-style shirt tucked into them. So the bottom line is that I can't get lazy with my fashion creativity because most conventional maternity clothes are completely unflattering and downright suck. Then I could end up on a downward spiral toward Mom pants. NOOOOOOO! I know my low-rise cargo pants may not be age appropriate or fashion forward forever, but Mom pants aren't even a slippery slope. Then I may as well be wearing a hand-knit cat sweater with three dimensional whiskers and duck boots. Then the red lipstick smeared way above the lip line won't be far off at that point. So I gratefully headed the advice that maternity jeans are a fashion don’t for me and left them in Brooklyn. No Mom pants. Ever.

Let's Get It On

Ok, here's the thing. For many pregnant women, the lovely pheromones will kick into overdrive during their second trimester. I've been anxiously hoping this would happen, because lets be honest, morning sickness hasn't bode well for that. So yay for me that I got my first kick of it, but not so yay when it happened smack in the middle of a business trip, while I am sitting in a meeting. It surely was not the topic of top priority value drivers in software mergers and acquisitions that got me hot under the collar, but there I was during a death by powerpoint presentation with my legs clenched together. Then I get into my rental car at the end of the day to take myself out for some sushi, and Muse is playing on the radio when I turn on the car. That was so not fair. To explain, Muse is to me what Barry White is to normal people. Is someone trying to torture me here? Why don't you just parade in front of me the luscious David Beckham wearing nothing but underwear while you're at it?

Crazy Bread (or Crazy Me?)

If you've never had Little Caesar's Crazy Bread, it alone is worth a trip to heartland. It is puffy, buttery, garlicky heaven, dusted with a substance resembling parmesan cheese and served with a vat of sauce. I've not eaten Crazy Bread in years, but when a pregnant childhood friend of my husband's emailed me from Michigan about her insatiable Crazy Bread cravings, that was it. I had to have it. I morphed into crazy pregnant monster, like the transformation of the incredible Hulk. The problem? There are no Little Caesar's in this county. I think I will have to talk to Mike Illitch, Mr. Caesar himself, about this problem. But in the meantime, what is the Hulk reincarnate to do? Why call her local pizza joint and as sweetly as possible, explain her craving and ask if they can assist. The chef obliged, and while this version did not contain the fake butter that always seeps through the bag and won't come off your hands, it was pretty damn fantastic if I do say so myself. Upon sharing my triumph with our friend, she asked if I told the pizza people that I was pregnant. That probably would've been a good idea. Crazy pregnant lady is much more justifiable than just crazy lady.

Is It Really That Complicated?

During my OB appointment today, I was asked to give a urine sample. On the bathroom wall was a huge poster with step by step instructions for both men and women on how to properly urinate into the little plastic container, complete with anatomy diagrams. Am I missing something? Don't you just, I don't know. pee in the cup?

Promises

Pregnancy is like rehab, in that one is forced to detox during participation. Similar to a rehab facility like Promises, my kitchen is now devoid of cheap wine and cases of Labbats. I imagine that a communal TV is also the focal point of activity at Promises, except for maybe when Linsday Lohan stops by.

So what did I do this Saturday night, you may ask? Why, watch TV of course. I almost peed myself when I saw that the Bay Area PBS station was broadcasting the Crowded House set from the Austin City Limits festival earlier this year. This summer, I flew to NYC to see them play two shows, then the following week flew home from a trip to LA on a 6 AM flight to catch their show that night in Chicago. They were three of the best shows anywhere ever, and there was me, each time, in a tight shirt, jumping up and down in true House of Pain fashion. A beer in one hand, waving frantically at the stage with the other, I screamed at Neil Finn like a teenager, hoping he would pull me up on stage to dance with him like Springsteen did with Courtney Cox in the Dancing in the Dark video. Now fast forward a few months, and there was me, at home in my yoga pants, a lemonade in one hand, holding my chest with the other because it now hurts to bounce, singing with Neil on the TV.

Good times.

BYOP (Bring Your Own Pillow)

I finally acquiesced to my growing size, which I will blame on Two Lines, but really should blame on the copious amounts of food I consume these days, and went to a maternity store. While trying on maternity jeans (the un-sexiest article of clothing imaginable), I noticed that hanging from the hook in the dressing room was a round pillow with a velcro strap. The overly cheerful sales woman explained that I should put the pillow around my belly so I can see how I will look in these pants in three months. I laughed, but apparently she wasn't kidding about her oh so sanitary and inviting idea. Oops. There are certain types of things I enjoy putting in my pants, but, ahem, this was not one of them.

So I left the store without maternity jeans, but instead bought a very sparkly purple dress on sale that I could try on sans pillow. It totally makes me look like an eggplant, but at least an eggplant can conjure up the image of yumminess, say smothered in garlic sauce. The maternity jeans, not so much.

Bring on the Dyson

Upon consuming a giant dark chocolate peanut butter cup, almost entire family size jar of pickles and salt and vinegar potato chips in one sitting, I complained to my husband that I didn't feel well. He smiled and gave me the following cheeky reply:

"You are not a vacuum."

It made my stomach hurt even more to laugh.

I think the fact that I, the class act, am using a rubber band to keep my pants closed when my {stupid} books tell me that most women do not gain much or any weight in their first trimester, indicates otherwise. I would say that my being a human vacuum was a one time thing, but I will take the realistic route, which is an overdue shopping trip for some dreaded maternity clothes. And more pickles.