No, I do not want to be "friends" with your baby.

Or friends without quotation marks.  I mean, what profoundly fascinating things does your infant have to say to me via social media?

In the past week, I have received three Facebook friend requests from the infants of friends and family.  Now, either these are super genius infants who escaped the womb already possessing a mastery of the English language, an understanding of the internet and social media, and some super sweet typing skills or they have parents that want me to fly, drive or walk to wherever they are located and slap the shit out of them.  (The parents, not the babies).

If you want to post pictures of your baby on your own Facebook page, awesome.  I will “like” the photo of little Ian passed out next to dad; both sprawled in the same position.  And maybe comment on how adorable little Dorothy is sitting in her high chair with her face and chest covered in what looks to be some sort of combination of avocados and… blueberries?  I don’t know.  But it’s adorable and maybe I will make fun of her for eating just like her mom did when we were in high school.  I can even handle people posting their ultrasound pictures on social media, though I will judge you for it, that judgment will be mostly silent.  But don’t make profiles for your fucking baby.  And, if you do, don’t try to make me be friends with them.  I don’t give a shit about your baby.  I mean, I am excited that you have a super awesome child and that he/she is healthy and that you are just so proud and happy and whatever of every thing your baby does, but babies can’t talk.  (Disclaimer: if we are actually good friends, chances are that I do actually give a shit about your baby, but if we are good friends, I'm pretty sure that you would never do this).  And I imagine that if they could, they wouldn’t say anything terribly profound or interesting.  Get your baby a fake I.D. and a fake moustache and maybe I will take your baby out for a beer and we can see if we have anything in common.  Maybe your baby is really good at darts.  If we do, or even if we don’t but they are hilarious to hang out with, then maybe I will be their Facebook friend.   But not until they are old enough to make and monitor their own account.  Are your babies going to start Tweeting soon, too?  Or maybe posting pictures they take of themselves in bathroom mirrors on Instagram?

Maybe I will feel differently once I am on the other side of motherhood.  But here, on the still-childless, 29 weeks pregnant side, I just want to slap you.

That is all. 

Doing things = hard.

At 29 weeks pregnant, doing stuff is getting really difficult, y'all.

Things that are becoming harder as pregnancy progresses:

Putting on pants, which I do multiple times a day since I get dressed in the morning, change into my super ugly lab pants at work, change them back to go home…

Taking off my pants, also something I do multiple times a day.

Putting on socks.

Taking off socks.

Picking things up off the ground.

Feeding the dogs.

Getting the dogs water.

Really, anything that involves bending over.

Or rolling over.  I swear it takes me a good twenty minutes to roll over in bed, because I need to stop for a break part way through.  That is typically the point when I rest on my back for a moment, until it becomes difficult to breathe, and wonder, “Is it worth it to roll over?  Or should I just deal with the pain I will feel in my hip tomorrow from sleeping on the same side all night?”

This week, McCloud is allegedly the size of a butternut squash, so imagine my excitement when I remembered I have one sitting on my counter!  When I informed my friend from college of both of these things, she encouraged me to make squash curry soup.  And she started singing, “Butternut Babies” to the tune of Sir Mix-a-Lot’s “Buttermilk Biscuits.”  It was extra hilarious because I forgot that song even existed.  But, I think I am going to make this because I love whole grains and I’ve been eating nothing but brown rice or quinoa for weeks now and I think faro sounds nice.  If you were in the mood for a good curry soup featuring butternut baby (or squash as the case may be) this recipe from allrecipes looks super delicious.

I’m going to my first ever baby shower this weekend.  It happens to be for me, so that’s exciting.  I hope there is booze.  Not because the baby wants to get drunk, but because I believe firmly that no one should be forced to sit through a baby shower sober unless they are pregnant, underage, driving or can’t handle their liquor.  I don’t know what this will be like, though, because the ladies from the lab are throwing it.  But I do know that scientists can cook like mother fuckers and, at the very least, the food will be delicious!  My coworker who is hosting just had a son in November of last year and she has been setting clothes aside for me since I announced my pregnancy back in April or whenever it was.  It’s supposed to be 100+ degrees on Saturday, so I need to figure out what I will wear without dying of heat stroke or getting a severe case of thigh burn.  I should just hire someone to carry me around for the next ten weeks.  And fan me.  That would be nice, too.

In other news, I have read this essay about a thousand times and it never fails to make me laugh.  And, in case you don’t already know where I stand, I would TOTALLY let a brontosaurus watch my baby.  (If you like that essay, you should read this one, too.)

In more historic news, the Supreme Court declared DOMA unconstitutional today and dismissed the Prop H8 appeal.  So, FUCK YES!  How wonderful for my friends who are married to partners of the same sex to be able to inherit property, receive benefits and have legal standing when it comes to end of life choices, you know, all the federal benefits straight couples receive.  This is so big.  And so sad that we needed the SCOTUS to make this ruling, and really disappointing that the decision was 5-4… but as my old geology professor used to say, “It’s good enough for government work” and good enough for government work it is, indeed.

In not-so-big news… Mr. Adventure finally finished sanding the floor!  I think we are going to paint this weekend.  Or maybe not, since it is going to be in the 100’s all weekend.  We might die.  But we are at least going to buy paint this weekend.  And stain for the floor.  The only question now is: what color stain do we want on these lovely, oak floors?

Um... How did my ribs get there?

My ribs have moved to a new location.  I mean, they aren’t in my legs or anything, but they have definitely spread apart.  And, much like the doctor telling me last year that miscarrying would be like “normal period cramps,” I feel completely unprepared for this.  After doing some research, I have determined it is normal.  It seems the ribs spread to make more room for your lungs, which are moving to make more room for the baby as he fattens up, all Hansel and Gretel style.  What I don’t understand is: Why didn’t anyone tell me my ribs were going to move?  I mean, holy shit.  My ribs have been in the same place for 30 years, then, all of a sudden, they are further apart.  I attributed that dress I like being tight around the chest because my boobs are getting bigger, but no.  It’s probably because my rib cage is spreading so wide it is going to open up and swallow the universe or something.

So, let this serve as a warning to any of you who are pregnant for the first time, thinking about getting pregnant for the first time, or just never really noticed before: your ribs are going to move.  Since I noticed this last night, I keep checking them to make sure they are still there/haven’t moved any further.  I mean, it’s so weird.

Okay.  I’m done.  Probably.

I saw the midwife the other day.  She moved to a new office and has a new assistant who is delightful and hilarious!  I like my midwife because, even if she doesn’t think I am as funny as I do, she does an excellent job pretending.  Like, after I drank the orange drank (aka glucose cocktail, which tasted like an orange otter pop before it was frozen) she had a list of stuff to go over with me.  She asked me if we had thought about birth control for post-baby and I said, “I’ve traditionally relied on my personality, but that didn’t work so well this time.”  Apparently in her 27 years delivering babies, she’s never heard that.  I then proceeded to tell her about my three-tier birth control plan that kept me child-free throughout my twenties.  1) Personality.  2) Condoms. 3) The pill/patch/ring thing (I tried them all.  Used the pill the most.  I have sensitive skin and the patch gave me a rash and, as far as the ring goes… I felt weird leaving something in my vagina for three weeks at a time).  If you are interested in not getting pregnant, I can attest that, if followed per the instructions on each package, it works!  Amazingly!  Though, it is possible that not all of you have the personality that wards off potential suitors.  Worry not!  I can teach you.  For me, it mostly consists of saying questionable things at inappropriate times, like when I made that rape joke at the dog park a few weeks ago.  But really, if you’re going to dress your dog in a collar like that, what do you expect?

My midwife has done two deliveries at the new hospital she is delivering at.  She said that both went really well and that the staff were very supportive and more curious than anything else, because they haven’t had a midwife at that hospital before.  We chose a hospital-based midwife because Mr. Adventure has a beautiful daughter that had complications during birth and when things go wrong, they tend to go wrong rather quickly, so he wants a hospital birth.  I want an all-natural home birth, so we compromised.  We also looked at a birthing center that is very close to one of the hospitals, but it was a little bit too tie-dye and patchouli for my tastes (and I spent a lot of my late teens and early twenties going to Rainbow Gatherings and the Oregon Country Fair).  But it worked out because I love my midwife.  I trust her and her experience and I’ve never felt like that in a medical office before.

We also started talking birth plan, which is great because I’ve been reading a lot about that lately and my understanding is that you want to be succinct and not repeat any information that is routinely done in the hospital.  You only want to include information where it deviated from the normal routine and don’t use a condescending tone because you will only irritate the nurses.  No one likes to be told how to do their job by an amateur.  I also read that nurses love baked goods, which is true.  My mom was a nurse for a million years.  (Hell, the ladies in my lab love baked goods.  I think science and treats just go hand-in-hand, although, science is a treat in and of itself, of course).  So, if you have time, bake the nurses some cookies before you go to the hospital.  If not, have your partner or someone on Team Baby go and pick something up from the local bakery.

Anyway, my midwife has a birth plan form that her patients fill out and it goes into their chart so when you call the hospital to let them know you’re on your way, the nurses have already read it.  My midwife highlights things in it that she thinks are super especially important and it asks things like, if you prefer to labor at home as long as possible, if you prefer dim lights, low noise, your own music, how you want your contractions monitored, if you mind medical students coming in and staring at your lady bits and poking you in the belly, your pain tolerance, whether you want a medication-free birth and how committed you are to that feeling and so on.  It also has a ton of questions about how you want the baby treated like if you want to hold him while initial exams are being done, whether you want the eye ointment, vitamin K shot and hep B shot and so on.  So, it’s a lot of information put into a very neat format that the nursing staff can look at quickly to get the information they need without having to read excess verbiage, unlike this post.

And I am slated to learn even more when we start our 7 week Confident Birthing class in July.  It’s a three hour class once a week.  Mr. Adventure isn’t very excited about it.  I told him he is allowed to complain all he wants the way there and the way back, but not during the class.  I’m excited because, as labor comes closer and closer, I can’t really avoid thinking about it anymore and, much like the movement of my rib cage, the thought of it is kind of freaking me out.

That is all.

All Aboard the Crazy Train!

Dear Internet,

At 28 weeks pregnant, I am starting to feel CRAZY.  I tend to have decent control over my emotions, but lately, I feel weird.  I’ve been extra irritable and extra emotional.  This morning, listening to NPR, I started tearing up when they were talking about Sally Ride.  (Today is the 30^th anniversary of her flight into space).  It reminded me of college when I went to my college boyfriend’s parent’s house for Christmas (did you follow that?).  His mom told me that she cried when the pope died when she was pregnant.  The best part of that is that she is an atheist.  Typically, pregnant or not, my NPR tears are reserved for Friday mornings during Story Corps.  Because that shit tugs at the heart strings.

Mr. Adventure told me over the weekend that he appreciates that most of my irritability and rage are directed at other people and not at him.  Like my coworker who is always in my f-ing way.  She has gotten soap in my water bottle on more than one occasion because she couldn’t wait two minutes until I was done filling up my water bottle before squeezing in next to me at the sink to wash her stupid hands.  Or the guy who tried to switch lanes in to my car on Friday and then proceeded to stare at me at the subsequent stop light, where I was turning left.  His light turned green, but he was too busy staring to notice.  Luckily, even though the lab group I work with has four other people, we have six rooms down here at the end of the hall and I can easily spend most of my day alone.

I think I may need to start meditating.  Find my zen or something before I stab someone and wind up giving birth in prison.

Or I need a slingshot and some rocks.

People keep asking me what I am going to name the baby.  And by “people,” I mostly mean my dad.  So I keep telling them I am naming the baby Hamburglar.  Maybe Hamburglar McGrimace.  I wonder if McDonald’s would pay all my birthing costs if I actually did that?

According to the internet, at 28 weeks, Hamburglar McCloud is the size of an eggplant.  I wonder if he is just as purple?  Apparently at this stage, babies start experiencing REM while sleeping.  And, just to be clear, I mean Rapid Eye Movement, not that shitty band from the ‘80’s.

I hate cooking with eggplant.  It’s a pain in the arse.  But here is a recipe for eggplant parmesan if you want it.  Last time I made eggplant parmesan was in college and I peeled the eggplants, thinly sliced them, and salted them to get out excess moisture.  Or is that what I did when I made cucumber sandwiches?  I don’t remember.  I could blame the lack of memory on the pregnancy, but I think it is more likely because I drank enough whisky in college to support the entire state of Kentucky.  Because Kentucky straight whisky bourbon is the best whisky in the Western Hemisphere.  Screw Tennessee.  And Canada.  Jack Daniels?  Crown Royal?  Seagram’s?  No thank you.

My pregnant friend who is slightly less pregnant than I am (I’m winning!  :D) sent me a link she read about her pregnancy the other week.  She was 23 weeks at the time, and the website compared the size of her baby to a Harry Potter book.  “Your baby is about 11½ inches long and weighs 1 pound, or about the length and weight of a Harry Potter book.”  Ridiculous.  The same website, for 28 weeks pregnant, had this to say: “Your babe is downright chubby compared to a few weeks ago. She is about 15 inches long, about the length of an amusement park cinnamon-sugar-coated churro (yum!), and weighs 2 to 3 pounds.”  Why do these people want to eat babies?

I guess if you are going to be ridiculous, go for the gold.  The people at 3d pregnancy also made an REM reference, which made me want to go back and delete mine, but I think it is important for everyone to know how I feel about their shitty music.

My midwife asks me for my “word of the day” when I go in for appointments.  I see her tomorrow for my 1 hour glucose screen.  I think I may have two words tomorrow: fat and irritable.  I’ve always been a big girl, but I’ve also always had an awesome figure.  I feel like my belly has doubled in size in the past two weeks.  I know it is normal, but I felt like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man when I put on my lab coat before I went and found myself in a family way.  Now that my lab coat is getting a bit more snug around the belly, I am pretty sure that I will need to go up a lab coat size before the end of this pregnancy crazy train.

I don’t know if this is a good thing or a bad thing, but I started walking the dogs a couple of miles a day in the evenings.  So now, come 8p, if I haven't walked the dogs yet, they get all up in my grill until I take them out.  I was using pregnancy as an excuse to be super lazy and do things like watch all 3 seasons of Pretty Little Liars on Netflix and rewatch The Walking Dead in preparation of the third season coming to Netflix at some point, although I’m pretty sure it is going to suck.  Most shows take a turn for the shitty about halfway through the third season and, with a baby on the way, I doubt Rick and what’s-her-name-who-was-way-better-in-prison-break are going to be able to maintain their awesome.  Much like me.  But maybe, just maybe, if The Walking Dead can stay interesting and relevant post-baby, there is hope that I can as well. 

Car wrecks, cauliflower and something else that starts with "C"

Dear Internet,

I love alliterations.  I just wanted to let you know.  But it is not even 6:30 in the morning, and due to a yet-to-be fully functioning brain, I could not think of another c word.  Well, now I'm thinking of a c word, but probably one I shouldn't include in the heading of this post.  Unless I suddenly become British.  Then I think it would be okay.

Have you ever been in a car accident?  You're sitting at a stop light, or in traffic behind another car, and you glance back in your rear view mirror and see a car approaching a bit too fast.  The car is not slowing down.  As it gets closer, you know you're going to get hit by it and there is nothing you can do.  With 13 weeks left until my due date, that is how I'm starting to feel.  Sometime within the next 15 weeks, I am going to have a baby and there is nothing I can do to stop it.  What if I suddenly change my mind and decide motherhood isn't for me?  That I prefer coming home just to Mr. Adventure and our two dogs?  What if the dogs hate the baby?  Will it help if I dress the baby up like a dog?  Or start saving all of the dog hair from brushing them and weave it into a tiny babysuit?  Also, Mr. Adventure isn't even done sanding the floor in the nursery yet.  We (He) still needs to restain and seal it, too.  Then we have to paint.  How can a baby sleep in a room that isn't painted the proper color?  That doesn't have beautifully restored oak floors?  Is it possible?

End anxiety scene.

Okay.  Now that I've got that out of my system...

It was pointed out to me that menudo is either a sweet dish made from plantains or a Mexican boy band where Ricky Martin got his start.  It is not the waxy stuff babies are covered in like I claimed it was a couple of weeks ago.  That stuff is called vernix caseosa, which sounds like a spell out of Harry Potter (wingardium leviosa!).

The internet tells me that, this week, McCloud is the size of a head of cauliflower.  Last week, he was iceberg lettuce and I feel that these two vegetables are comparable in size.  And I seem to be unable to type the word "cauliflower" without the word "ear" after it.  I keep having to delete it.  Is this a sign that McCloud will be a boxer?

Mr. Adventure was talking about taking up kickboxing again and expressed an interest in learning krav maga.  You know how they have Mommy and Me yoga classes and whatnot?  I wonder if they have Daddy and Me krav maga.  If not, they totally should.  I would sign my baby up.  He would be a deadly weapon by the age of one.  Which could either be a good thing or a bad thing.

The dogs have become very interested in the stroller and car seat we got over the weekend.  Hopefully they will keep that enthusiasm and curiosity when we start stroller training them this week.

Speaking of stroller training, did you know that this exists?  Seriously.  We can put our kids on leashes and our dogs in strollers.  I don't get it.

I read a lot, for those of you who don't know, and I came across this article last week on Finnish babies.  They were able to significantly decrease the infant mortality rate in their country by offering an incentive for women to seek prenatal care early.  That is awesome.  I want a Finnish baby box.  And the more I read about Finland, the more I love it.  When I was earning my Master's in Teaching, I came across an article about how Finland revamped their education system.  They did this by completely eliminating private schools, making teaching a highly selective and competitive field, and compensating Finnish teachers at a high enough wage to attract the best and the brightest into the field of teaching.

Can I be Finnish?

I think that's all.  If you are now hungry for cauliflower, I am in love with 101cookbooks and Heidi Swanson.  I own both of her cookbooks.  You should check out her blog/recipe for Simple cauliflower.  There are tons of variations you can do and it is super easy and delicious.  Mr. Adventure hates cauliflower, but we get it from our CSA from time to time, and he likes this recipe.  Another good one is the Cauliflower Soup with Gorgonzola recipe.  She calls for creme fraiche (which always makes me think of that South Park episode, which causes me to laugh like a 14 year old on drugs) but I normally use plain yogurt or sour cream or whatever I have lying around that sounds like it might be good.

If you are more interested in cauliflower ear then cauliflower, I recommend finding a fight to watch.  If you don't have access to Pay Per View or whatever, maybe you could watch Cops?  Or Jerry Springer?  Is Jerry Springer even on any more?

Okay.  That is all.  For real. 

Lettuce vs. Potatoes

Dear Internet,

Is it really already Friday?  Where did my week go?  Surely walking the dogs, working and sleeping couldn't have gone by this fast?

Every week, when I read what food the internet tells me the baby is, I ask Mr. Adventure to guess.  This week, when I read that McCloud is now the size of three, medium-size russet potatoes, Mr. Adventure said that is cheating, because it is three pieces of food.  So, I found another site that compared el bebe to a head of iceburg lettuce.

Iceburg lettuce is disgusting.  And really only good for tacos.  So, for your 26 week recipe, make some tacos.  I normally use Smart Ground, because I don't eat beef.  Or pork.  Or lamb.  Or foods that are genetically modified.  Or lots of other things.  I also tend to make up my own taco spices, which involve me dumping a ton of cayenne and cumin and hot sauce into a skillet with my smart ground and grilled onion and garlic.  I think I might make tacos for dinner.

If you prefer to go the three potato route, I like to take a cookie sheet and pre-heat the oven to ~350 (or 300 on my oven, since it came with my house and is a total POS (not to be confused with the POS systems in most bars and restaurants, though the one in the bar I used to work at really lived up to it's name)).  Then spray your sheet with cooking spray, wash your potatoes, slice them super thin (you can peel them if you want, but I have better things to do than peel potatoes.  Like take naps) then spread them out evenly across your cookie sheet, spray the tops with cooking spray, and sprinkle with salt and pepper.  Then put them in the oven until they are cooked how you like them.  I have no idea how long this takes, but I don't think it takes more than, like, 15 minutes.  I tend to forget to set the oven timer, or even note what time it is when I put something in there.  I just trust that my nose will smell whatever it is I'm trying to cook before it burns.

My mother emailed me and asked me if I want her to come out for the birth.  I know she had 5 kids and is super experienced with baby-having, but I don't want anyone at my birth.  My dad asked if I wanted him there, too, and told me all about how he delivered me.  (Both of my parents were in the Airforce, my dad was a med tech and my mother was a nurse).  I may have said this before, but it's not like it's my sweet 16 or my first band concert or a play I'm acting in or something.  I don't want anyone there.  If I could just have me and my midwife, I would be stoked.  I would prefer Mr. Adventure wait outside, pacing back and forth in the waiting room, smoking cigars and drinking bourbon, kind of like what Rhett did in Gone With the Wind when Scarlett was having Bonnie.  Luckily, I don't think most hospitals have velvet carpeting in the waiting rooms, so we wouldn't have to worry about Mr. Adventure burning holes in it like Rhett did.

That said, No.  I don't even want anyone to visit me in the hospital.  I mean, I have a house.  People can visit me there, when I'm not closing all the blinds and curtains, locking my doors, turning off my phone and pretending to not be home.

The internet also suggested I start asking myself certain questions in order to write up a birth plan and start planning what I need for the hospital.  One of the questions was something like, "Do you want a mirror so you can watch the baby crowning?"  Um, no.  No I do not.  That is, quite possibly, the last thing I want.  Actually, the last thing I want is a crows of people in the delivery room.  The second to last thing I want is a mirror to watch that shit getting stretched the f out.  Jesus!

One of my incredibly lovely and talented friends gave birth to her son about two years ago.  She did a home birth and I remember her calling me and telling me she was going to have her baby on the toilet.  Twenty minutes later, she called me back, crying, saying, "I don't want to have my baby on the toilet!"  It was hilarious.  And sad.  And really, really funny.  Anyway, I guess post-birth, her midwife told her not to look at her lady parts.  She suggested avoiding it for at least six weeks.  Just like Ringo proclaimed himself to be a "born lever-puller" in the Yellow Submarine, this friend of mine just couldn't resist looking.  She told me after that she wished she had taken her midwife's advice.  I learned a long time ago that once you see something, it cannot be unseen.  When I think of this, the first thing that comes to mind is goatse.  I was caught off-guard and tricked into looking at it, and I will never be able to unsee it.  If you do not know what goatse is, you are lucky.  Do not google it.  No matter what you do.  Seriously.

Okay.  That is all.