The Angle of the Dangle

“By now you should be feeling your baby kick!”

These are the words I’ve been reading for weeks now on every pregnancy app, book and email I’ve gotten. Liars. I don’t feel a thing! Although I do feel jipped.

Oh sure, I’m sure I’ll feel it all soon enough, but it’s hard to know what’s going on in there. And, like any mom-to-be, I’m more than a little freakin’ curious to find out. Due to the fact I underwent fertility treatments, and the fact that I’m 35 and therefore of “advanced maternal age” (ouch! It stings every time I see it on my file), I spent the first several months of pregnancy getting frequent ultrasounds – much more than other, “normal” women get – to check me out, and I liked it. But now it’s been a long time since I’ve “seen” my baby bopping around in there … and I’m getting restless. Thankfully there is another ultrasound on the horizon – in just a few days in fact – and this time I also get to learn the baby’s sex!

Now, if you’ve read my post about the smugness of pregnant women (and you really should)  you know I have a few pet peeves with the whole “learning the gender of the baby” process. The first of which is that, when asked if they’re hoping for a girl or a boy, 99.9% of women respond “Oh, I don’t care, as long as it’s healthy.” Well no shit. Having a healthy baby is literally ALL I think about. I obsess about it. I lament not being kicked in the stomach hard every 5 minutes just so I’ll have an idea that, yes, my baby IS doing well inside there (or trying to beat me to death, whatever). It's why I don't drink a nice big nightcap of scotch before bed, nosh on soft cheeses or take up skydiving. But, “do you want a HEALTHY baby?” is not what I asked you. I asked if you have a preference on the GENDER of that baby. And I know you do. Of course you do. Everyone does. And it doesn’t make you a bad person to hope for one or the other (men certainly seem to have few qualms about declaring that they want a boy – a little boy who they can raise to be just like daddy … whether or not that’s a “good” thing is besides the point). I certainly don’t think you’re going to throw your baby in a dumpster or refuse to care for it if you don’t get your first choice. I’m not even saying you’ll be even remotely upset or disappointed about it. All I’m saying is – you have to have a preference, why can’t you just admit it?

Me? I want a girl.

Oh, there are so many reasons that I want a house full of sugar and spice as opposed to dirt and snails and a million angry looking action figures that I’ll no doubt step on in the middle of the night causing me to curse as their tiny bayonets puncture my foot. There are so many things I want to teach my daughter! About how to be strong and independent but not a diva or a princess … to have compassion and kindness without being weak … to be fearless without being reckless … to rock a frilly little dress while also being able to kick some serious ass … I could go on but you get my point – if I got to pick, I would choose a girl.
But, of course, I don’t get to pick. And, of course, I knew this fully when I embarked on this whole pregnancy adventure. I am fine with it. Because, like (almost) every other mother in the world, I will love my child completely and wholly, boy or girl (AND I hope that he/she is healthy, duh).

And it’s a good thing too, because I know I’m having a boy. I just know it.

GAR thinks I’m crazy (see my previous posts for my disclaimer about using the word “crazy”), not only because there is no way for us to know for sure just yet, but also because he dreamt that we’re having a little girl – he was dreaming about it when I woke him up to tell him that the pregnancy test was positive – and therefore it MUST be true. He has named her and grown attached to her and believes that this will be the case (who’s the crazy one now, huh?) BUT my craziness about having a boy is MUCH more legit than his vision of having a girl. Mine is based on semi-scientific research (I think it’s totally scientific, but I threw the word “semi” in there to make GAR happy)!

It’s called “the angle of the dangle” theory (see, doesn’t that just sound sooo official?) Basically here’s what it’s about – at 13-weeks pregnant (which was when I had my last ultrasound) all babies have external genitalia. What looks like a penis on screen could really just be the beginning formations of a labia. You literally cannot tell what it is – it’s just a nub … or, as this theory says, a “dangle” (which totally squashes what all those expectant parents who brag that their unborn child is “all boy” say when they proudly declare that what they saw was “definitely” a penis! A declaration that has always creeped me out anyway – why are you so braggadocios about your unborn child’s junk?) But, according to theory, if that “dangle” hangs more between the legs, or parallel to the baby, then it’s likely a girl. Whereas, if the dangle is upright at a 30 degree angle or more, it’s more likely a boy. In fact, I read a study online that found that if the dangle was 30 degrees or more in the upright position that there is 97% chance that it’s a boy. 97%! And, of course, our little baby’s dangle was pointing straight up – at a 90 degree angle – when we last saw him (oh yes, I’ve been calling him “him” ever since).

Of course GAR thinks this whole thing in nonsense. The professor part of him claims the study wasn’t published in a peer reviewed journal, that we don’t know the sample size or p value, and he doesn’t believe it’s statistically valid – blah blah blah. And, naturally, the ultrasound tech also told us it’s a load of hooey. Nonetheless, I COMPLETELY believe it and have already started picturing my little boy in teeny bow ties and dockers. And, likewise, GAR is standing firm on his “I had a dream” theory that we’re having a girl.

But I know I’m right. Want more proof? While we long ago settled the debate about what to name our daughter we can’t come to an agreement AT ALL when it comes to naming a boy. This fact alone HAS to mean that a boy is what we will have, right? Otherwise it would all be just too, too easy.

We’ll find out soon enough though (though never, ever soon enough for my liking - I'm dying of anticipation!) and, frankly, I don’t know how people are crazy enough to NOT find out. Clearly they’re just not as much of a planner as I am because I gots to know in order for me to make it through these last 4.5 months. I just gots to! And we’d better name him soon too (yes, “him”) because I want to call the little tyke by his name. I think it will really help us bond with each other – especially now, while I still can’t really feel him in there. And, while I totally DO understand why many people choose to keep their baby’s name a secret until birth (even if it is a little smug-ish to do so) to avoid hearing everyone's snotty opinion about it, I have to say that I could never do it. I have no problem telling anyone. And why not? They’ll have to get used to the name we pick, like it or not. Because once we’ve got this mess sorted there’s no way we’d let anyone else’s opinion sway us.

But we’ll try to do right by you kiddo (at least if your mom gets her name choice we will – no promises on what sort of trauma you’ll endure if dad’s name wins out). Guess it’s time to go through that list of 1 trillion and 1 baby names all listed in alphabetical order one more time, just in case we missed something!

DAR (Dad-A-Saurus Rex)

You may have noticed that, on this blog, my dear husband goes by the name of GAR. It’s a nickname he gave himself during our wedding planning process, and it originally stood for “Groom-A-Saurus Rex” (he didn’t like it when I called him “groomzilla” – somehow he felt GAR was more manly. I say it’s 6 of one, half dozen of the other, but I humor him nonetheless). GAR was extremely involved in all aspects of our wedding and yet he often felt that the wedding industry was trying to push him to the side. In other words, he felt hus-banned.

GAR is a very passionate person and he cares deeply about decisions that affect his life … even when those decisions involved what kind of boutonniere he’d be wearing on our wedding day or what song he’d have blaring as he walked down the aisle. So, as you might imagine, when it comes to something even more monumental – say, impending fatherhood – he takes this shit pretty seriously and, no shocker here, he is SUPER involved in every aspect of the preparations (I honestly think that if he could be carrying this baby inside of him he would be happy to do so – no, he’d insist upon it – because he’s just that very “special” sort of involved). One might even consider him a Dad-A-Saurus Rex. And, naturally, he once again feels excluded in some areas … he’s feeling ovulate-shunned (I came up with that one. Pretty good, eh? EH???)

Throughout pregnancy we’re constantly reminded that “it’s all about mom.” And, while GAR was frequently known to exclaim “It’s NOT all about the bride! What about me?” during our wedding planning, he has less room to argue, at least during these 9 months, that it’s not all about me. Because it is. It IS about me. Me doing all the right things to grow this baby inside me, to keep him safe, to prepare to bring him into this world … and not being able to be more involved in this stage of baby development is driving GAR (or should I say DAR?) nuts. Oh sure, he’s reading up on how to care for baby, on how to assist me during these times, how to assemble baby gear for the nursery, etc. But it’s not enough. He wants more.

And, let’s face it, he’s going to need more. And certainly, the world is going to have to expect a little more out of him than just the standard “show up and try not to break the kid” minimum standards that we put on dads in today’s still not nearly as progressive as it should be about this sort of thing world. Because GAR is soon going to be spending every waking hour (and most of them WILL be awake) with our little one. He’s going to be the primary caregiver to our rugrat and, whether society is designed for it or not, he’s the one who really needs to know how to play “mom” AFTER the baby is here.

This isn’t to say that I won’t still be a kick-ass mom because, of course, I will be. But after 12 weeks I’m going back to work, whereas GAR, with his fancy professorial job, is able to take the entire first year off on sabbatical. It’s an amazing opportunity for him and our child, and I am constantly overjoyed at the thought our baby spending all that time with his father during these early stages of growth and development. And, naturally, GAR is really (and I mean reealllyy) embracing the idea of being a stay-at-home dad. So he’s doing all he can at this point – testing out our Baby Bjorn carrier, suiting up with his super “manly” diaper bag (called the “diaper bro”), seeking out “daddy and me” playgroups (which will likely end up being him joining a “mommy and me” playgroup, because those actually seem to exist. But I’m sure he’ll fit right in, gossiping with all the other “moms”), practicing his swaddling (a.k.a. “baby burrito” techniques) and, of course, starting his very own blog about his adventures in preparing for (and, before long, being knee-deep in) fatherhood.

His blog is full of humor, insight and ramblings of a “sophisticated” soon-to-be stay-at-home father (mixed with the delusion that, somehow, he won’t be too sleep deprived to keep up with his writing once the baby is actually here). I highly encourage you to check it out: http://ovulate-shunned.blogspot.com/

Fat Jeans (and Fat Genes)

I finally broke out the pregnancy jeans. My poor button-fly Levis were just too maxed out to go on anymore. And with my muffin top of baby fat hanging out the top I’m sure this move was well overdue from a fashion perspective (I’m at that point of pregnancy “fatness” where if you didn’t know I was pregnant you wouldn’t guess I was carrying a baby inside me, you’d just think I was really letting myself go). And, now that I did it, I may never go back. Oh the comfort of an elastic waistband! Where have you been all my life? And they’re so ego boosting too! No matter how big I get they just keep stretching and, yet, according to the tag on the inside, I’m still just a size 6 – hooray!

And I think they may need to do a LOT of stretching. While shopping for maternity clothes last weekend the store gave me a pillow to wear to help me see what the clothes will look like when I get bigger. I mean, because clearly my stomach is the ONLY part of me that’s going to balloon up. That’s how it works, right?

Here’s what I’ll no doubt look like in a few months when I’m just as slim as ever with a just giant blob of a stomach out front.

I always thought that if I ever got pregnant I would finally have an excuse not to obsess about my weight anymore. As if, suddenly, after 30-some odd years of calculating every calorie I ingested and worrying about where it would appear on my body later, all this negative self image stuff would magically be forgotten the second I learned that it was, in fact, now okay to gain weight. No, not just okay, EXPECTED. Normal. Healthy. Spoiler alert: The totally didn’t happen. (No shit, right?) If anything I think about my weight more than ever (which I previously thought was impossible. But, in the sage words of Mr. Justin Bieber, “never say never.” Also, add calling Justin Bieber “sage” to my list of things I also thought I’d never do).

As always, I blame society (well, mainly I blame Heidi Klum. I mean, every other season of “Project Runway” there she is, looking svelte as ever while rocking the cutest little pregnant belly ever. And then *poof* it’s gone like that! Bitch). But realistically I know that every single pound I put on has to come right off again after I push this sucker out of my unmentionables (plus the couple extra pounds I meant to lose before I got pregnant but never really got around to doing). And, as we all know, losing weight is tooootttalllly easy. And, I’m only guessing here, it’s so much easier when you have a newborn (going to the gym will be a breeze! I mean, babies do nothing but sleep. Sleep allll the time! I’ll be at the gym constantly! Running marathons before you know it). But losing it all and getting back into shape is what’s expected of us and, like all suckers who forsake their comfortable stretchy jeans and yoga pants to go back to the world of cold zippers and buttons, I’ve fully bought into the concept of wanting to look thin and pretty as much as the next gal.

So every morning I step on my scale (even though I KNOW it’s unhealthy to weigh yourself daily because it gives you false positive results and false negative results when you obsessively do it so often) to make sure I’m only gaining the “recommended” amount. And I drag myself to the gym and carefully plan out healthy meals and worry about every new piece of chub that appears around my midsection and what it will ultimately make me look like in several months time. Why? Because even though I see plenty of skinny women who leisurely tell me about the 65 pounds they gained during pregnancy I know that they do not have my genes (even if, once upon a time, they couldn’t even cram themselves into my stretchiest of stretchy jeans). These are women who you can tell just by looking at them are born to be skinny (like that aforementioned gorgeous bitch Heidi Klum).

I’m not saying they’ve never worried about their weight. All women do. All. I’m just saying that, genetically speaking, some women have to think about such things a little less than the rest of us. Oh sure, they may have other problems, like bad skin or brittle hair or a flat butt or something else that women obsess about instead of being overweight. But regardless of how freakin’ huge they got when they were carrying their kid they were always going to take that weight back off … because that’s how they’re built. But, if you’re like me and you’ve spent pretty much your whole life struggling to keep your weight in some sort of semi-normal (though never ever ever “ideal” by our own impossible standards) range then the concept of getting fat, even if you’re supposed to get “fat” because you’re carrying the weight of another whole human being inside you, turns out to be pretty hard to swallow after all.

But I’m trying to embrace it. I really am. But because I’m crazy (though my husband the therapist assures me it’s just normal “crazy” and not the “get thee to a loony bin” kind of “crazy” so I’m good. Also, he doesn’t approve of me using the term “loony bin” – or “crazy” for that matter – but he’ll just have to forgive his “crazy” wife for her wrongdoings on this one) I have to focus my weight obsession elsewhere. I mean, I can’t just make my concerns disappear. So instead I worry about my child and his/her genes and whether or not he/she will also someday unhealthily obsess about his/her weight. If I have a girl the answer to my question is undoubtedly “yes,” even if she does somehow inherit some long-unknown to my family hidden “skinny genes.” But if it’s a boy he is not necessarily exempt either. Oh sure, we all love Chunk from “The Goonies,” but in a “he’s so fun to make fun of” way. I’m hoping that, as a professional, GAR can counsel our kid through it if need be … but he wouldn’t really be able to charge our own child his normal hourly rate, and that’s sort of like taking money right out of our pockets. So yeah, THAT’S why you’re not getting a car for your 16th birthday kid!

Anyway, I guess I shouldn’t let myself worry too much. There’s still an entire lifetime in store for our kiddo and we really have no idea what he/she will become. And that’s part of the excitement – waiting to find out. Besides, if anything I should be worried that our kid will inherit GAR’s insane Marge Simpson hair. I mean, seriously, look at this kid!

London Calling

I’m sorry I couldn’t think up a more creative title for this post but, you guys, my brain is dissolving (I just had to have spell check correct the word “dissolving” for me because, apparently, I no longer remember how to spell, in addition to all the other nasty ways my brain is letting me down).

I mean, I’ve heard of this thing called “pregnancy brain” before – where your brain gets all fuzzy and you’re not quite as sharp as you used to be – but I kind of thought it was just a way of explaining why pregnant ladies forget stuff due to the fact that they have lots of other things on their mind. But, truth be told, I’m not flighty because I’m overrun with thoughts and planning and other details – I’m just stupider all of a sudden. And it just kicked in. But I’m overdue on writing a post about our “babymoon” in London so you get to hear from me anyway – stupidness and all.

Since neither of us wants to read a whole post of poorly written nonsense by a half-witted preggo, let me just give you the quick lowdown on our trip (followed by pretty pictures) – It was fun and terribly cold, with famously cool accents and some bad 90s comedy that I found to be totally dissimilar from what I generally associate with British humour (the extra “u” makes it extra British), with some big-city flavour thrown into the mix … and did I mention that it was cold (not to mention dreadfully rainy)? And, while I couldn’t drink a pint in some jolly ol’ pub, I did learn that with enough jam and clotted cream I DO like scones after all.

Most of all I just felt like I was in an older, more historic version of NYC. I suppose it’s all perspective, but I didn’t feel like England is all that different from the U.S. really (which makes sense given our nation’s history) so at times it didn’t feel like we had traveled so far to be there. And, pound for pound (or pound for dollar), I found the Brits to be easily just as drunk and obnoxious as us Americans (if not more, “Jersey Shore” cast excluded) and, weirdly, that made me just a little more proud of my homeland (though, let’s be honest, being sober probably made me more apt to be annoyed by such things so perhaps my judgment is slightly fuzzy on that one). But, let me tell you, London sure is a fun city … and I definitely want to go back in the future (perhaps when I CAN enjoy a few pints to fight off the bitter gloominess of the weather there).

And, without further ado, here’s some photos!

After landing in London we started by taking a double-decker bus tour of the city (disclaimer: this is not our actual bus, but you get the general idea)

We saw all the basic sites, including Big Ben (or, you know, the tower that houses Big Ben, which is a bell ... a fact you hear about 200 times whilst in London)

We also took this really cool British Rock n' Roll walking tour. We saw the pub (now a record store) where The Stones were founded, the place where Jimi Hendrix got his start and this house - the roof (the building was not as tall back then) is where The Beatles held their last concert

This is Westminster Abbey. Darwin, Newton and a whole lotta other important people are buried here (but you can't take photos inside - wah wah)

I did take this lovely photo of GAR in the courtyard at Westminster though (because technically that's not "inside" the Abbey)

Here's the Tower of London. Fatty King Henry VIII had 2 of his wives beheaded here. So that's pretty cool

I still don't know why they're called Beefeaters (they don't even know) but I'm not above drinking their gin anyway (though I prefer a vodka martini personally)

The Tower Bridge, unlike London Bridge, has never fallen victim to a children's song that questions its structural integrity

They did remove the Olympic rings though (we were just a few months too late)

Because we were playing the part of typical tourists we took a trip in the London Eye

And we went at night so it would look all purty up there

Did I mention that the weather was pretty shitty? To prevent ourselves from getting S.A.D. we went shopping and split a gelato milkshake at Harrods



I let GAR pick a theatre show for us to see. He chose the most British sounding play he could find - One Man, Two Guvnors. It was actually quite hilarious, and one of the actors literally broke a leg onstage. The main character in the show filled the time while we waited for her understudy to show up by doing impromptu stand-up, leading the audience in a group sing-a-long of Bob Marley's "One Love" and even eating fire. I don't think we'll ever see another show quite like it

We visited the Queen's weekend and summer home, Windsor Castle. It was another rainy day so it looked totally foreboding and creepy

And we went and saw these rocks as well

These are the Roman Baths. They were my favorite thing I saw while in England ... which I think just proves that I am always partial to anything Italian

Of course we had to see some stand-up. Mostly it was a combo of cheap fart jokes, making fun of "gays," obvious bits about horsemeat in burgers and, randomly, some political musical numbers thrown in for a more serious note

This is the Rosetta Stone. It's pretty important. It even has language software named after it

Of course we also stalked the Queen at her weekday estate, Buckingham Palace. That snob wouldn't even let us inside for tea



With all those years of English history and gore we thought it would fun to take a ghost tour. The only one we could find was aboard this bus, which featured an actor telling us stories of the various specters one can find around town while employing some bad acting techniques for added entertainment


Oh yeah, and here's me in Hyde Park rocking my 15- week baby bump. Dear kiddo - I sure hope you'll treasure all these in utero memories of London!

Call the Police! 'Cause I'm the Best at Drawing Chalk Outlines

Hey, remember when I said that pregnant women are smug? Now that I’m knocked up people have been asking me to retract this little statement of mine. But I stand by it. We are all so damn smug. Oh yes, I’m sure that includes me too. I mean, I haven’t seen it happening just yet, but I’m sure it’s in there somewhere – just waiting until I’m really big and round to come on out. But, until then, the only thing I’m smug about at the moment is the sweet, sweet chevron I* painted on our future nursery wall.

*GAR won’t actually let me paint anything right now. He’s worried about the fumes turning our baby into a mutant. The doctor said I could do it but GAR argues that he’s also a doctor (though NOT a medical one *ahem*) so, fine, I’m letting him win this battle, for now. I guess my point is that he did the actual “painting” portion of this project, but I’m still calling it “my” project because I did all the hard stuff. You’ll see.

Within mere days (if not hours) of learning I was pregnant GAR painted the entire nursery a nice light gray color (before you ask the obvious question here, yes, we will be finding out the gender of the baby. But, we’re not really “paint it blue for a boy, pink for a girl” type of people so, in this case, the overall paint color is purposely gender neutral because, let’s face it, this room will soon be filled with plenty of girly or boyish accruements, thereby rendering the need for a gender specific paint color unnecessary). But, of course, we are nothing if not people who embrace bold, vivid colors and, therefore, I felt we needed some big “splash” to make the room itself come alive. After some thought I decided to attempt a chevron pattern on one wall in the most eye popping, I would only use this in a kid’s room, color – Kermit the Frog green (I think the actual name of the color was “Apple Martini.” But, seeing as this is a baby’s room, that name sounded less appropriate than likening it to a shade of Muppet).

Initially I was hesitant to attempt this task myself. It seemed like something that could be really tricky or complicated to execute. But, honestly, it was really quite easy … just a smidge labor intensive.

Because I’m a perfectionist I decided to start by drawing a giant grid made of 12”x12” squares all along the wall with chalk. I used a ruler to do this (and resisted my urge to also use a level, which I’m sure would have driven me crazy because NOTHING in my house is level and I’m sure it would have thrown me. Instead I just stayed as straight as possible with the ruler, while frequently stepping back to eyeball it to make sure it also looked even from a distance), though I’m sure I could have simply done large horizontal and vertical chalk lines using a taut piece of string that stretched the entire length of the wall … but didn’t think of that, so sue me. I’m sure you could also cut a piece of cardboard or something to the size you want and use that as a template for your squares. Damn! I am thinking up all sorts of shortcuts now. Anyway, point is, I used a stupid, non-time-saving ruler.

The chalk outline was the longest part of the process actually (though I can’t be sure because I didn’t do it all in one sitting – I’m too fat … I mean, pregnant … and lazy for that). Then it was fairly simple to make the tape lines connecting the bottom corner of one square to the top corner of the next square – and so on. In my photos it looks like some chevrons are wider than others. In fact they are the same width. It’s just the way I chose to do the tape (along the top of one row and along the bottom edge on the next … which is hard to explain but, if you look closely, maybe you’ll see what I mean by that). But, really, this is as simple as connecting the dots.

 
Then I just wiped off the chalk from the areas that needed to be painted and let GAR get to rolling it on (see, I told you he had the “easy” part).

We pulled off the tape and viola – nearly perfect chevrons! (Okay, so we still have to wipe off the chalk on the gray areas, and there was some bleeding through the tape that we need to clean up a bit but, from a distance, perfection!)

I love the combo of bold pattern and bright color together. The green color could read a little masculine to some, whereas the chevron shape could be seen as overly feminine. But, together, this duo of shapes and hues leaves me feeling like either a baby boy or girl fits right into this space (plus, you know, it’s a baby – it doesn’t have an opinion on whether or not their room suits his/her individual style. The tyke is just worried about when someone is going to clean that gunk out of its diaper). So, yeah, call me smug if you must. Instead I’ll call it pride in a job well done (pat on the back)!

And since I can’t* paint (see note above in case you forgot the dubious reasons I made this statement), and obviously I can’t be doing heavy lifting, hard physical labor or a whole lot of other stuff I need to do to renovate, that means I’m pretty worthless in the home improvement arena right now. So really, all I can focus on from this point out is making everything in the house look “pretty” – which includes myself because, frankly, I’m getting bigger by the moment (plus I swear this kid is sucking out every last bit of youth and attractiveness I was still desperately clinging to. Old wives tales dictate that this happens when you’re pregnant with a girl because, as the story goes, girl babies “steal their mother’s beauty” but, honestly, I’m not yet smug enough to buy into all that ... and I’m certainly not going to rush out a buy pink everything based on folklore. I’m more apt to think I look like crap because I’m bloated and tired. But, I’ll admit, having my beauty stolen does sound a bit more fairytale romantic, doesn’t it?)

Since I refuse to buy gigantic, unflattering maternity clothes so early on, I’ve invested in this crazy stretchy band that goes around the top of my regular pants to hold them up even if I can no longer button them (which, of course, sounds totally sexy). I haven’t had to try it out just yet (I’m still stretching my zippers to the limit) but I’m guessing I will this upcoming week – GAR and I are headed out on our Babymoon, our last big trip before we’ve got a wee one in tow, and we’re going to jolly old England (London mostly). And, trust me, I plan on eating my share of fish and chips (and whatever other disgusting fare that the British are known for preparing poorly) while there. Talk to you when I make it back from across the pond!

Knocked Up

So I’m with child. Got a bun in the oven. Insert another euphemism for pregnancy here.

And, naturally, GAR and I are completely over the moon excited about this (and I'll try my hardest not to get too damn smug about it). I’d love to tell you allll about it and share witty tidbits from my journey thus far but, truth be told, I’m too tired. You guys, growing a baby is seriously exhausting. But no complaints since, truthfully, it’s the only pregnancy symptom I’ve experienced thus far (you’d think I’d be ecstatic to not have an ounce of morning sickness, and I am, but it also leads me into a panicked “Is everything okay in there??” mentality at times. Thankfully my expanding waistline continues to remind me that, yes, this shit is for real! Unless that’s just a result of all the ice cream I’ve been eating).

But, indeed, there is a wee one growing inside me. And, let me tell you, getting to this point was no easy endeavor … and it certainly wasn’t the result of some drunken romp in the backseat of GAR’s pickup truck. Thankfully I had the foresight to write all about it back when I actually did have energy to do such things. And, while this blog post takes you back to Election Day 2012, I should admit that I didn’t get pregnant the day I wrote this message. That happened a few weeks later (on my next “cycle” as they would say in the fertility biz). But, the process was pretty much the same.

So, without further ado…

Nov. 6, 2012: I have my husband’s sperm all up in me.

I know it’s Election Day and the nation is lining up at the polls for their chance to vote but all I can think about is today’s “nooner.” No, it wasn’t the hottest, sexiest, most romantic experience I’ve ever had, in fact it may have been the least va-va-voom “deposit” ever made, but it certainly was memorable nonetheless. That’s because I snuck out from work at lunchtime, drove right past my house, and pulled into the parking lot of the fertility clinic downtown. And there, right on the table in a chilly examining room, is where the “magic” happened. Let me tell you all the saucy details…

First I checked in at the steamy reception desk…

Then a nurse called me back to the waiting room and told me to undress from the waist down only … how naughty!

I draped my lower half with a paper thin covering – you know, just to leave a little to the imagination…

And when the aging, gray haired Dr. McDreamy strolled in I obediently thrust my legs up into some stirrups so he could get a closer look at what I’ve got going on “down there.”

Oh the rush of adrenaline as he pushed the cold speculum inside me! Generally I only allow this region to be penetrated by the very closest and most trusted penises (okay, and maybe a wayward “this one will do … I guess” willie a time or two in my younger years), but on this occasion I really let my guard down and ushered in all manner of foreign objects. Yes! I am a bad, bad girl!

And then it happened. My husband’s sperm appeared before me like a vision in a test tube. And oh the places it had been before meeting me here today! GAR's journey began in a bathroom in that same clinic the week before where he lovingly (after watching porn on his phone I’m sure) deposited this sperm into a cup. It was then frozen, defrosted days later, washed – can’t you just picture all 50 million or so of his happy little sperm dancing and tumbling together during the spin cycle? – and then left here … for me! And before I knew it – zoom! They were inside me and heading for the goal!

Like too many sexual encounters it was over all so quickly. Then I was left alone to lie on a hard table while the octogenarian Dr. McDreamy, the nurse and some random intern who watched the whole affair (like the naughty, naughty voyeur he is) went on with their day.

After 15 minutes I composed myself, climbed down from the table, pulled back on my trousers and paid my $30 co-pay (okay, yes – I admit it. I PAID for it. Come arrest me if you must. I know that paying for sex is a crime but I had to – I just HAD to. Don’t you see? It’s the only way!)

No, I mean it. It really is the only way. Lord knows that GAR and I have tried nearly every other way to get me pregnant but it just never “sticks.” After running dozens of tests on both of us, filling me full of every hormone known to (wo)man, spending every evening giving myself follicle stimulating injections until my tummy looked like a piece of Swiss cheese full of needle tracks, going in for ultrasounds every other day to monitor my ovaries (and I’m talking the sort of ultrasounds where they shove a giant dildo up inside you and poke all around to see every nook and cranny – so, yeah, perhaps I have not been so selective about what’s been going up my vagina lately after all), daily pill regimens for GAR and myself, having blood work drawn every 3 days (which also explains the heroine-esque trails on my arms as well), stalking the mailman who delivers weekly packages of assorted medicines that have to be put on ice as soon as they arrive, carrying a cooler full of said medicines to dinner functions so that I could be sure to take my required doses at the precise right time daily, administering a monthly shot that induces ovulation, trying, hoping, waiting, wishing, failing and then starting all over again … every month for a year … it’s finally come to this – IUI (better known to most people as “artificial insemination”), which gives GAR’s swimmers a quicker route to the finish line (without having to wind their way up and around the crazy maze that takes them from my lady bits up into my uterus). You know, just in case the reason we weren’t getting pregnant before is because his “girl” sperm have poor directional skills and his “boy” sperm refused to stop and ask for directions (how typical, right?)  And, now that it’s done (and it honestly felt like nothing happened at all), and his sperm are all up in me where they should be, I begin a new twice-daily regimen of estrogen pills and progesterone supplements (which, sadly, are not taken orally).

But, despite all this, Old Man McDreamy still says it’s a long shot this month … again. I just don’t produce enough “lady hormones” to, as Tim Gunn would say, “make it work.” In other words, based on my testosterone levels, I’m basically just a dude with a vagina (which, frankly, should surprise no woman who’s ever met me because, let’s face it, I’m really, really bad at being a “chick.” Scrapbooking? Not a chance. Rom com movies? Hell no. Designer handbags? A waste of money. Talking about your feelings? Let me refer you to GAR for that one. Football? Beer? Power tools? Sign me up!) I guess I should have seen this coming.

Not that this problem can’t be remedied by modern science (hooray science!), but it’s a difficult cocktail of oral hormones and injections that has to be mixed in perfect harmony … and the exact recipe varies from person to person and even, once you have the cocktail for one person down, from month to month. Last month the mixture resulted in me producing too many eggs, leading me to have to decide between scrapping treatments for the month or risking getting pregnant with quadruplets (maybe I could get my own show on TLC! Spoiler alert: I went for it and ended up not getting pregnant at all. There go my dreams of making big time tv money) and the overdose of female hormones that were completely unknown to me previously really messed with my mind (why am I crying? I never cry! Is this how other, normal women feel all the time? Seriously, what is this salty discharge coming from my eyes???) So this month they cut back on the meds and my body responded by upping the ante and producing 8 eggs this time around (you sneaky little bastards! You just WANT me to be the new Octomom, don’t you?) though only 1 of them “matured” enough to be considered viable (because there’s nothing more important than having a sophisticated embryo). And so it’s that one little guy (or gal) I’m feebly hanging my hopes on this Election Day.

And so God speed little semen. I’m taking this moment to honor you and wish you well as you run (I mean, swim) fearlessly into battle. Your service is truly to be applauded. Torpedoes on my friends – it’s time to penetrate!

Up Shit’s Creek (a.k.a. Where's My Frickin' Paddle?)

It’s sort of like Dawson’s Creek, but a whole lot more shitty. No, it’s nothing like Dawson’s Creek, I’m just grasping at straws here (so I can breathe through the funky poo smell that’s surrounding this all-around shitty year that is 2013 thus far). And, yes, I do mean “shitty” in the literal sense. As in – I discover that my friend’s kid pooped in MY bed and soiled the sheets – shitty. And – GAR gets crapped on by a bird at a South Beach restaurant – shitty. Or, more recently – our septic tank backs up and fills our bathrooms with shit – shitty. So, yeah, that’s what I mean by “shitty.”

It hasn’t been pretty, and it sure as heck doesn’t smell like roses, but this is the crappy life we’re leading at the moment.

Unlike bird poop, which can be washed away and forgotten, or even our comforter, which can be washed but GAR insists on throwing out anyway because, ewww, you’re sleeping in what was once someone else’s poo (IKEA here we come!), our septic problem, while manageable, is a shitty issue that’s a little less easy to snap our fingers at and pray it will clear up. It takes professional help (not to mention a pretty penny out of our checkbook), which is on the way, but has left us knee-deep in shitty water in the meantime (or perhaps I exaggerate just a smidge, but it does bubble up through the drain in our shower which, thankfully, is the shower we don’t use, when we try to flush the toilet, making for a “which is the worse in these two scenarios?” type of debate every time we use the loo). The worst part is that, in the middle of all this, the seal on our toilet ring broke, which causes this murky brown sludge to seep out from underneath the toilet in our master bath as well (the whole area has been deemed a hazardous wasteland by yours truly and no one is allowed to enter).

Ah, the joys of owning a waste removal system built a quarter of a century ago.

On the plus side, the grass in our front lawn (located right where the septic tank is buried) has never looked greener! Who needs sprinklers when you have fresh manure fertilizing your grass (seriously, who ever thought that storing all your raw sewage in the ground in front of your own home was a good idea)? Of course I’m guessing that these lovely new green blades of grass won’t last long when the septic people come out tomorrow to dig it up all to drain the overfull container of shit below (seriously, that has to be the best job ever).

So we only have to suffer through one more shitty night before this whole ordeal is over. And I’m hoping that the remainder of 2013 is far less crappy. But I can only be so cautiously optimistic. While we did escape from the shitty confines of our home this past weekend for a lovely getaway to the Florida Keys with some friends, we didn’t exactly avoid all contact with bodily secretions. In fact, the mattress we were sleeping on (though, yes, it did have a sheet over it) was stained with something yellow that GAR repeatedly assured me was “spilled apple juice.” While I’m suspicious of his logical reasoning on that one I’m willing to go with it, for now, just because, even if it was what I thought it was, it was still a small step up from finding smelly brown child poo smudges across my pillowcase at home earlier this year. *Shudder*

Maybe I’ll just sleep on the couch tonight.