Hoarders on a Road Trip

Posted on November 15, 2013 | Leave a comment

Indulge me for a second, if you will. I want you to close your eyes and picture the following:

You’re driving down the Interstate, minding your own business. Perhaps you’re heading home after a long day of work or maybe you’re picking your kid up from soccer practice. Or it could even be that you’re on your way to dinner reservations with your in-laws, which you’re dreading because Phil always has too much to drink and then plays his favorite game of “Insult His Daughter’s Husband Until It’s Time for Dessert,” after which you will go home and get in a huge fight with your wife because she never stands up for you, oh no, she could never stand up to her ultra-macho, conservative father. No one stands up to Phil. Phil fought in the war, for crying out loud. And what have you done with your life, Shirley? He calls you Shirley. Just another way for him to emasculate you. Ugh. Phil. You hate Phil. So much.

Or whatever. I don’t know. I don’t know your life.

But the point is, you’re driving down the Interstate.

When all of a sudden you pass a tin can painted red that is disguised as a car (a Hyundai Accent, to be exact). Upon closer inspection of this “car,” you see the following:

Road trip 1

And for a second, all your troubles are forgotten since you can’t help but ask yourself “What the hell is going on in there?”

Well, let me tell you what the hell is going on in there. This past weekend, a man, a 7-months-pregnant woman and a neurotic dog with abandonment issues all thought it would be a great idea to take a 14-hour road trip to Ohio.

And it technically was a great idea.

In theory.

Where things went horribly, horribly wrong was on the way back.

See, the reason for the trip was so that the couple could have a baby shower with the majority of their family and friends. And granted, I’ve written in the past about how much I hate baby showers but let me tell you, it’s a whole new world when it’s being thrown in your honor. Turns out it’s just like having a birthday party, the only difference being that getting drunk, making out with someone and then crying on the bathroom floor about how old you are is generally frowned upon at the baby shower.

Now, they say it takes a village to raise a children. I don’t know if that’s true but I do know that it takes a village to afford one. And our village was EXTREMELY generous (big shout-out due here to all the future grandparents, great aunts and my 52 female cousins). This kid will truly never want for anything for at least the first year of his life (wanting a mom that doesn’t sing “Close To You” off-key before he goes to bed every night notwithstanding).

And we couldn’t be more grateful to everyone who came. However, it left us with the following dilemma:

Road trip 4

Luckily, all those years of my husband blowing off doing anything productive and eschewing socialization with actual humans to play Tetris instead paid off. He managed to get it ALL in there. Well, almost all. At one point, there was a fear of damaging the structural integrity of the car so he had to stop.

However, this meant we had to drive over 800 miles with a dog sharing the passenger seat, limited visibility out of all windows and boxes hitting the back of our heads even though the seats were pushed up as far as they could go (which was SUPER fun for the 6’2″ daddy to be).

And even that wouldn’t have been that bad if it weren’t for the fact that I am not the world’s greatest driver (for documented proof, click here or here or here) and that it had snowed the night before (Weather: If you don’t like it, you are probably in Ohio). For example, here is a fairly accurate representation of the construction we encountered (Construction: If you are dealing with it, you are probably in Ohio) within 30 minutes of leaving:

Road trip 2

No big deal, right? All I had to do was follow the signs for “Thru Traffic” since we were going, duh, “thru” the area and weren’t getting off of an exit for the next 200 miles.

But at 5 a.m. in the dark on snowy and icy roads with no caffeine in my system, this is what I saw:

Road trip 3

So I panicked and we spent the next 30 minutes trying to find the Interstate again from back country roads that had their very own banjo soundtrack.

Somehow we did it though. We made it back to Boston in one piece. Even the baby, who was squished for no less than 400 miles by a highly excitable dog. And on the plus side, I now have a new sympathy for hoarders.

I’m just dreading finding all those dead cats once I finally build up the stamina to put together the nursery.

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Weight just a minute, doc

Posted on November 7, 2013 | 1 comment

There are two ways of dealing with pregnancy.

1. Spending nine months treating your body as a sacred vessel and as such only filling it with healthy things, like kale and whatever the hell quinoa is.

Or…

2. Spending nine months daydreaming of the time when you were free to slowly destroy your body with ingredients that technically should never be ingested by a living thing. And occasionally choking down a stupid carrot.

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I, believe it or not, am of the latter persuasion.

(Also, this just in, the Pope is indeed Catholic).

Yes, as it turns out, if you were not a particularly healthy person prior to pregnancy, the adjustment to the pregnancy lifestyle can be quite a shock. For instance, here was my food pyramid for most of my adult life:

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And here is my food pyramid now:

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As you can see, I’m still not as healthy as I could be. But it is a vast improvement. And I was actually quite proud of myself for giving up the majority of my vices (granted I still drink a little bit of coffee every morning but that’s more to protect the lives of everyone outside my uterus). Yep, I was feeling pretty good about how my pregnancy was going…

…that is, until my doctor called me fat.

OK, OK, let me clarify since my husband is reading this over my shoulder and keeps insisting that’s not what “technically” happened. “Technically” she said that…I will too use air quotes in a sarcastic manner, babe…because regardless of what she actually said it was inferred that I was getting fat…oh it was too…well, it’s my column so I’ll tell the story the way I want to…well, stop reading over my shoulder then…yes, I really am typing out my half of this argument…hell yes I’m going to leave this in the final draft…well, stop trying to edit my version of events…truth, schmuth, what I’m doing is reading between the lines, which is at the very heart of journalism…no, you’re the boogerface…I will most certainly not tell them you didn’t actually call me boogerface. I can make you say anything I want…BABE! I can’t believe you just called me ugly! How can you be so cruel!?!  I’m pregnant with your child, for crying out loud!…

Yep, that did it. He’s gone.

Anyhoo, as I was saying, at my fifth month checkup, my doctor “technically” said that since they recommend women only gain 20 to 30 pounds during pregnancy, I appeared to be “on track” to “gain more than the recommended amount” by the time I “squirted this kid out my lady parts.”*

*She may have said that last part using more sophisticated medical terms, but remember people, it’s all about reading between the lines here.

Translation: She thinks I’m getting too fat.

Which hey, I know she’s just doing her job and it’s much healthier for both mom and baby if the pregnancy weight gain is kept under control. But I couldn’t help but feeling like I should get a free pass on this one. I mean, for starters, I wasn’t overweight before I got pregnant. But more importantly, those cigarettes and that evening bottle glass of wine and the daily coffee intake of 40,000 mg of caffeine had to be replaced with something.

And all I had left was food.

And yeah, sure, “technically” that food didn’t have to include quite so many cheeseburgers but while everyone seems more than happy to talk about what pregnant women should or shouldn’t do, no one seems to talk about pregnancy being an extremely stressful time. Especially if you’re a first-timer.

You are now intensely aware that everything you do, every single day, has a potential impact on a tiny little human. If you don’t exercise enough, it could affect the baby. But don’t make yourself too tired, or it could affect the baby. If you eat too much, or eat too little, it could affect the baby. If something goes wrong with your teeth, it could affect your baby. If you get too hot, it could affect the baby. You need to eat fish so the baby’s brain doesn’t grow in crooked or whatever. But not too much fish and not certain kinds of fish or the mercury will make an arm grow out your baby’s forehead. Don’t be around too much secondhand smoke or too much pollution. Stay away from microwaves. Diet drinks will, in fact, affect your baby. As will fruit you didn’t clean well enough. And whatever you do, DO NOT STRESS OUT ABOUT ALL THIS BECAUSE IT COULD AFFECT THE BABY.

So when you have to give up all your former stress coping mechanisms, sometimes a girl just needs a steak the size of small-to-medium country to cope.

A few extra pounds be damned.

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How to register for baby gifts

Posted on October 29, 2013 | Leave a comment

Step 1: Get knocked up.

Baby registryBaby registry 0

Step 2: Realize your house is a baby death trap.

Baby registry 2

Step 3: Try to stop self from screaming “YES!!!” when mother offers to throw you baby shower.

Baby registry 3

Step 4: Begin immediately fielding calls from everyone you’ve ever met asking if you’ve registered yet.

Baby registry 4

Step 5: Mention to your husband in passing that you should really register soon.

Baby registry 5

Step 6: Half-heartedly attempt to register one night but get distracted by Dawson’s Creek marathon on Netflix.

Baby registry 6

Step 7: Finally sit down to register after death threat from cousin.

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Step 8: Begin reading the product reviews.

Baby registry 8

Step 9: Stop reading product reviews when blood starts spurting from your eyes.

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Step 10: Say screw it and start picking things based solely on color and how many adorable dancing giraffes it features. Then eat an entire bag of Cheetos and take a nap. You’ve earned it.

Baby registry 10

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Top 8 Parenting Myths Debunked

Posted on October 22, 2013 | 4 comments

I know what you’re thinking.

What the hell does a first-time mom who is only six months pregnant know about parenting?

And the answer is, of course, nothing. Well, almost nothing. I do know that the first poop the baby takes once it’s outside the uterus is apparently a mix of dark matter and pure evil, but I only know that because I read too far in my pregnancy book last week.

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But after extensive and thorough research where I asked friends who were new parents scientific stuff like “so, does parenthood blow or what?” and “when do babies stop sucking?” and “how much Red Bull and vodka can I chug while simultaneously breastfeeding?” I have gathered enough evidence to debunk the most common myths surrounding this major life change.

Myth No.1: As soon as your baby is born, it’s love at first sight.

Chances are you will not immediately fall in love with your baby. Chances are you’ll look at it and wonder “who the hell is this wrinkled old man who came out of my vagina and what the hell is he covered with?” OK, maybe that’s exaggerating slightly. You could also be thinking “wrinkled old woman.” But the point is, it’s perfectly natural not to feel bonded to your child right away. So don’t worry. You will bond eventually. Possibly even before they go off to college.

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Myth No. 2: Breastfeeding is the most natural thing in the world.

Breastfeeding is NOT the most natural thing in the world. Far from it. In fact, Joan Rivers’ face is more natural than breastfeeding. Now, don’t get me wrong. I don’t mean feeding a child from your boob is unnatural (despite what those squeamish arseholes in restaurants that just HAVE to complain whenever a woman dares to use her boob in public for anything other than sexual arousal would have you believe). I mean that in no way does this natural act come to you or to your kid naturally. It’s a daily battle the first few weeks, sometimes months, to get you, the baby and your ginormous boobs all on the same page at the same time.

Myth No. 3: Having a baby will bring you and your partner closer than you’ve ever been.

Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation. Or the ass-numbingly dull tedium of changing diapers every two hours. Or perhaps it’s the immense crushing responsibility of having to keep a small human alive. But you and your significant other will hate each other for awhile and argue about stupid crap such as why lil’ Kayleighanna isn’t wearing socks outside when it’s OBVIOUSLY FREEZING OUT THERE AND WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO DO, KILL OUR DAUGHTER!?! But never fear. This is why God invented grandparents, so that just when your marriage is about to implode, they can take the demon seed for a night and let you two drink until you can’t feel feelings anymore.

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Myth No. 4: Babies are sweet little angels.

Babies, by nature, are not sweet and nice and innocent. They are terrorists. Tiny, tiny terrorists who refuse to let you sleep or eat a warm meal or sit down or shower or pee or talk on the phone or have a beer or leave the house or wear a clean shirt not covered in vomit. But at least they’re your tiny, tiny terrorist.

Myth No. 5: Babies are expensive.

Babies aren’t expensive. Babies are ridiculously, mind-blowingly expensive.  Whatever crap you bought for your baby, it’s not enough. Because apparently babies die if they are not surrounded at all times by educational toys, soggy baby books, slightly less educational toys that play music, no less than five chairs that all move or vibrate or swing in different directions and 76 blankets.

Myth No. 6: Putting your baby into yoga/music/sign language class will give them a jumpstart in life.

Babies think key rings are the height of civilization’s achievements. It’s OK to wait until they aren’t floppy headed drooling machines to sign them up for Infant Interpretive Dancing. Stop stressing out about their future at Harvard when they’re only three-months-old.

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Myth No. 7: Babies cry for a reason.

As it turns out, sometimes there is no reason. Sometimes they’re just crying because they’re a butthead. For reasons why they do this, see Myth No. 4.

Myth No. 8: Religiously reading parenting magazines and websites and blogs will help keep you informed and up-to-date.

Religiously reading parenting magazines and websites and blogs* will help turn you into a competitive and paranoid control freak who lectures other parents about how they really shouldn’t let lil’ Pyke play with their iPhone because the latest studies show that children who are exposed to screens within the first two years of life end up being serial killers who work at Wal-Mart.

And everyone will hate you.

*That is, except for this blog. You should always read this blog.

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Through sickness and health…I guess

Posted on October 11, 2013 | 7 comments

Well, I can officially check off that whole “through sickness” marriage vow.

(That’s how it works, right? You do it once and then you’re off the hook?).

Although technically, it was more of an injury than a sickness but the point is, when my husband busted his head open last Friday after slipping in the kitchen, I didn’t run away. I didn’t roll over and go back to sleep, ignoring his yells (even though I was like, SUPER tired). I didn’t even pass out at the sight of gallons and gallons of blood casually leaving his head.

Instead, I calmly and maturely assessed the situation and swiftly took the appropriate action.

Ha! Just kidding. Considering I’m married to a member of the male gender, it went down more like this:

ER1

ER2

So, what exactly happened, you ask? The official story is that he turned around to close a kitchen drawer and slipped on our dog’s toy, falling backward and hitting his head on the world’s hardest ceramic dog bowl. But the unofficial story, the much more sexy conspiracy theory story, is that my dog is trying to murder my husband.

I mean, the dog toy, a stuffed squirrel we had nicknamed Jedediah, just happened to appear right under his feet? Out of nowhere? At the perfect distance to make him hit his head on the dog’s water bowl? Not to mention, we’re expected to believe Buffy isn’t holding a grudge against us because we removed his manhood when he was still a puppy? And also named him Buffy? And maybe once dropped him on his head as a puppy? (Oh, calm down, I said once…twice tops).

Yeah. Coincidence, my ass.

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Luckily, my husband is one of the most calm and laid back dudes in a crisis that you could ask for. So while I was running around like a chicken with its head cut off, trying to find socks and my car keys and yelling for him to “Just hang on, baby! Don’t die on me! You have so much to live for! Stay away from the light!” as I ran from room to room in the house, he was being practical, looking up the closest hospital on his phone while simultaneously trying to staunch the blood flow from his gaping head wound. He even called the hospital to double check they had an emergency room:

“Hi, yeah, I was just wondering if you guys had an emergency room? You do? Alright, well, I’ll be seeing you real soon then.”

Meanwhile I was in the bedroom, helpfully yelling things like “If you see Grandma, stay away from her! Do not let Grandma lead you to the afterlife! Tell that old biddy to shut up!” while putting on two different shoes (both left shoes, by the way).

And then, if you will indulge me, I’d like you to picture the following (I tried to draw it but my art skills have some pretty severe limitations…SHOCKING, I know):

My husband is in the passenger seat, gently giving me directions from his GPS while blood and brains are spurting from his head (OK, maybe I’m exaggerating just a little). I’m a wide-eyed lunatic with crazy bed head in the driver’s seat yelling obscenities at red lights and making lewd gestures to the only other three cars on the road (sadly, I am not exaggerating). When all of a sudden we encounter one of Greater Boston’s infamous “roundabouts,” a fun marvel of modern road design that I nicknamed “Traffic Circle of Death.”

Ryan: “OK, you’ll want to take the second exit.”

Aprill: “Second!?! What the hell does that mean!?!”

Ryan: “Just get in the right lane and then take the second road that veers off the circle.”

Aprill: “Which way is right!?! I can’t tell my left from my right!?! Oh god, we’re going to die!”

Ryan: “It’s OK. Breathe. Just turn right here.”

Aprill: “AHHH! There’s another car! What do I do!?!”

Ryan: “He’s like 100 feet away from us, babe. You’re fine. You’re doing great.”

Aprill: “I can’t do this! We’re going to die! Did I mention we’re going to die!?! Oh my god!…Oh…OK, we’re off the circle. So just go straight for another mile, then?”

By some miracle (and no thanks to me) we made it to the ER in one piece and three long hours later, Ryan’s head was stapled with the world’s most intimidating stapler and we were sent home with the instructions that I was to wake him up every two hours to make sure that he wasn’t, you know, dead.

Terrifying as this whole experience was, however, it did teach me a good lesson about marriage. And that lesson is that when it comes to “through sickness,” my husband is actually better off on his own.

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And now it’s time to play The Name Game!

Posted on September 27, 2013 | 1 comment

HOST: Hello, hello, hello and welcome to another round of everyone’s favorite pastime: The Name Game! The only game where soon-to-be parents attempt to pick out a name for their unborn child while facing a series of seemingly insurmountable challenges.

I’m your host, Smiley McToothy.

Let’s meet our first contestant. Fresh off the couch and actually wearing real pants today, say hello to Aprill!

[Clap, Clap, Clap]

So, Aprill, it says here you are 20 weeks pregnant?

APRILL: That’s right, Smiley.

HOST: And you guys have been on the hunt for the perfect name?

APRILL: Yes. And I have to tell you, Smiley, I couldn’t be more excited. I mean, what could possibly go wrong by going public with this extremely personal decision?

HOST: Wonderful. Wonderful. And now let’s bring out contestant No. 2, your husband, Ryan!

[Clap, Clap, Clap]

So, Ryan, this is your first child, yes?

RYAN: Yes, it is, Smiley.

HOST: And how prepared are you to be a father?

RYAN: I want to pee my pants and go hide in a corner on a pretty regular basis these days, Smiley.

HOST: Wonderful. Wonderful. Alright, onto Round One. This round is called the Spousal Veto round, where each of you will pick your top three baby names and give your opponent the chance to mercilessly mock that name and ruin it for all time. Aprill, you’re up first.

APRILL: Finn!

RYAN: I’m not naming my kid after a fish’s body part.

APRILL: Trevor!

RYAN: Oh no. Absolutely not. I went to school with a Trevor and he was just awful. He ate bugs.

APRILL: Landon!

RYAN: Are you kidding? Landon? As in Michael Landon? Why do you hate this child, woman?

HOST: Switch.

RYAN: Tobias!

APRILL: Hi, this is our son, Tobias. Here, let me take his glasses off first before you punch him in the face.

RYAN: James!

APRILL: NO! I mean, I once…um…kissed a guy named James. So I think it’s best to avoid any names that I may have…kissed…in the past.

RYAN: Leviathan! We can call him Levi for short!

APRILL: I think we should get divorced.

[Ding, Ding, Ding]

HOST: And that’s the end of Round One!

The points so far have Aprill in the lead because she is super pregnant and scary right now. On to Round Two where the points are doubled and the stakes are higher as we bring in your closest family and friends to ruin any other names you may be thinking about. Aprill, Ryan, you’re up.

APRILL AND RYAN: Riker!

COUSIN DAVE: Dude, my friend Steve’s pet rat is named Riker.

APRILL AND RYAN: Oscar!

SISTER-IN-LAW VERA: How dare you! You knew that Pete and I wanted to name our future son Oscar! You know, whenever we decide to actually have children in the next five to seven years. I can’t believe how selfish you are!

APRILL AND RYAN: Colton!

AUNT FRIDA: I once watched a porn featuring a Colton. He was delivering a pizza.

[Ding, Ding, Ding]

HOST: Oh, you hear that? That sound means it’s time for our Lightning Round! Aprill, Ryan, in this round you will shout out as many names as you can while our panel of first-graders shows you how they can turn those names into playground taunts.

Ready? And go!

APRILL: Tucker?

FIRST-GRADER: Hey, Tucker! Guess what new word I just learned that rhymes with your name?

RYAN: Apple?

FIRST-GRADER: Your parents stole that from Gwyneth Paltrow! And she’s the worst!

APRILL: Cooper?

FIRST-GRADER: Oh look, it’s Cooper the Pooper Scooper!

RYAN: Charlie?

FIRST-GRADER: Actually, that’s a pretty good name.

RYAN: But for a girl.

FIRST-GRADERS: Collective sigh. 

[Ding, Ding, Ding]

HOST: And time’s up! And our winner is…nobody! Because as we all know, it’s impossible to win The Name Game! See you all next week!

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Top 10 Perks of Being Pregnant

Posted on September 18, 2013 | 5 comments

10. People will always insist you sit down. Your mom, your significant other, your co-workers. Even the 98-year-old man with scoliosis on the subway will get up and insist you sit down. Already sitting down? No worries. They will then insist that you lie down. Being pregnant, it is practically your JOB to be lazy. That is, unless you listen to “some” people who will insist you stay physically active. But “those” people are doctors and are stupid and also don’t think fried pickles are a good idea for breakfast.

9. Everyone will also always insist you are beautiful. Family, friends, strangers, your creepy neighbor who you now suspect has some kind of weird pregnant lady fetish. Everyone will feel the need to go out of their way to tell you how beautiful you are, you beautiful sacred vessel you. Because apparently while all you see in the mirror is a sweating fatty fat mcfatterson in sweatpants who isn’t wearing any makeup and has Medusa hair, everyone else sees a glowing goddess. Just go with it.

8. Thanks to your nausea, you always get to pick the restaurant because the list of places that don’t make you want to puke is shorter than the list of places that do.

7. Laying on the couch all day in your pajamas while eating chicken wings dipped in guacamole and refusing to shower is no longer considered “sad” and “pathetic” but “good for you” because you’re busy “growing a human.”

6. Your boobs. Your boobs become…they’re just…they’re just so amazing, you guys. If you’re anything like me, for the first time in your life, you will have Playboy Playmate boobies. And as such, you will stand in front of the mirror naked all the time in awe. I mean, you could KILL a MAN with these boobs if you really wanted to! They’re that crazy BIG! So make sure to enjoy them as much as possible before your mean, selfish children exit the womb and ruin them.

5. You can blame the baby for everything. In fact, you will say “the baby made me do it” no less than 417 times during your pregnancy.

4. Being pregnant gives you the god-like power to name something. You, a mere puny human, get to determine what someone will be called for the rest of their life. Obviously, judging by the growing numbers of people named She’D’yn’asty and Periwinkle and Darth, too many parents let this power go to their head. But as they say, absolute power corrupts absolutely and hopefully little Dragon Spike Huddle will understand that someday when he’s older.

3. Want ice cream and a taco at 11 p.m.? Whoever knocked you up is pretty much legally required to go get them for you immediately. And not those tacos from that crappy joint down the street either. No, the good tacos from that place across town where the Blockbuster used to be.

2. You finally have a legitimate excuse to buy those tiny, tiny adorable shoes that are always in the window of every fancy baby boutique. And also any and all tiny adorable baby hats that make infants look like animals.

1. You pretty much get to live like a hobbit. You can eat breakfast, second breakfast and elevensies all before noon (or in some cases before 8 a.m.). You have a new determination to make your life as cozy as possible (Snuggie, Netflix, $60 worth of snacks? BOOM. You got a rockin’ weekend). The TV remote is now your precious and anyone wanting to take it away from you is likely to get their finger bitten off, Gollum-style. And your feet swell up to comically large proportions (hairy toes also possibly included depending on your genetics).

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So, you’re telling me I’m not the Mother of Dragons?

Posted on September 13, 2013 | 1 comment

Guys, I have good news and I have bad news.

The bad news is that I will not, in fact, be giving birth to a dragon and hence will not be known as the mother of dragons forevermore. Which wouldn’t be that bad if it weren’t for the fact that I now have to send back all those custom T-shirts.

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But the good news is that I am pregnant with a human. A very healthy little…(drumroll)…boy.

A boy!

I have absolutely no idea how that’s going to end up considering I still don’t understand grown men with that particular body part (fried eggs don’t belong on pizza OR cheeseburgers, guys). But I’m going to be super excited about it until the first time he pees in my face when I’m trying to change his diaper.

I have a whole, long post dedicated to the ultrasound that led to this big gender reveal, which I will post later, but for now just wanted to share the good (or bad if you were REALLY hoping for a dragon…sorry, Ryan…maybe next time, honey) news with you.

(Or at least with the one of you that actually cares…hi mom *waves enthusiastically*).

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Pregnancy: Farting for the greater good

Posted on September 11, 2013 | 4 comments

So, I’m still pregnant.

I know! I feel like I’ve been pregnant forever too. In fact, I’m having trouble remembering a time when I wasn’t pregnant.

(Just kidding. I remember all too well. I have nightly lucid dreams in which I drink Scotch and smoke cigars while taking a bath in Diet Coke and stuffing my face with unpasteurized soft cheeses. In these dreams, I also occasionally end up in a compromising position with the guy who played tuba in my high school marching band, except he has the voice of Morgan Freeman and is secretly Ironman. But I’m blaming the baby’s subconscious for that one).

For those of you keeping score at home, I am now officially 18 weeks pregnant. Yup. Not even halfway there yet, folks.

(Interesting side note: Although medically I am considered 18 weeks pregnant, technically I’ve only been pregnant for 16 weeks. For some reason, they count the two weeks before you actually conceive. Why the discrepancy, you ask? Best I can figure, it’s a conspiracy that goes all the way to the top of the OB/GYN community. I’m 92 percent sure there is a secret society of vagina doctors somewhere who meet in a creepy torch-lit dungeon, where they trade tips on how to keep their hands freezing cold at all times and have a good laugh over making women with pregnancy brain do bad math).

Of course, I shouldn’t be complaining. Now that I’m safely ensconced in the second trimester, its pretty much been smooth sailing, minus some (or perhaps a bit more on the “a lot” side of) baby-induced flatulence that has both my husband and my dog looking at me in sheer awe.

“Oh my God, that was YOU!? We bow down to your superior farting skills. From hence forth, we shall blame you, our new queen, for our own farts.”

And truth be told, pregnancy isn’t all THAT bad, despite my snarky yet HI-larious observations to the contrary (such as here and here and here). I mean, for nine months of misery, you get an entire human being out of the deal, so…I mean, I’m not that good at math or anything (see above) but that seems like a fairly decent return on your investment. Especially if you factor in the method of how you actually make a baby, which is generally SUPER fun unless you’re doing it VERY wrong.

Yes, perhaps it’s the fact I finally stopped puking or that I’m finally looking “pregnant” as opposed to “just ate her own weight in tacos,” but I’m feeling a bit warm and fuzzy these days. Maybe even, dare I say, maternal?

But most likely this change in attitude is because I now have proof of life. Proof that something besides gas and cheeseburgers is living in my ever-growing abdomen. Proof that the violent mood swings are because I’m growing a human and not because I’m crazy…hahaha…nope, not crazy! You hear that, honey? I’m not crazy! Chasing you with that hammer because you left the toilet seat up is totally normal, babe! Hahaha! (Voice drops an octave) BRING ME PICKLE JUICE. NOW.

Yes, I felt the baby, my baby, kick for the first time. There I was, sitting on the couch reading Vogue at six in the morning because I couldn’t fall back asleep thanks to my body now thinking getting up before the sun is a daily challenge it must and will meet. When out of nowhere, BOOM. Or…well, more like lower-case boom (considering the kid weighs as much as a chicken breast currently). A tiny flutter followed by what felt distinctly like a poke.

So naturally I did what any mature, sophisticated woman on the brink of motherhood would do: I ran into the bedroom and jumped on the bed like a little kid to wake my husband.

“I felt the baby kick, honey! I felt the baby kick! Which means we are actually having a baby! Er…well, since technically we haven’t seen it yet I guess it could be a dragon or something but the point is, the baby/possible dragon is ALIVE! AHHH!”

I couldn’t help myself. At the risk of sounding like a cliché, it was truly one of those life-changing moments. The moment when I realized the magnitude of what was happening: My husband and I had created a person.

I wasn’t just farting.

I was farting for a cause.

And while I’m sure I’ll go back to complaining and bitching and moaning, for now I’m just going to revel in this moment. This moment where for the first time it feels like we, me and this baby, are in this together.

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Letter to my unborn child

Posted on September 4, 2013 | 1 comment

Dear My Unborn Child,

So…uh…hey, I guess. How are you? I’m fine. Yup. Um…so how ’bout them Red Sox, huh?

Sorry this is so awkward. Truth be told, we hardly even know each other. I mean, all I really know about you currently is that you are violently opposed to Chinese food and all you really know about me is that I eat way too much cheese. So this whole trend just seems a bit ridiculous.

Oh wait, you probably have no idea what I’m talking about, what with you being busy forming eyeballs and a pancreas and all. Let me fill you in real quick. Apparently, in this day and age, any parent or parent-to-be with a keyboard and a Starbucks wifi password is required to write some cheesy letter to their future offspring and then publish it in a public forum. The general goal of this exercise, at least as far as I can tell, is to express their hopes and dreams for the said child and to make random people repost the link on Facebook along with comments like “This is soooo true. I’m totally wiping away the tears after reading this.”

Now normally I am not one to blindly follow the crowd (regrettably jumping on the Twilight bandwagon notwithstanding) but I’m on deadline and need something to write about anyway so, eh, why not? What could it hurt? (Except for your fragile young psyche and self-esteem, that is).

So, I guess to start off with, the first thing I’d like to tell you is that I never want to hear you say you want to be famous when you grow up. (Want to know the quickest way to break your Momma’s heart? Star in a reality TV series). Now that’s not to say I don’t want you to be successful. Or rich. Powerful? Go for it. Influential? Hell yes. Be the white Oprah, baby. But don’t just aim to be “famous.” You know who’s famous? Kim Kardashian and Grumpy Cat. Who are they, you ask, since you are probably reading this at least five to eight years in the future? Exactly.

I know I don’t know your gender yet, but if you happen to be a girl, don’t ever say you deserve to be treated like a princess. This is ‘Merica, sweetheart. People died so we wouldn’t have to deal with princesses anymore. And if you happen to be a boy, never date a woman, or a gay man, who thinks they deserve to be treated like a princess. You want a partner in life, not someone who buys pink tutus for their dog.

Be a nerd. Oh please, please be a nerd. Or a geek. I’ll settle for geek. Cause nerds and geeks end up being the best people.

Don’t sexually assault anyone. Ever. I know that might seem like an odd thing to say or even something that goes without saying, but considering the scary large number of rapes that happen every year, it’s obvious not enough parents are teaching their kids to not rape anyone.

Don’t be “that” guy. And if you happen to be in a crowd of people and don’t see “that” guy, then you are “that” guy. And we need to have a LONG talk about where your father and I went wrong.

Enjoy all things in moderation. Except for cheese. Cause cheese is awesome.

Don’t do drugs. It’s such a cliché.

My child will NEVER be a linejumper. You hear me? One of the things that makes this country so great is our superb standing in line skills. And I will not have you sullying the efforts of our forefathers who had to beat up countless linejumpers in order to give us the freedom to stand in line today without worrying about some brat trying to break the rules.

Be kind to animals. Because if you’re not, I’m going to have countless sleepless nights where I worry that you’ll grow up to be a serial killer.

Above all, I want you to be happy. Although preferably happy and with a well-paying job so that you can buy Daddy and me our dream retirement home in New Zealand.

Now typically these things end with some grand pronouncements of how much I love you and always will and how I loved you before I knew you and you are my heart and other flowery crap and glitter and unicorn farts.

Which is all true, of course.

And you already know that. Or at least you will.

So let’s end it instead in a style much more suited to our family:

If you keep making me fart every time I sneeze, I swear to all that is holy I’ll ground you until you start kindergarten.

Love,

Mom

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