An Exercise in Abstract Dreams

It was a weekend of news stories, and not the drive-by shooting or election kind, and best of all, not the kind that has anything to do with me. I am hoping to stay out of the headlines of my own life for a while.

We put The Boy's mother on a plane Saturday night and breathed a collective sigh. Not because we did not thoroughly enjoy and appreciate our time with her and all the ways she helped us, but because our living space is small, and Mirabella's exersaucer is not. At about 9:30, while making banana pudding squares for my little brother's belated birthday celebration, I realized we had eaten Triscuits and salsa and cheese, but no dinner.

"Do you want me to make you something?" I asked The Boy.

"Why? I just had dinner," he said. Ah, the y chromosome. How could I go about getting myself one of those?

Sunday morning, after church, Ansley, the beautiful daughter of friends of ours announced, "My mommy didn't have a baby…yet." I raised an eyebrow at her mother. No news, she confirmed. We giggled, even though we shouldn't have.

The birthday celebration featured barbecued chicken and a cake that prompted The Boy to say, "Wow, this fetti really is fun." My fussy five and a half month old wanted nothing to do with her doting great-grandparents, presumably because they were not me. She is developing something that seems to border on obsession, but then she also seems to be developing teeth. I'm hoping she gets over both soon.

The Boy played with water balloons and college kids and seemed energized despite complaining earlier that he never gets a chance to relax. On the way home, he played a voicemail for me on speaker that made me cry. "Expecting twins," our friend's measured voice said, all too calmly, despite using the word, "pumped" in the delivery. We listened to our daughter moaning herself to sleep and tried to imagine multiplying that by two. But they had longed for parenthood for longer than we knew, and they were ready. I closed my eyes and saw their sprawling, light-filled split-level that backs to the park and will make a gorgeous place to grow up. I thought of their genuine joy and gifts of a toy Moose (Mirabella's favorite so far) and excellent pizza when our sweetheart was born, despite their quiet desire to be on the other end of the exercise. So when we heard the news, we glowed with thoughts of November babies and our children knowing each other as they grow. My heart felt full.

While The Boy checked his messages, I checked my own. Two from one of my favorite people. They were short without content or her typical cheerful intonation, just "call when you can." "She's engaged," I told The Boy, "I just know it." For months every time I saw her name on my phone I answered, "Can't talk, running out the door, but what's going on?" just in case she had news to share. When she actually had it, I missed her call twice, international roaming charges on her end, diaper changes on mine. Finally, I heard the story of the first place on the east coast where you can see the sunrise where the man we've never met asked for her hand. She talked about the vintage carnival theme we all giggle about, but she has always been able to see things we couldn't see. I wondered about the logistics of her December wedding, all the while knowing it won't matter; of course, I will be there.

Marginal

"You're over the hump; you're on your way!" a man once proclaimed to me, unprovoked, in a freight elevator we weren't supposed to be taking. I had never met him before. It was a Monday. I smiled, befuddled, on the way to my office with the half sandwich and salad that had cost me nearly $7.00. Back in my cube, I asked my neighbors what such a declaration could possibly mean on a Monday.

"It's probably because it was lunch time," a coworker shrugged, leaving it at that. I wrote it down because that's what I do, and it encourages me, accidentally, when I flip backwards in the planner Tara gave me for Christmas that is called A Year of Days Worse than Yours. She had written on the first page, "Thought you could use this…" I keep thinking the book will become a conversation piece, but no one has ever asked. I sit at the ready with examples from the book like The Valentine-less Valentine's Day, Bris, and Going Hunting with Dick Cheney, but I've ever had the opportunity to share. It's becoming a test on which I will evaluate the character of strangers. Like if I, as a friend recently has, began carrying my lunch in a Dunder-Mifflin lunch bag. The moment I saw the Dwight K. Shrute bobblehead on her desk, I knew I'd underestimated her.

In my planner each day is filled with tasks, marked pressing or not by their case. "MAIL MOTHER'S DAY CARDS" contrasts with scribbles like, "send photos to Ritz," "crushed tomatoes," and "grilled chicken and veggies," which is crossed out and replaced by "Noche de Mexicana," which is crossed out but not replaced at all, which probably indicates I gave up on making tacos and we went out to dinner. Tasks completed are checked off; circles remind me of what is yet to be done.

I see fragments of the nonsensical in my daily encounters. On April 21 I find, "What does the customer want? Do they really want to go down to the nuts and bolts?" Which is not notable except that it points out how buzz-word laden and ineffective at communication my work culture is. And how clunky subject-verb agreement is as it relates to the word "they" in our language. If I wrote something down today, it would be "interface," and it would be overused and it would be used incorrectly. April 4 takes me back to the inexplicable conversation about the Double-T diner that contained the quote, "the Greeks don't put a lot of sugar in their cakes;" a phrase I'm sure I wrote in an effort to keep a straight face.

Nearly three years ago, preparing to move from the suburban townhouse I shared for two years with two (and eventually three) other girls to a tiny apartment in the city, I went through notebooks, personal and academic, eager to lighten my load. Always they were marked with lines of tiny cursive; songs that were stuck in my head ("Round Here" by the Counting Crows and "Stories in my Pockets" by Sarah Masen were standbys), ideas for stories I usually didn't follow through on, snippets of conversation, lines of prose. Ideas to keep my eyes open and my mind alert while making it seem to anyone watching that I was being studious. I wonder what I might have taken with me had I not been so focused on filling the margins. I wonder what it will mean if I ever stop.

"The stories in my pockets are the best I've ever lived; so what if they don't sell, sell, sell?"

Ever Mine, Ever Thine, Ever Ours

We devoured tortilla chips, mini chimis and big margaritas, frozen for one, top shelf for another, sugar-rimmed for me. We talked fast and laughed loud and I gestured wildly enough to jostle my drink, sending the bartender over with a rag and a quizzical gaze. I almost ended up seated beside strangers twice after potty breaks, but eventually we settled in the dark, together, and watched women in impossibly high stilettos live outrageous lives nothing like the three of ours, which are nothing like each other's. Walking to our cars, I looked down at my Naturalizers, which were red, but still Naturalizers, and asked if anyone really wears $500, six-inch tall shoes. "They must have lots of corns," I said.

"Well I went from Easy Spirits to Crocs," Nikki said, gesturing to her flip flops, "and I'm pretty sure these have spit up on them."

I got in my busted up Acura and called my long-suffering husband, who, I would soon learn, had emptied the dishwasher and prepared bottles and cared for our baby and finished his homework, and who didn't for one second make me feel guilty for my ill-timed break. "We're getting ready for bedtime. We were just about to read a story," he reported. I suggested Little Big. "Last night we read There's a Wocket in my Pocket, so maybe we'll take your suggestion."

I rolled down all the windows and opened the sunroof and let the indie rock blare. Even though I was wearing jeans a size bigger than the size bigger I was before I got pregnant, and that coupled with my cropped hair puts me nowhere near the ladies I had just watched on the big screen, I thought of my own group of four. I thought of the women who would drive through the night and run in heels in the rain to be with me if I needed them. And when I have needed them, they have. I thought of so many other drives, with one of them beside me, our hearts screaming through open windows. And though I've never found their equal, I thought of the awe-inspiring women I've met since. The wives who are trudging beside me, the mothers who are teaching me, the girls who sat beside me with my spilled margarita and laughed with me.

I thought of my sweet husband who loves me and our daughter and tells us all the time and shows us even more. And even though I was coming home to a house upended-- my poor mother-in-law on the couch because her broken foot will not allow for stairs, my sister-in-law working a double and then sleeping in our guest room so she could help her mother with our baby since we don't have daycare this week, a bathroom no one can use easily because it lacks a floor and some walls and a sink or counter, a poorly-equipped kitchen because I chose Sex and the City with the girls over grocery shopping by myself-- I couldn't wait to get there. I went about the monotonous litany of tasks I perform every night, chatting away.

"You can tell she had a margarita," The Boy said to his mother.

I advised them that was hours ago.

"Are you just in a good mood because you had a good time? Because maybe you should go out more often."

"I had a wonderful time," I told him, but that was not all.

Our life is more making do than making it big, and I can sometimes get stuck underneath the tedium of the quotidian. But not last night. I felt enveloped by the beautiful in my life that no one is entitled to and that can slip away in a moment. As usual, I felt overwhelmed, but not in the usual way.

I had missed bed time and settled, sadly, for a kiss on the cheek. I was thrilled when my sweet girl awoke crying, just before 1:00 and for the first time in months, apparently because she was cold. She beamed at me while I dressed her in warmer pajamas and rocked with her before
putting her back to bed. I nuzzled my face in her fuzzy hair and whispered her songs and held her tight.

It's not that the movie was great. It wasn't. My city and my world may be much smaller and far grittier and more cluttered than the one I watched last night. But every so often something interrupts my busy day to remind me that it's all the little things I take for granted that constitute a life. It doesn't mean I won't ever complain or forget. But, at least for today, I get it and am unspeakably grateful for it.

Whirlwind Round-up

In the last ten weeks...

I returned to work. There were countless tears, an anxious countdown, and many fears. I sat at our dinner table with my head in my hands and tears on my cheeks, babbling incoherently. I had made two lists-- things I needed to have the next morning and things the baby needed. The Boy took the list and tore it in half. "Don't worry about these things," he said, and I tried not to. We laid out outfits for all of us, with a back-up for her, diapers, wipes, bottles, blankets, lunches and even coats. I set the coffee timer for 6:30. And when I woke the baby up to feed her AT 5:30 in the morning, I did not cry. I did not cry when I dressed her or myself, and I blinked away only a stray tear when I saw her in the backseat of The Boy's car. At work, my eyes were red, mostly from lack of sleep. I learned how to use the Nursing Mothers' Room, so my breasts did not explode, as I had feared. I met my new supervisor, and she was welcoming and kind. I met with my former supervisor, and received last year's performance evaluation and this year's raise. It wasn't a terrible day. At 4 PM I raced away; I couldn't wait to see my baby girl. Now I try to stay at work a little longer, but no later than 4:30, or I run the risk of being late to day care. I lug a pump to and from work every day and have two sessions in the Nursing Mothers' Room, despite only producing enough to send the baby with one bottle of breastmilk per day.

Which brings me to the topic of Mirabella's unsettling diagnosis in early April. We noticed she did not seem to be gaining weight. I was devastated when the chart at the pediatrician said failure to thrive. So now I do all the work of a nursing mother and all the work of bottles. I'm told I shouldn't feel guilty and I am not alone. I still struggle every weekend, as my child rejects me when I try to feed her. But I'm giving it everything I have, even if that's not enough, and my baby has gained more than 3 pounds in the last month.

I have said, too many times to count, that work is now the easiest part of my day. When I leave at 4:30, I feel like a stopwatch starts. Pick up the baby, fight traffic, squeeze in a powerwalk with the stroller, if the weather is good, feed the baby, cook and eat dinner, clean the kitchen, give the baby a bath, put her to bed by 8ish, wash bottles, make new bottles, pack lunches, make breakfast, do laundry, lay out clothes, pack a diaper bag...and attempt to spend a few minutes alone with my husband. Granted, he takes some of these tasks usually, but the pressure to get it all done and manage to spend some precious time with my infant in the few waking hours I share with her gets to me. I start each week strong, with groceries, meal plans, and schedules, but come Thursday (Wednesday on a rough week), I kind of lose it. There were no breakdowns this week, and I'm pretty sure I didn't yell at The Boy, so maybe we are improving.

We took our first roadtrip since the baby, a long weekend at Deep Creek Lake for Dad's 50th. Lots of Wii bowling, board games, Easter candy, snow and family meals. The baby slept in her travel crib in the walk-in closet, and we enjoyed the king-size bed, even though we weren't really alone. Oh yeah, and on the way home, I pumped in the car. That was awesome.

Meanwhile, at work, my contract is ending at the end of May, and my affiliation with my beloved company is threatened. I am working and hoping hard to stay with them, as they have been good to me, but so far nothing is for certain.

Throw in a couple visits from in-laws, a minor mouse infestation, a toilet that almost fell through a second-story floor, first-floor ceiling, a bathroom that has lacked a floor, intact walls and a sink for the last couple weeks, a sister-in-law who is now a neighbor, and you're pretty much caught up.

It's all alternately exhausting, indescribably joyful, heartbreaking, disappointing, unexpected, frightening and exciting, many times over each day. Always I am overwhelmed. Like everyone says, life has drastically changed. I thought by now I would be used to it, but really all I'm used to is change. As soon as I get comfortable, it all changes again. Because I guess that's the only constant anyway.

Someone to Watch Over Her

I put off calling Locate for more names of potential childcare providers in the same manner and for the same reason I put off looking for something I'm pretty sure is lost. Take, for example, the mate to my first anniversary diamond stud earrings. One morning, mere weeks after receiving the beauties I had longed for half my life, I realized only the back was affixed to my right ear as I exited the shower. I scoured the path from shower to bed and canvassed the sheets, even checking under my sleeping husband, but I did not move the bed or the things beneath it for days. Because I was pretty sure I'd never see the earring again, but until I checked everywhere I could still hope and pass said hope along to the heartbroken Boy. Needless to say, I have a single diamond stud and two backs sitting uselessly in my jewelery box and a note to myself to claim the earrings on our homeowner's insurance.

So I had no excuse to proffer when The Boy asked why I hadn't called even days after he had helpfully provided the number. I finally called and received every last name in the city we were hoping to get. "If none of those work, call back and we'll try another area," Sarah said, sympathetically. The search that had begun in August of last year netted only fruitless phone calls and disappointing interviews, and we landed in January with a one-month-old baby, the clock ticking on my maternity leave, and no childcare. I called all eleven people in one afternoon and ended up with two appointments for the following Monday. We did not set high expectations.

We arrived at our first appointment on time in a neighborhood where the houses look like trailers. Chain-link fences and above-ground pools abounded. We met the woman in the enormous Mickey Mouse sweatshirt who also had unfortunately severe astigmatism. The Boy later commented he wasn't sure which one of us she was looking at when she talked. Two children snoozed in little sleeping bags on the floor, a fact I wouldn't have minded if an enormous and ancient Irish Setter mut didn't brush up against my leg before roaming over to the children.

"He's a sweetheart, but the only thing is he sheds all over everything," the woman said. I glanced at the children and knew this interview would contain few questions.

"I guess the first thing you should know is that I take care of my mom," the woman added, "and that's a full-time job itself. It's the hardest job I've ever had." While I appreciated and respected that she cared for her ailing mother, I wondered who would watch the children while she performed this full-time job.

I asked about her sick time/personal day policy, a question with a long answer she summarized with: "Usually I just work sick."

"Okay, honey," The Boy said, five minutes after we had arrived, "I think we're all set here."

The woman insisted we see the house, a tour which included "meeting" her unconscious and elderly mother and viewing multiple Coors Light banners prominently displayed among the playpens in a back room. We told her we'd be in touch. When we arrived back at the car where The Boy's mother and our sleeping daughter waited, my mother-in-law asked why we wouldn't be choosing that woman. "I don't have enough time to give you all the reasons," The Boy said.

On the way to the second appointment that day, we surveyed the gorgeous homes around us and waited for the neighborhood to turn older and uglier, as it tends to do. It didn't. We arrived at our destination at the base of a cul-de-sac and a driveway with a Mercedes. We were welcomed into a foyer that belonged in a model home. The slippered woman led us to the expansive finished basement complete with permament playroom displaying children's artwork. They have their own table and chairs, refrigerator, bathroom, and exit to the backyard. The place was immaculate and beautiful.

The woman who is affectionately called Aunt Nae spoke of 25 years of day care. She spoke with love about the children she sees every day, the ones she misses who have moved away, and the ones who have graduated college and gotten married. "I like to be honest with people," she said, "I will not promise you I won't yell at your child. If I'm across the room and your child is standing on that table, I am not going to say, 'Sweetie, please get down from there.' It's not going to happen like that." She told us about her curriculum, her ridiculously reasonable rates, the birthday parties she throws for the kids, and the occasional trips they take upstairs to the main level. "The kids act like I'm taking them to Manhattan," she dead-panned. We laughed with her and before we knew it, an hour had passed. We were sold-- enough to forget we had left grandmother and child in the car in January (with the keys, but still). We gathered paperwork and left quickly, beaming. We had found her. We knew better than to deliberate long. We had already lost two slots to long deliberation (and less than full disclosure on the part of the providers). We booked her two days later.

So my insides flip over whenever I look at a calendar. I'm not ready to go back to work at the beginning of next month, though I know it's necessary and what is best and soon. I hate the idea of being away from my little girl all day every day, as it's only happened twice thus far and for several-hour increments. I anticipate crying at my desk, lingering in the bathroom, trying to force myself not to call to check in. But I know my daughter will be comfortable, safe, cared for and loved. And you can't put a price on that.

Notes from the Underbelly

Today my dear friend Mindy sent me her thoughts on how everything has changed. I thought about how, four years ago, we stood on her yard crowded with wooden pink flamingos I had sent for her birthday. I handed her a black strapless backup dress and she ran into her house and changed into it in the foyer before our three-hour dinner at the Melting Pot. A month later, she painted her toes purple in the passenger seat of my car on our way to Virginia Beach where we crashed in sleeping bags on her friend's couches, ate tuna salad sandwiches every day for lunch, to save money, and flirted with ill-chosen boys, to kill time. I watched the series finale of Friends in my jogging clothes on her couch because I was locked out of my house. She taught me how to climb indoor walls. We drank Sam Adams Cherry Wheat beer and watched movies and talked about the past and how it might come back in the future. She was one of the first people to meet The Boy. She said his spiky hair made him look "youthful" before we knew he looked youthful because he actually was. She's hundreds of miles north of here now, in her snowy Vermont with the love of her past who turns out to be the love of her life. So yes, everything has changed. Here is my response:

I can't get over how much things have changed either. I've been watching a ton of t.v. since I've been home with the baby and there is this match.com commercial that starts with this couple in the hospital with their newborn and says, "How did it all start?" and goes backwards through the pregnancy and wedding and dating and every single time I see it it makes me cry (and I'm getting choked up now just thinking about it).

Sometimes I remember that I'm still the same girl, but sometimes it's hard because, so far, everything is so freaking different than it was. And that doesn't mean it's bad-- I love this little screaming, pooping person more than I can get my head around-- but everyone always says the first six weeks or so is the hardest and I have to believe that's right. The sleep is so spotty and I'm breastfeeding so I'm kind of chained to her until I get her to take a bottle (hopefully next week) and Dan and I aren't really sleeping together because I'm not really sleeping, and she's crying now and has been for about ten minutes so I can't even call you like I'd really rather do, so this is what you get.

I'm typing with one hand while I hold her with the other because, apparently, it was far too lonely in her bassinet. And having said all of this, my real fear-- aside from that, despite my 22-pound weight loss in 3 weeks, I will never get back into my jeans-- is that I won't live in this moment enough to appreciate it before it's gone. She's already grown so much. As much as I complain about going stir crazy, I know I will miss this time when my whole responsibility is resting and caring for her. Even when I'm deliriously tired at 3 AM, there is nothing in this world that compares to my little daughter falling asleep on my chest. Which is what she's doing now.

And despite all these whiplash changes, or perhaps because of them, I do desperately miss my friends. I feel like I have nothing to share, as my world has at once become quite big and very small. But please don't hesitate to call me. Most of the time I don't know where my phone is and I might not pick up, but I'm finally emerging from a three-week haze and would love to talk. And the monkey will eventually fall asleep, which means I will eventually call you back.

Thank you for checking in with me; your friendship is very important to me, no matter how jealous I am of your vacations and continued ability to type with both hands.

Love,
c

Isn't She Lovely?

After two visits I preferred to call "early" alarms because they weren't really false, Friday, December 21st we went to my little sister Sarah's JV basketball game. The Boy helped me climb to the top row of bleachers, much to the amusement of onlookers. I got entirely too heated coaching and chiding from up there, and the girls lost a heartbreaker in the last seconds. Sarah was supposed to stay through halftime of the varsity game that was to follow, but she told her coach she had to go. "My sister has to go to the hospital to have her baby." To our knowledge, this was not true. I scolded her for lying, but we were ready to go, so we went to dinner and Sarah got her things to spend the night at our house. "One more time before the baby gets here," I had said.

We couldn't agree on a movie and ended up watching Notting Hill, a movie I have never liked, on the couch before heading up to bed. At 1:30 from the bathroom, I called The Boy. "Yeah?" he answered from our room. Later he admitted it should have occurred to him, under the circumstances, that if I was calling him from inside the bathroom, he should probably come to me.

"My water just broke," I told him calmly, hovering over the toilet.

"Are you sure?" he asked. I enumerated the characteristics that made me sure and asked him to wake Sarah who, minutes later, came into the bathroom and watched as I stacked 4 maxi pads on top of each other, trying to figure out how I'd make it to the hospital without leaving puddles behind me. The Boy wandered in and out of rooms muttering, "Okay," repeatedly and under his breath. But we had done this twice before that week. I had not been to work since the previous Friday-- we were heavy into waiting mode-- logistically, at least, we were ready. He got the car and I brought a beach towel and my suitcase and we were off. I looked around at our quiet house as we left, cognizant even then that when we came home everything would be different.

At the hospital they knew my name before I said it and led me to my room. I knew the protocol at this point. We waited for the contractions to get worse. They did, but I didn't make any progress. I encouraged The Boy and Sarah to sleep while I writhed, the pain intensifying. Against my better judgment and my plans, I asked for pain medicine. I was in the middle of telling The Boy a story when the nurse injected my bum and my IV with the meds. I stopped mid-sentence. "I feel...I really feel...you know, I feel kind of..." I mumbled.

"Drunk?" the nurse offered.

"Yes. I feel kind of drunk," I said.

"Well, it's really good medicine." Still I was disappointed because I had vowed not to take any except for the epidural. I didn't want to be stoned for the birth of my child; I felt responsible for the drop in her heart rate that occurred almost instantly. Still, we waited. They started Pitocin. Everything got worse. The OB who was not my own expressed concern that I would not be able to dilate on my own, thanks to potentially unnecessary surgery I had undergone years before.

"Unless I can do it manually," she said, "you may need a C-section." I teared up. That was not in the plan either. She offered an epidural and said she would try once it kick in.

"Hi," the anesthesiologist said, "I'm Dr. Payne." I am not making this up. He decided I did not need a high dose, despite my admonition not to be fooled by my lack of dilation. The Boy was asked to leave the room, and I threw up on the nurse. I would later view this as a turning point. The OB was able to begin dilation, while I prayed, all nonsense and pleading. We waited. My family sat in the waiting room, wringing their hands.

Three hours later (13 hours into this ordeal), I told the nurse who had just started her shift that I was feeling lots of pressure and would like another dose of the epidural. "Your OB is in surgery and so is Dr. Payne. Let me just check though," she said, as if on a whim. "Well, you're feeling that way because you're fully dilated and ready to push. I'll get your doctor." Needless to say, I did not see Dr. Payne again. I get a little indignant now when someone says, "But you had an epidural, right? So you didn't feel anything?" I thought that's how it would have gone. No such luck. But I did not scream or swear or tell The Boy it was all his fault. I did, however, push for over two hours.

I thought the baby would never come. I turned down offers to look at the progress in mirrors, maintaining that the whole thing was gross. The Boy, regardless of his intentions, did not get that option. The nurse told him to hold my leg and count. He was awesome, and if he was queasy, he didn't show it. I have never felt such pain. But watching my little purple daughter emerge was, so far, the highlight of my life. Tears streamed down my face and I immediately forgave her and loved her like I have never loved anyone. I used to wonder why mothers weren't bothered that their new babies weren't clean when they are placed on their chests. I didn't care.

In the waiting room, my mother nearly lost it. She had visions of an emergency C-section no one had bothered to tell her about. When it was over, she stopped the OB in the hallway. "My job was to deliver the baby," she said when Mom asked for an update, "And I'm done now."

They finally let my family in and everyone cried. It took what felt like ten minutes before anyone even asked her name. Mirabella Bly. 7 lbs, 1 oz; 21 inches, born on December 22nd. And she's crying now, and so I'm off.

A Long December

At 7AM I gasped, then moaned and rolled to my side. For the first time ever, a contraction had woken me up. I wanted to feel hopeful, but I couldn't find the ability. I went back to sleep and ignored them again when I woke up for real and showered and got ready for church. I thought about how perfect it would be.

Though I'm not due until December 30th (January 4th if you ask my OB), last month I arbitrarily chose December 17th as the desired birthdate of my daughter. And I had just spent two-thirds of a lovely weekend catching up with my husband. We went on a date Friday night, back to the old standby, the location of our first date. As I struggled to find something to wear, I complained to Tara over the phone. "Let me tell you how difficult it is to look cute when you're 9 months pregnant. My main goal now is to keep the belly covered." She laughed sympathetically. A few minutes later I found a low cut top that made use of my pregnancy-enhanced assets. "I stand corrected," I told Tara, "cleavage still works." So I laughed at dinner when The Boy said, "I love that you're 9 months pregnant and I still can't take my eyes off of you." And I loved it too. We'd had company in the form of my mother-in-law for the last week and hadn't been able to catch up. So Friday was sublime.

Days earlier, he had given me a gift certificate for breakfast in bed and three TiVo shows of my choice (also in bed), that he made good on Saturday morning. We spent the whole day and evening together, so I was feeling pretty good about feeling bad this morning. But not good enough to trust it.

In church I wasn't always able to sing some of my favorite Christmas carols; I sat down and breathed deeply. "You need to be tracking them, baby," The Boy whispered, handing me a slip of paper. I discreetly took note of the contractions, still not trusting them. After church we met friends at a sports bar, having changed into Saints jerseys in the car. By halftime, Jenn squealed and my list of contractions spanned nearly four hours and listed times no more than 6 minutes apart. We decided to call the doctor. At home we calmly loaded everything up, divided and conquered last minute issues.

At the hospital, I was disappointed by my lack of progress. Once I was lying down, the contractions felt much less severe. "Early labor," they shrugged. They said it was normal. Did not make me feel stupid. Hours later, as I lay on my couch with more contractions, my OB called to check in.

"It's not unusual for early labor for first babies to take 14-16 hours," she said. I sighed. So I'm drinking lots of water and resting on the couch, contemplating whether I'll work tomorrow, grateful for the last couple days of quiet time together before everything changes-- for the better, for good.

Just Nod if You Can Hear Me

"Your crickets are talking," The Boy said the other day over the phone. Despite being my biggest cheerleader, he's also one of the biggest slackers among those who have read anything I've written. So if he's complaining, you know it's bad.

How I've missed you! So much to update. Since last I was here, I've been everywhere. I am nearly 38 weeks along in the incubation of my child, whom I have come to believe may actually be doing Pilates in the womb. In layman's terms: She's kicking the crap out of me. I am getting anxious for her birth, the least romantic reason being I'm sick and tired of being pregnant! "How do you feel," is the most common question I'm asked, and I feel bad answering it. Honestly? My back is killing me; I pee several times in the middle of the night; I have contractions all the time, consistently and progressively closer together all day long, and then they just stop. No progress. And don't even ask about my last appointment. After a few rough days and rougher nights, I dragged myself to the OB, hopeful for news that included the word "centimeters." She said, at 37 weeks, there was no need to check.

"Most babies are born between 38 and 41 weeks," she explained. I was unsure why this mattered; I just needed a little something for the effort. Needed to be reminded I would not be pregnant forever-- that progress, however slowly, was being made. But it was not in the cards. I cried and called Amber and told her I'm never having a baby or wearing jeans that have a button on them ever again. I've been a little emotional.

All of this is true, yes, but I'm also working hard to relish the good things about the now. We spent a long weekend in November in Charleston for a friend's gorgeous wedding; spent lots of time with Edes and Tara, which was awesome. One last visit before I'm officially a mother, and one last plane ride and exploratory mini-vacation with The Boy before we add another title to our list. I teared up one night over a giggly pizza dinner for two. "I love that we're buddies and lovers," I told him. "But I'm nervous that once we add parents to the list, we won't be lovers anymore."

"No," he replied, "We will make sure we are all three. But no more. We can't be anymore than three."

A couple weeks later, we ventured to Connecticut for another last-- the last visit without the baby. I worried about raucous nights under the rationalization that it was the "last" time, but was pleasantly surprised with movies on the couch, an extravagant wedding we were all invited to that was a blast, a roasted chicken dinner and Christmas songs and early presents with the siblings. They threw us a lovely shower which netted us so many gifts The Boy could barely fit them (and the dog and me) in the car.

And back to now. The Christmas tree and lights are finally up, and the last of the gifts have been ordered and shipped. All of the baby clothes are washed and folded, organized and put away according to tiny size. The bassinet has taken the place of the dog's bed in our room; there's a Graco "Cherry Blossom" car seat on my black leather back seat. My suitcase has been triple checked and stands at attention, ready to go, whenever the moment arrives. I'm excited and terrified; impatient and acutely aware that it will happen when I least expect it and then we can never go back. I try to relish sleeping, even if it's oft-interrupted. I touch the belly often, reminding myself to treat this miracle with the awe it deserves. I'm attempting to appreciate every day it's still just me and The Boy, alone in our room, and trying not to think about how much it feels like I'll miss that. I'm praying it's really as fulfilling and wonderful as everyone says, even as I know in my heart that it will be.

This City Life is Dragging us Down

I was getting ready to saute chicken and talking to The Boy about his softball game I didn't stick around for when the doorbell rang. Which it doesn't often do.

"Someone's at the door," I told him.

"Don't answer it," he advised. I looked up at Curtis Stone, the Take Home Chef, who was on TV talking loud enough for me to hear in the kitchen, and down at the dog, who was barking and scratching at the door.

I told him I had to answer it; it was obvious I was home. "Well, look through the mail slot first," The Boy said.

"I'm not doing that; it's ridiculous. Just stay on the phone," I opened the door. "Oh, it's gay Lenny's dad," I said, "I'll call you back." I tossed the phone onto the couch and closed the dog in the house. The man outside, somewhere close to 60 with an ancient and perpetually leashless dog named Lenny, told me he had lost his cat. "She looks like Puss in Boots," he explained, "have you seen her?" By his estimation, his cat had probably leapt from his rooftop deck to ours and may have happened upon a chimney on the way. He seemed to need the conversation, so I indulged him for awhile. "How did you know Lenny was gay?" He asked. I reminded him we had met while I walked my dog one day and that his dog seemed interested in pursuing more than a friendship with mine.

"Well, you're welcome to go down our alley and check for her when it's light out," I offered. He told me he wasn't that worried, that he had rescued her when she was a stray, and that losing a cat wasn't the same as losing a dog.

"If it had been Lenny, I would be looking under every rock. Mostly I'm just curious about what could have happened to her." This story and its implications would change considerably over the next few hours.

When I came back in to call The Boy, I couldn't get through. When he finally called back, he said, "You want to know the reason why you couldn't get me? Because I was on the phone with the Baltimore City Police Department! Why do you have to be so stubborn?" He went on about the mail slot, apparently oblivious to my comment about harmless old gay Lenny's dad.

When he got home, we sat down to steaming plates and a knock at the door. I turned around to see gay Lenny's dad walking through my living room. "I went up on your roof and she's in the chimney," he said, "I can hear her." He followed The Boy into our basement to tap on the chimney that does not end in a fireplace. I sat kind of bemused and irritated that my chicken and apple cider gravy was getting cold.

We finished dinner to another knock at the door and a request from Lenny's dad to allow him to tear apart our chimney. "I'm a mason," he said, "and I'm very good. I'll put it back together better than it was before; it's kind of a mess as it is." I looked at The Boy who agreed that the chimney was a mess but decided to take a trip to the roof with our new acquaintance to make sure that, indeed, ours was the chimney in question.

Turns out, the chimney didn't belong to us but to the house next door, the owner of which has held out on selling it for many years and, in the meantime, it has sat vacant. And spooky. And in desperate need of the kind of rehabbing that can only be accomplished with many sledgehammers and exterminators. "I would think he was even crazier if I didn't see that cat myself," The Boy shrugged. In his next report, I learned that Lenny's dad was breaking into the house next door. I didn't want to know any further details; I could think only of rats and roaches in the walls and no electricity. And the possibility of police involvement. We had interacted with this neighbor on several occasions; he was disgruntled that The Boy had used his alley to store pieces of our rooftop deck in progress. From then on, we tried to stay out of his way, even though several times a summer his weeds took on a Little Shop of Horrors like quality.

"He said he's going to break through the sealed fireplace to save the cat, and then he'll fix it later. Better than it is now, he told me," The Boy said. Helicopters circled the neighborhood, as they often do. The Boy wondered if they were coming for Lenny's dad. "We might have to take Lenny in," he said, "when the law comes for his father. Wouldn't you hope it would seem suspicious that a man is breaking through a chimney on someone's roof?" Yes, one would hope.

Around 11PM we lay in bed laughing as we heard chipping away with a chisel; through our bedroom wall, we heard the distinct movement of bricks. "I'm worried I could be considered an accomplice. But he couldn't let his cat die," The Boy rationalized. I reminded him that breaking and entering and destruction of property are crimes, doesn't matter the intent. "But if it were Mosotos, you know we would do the same." I looked at the puggle snoring in his bed across the room. I couldn't be sure about that.

Around 11:30 the chiseling stopped. We haven't seen Lenny or his dad since, but we've been laying low, in case the authorities come knocking. One thing we were assured of: After this adventure, Puss in Boots would be an indoor cat.

Daylight Fading

Saturday, while buying three-dollar pink suede boots (with fringe) for my yet-unborn daughter, I got another text message from The Boy. This time, a picture of him in front of a horse monument. Later, a video of a band playing on a corner and man dancing with two brooms. "I love this. Wish you were here," he said. At my insistence, he had traveled to the Big Easy with our friend Ryan to explore and see his beloved Saints play. Not excited at the prospect of being alone at home, I headed to Richmond to hang with Amber and the kids.

The Boy did Bourbon Street and alligator sausages at the Superdome; I did the three-year-old's hair (badly) and shared my granola bar with the grunting one-year-old. I watched penne get thrown on the floor at the Olive Garden. Sunday, Amber said, "Sorry friend. Not the weekend away you were looking for." I always love my time with Amber, regardless of the circumstances. We watched a Hugh Grant movie and ate gigantic ("reduced fat") ice cream sundaes. I'm sure my visit there had something to do with the five pounds I've gained in the last two weeks.

But maybe, given my impending motherhood, it was a tad overwhelming. I called The Boy and said I wasn't sure I was cut out to have kids. He reminded me that we're only having one right now. And coming home, the house empty except for the dog, I remembered that even in an exciting time, it's important to cherish what's here now. Last night: me on the couch, eating reheated rice (and later, ice cream) and watching Tim Gunn on TiVo. I can do that now. No one was yelling for help wiping their tushie; no one needed me to give them a bath. There will be many days and years for that, and I am excited about the whole of it. But even the mundane now is special in that it won't be here forever.

We are into autumn now, and I am coming up on my third trimester. I can't believe how short the days are already, and everything is framed in the impending arrival of the girl who is already changing everything. At a follow-up sonogram last week, we learned that my amniotic fluid is still low, and it appears that the baby's right kidney is dilated. Tomorrow morning I'll see a perinatologist and have another sonogram. No one will tell me anything until there's more to say. I'm not excited to see a doctor with "high risk" in the explanation, but I'm glad we're being cautious. And I'll never complain about seeing my little girl.

Looking Forward, Looking Back

At twenty-five weeks pregnant, I think I'm probably less ready to be a mother than ever. On Monday, I fell down at work. In the hallway, during the normal course of walking, for no apparent reason. Minor muscle strains and bruises notwithstanding, my daughter and I seemed to be fine. I mentioned it to my OB, who said, "Well try not to do that again!" Oh, okay. Now I'll be more careful, but just because you say so.

We are embarking upon what, at least so far, seems to be our biggest challenge yet: securing childcare. At work, my child is number 212 on the list of "infants and unborns," up from 229 a few weeks ago, but down from 211 a few days ago. It's not a hopeful process. The Boy had a consultation that netted us countless phone numbers and addresses. And, of course, we couldn't just be on the same page about it; because we both feel like complete morons, in way over our heads, we fight about it. Thursday, in tears, I said, "I'm pissed at her because she's already ruining everything and she's not even here yet!" And this is how I know it will all be okay. Because the father of my child held me and said, "It's okay to be pissed at her." When I told my mother about it, she said, "Well that's a terrible way to look at it." Obviously, she is not father-of-my-child material.

The second number in my weight is higher than it has ever been but, in all probability, not higher than it will ever be. I've gained ten pounds, but my blood pressure is great, the kid's heart rate is on target, and just to be sure everything else is as it should be, we get to see her again in another sonogram on Thursday.

I'm reading a book on setting my baby's sleep and feeding schedule; I'm taking a prenatal Pilates class; I've signed up for childbirth education boot camp, and according to my pastor's wife, I'm "blossoming." But today The Boy's stepbrother asked me if it's weird, getting ready for something so unknown. "I don't see how I could ever prepare for it. And then she'll be here and nothing will ever be the same."

I'm not mad at her today, so I guess that's something.

And now, the looking back: I feel sheepish publishing this now, given my current pre-maternal state. It seems disingenuous, if only a little, to write about "surviving a miscarriage" only now that I'm nearly three quarters of the way along with my next pregnancy. But I've written a story and had it published at maryelise.com, a new, start-up women's magazine online. Check it out, if you please.

Goodnight, You Moonlight Ladies

And so already, my daughter is making herself the center of my life. Once I finally figured out what it felt like when she moved, it felt like she wouldn't stop moving. At home, whenever I felt a particularly strong kick, I'd yell for The Boy. "Baby! Get in here! I saw my hand move!" Slowly, he'd shuffle over, put his hand on my belly and morosely say, "I don't feel anything. You only feel it on the outside because you feel it on the inside." He pouted. I did not necessarily agree with his logic, so I still called him whenever I thought he might be able to feel it.

Then last week at work I realized she hadn't been moving much. At all. In fact, I couldn't remember the last time she moved. I went to The Boy's softball game, and in the car on the way home I blurted out, "She's not moving and I don't know what to do." The Boy convinced me to call the after hours line at my doctor's office.

"Would you classify this as an emergency?" The receptionist said.

"I don't know; that's why I'm calling."

"Well, the only way to get a message through is to call it an emergency. I can also refer you to office hours."

We went through this sequence a few times, before I told her to call it an emergency. It was only 9 PM, but no one ever called me back.

When I laid down to go to bed, the baby gave me a courtesy kick, but just one, and just barely. In the morning, at 8:56, I called the doctor's office. Another receptionist answered the phone. "Should I classify this as an emergency? It's that or else I refer you to office hours. The office doesn't open until 9:00," she said. I figured I could wait the four minutes.

Throughout the morning various receptionists told me to eat sugar or lie down or drink a little soda to get the baby to move. My daughter is way too cool to fall for any of that, though; she could not be manipulated.

Finally my favorite, Jacquetta, called me back. "Would you like to come in, just in case?"

Thank God. The Boy and I raced to the office to wait over an hour to hear the heartbeat, which, of course, we heard immediately. The other doctor, not my usual OB, tried to reassure me, but of course I felt like an idiot. I told her I was feeling something else, like a tightening that seemed too low to be the baby. "Well, pregnancy is uncomfortable," she said. Yeah, I thought, I've been pregnant nearly six months now; I think I've picked up on that. I will try not to freak out again, at least while my child is in utero; it was pretty embarrassing. After the doctor walked out, the kid kicked like she was trying to break free.

"Maybe she was just trying to get some attention," I hypothesized. "She's probably going to be a drama queen."

"Could be," The Boy said, "only once she gets older I doubt she'll try to get attention by sitting quietly."

A couple days later, we decided to play music for the stubborn child. In the absence of headphones, we put the iPod docking station on my belly. We played Counting Crows, and even though I disagree with her, she liked Mr. Jones better than A Murder of One. She liked Jack Johnson okay. But by far, her favorite was James Taylor. We played Sweet Baby James, and she went nuts. "Was that her?" The Boy asked, eyes wide. I nodded. "It wasn't you hiccuping or something?" He couldn't believe it.

"Are you getting verklempt?" I asked him, using our euphemism for being choked up, which we've used frequently since I've been pregnant.

"No," he said, too quickly. "I've probably felt her lots of times before, I just didn't know what I was looking for." He paused and looked down, "Well, maybe a little."

I put my hand on my belly and envisioned rocking our baby in the glider I thought would be much more comfortable and singing, "Deep greens and blues are the colors I choose, won't you let me go down in my dreams, and rockabye sweet baby James." And then I got verklempt, just a little.

Uncharted Territory

Saturday morning, having returned from our Outer Banks Family Extravaganza a night earlier than planned (more to come later), we found
ourselves with found time. We strolled leisurely through Fells Point waiting for a coveted table at the Blue Moon Cafe for a breakfast that quickly turned into lunch. Once The Boy's sister and friend packed up and headed north, we sat on the couch staring at each other. "There's so much to do but I feel like we beat the system," The Boy said. "You want to go look at baby stuff?" I was surprised at his willingness not only to go, but to suggest such a plan. The weather was unseasonably gorgeous, so his proposal had one caveat: We had to ride in the new convertible.

Windblown, we arrived at The Room Store, where The Boy swore he had once seen baby furniture. Though I knew better (but not enough), I humored him. Somehow, we left having paid cash for a red recliner that will arrive this Friday. "How is it," I asked as we left the register, "that since I've been pregnant you've acquired a convertible and a recliner and all I've gotten is fat?"

"We're going to Babies 'R' Us for you, honey," he lied. "And besides, the recliner is so the baby can sleep on my chest. Everyone will be much happier."

After weeks (months?) of delivering wide-eyed gems like: "I just don't see how a baby could need so much stuff," and "it's okay if I miss a playoff game when the baby is born; I'll just TiVo it for later," and "you're not considering cloth diapers?" The Boy accompanied me to the aforementioned baby superstore. It was a first trip for both of us. We were there to scout out the crib situation and so I could decide if the Ladybug theme suited my daughter (I've decided it's just her style, but with pale, barely green walls, no border, no black crib; you get the idea). Halfway to the cribs, The Boy stopped in his tracks in the middle of the aisle.

"Is everything okay?" I asked him, rolling my eyes at the dramatic response I knew waited for me.

"I'm just, umm, it's just that," he stammered.

"It's overwhelming to see all this stuff at once, huh?" I suggested.

"It's not so much that," he said, a hand to his forehead, "I just can't believe we actually need to be here."

He collected himself and we marched on. Within five minutes he had sketched out the nursery, complete with approximated measurements and had decided on a color and style of crib he preferred: white (for the versatility and ease of matching other pieces), convertible, preferably sleigh. It occurs to me that, by the time our child is old enough to enjoy the toddler or full size benefits these convertible cribs offer, we may have another infant, but I try to think of it as three investments for the price of one.

As we perused the oak section, we encountered a couple who actually kicked several of the cribs. When asked if they needed assistance, they responded they were just testing the merchandise. When we passed them a few minutes later, the husband was lodged under a crib as if it were a hot rod, disassembling it. His wife held the dismembered parts, completely unfazed. And I know we are first time parents and in many ways fit the profile, and I am aware my talk on this little publication has turned to all things baby-- for that I will not apologize-- that's just where I am; but I promise I will never ever contemplate the purchase of a crib as if it were an automobile. And I will never want that wagon wheel coffee table.

*The room pictured is not our nursery. Come on, do you think I'd paint a room pink?

Evidently, I really am Pregnant

"Oh, he's not here yet!" I cried when they called me back for my sonogram. "I told him to be early; a sonogram is not the same as a doctor's appointment." Vicki smiled.

"We'll just locate the placenta and take some measurements. He won't care if he misses that." A minute or so later, he knocked on the door.

"Come in, come in!" I said. He came in and grabbed my hand. We had been talking about this since we found out I was pregnant. Couldn't wait to see the baby, couldn't wait to learn our first details about our son or daughter. We saw ventricles and heart valves, femurs and a tongue.

Most of all, we sighed relief over what we didn't see. No signs of congenital defects. Things look healthy and normal which, though cliche, is always good news.

"Now," Vicki smiled, "Here's one leg, and here's another leg and . . . there's no third leg, so. . . " She typed "IT'S A GIRL" on the screen, confirming what I was convinced of and what The Boy feared.

"You'll love her anyway, right?" I asked The Boy.

"Yeah," he said, squeezing my hand, "I'll definitely love her."

Tell me how anybody thinks under this condition

I think I was waiting to write until I had something new to say. Something other than pre-baby hysteria or swearing at strangers under my breath or sometimes maybe not so under my breath. It seems, though, that this is where I live for now. No sense pretending it's otherwise. Every morning frustrates me with its challenge of having nothing to wear. Maternity clothes hang loose off my hips. Pre-pregnancy clothes don't fit. I'm awaiting a confrontation with The Boy over my frequent trips to Old Navy-- but it's not like I've been enjoying them, or like I have a wide variety of clothing options. And still, people don't seem to believe I'm pregnant. At work the other day, a man mistook me for somebody else. "I thought you were Kristen," he said, "but she is pregnant, and you are obviously not." When actually, I am four and a half months along. What to say?

I have always been clumsy; my mother once told me, watching as I practiced plies in the basement, that I had the gracefulness of a frog. I used to fall a lot. Not so much in recent history, thank goodness, but there are always bruises of unknown origin on my shins. Lately, though, it's even worse. Dropping everything, spilling drinks, banging elbows and other appendages into doorjambs-- you name it.

I had The Boy on speaker yesterday while I got ready for a girls' night out. I dropped makeup on my foot and swore loudly. "It's like talking to a sailor!" He remarked. While it's true that I've never been known for my patience, these days I have the shortest fuse I've ever had. I yell at drivers, think awful thoughts about shoppers in the mall, walk out of stores without what I need because it really feels like, if I have to wait in that line, I might explode. Today was not a good day, irritability wise. I made it through Pilates without much trouble, but it seemed to go downhill from there. Of course all of this new found salty talk comes at a time when my incubating child's sense of hearing is maturing. Our journal tells me, though, that the baby "might not understand everything" I say. So that's good to know.

We have argued lately over whether to have a Quad Screen-- an optional and somewhat controversial test used to screen for chromosomal abnormalities like Down Syndrome. A positive test would not result in any type of actionable information, other to than allow for termination of the pregnancy, which we are adamantly against. "So what is the point of the test?" I asked my OB while The Boy listened.

"It's really depends on your personality, whether you think it would help you to know." I told her I'd talk to my husband about it, figuring it would be another non-issues. I wanted to get it done because I figured, if we found out something is wrong, I could begin dealing with my disappointment then and learn as much as possible to prepare. The Boy doesn't see it that way. He's afraid it would just make things worse. We cannot agree on this issue. I am unaccustomed to being so divided on something that feels so serious-- we have a long history of concurrence, or at least compromise. When something is more important to one than the other, one concedes. On the things that have seemed important, we've typically just happened to agree. We were not equipped for this type of fundamental disagreement. We are still undecided.

The big sonogram is Tuesday, the one in which we assumed we would learn the sex of the baby, but I recently realized there's more to it than that. First of all, we may not be able to tell at all. That hadn't even occurred to me until a girl at work (who had never even uttered hello to me before she knew I was pregnant) told me all about the sonogram shenanigans leading up to the birth of her little Evan. They could never tell what he was. I'm really hoping ours child is more cooperative, but it wouldn't shock me if it isn't. And more important than all of that, this sonogram is meant to detect any congenital defects-- it's not all "Hi Mommy" written on a grainy image. So I'm nervous, of course, because that seems to be the pregnancy symptom more widespread than morning sickness: worry. When I found out I had only gained 1 pound through my 16th week of pregnancy, my first thought was "hooray!" Then, without even taking a breath, I asked the nurse, "Oh no, do you think that's okay?"

At Old Navy today, clinging to my sanity when I probably shouldn't have been allowed to be around people, I bought two t-shirts. One says "It's a Boy," and one says, "It's a Girl." I'm trying to be hopeful even though lately it feels like it would be more appropriate for it to say, "It's just too many hamburgers lately" or "It's the worst and longest-running PMS of all time." Take your pick.

Second Trimester Grumblings and Adventures

As it turns out, sharing the news of a well-concealed pregnancy is rather awkward. I told my boss earlier this week, and she was excited. Mentioned nothing of leaving or returning or any of that. Bringing it up in casual conversation, after 16 weeks, is kind of strange. "Yeah, so I'm pregnant," I found myself saying to a colleague the other day. To them, apparently, I do not appear to be pregnant. People say, "You're not even showing...that much," leaving me wondering if I should say, "You're right; I'm probably not even pregnant." But the top two buttons on my pre-pregnancy capris are unbuttoned right now, and it's not just because I'm in the comfort of my own home. The top is secured with a ponytail holder, doubling as a button expander. It's not pretty. When the aforementioned coworker told me to have a great weekend, I told him it would involve buying bigger pants. That hasn't happened yet, though.

These days seem to be filled with "Really, when's the next time we're going to be able to do this?" rationalizing. The Boy is still working on the rooftop deck; after I convinced him he should take me to IHOP for breakfast, I accompanied him to Lowe's for balusters and railings instead of scouring Target and Motherhood for stretchier pants and flowier tops. He has grand plans of bathrooms and new paint and, of course, the nursery, but also all kinds of things an infant would hamper. We've been to Connecticut (a short trip involving a picnic attended leisurely by The Boy's former love. Yes, she knew we would be there. No, she did not think it would be awkward. Everyone survived.); Houston for a wedding and Galveston for a day; we're spending the rest of July at home, then we head to the Outer Banks for a week with representatives from both families (two houses); The Boy's mother is flying in for Labor Day and somewhere in between there are weekend trips and visits yet to be planned, a nursery to be painted, blue or pink to be determined (though the paint will be neutral; this house has to sell eventually).

I've started a prenatal Pilates class and have been seeing a chiropractor I'm now seriously considering dumping after he mentioned, quite harshly and not for the first time, that I would quickly be developing varicose veins on the backs of my knees. I asked him what he proposed I do about it (I've already stopped crossing my legs almost entirely) and what he thought he was accomplishing by mentioning it to a pregnant woman who has plenty of those types of changes on her mind already. He was unfazed.

"Really, don't you have a daughter?" I asked, incredulous, on my face on the table, and very near tears.

"Yes," he replied.

"And do you talk to her that way?"

"Well, no."

"Then please stop talking to me like that! You're only making me feel worse!" He went on, flustered, to tell me my red toenails looked nice, but really, if you have to reach that far to compliment a girl, no one is doing very well. I cried to Amber as I walked home. The Boy referred to him in choice words and said he doesn't want me going back there. But still.

The time has come that The Boy has finally (hesitantly) acknowledged the belly, but it doesn't always show like it should. Sometimes, because of where the pre-pregnancy clothes hit, it just looks like I'm a little chubby around the middle. Especially when I'm seated which, obviously, doesn't sit well with me. I wouldn't mind looking pregnant-- I'm four months along today-- but that's not what it looks like to me. I've taken to casually resting my hand (usually the left one) on my abdomen when in public. Unfortunately, this has led The Boy on multiple occasions and a flight attendant to ask me if I'm all right. Not quite the desired effect.

Women say that the upside of pregnancy and weight gain is larger breasts, and I wish I could agree with them. I'm finding mine impossible to contain. The Boy frequently (especially last week in Galveston at the pool) and openly stares at them. "I'm sorry baby," he says when I reprimand him, "they're just ginormous." I'm starting to feel like a circus freak, and I'm nervous because they are not even serving their purpose yet. I complained at the pool, in my tankini, that I wasn't used to the presence of the belly yet. "Don't worry," The Boy said, eyes glued to my chest, "I don't think anyone is getting that far." Excellent.

At Meg's wedding in Houston last weekend, I wore a dress that I thought mostly concealed my pregnancy just because I still could. It did not, however, conceal the rapidly growing mammaries. I asked her about a large chested bridesmaid whose dress seemed more modest than the others.

"Is Kristy's dress pinned?"

"No, it's sewn with a button inside. I told her the only boobs I wanted on display at my wedding were my own."

"In that case, I apologize." I said, flushing slightly. "I didn't mean anything by it, but since I'm pregnant they've been really hard to control."

She glanced down at them for what was obviously not the first time and said, "That's okay, you weren't up there with me and you have an excuse." Well.

And now I've got to look through my clothes, so many there, so few that still fit, to go sit with another preggo at a bar where we will drink water (I'm so over O'Doul's and don't even ask me about St. Pauli Girl NA) and compare notes and listen to her husband's band. Another activity the baby would hamper. Really, who brings a baby to a bar?

Steady as She Goes

"So, any family history of breast cancer? Heart disease?"

"Yes, both," I said. She was plowing through a list of family history questions that, apparently, people do not typically answer in the affirmative.

"Diabetes? Stroke?"

"Yes, both," I said.

"If I had known she had so much baggage," The Boy quipped, "I'm not sure I would have gotten myself into this."

I expected my ob/gyn to look at him askance. Instead, she said, "Well, I certainly hope you're taking care of yourself."

I had my first "ob" appointment Tuesday. We tried to hear the heartbeat, to no avail. "This is the earliest it would be possible with one of these things," she said apologetically. I tried not to look concerned. "You just saw it on the sonogram last week, right?" I nodded. "We'll definitely hear it when you come back in two weeks." Again, I nodded.

"So, any questions?" She asked. And the answer was not really, since I have the Internet and use it rather liberally. "Just one," The Boy offered, "When do we get to have another sonogram?"

"At 18 weeks," she said, "And that's a really fun one. It'll look much more like a human being then, and we'll be able to tell what it is. You won't want to miss that one." And, of course, he won't.

Despite every calendar, online due date predictors and a sonogram she ordered to determine-- ahem-- gestational age, the good doctor insists that my due date is 5 days later than what everyone else says. Now, I realize, in the larger scope of 10 months, 5 days is nothing. Or at least it would be nothing if it didn't mean our baby is due not only a whole month later but in a new calendar year. When I inquired about the reason behind this difference, she said, "Well, all wheels are different. And since I'm the one who's going to be doing it every week, we'll go with mine."

Well. As soon as she would walk out, you can imagine we would not agree with that decision. "By the way," I would say to The Boy as I slipped my shoes back on, "we're sticking with December 30th."

"Oh, definitely," he'd reply, "what the hell was that about?"

So, our first parental act is mutiny against the ob/gyn's due date. Hopefully we're all wrong and it's earlier. Poor little Christmas baby. When the Rock Star Brother called to congratulate us he said, "Christina. Listen to me. Always buy separate presents. And separate birthday wrapping paper. Never give a joint Christmas/birthday party." Poor brother, I thought, born on Christmas Eve and a twin. He never had much of a shot at a day that was all about him. At least I can happily confirm there is only one bun in my oven.

"So far so good," she said as she left the room. Which are my sentiments exactly.

Expecting, but Not What I Expected

Everyone says if you wait until you're ready you'll never do it. That you're never ready. When it happened before, I wasn't ready because I didn't think I had to be. "It's not like all of the sudden we'll have a kid," I had told The Boy then. "We'll have nine months to prepare." This reasoning seemed to work on him, even if it wasn't completely sound. So, expecting what everyone says to expect, we didn't sweat it. I had heard it could take at least a year to get pregnant coming off the pill. I planned for it to take 6-8 months. It took two weeks. But I'm still convinced that one was over before it actually began. That doesn't doesn't mean it hurt any less, but it's something.

So many things about losing that baby surprised me. I used to think, were I to lose a baby, that I would be too terrified to try again. I thought I'd embrace drinking cocktails and work out until I was finally happy with my body before it happened for real. Instead, I wanted to try immediately. But of course, you can't do that. So instead, embarrassed, married, and longing for a baby, I hid Trojans in the bottom of my cart, face down, at Wal-Mart. I couldn't stand the irony.

Once everything was normal, we tried not to think about it, but I counted days and marked possibilities in cryptic initials in my Day Planner. And then I started taking tests 5 days early. I fought with The Boy because I was afraid he wouldn't be engaged like he was last time-- that he wouldn't allow himself to be attached until . . . I wasn't sure how long. I didn't believe I could be pregnant again, not already. Mostly I was scared. But this time, I got my first positive test two days early. Another one, with a darker line, came the next day, and one more, for good measure, the next. I don't think the blue line on an EPT test can get any darker. But we weren't excited yet.

The first person we told was a work associate of The Boy's we had taken to an O's game. She was 8 months pregnant at the time, and I drank $4 waters in rapid succession. We didn't have to tell, but he was dying to. A week later in Savannah with my girls, I begged off when everyone else ordered draft beer to go with their floppy pizza and finally asked for an O'Doul's. "Yeah, so I'm pregnant." I said. But it was so early. I felt like I might jinx it.

We told our families at 7 weeks, and I feared it would all be over then because that's what happened last time. But it was getting hard to fake that I didn't feel terrible, and news like that doesn't seem real when you keep it to yourself. Once the families knew, it was only a matter of time. News of the long-awaited first grandchild, first great grandchild does not stay quiet or local for long.

I am a little over ten weeks pregnant. At my first sonogram last week, The Boy had tears in his eyes. I strained to see the screen. "So is that the head?" I asked, pointing at the kid's feet. The sonographer was patient and explained everything.

"That black space in his head is where his brain will go!" She said, helpfully. Which is great, except that it means my kid doesn't have a brain.

So I've been waiting to talk about it, but I keep telling myself that waiting wouldn't make it hurt any less if something were to go wrong. We get calmer as days and weeks past. And as I eat fewer Saltines from day to day. I'm pretty sure the sound of crunching crackers on the other side of the bed is not an aphrodisiac.

I'm just not myself when I'm away

So where have I been since last we spoke?

The Boy took me for a surprise overnight getaway to New York, to a restaurant with a six-month waiting list (he "knew a guy"), a hotel with four stars, and a Broadway show with five Tonys. We went to his favorite bar, McSorley's, in SoHo, where sawdust covers the floors and actual dust covers everything else; where the only beers they serve are "light" and "dark" and they laugh at you if you try to order a bottle.

I walked around midtown wearing $20 Isaac Mizrahi shoes that dug into my heels and The Boy's suit coat because spring hadn't completely sprung in the big apple, and I had to at least appear to be wearing nice shoes. It was New York, after all.

A couple weeks later, I drove to Richmond to meet Amber and got up at 3:30 on a Saturday morning to fly to our other girls in Savannah.

In perfect weather, we browsed all the shops on River Street, ate at Paula Deen's famous restaurant, The Lady and Sons, went to bed earlier than we care to admit and ate and talked and laughed. Not the same as it used to be, but maybe even better. Because now we appreciate how hard easy friendships are to come by, and how they might never come again.

With The Boy's birthday rapidly approaching, we planned a big evening out. A brother and friends crashed on our couch despite the open beds upstairs; the boys played Guitar Hero in the middle of the night and we took a salsa lesson, I in my ill-chosen 4" red patent leather stilettos, they in their socks. The Boy surprised me by mastering a right turn and demonstrating in front of everyone. We ate empanadas at a big table surprisingly placed on the dance floor, but we yelled over the Spanish and it was fun. We rode around in the back of a white limo on somebody's prom night and pretended it made us matter. And for our last stop, at 2 AM, we picked up a large cheese pizza at Nacho Mama's.

And last weekend we stayed at the condo of our gracious friends in Ocean City. We arrived to white roses and a bottle of sparkling cider with a Happy Anniversary sign. That's right, I've been married for more than a year now. When I isolate the marriage part, I can't believe it. It was supposed to be hard, everyone said, and I guess sometimes it was. But in talking to Beth, another almost no longer a newlywed, we decided the hard stuff was mostly circumstantial, not so much marital. Yeah, in the beginning there were adjustment issues. There still are. But we're learning. The Boy stood in front of me nervous and giggling Saturday night before we left for our anniversary dinner. "This has been the best year ever," he smiled. I did a quick review: a layoff, the wedding and ridiculous honeymoon, but then my ailing father, a new job with little security, very tight finances, another new job, a pregnancy and a miscarriage. "If this was a tough year," he wrote in his card, "can you imagine what a good one would be like?" He produced a gold box with beautiful diamond stud earrings (that I have always wanted). It was too cold for the beach, but it was a beautiful anniversary.

And now, here we are, smack in the middle of spring, in the middle of the city for one more summer.