Gold Earrings

Tim is already shaking his head, I know.

Sure, he could buy me baby blankets, bottles, parenting books, and all typical MTB gear to help me be a good mom, but what I need most is a pair of large, gold earrings. I mean, straight-out-of -the-Bronx, large gold hoops.

This is my last week working at a preschool program, and as my final day approaches, I am reflecting on the experience. There were good times and scary times, but most of all, the program taught me solid principles about parenting. One thing I've learned is that some parents are afraid to parent. There are children who can scream, hit, and spit in their parents' faces and expect a timid, "Honey, please don't do that," from mom and dad. These parents are the ones who pick up their child immediately after class and never ask, "How did he behave?" Mainly, because they sense the reply will be, "Um, the same way he does at home: like a murderous villain."

It's not that these kids were born with a demon gene, it's that parents (a) don't bother teaching their kids the ABCs, let alone the Ps & Qs, (b) think it's 'cute' when kids cuss ... until they're 12-years-old yelling, "Where's my $&*%$#! allowance?", or (c) are too wimpy to discipline their kids.

This is why moms need large hoop earrings. The first time a kid gets mouthy, give her a warning. The second time, take 'em to timeout. The 3rd time, take her to timeout again, but this is just for show, because any kid who has pushed it this far is clearly willing to go all the way. The 4th time, make sure Mom puts on her gold earrings.

Working her neck from side to side (bonus points if the earrings jangle), she should, with one eyebrow raised, say, "I thought I told you to watch your mouth. Can you do that, or do I need to HELP you??"

Silence.

Do this once or twice, and that kid will learn that Mom is a loving and fair, but when her earrings come on, the gloves come off.

Pervs No More

I will not post a picture today, and soon you will understand why. I was watching TV this evening, and Dateline's weekly segment "To Catch a Predator" came on. If you've never seen this show, here's the basic outline: adults, pretending to be teens, lure sexual predators into chats online. They set up a meeting with the predator using a decoy in a rented house. When the predator arrives, the decoy leaves in a matter of minutes, and in walks the reporter. The most astounding thing is, the predators almost always stay to answer the reporter's questions! Are they too stunned to walk out, or just too stupid? Either way, here's what happens next:

Reporter: "Sir, what are you doing here?"
Predator: "Um, I was just going to hang out."
Reporter: "Hang out?" (Pulls out printed copy of online chat) "Is this an appropriate way for a thirty-year-old man to talk to a thirteen-year-old girl?"
Predator: (Begins crying like a thirteen-year-old girl) "I'm so sorry! This is my first time! I'll never do this again." (Proceeds to run out of house only to be tackled by law enforcement).

Sure, the script varies slightly from guy to guy, but this is generally what happens. In tonight's episode, they busted the same guy twice within eight months. As they hauled him away for the second time, I turned to Tim and said, "Our daughter will be living in a world with these kind of guys." Tim said the only thing a reasonable future parent would, "We just won't have Internet." I agreed.

You Be the Judge

DADDY'S PREROGATIVE WARNING: Tim has begged me to warn the world in general that the following entry contains naked baby pictures. Perhaps the last two years working in a preschool program (diaper changes and wet pants) have hardened me against the sight of kid's bottoms/frontals; sorry, they just don't make me blush anymore. As I was saying ...

Above is the baby's hand as pictured in the last sonogram. See the arm on the right hand side (it's at an angle about halfway down the photo)? You can even count five lil' digits. The hands of a professional artist and poet? You better believe it!

Now, onto the picture that requires a more critical eye:

Guessed what it is? It's a view of the baby from bottom up (legs only). This is the picture that led the doctor to claim there was an 85% chance the baby is a girl. Here's the same picture with a little editorial help:

Is Baby Dowdel clearly a girl, or does the doctor clearly need LASIK? You be the judge.

WARNING: Product Placement

Don't worry, I'm not going to try and flash product placements all over this blog to try to win corporate sponsorship for my pregnancy! In fact, I was just thinking to myself earlier this morning, as I was sipping a glass of Tropicana orange juice and enjoying the crunchy goodness of Post Grape-nuts, that movies often abase themselves when they try to promote products in every scene. A movie without product overload would be as refreshing as a bottle of Natural Spring Ozarka water and as needed as Charmin toilet paper. Excuse me while I sip my Starbucks hot chocolate.

Really, though, when a pregnancy product is worth mentioning, I feel obligated to mention it. So, for those of you who know someone who is pregnant (or are pregnant yourselves), it's time to pull out your credit cards, go online, and give those Internet hackers one more time to steal your identity.

Bella Bands, pictured above, are by far one of the best pregnancy products I've used. Instead of using safety pins, rubber bands, duct tape, or whatever other inventive binder a pregnant woman has used to hold up/expand their pants, they should try Bella Bands. The idea is so simple, I wonder why these haven't been around longer. The bands are large enough to fold over to ensure a comfortable fit. They come in 4 sizes and different colors (Size 1: for women who have a pre-pregnancy pants size 0 - 8; Size 2: for pre-pregnancy pants size 10-14; Size 3: for pre-pregnancy pants size 16-22; Size 4: for pre-pregnancy pants size 24+). They're comfortable and will quickly become a much-used item for most MTBs. They're worn under your shirt and over your pants. When they peak out it's OK, because they look like camisoles. They're available online, so all you friends & significant others with a MTB in your life, go ahead and do her a good deed today!

Part II: How I Woke Up with a Rash on My Back ...

... and Cried, "THE VIRUS!"

As I was saying, before my dentist appointment, I was anxious about my anxiety: were my worries enough to bring on Bell's Palsy or shingles?

My dental visit was only half an hour. I was on my back, which was uncomfortable. Mainly, because I haven't laid on my back for three months (doctors recommend MTBs sleep on their sides to have better circulation). As the minutes went by, I kept thinking, "Is the baby uncomfortable?" It didn't help that she(?) was kicking more than usual. So my mind kept on one cycle:

"Is the kicking a cry for help? I better calm down, or my anxiety is going to bring on the virus. Man, I hope I don't get the virus. The baby's still kicking. I better calm down, or my anxiety is going to bring on the virus. Man, I hope I don't get the virus ..."

The next morning, I woke up with an itch on the center of my back. The back is a prime location for a shingle attack, so immediately I started bugging Tim, "Do you see anything weird on my back?" Of course, I knew he would because I could feel it, but still. Tim confirmed I had a red patch of bumps smaller than 2 inches across.

I wanted to panic, but I kept thinking, "What else could it be? What else could it be?" I've never had sensitive skin, really, except I can't wear fake earrings because they cause redness/discharge.

Finally, it came to me: "The paperclips!"

Paperclips? I know, let me explain. For MTBs, the two most irksome things about being pregnant is (1) finding clothes that fit, and (2) finding clothes that fit. There is a time, for instance, when a woman's regular pants won't fit, yet maternity pants are too large. My ob-gyn says women come in with everything from tape to rubber bands to expand their regular pants. Regular shirts make tummies peek out like Pooh Bear, so those have to be replaced in the second trimester, too. The last, and most distressful, type of clothing that must be expanded is, well, (*blush*) undergarments.

Two weeks ago, I noticed that some of my things were getting a bit snug. The next day, I read a great tip in a parenting magazine. It recommended using paperclips as an inexpensive, quick way to expand the width of bras. So, I raided Tim's home office supplies and voila! Unlimited expansion possibilities! I had solved one problem ... and created another.

Apparently, the cheap metal used in the paperclips caused a reaction as it rubbed against my skin for 10-12 days. I didn't notice the extent of the irritation until the day after my dental visit. So, just like my ears, my back won't take less than gold or silver! (Did you hear that, Tim? I need lots of gold and silver.) Who'd have thought?

Mah Ehul Ahoi-ent

That's Dentist Speak for, "My Dental Appointment." Before I continue, here's my viewer discretion recommendation: if you already have issues going to the dentist, don't read today's entry. Unless, of course, you like to hear the truth. In which case, may we all hear a bit of Stephen Colbert's--um--toothiness.

So, last week my little brother's face began to go Picasso on him (every part doing its own thing). He had trouble controlling his eye, part of his mouth, and eventually, the muscles in half of his face. He was perplexed, and even more so when my brother-in-law informed him he was probably having a stroke (if you haven't figured it out already, my brother-in-law is many respectable things, but a doctor he is not). My older brother remarked that my brother's mouth looked a lot like Rocky's, and that didn't seem to help, either.

When my brother told me his symptoms, the first thing I told him was that two people I knew had the exact same problem last year: Bell's Palsy. Bell's Palsy is a condition caused by a common virus (the same virus that gives you Chicken Pox). It shows up in adults as shingles and Bell's Palsy (among other things), though I don't think they know exactly why. It causes paralysis in half, if not all, of the face for 2-12 weeks.

The two people I knew who had it were all under excessive stress for weeks when the Bell's Palsy manifested itself. Here's where it gets shady: my friend who had it last year (as well as her friend) both developed Bell's Palsy days after their last dental visits.

Pum-pum-pahhhhhh!

So, I tell my little brother, "Out of curiosity--and I'm not trying to start any rumors or anything--but, have you been to the dentist lately?"

"Actually," he said, "I was in there this week."

Pum-pum-pahhhhhh!

The obvious deduction from this coincidence is that dental professionals across the country are, in fact, testing patients with chemical warfare products derived from alien technology (for more on this subject, contact my brother-in-law). My second theory isn't nearly as plausible: if this particular virus can be triggered by high levels of stress, perhaps going to the dentist (which many people dread anyway) is simply the 'straw that broke the camel's back'? Maybe the dental visit itself causes no harm but is merely a tipping point for anxiety? I know, I should hush my nonsense and beware of the aliens.

Now to the crux: how does this all affect my pregnancy? I mean, sure I'm pregnant and we just moved into a new apartment this weekend and I'm training my replacement at work and my body is changing all the time and I'm worried how I will contribute financially to our family and we have to house-hunt now, but what's a little stress? Well ...

At my last dental appointment six months ago, I scheduled my next visit for ... yesterday.

Pum-pum-pahhhhhh!

Part II: How I Woke Up with a Rash on My Back and Cried, "THE VIRUS!" tomorrow.

It's a ...

WARNING: This entry contains spoilers as to the gender of Baby Dowdel. If you do not want to know the sex of the baby, then move to Alaska, because once my sister finds out this info ... If you have not put in your official name suggestions, you may do so now at the entry entitled "Care to Get in the Pool?" You may not continue reading and then post your guesses, because that would make you a CCPE (cheater, cheater pumpkin-eater).

Monday we went to find out the sex of the baby. I was nervous, mainly, because I was sure the kid would not show us 'the goods' again, which would be a waste of cash, time, but mostly, anxiety. I realize guessing the sex of the baby is exactly that, a guess, but this baby is like a science project for me sometimes: what is it doing, is it healthy, does it already have a personality, if not, how can I make it calm like Tim? And so on. I want to learn everything I can about him/her to prepare myself mentally. Like I said, I was anxious.

The first images on the sonogram were almost comical. The child did not have its legs crossed this time, but instead had its back to us! It sat there, sucking its thumb, with its body posed like "Do you mind?"

I knew at that point that whatever the doctor told me would surely be a guess. As expected, the doctor freely admitted that he was giving his best GUESS, but, he was 85% sure that Baby Dowdel is, brace yourselves (I had to): a girl.

Hold me.

Mama Math

In high school, I got a C, mostly Bs, and an A or two in math class (let's give a shout out for those teachers who rounded grades up: I say "No child," you say, "left behind!" "NO CHILD LEFT BEHIND!"). Today, I can balance my check book, figure out the best rates for interest loans, calculate the savings from discounts, double a recipe, and quarter a sandwich when I have to, and isn't that what counts?

But, there is one question people ask me that makes me feel a bit number-deficient: "How many months are you?"

"Let's see," I say, dusting off my mental abacus, "there are 9 months total, right? But there's really only 40 weeks, or is it 42? And I'm about halfway through ..."

I'm not trying to undermine the health care profession, but they don't make the math easy. We've all heard that women are pregnant for 9 months, so that makes me think: 9 months x 4 weeks in a month = 36 weeks.

Not so! Pregnancy lasts for 40 weeks. To make things more complicated, "... because counting begins from the first day of your last period--and ovulation and conception don't take place until two weeks after that (if your periods are regular)--you actually become pregnant in week 3 of your pregnancy. In other words, you've already clocked two weeks by the time sperm meets egg" (What to Expect When You're Expecting). What?

The good thing about all this is that Tim hasn't figured it out, either (ignorance loves a party).

So, here's what I do know: I am in my 22nd week of my 40-week journey (I'm more than halfway!). According to What to Expect, I'm finishing my 5th month. Next week I'll be in my 6th month. It seems like I should be only 4 1/2 months along, since that would be half of 9 months, but again, that would be too simple. If anyone has a graphing calculator, bar chart, or Chinese zodiac calendar that can explain all this to me, please visit. I'll be in my office balancing my checkbook (humph!).

Beating Me Down

1. During a run.
2. While moving boxes up three flights of stairs.
3. Zipping side to side as a masked figure takes aim at your back.

All of these are acceptable situations in which your heart may thump madly in your chest.

Lying on the sofa while eating a chocolate chip cookie? Not so much.

One of the oddest things for me about my pregnancy is the way suddenly, for no reason at all, my heart begins pounding while I'm at rest. The first time this happened I was sitting at a coffee shop while typing. The change was so immediate and noticeable that I stopped typing and sat perfectly still. I looked down at my T-shirt, and my chest was pulsing--I mean, visually PULSING--with the beat of my heart. So, I ran to the go-to guide for all such dilemmas: "What to Expect When You're Expecting." This book has more than once saved me a trip and a $20 co-pay to my ob/gyn.

The good news was that a racing heart is common among MTBs. The bad news was, it could occur at anytime.

When it happens, I become entirely distracted with the thought, "What could possibly be going on in there?" I can't continue until it abates. I woke up once feeling like I'd just sprinted a quarter-mile, and it took me half an hour to get back to sleep. I tried to explain how dramatic this can be to Tim, but he's a CALM person, so I don't think he could truly sympathize. His version of a dilemma can be summarized by a conversation we had last night while baking:

Me: "You know, I think we can probably add some more chocolate chips to the batter, just so we can finish off this extra bag."

Tim: "Now you want to add more chips? Of course we should add more chips! The first word is chocolate, then chip, then cookie."

Who wants to dwell on racing hearts when there's not enough chips in the dough? :)

Last Call!

Tim & I have scheduled an appointment in the very near future (date withheld purposefully) to learn the sex of the baby. If you would like to get in on naming the child, please place your contest entry in the 'Comments' section of the the 'Care to Get in the Pool?" post made on 1/10. Deadline: February 15th.

Everybody Was Kung Fu Fighting!

Is it a feisty boy or a strong-willed girl? Who can say?

What we do know is that yesterday we hit a milestone: the baby kicked! Where's the Rocky theme song when you need it?

"That's right," I tell Baby Dowdel, as I rub my belly and stroke my imaginary goatee (try doing that at the same time), "be strong, my child, and together we shall raise an army of your kind. We shall not take this Life lying down!"

Before some of you come rushing over to touch my maternal dojo, restrain yourselves. The kicks are not strong enough yet to be felt at all times. Perhaps by next week, when we have finished our training in roundhouse and snap kicks, the baby will be ready for his/her first competition--er, contact.

Tax Deduction

When I was single, tax time was a breeze. I was always broke, so the math was simple=
$0 (my income) - 10% (Uncle Sam's cut) = $0

Every so often, when I made a few dollars during the year, I'd actually get a refund. The refund was never anything to get tickled over, but it bought a few school supplies and one good dinner.

After I got married, I entered the worst tax bracket ever: married without children. The first year Tim & I went to do our taxes, we brought all of our school loan interest statements, business expense sheets, W-2s, possible itemized deductions neatly categorized, and hope.

Two hours later, we left as naked as Adam & Eve.

We had no idea we owed several thousand dollars. The accountant's fee alone was $400. The IRS demanded what pennies we had salvaged after the Christmas season and more. We would have shed tears, but it had garnished those, too.

Didn't Uncle Sam care we had a ridiculous amount of credit card debt, 75% school-related? What about the money we spent driving to work because of the scarce public transportation? Didn't he know we had purchased two cars at completely exploitative interest rates to get to said jobs?

Of course not, so this end-of-year beat down has gone on since '01. Since then, we've wised up on ways to limit our losses and have even resorted to doing our own taxes. Still, the check we mail out every April 14th (you better believe we hold on to it that long!) stings.

So, a few weeks ago, Tim & I purchased our first set of bibs for Baby Dowdel. We passed on the ones that read, "Daddy's Little Girl," "Thank Heaven for Little Boys," "Princess," and "Grandma Loves Me" and went to the one we knew spoke the true words of our hearts: "Tax Deduction."

Hitler, Jezebel, & Fidel

Some couples have fun naming their babies. These are the same people who have a boy's & girl's name picked out by the 3rd month of pregnancy and later enter their babies' pictures in all of those cutest-baby-of-the-week magazine contests.

The problem with the rest of us, besides a tendency towards perfectionism, is that we crave for meaning, originality, and above all, names without bad karma.

You know what I'm talking about: names that make you sneer because the last person you knew who bore them were total heathens.

EXAMPLES
1. Melissa & Emily = Heartless girls from school who will only show up at the reunion to relive their heydays
2. Candy & Mercedes = Don't care how you cut it, these names are destined for strippers
3. Michael & Joseph = Biblical names, when shortened, are generally owned by the godless
4. Yuna, Mace, Xzavier, etc. = Might as well name my kid 'Gandalf' if we're going this route
5. Chase & Brice = These names belong on the set of Passions or Days of Our Lives, not on future job applications.
6. Herbert & Elmer = Middle name: Wuss

My brother told me not to over-think the name thing. I'm having trouble doing that. Some names have been stricken from the list just because they are too easy to turn into taunts (Fatty Patty). To add to the dilemma, my husband and I don't have the same standard for what a 'good' name is. I like names that are heroic in literature (Phineas, Bastion, Liam, Basil, Tristan), but since most of those names came from historical or fantasy novels I read years ago, now they all sound a bit, well, prissy. Piper, Madison, Maya--these work for me, too.

Tim, however, has mentioned names like Cathryn, which as we learned today, was the second most popular name back in '98 ... 1898.

Sigh.

Care to Get in the Pool?

The betting pool, that is. Ever since our inconclusive sonogram last Friday, I've had people tell me, "See? I told you it was a girl." I've had others tell me not to be in suspense a moment longer, because guess what? Yep, I'm having a boy.

My cousin tells me to listen to no one but my own instinct. She knew the second she was pregnant that her baby was a girl. Her sister, when she was pregnant, was so confident it was a boy she didn't bother even thinking up a girl's name.

The problem is, as I've honestly stated before, I have no maternal instincts. Me and the pizza delivery guy have an equal shot at guessing the sex of my baby.

So, as I'm not a gambling person, I purpose this: please post your name, your guess as to the sex of the baby, and your top three suggestions for a name. Simply post as a comment to this entry. When we find out the sex of the baby (we'll take another shot at it next month), we'll chose a name from among those who guessed correctly (hereby referred to as the 'Winners'). If all of the names horrify Tim, we reserve the right to use the winning name as a middle name. Good luck, and may the Winners please, please, for the love of all that's good, not select the name Olga.

NO PURCHASE NECESSARY. To enter, post your entry as a comment (below). To be eligible, entries must be completed and received on or by the 15th of February or Baby Dowdel's next sonogram (whichever is later). Incomplete entries will be disqualified. No multiple entries (Dad, that means you). All entries shall become the property of M Productions and Grandma Dowdel. Grandma Dowdel is not responsible for lost, misdirected or delayed entries. Winners will be notified to the world at large in this blog.

No They Di-int!

This has happened to everbody, so I will only complain about this once. Afterwards, I will allow myelf to let it go.

Yesterday, I was two sentences short of finishing my blog entry when, for no logical reason, Blogger decided it was the right moment to do maintenance. It was the middle of the day; who does maintenance in the middle of the day when it's so inconvenient (except the cable guy)?

The second I realized the entry was lost forever, all I could think was, "No they di-int!" If you're not sure how to prounounce that, ask a ghetto friend.

I would've complained aloud, but remember, I'm censoring the baby. I understand this exact thing has happened to everyone on the Internet, probably more than once.

I'll remind myself Blogger is a free service, lick my wounds, and get over it.

Exhale.

Shhh ... Baby in Progress

The pregnancy book I have says the baby can hear outside sounds now, in particular, voices. Even after birth, research shows babies' heartbeats slow (sign of relaxation) when their moms speak to them. Simply put, my words now have a private audience of one.

Creepy.

This is why typing is so liberating. I can write, "A lady in the grocery store parking lot today almost hit my car while cutting across the parking lanes. As she zipped past, she waved to me like, 'Thanks for using your brakes better than I'm using my brain!'" See? The baby has no idea what I'm saying. I'm grinning just thinking about it. The kid won't have any idea about the downsides of Life (for example, how rude people can be) if I only type about it. Let's face it: if I verbally list all the ways everyday life can go awry, this kid will never come out! Who would want to join an unstable world filled with war, environmental disarray, disease, and gum stuck under tables? By the time Mankind is done with this planet, Judgement Day is going to be more like a spring cleaning. The baby won't want to leave my warm, comfortable (though snug), smoke-free hotel--it's free womb & board!

See? I get all those thoughts out of my system with a few key strokes. I calm down, make a mental list of all the things in the world worth saving, take a breath, and now I can say, "Life is good" aloud. The baby thinks: "Wow, what a great world! I can't wait to be part of it!"

The ACLU has no idea what's it's talking about; rock on, censorship! :)

You're Too Shy, Shy

What's going on in there? I couldn't tell at first, either.

Today we had our second sonogram to see how Baby Dowdel is coming along. I had a secret fear we were going to find out the baby had no heartbeat or that some other terrible illness had befallen him/her. The good news is that the heartbeat looks strong (thank God) and the baby weighs what it should, though I don't know what that number is. Let's try that first picture again, with a little help:

As you can see, the baby has a head like a regular human (and a larger than average brain with exceptional IQ, no?); I think that's a good sign. My favorite thing we saw today, which the doctor didn't get a picture of, was the baby's leg position. The baby had 'em crossed very casual like, probably wondering what was taking breakfast so long. There were no signs of agitation or even concern. This comforted me. It tells me there's a chance this kid could be like Tim, which would make it the most laid-back baby ever. Now for the not so good news:

Because of the leg position (and the lack of interest in changing it) the baby effectively let us know that when he/she wants a photo, he/she will let us know. We couldn't tell if the baby is a boy or girl. My regular doctor told me a month ago I was having a boy (from the sound of the heartbeat), but my secondary doctor today said, "It looks like there might be some female genitalia here, so it's probably a girl ... but I wouldn't hang my hat on that."

What does that mean? That means we're not in the blue zone or the pink zone, but have entered the Purple Zone.

Dads: "Girls Just Want to Have Fun ...

... but not my daughter. No funny business until she's 30. What's it to you, anyway? You some kind of pervert or somethin'?"

Men everywhere band together to defend their little girls from who else? Other men. Life seems fair and balanced until a baby girl in a pink dress shows up, and now you feel as though the number of wolves vs. sheep is suddenly disproportionate.

That's right, Naughty Gentlemen: not returning phone calls, dumping girls at the last minute because Plan A comes through, showing up at parents' houses with less-than-Martha-approved manners, broken promises, unwanted whistling/touching towards waitresses and retail saleswomen--all of these actions seemed so harmless, didn't they? In fact, even when you were caught, the consequences seemed so mild compared to the rewards. But what if that girl dumped on Valentine's Day was your little girl? What would you think of that young man's cavalier ways now, eh?

To the Rest of the Gentlemen: You may have never noticed when a qualified woman at your workplace was underpaid, or it may have never bothered you that half-naked, starved women advertise every product everywhere. Now you'll experience the way young girls and young women see the world. When your daughter stares longingly at a skinny actress on the cover of InStyle or People, you may have the urge to comment for the first time, "Can you believe this girl? Put some clothes on!" If your daughter shows strengths in male-dominated areas, your sense of fairness and equal opportunity may seem to elevate. If so, good for you! If you're a good guy, chances are, your daughter will have high standards for future fellows.

I say all this because today a sonogram showed my brother/his wife will be bringing a little girl into the world in the spring. To my brother I would like to say, "Muahhahahaha! Now you will see what it's like to play defense!" Really, though, Gabe: protect her, defend her, and release her--in that order. Congratulations, Gabe & Angelica.

Her-mones

People like to joke about pregnancy hormones. Not to play the gender card, but I tend to hear more men than women hint to Tim that he better "be nice to me, or else." As if I, who now gets winded just climbing the stairs to our apartment, have the energy to pummel Tim even if I wanted to.

The truth is, every woman is different. I have met pregnant women who are weepy, irritable, and angry. I've met some that, besides a few tears here and there, haven't changed much from their pre-pregnancy selves. But all MTBs have a lot on their minds that can affect their moods, regardless of the hormone factor.

"Do we have enough medical insurance?"
"Is our home big enough?"
"Should I go back to work, if so, when?"
"What if I'm a terrible mom?"

Lists of questions can be going through their heads at any time, and frequent changes in their physical appearances doesn't help, either. So, it's no wonder that they may not be in the mood to chat, go to parties, or whatever else they may normally like to do.

WARNING: None of the previous commentary is valid on Delivery Day. From the moment a woman goes into labor, no rules apply. Some women are so polite that even in labor they are too timid to ask annoying relatives to leave the room. I have known other women, however, who seemed perfectly fine throughout their pregnancies, but in labor, all niceties were gone. I know a gentle, petite lady, who upon attempting to deliver a 10-lb. boy, spoke to her husband in a deep, merciless voice I couldn't recognize as her own. Let's face it, some women in delivery may drastically change to feel (as an actor said once), "All I give out are butt-kickings and lollipops, and I'm fresh out of lollipops." Be warned.

Just Five More Minutes, Mom

ZZZZZzzz I like to multi-task. I can't even sit in front of the TV without folding socks, balancing my finances, highlighting tips from magazines--something. The thing is, lately I've been sleepy. In the middle of the day, after dinner, and sometimes after I've only been awake for an hour in the morning, I feel sleepy. I want to hold Mr. Snoogle (see last month's Mr. Snoogle, Give Me a Dream) and cuddle on the couch. The first time I succumbed to this fantasy, I slept for two hours. I woke up, startled. "What's going on? What time is it? Where are the unpaired socks?!?" After that slip, I was determined to suppress the z's and be productive.

The next day went something like this:

Me (passing by the couch): "No, Mr. Sofa, I can't spend any time with you today. I appreciate the offer, but I've got work to do. Thanks, anyway."
Mr. Sofa: *says nothing* (I said I've been sleepy, not crazy.)
Me: "Who left that pillow on you, Mr. Sofa? That's supposed to go in the bedroom. Here, let me get that--oooohhhh, yes, what a soft, fluffy pillow for someone to leave behind ..."
Mr. Sofa: *stares blankly*
Me: "I'll just take this pillow ... and ... grab it, hold it, caress it with both arms, so gentle ... bury my face in its polyester bosom ..."

An hour later I finally came to when the UPS guy banged on the front door. This happened every other day for weeks. The guilt of sleeping in the middle of the day when honest people were hard at work surfing the Internet began to chew at my bones. No matter how many times Tim encouraged me to get my sleep, I still felt like a slacker.

Here I am, beginning my 19th week, and the need to nap happens sporadically, some days not at all. As I write, all I can think is, "If I get to bed in the next 30 minutes, that gives me plenty of time to start dinner before anyone knows the wiser. I can fall asleep on a pile of laundry in case anyone catches me. I'll show 'em!"

I don't know what I'm trying to prove to who, but I feel like I have to be productive 100% of the time. But the baby is wearing me down, and I know there will be a day (in my 7th month, I'm sure) when someone says, "Taking a nap again? Didn't you just get up an hour ago?" to which I will answer, "I'm over here making hair on a baby's head, what are you doing?"

Keep Movin' in the New Year

In the last few years, I've gotten in the habit of making resolutions every New Year's Day. I'm not sure why I started doing this; pre-planning definitely ain't genetic in my family! My resolutions are simple this year, but only one pertains to baby-in-belly.

I am resolved to exercising 5 times a week, even if that means just walking for 30 minutes. My workout schedule of late has diminished to just a few walks a week. Mainly, I'm just sleepy, and my motivation to move beyond what is necessary is low.

Before I was pregnant, I ran about 2.5 miles 4-5 times a week including a 20-minute cardio/strength-training thing afterwards. Though I know it's probably safe to keep running (at least, that's what most magazines say), I worry that pounding the pavement will hurt the baby. If you've ever tried running while trying to protect an area (landing gently on one foot because it's sore, for example), you know how quickly your awkward run can make other joints sore. I know women who ran far into their pregnancies and were on training machines the week before their deliveries, but that isn't me.

So, walking is the name of the game. Telling some moms-to-be (hereafter referred to as MTBs), "Exercise will make your delivery so much easier," "It will help with your energy level," and "Think of how much easier it will be for you to get back into your pre-pregnancy size!" is enough to keep them on the walking path. That's not going to work for me. The only way I can make it through is 100% Guilt: "Think of how much better it is for the baby. You don't want what's best for the baby, don't you?" Yes, of course, of course! I can be a good mom, Conscience, just give me another chance!

Time to turn in my piggy slippers and find my Brooks running shoes.