Is There a Doctor in the House?

I think most people have done it: made big ticket purchases only to find out afterwards that we grossly overpaid. For some of us (by that I mean me), it happened when we bought our first car. For others (hopefully not), it was when we bought a home. Some of you may still have TVs or car stereos that y'all can't figure out why y'all are still paying on them. Unfortunately, some of you are still paying on a wedding from several years back (if you live in Hollywood, you may be paying this, your divorce lawyer, and child support all at the same time).

The upside of this is that many of you will make these things learning experiences, things you vow not to repeat. Others of you, I dare say, have simply started a pattern. Either way, nobody likes to commit money or time to something that turns out to be less than acceptable.

This is the fear I carry with me as we search for a pediatrician. I recall when we purchased our first car. I remember how I felt (scared), how I acted (naive), how prepared I was (hardly), my shrewdness (hahahaha), and my knowledge in the area (besides knowing what wheels were ...). This is pretty much what I'm feeling now. I don't know anything about pediatricians. Until earlier this week, I didn't know where one was within 10 miles of me. So, without shame, I present to the world how Tim & I came up with our list of 12 finalists (out of the 35 near us and taking our insurance) which will be narrowed down to 3 this weekend:
1. We knocked off anyone farther than 15 miles away.
2. If you graduated before I was born ('79), I apologize, but you won't be our pediatrician (we want somebody with the latest training in medicine).
3. If you graduated after 2001, you also are disqualified for the exact opposite of the reason listed above. Some experience is good, too, you know?
4. If you didn't go to school in the United States, though Tim hates to admit it, he'd prefer someone who did.
5. We selected only those affiliated with a children's hospital.
6. Finally, this weekend we're going to do drive-bys of all the facilities left. If the office is shabby or the lobby dirty, we won't bother interviewing the pediatrician at all.

Sure, some of you will take issue with our list, but the truth is, we're doing the best we can. To be more honest, there are some disqualifying factors brewing in my mind that I'm ashamed to admit to. For instance, I don't care if my doctor is a male or female, but for some reason, I kind of hope that the doctor we select will be a female if we have a baby girl. I can't pinpoint quite yet why that is, but it is (I'll shuffle to the back of the classroom now). I think there are other things that even Tim is quietly calculating.

So, I conclude with this: if any of you have any suggestions on how to narrow the list or what questions we should ask in the interview process, please let us know. Otherwise, we may end up resorting to less than academic methods (blondes v. brunettes?).

Liability

The best thing about 2 adults who go to court is this: eventually, someone will be deemed liable. Especially when it comes to car wrecks, judges are usually able to figure out who's responsible. One party pays the necessary fees and fines, and everyone goes home.

Not so with children. When your infant or toddler breaks, maims, or otherwise destroys an object (inanimate or not), guess where the blame goes? No matter what your infant does, it's your fault. If she pulls a cord and drops a keyboard on her head, who do you think is going to hear it from the spouse? If your toddler puts all the toilet paper rolls into the bowl, you'll ask yourself, "Why didn't I lock those up?!?" If your infant spills tomato juice on the carpet, you're going to clean it up because it's your fault. You sit your two-year-old on your lap at a friend's house and tell her not to touch anything; she shoves a lamp off the table next to you, so who's going to pay for the lamp? "But I told her not to touch anything!" So? Everything, no matter how logically you can argue that it was an accident, will end up being your fault.

This thought irks me, though there's little--excuse me--nothing I can do about it.

For instance: my three-year-old niece (my sister's daughter), who is both cute and clever (I'm not saying this because she's my niece; she really is cute. If she wasn't, I would've just said "my niece" and left it at that--I'm cold-blooded that way) has one trait that is both a blessing and a curse: she's very independent. She is a bit geeky (plays preschool games online, takes photos with her digital camera, talks to her dad on a web cam, and I'm not even kidding, I've seen her with a cell phone earpiece as she chats with her dad who travels a lot). Because of this, unfortunately, I've become lax when she comes over to visit and wants to play with our computer. She's done it so many times, I really don't consider the risks.

When she came over Sunday night saying she wanted to play a DVD on the computer, I said, "Sure." I was in the kitchen and told her to wait just a moment and I would put it in for her. Well, a moment was too long to wait. She started clicking away on the keyboard and seemed troubled that she couldn't find the DVD menu easily. As I was walking towards her, I said, "I'm coming. I'll put the DVD in for you." She leaned over, and pressed the power button. I said, "You don't have to turn if off to restart it, kiddo, all you have to do is--" At this point, I noticed a warning sign on the screen. Before I could read past the first few words (which went something like, "File BlahblahX0234blah is missing"), the computer turned off. I shrugged and turned it back on.

Nothing happened. The light went on, but nothing showed up on the screen. I knew something was broken, but I refused to accept it. Tim had already gone to bed, and since the true loves of his life consist of 4 things (chocolate cake, vanilla shakes, air conditioning, and computers), I panicked. I started fixing things that I knew weren't broken (checking the cable connections, adjusting the monitor, etc.). Eventually, I had to wake up Tim, real casual-like ("Honey? There's something wrong with the computer. I'm sure it's something simple, but could you take a look? I'm sure it's something simple ...").

Here we are three days later, and my husband is almost done reloading all of the programs onto our computer because he had to reformat it. I could explain what exactly my niece did, but there's only one thing that matters here: we couldn't chastise her (beyond warning her to be careful) because when all has been weighed and balanced, the bitter truth is this: it's one person's fault for not preventing the situation when she had the opportunity.

I'm considering billing my sister. :)

Close Your Eyes, Children!

There will be no picture today, kids; trust me, you wouldn't want to see one anyway.

This past weekend Tim & I had another one of our parenting classes. I could tell you about all things that might have frightened me but didn't (the contraction charts, the dilation diagram, and a baby mannequin traveling through a pelvis model). Instead, I'll tell you about the one thing that made me clench my teeth.

For the first time in my life, I saw a birthing video. If they showed this video to 9th graders, this country would never have another teen pregnancy. The women in the video went from excitement (during the light stage of labor), to tense concentration (early second stage), to a sad and desperate state (right before delivery). As they huffed and puffed, I felt so much pity for them. They hurt so much they didn't cry. It's hard to understand what pain like that is. Finally came a scene right out of every alien/monster movie ever made: the crowning.

Crowning is when the baby's head first breaks out of the mother. I could not--repeat, could not--believe how large the opening in the mother was. Apparently, none of the men in the room could believe it, either. They all looked uncomfortable, and there was a collective shaking of heads (with a hint of joy) as each thought, "I'm glad it's you and not me." The baby exited the woman's body, though it seemed physically impossible. The mother's instant reaction was classic and honest. She said, almost questioningly, "But that doesn't look like a baby." I agreed.

After the birth, I sat there, clinging to Tim's arm. The instructor said to the class, "If you'd like to see your baby crown, the nurses will offer to put a mirror up during your delivery."

What? Seriously, what? No thanks, ma'am; if I want to see a horror film, I'll pay the ridiculous $8.50 fee at the movie theater.

Tim rubbed my back and tried to be comforting, but we both knew the truth of the matter, and there wasn't much left to say.

The Only Leader Left is Colonel Sanders

So, I'm at home typing up a presentation I have to give this weekend, and as usual, I have daytime television on in the background. Can't help it; I get lonely!

Anyway, Montel comes on. I'm OK with Montel, really; I agree with his opinions about 80% of the time, though I cringe whenever he has a bogus psychic on the show--just because I'm home during the day doesn't mean I've got cabbage for brains!

The topic for the day is child abuse in school (teachers abusing kids and kids abusing kids). One story in particular has me thinking Baby Dowdel will be home schooled. A second-grader at an unnamed elementary went to the bathroom during recess. Four boys, some as old as 7th grade, began abusing him. Using sticks, brute force, and their own bodies, they sodomized the kid. The boy's friend ran to the person on guard in the playground and told her about the trouble. The adult responded that he should just leave them alone. Apparently, this group of kids has beaten up other kids and is the usual suspects in school when it comes to high crime. Either because the adult didn't realize the gravity of the situation or was tired of dealing with these boys, she didn't act on the tip. The poor boy in the bathroom was raped and eventually had to have reconstructive surgery to repair his genitals. If you think this is a unique incident:

http://www.metrowestdailynews.com/homepage/8998947584340918268

http://www.usatoday.com/news/education/2007-02-07-allentown_x.htm

http://www.dailycal.org/sharticle.php?id=3859

I have to ask, "Is the only real leader left in the United States Colonel Sanders?!?" I'm not just talking about the moronic woman in charge at the playground. These boys had been in trouble before, and guess what the parents of the other victims did? They transferred their children to private schools and didn't pursue the matter. OK, Parents, get off your hind ends and defend your kids. It's not enough to remove them from the situation; pursue the criminals (oh, yes, a person who uses brute force is a convict, whether they drive a car or a bicycle!). Don't some parents know or care that their lack of concern will contribute to more crimes towards children in the future? They have an obligation to see a problem through to its resolution, not just offering quick-fixes for their kids.

Please tell me we don't have more sense than to let the leadership of this country fall to a man who's greatest contribution is extra-crispy drumsticks.

Fear and Female Both Start With "F"

Fine, here it is: originally, I wanted the baby to be a boy. There, I said it; go ahead, militant feminists, get your pitchforks and torches out, I'm sure last year's tiki torches will do in a pinch. If it makes any difference, my reason for wanting a boy was NOT to carry on the family name or anything. It wasn't because my husband wanted a boy, either (actually, he told me he has no preference). My reason won't manifest itself until 2o24, when my child is about 17. This is when she'll be upstairs in her room crying because her boyfriend cheated on her again (perhaps for the third time). Where will I be? I'll be downstairs hammering the last nail in my coffin, because I will have accepted the fact that my daughter wants to send me to my grave.

I'm not kidding. I can't live with the thought that in spite of my best efforts my daughter could grow up to be a silly girl who actively seeks to be a doormat. What if she doesn't have the self-esteem, will, and wisdom to stand up for herself? I don't want her reading horoscopes or writing Dear Abby because she doesn't have the common sense to know when to dispose of a slacker boyfriend.

I dread that my daughter could be like this. I figured I could avoid the possibility entirely by having a boy, but I never got an order form to choose. In a world where the top songs have titles like Smack That and Buy U A Drank, I worry what some guy could approach her with. Could she be at an innocent event someday, like a wedding, and hear, "Baby, UR hot. Can I buy U A drank?"

If she ever fell for that--I'm getting heart tremors.

Team Effort

I'd be remiss not to relate our latest experience in parenting class. Last week we began the first of four classes entitled simply, "Childbirth." I've signed up for so many classes I don't remember what the classes are about until I get there. (Note: MTBs, don't overload on parenting stuff, especially magazines. I made the mistake of subscribing to several magazines when I found out I was pregnant, and before I knew it I was telling Tim, "EVERY TIME I turn around, there's another one in the mailbox!").

When I go to these parenting classes, to be fair, I learn something. At our latest class, the instructor began by showing us posters of how a woman's body changes during her pregnancy. All I have to say is, no wonder I'm out of breath: my diaphragm is being squished into a corner! Anyhow, the instructor taught us how to time contractions and whatnot, and added, "Discuss with your doctor at what point you should enter the hospital. During early labor, you may wish to stay home, walk around, lie down, or distract yourself until contractions are closer together."

Yeah, I can just see that.

Tim (calling home on his lunch break): "So what are you doing?"

Me: "Folding laundry, birthing your baby, and watching Oprah."

Tim: "Are you serious?!? I thought you finished all the laundry yesterday."

Is that lady kidding? I'm not going to suffer in silence while Tim carries on with his lunch! How am I going to let Tim munch his low-cal sandwich at Subway, sip his iced tea, and tell him, "No, honey, don't worry about me; I'm just dilating"? If I recall, we both got us into this mess, and you'd better believe we're both going to get us out.

So I made a mental note of the instructor's advice and hit DELETE.

But things picked up after that. We ended class with head and back massage practice. We learned techniques that will supposedly calm me during labor, and we tried them on each other. It took me a minute to quite giggling (I'm ticklish), but afterwards, we were both relaxed. The whole situation reminded me of a little fact. I leaned over and told Tim, "This is the kind of stuff that got us into this situation in the first place!" And, bet your mother's pearls, we're both going to get us out.

Welcome to the Jungle

I like nature shows because they have a predictable pattern. I know at some point a lioness or killer whale will chase a small, vulnerable animal (chance of survival 0.5%), I'll learn an interesting fact I can't share (until I meet someone who also likes nature shows), and the narrator will say something like, "It's better to find another hunting ground than intrude on a mother and her young."

He's not kidding.

The other day, Tim & I were driving to meet my family for lunch. We were on a road with two lanes in our direction and two coming from the other. The restaurant was in sight as we approached an intersection. We were driving in the right lane when a guy (exiting from a restaurant on our left) decided that waiting for traffic to clear before he entered the road was too complicated of a rule to follow. In one move, he crossed all three lanes of traffic and attempted to muscle into our lane as well. Tim had to slam on the brakes to stop from hitting him, though he absolutely deserved it. Our wheels squealed and the seat belt pressed into my upper belly. When we stopped, I had one thing on my mind: jungle justice.

HONK! HONK!

"You idiot! You total idiot! (HONK!) What were you thinking?!?" The guy had the audacity to wave to us as he continued on, as if to say, "Oops, sorry about that." When you bump into somebody in the grocery line, "Sorry about that," is OK, but that doesn't cut it out in the jungle. When this kind of infringement occurs in the jungle, someone dies. The mama elephant doesn't stop to consult the father if it's OK to charge a predator, either; she hands down justice with her own tusks.

Tim, unfortunately, didn't think jungle justice should be carried out mid-day with so many witnesses, so after making sure I was OK, we continued on to the restaurant.

When we arrived there a minute later, I related the event to my family, and it turns out that my sister-in-law (who is 1 month further along in her pregnancy than I am) had a similar experience a few days before. A man, desperate for a parking spot, cut her off as she tried to park. He missed her vehicle by inches.

My sister-in-law is a petite, soft-spoken woman. In fact, seeing as how her toddler son, my mother, my brother, my sister, and my niece were all in the SUV at the time, it seems she would have tried to put on a calm-down-everyone face. But, this is the jungle, people.

After carrying around a child for months--altering diet, activities, lifestyle, and sleep habits to ensure the baby is protected--do you think a MTB is about to overlook an outright threat? My sister-in-law rolled down her window, yelled at the driver, shook her fist, and let the rage-o-meter peak. My sister-in-law was so angry, that the people in the other car parked, but never got out of the car. They sat there, engine running and lights on. Was it the fact that my brother (a heavy-set guy) got out, furious as expected? Maybe. Was it the fact that my mother exited the vehicle, scowling? Not sure. I think what did it was the fact that my sister-in-law got out fuming, clearly pregnant and clearly down with jungle justice. Whatever the reason, the other car finally decided to leave the parking lot as a narrator said, "Clearly for some predators, it is better to find another hunting ground than it is to intrude on a mother and her young."

Bratz

Make no mistake, I despise Bratz dolls. If you've never seen them, imagine mini-Paris Hilton dolls dressed like dancers from a hip-hop video. They're made for girls who will be reading Seventeen when they're nine. To parents I say, "If you buy Bratz, you deserve brats." This is part of a much bigger parenting issue.

In an article by Sarah Mahoney in Parents Magazine, a second-grade teacher relates this story: "I had a child yell at me in class, and I corrected him. I told him that shouting was not a polite way to speak to a teacher. That evening, his mother called and yelled at me too, saying how dare I give her child a lecture on what is and isn't polite."

Anyone who has ever been to Wal-Mart knows how bratty kids can be, but who's really to blame here? In a poll done in the same magazine, 66% of people say it's the parents' fault. This is the group I like to call the Realistics. A second group, the Oblivious (11%) think that kids are the same as they've always been. The last group is made up of 20% of people who say that kids are just brattier and it has nothing to do with the parents. This is the At-Fault group, because it's clearly their children that are causing all the problems.

So why all the tantrums, whining, and disrespect? There are several theories, but let me go ahead and break it down for you from my observations when I worked at a preschool program.

1. Parents, some from guilt (divorce, too much time at work, etc.) some from laziness, don't bother to tell their kids, "No." They hope that somehow a teacher with thirty other kids will be able to parent their child, though the child spends only 1/3 of his day at school, at most.
2. As Mahoney pointed out, "In fact, many parents act more like therapists than authority figures. 'So when their kid says, "Shut up," they immediately make an excuse--he's tired, he's hungry, he's dealing with the stressful transition from nursery school to home,' says Parents advisor William J. Doherty, Ph.D." Yeah, how 'bout the kid's just being a brat?
3. Parents are caught up in praising their children for everything, whether it merits praise or not. How else do you think some American Idol contestants develop the fantasy they can actually sing? What's wrong with letting a kid lose a boardgame, get cut from his soccer team, or replace his own toy after he's lost it? All that is part of Life! Will someone else buy me a new car if I wreck mine?
4. Finally, there's the BFF Syndrome. Moms especially are prone to wanting to be their childrens' best friends forever. All parents want their children to love them, but that means accepting the fact that sometimes their children won't like them. Kids can have a truck load of friends, but they only have one mom and one dad (mostly, anyway).

In conclusion, I should practice what I preach. So, if any of my family or friends spot my kid hanging from the rafters at a restaurant, feel free to call her/him and me on it. If I'm not present, Mom, feel free to delve out the discipline in my stead. On second thought, Mom's too grandmotherly to have the chutzpah to do it (though she didn't have that problem when I was a kid). I'll leave that to my brothers and brother-in-law, who all subscribe to the "I'm not taking that from someone two feet tall" philosophy.

Upon Further Inspection ...

Those of you who haven't realized that breasts are really drink dispensers and not just props for beer ads should not read further; the practicalities of breastfeeding will be too much for you to bear.

So, yesterday the whole crew assembled for Breastfeeding class. "Whole crew" includes me (and the baby, of course), Tim, the couple from last week (the one with the overzealous CPR dad), and a second couple from our class last week. I like this second couple, by the way, because they seem just as clueless as Tim & I.

We walk into class, and the first thing I notice is that all the other couples have a pillow or Boppy ( a C-shaped pillow specifically designed for breastfeeding). I just stare at Tim and mentally count how many times I had asked him if he was sure we didn't have to bring any supplies to this class. Three, at least.

"Ask her if we can borrow one," I whispered, disappointed that we already looked like slacker parents.

But, Tim didn't move. He kept clinging to the hope that maybe the first two couples in the room with pillows were simply bedding fanatics and that, in actuality, no pillow was required. Even when every couple who came in had pillows, Tim still wouldn't ask for an extra. More on that later.

Five minutes into the class, the second couple from our class last week walked in apologizing for their tardiness. They carried no pillows--sweet! Anyway, after spending ten minutes discussing the benefits of breastfeeding (it does everything from providing antibodies for the baby to solving world peace), it was time to get down to the nitty gritty. We watched a video of smiling mothers happily nursing their children. They made it seem so simple and even reminded us, "If breastfeeding is unpleasant, it's because it's being done incorrectly." Ouch. We held our mannequin babies and got to work. In summation, this is what I learned:

1. Holding my own chest to mimic a feeding isn't half as embarrassing as it seems. Then again, I wasn't standing on stage doing a demo, I was in a room of women doing the same thing.
2. I could sense the absolute frustration that could overtake a new mom if the feeding isn't going well. She can end up sore, weepy, and sending her spouse to the store for formula ASAP.
3. Babies use only a smattering of diapers the first few days (their tummies are only the size of marbles). After that, the chutes are opened, and you'll be shelling out cash for 12-20 diapers a day.
4. BONUS: A woman loses hundreds of calories during each feeding, so pregnancy weight comes off faster!

At that point, the instructor asked for two "coaches" to help demonstrate how to use a breast pump. I nudged Tim upwards (recall: I was still miffed about our lack of pillows), and he went. The next few minutes need little explanation, just simple math: Tim + electric breast pump + balloon = giggles for me. When the instructor increased the speed of the pump, you could almost hear "Old MacDonald" playing. Now I know why utters look the way they do; perhaps they were perky at one time, but ...

Tim got a free bag of baby goodies for being a good sport, and to him it seemed a fair wage. In all honesty, he really did his best to pay attention during the entire class and be helpful. It's hard to be spiteful when he demonstrates genuine effort. But, no worries; there's more opportunity for high jinks! Next week: Child Preparation (pillows required).

BAMBINO 911!

Like all overzealous new parents, Tim & I have signed up for a variety of infant care classes. We took Infant CPR, our first class, last week.

Anyone who has ever taken an infant CPR class, at some point, probably had the same thought that I did. You realize that your holding a doll, and since there isn't any emergency, it's hard to say seriously the statements you're supposed to shout with your fellow classmates ("The scene is clear!" and "Call 911 and get an AED now!"). At some point, Tim exerted so much pressure on a doll during the compressions that he broke the child's chest pump. I said, "You broke our baby!", but he claimed it was already broken. Strange, it seemed fine when I used it ...

The couple in front of us only brought out more of my infantile behaviour. They were first-time parents themselves, and the man seemed really IN to acting as though we were in the ER. Even his wife seemed to cringe when he sincerely prodded the baby with, "Are you OK? Are you OK?" I toyed with the thought of sputtering, "She's still not breathing--more compressions, doctor!"

Maybe I was uncomfortable, and that was why I kept grinning. I mean, my first reaction to an emergency is to call 911. I have never saved anyone's life, and I don't even like the thought of trying to. I feel like I'd be more of a hindrance than a help, and someone with a broken bone would end up with a brain hemorrhage. With a baby, there's no time to call 911. Our instructor told us that once a baby stops breathing he can be brain dead within 5-7 minutes, so we're pretty much on our own until someone else can get help. What? If I had wanted to be a doctor, I would've learned to write illegibly years ago!

Truth is, I don't have any confidence in my ability to carry out the seemingly simple steps of CPR. I don't even like the seats near emergency exits in airplanes for the very same reason. The guilt of failing to save someone's life seems catastrophic. The joke is, I'd feel twice as bad if I had never taken CPR and had to say, "If only I had known how ..." Ugh! I pray sometimes that I will be strong enough to do what I have to when the time comes, and in the end, I guess that's all I can do.

We have our next class tomorrow; it's on breastfeeding. If they have mannequins, I'll warn the instructor about Tim. He hee ...

Taking a Shower

Saturday was Baby Dowdel's prenatal party, her (his?) first official foray into society, the female centerpiece of pre-motherhood: the baby shower.

Before the party, I took the following steps:

1. Reminded people, "It's completely OK if you already have something planned that day and can't come. I will totally understand, so don't worry about it."
2. Avoided seeing the party space (my mom's house) until absolutely necessary.
3. Showed up ten minutes late to the actual party, and inched up the walkway when I finally did park.

Why did I try to sabotage a seemingly innocuous event? Can I just say what will make me look good? No? OK then, here it is: I get a dash of paranoia in front of crowds when I'm the focus of attention. I know, the baby shower wasn't about me at all, but my belly was the main attraction; people wanted to see it, regardless that it's not like looking at an aquarium where you might actually see something.

So why didn't I just say "no thanks" when the planning of the baby shower began? Like I said, the baby shower wasn't about me at all. It was Baby Dowdel's moment, and I thought, "Do I really want to make this kid have the same reaction (read: weakness) to crowds as I do?" Yes, I know the baby probably had no idea what was going on, but I couldn't help but think I was starting a pattern that I would just continue after the baby's birth.

I've read that mothers and babies are two separate entities, so MTBs shouldn't be afraid of scaring the child when they are scared, for example. But, I also read about a study that showed depressed women tend to give birth to low-weight babies, and the hormone imbalance is stressful to the child. So who's right?

I don't know, but it bothered me enough that I made myself get out of the car and walk into the party. There was food there my mother had slaved over. There was a humorous piglet cake that my brother and sister-in-law had bought. There were games refereed by my sister, decorations, and continuous food production provided by my aunt. There were women there from all parts of my life--family from out-of-town, church family, fellow writers, old friends--each with a gift for a baby they have never met because they care about the mother and father. It was a little, I don't know, sweet.

Waist Management

Today I had another appointment. Turns out, I'll be at the doctor's once every 2 weeks now (standard procedure). The part that makes me uncomfortable is, just like a professional modeling agency, the first thing they make you do each time is get on the scale.

I like getting on the scale as much as I like a blister on my inner cheek after I've accidentally bitten it again. Today's experience was no different. I'm glad I'm typing this, because I don't want the baby to hear my tirade and get a guilt complex.

I've gained over twenty pounds (no exact numbers will ever be released), and I still have another 13 weeks to go. As my Sunday school teacher used to say, "Mercy!"

I've tried to eat healthy (though I am naughty on the weekends). I eat more veggies now than I ever have, and I pretty much stick to a chicken and turkey diet. The only silver lining on this thundercloud is that most of the weight is directly on my belly. It could be worse, I suppose, and be spread all over me.

The only other factor at play here is that Tim was a ten-pound baby when he was born. My brother was also ten pounds as was his son. I was an average-sized baby, though. Perhaps all this weight gain is due to a super-sized baby on the way? That is comforting in one way (explains the weight gain), and is also very, very troubling in another. A ten-pound baby? Yikes.

You Present Yourself as a Tough Oreo ...

... but you're really a Soft Batch Cookie!

The most unexpected result of my pregnancy is the way my buddies who don't have children yet react to Baby Dowdel. Sure, I expected moms and dads that I knew to be more sympathetic (read: interested) about my pregnancy, but single lasses?

I have a good friend; we'll call her Tacey. Tacey doesn't like people. She's told me so herself. Since kids are a subset of people, she likes them less than people. I like Tacey's honesty. I know others who really hate people, but don't have the awareness or honesty to admit it. Don't get me wrong, Tacey loves her parents, short list of friends, and Orlando Bloom (Viggo Mortensen, Prince William, you get the idea), but people in general don't appeal to her.

So, what do you think I thought when Tacey gave me baby books after she found out I was pregnant? I was touched, and also puzzled. Many times since then, Tacey has given me gifts for the baby, and it makes me grin (mainly, I'm waiting for the punch line). She even patted my belly one day waiting for the baby to kick. A few nights ago, Tacey brought a small truck load of gifts for the baby from her and her mom (she can't make it to the baby shower), everything from soft blankets to a humorous onesie personally selected by Tacey. And then when it was time to go, how else can I say this but to just say it, she gave my belly a quick kiss good-bye!

It was too sweet! I couldn't believe it. When it comes to Baby Dowdel, some of the people posing as the toughest cookies are truly Soft Batches!