Onesies Ain't Japanese

You're Still Here? Well then ...

2007-07-13T12:12:00.000-06:00

Feel free to join in on Rain's first year of life, and possibly the last of mine:
http://diaperwrath.blogspot.com/

The End

2007-07-01T01:00:00.000-06:00

To all those who have kindly (or was it the curiosity of watching a car wreck?) read this blog and kept up with Rain Annalise's (formerly Baby Dowdel's) entry into the world, thank you. I hope I haven't frightened away anyone considering becoming a parent, because hey, at least we can all be crazy together. For those of you who are already parents: you are the unsung heroes of the world. May God bless you and keep you from losing your minds! To Tim: What an adventure, no? You put up with far too much, but I wouldn't have it any other way (*wink*).

And, finally, to Rain:
After I went to my doctor to find out if I was pregnant (at least, that's what I thought I was doing), I was shaking. I was excited and surprised, because somehow I knew you were there. I sat in a small restaurant and ate alone. I knew, I knew, I knew, but still I thought, "I'm not pregnant. God knows I'd be a terrible mother, so He won't put some poor kid in my care." But, I knew. I also knew I wouldn't tell anyone, not even your daddy, because you were a whisper, a secret in my heart. There are many things I will explain to you later about why I thought I'd be a terrible mom, but someday you'll be old enough to read and understand this: one day, before anyone knew you were here, before I ever had a chance to be your mom, before we ever shared a good or bad day together, you and I were alone in a restaurant sharing a secret, and I was in love for the second time in my life.

The Beginning

2007-06-30T21:37:00.000-06:00

The rolled her into the room on top of a simple cart. A package of diapers, a package of wipes, a few blankets, an eye dropper, alcohol pads, and a nasal aspirator--that's all she came with.

With unending shock, I realized that the rest of her needs, from food to love, would be up to Tim & I.

TVLG (Part 3.7): Loose Ends

2007-06-28T21:58:00.000-06:00

Lying alone in my bed after the delivery, it was almost like nothing had happened. The lights were dimmed and everything was quiet. The only evidences of the delivery were an IV and my shaking legs, an effect of the epidural. The baby was in another wing, though it was hard to believe she was really there. Just like my first sonogram, I knew the baby was real (the picture was hard to deny), but my reality would not accept that changes were imminent.

When Tim finally returned, I said, "Can you believe we had a baby?" Nope, he couldn't either. The doctor (or was it the nurse? I was still under the influence, mind you) came in to ask if we'd like the baby to have her first of two Hepatitis B shots here in the hospital.

My reality ran away screaming, "Changes are here--run! Every self-centered creature for herself!" I thought, "I don't even know what Hepatitis is! How should I know if a baby needs a Hepatitis B shot or not? Why don't you just ask her paren--oh." All I could say was, "What do most people do?" Right then I knew the baby was better off staying with the nursing staff for the next 18 years than coming home with me.

After an hour, they moved us to a new room. A damage control nurse came in to tell me what parts of me would be unrecognizable for a time, what parts would never be the same, and what parts could go either way. She left, Tim fell asleep, and again I was alone with my thoughts. I wondered if the baby was scared. She was in a new world with strangers--did she wonder what happened to me? Did she care?

I fell asleep without even trying. I woke up, eyes wide. It had been five hours since we'd seen the baby. It was time for a face-to-face meeting.

TVLG (Part3.6): Loose Ends

2007-06-26T04:14:00.000-06:00

Love at first sight. That's what some moms feel when they see their new babies. My mom said she felt an instant love for each of her children the moment the nurses handed one of us over. My mom is a great mom. She's the kind of woman who says at any family meal or holiday, "This is what makes me happiest: all my children together." My mom, and mothers like her, are Hallmark cards waiting to happen. Mothers like this probably wanted to be mothers since they were children, so in a way, motherhood is like a life-long dream come true.

When my baby was born, they held her up for me to see. My reaction was less than motherly. I mean, they hold up this bloody, blue (no oxygen to make her pink yet), writhing, slimy, dark being and say, "What do you think?" What do I think? It looks like I had an affair with Jabba the Hut! Not only did the baby (it was a baby, right?) not look like Tim or me, she (it was a she, right?) didn't look like anyone I knew!

To be completely honest--and I realize I'm loosing my chance at Mother of the Year for this, I was disappointed. In my pathetic defense, I was exhausted, hungry (I wasn't allowed to eat all day), sleepy, and drugged. On top of that, they were busy sewing me up (see? I left out some scary details as to not overly terrify MTBs). The kid was out and apparently healthy, and that's all I cared about. I could learn to love a baby Hut, couldn't I? The nurses took her away and cleaned her while I stared at Tim. I was shocked more than anything, and Tim looked surprised, too. We had a baby now, for crying out loud. A baby!

A minute later, they brought the baby to me. She was all cleaned up and in a soft blanket. She actually looked like a baby, and not only that, she was a pretty baby. As I joked with Tim later, "They can go ahead and keep the other baby that came out, and I'll keep this one." They quickly took her away again to be tested and observed for several hours in the nursery, due to some of the labor complications. She was gone. The room cleared, and Tim went to show the baby to my family on the way to the nursery.

I was alone in the room. It was only me & my thoughts ... and it didn't take long for one or the other to become troubled.

TVLG (Part 3.5): Loose Ends

2007-06-23T06:39:00.000-06:00

Jeff Foxworthy did a funny routine about parenting a few years ago. One joke he told, I didn't truly appreciate until the day of my delivery. He asked the audience why anyone would want to film a delivery when it looks like "a wet St. Bernard trying to get in through the cat door."

Yes, it does. When I woke up from my nap, I knew it was time. I felt the baby sort of hanging low on me, and I didn't need the doctor to tell me to get ready to push. I told the nurse, she checked me, and it was on. They moved around equipment, turned on lights, and a few new faces appeared. I told my mom to leave for her own good, but she wanted to help. So, Tim posted himself on one side of the bed, my mom posted herself on the other, and we got down to business.

Delivering a baby feels exactly like, well, pooping. The difference is, you push through pain as a fan club watches. Every time a contraction would come, the head nurse would count to ten as I pushed with all I had. We did two more sets, rested, and waited for the next contraction to start all over again. We tried several positions to make the most of the contractions, but the most effective one was a shameless number I'll call "The Frog," but I digress.

After an hour and a half or so, the doctor came in. She told me that if the baby wasn't out in another hour, we'd have to consider--wait for it--options. I'm sorry, madam, but after all the pushing I did? No, there will be no options here. We're pushing this kid out!

"Would you like to see a mirror?" the doctor asked. "We find it helps a lot of moms to push harder."

I sat there, frowning. "OK, but if it grosses me out, will you put it away?"

They put a standing mirror near the foot of my bed, and three things happened.
1. I was shocked, because I didn't recognize myself. What was all that??
2. I was disheartened, because the outline of the head they were showing me couldn't fit through a doorway, let alone my body.
3. My competitive nature kicked in, and I actually pushed harder.

Before I knew it, "Keep going!" and "You're almost there!" filled the room. When even Tim cheered (and he's not the cheering type), "You have it! Keep going," I knew I was a breath away from finishing. At 2:05 a.m., just in time for her due date, the baby did it.

Release. That's all I felt. It was like birthing a big, squirmy squid. There was cheering, and someone asked, "Can you see her?"

"No," I gasped. Someone held her up, and they laughed. The baby had one look on her face that everyone agreed said, "WHO AUTHORIZED THAT?"

She's going to be like me then, I thought. Yikes.

The Very Long Goodbye (Part 3.4): Loose Ends

2007-06-16T18:07:00.000-06:00

Today marks my 95th (can you believe it??) entry on this blog. Entry 100 will be my last, so have no fear, the long goodbye will eventually be a goodbye. Now, onto the show ...

While my regular doctor was off buying eggs to make potato salad for his Memorial Day barbecue, my new doctor was popping in and out of my room to check my progress. This wasn't hard to do, seeing as how I had gotten to 7 cm dilation and stalled. Faced with the image of my baby doing the breaststroke in her own pooh, I opted for the epidural, figuring I'd have the energy to finish dilating and push.

Besdies, I had a pleasant bias towards anesthesiologists since my sister and others had told me how wonderful they and their bags of magic tricks were. I pictured a jovial man with a steady hand and James Earl Jones-ish voice coming to rescue me. The man who briskly walked into the room a half hour later was just like James Earl Jones--when he was Darth Vader. His greeting to me was a sigh, a frown, and an, "Everyone clear the room but him [meaning Tim]."

Why he couldn't have just turned to my mother (the only other person in the room) and said, "I'm sorry, ma'am, you'll have to leave for a few minutes now," I don't know. I knew at that moment that the guy wanted to get in and out of the room as fast as possible, and if that meant I'd have to experience extra pain in the process, oh well. Later, I found out he was late for his shift and was irate, but that information neither then or now means much to me. There's no excuse for being a jerk.

Anyway, he told me to sit on the edge of the bed, hunch over, and drop my shoulders. A contraction hit right then, but he wouldn't let Tim come near me to help, though we hadn't started the epidural at all. All he said was, "Don't move!" and continued prepping my back for the needle. Even the nurse who was with him had the sense to know he was being unnecessarily rude. She kept trying to encourage me and soften the commands he gave, but it was clear he was out of line.

He said "Pinch!" as he poked me with needles (though he never said, "When I say, 'pinch,' that means I'm going to give you a shot"), so the nurse tried to preempt him by warning me gently each time. He kept bending my back forward until I finally gasped, "I can't breathe!" Another contraction hit, followed by a "Don't move!" I thought to myself that it would have been better to have struggled without the epidural. He stuck the needle in, and for the first time during the entire labor I said, "It hurts!" Something felt very wrong. I must've been right, because Mr. Needles said, "That's not going to work. I don't like that." He pulled the needle out to START OVER. I wanted to cry. He did it again, and asked, "Do you feel anything?" I whimpered, "Yes." That wasn't the right answer. He let out a testy sigh, and the nurse helped me onto my back again. After a minute, he said, "Are you having any contractions?"

"Why don't you check the monitor, idiot?" I wanted to say. Instead, I said the truth: "I don't feel any."

"See?" he said, to the nurse, "She doesn't even know if she's having them." With that smug comment, he packed up his gear and left. I determined that even if my back broke in half from the pain, I wouldn't admit it for fear he'd come back.

After five minutes, the doctor came in to check on me. She said, "Take a nap. When you wake up, there will be work to do." A nap? During labor? Sweet!

I rested for almost 45 minutes. When I woke up, I didn't have to be told that the baby was making her way to the Outs.

The Long Goodbye (Part 3.3): Loose Ends

2007-06-13T12:13:00.000-06:00

Here's the thing about delivering a baby in a hospital: the staff already have in mind how they want your pregnancy to go. There is wiggle room (where people try their bests to accommodate your birthing plan), but not much. Because my water broke before my contractions started, the staff began to follow it's own timetable. But like I've said before, every pregnancy is different, and I wanted to do things at my own pace, not on someone else's timetable. As I neared deadlines along the timetable, ironically, I started to hear the word "options" a lot. "Options" actually translates to "we have no or few choices." For example, in the first hours of labor, I was dilating too slow by the timetable's standards, so the doctor said, "We're going to give you more Pitocin to get your contractions to be more effective--closer together and stronger. As we get closer to 18 hours, we're going to have to talk about options." Read: we'll do a C-section.

From the color of my amniotic fluid, the doctor could tell that the baby had pooped in utero. This, as you might have guessed, wasn't a good thing. Now the word "infection" starts creeping up, and they tell me some special staff will be in the room when the baby is born. I was nervous, because my whole natural-birth plan was seeming more and more unrealistic. The fact was, the longer I was in labor the longer the baby would be swimming in her own pooh. The bad thing was, as they're telling me all this, I was not in my right mind. Seriously. The pain of the contractions had become, how shall I say it, consuming.

If you are an MTB, are considering becoming pregnant, or are encouraging your wife to get to baby-making, go ahead and stop reading now. Live in Sweet Oblivion. The following blow-by-blow account of my delivery is coming, so make a U-turn for your own good.

I knew labor would be painful; everybody said so. But, I had no idea how the back-splitting pressure would make me lose reason. I couldn't do anything but be terrified, anticipating the next contraction. My baby was facing sideways and up for most of the labor, which is not the optimal position (facing down is). This caused lower back pain stronger than any puny cramps I'd ever had in my life. The people in the room became statues to me. They were present, but my mind and body were fighting a battle no one could help me with. I refused to cry out, though I probably should have. I tried birthing position after position to relieve the pressure, but nothing did more than distract me for a minute. I was biting on a wet rag, clawing at Tim's shirt. My mother, who I had told hours before to leave for her own sake, stood by my side. I could tell she wished she could take the pain away, and she gently suggested I take an epidural. But I was paranoid that it would affect the baby, even though I'd been assured it wouldn't. After 15 hours of labor, I had only dilated to 7cm. The contractions were mostly in my lower back, and I tensed every time one happened, trying to bear it. Unfortunately, because I became so rigid, the baby couldn't move down the birth canal. The nurses encouraged me to relax, but I couldn't. I was worn out, and worse, I kept imagining the baby sitting in filthy fluid.

That settled it. I asked for an epidural. I was disappointed, but I knew I was exhausted, and I hadn't even started pushing yet. Just the thought of the upcoming relief made me calm down.

People make epidurals sound like an angel's touch. If somebody had told me what was involved with getting one, I may have gone ahead and had my baby in my car ...

The Long Goodbye (Part 3.2): Loose Ends

2007-06-11T13:15:00.000-06:00

When one graduates from college, has a birthday, or buys a new car, one expects a certain (humble) amount of fanfare from friends and family. When one rushes into the maternity floor of a hospital to, I don't know, CREATE A NEW LIFE, the fanfare amounts to, "May we please see your ID and insurance card? Thank you. If you would just fill out this short form ..." So on and so forth, until they direct you to your room. For Tim & I, it was pretty much like checking into the Holiday Inn. We got to our room (which, by the way, was the exact same room our instructor had shown us during our childbirth class--weird), and pretty much stared at each other after that. I hated to sound petty, but I kept thinking, "Isn't someone going to come check on us? I know it's Memorial Day weekend and all, but ..." Let it be known that the whole time I was still leaking fluid.

Note to American 15-year-olds who are playing with pregnancy: I leaked amniotic (look it up) fluid for 3/4 of my labor, and afterwards leaked KID. Be wise.

The nurse came in, had me change into a revealing number, and placed monitors on my belly: one for the baby's heartbeat and one for my contractions. Tim & I were alone for the next two hours (cut to scene: my mom at home shouting, "Hurry, Ralph! Feed the dog, and let's go!"), and though the contractions were uncomfortable, they were manageable in a quiet setting. MTBs, heed this sage advice: weeks before your delivery, inform your entire family about how many people (if any) you want in your delivery room and when. This isn't enough, either. You have to make it clear who you want in the room when you deliver, because if you don't, as you will soon see, you'll have a delivery room like mine: all I needed was a monkey to have the complete circus ...

Now, I had taken the liberty of posting on our family website the hospital's policy regarding visitors during labor. Nobody read it. So, before you know it, my brothers are in the room playing Scrabble, my brother-in-law is reading the newspaper, and everyone else is munching on doughnuts (by the way, at the time I was only allowed ice chips). I'm not kidding. I love them all, but as my contractions grew stronger, my patience for such shenanigans dried up. To be fair, if you're not the MTB or the breathing coach, labor is pretty boring, but that doesn't mean the future mommy is in any mood to play.

The last straw was when people started giving a play-by-play of my contractions monitor: "Here comes another one ... whoa ... that one's worse than the last one ... wow, they're getting closer together ..." I looked at Tim, and sent him this message via eye-piercing stare, "HONEY, don't you remember when I told you things like this would happen, and you would have to be Mr. Tough Guy? Don't you remember you've got to be hardcore now? Don't you??" Tim nodded (eye messages are efficient), and left the room. A minute later, a nurse came in and cleared the room, saying it was time for visitors to wait in the lobby. My amiable family left, and I sent Tim another eye-mail: "Nice technique. Passive-aggressive, yes, but effective ..."

Do not be fooled, though. This was not a decisive victory for Peace & Quiet, because two members of my family, which shall remain nameless, insisted on trying to gain entrance into the delivery room anyway to the point that one nurse asked with genuine concern, "Is (s)he OK?" By OK she meant "is (s)he one grape short of a fruit salad" not "does (s)he find this situation too stressful." Now, I realize that eagerness and genuine concern played into their motives, but for the love of all that's good, couldn't we have shown a bit more restraint that day, Family?

No. The answer is no. My sister, a true soldier, sat in the waiting room the entire time I was in labor. After spending the day with the more eager members of my family, here is a sampling of the conversations she said took place:

Eager Family Member #1: "If labor lasts more than 15 hours after a mother's water breaks, the baby will be mentally retarded."
EFM #2: "What?!? Does the doctor know that?"
EFM #1: "The doctor doesn't know what he's doing."
EFM #2: "Well, let's go tell him!"

*Sigh*

Meanwhile, back at the delivery room ...

The Long Goodbye (Part 3.1): Loose Ends

2007-06-03T21:25:00.000-06:00

So.

Let us rewind to Friday, May 25th, shall we?

I went to my doctor's appointment as usual. I figured since the baby was due Sunday, May 27th, the visit would be my last. At the end of my checkup, however, the doctor said, "Well, it looks like it may be another week before this baby comes."

Drats! I really didn't want to spend another week bemoaning all the things that could go wrong (yes, I had been reading more literature on lost pregnancies and the like). After a minute, I consoled myself that now, at least, I'd have time to buy last-minute baby items. Plus, my parents wanted to attend my cousin's wedding (a 10-hr round-trip) on Saturday, but had debated going because of the baby. Now they could go without guilt.

That night, I went shopping which has a way of making me feel better. I walked around for quite a while in the baby section thinking about all of the preparations Tim & I had made. For crying out loud, we had a birthing plan. A birthing plan is basically a wish list of things parents can make for their doctors & nurses (ex: "Please do not offer pain medication unless specifically begged--er--asked for"). Apparently, only new moms/dads do this, because most experienced parents know that nothing is off the table when it comes to labor. In my mind, I had worked out what I hoped would happen: my contractions would start, I'd stay home to work through them, and at the last possible minute, head to the hospital. I wanted to be in a familiar area for as long as I could. My water would probably break at the hospital, like all of my mom's pregnancies had. My pregnancy books and magazines all said that the Hollywood version of labor (where a woman's water breaks and she calmly informs her husband that, "It's time") was unlikely, and in fact, some women have to have their amniotic sacs broken artificially at the hospital. Now I had another week to wonder where and when it would happen, and if I'd be alone when it did.

I didn't sleep well that night. I was uncomfortable, but that was nothing new. I felt unreasonably alert, and decided that when Tim woke up, I'd tell him I felt strange. At 6:40ish, I thought to myself how in an hour my parents would be picking up a rental car and heading out of town. I sat up.

*Gush*

People, I mean GUSH. Fluid started pouring everywhere, and all I could think to do was say, "Uh ... uh ... UH, UHH, UGHH!" I beat Tim with my hand and begged for towels. Though I knew what was happening, my mind sort of split in two. My logical half said, "Well, looks like the baby's coming." The unreasonable half thought, "Perhaps I've just wet myself. My, I hope Tim brings the blue towels, since those are a bit worn anyway ..." These two halves of my brain never reunited until two days later, but that's jumping ahead ...

Tim jumped out of bed, and in twenty minutes, we were on our way to the hospital. Hollywood, it turns out, wasn't too far from the truth (minus the dramatic music).

On the drive there, I asked Tim if he'd remembered to bring my pregnancy book. "No," he admitted sheepishly. What about the iPod, you know, for soothing music? No. The extra pillows? No. Anything on the list left on your desk for two weeks entitled, "Bring to the Hospital"? Nope.

I knew then we were looking at a long day.

Baby Dowdel

2007-05-30T09:35:00.000-06:00

I want to thank everyone who has read along with this blog and supported us during these past several months and especially over the last four days. Our baby girl came into the world on Sunday, May 27th at 2:05 a.m. Rain Annalise was right on time for her due date and weighed 8 lbs., 15 oz. and was 20 in. long.

Liza will finish her goodbye soon.

Thanks again,
Tim

The Long Goodbye (Part 3): Loose Ends

2007-05-23T09:59:00.000-06:00

I had preliminary pains for about 12 hours yesterday, so I must write quickly! Tim will post news of the baby when she(?) arrives, so if you'd like to know, check in later ("later" means tonight or in two weeks, whenever Baby Dowdel decides to make an entrance). Where shall I begin?

Physically: this past week has been plain uncomfortable, even for hardy Grandma Dowdel. I think I've managed (read: didn't cry over) the pain, but I've learned there's one thing that's tough to do without: sleep. I've been too uncomfortable to sleep well, and that brings out the demon in me faster than a camel can spit. I change positions every couple of hours, and I've run poor Tim into the ground. More on Tim later.

Emotionally: I've had a couple of tear fests, but nothing I'm horribly ashamed of. This morning's was a bit much, mainly because I was caught by surprise. I was reading the last few chapters of my parenting book (reviewing the signs of false labor), and I came upon a section about what to do if a baby dies in utero, during delivery, or shortly after. I immediately thought, "Now, there is NO reason for me to read this section. It will only upset me, and it serves me no purpose to continue." Two pages later, the tears were flowing and I could not stop myself from reading. I could not imagine the deep sorrow of coming home from the hospital to a nursery all ready for a baby and ... no baby. I mean, every toy, every blanket, the crib--everything has been carefully chosen by you or a loved one for your son or daughter, a piece of your thoughts went into every item, and yet--OK, OK, I'm stopping myself now. I should have done that earlier today. I felt so bad then that I couldn't even read the rest of the information, which was probably a good thing. Tim's going to end up taking all of my books and magazines away, I can tell.

Speaking of Tim: I'm going to go ahead and give a shout out to my husband. Throughout my pregnancy, and especially this past week, Tim has been textbook supportive. He always asks the question any MTB loves to hear: "What do you want?" He's Johnny-on-the spot taking care of heavy lifting, dishes, taking out the trash, etc. He's taken my sometimes unreasonable rantings with a she-didn't-really-mean-it attitude, and God bless you, Honey, 'cause I didn't! I'm sorry for the times I've been bad; I was under duress, I was raised by wolves, I forgot my meds, it was my twin sister--ya gotta believe me!

Freebies: OK, for those MTBs looking for useful things or those out there who are shopping for a baby shower gift, let me go ahead and give you my best list:
THE BEST PREGNANCY STUFF
1. Snoogle
This body pillow took a beating, and I love it more because of it. Unfortunately, I'll have to break the seam on it to shove more stuffing into it (Mr. Snoogle has a rough life), but it'll be worth it.
2. Bella Band
At $25 a pop, this band of elastic cloth seemed over-priced. Now I say, "Worth every penny!" It's super easy to use, saves you money (you don't have to buy as many pregnancy pants), and smooths out body shapes. Love it!
3. Parenting classes
Yes, I mocked them plenty of times, but the thing is, I learned a lot from them. People assume MTBs know how to breastfeed, give a baby a bath, and handle emergency care. Um, no.
4. What to Expect When You're Expecting
Whatever parenting book you chose, just get one. There will be times when you'll have a question you're too embarrassed (or forgetful) to ask your doctor. A quick reference will reassure you, so that you don't have to call your doctor after-hours for the ninth time.
5. Parents or Parenting Magazine
Caution: Subscribe to ONE or possibly TWO magazines, but no more! I made the mistake of ordering too many mags the minute I found out I was pregnant, and it became a beat-down trying to read them all.
6. Babycenter.com
This site has a lot of good info and whatnot, but the coolest thing is the weekly email. It sends you an illustration of how the child will grow in the next week and what changes you can most likely expect with your own body. This was a great way for Tim to keep up with what was going on, and I'll admit, I looked forward to that email every week (reminded me I was making progress).
7. Bra extenders
Seriously: what's the point of buying a bunch of over-sized bras that you'll only use for a few months? You might as well save the cash for nursing bras and camis later (which are also pricey, by the way), if you choose to breastfeed. Instead, buy some latch extenders at a fabric place ($2), and use the extra cash for a nice massage.
8. Beauty treatment
Doesn't matter which one you do (pedicure, manicure, pregnancy massage), at some point, do one. It's nice to be taken care of, especially during the final trimester.
9. Consumer Reports online subscription
Face it: when it comes to buying the safest, most cost-effective baby gear, few people besides Super Nanny can make the right choice. Get advice from other parents, but always remember that gadgets and safety knowledge change. I think most parents are better off getting unbiased opinions. Warning: baby stuff is often upgraded, so a product that got rave reviews a year ago may not be available today.
10. Clear, over the door, hanging shoe organizer
I read a great tip in a magazine that new moms should use a plastic shoe organizer as a simple way to see and access small baby items (socks, pacifiers, creams, teethers, etc.). I set one up, and I can already tell it's going to save me time and effort.

I received a bunch of other cool gifts for the baby, but I can't honestly say how much I'll use them because I obviously have no baby to test them on. So, the above list is mainly for mamas. Hope y'all find it useful.

Time to rest. Will chat more in a bit ("The Long Goodbye (Part 3): Loose Ends, Part 2").

P.S. Feel free to mention whatever products you think an MTB would love.

The Long Goodbye (Part 2): The Name Game

2007-05-21T11:20:00.000-06:00

Finding a name for Baby Dowdel has taught me a few things about my husband and myself. First, it's accurate to say that we're both kind of slackers. We made no big t0-do about finding a name quickly, and we held on to the hope that somehow the name would fall from the sky. We decided early on (once we saw how bad we were at the naming thing) that Tim would come up with a name if we had a girl, and I would chose a name it we had a boy.

Of course, because two of the sonograms were so unclear about the sex of the baby, our plan didn't make much difference. We asked for suggestions on this blog, and we got some good ones (we did select one as a middle name, by the way). All I wanted was a name that wasn't overly trendy, difficult to spell, or clearly belonged to a stripper. Tim just wanted a name.

I began writing down names that I'd always admired, particularly from literature. Unfortunately, this meant most of the male names I came up with were, outside of Elizabethan England, a bit girly. To add to the dilemma, coming up with a meaningful name nowadays is almost pointless, since most people could care less what a name means; they're more interested in how it sounds. Bummer.

Now that we have a name (which Tim is guarding with his life), here are the modest pieces of advice I can offer for those of you faced with a similar task (even if you're naming a new pup):
1. Keep the name to yourself until it's in print. Someone will definitely hate the name enough to tell you so, so you might as well keep it a secret until the damage is permanent.
2. Avoid trendy names, or at least give the kid a semi-traditional middle name. This way when he applies for a job later, he won't have to have "Cosmo" on his application if he doesn't want to.
3. Ignore baby-naming books. Just pick words or names that you like or mean something to you. Staring at a list of names, at least for me, made things harder (too many good choices on the menu, you know?).

According to the last sonogram, we're having a girl. Yet, in the back of my mind, I've toyed with a boy's name as well. I'll tell you why, and then you can tell me I'm making too much of this:

The entire time I've been pregnant, people have freely told me what they believed the sex of the baby was. The interesting thing is, the people who have told me consistently, without hesitation, that I'm having a boy fall into a strange category. I guess I'd call them the Innocents.

For example, when no one was there to influence her answer, I asked my 3-year-old niece if she thought I was having a boy or girl. She instantly answered, "Boy," and continued playing with a toy. Weeks later, I asked a five-year-old at my church the same thing. He gave the same answer with the same factual tone that my niece did. The most spiritual women I know, my grandmother and mother, both contended from the beginning that I would have a boy.

The other day, I was studying at a local coffee shop. A man sitting next to me asked what I was studying. This began a twenty or thirty-minute conversation about everything from college to travel and religion. He was such a nice man and very open and earnest. He talked passionately about children and education, and at one point, with palatable regret, he told me he wished he hadn't let college tear apart his love for books (his major was English). From any other stranger, I would've written off his emotion as insincere, but his eyes were all truth. He was the most open person I've met in a while, and he had this sort of innocence about him. As I was leaving, he wished me well, and for no reason at all, he said, "I think you're having a boy," then bashfully added, "but it could be a girl."

I left with this thought: sure, it's possible I could have a boy. But, there is an alternative. The very first time my doctor heard the baby's heartbeat, he said, "That's a boy." Even after the second sonogram, where it seemed more likely that I would have a girl, when my doctor heard the heartbeat again, he said, "So we decided you were having a girl, huh?" He seemed unsure. Now I think this: Baby Dowdel will be special. Every baby is special, but Baby Dowdel will be puzzling, I guess. She may be a girl physically, but her heart may be different than what most people stereotype as feminine. Perhaps she will be very brave, a straight-shooter, or someone quick to defend the defenseless. Sure, she may be stubborn or even reckless, but she could also be a leader, the kind of person you want to believe in. If Baby Dowdel turns out to be male, well then, I guess he has the last laugh.

So, what name did we decide on? Here are the hints Tim will let me part with:
1. The baby's initials pay homage to one of Tim's loves: computers.
2. People always ask us, "Is the name found in the Bible?" The answer is yes, but beware of assumptions.
3. The name has been said by everyone in America, and more than once.

Bonus: I dropped a hint in today's blog entry.

Have I told anyone the name, though Tim has guarded it well? Yes. I was babysitting a girl recently who I've known since she was a baby. She is five now. She looked at me and said, "You have a baby in there?" and pointed to my belly. I said, "Yes." She asked if it was a boy or girl. I said, "Probably a girl." She asked what the baby's name was. She looked so honest and innocent, so I told her. She nodded, and that was that.

The Long Goodbye (Part 1)

2007-05-18T09:33:00.000-06:00

Today I had a doctor's appointment. The nurse scheduled me for one next Friday as well, though we both know the baby may be here by then. This reminded me of something I've been mulling over the last two weeks.

I began this blog about 5 months ago at the suggestion of a friend. I agreed because I thought it was a reasonable way to let family and friends know how the pregnancy was going, if they cared to know (sending daily emails with the subject line, "Read this NOW! Precious baby info inside!" was Plan B).

What has surprised me most is that some people actually care enough to read this. Don't get me wrong, I know lots of good people, but still, I thought, "People have babies all the time. Why would anyone want to read about one baby's journey to the Outside?" I figured I'd print out the entire thing, and someday, when Baby Dowdel is old enough, tell her what becoming a mom was really like for me. That way, I don't gloss over the hard times or forget the good ones.

Now that I know that several people (yes, I do read all comments), even some outside of my family, have been gracious enough to listen to my raves and rants, I feel like I owe you all a decent farewell. This blog was dedicated to pregnancy, and that it shall be. But before I go, I'd like to say goodbye in three parts, beginning today. I will be as honest as I can, so today I offer "Part 1: What I've Learned."

Sure, at this point I could make a bulleted list, but let's make this more spicy, shall we? Take this short quiz, and we'll tally up the points at the end.

True or False?
1. Women are pregnant for 9 months, which equals 36 weeks.
2. Babies begin sleeping "through the night" (you know, 8 hours or so) around 2-3 months of age.
3. 80% of parents install car seats incorrectly.
4. One perk of the pregnancy period is that women do not have to purchase sanitary napkins anymore.
5. Because baby stores are specialized and have years of experience, they are the best places to find out what's safest to give to your baby.
6. Never microwave milk in a bottle.
7. Don't take bottles out of the grasp of babies who fall asleep with them.
8. You can tell by the way a woman carries her baby (if the belly is low or high) if she's having a boy or girl.
9. Prenatal care is critical for healthy children; that's why everyone has access to the best.
10. The last few weeks of pregnancy are filled with excitement for moms; watch them glow!

I could go on with all the things I've learned, but I digress. So, how do you think you did? Let's find out: NOT ALL OF THE FOLLOWING COMMENTS ARE ENDORSED BY THE PEDIATRIC COMMUNITY. THEY ARE MOSTLY THE RESULTS OF DIRECT OBSERVATION, WHICH AT TIMES, MAY HAVE BEEN SEVERELY HAMPERED DUE TO LACK OF SLEEP. ALL JUDGMENTS ARE FINAL.

1. False. Women are pregnant for 40 weeks, if not longer. The 9-month ruse is a way to convince women to make babies, similar to the way paying for a shirt that's $19.99 sounds better than one for $20.
2. False. Most babies won't sleep through the night (by my definition, 8 uninterrupted hours) until they're 6 months to a year old (or older!). At 2 months, babies may "sleep through the night," if you define a night as 5 hours long.
3. True, so suck it up and get professional help.
4. False. I could delve into the unsightly details, but why? I need other women to get pregnant under false pretenses like I did; it's only fair.
5. False. "B" isn't for baby, it's for "Business." That's what these companies are interested in, so remember that as you and your significant other tour nursery displays. If you want to shop safe, check with a consumer organization and other parents.
6. True. Though I've seen this done all the time, experts say it's a no-no. Microwaves cook unevenly, which means you can burn your kid with a hot spot you didn't know was there.
7. False. Not only is this a choking hazard, dentists hate the fact that milk or sugary juices sit in kids' mouths for hours. This creates a breeding ground for germs and cavities.
8. False. Nobody, and I mean nobody has shown me any accuracy with this or any other method. All women and babies are different, and you're lucky if your doctor gets the sex of the baby right!
9. False. This is kind of a downer, but I've noticed it throughout my pregnancy. Because of my husband's medical insurance, I've had access to great prenatal vitamins, monthly and now weekly prenatal visits, and childcare classes. Because of friends and family, we have new clothes and toys for the baby, gizmos to make parenting a little easier, and a great support system. Every now and then, though, I remember that a lot of women, most women in fact, don't have half of these things. Around the world and in America, women either don't get decent prenatal care at all or get whatever they can squeeze from their medical insurance companies. I feel the most pity for women who work hard (as well as their spouses) but still don't make enough to pay for healthcare (and make too much to receive it for free!). Prenatal care is such a basic need; you would think both Democrats and Republicans would've figured out a way to give it gratis to everyone years ago.
10. False. Remember, kids: every woman is different. I get the, "You must be so excited!" line all the time. The truth is, I'm numb. I'm probably excited, scared, nervous, impatient, happy--a lot of things. Because I am, I've gone to a numb sort of state, where I can't pick out any one feeling to focus on. I felt the exact same way the weeks leading up to my wedding. It was not until the honeymoon that I was able to feel peaceful, happy, or anything at all. To that point, I was just overwhelmed. Hard to explain, but it's the truth.

See you tomorrow for, "Part 2: The Name Game."

The 8th Sense

2007-05-16T13:02:00.000-06:00

One of my greatest fears about being a mother is this: that the kid will get injured on my watch. I know, I know: all kids get hurt from time to time, even when parents are freakishly cautious. But, I would so rather it happen (since it's going to, anyway) on Tim's watch. Selfish? Yes. Ashamed? No!

So, a few weeks ago, I was at my mother's house visiting. My brother, his wife, and his son Isaiah (in October, he'll be 2) were also there. My nephew happily swept the carpets while I chatted with my brother (he likes brooms, for whatever reason). After a while, my nephew moved into the kitchen to spruce up the floors in there, as well. I could still see him from my position in the living room, so I wasn't worried. Besides, my brother and his wife had already put child-safety covers on all the electrical outlets and given my mother cabinet locks to install.

After a few minutes, though, I said, "I can't see Isaiah from here anymore."

My brother responded, "Don't worry about it. He's probably sweeping in the laundry room."

After a second's thought, I said, "Yeah, maybe. I'm just saying I can't see him anymore, so don't blame me if something happens to that kid."

My brother laughed, saying I was overly paranoid (which I am). He said words which now for him and I are immortal: "Isaiah's fine. I HAVE AN EIGHTH SENSE ABOUT THESE THINGS."

"OK," I said. My sister-in-law, I think, became uncomfortable with this assessment, so she took a step towards the kitchen. My brother didn't want her to get up (she was 9 months pregnant at the time), so he reluctantly went to the kitchen himself.

As soon as he walked in, I heard him say, "Oh." He followed it with a sort-of, "Uh." From his tone, I knew Isaiah wasn't just sweeping the floor anymore. "Can you come here for a minute?" my brother called to his wife. I told her not to get up (she was ordered to bed rest by her doctor, too, by the way), and I asked Tim to go instead.

Tim went, and I heard him say, "Ohhhh." Tim's not the dramatic sort, so to hear him sound puzzled was discomforting. As I came to find out, there was Isaiah on the floor, looking like the poster child for Poison Control. He was sitting in a pool of blue glass cleaner, with an almost-empty bottle nearby. When I walked in, my brother was already wiping him off while Tim searched for the number to Poison Control. I opened Isaiah's mouth and smelled for signs of ingestion. I remembered that my brother had commented a few days before that Isaiah hardly ever put anything into his mouth besides food; for some reason, he seemed to be able to tell the difference between food and non-food items. I hoped my brother was right. Isaiah was smiling and clearly happy with the attention. We changed his clothes, and while Tim conferred with a poison specialist, we asked the obvious question, "How did this happen?"

Turns out my mom needed a drill to install the cabinet locks and had been meaning to ask one of us to put them in for her. She put them in a drawer somewhere, and couldn't remember where she put them. In her defense, she had some medical problems at the time and had simply forgotten to take care of it. In her guilt, she searched the house top to bottom for the locks while we treated Isaiah, though I'm not sure how that helped at the time (sort of like buying a home security system the day after you've been robbed). She felt terrible, but so did the rest of us for being lax.

The good news is that Isaiah is fine. He never drank any of it. He just wanted to splash around in it, I suppose. The better news is that we all learned a little about trusting our "eighth sense." Enough time has passed now that I can tease my brother about his now-famous quote, but in the back of my mind, I wonder if I'll do the same sort of thing ...

Twelve Days of Delivery

2007-05-15T07:53:00.000-06:00

I have twelve days left until my delivery date ... (*ahem*) ...

Twelve Days of Delivery

On the first day 'til delivery,
Pregnancy gave to me:
A tight pain in my belly!

On the second day 'til delivery,
Pregnancy gave to me:
Two more doctor's visits ...
And a tight pain in my belly!

On the third day 'til delivery,
Pregnancy gave to me:
Three-hour sleep cycles ...
And a tight pain in my belly!

On the fourth day 'til delivery,
Pregnancy gave to me:
Four pants that still fit ...
And a tight pain in my belly!

On the fifth day 'til delivery,
Pregnancy gave to me:
Five more (MORE!) pounds ...
And a tight pain in my belly!

On the sixth day 'til delivery,
Pregnancy gave to me:
Six random headaches ...
And a tight pain in my belly!

On the seventh day 'til delivery,
Pregnancy gave to me:
Seven times a day I'm hungry ...
And a tight pain in my belly!

On the eighth day 'til delivery,
Pregnancy gave to me:
Eight hundred things to do ("Where's the baby book??)
And a tight pain in my belly!

On the ninth day 'til delivery,
Pregnancy gave to me:
Nine months of choices to doubt ...
And a tight pain in my belly!

On the tenth day 'til delivery,
Pregnancy gave to me:
Ten daily trips to the bathroom ...
And a tight pain in my belly!

On the eleventh day 'til delivery,
Pregnancy gave to me:
Eleven bottles still left to sterilize ...
And a tight pain in my belly!

On the twelfth day 'til delivery,
Pregnancy gave to me:
Twelve days that could turn to twenty ...
And a tight pain in my belly!

Happy Mother's Day

2007-05-13T07:23:00.000-06:00

Even mobsters pause to give moms their dues today, so I, too, say, "Happy Mother's Day!" May all good moms everywhere be showered with love and gifts from their families. May they have long lives and have at least one child that doesn't tarnish the family name! Flowers, candy, warm feelings all around, blah, blah, blah--back to me and mine.

So sorry! But, it's hard not to be a bit self-involved right now. Yesterday morning and late last night I had a session of contraction attacks. Kids, hold on to my hands, because scary things are afoot. Will update more in a bit, when my tummy stops tightening. Breathe, 1-2-3, breathe, 1-2-3 ...

Stretching My Limits

2007-05-10T06:15:00.000-06:00

For my mother's birthday a few weeks ago, we thought it would be cute to send her a special e-card. The idea was that we would photograph each of her grandchildren (who all live in different parts of the country) holding up a part of a sign that read in whole, "Happy Birthday, Grandma! We'll Always Love You" (hey, Ma has a lot of grandchildren, OK?). We'd thought it would be funny if the next screen was just a picture of my bare pregnant belly with a sticky note on it that read, "Love, The Grandchildren." Well, my mom is a very traditional-type mama, so she was all in tears when she saw all her beloved grandchildren's photos together. She loved it (note: feel free to rip off this idea for your own ma; especially if you've been naughty this year).

I thought the whole project went nicely--until last Friday. My sister and her family came to visit, and I picked them up from the airport. After the initial hugs and whatnot, one of the first things she said to me was, "You know that card you sent Mom for her birthday? Well, where were your mommy marks?"

"What's a 'mommy mark'?" I said.

"A stretch mark. Where are the stretch marks on your belly? I didn't see any."

Honestly, this was the first time I had ever thought about stretch marks seriously. I had never seen a stretch mark (think about it: how often does that come up at a party?), so I hadn't bothered looking for them. Now, I was on high alert.

"Well, Mom doesn't have stretch marks, so who knows if I'll get them?" I said.

"Mom has stretch marks, and so do I. So does (our sister-in-law) and (our sister)."

What?! So the next time I was in front of a computer, we (by that point, I had alerted Tim to the situation) looked up images of stretch marks. I have no idea if the images were worst-case scenario-type images or average shots of stretch marks, but I was horrified. Even Tim looked a bit disconcerted (which is hard for him, since emotion isn't one of his favorite activities). All I could think was, "Is this genetic? Is it permanent? Do they hurt? Where's my tummy lotion!!"

I went home and lathered my belly with cream as Tim gently pointed out, "I think you're scaring yourself and are going to make them come because now you're focused on it."

Could I bring about my own demise from panic? But, how could I not panic when, according to the Internet, stretch marks can appear on thighs, bottoms, and breasts, too? Half of pregnant women get them, and genetics seem to play a part. So, I officially hit the PANIC button.

B-Day Before D-Day

2007-05-09T07:41:00.000-06:00

Today be me birthday, mates! Arr! Don't know why special occassions make me want to talk like a pirate, but there you have it. What will Baby Dowdel and I do for out big day? The exact same thing we always do, but without guilt! I give myself permission to take a long nap, smack dab in the the middle of the day, without one, "I should really finish that load of laundry" or "I should get a head start on marinating the chicken." No, siree! I'm going to go take a shower right now and consider that my work for the day. I shall have a good day today, says I!

Pampers Someday, Pampering Today (Part 2)

2007-05-06T22:14:00.000-06:00

If you've never had a facial (and you're a female), I recommend getting one before you do the whole pregnancy-thing. That way, nothing will weird you out. After my massage at the spa, I was directed to a "relaxing room" where I was to await my next consultant.

Because I hadn't eaten lunch (remember, I had to leave home in a hurry) and it was already 1:00, I was happy to find a basket of fruit & nut bars sitting on a side table. As soon as I grabbed one, a consultant called my name. She immediately had me get on a cushy table in another floral-fragrant room. She covered my eyes with some cooling eye-mask thing, and turned on a bright lamp. She inspected my face. I mean, she checked out every pore. With the direct light and all, it reminded me of going to the dentist. I felt like I should offer apologies, too. Maybe, "Sorry, I've never had a facial" or "Is the moisturizer I'm using any good? I should be paying more for one, shouldn't I?"?

For the next half hour, she scrubbed, rubbed, massaged, and moisturized my head/neck. At every step, I kept thinking that she couldn't possibly add another layer, but she did. She spread something warm on my hands and lower arms, wrapped them in plastic, and put what felt like oven mitts on them. She said she would let me rest and then left the room. I tried to visualize what I must've looked like at this point. I had a towel wrapped around my hair, a mask covered my eyes, a layer of beauty-stuff coated my face, mitts hid my arms, and a sheet covered the rest of me--Tim could've tripped over me and still not known who I was.

Then there was the matter of the fruit & nut bar. I was starving, and all I could think about was the bar in my purse. Worse, I knew I was too coated in slick stuff to attempt to safely get up and grab the bar (plus, the mitts were electric and plugged into the wall). Even though Enya-type music played, it took ten minutes for me to stop scheming of ways to get the bar and relax. I waited. I think I was expected to fall asleep, but I was too paranoid to do that in a strange place (what if one of the candles tipped over? My oiled-up skin would light like a match!). When the lady finally returned, I was firmly between the real and dream worlds. May I have more of your heady rose water, please?

After some more floral water and my beloved fruit bar, I was led to the lunch area. I had a tasty chicken salad sandwich with cranberry juice, which brought me back to my senses. Soon a consultant came for me: manicure time.

I've never had a manicure, either. If you haven't figured it out by now, I'm not the girly-type. I'm a bit practical, so jewelry, having a plethora of shoes, and weekly manicures aren't really my thing. Don't get me wrong, I'm just as big on skin care products and quality lipstick as the next gal, but I don't do the whole beauty regimen thing.

The manicure went well. Sure, I eyed the poor woman like, "What are doing to my hands? Is this part necessary?" but overall, I felt it was a positive experience.

By the time Tim picked me up, I looked, smelled, and felt like a flower fairy. The spa still owes me a pedicure and makeup session, but we're scheduling that later. Like I said, I'm not big on the whole beauty regimen thing, but it's nice to have someone else fuss over you. I imagine after the baby is born, there will be days where I long for someone to pamper me. I'll remember the soothing massage and cooling eye pack, and what do you think I'm going to start asking for, my dear Tim?

Pampers Someday, Pampering Today (Part 1)

2007-04-30T19:55:00.000-06:00

With all the physical changes, I've had my share of body image troubles these past few months. So, when my husband bought me a mother-to-be spa package for Christmas, I was a bit concerned. I gushed over his thoughtfulness (because it was very thoughtful), and I commented about how wonderful I'm sure it would be (the Elizabeth Arden spas have an excellent reputation). As I scanned the list of included services--pregnancy massage, manicure, pedicure, facial, makeup--I tried not to cringe. For those of you who remember my baby shower paranoia, it's easy to understand how the idea of strangers touching and focusing their attention on me would (what's the word?) FREAK me out. At the time, I told myself, "I've got five more months to go; that's plenty of time to get used to the idea."

From then on, once a month or so, Tim would politely ask, "So, when are you going to schedule your spa day?" My prepared answer each time was, "As soon as I take care of ____, I'm so on it. It's really important that I take care of _____ this weekend, but after _____, I'll schedule an appointment."

That worked until two weeks ago, when I finally had to make my appointment. Tim planned to drive me to the spa but ended up coming home too late to take me. The drive was about 45 minutes long, and ten minutes from my destination, I realized I had forgotten the gift certificate (no, I didn't do it on purpose!). I didn't want to turn around and go home, because the spa would've charged me a late fee. I called Tim about 5 times to beg him to pick up the certificate, but I couldn't get a hold of him. The spa decided to check me in anyways, because they said my certificate was probably still in the system. After a few minutes, Tim showed up (his phone needed to be recharged, so he couldn't call me earlier)and fixed the situation.

At this point, I figured I had all the signs I needed that I shouldn't have come to the spa. But, I thought about how much Tim wanted it for me, so I dutifully lay down for my massage. I've only had a massage 2 other times in my life: the day before my wedding and two days after a major car accident. Obviously, it takes a traumatic event before I'll consider letting a stranger touch me. Both of those massages resulted in total muscle relaxation, but the journey there was painful. I mean, I made ridiculous faces the whole time because it felt like they were pinching me. I know they had to "work out" knots in my back, but it made my eyes bulge to endure it.

The masseuse at the spa was soft-spoken, and with the candles and all, it felt more like I was going to get my palm read than my back worked on. She told me, "Today's massage is like a Swedish massage." I'd never had a Swedish massage, so I didn't know if she was warning me or trying to assure me. So, I gripped the pregnancy pillow and prepared for pain.

Pain never came. It was all feel-good touchiness. I was warm and happy. She kept layering on lotion and oil stuff, and I never protested. I even forgot about my belly being so huge. When the massage was over, I reluctantly got up. I was given a glass of water (with some kind of floral essence voodoo-thing mixed in) and sent to the next consultant. There was little I wouldn't have agreed to by then, I think. Which was good, because the next part of my treatment required a move up on the weird scale.

Girl Yes, Pink No

2007-04-29T20:22:00.000-06:00

We had a doctor's appointment on Friday. Tim brought his video camera. He hoped we would have another sonogram, though they hadn't told me when my next (and final) one would be. When the nurse saw Tim all ready and expectant, she must have felt pity. She moved us to a room with a sonogram machine. I had an exam, and the results were:
- The baby looked healthy, thank God.
- The baby's weight was about 6 lbs, but there's more to come I'm sure ...
- We saw hair on the head!
- The baby's head is pointed downward (good news), but not quite facing the right direction yet (plenty of time for that, though).
- And finally ...

Baby Dowdel is a girl!

Safety First! Sanity Second! UPDATE

2007-04-26T20:51:00.000-06:00

Today, my brother & I went to another Safe Kids event to have car seats installed. My sister is in California this month (she left her car with me), so I decided to take her car & car seat in to be inspected (my niece is three, so she's been using this seat for a while now). My brother, whose daughter was born yesterday, took his car in to be inspected as well. He has two children now, so he had two car seats.

My sister's car was inspected first. I'll cut to the chase: the car seat had been installed incorrectly. My brother-in-law is a smart guy (a bit geeky, but smart) and a good father, so I know he'll be highly offended to learn the seat wasn't secure. The police officer who installed the seat used all the belts I wouldn't have, so I can say I wouldn't have done much better than my brother-in-law. But the seat is in correctly now, and isn't that what matters? I get the feeling that won't soothe anyone's ego ...

As for my brother: to his credit, he had installed his son's car seat almost perfectly. The consultant adjusted it a bit, but my brother had done a pretty decent job. The consultant installed the infant car seat as well. After the consultant left, I said, "Did you learn anything new?"

"Well, yeah," my brother said, "but I think I could've done this by myself."

"Really?" I said. "So you think you wasted your time today?"

"No," he said. "It's good to be confident about it. At least now I don't have any doubts."

I reminded him of one thing, though. One day, when his son was old enough to be forward-facing in his car seat (which my brother had installed), we (my sister-in-law and my nephew) drove to a store. At one point, I turned around from my front passenger seat to offer my nephew a snack.

I said, "I think we should stop the car." My sister-in-law asked why.

"Um," I said, "go ahead and park, and I'll tell you." She parked and turned around in her seat.

There was her son, smiling and giggling--but in a car seat completely laying sidways on the back seat.

As I related the story to my brother, he laughed. But, he pointed out, he had learned from those mistakes and took steps to get it right. By letting someone help him install his daughter's seat today, I would say I agree with him.

Riding Around

2007-04-26T08:24:00.000-06:00

Every MTB and every baby is different, so my experiences thus far may be completely different than moms before me and moms after. For me, pregnancy has been like riding one of those motorcycles that have a little seat attached to its side. I know at all times that another person is with me, though I haven't figured out who's driving. I'm not physically able to do some of the fancy tricks I did when I had a dirt bike, but the co-riding thing is OK, too.

There are times when the baby and I are alone, and I stare at my stomach. My eyebrows bunch together, because I still don't know what to make of her/him. I woke up the other day, looked around at all the new shelves, furniture, and baby blankets and thought, "I can NOT believe this is happening." I wasn't terrified or mad, just surprised. Tim says he remembers when, during the first two years we were married, I would suddenly look at him and say, "I can't believe we're married. I really can't believe it." Again, not mad or sad, just amazed. Maybe I take a long time to adjust to new ideas?

The other day the baby and I were eating lunch alone at a cafe. Halfway during the meal, they played a piece of music over the speakers that made me stop. It was beautiful--sad and familiar. It rolled all of my troubled thoughts together and pressed down on me. I knew I'd heard the piece before, but I couldn't remember where. I asked the staff about it, but they didn't know, either. Later that evening, I went home and took a nap. When I awoke, I remembered. I quickly found the song on iTunes and downloaded it.

The baby and I listened to the piece ("The Last Man" from The Fountain soundtrack) from beginning to end while I closed my eyes. I cried. I actually cried. That never happens. I patted my belly, and it was like the baby understood. (S)he didn't kick, but just listened, too, like, "It is sad, Mom. It's OK to cry." Afterwards, I wiped my eyes. We were both better.

Yesterday, I felt nostalgic. I wished the baby could've grown up like I did, in a time when fashion was hideous, but people were optimistic and a bit naive: the 80s. Yep, I began downloading Michael Jackson songs (pre-weirdo era). The baby and I danced and jammed to "Smooth Criminal", "Beat It", and "Billie Jean". You should have seen us go! I did all the shoulder work, and the baby did some nice rolling action. All in all, a good day.

Tim told me two days ago, "I thought pregnancy would be a lot ... harder."

"What do you mean?" I said. "Did you think it would be harder for me or you?"

"Both," he said. He explained that he thought there would be more outward signs of pregnancy. I guess he figured I'd have cravings, swell up, and be weeping all day. He had prepared himself mentally to be abused verbally and to take it with grace, as a good FTB should.

The truth is, most of what is happening to me is mental. Like I said, every pregnancy is different, so I can't speak for anyone else. Tim can't see or hear my thoughts. I pray a lot just to be strong and not let fear (of being a bad mom, of losing the baby, of losing my marriage) overtake me. Tim tells me every day that things will work out. He hugs me and says things like, "I think your belly is cute," even though I know it's HUGE. But, I appreciate that he senses that although I'm not too different outwardly, there are things going on elsewhere.

So, if you know an MTB, especially if she doesn't have a partner, give her encouragement. Pregnancy is lonely and public all at the same time. A few kind words may remind her that driving with a sidecar can work out, and she may end up going somewhere nice she never thought she could.

The Last Laugh

2007-04-25T20:45:00.000-06:00

Today my sister-in-law had her baby. She had an 8 lb, 2 oz girl. Her son, born in 2005, weighed 10 lbs. My sister-in-law (my brother's wife) is a petite thing who looks like she shouldn't carry a heavy purse, let alone a 10 lb kid. For the past four months, she has looked like she swallowed a basketball. From behind, she didn't even look pregnant. The baby was perfectly centered, so much so that my sister-in-law had the hardest time finding clothes that fit. Her tummy stuck out, and every maternity shirt she wore ended up having that Pooh Bear look to it. I gave her one of my Bella Bands, and for once that poor woman didn't have to worry about her belly showing. Point is, my sister-in-law is a true soldier. Congratulations to my brother and his wife--but especially his wife!

Many months ago, my brother told me they had finally come up with a name for their child. Note to future parents: if you have a name that is dear to your heart, don't tell anyone. The best thing you can do is guard it until it's printed on your baby's birth certificate. If you don't, the following may happen to you:

As I was saying, they had decided on a first/middle name: Destiny Niveah. I promptly said, "The middle name is nice, but the first name? Sounds like a stripper's." My brother was appalled. "No, really," I said. "Destiny, Bambi, Candy--they're all stripper names."

My brother tried to brush my comments off, but then I got on a roll. "If you name your kid Destiny, instead of sewing her booties, I'll buy her glass high-heels." I laughed. "Yeah, and on her birthdays I'll give her money--in ones!" Basically, I beat the joy right out of my brother. I'm (slightly) ashamed of myself now, but really, I was only trying to ensure my niece wouldn't get stuck with a name that limits her future employment opportunities to places with a happy hour. Hahaha--OK, I'll stop now.

Anyway, after a few weeks, it came to my ears that my brother and sister-in-law had decided on a new name. Friends and family would find out at the baby shower. When I finally heard the new name, I smiled. Because it's a nice name? No. It is a nice name, but that's not what made me smile. Is it because the name is unique? Well, it's uncommon but not unheard of.

I smiled because my brother, of all the available names in the known world, chose to name his daughter after the only girl in school who ever got on my nerves.

I know when I've been beat.

There Was an Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe

2007-04-24T10:05:00.000-06:00

Sometimes I wonder how many kids Tim & I will end up having. When I was a teenager, I thought, "Three. Three sounds like a good number." Like most kids that age, I gave no thought to factors that would affect my numbers. What if I couldn't bear children? What if I didn't have the financial means to take care of more than two? What if my husband only wanted one? What if I had twins on my third pregnancy? What if I couldn't emotionally handle more than one?

My mother had five children. I am the middle child. I have two older sisters and two younger brothers. One thing I always hoped for was to have children that were as tightly knit as my brothers and sisters are. Do we fight sometimes? Yep. Do we get in each other's business? Daily. But my siblings are funny, passionate people. It's like a support network of crazy people. We manage our own, and even when we're furious at each other, we'd trample anyone who would try to break the network. I know--it sounds like a cult.

I guess what I'm saying is, I think someday I'd like to have more children. I want Baby Dowdel to have all the advantages I did: sibling support & protection. Even the hard things were still good. I didn't always get what I wanted as a kid (like my own music player), because I had to share. I didn't get to lock myself away from the world for a day to have a pity party, because, well, there was someone in every room. I couldn't get too haughty, either, because siblings have a way of regulating the pecking order.

I see the obvious benefits of having one child, too. A parent can devote so much more time, money, and attention caring for one child than eight. Population control: can't beat it.

But.

I like that I have an instant Gallup-type poll at my disposal. If I relay an incident from my life to my family, I get immediate, honest responses (notice I didn't have to ask for feedback). Not the kind responses coworkers or gentle friends might give (you know, where they actually care about how you react?). My family will tell it like it is. There's something comforting about having at least one person in the world who can say, smiling and without pause, "Wow, why'd you act so stupid?" It's a reminder that I'm not above criticism. Critical love: it's a precious part of our mob mentality.

Welcome to the network, Baby Dowdel!

Former Bedfellows

2007-04-23T04:18:00.000-06:00

Me: "Sleep, where have you been? I waited all night for you, and you never showed up."
Sleep: "Sorry."
Me: "That's all you have to say? I've always fallen asleep faster than anyone you've known, so show a little respect."
Sleep: "OK, OK. It's just that things are complicated right now, and I've been trying to avoid it, but ... Fine, here it is: I'm leaving, and I won't be back for a while."
Me: "Whoa, whoa, slow down. There's no reason to talk crazy here. Why don't we both just calm down and talk this over a nice cup of tea?"
Sleep: "You know I don't do caffeine."
Me: "Sorry. We haven't been spending much time together, and you know I can't think clearly without you."
Sleep: "Face it, Dowdel. With your sore back, cramping, pelvic discomfort, and constant need to visit the toilet all night, how do you expect us to spend quality time anyway?"
Me: "Oh, Sleep, Buddy, let's be fair--"
Sleep: "Don't 'Sleep Buddy' me! I did what I could, OK? Every time I got us going in a sweet REM cycle, you know who started kicking us like a legion of showgirls!"
Me: "Oh, don't bring the baby into this!"
Sleep: "(S)he's kicking right now, isn't (s)he?"
Me: "Not exactly ... more like nudging, or gently tapping ..."
Sleep: "Oh, please! I'm leaving tonight, and that's all there is to it. Look, you knew this was going to happen. We've hardly spent any time together lately, and it's time for me to move on. There are so many others who need me right now: truckers, college kids finished with exams, Martha Stewart."
Me: "But, but, but--"
Sleep: "Don't worry; this isn't 'goodbye' forever. I'll be back, and we can be best friends, just like we were before."
Me: "Really?"
Sleep: "Sure. For now, though, you may want to stock up on DVDs--late night TV isn't the most quality stuff, you know?"
Me: "Yeah. Thanks for sticking around as long as you did, by the way. It means a lot to me."
Sleep: "No problem, old friend. Good night."
Me: "Very funny."
Sleep: "Sorry, couldn't help it."

Safety First! Sanity Second!

2007-04-21T07:29:00.000-06:00

It doesn't matter if you graduated from high school with honors, did your undergrad in physics, and breezed through some engineering masters: if you’ve never put together a car seat, prepare to look like a monkey.

In fact, 80% of parents (this is a fact, now) who believe they’ve installed a car seat correctly are delusional. Don’t be ashamed. I, too, only had a vague understanding of how car seats should be installed: “You put it in the backseat, loop a seat belt around it somehow, and yeah, it works out.”

Apparently, that’s not good enough. I tried to help install my nephew’s car seat a year ago, and that was a fiasco. The seat came with only a hint of instructions. No matter what we tried, it was more than wobbly and clearly not safe enough for a sheet of paper to ride in.

Before ye young ones turn up ye noses and guffaw, know this: this is not one of those tasks that you can do strictly by following the instructions. There are variables involved, people! Is your car old? It may not have the safest anchors for a new car seat. Is your backseat at a steep angle? If your car seat doesn’t have an adjustment foot, you’re going to need large foam noodles or blankets to place the seat at the right angle. Do you know what angle the car seat should rest at, anyway? That would be 45 degrees. Think you want to hang a cute mobile from the car seat’s handle to entertain baby? That’s considered a hazard during an accident.

The list of what I did not know prior to becoming pregnant could go on and on. Point is, putting in a car seat can be irritating. Mainly, because you know it’s important to do it right. You can screw up a lot of things as a new parent that aren't life-threatening, like a diaper change, but installing the car seat isn’t one of those things.

My answer? Forget trying to be a know-it-all. Don’t let your partner attempt to be a Mr. or Mrs. Fix-it-all, either. Drink a big glass of your own pride, and do what I did: contact your local police/fire station or http://www.usa.safekids.org/. You can set up an appointment or go to one of their car seat inspection events, and they will install your car seat for you (or check the job you’ve done). They will teach you how to do it correctly.

I had my car seat installed yesterday, and let me just say, I could’ve figured out how to do it myself ... but my kid would’ve been five by then.

Sucking it In & Up

2007-04-19T22:21:00.000-06:00

I finally had to do the walk of shame this week. I've been taking a language class at a local university for the past few weeks, and so far, it's been fun. The only thing is, on the first day of class I knew I'd have to do the walk of shame at some point. See, the desks in the classroom are the kind that have a small tabletop (enough for writing space) attached to a chair. I was hoping for long tables with movable chairs at each table, but no luck. When I sat down that first day, the table part of my desk was less than 1/4" from my belly. I told myself it was plenty of room, even though I had to readjust in my seat every 10 minutes to stay comfortable.

Worse, the students in my class fall into two categories: married older people with no kids yet, or single young people who are practically kids themselves. I stick out, literally.

On Tuesday, it finally happened. I had to squeeeeeze into my desk. I knew I would have to do that eventually, but we only had three more classes left, and I thought I had time--you know how it goes. I was so uncomfortable, but did I complain? Nope. I didn't want to call any attention to myself or look like I wanted special treatment. The baby kicked against the table like, "Hey, lady! It's tight in here as it is!" The price for my stupidity was that I got to squirm in my seat for a full hour. I couldn't breathe normally, let alone use the correct past tense Japanese verb for "to eat."

By the time our five-minute break finally came, I had reached my threshold. I immediately got up and asked to have the only free-standing chair in the classroom. I think the teacher and several of the students wondered why I hadn't asked for it before. Two of them moved a new chair and small table to my spot. Instant relief.

That night, I parked too close to a gas pump at the station. Normally, I'd just squeeze out of my door, but, yeah, after one attempt ... Then there was the bathroom stall incident ... Point is, what moms have been telling me must be true: by the time I come home from the hospital with a baby, all sense of shame and modesty will be gone. The events leading up to the pregnancy (outgrowing clothes, loss of body functions, and squeezing into formerly spacious areas) and the delivery itself (our parenting instructor reminded us it's not uncommon for women to defecate during labor--*cringe*) make it hard for one to hold her head up high, you know? Even though the doctors and nurses have seen it all before, it will be my first time. If only I could lie there exposed and unashamed as easily as the baby will as (s)he makes her/his way into the world!

Time to suck it up, folks.

Sigh

2007-04-17T11:00:00.000-06:00

When I started this blog, I committed to keeping it 100% about pregnancy and nothing else. I feel I would be remiss, though, not to address the events at Virginia Tech yesterday. Mainly, someday I will send my baby out into the world, just like the parents of the students who died yesterday. And though my child may grow up to be a good citizen, a person to admire, I can not protect him/her from those who have violence in their hearts. What a waste. I will never understand how a person can plot murder--take the time to obtain weapons and develop a plan--but not put half that effort into seeking therapy, confiding in a friend, or contemplating what his actions will do to his legacy, his family, other families, and his soul. Who or what is so important that murder is the only option? Did a girl break your heart? Guess what? There are other girls out there. Did a professor fail you? Study more, or take your case to the Board. Point is, there are always options. The only person who can't see options is the person who's already decided what he wants to do. How sad.

There is something selfish about a person who can kill strangers. It's like saying, "MY pain is more important than anything YOU and your family will endure. Look at ME and how much I hurt!" The shooter at Virginia Tech will at least have his motive explained somehow, but the victims? They have died for no cause, no wrong they've done. In the end, no matter what someone did that made the shooter feel justified in his actions, no matter how terrible the initial offense was, the shooter was the biggest jerk of all. He killed innocent people, caused pain to those who caused him no wrong. He deserves no pity, because he gave none.

I guess I can teach my baby this: never give others (people or things) control of your happiness, because the day they decide to take it away, you will have a hole that you won't know how to fill.

World Keeps Spinin'

2007-04-17T10:00:00.000-06:00

With the baby showers, constant attention, baby clothes, toys, and all other things baby, it's easy for MTBs to make their babies the center of their lives. I don't spite them for it, because in a way, it's natural.

I've tried my best not to bore people with baby chatter. This blog lets me get out what I want to say about my pregnancy, and let it go. Without this funnel for my banter, friends and coworkers would be ducking behind tables whispering, "Hide! The Baby Lady's coming!" Rightfully, so--who wants to hear about back aches, pelvic troubles, and acid reflux, anyway? I did tell you about my acid reflux, didn't I? Because if I haven't, let me just say--hey, where are you going?!?

No, really, this blog is therapeutic for me. As I was saying, it's easy to make a baby the center of the universe, except this: the world keeps spinning along, whether a MTB notices or not. This is why it's so upsetting for her when IT happens. Forty weeks is a long time, so we shouldn't be surprised when Life sneaks in. IT is an event, usually a traumatic one, that happens during a pregnancy, the one that makes a woman think, "Can't you all see I'm pregnant, and can't deal with this at the moment?"

Maybe IT is something as common as having to move to a new place. Maybe IT is not so mundane. The stress of having to deal with a spouse losing a job, a close friend passing away, or a car accident that threatens financial ruin reminds a mother that the baby may be the center of her universe but not the universe. The worst kind of event IT could be, in my opinion? Family. Family can make you wish you witnessed a mob hit, just so you could live solo in the witness protection program. The closer your family is, the more likely they are to cause drama.

They wait until a MTB is nice and round (completely incapable of dealing with stress and physically unable to smack others back in line) to say things like, "Your mother and I have decided to get a divorce," "Grandpa has a mistress," "Your sister got a DUI, and this one's going to court," and "Remember how I promised I'd never gamble again? Well, last Friday, I noticed you left your checkbook on the kitchen counter ..."

The sad part is, I know there's some of you out there saying, "You think that's bad? You wouldn't believe what my (fill in relative here) did! He/she (outrageous action here), and then had the nerve to (salt-in-wound action)! I didn't think I'd EVER speak to (relative's name) again, but I was forced to make nice at the very next (lame family occasion)."

When that day comes, when IT knocks on your door, future MTBs remember: Grandma Dowdel warned you.

Cue "Pomp and Circumstance"

2007-04-16T09:38:00.000-06:00

We graduated! Yesterday was our last Childbirth class--woo-hoo! We have a one-session baby class (can't even remember what it's for) in a few weeks, but we're finished with all our long-term classes. We're qualified (loosely) to be parents! We celebrated with cupcakes.

The last day of class was spent (1) practicing positions that will help with labor pains, and (2) discussing C-sections. If any of you are planning on having a baby soon, please stop reading the rest of this. Go find a happy story about moms and babies and how much they love each other (I recommend Love You Forever, Guess How Much I Love You?, The Runaway Bunny, and anything with a puppy on the cover). The rest of you, hold on to your lunches.

Our instructor decided to show us a video of an actual C-section. The docs in the video put up a curtain to block the area between the mother's chest and her abdomen. The video said this was to prevent any sort of infection. Uh-huh. Why did they have to strap the mother's arms down, then? It's because they know if that woman glimpses the scalpel, she's going to punch the nurse in the face and make for the door. They need that curtain up to protect them, not the baby.

So, the doctor makes a cut through the skin and fat layer, about 4-6 inches above the pubic area (which will only heal down to about 2-3 inches later). Enter blood. I was all done at this point, but I couldn't look away. With his hands, the doctor opens the cut, pushes aside the abdominal muscles, and cuts the uterus. I looked away just as more liquids were pouring out. When I finally looked back, two sets of hands were scooping out the baby and pulling its head through the hole.

"No, no, no," I said, shaking my head. A guy next to us in the room looked at me like, "I'm with you on this, and I'm not even having the baby!"

Some doctors, according to the narrator, pull the uterus out to give it a good once over (before slapping it back in). I didn't keep watching to see if that's what went down with that poor woman.

Removing the baby took less than 10 minutes, during which the mother was awake but drugged. She didn't feel pain, they claimed, but did feel "pulling and tugging" motions. The mom would eventually feel pain, obviously, but they didn't talk about that. Afterwards, the doctors spent 45 minutes sewing or stapling the mom back together.

Our instructor reminded us that although C-sections are major surgeries, they are relatively safe. She handed out a fact sheet with extra information for us to read at home. I glanced at the paper, and here are a few points that, and this is my opinion, temper the statement she just made:

*Women have 5-7 times the risk of DEATH with C-sections.
*Twice as many women require rehospitalization after a C-section as women having a normal vaginal birth.

*1-2 babies per 100 will be cut during surgery.

*Babies born after elective C-section are 4 times as likely to develop persistent pulmonary hypertension.

*1 in 10 women report difficulties with normal activities 2 months after birth; 1 in 14 report the same thing 6 months after birth.

And, finally:

*Women who have C-sections are less likely to decide to become pregnant again.

You don't say?

Update: Kansas

2007-04-14T15:06:00.000-06:00

Obviously, I wasn't blown away by a tornado. Thankfully, most of the tornado-like winds and hail stayed a few miles north of us.

Unfortunately, two people lost their lives last night. The first was a police officer who's car slid off the road. His death was honorable, as he was only out serving the community.

The second death occurred when a man in a lumber yard tried to continue to unload lumber rather than seek shelter. He died when the lumber pile fell on top of him.

Yes, it's tragic that someone would be tempted to do anything besides seek shelter while a tornado lurked about. Very tragic. I don't know why anyone would think of such a thing ...
(*blush*)

We're Not in Kansas Anymore ...

2007-04-13T18:36:00.000-06:00

... but, we might as well be! Tonight tornadoes and baseball-sized hail pounded North Texas. My pregnant sister-in-law hid in a closet with her toddler son. Tim was at work, and Baby Dowdel and I sat on our sofa, devising what our next move should be.

I had 10 minutes to decide what to do: take measures to protect our new car (we've only had it for 8 months) and risk a tornado popping up, or stay at home and take cover. We have no covered parking, and baseball-sized hail can kill a person.

I so wanted to take my car to a nearby gas station, car wash, or anything with a roof. I went to the bedroom and looked for something that might protect the car. The nearest tornado was 10-15 miles from me, and at that moment, it was only sprinkling where I was. I had time to move the car if I acted quickly. Did I mention the car is NEW?

And yet ...

I looked down at my belly, and there was Baby Dowdel, quietly awaiting my decision. Perhaps (s)he was pacing the floor, too?

"But the possibility of getting hail on the car is much greater than a tornado getting us!" I wanted to argue.

Baby Dowdel didn't try to convince me otherwise; (s)he just sat there.

"I don't even know if our insurance covers hail! Oh, I get it. You think I'm being materialistic. You think we'll go out there, get caught in the storm, slide off the road, meet a tornado, or get hurt by the hail, huh? Well, well ..."

No answer.

I had a quick vision of what Tim would say if I left and was injured in any way. "Didn't you think about you and the baby?" he'd say. "You did all that for the car?"

Yeah, at that point, I'd probably feel shame, I thought. So, BD and I decided to stay in. We plopped in front of the TV to watch the radar, gathered my cell phone and home phone, said a prayer, and cuddled together on the couch.

Pimp My Crib

2007-04-12T21:19:00.000-06:00

Today the UPS man delivered our latest project: the baby's crib. The box had a hole in it the size of both of my fists, and the delivery guy said, "Yeah, the hole's pretty big, but I don't think the crib's been damaged. It looks like it happened on the underside ..." Unless he had Superman X-ray-like vision, I'm not sure how he could have known that, but I chose to let it go for the moment.

When Tim got home, he was eager to begin the project. I don't care how computer geeky a man is, something in most men gives them the urge to every once in a while say, "Don't you worry about this here project, little lady. Once I get my tool belt on and find my tool box, whoo-wee we're in business!" Never mind that it may only get used once every four months, a man needs a tool box.

Anyway, Tim worked quietly for an hour or so putting the crib together while I made no attempt to help him. My pelvis was hurting, so I felt no desire to be an assistant. I waited for something to go wrong (missing pieces, damaged pieces, frustration, etc.), because we purchased the crib online without ever getting to see it in person. But, nothing ever did. Finally, Tim said, "Come see."

The crib was perfect. It looked sturdy, modern, but above all, it said to me, "Yes, you are having a baby, and this is where he/she will be." The crib is such an imposing piece of furniture; it can't be ignored like most of the baby gear we have. It says in no uncertain terms that someone is moving in.

Naturally, I didn't sleep at all last night. I kept waking up, paranoid, thinking, "Why isn't the baby moving? Is everything OK?!?" Something about seeing the crib in place made me desperate. It's almost like what happens after someone sends out formal invitations to a wedding and buys a dress. There's an unspoken commitment that the event will take place and lives will be changed. I thought, as I rocked myself, "I can't let anything happen to this baby. People are expecting a baby, and I've got to deliver one! Yes, baby, precious baby ..."

This morning I was better. We had a doctor's appointment, and everything turned out fine. The doc said my pelvic pain is probably my ligaments under strain and will only bother me more as I get bigger. So, as most of my doc's diagnoses have been lately, the answer came down to, "It's all part of the package."

Oh, well. At least now I can start pimpin' my kid's digs out: comfy mattress, soft sheets, and designer bedding I've had my eye on. By the time I'm done, I'll probably sleep in the crib myself and let the kid nap with Tim.

Commander in Chief

2007-04-12T10:35:00.000-06:00

(Again, on an unrelated matter: I need cable. Daytime TV is a punishment for those who don't have cable. Soap operas are not my thing, so I'm forced to have court TV shows on (I need background noise). A female plaintiff on one of these shows just said, "I sign-DED the apartment lease." I thought, "She should go to jail just for murdering the English language." But a moment later, when the judge asked the defendant why he never helped pay rent for an apartment he shared with the woman, the defendant answered, "I was under the influence that the money was in our joint account." Considering his glazed eyes, I believe he was "under the influence.")

Yesterday, for the second time in three years, I cancelled a class. I'm the duty-loving sort, so I never skip out on a class if I can help it (the last time I did was due to a car accident). I didn't go to church last night, either. Why? Because there's a new sheriff in town. Hail to Baby Dowdel, Commander in Chief!

For two days, I've felt like I've had a football-type injury. My inner thigh feels like I've pulled it out of place. I tried rubbing the muscles, but the pain seems to be coming from my pelvis (the bone) or looseness in the joints. I called my doc, and the nurse told me to lay down for the rest of the day and take a pain reliever. So, I cancelled my class and stayed in the rest of the night.

Baby Dowdel's reaction to us staying home? He/she kicked joyfully and rolled around in my belly. Not exactly the penitent actions I had hoped for, but it's hard to tell the big cheese what to do when you're only the maidservant.

More Skoolin'

2007-04-10T19:19:00.000-06:00

On an unrelated matter: today I heard someone on TV say (referring to gifts), "That was all I bought-TED her." English translation: "That was all I bought her." This is the second time this week I've heard someone butcher a verb or pronounce the latter part of a past-tense verb as if it were a second word! Someone call the grammar police (http://spogg.org/)! OK, I'm done now. I guess I'll have to talk-ED about this again later ...

So, Tim & I have only one more Childbirth class to attend. Our last class was a little disheartening. The instructor showed us a pain chart that basically ranged from -10 to 10. She told the mothers to decide how much pain we thought we could bear during delivery (without discussing it with our spouses). Our partners were also to decide how much pain they thought we could bear. If you could not bear any pain at all, you would choose -10. If you were neutral, and didn't know if you would need an epidural or not, you were a zero. If you think you could bear all pain without medicine at any point, you were a 10. I thought I was a 6 or 7. The first person the instructor called was Tim. Tim said, "She's a zero ... or -3."

I wanted to smack him. Out of the 8 couples in our class, exactly half wanted an epidural and rated themselves -5. The other half wanted to try a natural birth, though none of us claimed to be an 8 or above.

Our instructor handed all the men a handful of ice in a napkin. She told them to grip it, without rest, for a minute and a half. The wives were told to encourage them using the different methods we'd learned in class. Tim was great. He didn't complain, and he let me joke with him while we tried to pass the time. He made it look easy.

Then it was my turn. To my dismay, within 10 seconds I was saying, "Can't do it. Can't do it! I'm gonna drop it. Too cold! Too cold!!" I apologized to Tim for my pathetic endurance. I felt bad that I was going to let my "team" down.

But I held on! I groaned like I was in labor, but I held on. Soon my palm went numb, and it was much easier after that. See, kids? When Life is hard and you don't think you can hold on, just remember to find something that will numb the pain--wait, that didn't come out right ...

Join the PPP (Parents Promoting Prevention)!

2007-04-08T22:04:00.000-06:00

Before I get hate mail, please understand I'm not trying to mock other parents' safety precautions. OK, that's a lie, but at least understand that I don't want hate mail.

So, today I was scanning a child catalog that my sister gave me. Among the typical potty-training gear and stroller items, I found a section that made me guffaw: the safety & preventative measures category.

Honestly, they must make this section for a special (by that I mean paranoid) group of people: first-time parents, over-involved grandparents, fire marshall inspectors' families, and conspiracy-theory types. I understand that parents shouldn't give children knives and nails to play with. I also understand that covering electrical outlets, tying up dangling cords, and securing bulky furniture to a wall is a good idea, but do we really need kid house helmets? You think I'm kidding? Check out page 12!

Should I be amazed that civilization has managed to last for thousands of years without a single one of the safety devices I saw today? How have we lived so long without toddler UPF 50+ sun-blocking beachwear in coordinating colors? How?

Here's just a sampling of the items many catalogs claim are "must haves":

- Safety bumpers on tubs, tables, and fireplace mantles
- Automatic toy sanitizers
- Window guards
- Cord covers
- TV button guards (seals away the TV buttons so you can only use the remote)
- Toilet locks
- Cabinet, drawer, & door locks
- Stove knob guards & oven door locks
- Oven splatter guards
- Computer button guard
- Shopping cart germ guard

If that's not enough, you can go all the way, folks! Buy a "play yard," which basically amounts to a zoo pen for kids! Put 'em in lock down like they do at San Quentin, I say.

I think if most of us take an honest evaluation of the way we grew up, we can probably conclude that (1) accidents will happen, no matter what precautions our parents took, and (2) most of the accidents were learning experiences. So, as parents I say take safety precautions in moderation. Alternatively, go all the way with it and put junior in an extra-large hamster ball.

Happy Birthday, Daddy Dowdel!

2007-04-07T20:11:00.000-06:00

This weekend is Tim's birthday. He woke up this morning and told me he had a dream. Tim likes vanilla shakes and khakis; dreams feel like an unnecessary frill to Life, more like a task, to him. I was surprised when he said he had a dream, and a long, clear dream at that.

He dreamt the baby was born, and he delivered it. Was the baby all clean right after delivery, like in the movies, I wanted to know. No, Tim explained, the baby was slimy, yucky, and a tinge blue.

Figures.

Afterwards, though, was the baby OK?

Yes, Tim said. He was very happy because the baby was beautiful.

I smiled. I realized this gateway into Tim's subconscious may give the answer to our ultimate question. "Well," I wanted to know, "was it a boy or a girl?"

"I forgot to check."

The Hip Bone's Connected to the ...

2007-04-05T19:01:00.000-06:00

No, this won't be an overbearing anatomy lesson, but I feel compelled to explain the shape and vibe of my eight-weeks-and-counting pregnancy body. MTBs (and silly teenage girls with older boyfriends) need to know the truth. I think I'll provide the facts as they are, with a pinch of how I see them, yes?

1. I can't breathe.
1a. Everything below my ribs is compressed, which means my breaths are short and uneven. My childbirth instructor says when the baby "drops" (AKA "lightening"), I'll finally be able to breathe better ... but that does mean my delivery is coming soon. I guess that's good news. I think.

2. Grandma has better eyesight than me.
2a. My vision is blurry from time to time. I can't seem to focus as well as I used to, eyeglasses or not. Today, I woke up, and for the first hour, I saw halos around everything because of my left eye. Benefit: my round silhouette is much less startling in the mirror.

3. What's that glare? Oh, yes, it's my hair!
3a. True. Perhaps it's my daily prenatal vitamin with DHA, but my hair is extra shiny & smooth of late. My doc says many women find this to be true so continue taking the pills long after pregnancy. Not a bad idea ...

4. I dream about sleep.
4a. Forget about exotic places, I dream about sleep. Most of my dreams these past few weeks feature my bed, a bed, or house with a bed in it. I don't think we need to purchase a dream interpretation book for this one.

5. It's a rockin' party, and I'm not invited.
5a. Baby Dowdel kicks, turns, and pretty much has the ultimate college party every day: it goes all night long, the cops never come, and food/drink are on tap all night.

6. I should buy stock in Charmin.
6a. I go to the bathroom almost every hour to urinate (yet, I struggle to "perform" when the nurse needs a sample). I rush in there, because I feel like I'm going to pop. Once seated, hardly anything comes out--argh!

7. Memo from Brain: "I've enjoyed our time together, but I will be on leave for the next 9 months."
7a. Is it carelessness or forgetfulness? Either way, I'm having trouble remembering things. Sometimes I do the same thing twice (like pay a bill) because I forget that I've already done it. I want to say something else about this topic, but I can't quite recall ...

8. I need more body glue.
8a. It's true! My left hip, 1-4 times a day (on random days) sort of slips out from under me. I lose my balance, and it hurts for a moment. I read somewhere that hormones may be causing my pelvis to loosen up in preparation for an easier delivery. Codswallop? I don't know.

9. Every week, something else in my wardrobe won't fit.
9a. Really.

10. The baby card rocks!
10a. If I don't like something, someone, or some place, I just pull the baby card. Don't like a restaurant? "Honey, I don't think the baby's going to like that right now." Want to change the subject? "I don't want the baby to overhear and get upset; do you mind?" Feel like going home early? "The baby's tired. I'm going to call it a night." See? Think of all the potential! "The baby would like cookie dough ice cream if you don't mind ..."

There you have it: truth in less than 600 words, but 400 calories.

Thou Hast Humbled Me

2007-04-05T06:23:00.000-06:00

After I've been taught a Life lesson, I feel like I should retell it with the language of the King James Version of the Bible. A few good knowest, thine, thou, and beholds is enough to drive the lesson home for me. Don't worry, I said I should feel like I should tell it that way, but I won't actually do it (mostly).

So, yesterdayeth (OK, that was a bit much) started out with much potential. I had in mind a list of several projects I wanted to complete, and I'm a gal who likes to complete projects. At 7:30, the baby was already kicking, but I could tell I hadn't slept well all night, so I figured I'd stay in bed until I had. At 8:00, my mom called. She needed me to pick her up from work and get blood work done at her doctor's office. I got up, got dressed, and was out of the door in an hour.

Symptom 1: Tired. Very tired.

The appointment, which was planned as a ten-minute thing (so I had decided to eat breakfast afterwards), took over an hour.

Symptom 2: Hungry. Very hungry.

My eyes were dry, and I wanted to sleep. This was difficult to accomplish since a) I hardly fit in a standard chair anymore, and b) a rowdy toddler was banging on doors, pushing magazines aside, and yelling (while her mother repeated, "Don't do that, please. Please don't do that. I'd like you not to do that.").

After the appointment, my mom generously took me to breakfast. I went home, and instead of taking a nap so I could feel better, I prepped my materials for a class I would teach that night. I tried to start many of the projects I had planned earlier, but no effort lasted beyond ten minutes. I could not think straight, but I refused to keep trying. Before I realized it, it was time for class.

Symptom 3: Bitter. Very bitter.

The class went well. I was hungry after, so I decided to eat by myself at a fast-food joint. I was sleepy, but not too tired to reflect on some things (reflect = stew). Mainly, I was thinking about my mom's appointment. It hadn't gone particularly well. Mom's been stressed over a situation lately, and her stress levels are bringing her some unwanted side effects. I was annoyed (not at Mom) that the situation had gotten so complex and destructive.

Symptom 4: Irritable. Very irritable.

After dinner, I went to church. I felt better for a while, until I got home. As I sat in front of my laptop (again, trying to accomplish at least one project), I suddenly felt as irritable and tired as I had all morning. I was trying to print something important (will discuss in a later post), and my husband's new security software was not letting me connect to our networked printer. We tried one idea after another, but it would not let me print. We changed settings, attempted to turn off the security software, and restarted the computers, but nothing worked. At one point, the Help menu suggested that if I installed the software on my computer as well (paying for another license, of course), the printer would work.

Symptom 5: Angry. Very angry.

The rest of the story, in brief, goes like this:

***

I satteth upon my sofa and was bitter in my soul. Timothy, whom I loveth, spoke thus: "Perhaps if thou wouldest let me touch thoust laptop for but a few moments, or if I may installeth software into it ..." The man grasped for the laptop, and something, which today causeth my soul to sorrow, happeneth. I took hold of his chin tightly and said, "Verily I say unto you, that thou art aggravating me severely!" Twas an aggressive act. Twas shamefull. Timothy, whom I loveth, did not return anger for anger. He left me be, though he only wished to help. A short time passed. I wept bitterly. I asked for forgiveness and have been much silent since.

***

The point is, and I will not address this again, is that I let my last-trimester pregnancy symptoms take hold of me. I refused to listen to my body and go back to sleep when I should have. I refused to go to bed early that night, rather than struggle to finish projects which could have waited one more day. I refused to see the warning signs all day long that my anger levels were steadily rising unchecked. For that, I am truly sorry.

That's Messed Up

2007-04-03T14:19:00.000-06:00

In the past 2 weeks, two incidents covered in the news have troubled me the most. The first occurred about a week ago. A woman was gunned down at a college campus by her ex-boyfriend even though she had a restraining order on him. Today, another woman--pregnant, no less--was shot point-blank by an unnamed man in a CNN building in Atlanta. Clearly, since he chose to drag her by the hair prior to killing her, this was some kind of domestic case.

According to the American Pregnancy Association, 240,000 pregnant women are subject to domestic violence every year in the United States. The fact is, pregnancy in itself is a risk factor. Pregnant women are at twice the risk of being battered. Think about it: teenage moms, distant partners, doctor's bills, extramarital affairs, unwanted pregnancies, stress--it's all a concoction for violence. Look no further than the Laci Peterson case.

The Unborn Victims of Violence Act (signed in '04) helps prosecute those who harm children in utero (abortion is specifically exempted from this law), but the sad truth is, it can't prevent the attacks in the first place. No only that, some of these men commit suicide after killing the mothers, so how can justice ever be done by society?

Prevention is the goal here. Encouraging all teen moms to have abortions isn't going to do it, because that only gives one party (the male) a say in the situation. Free health care alone won't do it, because we all know people who have had more than their share of children that they make no effort to care for.

I think everyone who has a baby in the works, regardless if they want to remain a couple or not, should be required by law to:
1. Take a paternity test.
2. Be required to attend weekly parenting classes with counseling.
3. Receive free or low-cost prenatal health care and benefits until the child is at least five.
4. Be connected with adoption services immediately to be informed of their choices.

The idea is for people to take baby-making seriously. If couples were required to attend parenting classes, if they were forced to see the gravity of the situation, perhaps they would refrain from bringing multiple children into the world (a major cause for stress). If men knew that mothers were required to attend prenatal appointments (where signs of abuse would be looked for), perhaps they would think twice. If child support was automatically garnished from people's wages, we would all be less careless. "Baby Moses" locations (places where you can leave an unwanted baby, no questions asked) should be publicized everywhere, but that isn't enough. Crimes against mothers should be punished severely. Prevention is critical. Successfully prosecuting a perpetrator of violence against a pregnant woman is commendable, but wouldn't true success be if we prevented the violence in the first place?

Is There a Doctor in the House?

2007-03-30T08:36:00.000-06:00

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

2007-03-28T13:27:00.000-06:00

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!

2007-03-27T20:40:00.000-06:00

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

2007-03-23T11:15:00.000-06:00

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"

2007-03-23T01:20:00.000-06:00

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

2007-03-21T23:00:00.000-06:00

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

2007-03-19T08:40:00.000-06:00

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

2007-03-13T15:37:00.000-06:00

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 ...

2007-03-12T11:26:00.000-06:00

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!

2007-03-10T16:21:00.000-06:00

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

2007-03-09T07:54:00.000-06:00

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

2007-03-02T11:23:00.000-06:00

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 ...

2007-03-01T15:23:00.000-06:00

... 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!

Survivor: Bedroom Island (Update)

2007-02-28T16:51:00.000-06:00

Last night, I woke up at 2:30 AM. This is two hours before I normally wake up (lately I wake up before 5 AM and again at 7:30). My left side was tingling, my fingers were swollen (fluid build-up?), and my head hurt. I tried to prop up pillows and readjust myself. The movements made Tim stir. I looked at him, looked at the spooky, dark hallway, and sighed. I gathered my pillows and trudged to the sofa. The living room blinks with green lights from all the computer and electronic equipment, and that made it more creepy. I sat on the sofa, pulled a throw blanket over me, and waited to fall asleep. I eventually did, though reluctantly. I hated that I was kicked off the island without so much as a pity party in my honor.

At 6 AM, Tim wandered into the living room. He doesn't get up until 8:00 most days, so I was surprised. He looked at me sitting forlornly on the sofa and laid down beside me. He stayed there until 8:00.

Sure, I'll probably be on the sofa again tonight, but it was comforting to know that my unhappiness was noted.

Survivor: Bedroom Island

2007-02-26T08:32:00.000-06:00

"I don't want to be kicked off the island!" I told Tim two nights ago. I repeated my sentiments again this morning when I was sure I had kept him awake all night rearranging pillows, adjusting Mr. Snoogle, and pulling sheets on and off me.

I've read in pregnancy magazines and in online articles that during the second trimester (which I'm almost done with), most MTBs find it more comfortable to sleep alone. They go to a recliner or sofa where they can sleep more upright. I understand that this is the sensible, fair way for both parties to get a good night's sleep, but ... well ... I don't want to leave Bedroom Island. I don't like to sleep alone. It will be cold, I'll probably have nightmares, someone might break into our apartment when I'm by myself, or the natives could get me! Now you see why I've been pleading with Tim, "Please, please, don't kick me off the island! I'll be good!"

Tim keeps telling me he would never kick me off the island, and he can deal with the constant moving. But, some mornings his eyes are a lil' pink, and I feel guilty because I'm sure I'm the cause. As I get rounder and surround myself with more and more pillows, I worry I'll wake up one morning and Tim will be buried alive. I know the day of my departure from Bedroom Island is impending; I can't but feel I'm fighting the inevitable. That leaves me with two options: I can wait for the Wanttogetsomeresti Tribe to become so irritated that I'm voted off the island, or, I can *gulp* leave immediately, voluntarily, and with my dignity intact. Dignity is here defined as "shuffling away, turning back multiple times with forlorn looks, and moaning until the chief of Wanttogetsomeresti feels compassion and begs me to stay."

I repeat: I don't want to be kicked off the island, so please, when you see Chief Wantogetsomeresti, offer him strong coffee, encouragement, and incense, so perhaps I won't have to pack my bags--er--pillows.

Once Upon a Time, Part 2

2007-02-24T16:30:00.000-06:00

There's an episode of Friends where Rachel takes a pregnancy test to find out if she's pregnant. She is so distraught about the possibilities that she asks Phoebe to look and tell her what the results are. It goes something like this:

Phoebe: Umm, it’s negative.
Rachel: What?
Phoebe: It’s negative.
Rachel: Oh. Oh. Well there you go. Whew! That is—that’s great—that is really great-great news. Y’know ‘cause the whole not being ready and kinda the financial aspects, all that. Whew. Wow, this is so just the way it was supposed to be. (*starts to cry*)

Rachel continues to cry, and her friends try to comfort her.

Rachel: Thanks. This is so stupid! How could I be upset over something I never had? It’s negative?
Phoebe: No, it’s positive.
Rachel: What?!
Phoebe: It’s-it’s not negative, it’s positive.
Rachel: Are you sure?
Phoebe: Well yeah, I lied before.
Rachel: Oh!
Phoebe: Now you know how you really feel about it.
Rachel: Oh-oh, that’s a risky little game!

And so we learn that Rachel is pregnant, and she's happy about it. Which brings us back to my strenuous exercise plan ...

While trying to accelerate my workout plan, a feeling crept upon me that something was amiss. It was a whisper, and I was embarrassed to acknowledge it. I could not possibly be pregnant, and it was silly to entertain the idea any further. I tried to ignore the fact that I felt guilty. What if, I thought, I'm raising my heart rate like this, and I'm really--shh! I could not be pregnant, so silence that crazy talk!

After a day or two, the guilt overcame me. I called my doctor and said, "Can I go ahead and have blood work done? You know, to make sure that conditions are good for a pregnancy?" I was too pink-cheeked to even hint that I thought I was pregnant. I came in shortly after that and had 4 vials of blood taken for testing. Afterwards, I went to a burger joint by myself and ate lunch. I pulled out a pocket calendar and deduced my unconfirmed baby would be born around May. I hid the calendar.

My doctor called a few days later. He explained my blood work results were great: no diseases, no abnormal readings, nothing unusual--everything was great. He didn't so much as mumble the word pregnant.

"Oh," was all I could say. I told the doctor I was worried because I hadn't had a cycle, and I wanted to check if everything was OK. He explained to me that it could be 6 months before I was regular, so I shouldn't be bothered about it. I didn't tell him anything about my now ridiculous suspicions. I felt silly, actually, and I let Tim know that I had wasted our time. I said it gently, because no matter what I wanted to believe, he seemed a bit disappointed.

Over the next two weeks, my body continued to be unresponsive in the gym. I was nauseous for several moments each day, and I figured it was punishment for trying to force my body to work hard. The more I tried to beat my heart into submission, the worse I felt. My feeling of guilt returned. One Wednesday night, I asked Tim if we could stop by the grocery store. I explained to him, as casually as I could, that I would like to purchase a pregnancy test. I told him that it was a practice run, so I would "know how to do it when the time comes." Tim, good man that he is, didn't require much explanation beyond that. Part of me felt crazy for wasting more money and time on an idea that couldn't possibly be true, but I couldn't let it go.

I took the test. "This thing is broken," I told Tim after five minutes had passed. "We'll have to get another one. It's got to have a plus sign in one window and a vertical line in the other if you're pregnant, I think. Mine has this faint plus sign in one window and a horizontal line in the other. I guess that means 'minus' like negative?"

"You have a plus sign and a second line?" Tim said. "The second line only shows up if you're pregnant."

"It doesn't need to be a negative sign like 'no'?"

"No. You're pregnant."

I stared at Tim.

"This thing is broken. I'll just go to the doctor and get tested. Cheap home pregnancy test!" I did not get but an hour or two of sleep that night.

The next day I was tested. Turns out that of all the blood tests that were run on me two weeks before, none of them were pregnancy tests. I was, and had been for six weeks, pregnant. Was the medical community faulty, or am I simply a genius? Think what you will, but I must run along now; I'm completing my application to Mensa.

THE END

Once Upon a Time, Part 1

2007-02-23T14:05:00.000-06:00

Did I ever tell you about the day I found out about Baby Dowdel?

Since college, maybe even before, I had reoccurring cysts on my ovaries. My doctors were never quite sure if I would conceive without the help of drugs or treatment. Over time, I decided adoption would be the best option for me rather than turn myself upside down. I was worried my life would become a stressful obsession with having a kid, and I didn't want that to take over my marriage.

So, around June of last year, after much spiritual searching and discussion with Tim, I went off of the hormone pills I was taking. I was scared, honestly, because these pills were the main thing keeping my cysts at bay. I thought that if a cyst grew within the first few months after I had quit the pills, that would mean absolute failure. I'd have to go back to taking them, readjust again (which had been difficult for me to do the first time), and try something new later.

A few months passed, and nothing happened. I had no signs of a natural cycle or a cyst. I began working out more aggressively, deciding that I could, at the very least, keep the rest of my body healthy. I decided to increase my speed and mileage during my runs. For a few days this went well. Then I noticed that no matter how hard I tried, I could not make myself go faster. My stomach felt strange, and I was running in an awkward way, as if I had a leg cramp. This is where things turned into an episode of Friends.

Mad

2007-02-15T20:32:00.000-06:00

Imagine you're a writer. You consider a concept for a novel for years, and finally, one day decide you will write your book, your legacy to the world. You research how to be a good writer, and you begin your rough draft. You take advice from fellow writers, friends, and family so that your book is the best it can be. For months you hammer out your novel, all the while not realizing how committed you've become to it. You haven't slept well most nights, but guess what? An editor loves your book and wants to publish it! Your dream will be real to the world the way it is to you. The day of your book's release, you go to your local bookstore, sit in the parking lot, and wait for it to open. Friends and family wait outside with you, eager to see your creation. As painful as the writing process could be at times, at this moment, it was all worth it.

Your cell phone rings. Who could be calling you when everyone you know is in the parking lot? It's your editor. She says there's been a terrible mistake. Your book will not be sold today or any day. They were printed, bound, fully made--but, they will not be sold. From your car, you can see stacks of your books being repacked by clerks in the store.

How is this possible? No matter what your editor says, you know you made a book that was supposed to debut in the world today. "My mind, heart, and time was not spent on some imaginary book!" you rail at your editor. Regardless, your book never gets read by anyone. It never leaves the store. Later, some people even say you never really had a book. To you, though, the book was real from the first day you committed to it.

Where could I possibly be going with this?

The other day, I was was reading an article in People while I walked on the treadmill. Normally, Tim likes to edit any movies and books that may upset me as I've become slightly more sensitive lately. Alas, Tim was at work.

The article was about the 26,000 stillborn babies who are born every year (this doesn't include miscarriages and infant deaths). The mothers tried to describe what it was like delivering children who, for unknown reasons, died after being carried full-term. The idea of the crushing loss of holding a child that looks like you that will never go home with you was too much for me to understand. All of your mind, heart, and time that was dedicated to a dream is gone.

The most unacceptable part is this: the parents are handed a death certificate, but in most states, they can not receive a birth certificate. I didn't understand how this was logical, and neither did the couples in the story. One woman's experience clarified the problem. She called her local government office to get a birth certificate and was told, "You didn't have a baby. You had a fetus."

Now it was clear: couples around the nation, experiencing a deep personal loss, were not allowed the dignity they wanted because outsiders wanted to make it a political issue. The parents soon realized that the national issue of abortion and when Life begins took precedent over the personal grief that occurred in the delivery room.

I can't explain how mad I was. What people believe about abortion does not matter to a grieving couple and shouldn't even be addressed in this context. To the topic-pushers, I say this: you go too far. You're treading where no person has the right to go.

Someone once told me about pregnancy, "You become committed to the idea quickly." I didn't believe this at the time. Then I saw how the idea becomes a dream, the dream becomes a legacy, and the legacy is what you want to give to the world. When the dream is over, the least the world can do is acknowledge that this wonderful gift, this unique gift, will remain unopened.

Crazy

2007-02-15T13:20:00.000-06:00

A local radio station has a regular segment where listeners call in, explain a habit they have or something they've done, and the DJs get to decide if the caller is probably clinically crazy or not. During the segment, they play Gnarls Barkley's song Crazy which begins, "I remember when, I remember, I remember when I lost my mind ..." The chorus says, "Does that make me crazy? Does that make me crazy? Probably."

I've been dreaming about a national park and a town square lately. My sister says as long as the town continues to develop, it's a sign I'm releasing my stress about the pregnancy. Now I'm hoping the next time I dream, the town will have a golf course and world-class resort.

Does that make me crazy?

Today, I wanted to make an omelet for lunch. I remembered we were out of all bread products, and what's an omelet without toast or biscuits? The grocery store is right across the street. I thought about the cold weather, the idea of getting dressed, waiting in line, etc. I sat for a moment. I decided it was easier to bake biscuits from scratch then spend five minutes going to the grocery store.

Does that make me crazy?

I did the dishes. I didn't realize that my dark blue T-shirt, because of my enlarged tummy, was getting wet in the process. I went to the bathroom later, and when I went to wash my hands, I looked up. I saw my reflection in the wall mirror. On my tummy was a perfect watermark of a flying baby wearing a jester's cap and juggling balls.

"Look! My baby's happy!" I thought, and smiled.

Does that make--uh, probably.

National Park

2007-02-14T07:24:00.000-06:00

It's early, so forgive me if my grammar goes astray.

I've had women tell me (and I've read it, too) that when they were pregnant, their dreams became more intense. I've always been a dreamer (long, epic dreams or short, action-packed sequences), so most of the time I haven't noticed much of a difference. Two or three times I have had dreams that were more extreme than usual, so I have no doubt some women have dreams like those throughout their pregnancies.

I do have one, um, unexplainable, reoccurring dream that I've had for months now, which is why I'm awake now. The dream only comes once every month or two, and if this is any testament to the oddness of it (or my own blandness?), it's about a ... national park. OK, no sniggers!

Really, though. The first two times I dreamt of this park (I've dreamt of it about eight times now), I was already inside of the park. Something sinister went down (apparently a group of us were being forced to look for something), and the following dream was more of the same. After the first three or four dreams, the setup was different: I was no longer inside the park, but trying to get in. Here's where things get irritating. The first time I tried to get into the park, I took a route through a small, beat-up town. Halfway down the main road leading to the park, I woke up. The next time I dreamt of the park, the same thing happened except I noticed the town had grown, as if years had passed. When I explained my dream to a friend later I said, "Yeah, the town seems to be moving on up. They've got more restaurants, a movie theater, a Day's Inn ..." Then I realized I was talking about a piece of mental real estate.

The last two dreams were a tease. I had a map, finally, and was able to read one street name: Polo. So, of course, in my dream I headed straight to the main entrance, and again, I woke up before getting there (the town is continuing to bustle, by the way--there's even a posh new hotel). Last night, I dreamt that I had a more detailed map. I saw another street name (Ulta?), and I visited the town square where a bunch of school kids were putting on a performance about the town's history. When I woke up, I drew the town square. I can't remember most of the map, though, so that's a loss.

The only way I can comfort myself that I'm not nuts is this: clearly, this is Nature's doing. This is Nature's way of letting me know that someday my child will have a successful career of the agricultural or forestry sort, like a park ranger. Yes, park ranger. This makes sense, and I should've seen it before. Thankfully, I've already purchased several boxes of Girl Scout cookies this month, so I'm already supporting the industry.

Alien!

2007-02-13T12:11:00.000-06:00

If you've never seen the movie Alien ('79) or any of it's oogey sequels, then it may be hard to visualize what happened to me an hour ago.

My lower back had been giving me trouble, so I decided to lay down for 30 minutes to see if I could shake it off. Well, maybe it was the fact that the room was silent or perhaps my reading selection disinterested the baby (what's not to love about Barron's Japanese Grammar?), but for whatever reason, (s)he decided to punch me. I mean, high in the stomach area, (s)he laid one on me! This is the part that made me cry out: I could SEE it. A lump went up in my shirt--a lump, people!--and I admit, I screamed like a little girl.

The cry must have temporarily shocked the baby, because nothing happened for a moment. Then, wham! Twice more! I got out of bed (forget back pain, we're talking aliens here!), and danced to the living room moaning, "Aghhhhhh!"

I grabbed the phone and called Tim.

FYI: Calling your spouse at work for an extraterrestrial sighting yields little results.

Get Your Hair Did

2007-02-12T14:59:00.000-06:00

If there's ever a time a lass needs a new haircut, a massage, a manicure/pedicure, new clothes, moisturizer that will break the bank, pricey makeup, and all things flashy, it's when she's expecting. The truth is, while an MTB is widening around her equator, it can be hard for her to feel good about herself. An extra "woe" for those women who are pregnant in the dead of summer when having extra poundage feels unforgivable.

So let me make this clear: MTBs, this is not the time to wear horrid hand-me-downs (unless they come from a fashion-friendly woman) and low-price lipstick. I'm not saying to blow your life savings at upscale pregnancy boutiques, I'm saying it's OK to splurge on a few items that will help you feel good.

Before I get complaint emails: yes, I realize this is all very superficial, but no matter how you cut it, it's a reality that MTBs--blame hormones, if you want--can feel down about their bodies. How would you feel if your feet swelled, your pants wouldn't fit, your skin freaked out like a 13-year-old's, varicose veins popped out of nowhere, your back hurt, you slept uncomfortably every night, a vertical line appeared on your belly, parts of you were sore for no reason ... *pant, pant* ... your head hurt, you couldn't take strong medicine when you needed to, your hands swelled--OK, this is turning ugly, so I'll stop; but, you get the idea.

The point is, good makeup and a new outfit can make MTBs feel temporarily better about a temporary problem. So, go ahead and encourage them to splurge now and then!

If anyone knows my husband, feel free to forward this to him ... several times. If possible, do not disclose your source. Better yet, tell him you read it in a mental health magazine, like the Journal of American Pregnant Society Something or Other (any good abbreviation will do).

Changes

2007-02-09T14:44:00.000-06:00

Tupac summed up pregnancy nicely, don't you know?
That's just the way it is
Things'll never be the same
That's just the way it is
No, I'm not going to get 'Thug Life' tattooed on my belly (it would have to be pretty large lettering, now that I think about it *humph*), but when the man's right, he's right.

The hardest thing for me to deal with is the fact that, because of Baby Dowdel, my marriage relationship is changing even now. Tim & I are two trying to make room for three, and that's a tight squeeze sometimes. We have a great marriage and are happy, so change makes me suspicious.

Last night, I had a breakdown. Part of it was her-mones and part of it was just ... blindly fighting to hold on to something that has to change. I wanted Tim to know that I'm still me, not just a baby holder. I don't want to be 'Mom' only. I have to have room to be other things, too, but at that moment I was specifically mourning wife-ness. I started imagining all the ways our marriage would become routine or resentful as all our focus went to the baby. I thought about how our relationship would never get any attention or effort anymore.

Tim, poor thing, did his best to assure me of my present and future value and importance. I was reasonable and didn't ask for a notarized contract of said assurances. In fact, I felt better just getting it all out. Two tissues and a head patting later, I was fast asleep.

Point is, things'll never be the same, but that doesn't mean they have to go bad. I'm writing that more to myself.

Tax Deduction: Part II

2007-02-08T10:16:00.000-06:00

(from Monday, January 15, 2007: "Tax Deduction")

This will be the last time I'll address this issue, lest bitterness o'er take me.

Yesterday I finished our taxes. First, let me be the first to say that some of the government's rules are so complicated (after you read the line instructions, you get sent to a table, only to be sent to a dreaded Publication), that you really do need a tax advisor to sort it out, especially if you have a home office. But since I refused to pay a fee to a guy who only shows up in the world seasonally, I did all the figurin' myself.

As expected, the results were disheartening. Why, oh why, won't they give me a pre-deduction for Baby Dowdel? I've got a sonogram picture, what more do they need?

So, I shall end with this lingering question: what does a refund feel like? Is it warm and fuzzy, like I imagine it is? Does it snuggle up with you at night as you dream of ways to spend it? Do you whisper sweet nothings to it?

*sigh*

Ever Seen Chimps Shop?

2007-02-06T09:29:00.000-06:00

If you weren't at Babies R Us last Saturday, you missed your opportunity; that's when Tim & I registered for baby gear. I could list twenty things that made registering like pulling my eyelashes out, but here are five of the most egregious:

1. Why are there 2,000 kinds of nipples for bottles? It's like comparing eggs with eggs: some are brown, some are not; some are small, some are big; but, in the end, they all look like--no surprise--eggs. This is one of the first things on our registry, and after a few minutes Tim was already saying, "Just pick one! Any one!"

2. The list that the store hands you (the items it deems 'necessary' for your registry) looks like inventory for a battalion of babies. I understand they're trying to make a buck, but it did make me wonder how much of this stuff the baby actually needed. I mean, women have babies out in the bush, and I doubt they spend time choosing mobiles for cribs! So, I pulled out a list Consumer Reports created about what it considers necessary and cross-referenced our first list. Um, CR's list would be considered abusive, if not Spartan, to the Babies R Us crowd. I did my best to balance the two lists out, which is why I ended up thinking things like, "Sure, the baby needs a 3-piece furniture set in cherry, but diapers ... seem a bit much."

3. To the Baby Stores of America: don't lie to us. Registering is not a job for MTBs and FTBs. Stores should put a label on the scanner gun they give you: "Not for use by couples. Mom required." After shopping for basic baby items (only the first section on the list), Tim said, "We've already been here AN HOUR." I could tell his patience had run out after comparing diaper pails. Tim is one of the most patient people I know, but put him in a situation where his technical, design, photography, and computer skills are not required, and well, his discomfort level goes up while his patience level goes down. Don't get me wrong, I was irritated, too, mainly because I don't like feeling like a chimp. I took my mom the following day to help me with the list, and we got through twice as much in about the same time as Tim & I did on our own. Overall, I think it would work best if a couple picked out the large items together, and after that, brought in their moms on different days. But who needs that kind of sanity?

4. If you aren't 100% sure what the sex of your baby is, there is one upside: you will finally know the answer to the question psychologists have asked for years: "Why do girls and boys seem to gravitate towards gender-specific toys and colors?" Answer: because parents have no choice but to buy pink doily-embellished dresses that say "Daddy's Princess" or blue overalls, decked out in trucks, that say, "Thank Heaven for Little Boys." Snore! We found only a small section of clothes that weren't gender-specific, and of those, the color was almost always yellow (what's wrong with green, orange, and purple?). I'll have to hit up the online stores now, though they tend to be pricey.

5. I hope that someday Toyota or some consumer-conscious car company will get in the business of strollers. That way we can all get one or two types that you can put together any way you want like you would a car (color, features, sweet alloy wheels, ABS?) and not have to hassle with finding the one stroller (out of one million) that meets your specific needs. Think of the possibilities!

... Although ... it wouldn't be long before some ghetto stroller pulled up next to mine with hydraulics and a stereo system, huh?

Parenting Poetry

2007-02-02T12:22:00.000-06:00

Today I had (another) doctor's appointment.
(*Ahem*)

THE COY DOCTOR
There once was a doctor so coy
Who couldn't decide girl or boy,
Upon hearing its heart,
He resolved to impart,
"Tina's a good name ... but so's Troy."

M & M

2007-02-01T15:35:00.000-06:00

I'm like a peanut M&M: hardcore on the outside, but inside ... mostly hardcore.

Today was my last day teaching at a preschool program. Even though I did a lot of the usual things today (took the same kids back to their chairs for the 6th time in a row, wiped up drink spills on the floor, and changed the kind of fuming diapers that contribute more to global warming in an hour than factories in China can), we had a party for me.

One little boy handed me a gift and hugged me goodbye. This particular kid enrolled in our class shortly after I became an instructor. When he first came, he didn't like to share, so after a few weeks, the other kids wouldn't play with him. He was a big kid, so even when he tried to play with others, he'd end up hurting them instead. He often spoke louder than necessary, was aggressive from time to time, and made noises while the other kids listened during lessons.

Over time, he calmed down. He listened more and played with all the new students. He is now one of the friendliest, sweetest boys in our class. When I stood on a chair once to hang up artwork, he said, "Oh, be careful!" with the most honest concern. It gave me hope that somehow, someway, I might be able to raise a child without a criminal history.

Today, I hugged this little boy goodbye. Inside his gift bag, I found toys and a bib for my baby. Recently, we'd practiced writing this kid's name, so when he gave me his gift, I was pleased to see he had shakily, but carefully, written his name on the tag.

Below that was written, "I love you."

The M&M cracked just a bit.

Gold Earrings

2007-01-31T14:16:00.000-06:00

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

2007-01-30T22:50:00.000-06:00

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

2007-01-30T16:05:00.000-06:00

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

2007-01-29T10:37:00.000-06:00

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 ...

2007-01-26T13:52:00.000-06:00

... 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

2007-01-25T16:48:00.000-06:00

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 ...

2007-01-24T15:23:00.000-06:00

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

2007-01-23T19:57:00.000-06:00

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

2007-01-18T14:25:00.000-06:00

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!

2007-01-18T14:14:00.000-06:00

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!

2007-01-16T22:21:00.000-06:00

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

2007-01-15T09:20:00.000-06:00

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

2007-01-13T18:21:00.000-06:00

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?

2007-01-10T12:53:00.000-06:00

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!

2007-01-10T12:18:00.000-06:00

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

2007-01-06T21:52:00.000-06:00

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

2007-01-05T12:26:00.000-06:00

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 ...

2007-01-04T14:13:00.000-06:00

... 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

2007-01-03T17:06:00.000-06:00

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

2007-01-02T15:26:00.000-06:00

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

2007-01-01T09:44:00.000-06:00

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.

Doin' Ourselves In!

2006-12-29T14:42:00.000-06:00

What do New York, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Florida, Virginia, and even my beloved Texas have in common?

Yes, I know they're all states, but what else?

They are among 22 states who are in dire need of ob-gyns. Women in states like Virginia are forced to drive over 80 miles just to find someone to deliver their babies, which means:

1) Some are delivering their bundles of joy in the backs of Chevys!
2) The infant mortality rate is increasing (Virginia had its highest rate in nine years).

Why? Because 1 in 7 ob-gyns have stopped delivering babies. Why? Because of high insurance premiums due to medical lawsuits. Insurance companies are jacking up prices, but they aren't the only ones at fault. Brace yourselves:

1) An ob-gyn, on average, is sued THREE times during his/her career.
2) Nearly half of the claims are found to be without merit (read: waste of everyone's time).
3) Although 80% of ob-gyns win cases that actually make it to court, most insurance companies decide to settle beforehand without letting doctors defend themselves.
4) The average insurance premium for ob-gyns is tens of thousands of dollars a year (in South Florida, it's a staggering $300,000).

Who can be surprised that ob-gyns are sneaking out the back door? The average jury award given in childbirth cases is $2.5 million. Are you joking? Even if you factor in funeral costs, medical bills, and a college education, does that even approach $1 million? The fact is, people will sue for anything, even things doctors can't prevent. I'm not saying outright negligence is excusable, but neither is taking someone to court for little reason and expecting exorbitant rewards. The situation is dire, and if you live in in Washington, Oregon, Wyoming, Nevada, Utah, Arizona, Georgia, Mississippi, Ohio, Illinois, Missouri, Kentucky, Alabama, West Virginia, Connecticut, or Maryland, don't get too comfortable--you're on the list as well. Fewer doctors mean less one-on-one time and dangerous situations during the delivery. I love my husband, but I'm not letting him deliver our kid in our Camry (the floor mats are new!).

For more info, check out http://www.parents.com/ and search for the "Healthy Family: Ob-Gyn Shortage" article. Warn a pregnant buddy, nag your congressman, or just spread the word.

I've got to stop working out before I blog; the adrenaline makes me want to pick a fight!

Parentnoia

2006-12-28T09:49:00.000-06:00

Tim coined a new phrase for me: parentnoia. Over the last several months, fearful thoughts & ideas have crept into my mind at times when I'm most vulnerable (in the car alone, in the shower alone, folding laundry alone). Get the idea? ALONE. So before I can say, "Mommy!" three types of thoughts dig into my melon:

1. Something terrible is happening to the baby.
2. Something terrible is happening to Tim.
3. Something terrible is happening to the baby and Tim.

Examples:
1. Why hasn't the baby started kicking yet? Is this position too uncomfortable for the baby? Am I cutting off circulation? What if I slip and land on my stomach?
2. What if Tim was in a car accident? I'd be left all alone to take care of our baby. What if he got sick and couldn't work anymore, who would watch the baby so I could work? What if being a parent stressed him out so much that we just drifted apart?
3. What if something happened to me, and Tim had to raise the baby alone? What if something happened to both Tim & the baby?? I'd be alone, alone, ALONE!

You know what comes next. I think these thoughts for about thirty seconds before tears are coming down--yikes! At this point, I have 2 choices: I can either find a sad song on the radio (break-up songs work well) and really start wailing, or ...

I tell myself that God will take care of the baby, Tim, and me, and that our kid would never be left alone. I say out loud, "You're only doing this because of the hormones or something, and this is natural." I remind myself how much Tim would laugh at me if he saw me. After a minute, I dry my eyes, sniffle, and I'm good as new. It gets easier to handle each time it happens. So, whether you're pregnant or not, remember: when you think you're alone, you're not. Dry them tears, wash your face, and finish up that laundry!

Taking One for the Team

2006-12-27T17:16:00.000-06:00

I have a headache. This happens every few days now. In the past two months, I've had headaches, back pain, and sinus blockage, and you want to know what I did about it?

Nothing. That's right, nothing.

Why? Because if I did go to the doctor, this is all that would've happened:

Me: "Doc, I've been having these headaches and sudden back pain that makes it hard to walk sometimes. Sometimes I'm so tired, I can't even read something six inches from my--"

Doctor: "Sorry, but medicine isn't good for the baby, so ..."

Me: "You can't do anything for me."

Doctor: "Right. And, uh--"

Me: "Don't forget to pay my co-payment at the desk?"

Doctor: "Right."

So, you see, I can save myself a copayment by just sitting at home and whining. Life without Tylenol and Clariton-D is, of course, annoying, but here's a free tip from Grandma Dowdel: make your lips tremble, wrinkle your brow, let your eyes tear up (poke them if you need help), and whimper, "My head hurts, Tim. Will you rub my neck and back? Thanks ... and don't forget the feet." I don't know if saying "Tim" will get you help or not, but it's always worked for Grandma.

Baby Gifts Sans Baby

2006-12-26T10:01:00.000-06:00

I'm sure every pregnant woman has had it happen to them: a major holiday or personal celebration (Christmas, wedding anniversary, birthday, etc.) occurs during your pregnancy, and you receive a gift for the baby.

I see the logic and thoughtfulness on the part of the givers, and I personally have no problem with it. I am the over-prepared sort, so getting gifts for my baby makes me feel like I have one less thing to purchase. Plus, this is my first baby, so I'm all about over-indulging.

But woe unto those soon-to-be fathers and expectant relatives who stray from the two rules of mama gift giving:

1. If the mama in question is down about her new round appearance, is disappointed with the rocky relationship with her partner, or tends to be of the, um, 'self-concerned' sort, DO NOT buy her baby gifts! 'Tis salt in the wound!

2. After the baby is born, unless the mama hints otherwise, don't continue to buy her gifts for the baby on occasions which are clearly not for baby (anniversaries and birthdays). I know mamas who feel frustrated at times that the baby seems to have hijacked their identities (all their personal time for hobbies, friends, and work), so buying them gifts for the baby just says, "You are the baby, and the baby is you." That, of course, isn't true, so be mindful of the gifts that come to mama once the baby makes his or her debut.

Note: When in doubt, buy baby and mom a gift, so no one gets left out.

Eating for Two?

2006-12-25T07:56:00.000-06:00

Today, on this Christmas morning, I offer a warning, especially for those ladies who have mother/grandmothers like mine (the kind who think all of Life's problems can be solved by eating: "You're stomach hurts? Here, eat this," "Your head is bothering you? Try this," and "Your husband wants a divorce? Oh, honey, that's awful ... snack on this while Mommy gets her gun.") As your waistline expands and your jeans no longer fit, you will hear well-meaning friends and family tell you, "Don't worry, you're eating for two." Yes, you're tummy will grow and that's natural, but eating for two often translates to pregnant women as "eat double what you normally would." The problem with this is, as I learned tragically a few months ago, is that most babies only require about an extra 300 calories a day (more if you were underweight to begin with or exercise regularly). 300! That's like a wheat bagel and some OJ! That's a far cry from 'eating for two.'

Needless to say, most of us don't have personal trainers to whip our rears back into shape after a baby, so I'm trying my best to eat within reason. Today is Christmas, and of all difficult cirumstances, I wil be in the toughest: having lunch AND dinner with my mom and grandma. It doesn't matter how much you've eaten before Grandma sees you, if she asks you to eat something, you WILL eat something. If I refuse too much, there will be a chorus of family saying, "You're starving yourself!" Folks, you could drop me in the African savannah today, and with as much extra padding as I already have on me, I'd be fine until Valentine's.

Good luck to all those who for nine months have to limit those burgers and the like. Remember: who needs juicy, greasy, melted cheese, mustard/ketchup-dripping, and toasted bun goodness anyway?

Yeah, me too.

"Mr. Snoogle, Give Me a Dream ..."

2006-12-22T12:36:00.000-06:00

"I don't know much, but I know I love you ..."

"Can you feel the love tonight? It is where we are ..."

"Am I only dreaming, or is this burning an eternal flame?"

Yes, Mr. Snoogle, you do make me sing a sweet lullaby each night (*quit groaning, Tim! You will hear the praises of the Great Snoogle!*). Wasn't it you, after all, who came to my rescue when all I had were sleepless nights?

When the pregnancy books and friends told me that I had to sleep on my left side at night to avoid cutting off circulation, who was it that understood that I had never slept on my side my whole life, and that I was a tummy sleeper? You, Mr. Snoogle! See you tonight, buddy!

Yes, the unfortunate truth is that sleeping on your tummy or back (after the first trimester or so) can make you swell and cut of circulation of the blood. If you've always been a side sleeper, well, cookies for you! But for the rest of us pillow huggers, the habit is hard to break. So, after trying for weeks to sleep on my side (and waking up at all hours panicky when I found myself on my tummy--again), Tim bought me a Snoogle, the simplest and most cuddly pregnancy pillow ever. You can curl it like a cinnamon bun when you want to sit back and watch TV, you can lay it across your waist when you read, and of course, you can curl it under your neck, around your back, and through your legs to put you in the perfect pregnancy sleep position. Hail to the Snoogle!

That's right, I'm doing a product shout-out because, quite frankly, this isn't Wheel of Fortune where I'm obliged to be vague ("My name is Cindy, and I'm a manager for a well-known coffee shop available at every corner in the world"), this is pregnancy, people! When you know about a good product, tell it on the mountain!

Toot & Puddle

2006-12-21T12:59:00.000-06:00

One of my favorite children's book series is Toot & Puddle by author Holly Hobbie. The series follows the adventures of two piggies who are best buds (I have a thing for pigs), but that's not important for today's lesson: the perils of proper pregnancy. See, I'm the kind of proper gal who thinks that all bodily functions should remain personal. Burping and the like I just don't do in front of others, even my husband. I never had the talent to burp my ABCs or pick my nose and fling snot five feet away like my brothers did (do? Is that a talent you can lose?). So, you can see how distressed I was when I realized that pregnancy means a great deal more of Toot & Puddle, and I don't mean the pigs.

Not only am I in the bathroom 8-10 times a day (too much pressure on the bladder, I think is the cause) makin' puddles, but well, the rest of the time I feel like I'm always ... always ... (can't ... squeeze ... out ... the word ...) ... always TOOTING. At first I would apologize whenever it happened and get all uncomfortable, but now, well, it happens so much I end up just shrugging my shoulders without excuse. Am I just letting myself go? Is the next stage a muu-muu and soap operas?

Who can say? So if any of you have been pregnant and you're thinking, "Ha! She doesn't know the half of what's coming to her down the road!", just keep that good stuff to yourself. Ignorance is bliss.

That's a Little Personal, Don't You Think?

2006-12-20T12:55:00.000-06:00

I let people ask me just about anything with little hesitation in my response. Sure you could "Think before you speak," but why, when you can just be tactless and reckless? No, really, I rarely ever say, "I don't want to talk about that" or "I can't answer that," because it just seems so ... unfriendly.

Anyway, I've noticed in the last few months I've been asked several questions, that frankly, seem a bit frank. The kind of questions I would feel uncomfortable asking someone else.

"Was this a planned pregnancy?"

"Had you been trying for a while?"

"Are you planning on breastfeeding?"

95% of the time, I tell myself these questions are of a polite, curious nature, but every once in a while (I guess 5% of the time, for those counting), perhaps when the hormones are going, I get a bit pink in the cheeks answering these questions. This especially applies to that last one. If I say, "No way, man, I'm nobody's drink dispenser!", people will think I'm a jerk. If I say, "Of course I'll breastfeed! Excuse me, I have to return to my knitting now", do they take that to mean I'm part of the ultra-traditional club of mothers (and believe me, it's there) who look down on the bottle-feeding mamas?

Then there are questions that seem to have more than one answer, but actually, do not.

Example: "Do you care if you have a boy or girl?"

"In fact, I do. If we have a daughter, I'll move to China, so everyone will sympathize with my situation when I dump her at the orphanage. Who's got money for a dowry, nowadays?!?"

Chances of this answer going over well are slim (unless you are, in fact, in China ... or India). There is only one right answer ("I would love either!" *gush*), so I'm starting to wonder why people ask the question. Perhaps, in some odd way, they would like to hear a barbaric answer; at least then things could get interesting.

Grandma Dowdel

2006-12-20T12:40:00.000-06:00

If you've ever read Richard Peck's humorous novel A Year Down Yonder, you will immediately recognize the name Grandma Dowdel. Grandma Dowdel is the kind of (grand)motherly figure I picture myself to be: qualified for the job, but only technically. Read the novel (don't worry, it's short), and check out Peck's other fantastic novel The Teacher's Funeral (unrelated to mothers, but still funny).

Onesies Ain't Japanese

2006-12-19T15:53:00.000-06:00

If I could summarize all my motherly instincts and knowledge pre-pregnancy, it would be this:

I was invited to a baby shower once (*collective groan from women everywhere who've had to sit through more than their fair share of these*), and I decided not to take any risks and just get something off the baby registry. I went shopping (Tim in tow), and it didn't take long for both of us to turn country: "What the hee-haw is a 'Nuk'?" and "'Boppy' ain't a word!" We could find the sections in the store listed on the registry easily enough ('Feeding,' etc.), but we couldn't find the actual items because, and here's the truth, all baby stores use code to keep non-parents on the outs. At the height of my frustration, I said, "We're just going to buy some clothes! The first thing on the list, I don't care how much it is, we're going to buy!" I checked the list.

Onesies (3-pk).

"What is a ONE-eh-size?" I looked at Tim, who must have concluded what I did: 'twas a Japanese product, which had no business being on the list.

Humbled, we found a sales associate and asked her to locate any two items on the list which we would gratefully buy. This, I believe, will be the essence of the rest of this blog, help us all!