The three of us spent last week in Salt Lake, and by "the three of us," I mean myself, Wombat, and The Belly, which at 28 weeks yesterday is busting forth in full third-trimester shamelessness. (I cannot believe we're at the third trimester already. I CANNOT BELIEVE IT.)
We went on a preschool tour a few weeks ago and at the end of the hour we mentioned the new baby coming in July and the administrator lady's reaction was, "Oh? Wow! How great! Congratulations!" My outward reaction was one of appropriate gratitude for her kind thoughts and well wishes, but inside I was like, "COME ON." Now, I know you can never be too cautious with this stuff, and it's almost never safe to assume, but when the pregnant woman in question confirms what most seeing people would have to admit was already an obvious suspicion, you don't really need to act surprised. I mean, thanks, I guess, but really, I'm pretty sure we all know what's going on here.
Our next door neighbor saw me grunt my way out of the car yesterday post glucose test (yay) and noticed for the first time that I was pregnant again (I think because I've been wearing coats and jackets for the last six months?). "I see you made her swallow another watermelon seed," she said to Simon in her particular drawl. I love her.
Simon likes to say to pretty much everyone, "Oh, she's not pregnant, she's just a fat piece of crap," and the only way he can get away with that is because he is THE most kind, respectful, attentive expectant husband and practically waits on me hand and foot--even without my asking, and even when I'm not pregnant. The only problem with this trade-off is that strangers don't really know that side of him, or that he is 75 percent sarcastic across the board, and so they tend to react with visible horror when he says to me in line at the burrito place, for instance, "Enchiladas again, fatty?" with a completely straight face. I love him too.
That said, he has his...dim moments. A few weeks ago he asked if I needed help putting on my shoes, and when I graciously accepted such a sweet offer, he painstakingly untied them and loosened the laces and then...set them down on the floor in front of me and walked away. Uh...that wasn't the part I needed help with, but thanks?
Other pregnancy updates, since it feels overdue:
YouI know you'reI'm pregnant when: youI want to order free mulch delivery, even though the last load of mulch, delivered two weeks before Wombat was born, took THREE YEARS to clear off the driveway. And yet...I really think we need some mulch.
--How many times am I getting up to pee at night? Once...a month. It's pretty awesome, and that's all I have to say about that.
--I'm not the type who can name a baby I haven't actually seen (although I get why some people do it), and a few weeks ago I suggested sort of offhandedly an ex-utero name for Mompth (we've finally convinced Wombat that an alternate name is a good thing; he has suggested "Lorax"), and Simon's response was, "Yes. That's it. It's great. Done!" With still three months to go, I'm not yet ready to commit, but I can say that thinking about this kid as X instead of "Mompth" feels as significant an event as finding out the sex. All of a sudden, it's not Generic Baby Boy anymore starfishing against my internal organs, it's [probably] X. [Probably] X! My son!
--Simon still razzes me about the time I was pregnant with W and my usual longwinded babble of nonsense sleeptalking took a turn for the brief and clear with a single word: "baby." Wombat's a sleeptalker (and -walker) too, and a while back Simon picked out, in one string of his mumbles, this: "baby brother." Aw.
--I remember being at a friend's bridal shower at just barely 7 months pregnant with Wombat and admitting things were starting to get a bit uncomfortable now. So yes, we're right on schedule.
--At my latest OB appointment, the doctor mentioned my blood pressure was going up a bit (normal at this stage, but something to keep an eye on), and when she threw out the phrase "We might consider modified rest if we need to," my response was, "Doc, if I rested more than I already do, I'd be dead." On weekends I unchain from my desk chair and usually make an effort to Go Out and Do Something, but even then it's limited to just walking (hobbling) around, not, like, going to spin class. If anything, I figured I needed *more* exercise, not less. (One round of Just Dance 3--thanks, Nintendo!--was more exercise than I'd gotten in the last six months.) With Simon home these past few weeks, he can vouch for how much rest I'm getting (and even more now that he's here to do ALL the dishes and laundry and vacuuming and kid-schlepping.) Seriously, I sleep around 9 or 10 hours every night and then I sit in my chair from 9 to 5, getting up only to add or remove liquids from my body. How could I possibly do less than that? Is all this typing putting a strain on my system? I hardly think so.
--I'm constantly exhausted too, and that's while doing only ULTRA-lite parenting and almost no squalor protection whatsoever (although reader Books SENT ME A STEAM MOP, Y'ALL, so that's about to change). "You're tired because you have a preschooler to chase around!" everyone says, at which point I remind them that my preschooler is at daycare eight-plus hours a day, during which I'm either (a) sitting in a desk chair or (b) sitting on a toilet.
--Six pounds in three weeks? Six pounds in three weeks! I'm taking applications for volunteers willing to push me around on a handtruck for the next twelve weeks (and maybe a month or so after that). Perhaps this explains everything.
--There is no excuse for me. For real.Previous Next