The shower

You know how you can be going along in life, thinking you look alright, until someone snaps a surprise picture of you? And then you see the picture and you’re like oh holy heavens do I really look like that!? I’m explaining because you really need to be prepared in case your best friends from college throw you a baby shower. If you’re not careful, you’ll end up looking like this:

and this:

because everything is just so darn cute! Come on, hooded towels and baby baths shaped like whales and tiny clothes… it’s enough to give anyone a “this is so cute it hurts” expression on their face.

Take a look at this diaper cake my friend Kelly made:

I almost died when I saw it. Thank God I wasn’t being video taped at the time. THAT would have been social suicide.

And then there was the real cake, which was so delicious that it added a THIRD chin to my already double-sized one:

In addition to all the sweet gifts we received, we also got everyone to draw on a onesie, which means every time I put Blueberry in one I’ll think about our friends who made them. (My friends in Arlington did the same thing, which I thought was pretty cool, because now I have cute animal ones AND ones that talk about the baby “drinking with his homies.” He’s going to be well dressed, is all I can say.) (And, um, if you happen to see a fat lady carrying an infant in onesies that boast his ability to down three or ten shots of Maker’s Mark, please don’t call child services. It’s only me.)

I disassembled the diaper cake yesterday and put all his new diapers in drawers, which makes me feel organized and accomplished.

(And can you believe how TEE-NINY these diapers actually ARE??? Because I can’t. I keep going back into his room and holding one just to double check.)

FIVE WEEKS TO GO!

(All the awesome pics from the baby shower were taken by Hannah.)

What do Halloween, the 23rd Psalm, crazy socks, and a new baby have in common?

Here I am y’all, six weeks away from having a child. When I first saw that plus sign on the pregnancy test in the bathroom stall of the Harris Teeter, I don’t think I ever really thought six weeks away would happen, but here it is. I called the doctor first thing that Monday morning only to be told she didn’t see new pregnancy patients until 10 weeks, and I swear that 10 weeks was like the longest stretch of time I’ve ever experienced. But now time is just slipping through my fingers, which is also some kind of miracle, since my fingers are now so swollen that even when I spread them out there are still no cracks in between them. Ok, I exaggerate. The truth is I don’t even have fingers anymore; it’s all just two big flesh-colored lumps. That size nine ring I bought as a faux wedding ring has been eaten by the folds of finger fat. But it’s ok… the question of whether or not I’m having an illegitimate kid is moot since I can’t go anywhere without Lance’s accompaniment anyway. He has to help push me through the supermarket aisles and through the door of chicken finger establishments. And I’m sure those clerks realize that no one but a husband would get themselves stuck with that kind of task.

A couple of weeks ago I wrote about how terrified I am about having this baby. I know it’s probably very common to be nervous about a complete life-change like this, but the Lord has been speaking to me about fear. I was comforted by Psalm 23 yesterday (I know, the most common passage of scripture this side of the Lord’s prayer, but hey, whatever works). It says that even though the psalmist walked through shadow and valleys and death, he did not fear, because the Lord was with him. It says the Lord prepared a table for him right in front of his enemies… in other words the Lord mocked his enemies and dared them to come near while he was eating and ill-prepared for battle. It says that the Lord’s goodness and His mercy would follow the psalmist all the days of his life. Reader, I’m adopting this psalm for myself. If the Lord is with me, what reason do I have for fear? Should I not expect good things from the creator of the universe? The One who loves more deeply than I can even imagine? I’m believing that for the rest of my life, His goodness and mercy will follow me. I’m believing that I have no reason to be afraid of anything, much less a tiny baby. I’m believing that I will experience joy when this little guy arrives via Vagina Express in six weeks. So I will be over here, Reader, gaining weight and hoping I get everything done in time for the baby’s arrival. But if I don’t, it’s going to be ok, for the Lord is my shepherd and I shall not fear. I’m too fat to get worked up about anything anyway… it takes too much energy. Kind of like trying to type with no fingers. You see my dedication to blogging now, don’t you?

Yet another good thing about moving back to the south is that Blueberry is going to have so many babysitters. My family just closed on a new house, and they’ll be about half an hour away. I plan to take serious advantage of this for the purposes of A) taking a shower, B) taking a dump, C) taking a nap, and D) taking Vicodin. (Just kidding… I’ll be breastfeeding so I can’t take anything stronger than a couple dozen Vodka shots.) It really is a huge relief knowing that help will be a phone call away. And with Lance working from home, I can pee and shower and go outside to get the mail and take the dog for a walk and tell Lance I’m going out for more nipple cream but actually drive to the Bay Area without leaving Blueberry alone. I really am so blessed. And I know as soon as we get some more needed essentials, like a car seat and some blankets and more diapers, I’m really going to look forward to meeting him. Also I’m looking forward to moving around without the aid of a forklift. And going all night without getting up to pee. And not being woken up by tiny feet between my ribs. And eating raw fish and drinking wine. And putting on lingerie without wondering if it will make Lance barf. And sleeping on my stomach again.

This weekend being their closing, my parents and sister spent the weekend with us, and we had a great time on Halloween. We carved pumpkins, and then my dad made chili and we ate ourselves sick with all the candy the non-existent trick-or-treaters left us with.

Carving pumpkins:

Here’s my dad, doing the Monster Mash:

My sister dressed up like a ninja, but she thought she looked like a terrorist even though I tried to convince her that a terrorist would NEVER use Wii nunchucks, cause he would just look like a poser if he did. Regardless, she refused to answer the door for trick-or-treaters (the one time it rang).

My mom’s contribution to Halloween: weird socks.

My goofy pumpkin:

And Lance’s scary one:

(For all you nerdy types out there, this pumpkin is actually Domo Kun, and Lance did a great job with him. But I think Domo Kun is scary-looking anyway, and all lit up with fire from within is even worse.)

((sigh)) I love Halloween. Whether you spend it drinking your face off or eating chili or watching Young Frankenstein or dancing to the Monster Mash or looking out your window holding a bowl of candy and just waiting for cute dressed up kids to ring your doorbell (ahem) or dressing up and going to a party or whatever, it’s just so fun. I can’t wait to dress Blueberry up as Harry Potter next year. And (internal gasp) Lucy can be Sirius Black! (She wanted to be a doberman this year, but we couldn’t think of a way to make her ears stand up straight.) Anyway, Halloween being over means it’s the start of the Christmas season. I haven’t been inside Target yet, but I’m sure it’s covered in Christmas decorations. I wish I could go get our tree right now, because I totally would. I love this damn time of year.

Eight months down

Comprehensive weight gain: 34lbs
Recommended weight gain: 35lbs
Estimated weight gain remaining for Blueberry: 3-4lbs
My own estimated weight gain if I keep eating fried chicken, biscuits, cheesecake, and pasta like I have been lately: 11-12lbs
Estimated total weight gain: 50lbs

My sister took some pregnancy pictures for us when she visited, and Lance and I did our best not to look like tools while we posed for them.

What we were going for: I’m a proud, glowing new mother-to-be.
What it looks like: If I eat all the food I’m craving, I wonder if this kid will come out covered in bacon grease and chocolate chip cookies or if I will just look like this forever.

What we were going for: I love my new son-to-be so much I’ll make a heart-shape with my hands and put it on my belly.
What it looks like: If you didn’t notice my protruding navel and swollen sausage fingers before, let me highlight them for you now by making a heart-shape around this morning’s three breakfasts.

What we were going for: We’re going to FUN parents, because we’re FUN already.
What it looks like: The most fun pose we can think of is this one reminiscent of those kids in The Sound of Music. I wonder what’s for lunch.

What we were going for: I’m a supportive and loving husband who is excited enough about the birth of our first son that I’m going to make a hand-heart-shape around her belly too.
What it looks like: My wife told me to make this shape with my hands even though I can barely reach my arms around her. Come on… streeetch!

What we were going for: We love each other sooo much. In fact, it’s our love that brought our future son into our lives.
What it looks like: If I suck it in I can still JUST reach your face in order to kiss you.

Toy chest

Yesterday, I finished the baby’s toy chest. I started by painting a plain wood chest I’ve had for years white. Then I googled for elephant stencils, enlarged an image that I found and printed it out, put the image on a piece of cardstock, and cut it out with an exacto knife. Once the stencil was cut, I taped it to the top of the chest and spray painted it gold (it was the only color I had already. I might have used blue or green if I had had either handy).

I gotta say, for someone completely not crafty or arty, I’m pretty proud of myself for the way it turned out.

Halloween brings out the best in us all

Me: “I love our new pumpkins on the porch! They look so welcoming!”

Lance: “Yeah… now we just need to carve them into something scary.”

The unbelievably bad day

Yesterday morning at about 9:00, Lance decided to go out for donuts. While he was on his way back, a car in front of him hit a dog at an intersection and drove off. The dog, howling in pain and lying there bleeding, captured the tender heart of my husband, who pulled over to help it almost without thinking. (In order to keep my optimistic view of humanity intact, I like to think anyone with any compassion whatsoever would have done the same thing, but let’s pause to admire the gentle goodness of the man that I married. Ok, unpause.) Lance looks at the dog and quickly surmises that he (or she – as far as I know no one took time to look at this broken animal’s genitals) needs to be moved out of the road, as it’s a fairly busy road and the poor thing is lying, immobile, in the middle of it. With thoughts not of his own safety or wellbeing, he reaches down to pick up the dog.

(Pause again. As it turns out, Lance doesn’t speak Dog. And, most unfortunately, this particular dog didn’t speak English. If he had spoken English, Lance could have simply explained to him that he was a friend and he was going to help and not to be afraid and he was just going to move him out of oncoming, honking traffic and then they could assess the situation together and figure out the best way to handle the Retriever’s immediate needs. See Reader, what happens next really just comes down to a lack of communication, or really the lack of the ability to communicate, like the movie Babel where no one can understand each other. But I mean… hello! English IS our national language and the better part of the world understands at least SOME English and why don’t you just go back to where you came from DOG if you’re going to live here but not take the time to learn it AM I RIGHT. Unpause.)

The screaming, bleeding, obviously terrified Golden Retriever then reaches out his open jaws and latches them onto Lance’s arm, sinking his fangs deep inside Lance’s skin. And holds on. Lance shakes him off and tries to approach him again and the dog is all YOU REALLY WANNA FUCK WITH ME?! and bites AGAIN, this time on Lance’s thumb.

Now, this is the story the way it happened. You see I learned the truth because I dragged it out of him, but THIS is the way Lance told it to ME. It’s 10:30 in the morning. I admit it, I was still in bed (bite me, I’m pregnant. Wait don’t bite me. Bad choice of words for this particular post. Moving on…), but I was awake, actually wondering if everything was ok and why Lance was taking so long, when he walked into our bedroom and through to the bathroom. Now, thank God I am like 90% blind in this one situation and couldn’t find my glasses right away (which were only a foot away on the night stand), because if I HAD been blessed with 20/20 vision, I might have seen my husband coming into our room covered in blood, and I might have then panicked to the point of passing out, which would have actually been not so bad since I was already lying in bed. (Pause. I would leave this out if I didn’t KNOW he would put it in the comments section otherwise. He swears that all the blood was the dog’s blood. I personally don’t see how he can know that, especially given the state of his arm, which I will detail for you momentarily. He says two other cars had at this point pulled over to help and had panicked also, seeing him get bitten twice and subsequently become a big blood bath. Apparently he convinced all these people also that he was fine, it was just the dog’s blood. Unpause.) As it was, I couldn’t and didn’t see him as a bloody mess. He walked past into the bathroom where he turned on the faucet and started stripping (bloody) clothes off his body and nonchalantly said this: “So, I had a bit of an adventure.”

Me: “What happened?”
Him: “Well this guy in front of me on Gallatin hit a dog.”
Me: “Oh no!”
Him: “And then he drove off without stopping.”
Me: “That’s terrible! What an asshole!!”
Him: “I know, right? So of course I pulled over.”
Me: “Of course!”
Him: (Stripped now, starting to wash what I assume are his hands but what turns out to be the upper part of his body, in the sink. Remember I still can’t see.) “So I get out of the car to try and move the dog out of the road.”
Me: “Then what happened?”
Him: “Well he was just scared so he nipped me a little and I couldn’t move him.”
Me: “Oh no! Poor thing… is he ok?”
This is about the time I’m starting to grope around for my glasses. It’s irritating to have a conversation with someone you can’t see properly.
Me: “Hey can you see my glasses?”
Him: (turning around from the sink) “Oh yeah there they are on the nightstand.”
(Pause. I’m writing all this because I want you to note the calmness of the way he is telling me this story. Almost like, hi I’m Lance and I’ve had an average day and I think I’ll just quickly wash this blood off myself and then go grab a cup of coffee. Oh, no problem, this blood is actually just red corn syrup that’s how not a big deal it is. And yeah a cute little puppy playfully nipped my finger while I was scratching behind his ears. Isn’t that sweet? Nip! Nip! That sounds so innocent you know? Unpause.)

Simultaneously I put my glasses on, notice the remaining traces of blood (he’s washed most of it away by now and his clothes are in a heap on the floor), and hear him say “do we have any rubbing alcohol?”

OH. NO.

The bites… oh man. I wish I had taken a picture of them yesterday when they looked worst so I could put them on here and you could sympathize with me, Reader. Because you would, believe me you would. You would have done exactly what I did when I saw that bulbous mass on his arm, sort of bluish and completely swollen and within it, five or six big bloody teeth marks, and then the totally swollen thumb with more bright red teeth marks in it, which is FREAK YOUR SHIT OUT. I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to hit Lance or call someone for help or find some kind of gauzy bandages or just rush him out to the car all naked and drive him to the emergency room. I compromised by yelling at him and saying “ohmyGod” every time I accidentally saw the horrendous wound again while looking through the medicine cabinet for alcohol and cotton balls and trying not to picture what he would look like if he developed rabies in the next ten minutes.

We ended up at urgent care, thank God, because otherwise we would probably STILL be at the ER. (Pause again just to tell you what you probably could have guessed, which is that Lance FOUGHT ME ABOUT GOING AT ALL. Like, come on honey, this is totally no big deal. Look, that swelling will go down, I’m sure of it. And the bluish tinge should fade over time. And I’ll just keep a bandaid on those puncture wounds until the bleeding stops in a couple of months. Surely a playful puppy nip isn’t something to freak out about! Unpause.) The doc gave him a prescription for an antibiotic and confirmed that he was up to date with his tetanus shot. She seemed positively cheerful. Looking back, she was probably just really relieved that he wasn’t ANOTHER swine flu patient. She was probably excited for a dog bite. Probably hoping for a kid with a couple dozen bee stings to hobble in next. Who can blame her, I guess.

In case you’re wondering, which I was (even though I was torn between feelings of super sorry for and hatred for that dog, who mutilated my husband’s flesh so that every time he picks anything up now he says “ow” and every time he tries to bend his thumb it opens the wound up and starts bleeding again), the dog’s adrenaline must have kicked in after the second taste of human flesh because he limped into the bushes on the side of the road on three legs. A cop had pulled over to figure out why a bunch of cars were stopped at a green light and there was a skinny bloody guy and some other people looking off into the trees, and after they explained it all to him he was going to call animal control and drive around looking for a limping, bloody dog with a man’s arm hanging out of his mouth.

Honestly though Reader, who does that? Who hits a dog and drives off? If you happen to read my blog, you are a piece of sorry ass. I hope one day a dog learns how to drive and hits YOU. AND DRIVES OFF.

Really, I guess yesterday must have been Asshole Day, because I put a chair on craigslist to sell and got this girl who was all excited about it and said she wanted to come get it, and could she come here on Saturday? So we set up an appointment for 4. So, naturally, she called me at 5:30 saying she was on her way over, so I gave her directions. 6:00 went by. Then 7:00. I called her back, got her voicemail, and left a message that was all like “um, we have things… to do… if you wouldn’t mind letting me know if you’re still you know, on your way OVER HERE…. um… that would be great… um…” and never heard back from her. I guess she got caught up hitting random dogs with her car and driving away.

And while I was like stomping around and sulking and being all “THIS DAY SUCKS” and “I hope she got all lost and drove around for like two hours just LOST without her cell phone!” to Lance, he was all like “what if that really happened to her, Megan? Or what if she had a car accident or something?” and I was all “who died and made you Mother Theresa today anyway?” and he was all “can you take your grumpy pants off please?” and I was all “my other pants no longer exist oKAY” and he was like “whatever kind of bad day you think you’re having? I get the trump card. TODAY I GOT BIT BY A DOG.”

And I’m like “Dude, whatever, it’s just a little nip.”

Sneak Peek!

Hello avid Reader; I know it’s been a while. Please believe I have been thinking about you while drowning in paint, because I totally have. I know you’ve been waiting on the edge of your desk chair to find out what the heck I’ve been doing for the past three weeks. It’s amazing how mind-numbing and yet how all-consuming moving into a new house can be. It drives me crazy to not have everything I want like RIGHT NOW, but it is coming together piece by piece. I can’t give any full-room shots yet because I’m too much of a snot who doesn’t want to show off an incomplete room, which is why I took some time this evening to take pictures of a few of the things that I’m giddy over in this place.

Like, my completely amazing cabinet space. There are seriously so many cabinets that I can spread out all my dishes! I’ve never had so much room.

Same for drawer space. Seriously?! I have enough drawers that I can use one for spices:

Check out this awesome porcelain sink.

I totally love the kitchen. However, it’s the only room I don’t know what color I want to paint it. And speaking of paint colors, I’ve decided that picking paint really sucks. It never turns out how I think it’s going to turn out.

Here’s a good example: the hall bathroom. I like it now… but it’s definitely not what I was going for originally.

I also love that claw-foot tub. Unfortunately the kitty litter has to be in here too because there is literally nowhere else to put it (believe me – we have racked our brains). So apart from the slight odor of cat piss, this room is very pleasant for bubble baths. (Oh, yeah, in the half hour that I haven’t been painting, online shopping, or unpacking boxes, I did take a bubble bath.)

Another color I was all what the deuce!? when I saw it on the wall was the dining room color. It’s called “Merlot” and at first looked a lot more like “Grandma Mauve.” Luckily, THREE COATS LATER it looked more like I’d hoped. Now I just have to touch up all the trim where the paint was on so thick it bled through the tape.

One of my favorite rooms so far is the office/library/guest room. Hey, it’s a small house – the rooms have to multi-task. The color in here is rich and gorgeous. Lance actually picked it and I was all “I’m not sure, it’s too dark, blah blah blah.” Hubbs, you were right; it looks amazing. The best part is, we made our own bookshelf and the whole thing cost like $40 and I lurve it.

Someday we’ll have a pull-out couch in here and it will be a REAL guest room! You know, since a real bed would take up too much space for a multi-tasking room. But for now it’s lying about the guest-room part. Cut it some slack, it doesn’t have any money.

Finally, here’s the color of the living room, and a mantle we installed for some pretty shelf space. And by “we” I mean “Lance.”

So there you go, Reader, some random shots of my house that give you no idea whatsoever what it actually looks like. Those are coming, I promise. The baby’s room is my first priority now that most of the painting is done.

Other than painting and unpacking boxes (mostly me) (and I swear they had sex for two months in storage and had baby boxes also full of shit we don’t need) and working (Lance), Lance and I spend our time walking two miles to the dog park so we don’t feel as guilty walking two blocks to the bakery the next morning, discover the nifty East Nashville eateries on Friday paydays, watch hulu.com when we miss episodes of “Glee” and “The Office,” and talk and wonder about baby-related things, like whether or not to have him circumcised? And what to do when he sleeps in our bedroom and so does the cat who likes to wander around at night and might end up on his face in the bassinet? And how much are my poor boobs going to hurt when there’s a kid sucking on them every two and a half hours? And how are we going to afford this when I won’t be working? And so on.

I hope to have a beautiful nursery to show on here in the next week or so. Keep your fingers crossed for me…

Two months to go…

I know I’m supposed to be beaming these days. I know I’m supposed to be excited to meet my son. I know I’m supposed to be thrilled that I’ll be bringing my baby home in my arms instead of in my belly in a mere eight weeks.

HOWEVER.

What I’m actually feeling is ABSOLUTE TERROR. Complete, paralyzing fear has taken over every time I think about it. The thing is, the hospital is going to put a fragile new life into my arms, wheel me out the door in a wheelchair, help me into my car, and ten minutes later we’ll be pulling up in front of our house with that same fragile new life, and then we bring him inside. AND THEN WHAT!? Like, literally, what do I do with him once I have him inside the house? Do I take him to the nursery that is, as of yet, 100% NOT ready for his arrival? Do I sit down with him on the couch and pop in a movie? Do I start reading him The Chronicles of Narnia? Do I keep him in his car seat? Put him in his little baby bouncer? Do I explain what we believe politically and why? Explain the death and resurrection of Christ? Teach him how to walk? Give him a pacifier? Do I let the dog sniff him? Do I go into my bedroom and lie down with him? Change his diaper? Start playing our iTunes library so he’ll get acclimated to good music? Do I cook him a celebratory dinner? Pour him a glass of champagne and toast his exit from the womb? NO SERIOUSLY READER, WHAT DO I DO!?

Look at my face in this picture. Does it not just scream “OMGOMGOMGOMGOMG”? Because if not, please believe that that’s pretty much all that’s on my mind recently so I was most definitely thinking it.

My only saving grace is that my husband is perfectly calm. I don’t know how or why, but he seems alright with the fact that we’re about to have to take care of a kid when we barely know how to take care of ourselves. And if he can be alright, I can be alright.

Thanks to free wifi at the local hipster coffee shop…

ACCESS TO THE WORLD WIDE WEB! I CAN DO ANYTHING RIGHT NOW!

I never realized how completely debilitating it is to be without an internet connection in my home until now. Everywhere I’ve lived previously we’ve had internet pretty much immediately, and if not we could always find someone with unprotected access. Like in Arlington we stole wifi from BOOBIENET until Comcast finally came out to install our modem. But everyone in our new neighborhood, it appears, has protected themselves from wifi thieves, and AT&T is all “oh yeah we’ll be out whenever we feel like it and our technicians get off their arses and put the ham sandwich down long enough to flip the switch MUAHAHAHA WE’VE GOT THE POWER!” And therefore a pregnant lady can’t check her email, or worse, look up what to do when carpel tunnel syndrome wakes me up at 2:40am and makes me think I’m dying.

No, seriously. I HAVE CARPEL TUNNEL. I think this is what karma smells like, because carpel tunnel is one of those illnesses I always associated with pussies. Like I only ever imagined real nerdy guys with no sex lives getting it from surfing too much porn or playing too much Tron and then having to wear dorky looking braces on their wrists for a week or whatever, so I admit it, I scoffed. I mean what kind of middle-class, American problem is CARPEL TUNNEL, right? People in other parts of the world have REAL illnesses. So now I am reaping what I have sown, Reader. Apparently 80% of pregnant women are affected with it because of swelling in their joints and fluid buildup in the wrists or something. And HOLY SHIT, IT HURTS. I literally started crying last night because of the pain in my left arm, and I can’t even tell you the last time I cried because of physical pain, other than when I get giant zits under my nose and popping them triggers some tear duct and my left eye starts totally leaking, but that doesn’t even count. I mean I was in so much pain that the only relief I could get was to start sobbing like a freaking tool. I CRIED BECAUSE OF CARPEL TUNNEL. And then I woke Lance up because this pain was pain I could not deal with on my own. I finally got back to sleep after consuming the entire contents of a bottle of Tylenol. (I’m only kidding; I only took half the bottle on account of the fetus, so calm down. It’s the liter of Vodka I washed the Tylenol down with that you should be worried about anyway.)

So now we know that I am supposed to elevate my left arm on a pillow as I sleep, and obviously I shouldn’t sleep on my arms. Oh, have I mentioned that I’m also not supposed to lie on my back? Yeah some central nerve can be crushed by the weight of my humungous uterus, cutting off blood supply to me AND the baby. Oh and also, I can’t sleep on my belly, because well, have you ever tried lying on top of a basketball? It’s impossible. So how I’m supposed to sleep NOT on my back, belly, OR sides is a mystery to me. Anyone have any suggestions? I mean I’m not great at geometry but it SEEMS like that pretty much eliminates all my options. I guess I’ll sleep sitting freaking STRAIGHT UP IN A CHAIR until it turns out that my ass contains some central artery or it starts going numb because of Carpel Ass Syndrome or something. Then I’ll just go float in the tub until I fall asleep and drown, which would honestly be better than never sleeping again, which is the direction I feel my life is going.

Other than the Carpel Tunnel and never being able to sleep anymore and the fact that my dog hates our new pergo floor because it causes her to slide all around, so she just sits on her bed day and night, crying and refusing to get up for anything, including the piece of cheese I dropped into her food bowl, things are going pretty great. So far I love Nashville. Everyone is really friendly, including Ma and Pa who live next door to us and are actually so friendly I avoid them because they kind of creep me out. The barista who just made my soy latte was asking me when my baby was due and telling me all about his kids. He was saying things like “yeah, my son is just so easy man. It’s totally awesome. My wife is expecting our second in January and man, it’s gonna be so fun.” And he was just so chill and he still looks all young and cool and fresh and I was like thinking “dude, I hope I can be as awesome as you when I have two kids. Even if it means growing a scruffy beard and ultimately becoming a Nashville hipster which is pretty much inevitable since I have no sense of style on my own anyway. I wish you’d hurry up with my latte. This is a pretty cool place, AND it’s right around the corner. I wonder how often we’ll frequent it. I bet we’ll be like Niles and Frasier always coming in here and getting to say ‘I’ll take the usual.’ Except Niles and Frasier were brothers and Lance and I are definitely not brothers. So we’ll be like a hip married couple with a kid who doesn’t ever cry and always just sleeps in his car seat while we hang out and blog and whatnot. Yeah right, haha, I wish.”

Ahem.

So that’s what’s going on. As soon as I find the box with my camera cord in it and I have access to the interwebs from my house, I will post pics of my unbelievably fat belly. BTW, Blueberry is doing just fine. He’s exactly where he needs to be apparently. I, however, have gained 34 pounds and Blueberry still has another three to five lbs to go before he’s ready to exit the vagina. (Couldn’t resist. Any chance I get to remind you, Reader, that I’m creating human life in my uterus and he will enter the world via my vajay-jay, I’m going to take it.) Anyway, I’m pretty sure all the rich, greasy southern food I’ve been stuffing in my face since we moved back is to blame. That, combined with no longer belonging to a gym and walking feels like someone is pushing me over backwards with every step so I kind of don’t do it very much any more. I’ll also be posting before and after pics of the house as soon as I have the after pics to take.

One last thing: I have to express the absolute goodness of God. Everything I asked Him for happened, and then some. We were going to be living on about 200 bucks until this Friday (which was pretty much gone after we got our U-Haul anyway), but we got some dough back from the FHA, which enabled us to not only buy groceries, but buy some things we wanted, like paint and a shower caddy and laundry detergent and stuff you don’t realize you need until you move into a new house. Also, we had help from so many people. Moving a 17-foot truck full of crap into our house only took like an hour and a half. Thank you to everyone who got sweaty hauling sofas and beds and dressers and boxes of books up so many steps to get them into our front door. Also the night before we moved it thundered and rained and rained and I was so stressed out about it that I woke up with every bolt of lightening to petition the Lord to please please stop the rain, just for the day. There were flash flood warnings all morning, so I figured God’s answer to all those many prayers was like “um, no. Nashville farmers have been asking me for it to rain for like two weeks so just get in line with your weather request lady.” But by the time we started moving stuff, the rain stopped. I tried to say thank you to God as many times as I had asked Him to stop the rain, but I’m pretty sure I failed.

Hey! I feel at home already y’all. Come on over if you’re in town. There’s plenty of paintin’ and unboxin’ to go around. I’m heading back to my house now to wallow in self-pity over not having any portal into the outside world.

Concerning Vanguard, and how I plan to bring them down in a class-action lawsuit

I realize I’ve neglected writing about the OTHER thing that occupies all my brain space, which is the fact that I’ll be pushing a kid out of my vagina in OH, TWO AND A HALF MONTHS. And really, thank God summer is almost over since a) the southern heat and humidity is making my skin peel off and b) my belly is now so huge that I can no longer bend over far enough to shave my bikini line. (I figured I’d get all the TMI out of the way in the first paragraph, but who am I kidding? I’m sure there will be more coming. I mean come on, why do you come to this blog anyway, right? Right?)

So, Vanguard. The truth is I won’t be filing a class-action lawsuit, since that would require me shelling out tons of money, energy, and time just to expose them and it wouldn’t really get me anywhere anyway since probably the whole world already knows they are the reason your panties keep creeping up your butt. No lie – from now on anything bad that happens I’m going to be thinking about how VANGUARD is to blame! Also I won’t be filing a class-action lawsuit since I don’t really have a case other than this: THEY SUCK. Also I don’t really know what “class-action lawsuit” means, and I’m sure that’s important. Seriously though Reader, you would not BELIEVE the two days that we have had. It’s like there is a committee of people who sit around going “let’s figure out all the ways to screw people and make them feel like they’re being ass-raped.” And then they do each of those things. It’s too much to even talk about on here and to be honest, it’s too soon to rehash with any sense of humor whatsoever and I don’t think you decided to read this post just to be subjected to a bitch-session, so I’m done. Actually, one more thing: if your retirement happens to be with Vanguard, I highly recommend getting that money in competent hands STAT. Ok, done. On to the kid out of the vagina thing.

My belly is now so huge I can no longer see my feet, and apparently Blueberry still has 3-5 more pounds to put on before he emerges. (Did I mention the emerging is going to be happening in 10 weeks?) The nesting instinct has hit me hard and I haven’t been able to do anything about it yet. I spend countless hours online, shopping for nursery items, which I then email to myself with subjects like “rugs” or “bedding.” I have 17 unread messages in my inbox, all from myself, all full of links to baby stuff. I bought a changing pad this weekend, just because I really wanted to cross something off my list. Yes, I have a list. It’s four pages. And I keep having these dreams where the baby is born but hasn’t been able to eat or be changed or we can’t take him home from the hospital because we don’t have a car seat because all our stuff is in storage. I have never felt so unprepared for anything in my whole life.

I have my first OB appointment in almost two months tomorrow morning. Before you all start freaking out that it’s been almost two months, let me first say that you could in no way be freaking out more than I have been. You can not freak out because I have officially freaked out enough for the entire state of Tennessee. And secondly, the baby’s kicks are strong and frequent, hitting the hardest around 7:30am when I am SO not ready to be jolted awake by the power of a kick from the inside. For those of you who have never been kicked from the inside, I can only describe the feeling as a long-fingernailed hand grabbing a wad of muscle tissue every couple of minutes. It doesn’t hurt per se; it just feels really, really, freakily weird. Sometimes I think he just stretches out because I feel this claw-like tissue-grabbing pressure on either side of my belly and I’m like holding my breath subconsciously, waiting for him to finish stretching and curl back into a convenient little ball… waiting… until I push on his foot or whatever it is and he retracts. How’s THAT for alien-life form? The creepiest thing he does is like some kind of roll or something I guess, which literally takes my breath away every time he does it. All that to say I know he’s doing just fine in the incubator, even though an OB hasn’t checked my uterus for almost two months. (See? More TMI, there it is!)

The sad part about being so pregnant is that I had to take my rings off yesterday. My fingers are like fat sausages, something else compounded by the heat. I struggled for several minutes and finally managed to squeeze them off, and while my fat sausage-like finger pulsed blood back into that place where the symbol of my marriage just was, I put my rings away for the remainder of my pregnancy. And until I find a SIZE NINE sterling silver band somewhere, I’ll just look like my child-to-be is a bastard with some Baby Daddy somewhere who left me for someone hot. Which might be until after he’s born, because who carries SIZE NINE wedding band-looking rings? Whatever, I can deal with judgmental stares. It’s called being raised in the south.

Today I’m spending the day packing up the four suitcases, dog and cat equipment, various baby paraphernalia that I’ve accumulated, ponytail holders, and non-perishable food items that are currently scattered all about my parents’ house. I’ll start on THAT daunting task as soon as I waddle into the kitchen to find something else bad for me to eat and scarf it down in record time.