The other night Hubby and I wondered:

How

Are these kids

Related?

Seriously.

Boo Blatherings, JJ Jawings, Little A Adventures | 1 Comment »

Dearest Boo~

Look!  I forgot to write to you on the completion of your second month into your first trip around the sun.  I would apologize, offer excuses, but babe:  this is just the way it is.  Today at the doctor’s office, I noticed a little skid mark in your diaper while she was examining you.  I almost went to change it, but the doctor said, “You’re not really going to do that, are you?  I  mean, she *is* your third one:  it’s gonna take a lot more than that to necessitate a change.”

Which, apparently, you were either offended by, or realized the lengths it took to get you out of that diaper, because a few moments later you unloaded into that size one huggies in a way that makes your brothers and three generations of Gerick men that I’ve been blessed to know proud.  God bless “flex with you” tabs.

Dear little one, I’m sorry that you’re the third one, and I’m not.  I’m sorry that you may sit in your diaper longer; I’m not sorry that we’re the fastest and most efficient in changing yours having changed two previous bums in the years beforehand.  I’m sorry that the more mobile and louder children take away from our potential alone time; I’m not sorry that you have two older brothers who adore you and ask to talk to you very first thing in the morning, saving their smiles for you and their grumpies for the old people stumbling around the house.  I’m sorry that you’ve got a mama who is quite ready to be done sharing body parts with little people; I’m not sorry that you will get to taste delicious home cooking as the Mama has had more years under her belt to figure out the answer to the eternal question:  “What’s to eat?”  I’m sorry that not all your clothes/toys/books/parents will be new; I’m not sorry that your hand-me-downs have been worn by people who like you, your toys tested and broken in and found pleasing, your books to be so ingrained into you because you’ve heard them before you were born, and your parents (hopefully) to be a little more mellow and a lot more loving.

To quote “A Knight’s Tale” (again, that movie Mama was going to watch before having you, except you had a more pressing schedule in mind):  “You have been weighed, you have been measured …”, but you have not “been found wanting.”  I thought for *certain* you were around the 12lb mark:  I mean, look at those cheeks!  Apparently they are hollow cheeks, to go along with your hollow legs, and your hollow arms, and your hollow bum (which you did *after* your measurements:  goober).   You have one head that is 15 inches; one body that is 21.5 inches, and one weight that is … 9.7lb.  You seem to take your nickname of “Little Miss” very seriously.  Percentile ranges:  25th/10th/10th.  Beloved Dr. Tami’s comment:  “Well, she’s certainly well-proportioned.”  I had the same feeling when boys would say I was “so funny” or “a great listener” or “someone they could really talk to” – generally about the girl they were pining after.

I have a friend who births children who haven’t regularly registered on the percentile scales.  The doctors have sent my friend’s kids through countless tests, worried that something is wrong with them, rather than recognizing their true nature:  that of Pocket People.  So, worried that our doctor would start using phrases like “supplement” and “sweat test” and “feeding tubes are just like the latest rage in body adornment”, I got *that* *look* on my face:  that “I have two boys I chase around all day, I haven’t slept in months, and if you tell me I have to drive up to Portland to have people poke and prod at my precious little bundle just because she’s precious and little and a bundle, well let me tell you:  NO.”

Dr. Tami is perceptive, because instead of mentioning those phrases and endangering her pleasantly impending lunch hour, she spent the time reassuring me that everything is fine, that you are on the scale, that you’re just a precious little bundle, and the next step if there’s concern is to see a lactation consultant (I’m “sure” she wasn’t trying to dump the crazy sleep-deprived mother-of-two-boys-one-of-which-was-madly-twirling-on-a-chair-while-the-other-consumed-3/4s-of-a-bag-0f-veggie-booty-by-himself-during-the-waiting-time off on the lactation consultants, right? ….).

And darling, I’m sorry that I don’t have time to sit with you and make you the roly poly baby of my dreams.  But honestly, in the long run, being little and quick will probably get you farther … hiding from brothers, sneaking around unnoticed, stealing your dad’s clothes (not that daughters ever like to “borrow” their dad’s big shirts … or sweatshirts … or super warm and fuzzy hiking socks …), sitting with your bros in the back seat, sitting on dad’s lap, getting up on the counter to help me bake cookies, getting thrown in the air long after your brothers have heard, “You’re too big!”

Be who you were created to be, Little One, and I’ll try to do the same.

Love, Ma

Boo Blatherings, Mama Musings | 2 Comments »

Welcome to the world, Darling Daughter~

Did you know that I never thought I’d use those words together:  ”Darling” and “Daughter”?  Not that I didn’t think that you’d be darling, although we were a bit worried when you wouldn’t show us your profile during your last ultrasound, but instead smashed your face as far away from Dr. Tami’s picturewand as possible.  No, I never thought that I’d be a mama, much less a mama to someone who had the same bits’n'pieces as me:  yes, they’re complicated, and no, I still don’t know how or why everything works.  As evidenced by yesterday.

Because yesterday I gave birth to you.  Naturally.  And by naturally, I mean without the use of the Happy Machine, aka epideral.  First, on purpose, thinking, “Hmm, let’s see what this whole non-medicated birth experience is like”.  Then, once the “holy crap, this really hurts, I don’t wanna do this any more pleaseandthankyou” set in, on accident, because, see, you wanted to come into the world.  Right.  Then.

It all started Sunday night.  Well, it started a while ago, but I don’t think you want to hear the “When a man and a woman love each other” talk that a friend of mine loved to give.  But on Sunday night I had this strange urge to clean and tidy:  strange because it was my list of things to do on Monday, but this sudden desire of “I need to get these things done NOW” set in, so I bustled around doing laundry and paying bills and wiping down the kitchen and all other manner of Type A Dren activities.  Then when I went to lay down for bed, the contractions set in.  Not abnormal:  nightly fakers have been happening for a while now.  But these felt … different.

So we had a talk.  ”Boo, this is not a good time.  Your dad has work to get done tomorrow, and he also has a horrible case of The Oak and is going to be treated in the morning.  Your brother starts school on Wednesday, Grandmom had things going on Tuesday, and I’d like to go to Bible Study on Thursday.  You know what?  My schedule is clear on Friday.  I know I’ve prayed for you to come, but really:  I can wait until Friday.  So let’s wait, okay?”  And in response there was a very tight, uncomfortable “sqeeeeze”.  Here we go.

I got up and started cleaning more:  unloading the dishwasher, taking care of emails, making more lists of Things For Grandmom to Know While Watching Da Boys Even Though She Already Knows Everything But It Makes Me Feel Better, etc.  Your father woke up to take his four-hour dose of Benadryl (as requested by me because he’s so much more pleasant when not constantly scratching) and asked what I was doing.  ”I think I’m in labor.  Contractions have been every ten minutes for the past few hours.  So I futzing around and reading up on “When You Need to Go to the Hospital”.  I refuse to go into major labor now:  this can wait until the morning, so you can go back to sleep.  I didn’t want to wake you so you can get some rest.  Can you rest?”  ”Yep.”  And back he trundled to bed.  He did sleep.  I wore myself out by two, or at least enough to sleep through the gut squeezes, and woke up three hours later when your father was re-Benadryling and Calamine Lotioning (it’s been a fun few days around our house, let me tell you).

“Should I call your Mom?”

“Yep.”

Pushes buttons.  ”Good morning.  Yes, she’s in labor.  Okay, see you in a bit.”

And we were off and running.  I took That Last Shower, cleaned up, bustled around more – lists, packing, etc.  Because I’m a Melancholy personality type, and we plan for EVERYTHING.  You’ll find out.  Hope it doesn’t smoosh your free-wheeling style:  I think I can factor that into my plannings.  :)

So the contractions were coming fast, but I was determined to a) wait for Grandmom and 2) have a normal morning with your brothers, minus the very concentrated moaning I would emit every few minutes.  Your father was a bit concerned, but I wanted.my.oatmeal.  So Grandmom came, we headed off, listening to a podcast of the Splendid Table that your father tried to talk to me about later that evening and I commented that for some reason, I didn’t really hear what Lynn Rosetto Casper had said:  I was a bit distracted.

We got to the hospital, wheeled upstairs, and got settled in the exact same room I had been in last at the Birth Center (your oldest brother was born at the “Old” hospital where I got to watch Fox students walk from their dorms to class and was really hopeful that the windows were tinted or if they heard my labor yowlings, would use that as a really effective message of Why To Have Safe Sex).  I had planned on doing my usual “Hospital Gown Modeling” photo, but somehow that didn’t happen.  Because I couldn’t stop contracting.  And that’s not a picture you can go back and recreate later.  Oh well.

The rest is kind of a haze, which is a good thing, because I do remember thinking, “I don’t know why women give birth naturally more than once:  what crazy pills are they on, and I don’t know that I want any.”  Things I remember:

Being poked six times before getting an IV hook-up to work – apparently my veins roll and/or collapse.  Kinda like my resolve about that point.  The nurse apologized over and over.  Your dad almost passed out:  something he’s never experienced.  Something about taking Benadryl for four days, not sleeping much for six days, and only eating cereal for breakfast caught up with him.  That’s why I wanted my oatmeal:  much more of a stick-with-ya factor.

Praying to God, “Pleasepleaseplease”.  When you’re in a bad place, Anne Lamott says that’s the best prayer.

Getting an IV in and being able to get off of my back (ugh) and up into a squatting position, the only thing that’s felt comfortable with you.  I had bad sciatic pain in labor with your brothers, hence the drugs.  But this time I had a talk with God about how I’d really like to know that my body can do this, that I have this image of being a physical wimp and would love a redeeming experience.  So apparently He went above and beyond granting my desire cause I couldn’t have gotten drugs even if I wanted to:  there was no time.

Thinking (and apparently verbalizing out loud, oops) that if your dad was going to pass/crap out on me that I was having drugs.  See, I couldn’t do it on my own:  we wanted to do this as a team.  So often I do things on my own:  ”It’s fine, I’ll take care of it” will probably be on my gravestone (as opposed to your Granddaddy, which Grandmom says will say, “I didn’t do it/It’s not my fault”.  We’re very gracious in our family, as you’ll find out ).  But nothing would de-tense me except the calm, verbal reminders of your Dad:  ”Breathe.  Take it down.  Unclench your face/jaw/hands/toes.”  And I would.  As much as I could.

In the words of A Knight’s Tale (which was going to be the movie I wanted to watch while killing time waiting for contractions to pick up:  HA!):  ”Pain.  Lots of pain.”  Ugh.  Labor.  Hurts.  Which I knew, but I didn’t know.  The nurses told me to let them know when I was going to push, because while they could deliver a baby on their own, they liked to have Dr. Tami around to catch her.  I remember a nurse saying that to me, word for word, three times.  And each time I was pushing, thinking, “Um, I can’t tell you that I’m pushing because I’m busy PUSHING.”  And they aren’t kidding when it’s TheIntenseDesireToPush.  Because logically I did not want to:  it hurt.  But nothing was going to stop that bearing down instinct.  Ugh.

That I don’t like pushing.

Dr. Tami wearing a really nice dress and having a new haircut, and wanting to tell her, but I couldn’t make any of the words coming out of my mouth sound nice or conversational, but mostly desperate please, groans, or fairly instructional directions.  She tried to joke with me, and I was glad that she knew the difference between Dren-at-an-Appointment and Crazy-Dren-in-Labor.

Grabbing the bar, feeling your head come out, hearing words of praise, thinking, “But her shoulders still have to come out, and they’re wider than her head, and I’M DONE.”  I pleaded to be done; your dad got teary.  I heard the nurses and Tami joking:  apparently your head poked out, you opened your head, and started looking around like, “What’s going on?”  No cries or alarm:  cause you’ve heard me yell a plenty, just usually preceded with a “JJ!” or “ABE!”  And a few of the longest.moments.ever. you came out.  They were so happy; I was simply done.

Not getting to be done.  Because while you came out really quickly (well, quickly according to the people who did not give birth to you), the bits and pieces that were supposed to come out afterwards did not.  And it hurt more than labor.  Which was saying something.  I reached my limit:  I simply wanted to hug you and cuddle you and call you George like the WB Abominable Snowman, but they wanted to push and pull and do horribly painful things to me.  I admit that I cried:  I felt like a toddler pleading with adults that I couldn’t do anymore but being treated like, “Oh, you’re just tired.”  I almost kicked Dr. Tami out of sheer reaction of “Leave me alone”:  instincts are crazy things.  After getting an OB in the room, having some pitocin (ugh), and hearing a nurse say “Let’s just pray that this just comes right out”, I thought, “Hmm, this is a bigger deal than I realize” and “Oh.  Right.  God.  Prayer”.

Again, with the “pleasepleaseplease” and “thankyouthankyouthankyou” when it all finally came out, people stopped poking and prodding so much, and we got to snuggle.

You are lovely, little girl.  Ten fingers – long fingernails.  Ten toes – none webbed (sorry, Unca Matt).  LOTS of black hair.  I remember someone commenting on that, and when seeing it the first time, me saying, “Oh, Gran’s gonna cry.”  Cause you looked like I did:  eskimo baby – all black hair and red red skin.  You and me and Abe will be hiding out in the shade while Dad and JJ run around in the beach without sunscreen, getting all tan and skin-cancery.

You nurse like a champ:  1hr. 15min. with the first go.  You love to snuggle.  Your cry hasn’t warmed up to full potential yet, methinks.  You like to use me as a human pacifier, which is okay while we’re on “vacation”, but honey, we got boys to take care of when we get home, so this eating thing will be more functional than luxury – for both of us.  Nights and days are mixed up, but hey:  who doesn’t love the night life? (love to boogie?).  Fluids and solids go in and come out in all the right ways.

People have come to visit, love, adore, and bless you.  No matter what you may ever think, know that you are a prayed for, wanted, planned, loved blessing from above, and we are so happy that you came to join us in these crazy trips around the sun.  I love you, Darling Daughter.

Love, Ma

Boo Blatherings, Mama Musings | 10 Comments »

Most of the comments I hear throughout my day:

• “When are you due?”
• “Wow:  you still haven’t had that kid?”
• “Any day now, right?”
• “Geez:  you sure are stickin’ out there.”
• “You must be *so* ready to be done with this.”
• “Wow:  she’s about to pop!”
• “And you really don’t have a name picked out yet?”
• “Mon-kee!  Mon-kee!” – which is actually Abe asking me to read a Cookie Monster book to him.  For the fifth time in a row.

So yes:  I’m still waddling in my neck of the woods, and I’m actually quite fine with that.  At night, when I’m having contractions (both wimpy preppers and the real take-my-breath-away-aw-crap-this-is-gonna-hurt ones), I may think, “Hmm:  tomorrow would be a nice day to have a baby.  Then I won’t have to …” [insert:  do laundry, grocery shop, make dinner, clean up the ever-present crumbs, deal with preschool orientation, take one more deep breath while dealing with my toddler].

And every morning I wake up and realize:  “Hmm, it’s not today.  That’s okay, now I can …” [take the boys to the Coffee Cottage for a play date, get dressed up for Bible study, clean and organize and clean some more, enjoy more hours of consistent sleep than I will for a while, not have an excruciatingly sore bum].

I’m not surprised that she’s not here, honestly.  True, the due date’s September 19th/20th:  a week + to go.  If she followed the ways of her brothers, she would’ve come today, though:  Abe – 11, JJ – 12, Hubby – 13.  Makes it easier for me to remember birthdays, although months and years get tricky.    No, see, Hubby and I know this one is our free spirit:  she’s a girl, she’s the youngest, and she’s going to do just whatever she wants (methinks the bossing will come from the youngest up).  The boys felt ready to come:  pushing and stretching and making me really uncomfortable.  So far Boo and I have worked out a mostly-agreeable symbiosis (minus the sciatic pain:  nothing like the feel of randomly touching an electric fence shoot from your bum to your toes):  I have occasional bouts of insomnia, I have only recently had to pee every hour, I’ve been able to sit without feeling like I needed a lift to get my stomach out of my lap.

I haven’t hit the miserable point yet, and until I reach that, I don’t think she’ll come.  I remember sitting in Abe’s room, in the rocker, looking over at the stocked closet and the cradle all ready to go, praying, pleading, “Pleeeease come!  Please!  There’s no reason to stay in there!  Outside has so much more room!  And look:  you have presents!  To use!  And play with!  Come play with them already!”  Part of me would like to hit the miserable point so she will maybe recognize, “Uh oh:  pushing the host a little to far.  Vacate before she gets drastic!”  But then a real contraction hits, and putting off labor another day doesn’t sound so bad.

This tune may change as I see the forecast for this weekend, and if she doesn’t want to comply, then maybe we’ll just try a “practice run” of labor.  I’m sure the Birthing Center wouldn’t mind. 

Boo Blatherings, Daily Drivel, Mama Musings | 2 Comments »

Dear Miss Boo,

Okay, so I’m going to get a lot of flack for writing you a post right now because you don’t have a birthday, or as your eldest brother (whom I’m sure you will soon be coerced into addressing as JJ the Eldest, as opposed to you who will be JJ the Youngest, because he’s determined that you should share a birthday *and* a name.  That, or your name should be House – not after the TV show, just “House”) would say, “The baby’s zero!”  And I didn’t write to your brothers until they were born, or thereafter, but you know what?  I’m whipping out the ol’ parental card of “They’ll/You’ll Just Have to Deal” and “Not Everything is Fair”.  Because I can.

I figured I should clear up some details, just so I don’t start scarring your poor little psyche at the tender age of minus 18ish weeks.  We love you.  We want to welcome you into the family.  We’re excited about your arrival!  And just because we didn’t tell people about your Booness until we found out your gender does not mean we were in denial or didn’t want you or only wanted a certain gender.  Really, the question of, “So, you’re trying for a girl?” is fairly repulsive to me, and I already had so many other reasons to be sick to my stomach (like eating, or not eating, or driving, or walking, or breathing).

Really, it’s all my fault.  See, you can already start playing the “It’s All My Mother’s Fault” card, because *that* is your right, your heritage.  The fact that I told my mom that I had the title of my first book all worked out (“My Mother’s Southern and Other Reasons I Am the Way I Am”) in high school should’ve been a bit of foreshadowing for me (enter foreboding music).  Your father probably would’ve told everyone in church when I casually showed him the positive pregnancy test I’d been carrying around in my pocket (don’t worry:  it wasn’t the kind where you pee on the stick – it was more hygenically containable):  I didn’t know when or how to tell him, so before open worship seemed as good a time as any.

I felt the same about when to tell everyone else.  Your father would ask, “Now?”  My response, “Enh.”  “We have ultrasound pictures.”  ‘Yeah, but … something could still happen.”  “We’ve had two appointments.”  “Yeah, but I’m not showing *that* much.”  “We now know the gender, and your gut is protruding, and JJ knows, and we have to tell people sometime.”  “Yeah, well, Sami Brady was able to have a baby while she was in protective custody, and nobody knew, so I could just hang out most of the summer at home ….”

See, I just don’t deal with the attention well.  And then we found out you were a girl, which brought down these overwhelming emotions so totally different from each other, like trying to decide what to eat while at Epcot:  am I feeling Japan, or Morrocco?  Canada, or Sweden?  Oooh:  Mickey Mouse Shaped Ice Cream Cones!  I was excited!  I was freaked!  I was going to have pink in my house!  I have to learn how to do hair!  I’m going to deal with bloomers and patent leather shoes! (which my Northern friends will not understand why those elements will have to be in my house.  But they also give quizzical looks when I talk about the War of Northern Aggression).  I’m going to have to throw a wedding someday instead of just Rehersal Dinners!

But you don’t deal well with attention, either, since we had a longer-than-usual ultrasound due to the fact that you were still until you sensed that measurements were taking place.  Then, “Retreat!  Retreat!”  It’s like you thought Dr. Tami’s “got big fangs!”  And when she went to get your profile shot?  Well, after five to seven minutes of poking and prodding, she gave up:   “Well, her face is smashed into your placenta, and she’s wedged her head as far as she can into your pubic bone:  the profile shot is not happening.”  Sigh.  Followed up with, “That’s my girl!”  Which we really know you’re a girl, because we have about five beautiful patootie shots of you since that was your way of expressing your thoughts of the ultrasound experience.

You also proceeded to let me know how much you enjoyed the experience by kicking me.  For over 24 hours.  Which a few of those were spent on a teeny tiny airplane.  Helpful.

Your dad posted your pictures online, and I made an enigmatic comment on Facebook, because that’s my hangout of choice at the moment.  With your eldest brother, I just left an ultrasound picture out on the front desk of the office I worked at with the comment, “By Hubby & Dren”, which there were other pregnant people in the office, so folks assumed it was their picture.  With Abe, the cat kinda got taken out of the bag by a friend, but for the most part we announced to folks (including your extended family) by making a video of clips of JJ with “Coming Attractions” and pics of your compliantly-ultrasounded brother at the end.  And when we posted stuff, we were in the middle of the U.S.:  not so much close to home.  So I guess I did leave and come back home “pregnant.”  If only closer to the end …

We are excited for you to come meet us, darling daughter:  to see your face, to hold your fingers, to play “This little piggy”.  We’re excited to introduce you to our community who is SO happy to meet you.  And we’re loving that we get to know you.  But know:  your father will have a camera, and wireless access, in the hospital:  things will be documented.  So get ready to put on the cute face, otherwise you *will* have butt shots posted online for all to see, including high school friends (God bless the WayBack Machine). 

I love you, Baby Boo.

~Ma

Boo Blatherings, Mama Musings | 2 Comments »

So, you know how you’re at home, trying to take the obligatory belly shot to appease the masses (or at least the one or two gals who you pestered, and turnabout’s fair play), and your husband comes home with the preschooler.  And sits on the couch.  And pulls out his phone.

“What are you doing?”
“I’ve been getting these 800 number calls.  I finally answered:  it was Capital One, and they want to talk to you.”
“Did they say why?”
“No.   They wouldn’t, or they couldn’t.  But they want you to call them back.”

And you get that feeling like your dad or your teacher or some authority-figure in your life has busted you for something, but you have to play the guessing game as to what exactly it could be? ….

…………………

And you know how you call the number, and are instructed to enter your credit card number, but you can’t, cause you don’t have one, and you never did?

And how if you keep saying, “I.Don’t.Have.A.Credit.Card” you finally get a menu option where you can push buttons to finally get to a person?

And how that person has an Indian accent, and you have flashbacks of Slumdog and wonder truly where your call is routed to and if they’re sitting in a spot with “Red Hills” and “Cannon Beach” and “Lumpy’s” signs on the walls so they could “be” in my vicinity?

And how when you say you can’t give a credit card number to them because you’re never had a credit card with them, and your husband has never had a credit card with them, and no, you don’t have a credit card with them, and your husband *still* doesn’t have a credit card with them, and you’ve never had a credit card with them and … ?

And then when they say you need to give your social security number instead, that you can’t continue with nice Librarian Dren but have to drag out the I Learned From A Roommate Who Put Many a Person In Their Place When Asking for Ridiculous Requests Dren, and you say that you’re not comfortable with that and don’t think you should *have* to be?

And you run downstairs to google the number, because now you’ve decided that you’re part of some Dateline “Can you believe they fell for this?” rip-off story?  But google says it’s Capital One.  But you’re still not gonna give up the SS?

So they say they can’t help you and let you know how unreasonable you are in subtle inflections.  But they’ll call back again if need be.  Which you’ll never get the call, because it’s going to your husband.  And they won’t talk to him.  And that menu option of “report credit card loss or fraud press 3″ lingers in your head?

…………

And you bank on talking to another person when you call back.  And you do:  a guy who sounds all-American down to the, ‘Uh, yeah, uh, can I get your name?  Is that Z like zoo?”  Because he asks for your name, not your non-existent credit card number, nor your your social security number?

And it takes him ten minutes to spell your name, and then says, “Oh” and then “Uh” and then “I need to talk to someone else”?

So you sit in silence, with your belly solid as if you ate stone soup for lunch, and wait, and wait, and wait?

Until he comes back on and says, “Oh, the reason we called is we’d *like* to offer you an account with Capital One:  would you be interested?”

And you have two options on how to react, and choose simply to laugh at the utter rediculousness of it all rather than let the Hormonal One be unleashed, because you have enough battles in your life, and this poor guy can’t possibly get many people laughing somewhat hysterically at him over the phone, and maybe that would make his day a bit nicer?

And you say, “No, thank you.” and thank him for his “help” and hang up and think that this could be an excellent means of inducing labor when the time comes, but dang it, it’s not going to help you calm down for quiet time while the boys are down?

……………….

Yeah, me, neither.

Seriously:  belly.hurts.  But my stress level is waaaay down.

And here it is:  in all it’s glory.

Picture one:  Good Posture.  Also, how I walked around in public for many weeks while ignoring the fact that there was a Miss Boo bouncing around in my belly.

Picture Two:  Bad Posture.  Also known as, tired of sucking it in, and it’s nighttime, and seriously:  how do I look like my friends who are 37 weeks pregnant already?

Many women note that the popping out of the belly button is their indicator that “We’re ready to go!”  So, does that mean I get a “get out of the third trimester free?” card? The button’s not totally obvious in this picture, but I really don’t want to repulse folks:  stretched out three times is a bit much, apparently.

And no, (Heidi), I’m not wearing maternity pants yet:  denial can be a blissful place to be, although I do find myself getting into pajama pants at night ealier and earlier.

And yes, that is a pedometer:  we’re back on the 10,000 steps program.  Because we don’t have enough going on in our lives right now ….

Boo Blatherings, Daily Drivel | 3 Comments »