Hello due date. You mean nothing to me.

yep. still pregnant.

Things I am doing today:

• eating a donut. 
• taking a nap.
• yard work.
• working on my thesis.
• going out to dinner.

Things I am not doing today:

• going to the movies.
• going to work.
• touching my toes.
• eating lunch meat.
• having a baby.

So little matters to me right now, I can barely manage to write a sentence of my thesis. Not even a fake sentence like, "empirical evidence demonstrates that the proposed intervention, nested in theory, significantly reduces the risk of the target outcome by ameliorating the effects of the aforementioned deleterious institutionalized practices." I should just cut and paste that into my intro. Yesterday, I spent like, a total of 45 minutes working. The rest of the time, I spent writing and rewriting snarky emails to people who had the nerve (THE NERVE) to ask me to do things for them on the day before my due date. How dare they.

But really, we didn't want to have our baby on her due date. A year ago today, we lost our first baby, and if we had her today, it might seem...irreverent. Don't get me wrong, I haven't spent this pregnancy mourning that loss, though that may make me seem unfeeling to some of you. I have enjoyed virtually every moment of this gloriously long pregnancy, and I am immensely thankful to have carried a baby to term. It's hard to continue mourning the loss of our first when I know that, given the timing, we never would have had this one otherwise. I know I will always feel so blessed and thankful that she is in our lives, and I can't help but relinquish some of that original sadness on her behalf. But I don't want her birth marred by any of those memories. She deserves her own day.

So unless I go into labor right now, and blast this baby out, I think we're in the clear. See you all on the flipside.

Labor of love.

I'm really looking forward to labor. Every time I get a contraction, particularly if it's a painful one, I feel the same excitement I felt when my dad took me to my first Depeche Mode concert. The anticipation is slowly killing me, but I'm pretty much beside myself. Nonetheless, I think I may be underestimating how uncomfortable labor will be, so I made a playlist to calm me down during labor. Mitch had a few song suggestions, but his opinion is irrelevant here. Enjoy.

Labor of love. from hark on 8tracks Radio.

Open letter to my darling baby

Dear Baby,

The time is almost here when your father and I will get to see your precious little face for the first time. The bittersweet end of an era is approaching for us, and for me in particular. I will miss feeling your hiccups and watching you settle in my belly at night. While I will probably try to carry you everywhere after you arrive, you will never be as dependent upon me as you are right now. Carrying you in my belly has been a deeply gratifying experience. You have been quite the polite tenant, sparing me heart burn, breathlessness, and morning sickness. I imagine your future sibling(s) will not be so accommodating.

We are elated to meet you, to see who you look like, to feel your skin and hear your cries. You are the synthesis of two people who love each other purely and genuinely, and we will do everything in our power to make sure you always know this truth. You are now part of a family that we have worked hard to establish, a family that has been steeped in common experiences and long conversations about love and humanity and politics and God (maybe not in that order). While we may have spent hours poring over the details of your nursery, we have spent years assembling a community of caring, intentional adults who will help us frame your world. While we may have set aside tiny portions of our income for your education, we have invested immeasurable amounts of energy into this community because we want you to love them as we love them. We have learned to make ourselves vulnerable and accountable with them so that we can be the same to you.

Your father and I want to give you so many things, but we know we will fail at some. We are imperfect and human, and you are our maiden voyage. You have the burden of a firstborn, carrying your parents as they come to know their true selves in raising children. You are entitled to be angry with us, to tell us painful truths, and to ignore us, because we know we will deserve all of these things at one time or another. But our greatest hope for you is that through what may be a tumultuous childhood, we will help you become the kind of adult we admire, who gives of herself and has no regrets. The interconnectedness of all life is undeniable, and you will change the lives of so many people. Just try to change them for the better, as we know you will have changed ours.

Love,
Your Parents.

T - 1 week

Disclaimer: this post is kind of rambling and crazy. I blame the Kahlua pie I ate, since that's the most alcohol I've in nine months.

39 weeks-ish. I was telling Mitch he better not get my feet in the picture.

Meatball is about to get an evacuation notice. Look at me. I'm enormous. I look ridiculous. I'm not fishing for compliments, so keep it to yourself. Remember that tattoo that I had on my hip? I haven't seen it in months. I have lost the will to get dressed for work in the morning, so I mostly wear jeans and Birkenstocks (since none of my real shoes fit by the end of the day) and shut my office door. I don't feel uncomfortable or miserable or anything, I'm just starting to feel silly. Like Meatball is dragging this out for attention or something.

I've realized that preparing for a baby's arrival is a lot like preparing for a natural disaster. We have reams upon reams of toilet paper, about 14 pounds of dried fruit, extra batteries, a plethora of chicken feed, and several tubs of tiny cookies from Trader Joe's. I've also stocked up on my Bumble and Bumble Hairdresser's Invisible Oil because that shit makes a blow out last for eons, and I'm assuming showering will take a backseat for a while. If Jesus comes back tomorrow, we're set. We'll be able to subsist on banana chips for months, and I'll still look super hot after all the electricity disappears.

It is starting to get a little emotionally draining. I've been having contractions every night for almost two weeks, and every night I get all pumped and excited like, omg it might be my baby's birthday soon! And then they go away after I go to bed. Meatball is very indecisive, like her father. One time, when I was on a business trip in DC, Mitch had a man date with our other indecisive friend Ross, and they had to ask me for help in deciding where they went to dinner and what time they should see a movie. Anyway, Meatball is being like that. But whenever she's ready, we're ready.

nursery

At full term, our nursery is FINALLY finished. Well mostly. I'm always on the look out for tchatchkes and clutter to cram in it. But of course we think we have the cutest nursery ever. 

I know that everyone and their neighbor has that stupid felt owl basket from Target or The Container Store or Amazon or wherever, but my mom told me some terrible story about how all these kids in the '80s were horribly maimed by toy benches after they tried to get something out of it and the lids closed on their heads. So I bought an innocuous felt bucket with no lid or corners or pinchy hinges. I also feel the need to give credit to Emily at NVision for making the cushions for our rocking chair. Please go to Emily's store. It's really kick ass, and it will make you almost as hipster as wearing ridiculous bright blue glasses. Also, I must mention Isabell's Umbrella for the super cute prints on the wall, and Spoonflower for the fabric on the chair and the curtains (same as what I used on the mobile). And thanks to my mom for sewing the curtains because I am inept with a needle and thread, although I partly blame her for that, and I wonder if she never taught me to sew so that I would always need her for something. Just kidding. Love you mom.

I'm fully aware that this bookshelf is like, totally empty, but I'm sure Gran and Chief (my parents chosen grandparent names) will fill it with crap quickly enough.

Although you can't see it in the picture, the light switch is adorable and was painstakingly chosen from dozens, nay, hundreds, on etsy. The outlet covers all match, mostly because I thought, why not tempt my daughter to jam her fingers in the outlets in her room by putting cute birdies all over them?

I know I said it in another post, but my grandfather made this changing table for me when I was a baby, and I love having it our baby's room. And for the record, those clothes spilling out over the top of those bins? Just 0-3 month size. Thanks to all our prolific friends for having many babies and then cleaning out their basements.

Close up of the bird on a string. Another etsy purchase from Whirlwind Designs. Its wings flap really gracefully when you pull the string. We're hoping it's a little more stimulating than the ceiling fan.

Just because he's so damn cute. And to brag about the fact that we got that $75 skip hop crap flop tube top play gym for $19 from a second hand store.

FULL TERM! (37 weeks)

So. Here we are. Meatball could come any day. More likely she'll come in about three weeks or so, but it's strange and slightly unnerving to have this kind of anticipation.

The stress is showing. Since I got pregnant, I have found four legit gray hairs. Like, long ones. Not little pre-gray hairs that are coarse and yellow-y. Legit. I've decided not to dye my hair, and I didn't pull them, because dammit, I earned that shit. Mitch has said if I start to look too much like my mom, he will dye my hair in my sleep. He doesn't want to feel like he's making out with his mother-in-law. Bull. Whenever he grows his beard out, he looks like the reincarnation of the Mountain Man (aka his dad). His dad used to dress up in animal hides and retreat to the woods and eat dutch oven apple cobbler for days at a time. So deal. We're getting old, and we happen to share quite a bit of DNA with the people that bore us. So to make myself feel younger, I bought these ridiculous glasses because I think they make me look hip. When I wear them, I feel alive.

We met with our doula this week to discuss our "birth plan." Psh. Like Meatball will let me have a plan. Regardless, we do have a list of "preferences." People, including our doula, keep asking me if I'm scared of labor. Frankly, I'm not scared. Maybe I'm totally masochistic and delusional, but when I think about going into labor, and working the hardest I'll ever work, I feel no fear. We have prepared ourselves well by reading books, taking a class and getting a doula. I've had a super easy pregnancy, and I've been able to stay active and do yoga the whole time. And seriously, doing Kegels has become like blinking to me. I do them at work, at the grocery store, during dinner, wherever. I've probably been doing Kegels when I've been talking to you, and you didn't even know it. CREEPY. But I will not be incontinent after the birth of this baby. No thanks.

Anyway, at this point, I'm just too excited to meet my baby to be scared. And, if I'm fortunate enough to experience labor, I feel like it's going to be one of the most empowering experiences of my life. Whenever I imagine labor, I think it will feel like this. 

And I will kick labor's ass.

I'm one crafty biatch

No, I'm not really one crafty biatch. I don't really have the time for it, and I don't like the way Michael's smells. But after searching for months for a mobile that wasn't ridiculously overpriced ($90 for felt birds?!) or a dust magnet, I decided to just make my own. I got a free pattern at Spool, and ordered fabric from Spoonflower for $23. A little pricey, but better than $90 for stupid felt birds. Anyway, I'm pretty pleased with the final product, considering I don't even know how to thread my sewing machine, and I stabbed myself at least a dozen times.

Baby Buster, on the other hand, thought the birds might be trying to steal his soul.

somebody clip this dog's toenails