and also with you.

Mitch and I were asked to be godparents to a beautiful little girl named Penny.

We just attended her Christening, and we were honored to participate. I'm not really sure how it works in other churches, but in our church, they baptize the baby, the parents hand the baby off to the godparents, and then the godparents parade the baby up and down the aisle while strangers poke it and say things like, "the Lord be with you." Frankly, I enjoy it; it's a very formal way of acknowledging a new member of the community, and having godparents (hopefully) holds the community accountable for helping to raise that child.

Mitch and I discussed being godparents regularly before Penny's Christening. We had no idea what that meant (neither of us had them growing up), and we questioned our dear friends' judgment in choosing dirty hippies with a bad habit of collecting animals and half-dead houseplants. What makes us fit to be godparents? Then the realization occurred that we were going to be someone's ACTUAL PARENTS. Not just your-kid's-cute-but-it-just-pooed-so-here-take-it-back-parents, or I'll-send-you-a-$50-savings-bond-with-a-scripture-in-the-memo-on-your-birthday-parents. But like real ones.

Your kid broke his arm and even though it's bending the wrong way and you're gagging every time you see it, you have to not cry or puke and hold his (non-broken) hand in the ER while they set it. 

Your dog is a million years old, and you have to explain aging and death to your confused, crying second grader. And then tell her how you were lying about her hamster.

Your kid gets bullied at school for something you do or did or have or wear or say, and you have to somehow give her the tools to withstand it, build her back up, and consider not ever doing or having or wearing or saying whatever it was again.

Your kid gets a tick at summer camp, and even though you're gagging every time you see it, you have to dig it out (a lot of things about kids make me gag).

Your kid pukes big kid puke (Mitch), not baby puke, all over your carpet and drapes and Martha Stewart throw pillows (Mitch), and it's not like he was hung over (Mitch), so you can't make him clean it up himself (Mitch). 

I've read a million books about being pregnant and giving birth, but I have yet to read any about parenting. Truth be told, I have Bringing up Bebe on my Nook, but on the whole I consider them to be like management books. You can read a dozen books and attend a dozen workshops learning how other people manage, but they're not you, and they don't have your weaknesses and talents, and you will never be them unless you learn what those are first. Also, if they're anything like the pregnancy/birth books, in that every breath you take stands to be judged a cardinal sin, I think I'll pass them up. I'll just try everything out on Penny first (wink).

17 weeks.

This is why we will have no family photos. First, don't judge me. I know my belly looks huge for 17 weeks. I have no idea why, but I really don't care what you think. Second, I know my hair looks crazy. That's just a reflection of how I feel about this process.

It seems Mitch has turned taking belly pics into a game. He hates doing it anyway (as do I), but we agree that we should probably document something about our first (seemingly viable) pregnancy. So he tries to take them as quickly as possible, most of the time with the camera strap hanging in front of the lens, while yelling at me to stop laughing and get it together. Anyway, the following is a series of attempts to get a decent 17-week belly pic.

I don't know why I didn't like this one; it's whatever. But I remembered my friend Shannon's belly pics where she puts her hand on her hip, and it makes her look less slouchy, so we decided to try that.

I blame this one on the photographer. Mitch was just being trigger happy.

Blinking. Thanks.

Double chin and crazy face.

Spaz.

Not sure. Maybe Mitch farted. We did just eat sausage.

Abusing the cameraman.

Pretentious. Slightly confrontational.

Acceptable.

Snorkels is kicking quite a bit. Or elbowing. Or headbutting. I'm not really sure which part of its body it's moving, but it's a mover and a shaker (I mean comparatively. Compared to never having had a human being growing inside of me. Compared to what it normally feels like in there). I get up about three times a night to pee. And I've officially stopped wearing regular people pants. It's not that I can't (although it's mostly that); it's that I don't want to. It's finally socially acceptable for me to wear elastic-waist pants everywhere, so why would I pass up that phenomenal opportunity? I am a little nervous that I will regularly leave my fly down after I get back to regular pants, seeing as how I won't have used a zipper in five months.

best day ever

No, this is not my 17 week belly pic.

 

Usually I just sit at my desk mindlessly typing coded data into a computer, assuming I will die from a MRSA-infected sore resulting from sitting too long in the same position. Today, however, I was blessed with approximately three minutes of gut-wrenching excitement. The following is a text conversation between myself and an unknown number. Spelling and punctuation have been corrected (only for the sender's texts; I always use proper spelling, punctuation, and capitalization when I text).

Weirdo: I'm pregnant and it's yours.

So my first thought was, this is amazing; I love my life. My second thought: my husband's phone number is only one digit different from mine. After checking in with him, he assured me that he always wraps his stump when he taps some strange, so we're good. 

Me: Uh, I'm a girl, so I don't think that's likely.
Weirdo: I love you. Baby, come back to me.
Me: Okay, who is this?
Weirdo: De'Ryan.
Me: This has got to be a joke.
Weirdo: Baby, you don't remember me? I'm the sexy one with the big wiener.

So this is a turning point in the conversation. I considered the possibility that continuing the dialogue might earn me a picture of a big wiener on my phone. After also considering the entertainment this is providing me in my current catatonic state, I decided to take the risk.

Me: How can you be pregnant if you have a wiener? Is this the Asian guy from Oprah?!
Weirdo: Yeah, how'd you know?!
Me: Omg I'm totally calling Star magazine and telling them the Asian guy from Oprah had an affair and got knocked up again.
Weirdo: omg
Me: Right. Now go tell your parents they probably shouldn't let you have unlimited texting.
Weirdo: What? Why?

And here I get bored again. Clearly latchkey hipster junior high homebody did not understand the value of witty banter. He/she was not carrying his/her weight. Unless this was Rachel pranking me. In that case, thanks for the momentary distraction.

That tattoo looks alright for now...

We're at 15 and a half weeks. Mitch got to hear the heartbeat for the first time today. I heard it four weeks ago at one of my appointments. It's pretty crazy. After having a miscarriage, hearing the heartbeat is just about the only thing that keeps me sane, especially when I'm in this weird second trimester stage, and I don't feel pregnant anymore. I think I felt it squiggle in my stomach yesterday, but it could have just been a doody bubble.

And even though there's this amazing little tiny baby heartbeat on the video, I know you're only looking at my kickass Shel Silverstein tattoo.


And I'm sure you're wondering what it will look like after Snorkels has stretched it beyond recognition. Maybe something like this:

wtf is this

So I started looking up stuff for our baby registry today, and I stumbled across this piece of cirque du soleil medieval torture seizure trigger. I can't tell if there are really six arches on it, or if they just move. It almost looks crazier because of the overstimulated hyperbaby in the seat, and makes me think that I would probably need to take a nap after just looking at it.

Buying baby crap is just ridiculous. I don't know why they need so much stuff. I know some of it really is superfluous (wipe warmers?), but I feel like I'll probably be viewed as a bad/lazy/cheap/uneducated parent if I don't buy or register for some of it. Regardless, I'm so overwhelmed by the choices, I can't make a decision anyway. On buybuybaby.com, there are over 300 strollers. THREE HUNDRED. How is any new parent supposed to make that kind of decision, especially while under the duress of becoming a new parent?!

Is it reversible? Because you know the baby doesn't develop object permanence until it's like, 2, and until then it'll freak out that you've disappeared everytime you push it away from you.

Is it neutrally-colored? You don't want society imposing gender stereotypes on such an impressionable mind.

Can you jog with it? 'Cuz your fat ass is going to need it since you're going to be pushing your baby instead of wearing it.

There are so many ways I can screw up this kid, and every decision I make regarding baby gear puts it one step either further from or closer to juvenile detention and the Maury Povich show. According to the dozens of pregnancy books I've read, I've already committed some acts of bad parenting, like sleeping with an electric blanket and drinking unfiltered tapwater. There's just too much to keep track of. That's why I wish there was like, a Trader Joe's of baby stuff. Just give me like, one or two versions of each thing I need. Make 'em safe, gender-neutral, and boring. Maybe all of us new Millenial parents wouldn't be so spazzy if we didn't have to make so many decisions that carried (in our own minds) such great weight. In fact, let's do the same thing for daycare, school, and pediatricians. Don't tell my in-laws I'm talkin' like a socialist.

14 weeks.

So you (some of you) asked for it. Belly pics. I had no intention of ever taking any pictures of my belly, and this is why. I choke in front of the camera. I make stupid faces and feel ridiculous every time I get my picture taken.

I have this other friend who's pregnant, we'll call her Shannon, because that's her name. Her husband's a photographer by trade. He has a nice camera, which doesn't hurt, but Shannon's like, also really beautiful, and extremely photogenic. I suppose if a photographer decides to marry you, you are probably photogenic. She looks like Amanda Seyfried with this little belly. Anyway, she takes these really adorable belly pics every week, and she always looks relaxed and happy and glowing. I look constipated (which I was in this pic, thanks to the Comet's burritos) and a little drunk (which I wasn't, thanks to the Snorkel in my belly). But this is true for most of my pictures.

Exhibit A

Exhibit B

So as you can see, I should never document any of this. But I think some of you have this evil plan to get me to post all of these pictures, and then you're going to show them to my ex-boyfriends or something and be like, "aren't you glad you jumped off that sinking ship?!" Or they're going to end up in a slide show at my 20 year high school reunion. So just to get back at you, I'm going to post gloriously horrendous birth photos, and describe my birth story in graphic detail. You're welcome.