college life

I'm in Minneapolis again for a couple weeks. Just here learnin' stuff. My entrance was not as dramatic as last year, but I always get a few surprises. Like, my bed in the dorm is two and a half feet off the ground. I'll afford you a chuckle at my expense as you imagine me hoisting my fat ass in and out of that bed several times a night as I head to the bathroom. Oh right, the co-ed bathroom. Last year my goal was not to ever poop when someone else was in there. This year my goal is simply to avoid exposing my overstretched midsection to some unsuspecting teenage boy. I also have the pleasure of sharing a "quarter bath" with another dorm dweller. For those of you not familiar with the term, a quarter bath is a closet with a sink in it. Useful for pretty much nothing other than flossing. Or not even that because there's no garbage can.

All that aside, I feel like I'm on a little vacation with Snorkels. It's just me and he/she/it. I saw it kick through my belly for the first time the other day, and I was a little sad that I had no one with whom to share that moment (I don't think my Food Traceability professor would have appreciated a spontaneous sharing time), but I'm kind of enjoying my self-imposed isolation (so far). It's just me and Snorkels. Against the world. And the crazy cyclists on the bike paths. And the dorm food.

UPDATE: The only male on my floor (so far as I can tell) is being extradited for some mysterious crime he committed. I awkwardly witnessed a conversation between him and two policemen this afternoon. Looks like ladies get the run of the bathroom after all. 

Ultrasound Day

Confession. This isn't even our baby. I figured it didn't matter because all babies look the same on an ultrasound picture. ALL of them. Although we did get a creepy photo of its face where it kind of looks like the Terminator or the Donnie Darko bunny.

The baby squiggled around the whole time, and made it very difficult for the sonographer to take pictures, but we did find out the gender today. Honestly, we were just excited that it's human (did I mention I dreamed it was a piglet?), that it seemingly has all its body parts, and that it's normal on every scale. Head circumference, length, weight. All good.

We're not sharing the gender until the birth for a couple of reasons. One, because what if they're wrong? They're never 100% sure unless they do a genetic test, and I've heard enough horror stories about parents getting ready for a certain gender, buying all pink or blue shit, and then getting a big old surprise when the baby comes out. We would like to avoid that inconvenience.

Second, we just decided that we want to keep some things to ourselves. We decided to keep the name and the gender a secret just so there's something to look forward to (other than the actual birth of the baby).

But really, I just get off on being withholding.

Halfway there!

holla to my B's who lent me these swell maternity clothes

Theoretically speaking, I'm halfway through my pregnancy, assuming the baby comes at exactly 40 weeks. No sooner, no later. Which of course means nothing to Snorkels, or Thrasher as I have now started calling it. I think I have experienced many of the joys of being pregnant at this point, such as being called fat by a young child, nightmares about zombie cows, and peeing at least half a dozen times throughout the night. Luckily, I have yet to have a stranger grope me without my permission. But by far, my favorite experience has been having Mitch feel the baby kick for the first time. I think he actually believes that I'm pregnant now, and that I'm not just making it up so he doesn't leave me for some motorcycle chick.

Also, for your listening pleasure, I'm adding a link to my pushing music. Every time you listen to these songs, I want you to imagine me pushing out a baby. Like, red-faced and squatting pushing. You're welcome.

Music for pushin' out a baby. from hark on 8tracks.

they just get more disgusting

So yet again, the chickens have fooled me into thinking they're terminally ill, when really they're just doing normal disgusting chicken things.

A few days ago, I was feeding the ladies some strawberry tops (their most coveted delicacy), and I noticed some of the chickens looking a little scraggly around the neck. Namely, that a couple of them had started developing bald spots, and were looking less like healthy backyard chickens and more like free range stray scrappy chickens. Maybe they were going for street cred.

Anyway, I immediately suspected mites, as that causes their feathers to fall out, but the trusty backyard chicken forum set me straight yet again, and informed me that this is a normal molting process. Chickens apparently shed their feathers once a year cuz it's fun or something. Just so you know, this is what we have to look forward to:


nom nom



And apparently I am encouraged to make chicken capes, since their modesty must not be compromised. They are an honorable fowl, and would prefer to maintain some dignity during this very unfortunate transition.

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.