Mary Did You Know

It's almost Christmas...again. Same thing, every year; I'm trying my best to wrap up last minute gifts and telling myself I'll pick up the ingredients to make Russian Tea Cakes but really I know I'll buy a multi-flavored tin of popcorn and watch Ernest Saves Christmas in my spare moments. It's undoubtedly a different feeling, however, because we have Hendrick this year and even if he's only going to be 8 months, it's mostly about him. He will not have any idea of what's happening other than Mom keeps crying and snapping pictures and handing him boxes full of crap wrapped in really awesomely-loud paper. He will spend his first Christmas morning pooping himself at leisure, crawling around collecting any miniscule scrap of wrapping along with pine needles and cat hair and attempting to eat it before it is (rudely) snatched out of his tiny paws.

Anyway. All I started thinking about"first" first Christmas, with Mary and Joseph and the donkeys and the Jesus when I was setting up my ancient nativity. I mean, call it a story, or believe it with your whole heart, but I wonder how it really went down in Bethlahem way back before iPads and stockings and people bludgeoning each other over TVs at Wal-Mart. Before mom groups and hospital birth and the lot. I'm not sparking a religious debate, just speculating.

So when Mary got pregnant, everyone just accepted that it was immaculate. There was no question around town as to whether she was just doing it for attention and no one posted on Facebook: OMG. SOME girls will do anything for attention #anangeltoldme #yeahright. She wasn't Instagramming her belly-progression photos. You can bet your sweet ass no one threw her a fantastic themed baby shower complete with cake pops. No one was like "So Mary, are you going to breast feed Jesus? Cloth diaper? Natural birth? Have you thought about vaccinating?!?!". I'm not saying that any of those things are bad, I just think sometimes how NICE it must have been to be Mary. Just her and her tiny growing miracle. No need to debate over who was going to be in the delivery room or which doctor was better or having to write out a birth plan (hello, yes, I would prefer a manger over a crib, thanks).

Realistically, she was probably scared. I can't imagine for one second she didn't freak out on Joseph at least ONCE for making her haul the water or not blowing the candle out early enough at night and keeping her up. SERIOUSLY JOSEPH PICK UP YOUR #$@*% ROBES OFF THE FLOOR.

She was young, there was no modern medicine to walk her through the stages of labor, no hypnobabies, no option of an epidural. She didn't have a doula or her mom or even a hot bath to climb in. She was the ultimate hardcore mom. For all we know Joseph was like, peace out I'm going to go sit outside until you're done because I'm going to throw up otherwise.

 I would have LOST MY SHIT if Josh had told me that I had to give birth in a barn, next to the horses, after making me ride a donkey for like, 100000000 miles. I would NOT have been as gracious when the Three Wisemen showed up unannounced with myrrh and not a McChicken (because that is ALL I wanted after delivery). I would not want random shepherds all up in my business and hay poking in unimaginable spots.

So regardless of how you view Christmas and the story that goes along with it, whether you choose to celebrate or not, I am thinking of Mary and her baby, who turned out to be this famous guy, and she probably didn't even know how to properly baby-wear.

If you need us we will be gluing the camel's head back onto our Nativity. Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays and New Year.

Before Things Get Dirty

I don't really know why it hit me so hard this morning, but as I was checking early morning emails and cramming my face-hole with cocoa dusted almonds (you should try them), I was straight up gut-punched by the date and the bitter fact that in exactly two months, I would be 30. Years. OLD.

I mean, don't get me wrong. Age is truly just a number. I have friends both younger and older than "that" age. I don't ever really look at someone and think anything about their birthday in relation to their age. I've never even felt the impact of a birthday and swore up and down I wouldn't be "that" girl who freaked the EFF out over a set of numbers assigned to her based solely on the day she came bursting into this wide wide world. But here I am. Freaking the EFF out because 3 and 0 are about to replace 2 and 9 and 1 and 8 seems like a million years ago. Where did the time go and how am I a mom now and when was the last time I brushed my hair or put on some really really NICE red lipstick? Have I wasted the past 360 months of my life on nothingness and too many carbs? Why do I feel the sudden urge to burn my entire wardrobe because it's "not fitting for my age" anymore. What the hell is wrong with me?

I guess I should have known this mental breakdown of sorts was coming when I purchased under eye cream and an assortment of other beauty-fixing products a few months ago on a whim. Anything that de-wrinkles, ultra-moisturizes, brightens, corrects, conceals or repairs now lives in my bathroom, lurking like the extra weight around my mid-section (whatever, I bought some candy, too). I can say without reserve that I don't even know how to use half of the shit I acquired. I just keep hoping that by hoarding it all, it will somehow absorb into my face or subtly threaten my body into not aging any further. I've found myself  many mornings staring at my open medicine cabinet, eyeing my royal jelly-infused eye balm in horror Unmitigated panic. W-T-F.

Granted, I had a baby just a little less than 5 months ago. My body has been through some crazy radical changes, bound to stir even the calmest pot. Would I still feel this way approaching the big 3 (choke, choke) 0 if my belly hadn't been stretched to maximum capacity and felt my boobs actually get close to full-on EXPLODING after filling with human milk? I don't know, but I think I would still feel the shakiness of this upcoming milestone. I look in the mirror and don't recognize the face staring back. I look at pictures of me and can't quite pinpoint what has changed (besides the fact that I finally stopped cutting my own hair--thanks, Bethany). Is it me and have I really changed so dramatically or is all in my head?

So I have 2 more months of my twenties. I haven't showered in 4 days, my undershirt is covered in boob milk, my pants have a perma-sticky-coffee ring on them from where I sit my drink each morning while I nurse the boy, and I am 96.5% makeup free, besides the small bit of mascara that I didn't manage to wash off my lashes. It's most definitely not the sultry image I had imagined when I was younger. I haven't even reached the status of MILF yet, besides the fact that I have a KILLER rack. I'm more of just a MIL for now--Mother I'd Like. Eh.

I no longer stay up late, drink copious amounts of beer to keep up with the boys, I no longer fit into the mini skirts that I squeezed into even last year. Sexy lace and sheer fabric has been replaced by comfort and rips and stains.

 At the same time, however, the IDGAF (google it, mother) attitude has it's perks. I'll proudly saunter my huge post-pregnancy ass into Albertson's JUST to get cookies, wearing yoga pants and a sports bra like WHAT? Fuck you--I like cookies. Yeah. And walk out and drive home to my baby who looks at me like I'm Princess-damn-Jasmine beautiful.

You hear about all of these things that come along with getting older, but you scoff and brush them off and keep throwing back shots of cheap liquor and staying up too late and not writing your novel or going back to school or becoming a pastry chef or whatever it is you hoped to do by the time you hit 30. And then it's knocking at your door and your don't have pants on and haven't mowed your lawn in like, waaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyy too many months and you're like...well, shit. Guess I'd better just deal with it.

So I'll be 30. I have a baby, a loving boyfriend, amazing friends and family and a great job. My photography has finally taken off and I'm confident in my ever-growing skills. I may not be super thrilled with the fact that my waist is bigger than I'd like and that I'm always a huge mess or that I don't QUITE have it all together yet. I may not always like the mirror and I probably need a cookie intervention but I know that 30 will unlock even more treasures. Wrinkles, sure, but. That's what fancy overpriced royal eye jelly under eye cream is for.

Much love. Check in on me on November 18, it's the big day and I'll undoubtedly need a little moral support (possibly whiskey) then.

Tiny Human Enters World

I've been meaning to write out my birth story for a little while now, but as it turns out, raising and breastfeeding and diapering a baby is quite a lot of work. Hendrick is almost 5 months old now and is a giant, long, healthy and overly happy baby and the apple of my eye. A lot of women will tell you that it doesn't matter how a baby comes into this world but rather that they arrive safe and unscathed (until high school, that is). I agree to a point, but I have learned that every mom has a unique birth story, and no matter what they tell you, they are forever changed by it. I am blessed to say that although my birth did not turn out to be anything like I had hoped, it was an amazing experience. Yes, birth, an amazing experience. I never thought I would say that. Cause, vaginas and contractions and all that. Yeah. Excuse me if this is not as sarcastic or funny as you have come to expect.

So. I went past 40 weeks. Big deal. I didn't expect to go into labor early and quite honestly didn't want to. For the most part, I really enjoyed being pregnant. I wanted to savor the time I had left with my belly and my excuse to eat French fries and dark chocolate and wear stretchy pants pulled up to my armpits everyday. I was incredibly nervous, as well, but not about the actual birth part. I was scared to be a mom and was afraid that I might not even like my son when he came out (or rather, that he may not like ME). I know there are many moms who go through these emotions but don't share them. I think it's important because it's normal--you're about to be a parent for the first time...that's huge. I am so thankful for friends and family and Josh and my amazing doula, Reannan for helping me refocus my energies on bringing Hendrick into this world with a heart full of love. I was anxious to meet Henners, but calm in knowing that my body would do exactly what it needed to when the time came.

Roll back the calendar to April 17th--I was in the doctor's office for my 41 week check up. I had been cramping slightly but not dilating and was just feeling super frustrated. Dr. Andy and I had agreed that past the 40 week mark, I would do regular NST and ultrasounds to make sure my placenta was still thriving and that my fluid levels were okay and of course that baby was moving around. During my NST, I had a few contractions! I was beside myself happy and bounced home to take a brisk walk hoping it would start something. I was still VERY crampy after dinner but nothing progressed so I just went to bed.

I woke up on April 18th around 6:45 with very intense cramps that would cause me to double over as I walked. I didn't think much of it and went to make my raspberry tea. I dozed a little bit longer and when I got up to finally use the bathroom again, I had bloody show. I think that was the most exciting thing I've ever seen--it was a spiritual moment, me sitting on the toilet holding the toilet paper. I know, it's gross. Josh gagged and put up a hand to stop me from showing him. But it didn't matter to me--something was happening. Throughout the day, more and more of the plug came out, and I continued to have cramps (which I now know where mild contractions). Josh and I did the dirty (what, we made love, get over it, it helps things get moving) and went to the park around 5 to meet Reannan and just hang out and talk baby and labor which seemed to be approaching (finally!). She brought me a beautiful flower and wished me well, and we parted with hearts full of anticipation, agreeing either I or Josh would of course contact her with updates. On the way home, we stopped by my best friend's house and said a quick hello. I was bouncing in my seat excited because my contractions continued to slowly wash over me as we talked. I made alfredo pasta and chicken picatta (which, I'm still not good at) and bounced on the yoga ball watching Honey Boo Boo. Josh fell asleep and I stayed up for a bit before passing out asleep.

On April 19th I woke up around 2 am with contractions that were coming steady and had increased in length and power. It was uncomfortable, like period cramps, but still manageable. I took notes through this whole thing and I have written down "I am learning to breathe through each one". And breathe I did. I walked. I paced, and I reminded myself it was one step closer to meeting our boy. I was excited and calm and in disbelief that it was HAPPENING. My fears washed away. Around 5 that morning, I woke up Josh because I could no longer rest. I wasn't in terrible pain but I was very unsteady on my feet and I had to focus a bit more through each wave. 7am rolled by and Bethany (my dear and best friend) stopped by (of course I texted her immediately) and I bounced away on my yoga ball and we all chatted comfortably in the living room. I think she snapped some pictures of me in these final moments that Hendrick was in my belly, but let's be honest that they're not my best. I think I was shoving my face with a cranberry Kind bar at the time and not wearing a bra. My contractions were waning and I was getting a little concerned as to where they were disappearing to. As crazy as it sounds to some people, I was enjoying the fact that my body was finally on board.

What I haven't mentioned here is that my doctor and I had agreed that if I had not started labor on my own, at the 42 week mark I would be induced. Now, no one jump all over me for this. I get that the average gestation for a new mom is usually 42 weeks, and that people DO get pushed and SCARED into inductions! I was neither forced NOR scared. I want to say how AMAZINGLY supportive my doctor was to me, even going against the "norm" (hopefully one day this will change) to let me go past 40 weeks, to not try and force me to be induced, to continue letting me go on as planned even if the ultrasound techs said my "baby looked really big". He knew all of my wishes and desires and also had a great deal of confidence in me. I hope that in the future ALL women can have a doctor like Dr. Andy. I also hope one day Dr.Andy can expand on his practices and be happily one day assisting mothers in VBACS in Idaho. Alright, back to my birthing process.

I called my doctor to let him know I was having contractions and that they were steady but still about 10 minutes apart. The nurse that answered told me that she thought doctor Andy would tell me to go in so I should go ahead and head to the hospital. I told her no. My plan was to labor at home and progress as much as possible before going in--we did not live far from the hospital and I wanted to be at home and comfortable until the time came. She sighed and said she would talk to the doctor and then call me back. I got a call back and she said she talked to Dr.Andy and he said I should go in immediately. I started bawling and called Reannan who told me I was strong and that I needed to listen to my body. I not ready to go in--it could be another day or two even! I had planned on showering and packing a few final things and making food before I checked in. Not to mention that I definitely was doing fine at home. I insisted that HE talk to ME personally as I did not necessarily believe she had actually spoken with him.When we finally talked he told me I was just fine and to keep him updated. Love that guy.

My contractions were mild and irregular all throughout the day. We had several visitors and I talked on the phone to my mom. I ate an enormous amount of taco salad and then made a huge oriental salad to top that off. I was super hungry and guzzling Raspberry Leaf Tea by the gallon. My contractions continued and I laid down around 9 that night only to be woken up by a huge piece of my mucus plug passing that actually hurt. I was having lots of cramping and contractions; I think the cramping must have been from passing the mucus plug.  This just kept up. I would contract heavily and regularly at night and then the contractions would slowly drift off in the morning, coming in weird patterns sporadically throughout the day. I was getting a little bit frustrated, but trying to stay calm. I did not want to be induced at any cost. I went to the hospital the night of 4/21 to get a requested NST to make sure baby was okay. Everything looked good except that my cervix was still thick and I had not yet dilated past 1. Still, I was very optimistic and ready to head home and rest. One way or another, I was going to be a mom--like, soon.

4/22 rolled around and I was set to be induced that night. I decided to go to a chiropractor as suggested by my sister in law and Reannan to see if it would give my body one final nudge. The thought was that baby was turned in a difficult position which is why I was having so much back pain and prodromal labor. My back pain eased up but contractions were still not frequent. So we checked in at 7pm that night. I was given Cervadil to dilate, which made my contractions immediately get a little bit heavier. I was fine with it, just a little upset that I wasn't allowed to pee during. I walked around and ate a little bit, and got into the bath in my room. I tried to sleep a little but I just couldn't. Josh slept on the windowsill bed while I texted with friends and breathed. I wasn't supposed to start Pitocin until 7 the next morning, but the Cervadil dilated me enough apparently and I was started a Pitocin drip. In about an hour, my contractions started to get fairly intense. I dilated to a 3 and was 80% effaced, but was still at a Stage Negative 3. It didn't matter. My baby was almost there. I was pleasantly surprised that no one had yet balked about my birthing plan and one nurse even asked for a copy so that everyone else who came into my room knew what was happening.

I loved being in the bath. I think if I ever give birth again it will be at home, in the water. I still had painful contractions, but it felt like heaven on my back. I just thought I'd add that in there.

Josh woke up around 5 and we called Rennan and Bethany (my best friend) to come be with us. At this point, I was really having to focus and breathe through each contraction as I was at the highest dosage of Pitocin they give. My good friend Shawna stopped by, but I barely remember seeing her because I was so focused on breathing. I absolutely could not have asked for a better group of people to be beside me in labor. Many will laugh, but it was a truly spiritual experience through me. My body just instinctively told me to "wheeewwww" deep and long through each contraction. I sometimes had to hold my hand up to the hospital staff to remind them to not talk to me or move me too fast because I was contracting. Josh, Reannan and Bethany took turns sitting next to me, laying hands on me or being leverage while I worked through a wave. They worked as a fluid, loving machine. All my needs were met and I never once felt panic or a sense of loneliness. I never reached out and didn't have a hand to hold. I also lost all sense of modesty, and for me that is hard. Even in front of people that loved me so much. I was open and raw and so surrounded by love.

Every time I closed my eyes, I pictured my dad telling me I was doing a good job. For those that don't know, my dad passed when I was 11. He was totally there with me in the delivery room. I think that's why we all laughed through each contraction. I remember Dr.Andy coming in and expecting me to be a wildcat or crying or angry, but each time was met with genuine surprise that we were laughing or talking quietly or just sitting together focusing the energy on baby Henners. The laboring that I got to do was peaceful.

I had previously been able to get into the bath with the fetal monitor on but was now told that I had to stay in bed because it was becoming increasingly hard to monitor baby's heartbeat. I explained calmly that I simply could not hold still, I needed to be able to move around per my birthing plan and bounce on a yoga ball, lay on my side, or get in the shower if need be. I knew if I ended up on my back I would not be able to handle the pain. I think this was around 10 AM or so.

An internal monitor was finally placed inside (per MY request) and eventually Dr.Andy came in and I decided that it was time to try breaking my bag of waters. I think that this half hour was the most painful for me.

As time went by, I still did not dilate or progress at all. In my heart I knew that Hendrick was not coming out vaginally. I really believe I knew this from the start. I know a lot of moms might scoff but I really felt this within my soul. I know my body was meant for birth, but I don't think with Hendrick it was meant to happen. Dr. Andy came in around 1 and explained to me that he was a little concerned. He gave me two options--I could choose to do a CSection now OR he would respect my birthing plan, remove me from the Pitocin drip and I could continue to labor on my own and see if that would help me progress. I remember looking around and telling everyone that although they might be surprised, I was opting to have a CSection. I don't think anyone was surprised besides the doctor. I explained that I had thought since conception that this would end how it did--not in a negative way, just that's what the universe held for me. I had gotten to carry my boy full term and experience labor with no pain meds, and I felt that it was time to get my son out. I believe that had I continued, it would have turned into an emergency situation. I also believe that the next time (if it happens) I have a baby, that I will have a very successful VBAC, possibly HBAC. I believe that everything happens as it should. So, after many days of prodromal labor, and 12 hours on Pitocin, I was prepped for surgery. Reannan and Bethany wiped me down for the procedure, and sent me off with final words of love as Josh suited up and called my family.

When it was time for my spinal block, Dr. Andy held me and told me how sorry he was that everything happened that I didn't want to happen, and how brave I was, and how amazed he was at how calm I was. I laughed along with the surgical staff while my body was prepared. Music played, and Josh was allowed to snap a few pictures during. He kept asking me if I wanted to see what was happening but I told him no. He was so fascinated by the whole operation, and I was shocked that he didn't pass out. As Hendrick was being born, Mumford and Sons played "I will wait for you..." and as cheesy as that is, a better song couldn't have been on. I did wait. And I heard him cry. And I started crying. And Josh exclaimed "He's PERFECT!!!!" and in that moment I was a mother. My heart left my body and went into his. Our bond was stronger than ever with him out of my body. We did it. Josh brought him to my side and Hendrick immediately latched onto my cheek. Good Lord I was in LOVE.

I am so grateful for so many things. I am grateful to have had a doctor who had my back. A doctor who cared. A hospital staff who LISTENED. A boyfriend who was there through the whole thing. A best friend who came by my side and quietly left before she could even MEET Hendrick, because she had to then go take care of her family. Nurses who allowed skin to skin with Josh afterwards, and nurses who let me leave recovery early instead of holding me for 2 hours so that I could breastfeed right away. I am mostly grateful that my son was safe and healthy and is here. I would not change my experience for anything.

My Eyes Are Up Here

This post is about tits.

 

Boobs. Knockers. Tatas. Cheechees. Gonzagas. Fun bags. Call them what you will, but all in all, they are breasts. Two lumps of fatty flesh attached to the front of a woman, decorated with nipples. Plain and simple. Little known fact: men have them, too, although slightly less glorified. They are an unavoidable part of the human anatomy. They are big, small, round, lopsided, soft, black, white and everything in between. If boobs were ice cream, there would definitely be more than 31 different kinds. Now, before you get yours in a twist, let me explain where I'm going with this: breastfeeding. I know, I know. I SHOULD be sharing my birth story (which I totally will, in a slightly more serious blog later on) or catching you up on how motherhood is going (in a nutshell, it's awesome and there's a whole lot of poop), but I thought with National Breastfeeding week coming up, this was a totally appropriate topic to discuss. Disclaimer: I say bad words (Sorry, MOM). Eh. Here we go.

 

I breastfeed, exclusively. I think there's a stigma that comes along with moms who choose this route that they "think they are better than other moms" or "look down on formula fed babies" or "are trying to make a point". I can't speak on behalf of other moms, but I personally chose to do this because 1. it's FREE (yello, babies are SPENDY) 2. it's healthy for my baby. Cut and dried, those are the facts. Plus, I hate the thought of getting up in the middle of the night to make a bottle, when I can just roll over and have Henner's early morning  breakfast readily available while continuing to doze peacefully. I do fully believe that breastfeeding is the healthiest option for your baby, period. That being said, I do not knock mothers who just can't. It happens. Let's not even touch on how I personally feel about formula, because this is about breastfeeding. And I know a lot of amazing and intelligent kids who were formula fed.

 

Like I stated above, I did not choose to feed my son on tap to make a point of any kind. Let's face it, being a mom is tough to begin with, especially a first time mom. You're already tired and admittedly a little stressed and worried about this amazing but very tiny and needy person that you've brought home with you. They cry. They poop (again, like, more than you even imagined). They get hungry often and sometimes you poke them just a little bit to make sure they are breathing. Even if you just rocked them to sleep for 45 minutes. OMG why did I poke the baby. Great. Goddammit.

It's the start of a lifetime of adventure and growth, and the choices you make from the time you learn you are pregnant follow you throughout that lifetime. You are responsible for another human, even on the days where you feel like you might collapse or scream or cry while hiding in laundry room eating Twizzler's Nibs (yeah, so?). How you nourish your kiddo is one of the first critical decisions you have to make. That being said, I have a few other things to add about boob-feeding. Ready?

 

It's not gross. I'm going to be really harsh and opinionated on this because I have yet to hear one single argument against BF that has caused me to bat an eyelash. Nor has hearing people tell me it's inappropriate to feed my babe in public deterred me in any way. I'm not ashamed. I'm feeding my kid, get the fuck over it. It's exactly the same thing as feeding a child in a public place with a bottle--baby is hungry, baby will cry, cries will SERIOUSLY escalate into full blown frantic screams. So you feed. Some moms are more modest when this than others. That is fine. I am one of those moms (meaning, I don't pull my entire breast out), partially because I have GIANT tetons, but partially because that's just how I roll. Others aren't. Nor should they have to be. The solid fact  with COVERS is that not all babies especially love being smothered with a blanket or drape(and again, some don't mind, there's nothing wrong with covers, PC and all that). Henners, even at 3 months old, is already a master a slap-kicking while he feeds, so even if I were to attempt to put something over his head, he would quickly discard it and then ALSO unlatch, exposing nipple and possibly spraying everyone within a few feet. So. For me, I find that there's no need every time he's hungry to start a small circus complete with acrobatics and milk fountain. I also don't find the need to go hide in a bathroom or out in my car to feed. Bathrooms are gross and probably one of the most germ infested places I can think of. Cars are hot in the summer and cold in the winter, and if I'm trying to save money by NOT buying formula, you can damn well bet I won't be wasting gas money by running the AC or heater in my car. The other option is that I deny his need and wait to feed him until I get home, we can all sit in Denny's together and listen to my starving baby scream while you try to enjoy your Moons Over My Hammy.

 

I guess I could stay home. For a year, or two, or whenever we choose to wean. But that's not practical, and nor is always being able to schedule feedings in the privacy of our home just to make a few strangers happy. It's HARD being a new mom and having to breastfeed for the first time in public or within the company of others. Some moms have a hard time with the baby latching on, or getting enough to eat initially, and the last thing they want to worry about is balancing their delicate newborn, getting said newborn to latch correctly AND trying frantically to work out the cover they have on so that they don't embarrass ANYONE ELSE. I dare someone who finds breastfeeding abnormal to go up to a struggling new mom and bitch her out about doing it in public--if you can, you're heartless, and obviously have never been a new mom yourself. Hell, shame on you.. Whatever happened to the approach of "it takes a village"? When did we, especially moms, start casting stones at others choices instead of trying to understand and support, even if we ourselves don't subscribe to a particular method? 

 

I understand that feeding makes some people uncomfortable. To that I say, quite frankly, too bad. There are a lot of things in this world that make me incredibly squirmy and uncomfortable, but I get over it. Boobs are everywhere; in the media, at the beach, in bikini coffee stands, in movies that our children are exposed to. It is odd to me that we can watch and witness these things daily but then throw up hands in disgust at a mother breastfeeding in public. If I had a dollar for every time a lewd comment was made about my cleavage or "rack" I'd be a millionaire. Somehow, though, seeing my breasts used a necessary life source for my son stirs up great opposition. Is it that something considered so sexual is being used for their true purpose? I will say firmly that there is a DISTINCT difference between the adult things tits are used for when the lights go down in the bedroom, and what they are used for as far as a baby is concerned. Feeding your child is the equivalent of making them a sandwich when they are hungry (except they have no teeth and don't even know what a sandwich is yet, whatever). It is satisfying a basic human need: hunger. I've heard it said many times that watching a mother feed is like watching a man urinate in public. I don't know about you, but. uh, pee pee is gross. I've never seen anyone use it for nutritional purposes, although I have heard somewhere that it helps with jellyfish stings. And, I don't know, I'd personally rather see a little boobie action than a surprise penis. Penises are awesome and all, I mean, that's how most of us GOT pregnant, but let's face it, they're no work of art (sorry guys reading this, your penises rock I'm sure).

 

Other mammals feed the same way, and no one gives them shit. Hey, you. Cow. Cover up. You're an abomination. You'd think us being the greater and more intelligent of all species, we could grasp this how totally normal and NATURAL breastfeeding is. I question mothers who are afraid for their children to be exposed to another mother breastfeeding; how then will you explain piglets nursing? Kittens? I don't know, puppies? They all nurse. Because it's natural. It literally is the same thing, and I think those children stand to be severely confused. I think the adults that have issues with it ARE severely confused, possibly sexually frustrated and totally ignorant. Boobs, ooohhh, not boobs! And is THAT A NIPPLE? Jesus-a-walking-on-water, that's a nipple. Nipple. Nipple. Nipple. Let's face it, if you're paying enough attention to me giving my son lunch, and happen to catch a glance of areola, you should be the one red in the face, not me, weirdo.

 

Regardless, I still didn't choose to breastfeed to take a stand against anything or anyone. Are you getting that yet? And I'm not alone it that. I love the bond it provides between me and my little turkey. There are other ways to bond, yes, but for me it has played an essential role in my start of motherhood. It has been empowering and I am very lucky that it has for the most part gone smoothly.  I don't need to be validated that I'm making the right choice for my Booberton; I know I am. To hell with the masses. I'll whip my milk jugs (although I think "whip" is highly exaggerated, I'll very carefully try to pull one boob out without dropping it heavily on my sons forehead) out freely in the name of nutrition and the best choice for my giant, growing, flailing octopus-of-a-boy.

 

This is SOLELY my opinion. I am ALWAYS open to hear the opinions of others, assuming they are intelligent  not just a poor comparison to other bodily functions and backed by research or personal experience. I made my choice from the testimonies of other moms, forums, research and what I felt was right in my heart and for my family. It's what works for US. I will always be an advocate for breastfeeding, now that I've personally done it myself, regardless of how new I am at it. I am passionate about the education and normalization of breastfeeding. Human milk. The REAL titty bar (see what I did there?).

 

I say let's start supporting each other in our decisions. And carrying around a stash of mini candy bars. That way, when you see a mom struggling in public, be it with breast feeding, a diaper change in the Target bathroom, or a new mom who maybe just looks perplexed as to how her car seat fits into the shopping cart (been there), you can slip her a bit of chocolate and a reassuring glance that she WILL BE OKAY.

 

No, really. About the chocolate. I could have used it a few times already. Did you know that babies can poop UP their body? Like, damn near up to their neck. More on that later.

 

Love to you all.

I could give a list of stats about breastfed babies, but I'll leave that up you to research. I feel strongly that regarding any decision you make right from conception it is vital that you are well informed and educated: PSA: this is a The More You Know moment. Moving on.

Tide Is High

I know, you're like, sooooo over the pregnancy posts on this blog, aren't you? I'm gonna encourage you to suck it up because time is running out for me to discuss the miraculous parts (and not so miraculous) of pregnancy. Besides, you know that if I'm writing this much about being with child, when the actual baby inside of me manifests in physical form outside of my womb, I'm probably going to write about him, too. Tons. And inevitably he will be loads funnier than I am, from day one. I am that crazy lady who takes a million different pictures of her belly and gasps at every twinge, movement and new development, so get over it. It's an outlet, a moment during the day to just reflect and stay calm and not worry about re-cleaning the bathtub should the baby come too fast and I have to give birth in it. It's connecting with other moms who feel all of this, just can't get the words out.  It's amazing and weird and totally disgusting, but it's a once in a lifetime experience with the best kind of end result. Once (in a lifetime). I didn't stutter. Ya'll women with 2 or 3 children are insane and wonderful and strong beyond what I can even imagine. Anyone with 3+ children is, and bless your hearts, completely bat shit. But I admire you, all in your tin foil hat, rocking back and forth steadily while a hoard of children runs in circles and smears food randomly about your house, probably causing irreparable damage to each other in the process (who needs sanity, anyway). Christ have mercy on your soul.

So. Here's the latest--I peed my pants. I don't know how else to say it because it is what it is and really, I'm only mildly ashamed now that I've come to terms with it. Normally I wouldn't shout from the hills that I should apparently be wearing some sort of geriatric undergarment but at the time, I was pretty sure my water had broke. And. I. Was. Ecstatic. In total disbelief. Quite frankly, I stared at that wet spot on my bed for a good 5 minutes like it was the Ark of the Covenant before tripping over my own feet to run and grab my phone so I could text my sister-in-law. So we talk. She's excited, too. Now am I sure it's my water that broke, or did I piddle? Did I piddle, psssh, I tell her I am almost 30 years old, I'm pretty sure I would know if I pissed my own pants. We laughed and she instructed me to lie on my side and see if anything else leaked out or gushed or came out like the Rains Down in Africa...and nothing happened. Nothing at all. Biggest let down ever. I was so sure it was the time that I was in labor, but mostly I was sure my water broke because never in my adult life have I wet myself. Again, I mean, wouldn't you think you would know? No is the answer.

Oh Dear GOD, I peed myself and didn't even REALIZE IT. I was so caught up in eating the delicious, calorie-laden Taco Bell taco that I had been craving for weeks but denying myself that I PEED MY PANTS AND DIDN'T EVEN FEEL A THING. Well, I'm never going in public again, or riding in anyone's car for that matter, because I'm not sure I can explain if I accidentally mark my territory on the passenger seat of my friend's new Scion.

Oh, and this just in--cankles. Every woman's ideal spring fashion accessory.

Regardless of the fact that I'm openly a pants-pee-er now and my legs are roughly the size of Tom Brady's ego (what?), I'm still happy and quite excited for the arrival of our little one. Any day now. We'll try to fit in a few more posts before the big day.

Are We Out of Potatoes?

Writing to me is therapy. As I've mentioned in the past few blogs I've written, I wish I had been continuously blogging throughout this entire pregnancy. I know a lot of the more seasoned bloggers and true writers out there try their best not to change their blogging style, even if they are currently experience life changing events such as I. I just want to roll with it.

Up until now, my life has been a whirlwind, to say the least. It's been glorious and I find that I am consistently surprised by every corner I turn. I can't think of any greater adventure or challenge than bringing a child into the world. The pregnancy in itself has been mind blowing so I can't imagine what adventures I will have as I step clumsily into motherhood. I can't think of any better way to cope with some of the lessons I will learn other than with humor. Here's to laughs and poopy diapers, sleepless nights and unconditional love.

Until Crawdad comes barreling into this world, I've compiled a list of things I've learned from being pregnant.

1. Your regular pants won't fit eventually. You'll know when by instinct. You'll still try on those pants even though I'm telling you right now not to. Then you'll cry. Then you'll remember that I told you not to put on those pre-maternity pants and hear me going "I told you so" and get mad at me. I warned you ahead of time so I highly suggest you calm down and go buy something stretchy.

2. Speaking of pants. At 35, almost 36 weeks, putting on pants is a chore. I found myself keeled over in my bathroom having a hot flash as I tried to step into and then actually pull up my pants. My only thought was "Son of a bitch, I don't care if I leave the house in underwear at this point".

3. You cry. I'm not saying every woman has raging out of control hormones, but I have yet to speak to any woman who has had a baby and not hear about one good, solid cry over something miniscule. I have cried over the following: Pants (obviously), YouTube Kitten Videos, The Lonely Looking Man Eating His Sandwich in Jimmy John's, Spilled Milk (Yeah), Burning Various Food Items, etc. The list goes on.

(I cried once for no reason and when Josh asked what was wrong, I told him that I was scared of the baby coming out of my vagina because it was the only thing that I could think of logically at the time. Without missing a beat (as usual), he replied with "Oh, honey, did you not realize that's how it happens?". Bless this man)

4.You cannot change what is happening to your body. No matter how many times you scream at your hair to maintain control, your nipples to stop peeking through every shirt, your rear end to stop ballooning; it doesn't work. I guarantee that it's not as bad as you think, and no matter what, it's better to just embrace it. Besides, people love the shit out of pregnant ladies, and no matter what, will tell you you're glowing and beautiful. Trust me, I roll out of the house in 4 day old pants with no eyebrows on and people still tell me I resemble Heidi Klum. Just go with it and focus on the fact that your body is working on making a miracle.

5. There is no better feeling than peeing when you are pregnant. It is a cosmic experience and a great relief beyond words. There is also no WORSE feeling than having to pee and being forced to wait when you're pregnant. I read Belly Laughs by Jenny McCarthy and I remember her telling a story about peeing beside her car because she simply couldn't hold it. I never realized how dead on she was about this until one night Josh was occupying our bathroom and the undeniable urge hit. You won't understand this until you seriously consider karate kicking down your own bathroom door down on your loved one. I've come damn close to peeing in a kitchen sink as well. This is no joke.

6. Keep your phone charged and take it everywhere. You never know when you'll get stuck in the bathtub and need to call for help. If calling for help does not get the point across, try texting a picture of the similar situation you are in. You'll find that many phones now provide graphic and detailed emoticons that portray a thousand different situations. 

7. Nesting is probably the weirdest thing I've ever experienced in my life; and for me it's not just cleaning and arranging, it's stocking up as well. When I was single and much younger, I remember living in a house where coffee, cheese, crackers and cheap liquor were our main staples. If toilet paper ran out, we would use Taco Bell napkins until someone got up the energy to bring home a .67 cent 4-pack from Albertson's. I find myself now counting rolls of toilet paper every time I use up one. Should we at any point get below 10 rolls, it is completely necessary for me to go to the store to buy another 18 pack. From the looks of it, you would think we were planning on dressing the baby in outfits entirely made out of Charmin. The same goes with nearly every other household item, as well as a sick addiction to potatoes. God forbid when the baby arrives that we  run out and no one can make a baked potato.

There are so many other things that I am learning. There is a great fear of the unknown that comes along with it all and I believe that every first time mother experiences this. I can't wait to be that mom who is smiling in pictures like she just won the lottery. There's no reflection on her face that even hints towards the fact that she just endured countless hours of pain in amounts that seem physically impossible or that she pooped on the table in front of God and everyone or just had the world's most uncensored peep show--she just holding her baby and that's all that matters.

We love you all. From the very tight fit in our favorite chair, I hope to get to blog a few more times before baby and of course after.

Laura F*#!@ing Ingalls Wilder

To be honest with you, I don't rant about much. Let me take that back, I don't RANT about much that involves my personal views on the following: politics, religion, child rearing and places that serve food. It's just not in my nature to stir the pot. However, today as you tune in, I am going to rant a little. Please understand as you read that the following views are explicitly mine; I am not looking for a debate. I am simply one single pregnant woman who is writing to you from the heart, surrounded by fun-sized candy wrappers and squeezed into non-maternity leggings so tightly that if I should perhaps sneeze, my pants will literally be blown clean off. Here goes.

Birth. You get pregnant and inevitably that growing baby has GOT to come out (I hope that didn't come as a surprise to anyone who might be expecting). I'm not a woman who likes to hold in my feelings or racing thoughts so I will express that the whole process to me is still mildly horrifying. I agree with many women that say birth is beautiful because it is. Along with conceiving a baby and carrying it, it is one of the most profound acts that the body performs. However, it is still terrifying, it is gross and it is painful; I don't care who you are, there is no way around it. Birth to me is the equivalent of trying to fit a hotdog through the eye of a needle, except that when it comes to the literal act, that hotdog really does come out. Jesus.

Now, before you get all huffy about me calling birth "gross", understand that I do believe when it's over, it's over. I've never had a baby before, so it's understandable that right now as I get closer and closer to my due date, I have my share of worries and fears and nightmares about it all. The hope that I hold onto ultimately comes down to when I hold Hendrick in my arms and fall in love with him more powerfully than I could ever imagine. Until then, let's discuss labor and delivery.

Natural un-medicated child birth, that's what I'm talking about folks. This is the route that I am choosing to take. If you want it all, technically I will be delivering naturally in a hospital setting. So what does this mean? It means a lot of different things, because the same basic principal is there, but all women have different birthing "plans" (I say plans loosely, because we all know, this is one time where plans can most definitely change). For me, natural means exactly what the word implies: as God Himself or nature or science or whoever intended. Whatever you believe in. It means NO drugs to aid me in labor, to numb or dull pain or to cause my labor to progress faster than what my body is ready to do on its own. It means I am given the freedom to move about as I labor, allowing me to attempt different positions to help with pain management.

It means I have a say in the delivery of my baby whom I will have carried for 40+ weeks (assuming he stops trying to physically beat his way out of me sooner than planned). I have felt every kick, every twinge, every growing pain. I have watched my body change physically, my heart magnify and my plans change. I have had a blessed pregnancy in SO many ways, but I still get tired, I still lose my ever-loving mind hormonally and my hips feel like I've been riding a camel for the past 6 weeks. I have worried and laughed and cried and had a million daydreams about him; it only makes sense that I would want to be very involved in how he comes out of his nest...which happens to be via my vagina. Thank you very much, folks, I'll be here all day. 

I never knew until I got pregnant that I had a choice in how labor might play out for me. I never knew there were options other than the traditional going-to-the-hospital-checking-in-epidural-now-push routine. And not that there's ANYTHING wrong with that. From my heart it just felt like that particular method would make me personally feel disconnected from the whole process. I just assumed someone would tell me what to do and I would do it. Then I started researching and talking to other moms, reading blogs and birthing stories and understanding that there WERE options.

So, you're still wondering why I'm writing this, and maybe why I'm explaining to you my whole thought development. Firstly, I encourage any mother to examine thoroughly her opportunities; we keep ourselves so well informed about what is in our food, our cosmetics, what the ratings are in the cars we are driving so why would we neglect to research what happens to our bodies? We glorify natural foods, natural beauty, organic and healthy selections for our family; why is it that natural birth is such a taboo subject in our world? Secondly, I've gotten a lot of flack from strangers, nurses and even friends. I think birth is a very intimate thing, but it is unavoidable that you will be asked how you plan to deliver, and I don't think responding with a snarky "FROM MY HOO-HA" helps anything.

I want to do this because it is what feels right for me. Maybe I am crazy for "wanting" to feel the pain, but it extends so much further than that. And let me tell you, the next person that tells me I am trendy for wanting to deliver naturally may get a swift neck punch (unless you are a man, in that case, cover your testicles). I barely brush my hair and I am the biggest wimp, so the last thing I want to do to be trendy is endure great pain. When being a hipster starts meaning that you lay in the road and let your friend run over your legs as many times as you can stand, I guarantee trend will go right out the blasted window.

 As I have lost my temper once with someone, I will explain to you my reader the same thing "Laura Fucking Ingalls Wilder gave birth naturally. So I can, too". It's become a joke reference now whenever I am questioned about my choices.

I will end this by simply saying, it is my body. I am supported and loved by my family and amazing boyfriend who has never once questioned my decision. The last thing ANY woman wants to hear after she gives birth is "I told you so" if for some reason she did not get to deliver as she hoped. Realistically, there are complications that could arise, but it is my hope and prayer that Hendrick arrives safely--ultimately that is what is important.

With that being said, every day now is a new chapter, the most recent ones being titled "Will I Fit Into My Car Today?" and "Seriously No Do Not Kick Me In My Ribs" and my favorite "Every Shirt Has Become A Half Shirt, No Really, Even The Maternity Ones". 

Written with much love from me and my approximately 5-pound Crawdad (Lord forgive me, my child's own nickname just made me hungry for a lobster dipped in butter).

Just Call Me Marshmallow

I couldn't stand Valentine's week unless I wrote a little something-something about the "holiday" like I did last year. I promise this time around to be a little more gentle, and maybe even slightly sentimental for you demented romantics out there. Oh, side note: I'm also going to talk about my cervix because as you all know by now, I'm pregnant. You're welcome.

I don't want to start off on the wrong foot, so let me state clearly that I still don't get Valentine's Day. I may not be as hardened to it as I have in the past, but I still don't understand the tradition. I have, however, come to the conclusion that St.Valentine was a woman--a pregnant woman. It's true. I've never in my life been so enthralled with holidays until I got knocked up, and let me tell you, V-Day has officially swooped in and taken the award for best selection of sugared-up, high calorie, chocolate-laden marshmallow-fluffy-shit HEAVEN. I mean, okay, not every single pregnant woman goes through some insane sugar addiction where she literally envisions herself swaddled in a blanket of caramel and licorice, rolling around in a giant bowl of hot fudge...but I did (am...still going through?). I chalk it up to the fact that before baby-brewing, I didn't have much of a sweet tooth and apparently your body can crave things it doesn't normally along with some really bizarre stuff (I am that lady that put vinegar on a hotdog in the first trimester). Also, a nod of recognition to my baby daddy who has forever had a particular love for sweets and then infected me with his sugar-coated sperm.

Whatever it is, pregnancy makes us go waddling bonkers over certain things. I can't even go in a grocery store without finding myself staring in awe at the selection of Valentine's goodies. The last time I went in Safeway by myself, I found myself stopping not once, not twice, but three times by the display in back by the eggs that was full of chocolate brownies and other creme-filled goodies, all V-Day themed (oh sweet Lord, you know what I mean...the brownies with the red candy topping and little chocolate bits). I don't have any clue as to how long I stood there, but it must have been a good five minutes of internal debating when I realized I was blocking the milk coolers and a little old man was trying to get by me. Bless his heart, he must have been standing there watching the whole time what appeared to be a very deranged pregnant woman, rubbing her belly maniacally and obviously having a mental breakdown over Little Debbie snacks. I grabbed a pack and ran to check out.

With that said, I have seen the light. Regardless of being in love, I get it now: Valentine Schmalentine's Day is about candy. It's a holiday for women everywhere who pee at least 7 times a night, stare at their color-changing nipples in horror, and listen to the doctor confirm that yes, indeed, your cervix does get as big as a soccer ball (I like to challenge my doctor with random facts I find online). Praise you, St.Valentine!

I don't want to leave you hanging with ONLY Valentine's facts about me, so here goes. Cupid is a symbol of Valentine's Day. Cupid was associated with Valentine's Day because he was the son of Venus, the Roman god of love and beauty. The oldest surviving love poem till date is written in a clay tablet from the times of the Sumerians, inventors of writing, around 3500 B.C. Girls of medieval times ate bizarre foods on St. Valentine's Day to make them dream of their future spouse. Every year around 1 billion Valentine cards are sent across. After Christmas it's a single largest seasonal card-sending occasion. AND my personal favorite that I dug up this year: In Korea, if you do not receive any gift on Valentine's day then all the singles go to Korean restaurants and eat black noodles to mourn their single status.

Before you find yourself heading to the nearest restaurant to stick your miserable head in a bowl of  black noodles in hopes that you will drown, listen to this. Regardless of your relationship status or your views on love and whimsy and courtship, know that February 14th is still just another day. I'll always have your back on that. I still firmly believe that we should be showing the ones we love and admire daily that we do so. And, if you love getting teddy bears and balloon-o-grams and roses, hell, live it up.

I personally look forward to it this year, and not just for the candy. I've got two very special Valentines: one who helps rescue me from the bathtub when I get stuck (happens) and let's me watch Toddlers and Tiaras for hours on Netflix, and another who is rapidly growing inside of me.

Cheers to us, Cupid. Here's to neither one of us wearing pants this season.

Internal Letter

Rest assured, there's a lot more to be said about this whole baby brewing thing I've got going on. For now, we interrupt your regularly scheduled ranting blog for something slightly different and much more personal.

I won't say much (did you just choke? Hilarious, I know) but I will say that I have learned the value of being loved by someone with infinite patience and kind words that never falter. Pregnancy is tantamount to being, and here comes my favorite analogy, strapped to a roller coaster. I wish I had never used that comparison before because there is nothing more true than one can say about carrying a baby other than it feels like a god damn amusement park ride. You get buckled in, and regardless of whether you miscalculated the twists and turns or were the most confident bastard who climbed in the front row (asshat), I can assure you you had no idea what you were in for. You will scream, cry, laugh and most importantly, puke. There is no jumping off, partner, and you are not the operator controlling things. To my kind hearted baby daddy (really? yes, I prefer to use that term for my own pure satisfaction), I thank you.

With that being said, here it goes.

An Internal Letter, just for you:

Dear Daddy, 

First of all, let me say, hello! I'm waving right now, and although you can't see it, Mommy can feel it. It's funny sometimes that she doesn't know that all I'm trying to do is get your attention. I wanted to write you a little note before I make my big entrance into your world. 

I like the sound of your voice, and when you sing me songs and play the keyboard for me (who is Adele?) I wish I knew what you look like, but I hear you have a beard (what's that?) and that you're very handsome (father-son high five, that means I'll be handsome, too). Also, I know you have tattoos, and much like your beard I have no idea what those look like but I'm totally cool with coming out with a few (it's dark in here, can you see any when they look at me at the doctors?). 

You know, I can't wait to see you. I'm just warning you, at first I'm probably going to be a little loud and I mean, naked, geez, Mom doesn't produce any pants in here so...yeah. It's ok if you're not sure of what to do because I won't know either. And it won't matter anyway because I already love you and we are like, totally best friends already. I mean, bros, right? Mommy loves you so much, too, and she seems pretty cool. She's got tattoos too, from what I hear and a GREAT rack, which is AWESOME because I'm going to be starving. Helloooooo food truck! 

I just want you to know that I think you're great. You're never too far away, you always hold me and love me so much that I can feel it radiating in here. You tell mommy it's all going to be ok, you kiss her forehead and make her laugh when she worries, which is TOTALLY fun and like a roller coaster ride. 

I have a million questions, like what a movie is, what is the sun, what is an animal and is a snake one? Do I have to shower? Am I going to like vegetables or what? Can I play hockey, whatever it is? Can we always have adventures? 

And I really like the name Hendrick. Crawdad is a neat nickname but one day I'll be in kindergarten and it's just a little too sea-related for me. Just know you can always call me that, just not in front of my friends. 

Daddy, you're incredible. I got lucky to have you as mine. 

I'll see you soon.

From Brews to Babies, Part I

It's been awhile since I've gotten down to really writing anything from the heart. Often times when I blog, it's because I'm heartbroken or confused or feeling particularly enlightened and I find that as sick as it is, torment is often fuel to the literary fire. But here's the skinny...or, well, not so much. And it has nothing to do with anything tragic.

I went and got myself pregnant.

Well let's start there.Obviously I did not impregnate myself, I mean, I had a little bit of help from my loving (over-willing, eager, affectionate, hands-y) boyfriend, who in the past 7 months has awarded himself with accolades aplenty for his sperm making it to my egg, even through that "unstoppable" birth control wall (insert snort laugh). Can I just inject here that I took that shit like it kept me breathing? Let me tell you, I could be out at the bar, 4 beers in and stop to swallow that very important little pill at the same time every...single...day. So despite the fact that I'm rapidly approaching 30 and understand the risks of sex and love and hair pulling (what?!), I was sincerely surprised when I peed on a stick out of boredom and found it to be positive. Sirens went off in my head, almost audibly screaming "YOU'RE HAVING A BABY A BABY A BABY WITH ARMS AND LEGS AND IT'S INNNNNNNNN YOUUUUUUUUUUUUU".

I didn't cry. I just did what any normal woman does and peed on approximately 35 more of those damned baby-predictor sticks and gathered them all in a pile and took pictures of them with my iPhone and then sent myself a text with the pictures attached because if not for double visual proof, there was no way I was going to be able to believe it. I was going to be a mom. Good God Almighty.

In light of the "situation" at hand, I was thrilled. There's no denying that my uterus had succeeded in throwing me THE most intense surprise party ever, but after the initial shock wore off, I placed a hand delicately on my belly and whispered the first soft "Hello" to the tiny human that was brewing inside of me. 

Josh took it like a champ; he barely even flinched when I woke him up at midnight that night to tell him my news. His exact words were, in fact, "Your mother is going to shit herself". And then, "Is that really all? I thought you were going to tell me something horrible, like, you were cheating on me with your gay best friend". Someone give this man a trophy for his completely charming aloofness and impossible-to-beat unintentional comic timing.

And so started our journey together, now 3 instead of 2. It's crazy to me how much just expecting a baby changes you, not only in the obvious external way, but internally as well. There is an enormous weight of responsibility that immediately falls on you; not to mention other weight gains, hunger pains, morning sickness and giant growing knockers that surely could be a stand-in for the Grand Tetons. But you learn, and you grow, and you carry that weight (yeah, all of it) as a blessing and opportunity. I'm learning that there is no greater sacrifice than carrying a child, and even if I am not perfect, I am going to laugh through this experience, and cry, and eat 6 brownies in a day on occasion and continuously look forward to an even greater adventure that's rapidly approaching.

There's so much more to say, and I'm finding that I probably should have been writing throughout this whole pregnancy rather than just idly noting things in my iPhone. So stay tuned, because you'll want to hear about pee cups being spilled all over the doctor's office and other mishaps, like the poop hand story (what can I say, I've lost all sense of decency).

From brews to a baby, from late nights to now many an afternoon nap, from lingerie to stretchy pants that go ALL the way up under my boobs (heaven), everything is changing. It's one hell of a ride, and I want you to be there for it.