Tuesday, July 07, 2009

A Real Kick

We’re deep in the throws of last-minute wedding planning (you know—ordering bow ties, shopping for shoes, choosing the wording of our vows, sewing table runners—all the stuff the experts suggest leaving for the last possible minute), and I’m finally feeling the baby kick in earnest. Now that it’s happening a lot, I realize I’ve been feeling it for a few weeks—I just thought it was, well, there’s no polite way to say this: gas. It feels nothing at all like butterflies but quite a bit like an air bubble moving through my intestines. Who knew?

When Dr. Fiancé put his hand on my belly to feel the kicks from the outside I told him they weren’t that strong yet.

Turns out I was wrong. The babydaddy was quite pleased. As was his soon-to-be-wife.

Sunday, July 05, 2009

Boys Only

In these last days before our wedding, Dr. Fiance reports that his colleagues are giving advice like, “Live it up while you still can!” and, “Enjoy life on this side of things before it’s too late.” Can I just say: no one says these things to a pregnant bride? So not fair.

Friday, July 03, 2009

Mr. Astute

The other day while reading the paper Dr. Fiancé glanced up and exclaimed, “Hey, as soon as we get back from our honeymoon, it’s going to be time to start taking childbirth classes!”

No rest for the weary. Well, I guess a honeymoon is restful, but that’s about it.

Thursday, July 02, 2009

Lithium of Sorts

Clearly something is up with my hormones.

Is it possible for pregnancy to make a woman’s moods more stable? Has this ever happened in the history of the world?

One of my very best friends wrote yesterday to say that her partner isn’t recovering as fast as they’d hoped from his recent surgery and she wouldn’t be able to come to the wedding after all. I’m sad and disappointed but haven’t shed a single tear or slammed a single door or turned my fiancé into a scapegoat for, say, buying the wrong kind of butter. I’m all, “The show must go on.”

It’s unnerving.

Wednesday, July 01, 2009


Last night I dreamed that the über hot guy from Friday Night Lights—the long-haired receiver (or whatever one of those guys who gets the ball thrown to him is called) with the alcohol problem who’s in love with the paralyzed quarterback’s girl—I dreamed that he was the father of my child. Even though he has the emotional IQ of a mole and was, in my dream, perpetually on the phone telling a different woman he loved her, I wanted him to come to Seattle with me to take an active role as my baby’s daddy. I was also sort of in love with him myself. And though I don’t have a precise memory of this from my dream, I’m pretty sure the sex was amazing.