A Slideshow for the Ages

As you may have noticed, I'm not a big sharer of random crap I've discovered on the internet, but in the name of Porn for Pregnant Women I make an exception.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go put on dry leggings.*

*From the pee, people!

Twenty-Seven Weeks

So. I'm officially in my third trimester—finally/thank the lord/ohmygodIstillhavethreemonths left. I don't feel terribly huge—until I realize I'm six months pregnant, not eight or nine. Then I cry a little and try to get on with it. I'm already looking forward to dropping my maternity clothes off at the consignment shop the moment I can fit into even one non-maternity item.

In other news, you can't tell from any of these photos due to the magic of back-lighting, but it's dark and cold and rainy here—still and again. Not helping matters (still or again).

Why did we think this was a good idea, exactly? I mean, babies aren't really THAT cute, are they?

26 weeks [see note re. 18 weeks]
25 weeks [see note re. 18 weeks]
24 weeks [see note re. 18 weeks] 
23 weeks [see note re. 18 weeks]
 22 weeks

21 weeks [see note re. 18 weeks]

20 weeks

19 weeks

[at 18 weeks I REALLY didn't want my photo taken]

17 weeks (for reals)

fake-out 17 weeks (really 16)

16 weeks (really 15)
15 weeks (really 14)
14 weeks (really 13)

13 weeks (really still 12)

12 weeks

11 weeks

Just Like Jennifer Garner, Only More So

I know, I know, I'm severely delinquent in posting a pregnancy photo—a project I never should have started in the first place, given how little I like to be photographed when pregnant. I'm no Jennifer Garder. Obviously.

That said, I did have a lovely, sunny time in Mexico (where the paparazzi is so much less intense!), made even better by the fact that we flew out of Seattle in the wee hours of a blizzard that shut the city down for many days.

The toddler transitioned beautifully to beach life, making snowmen, snowgirls, and snowcats in the sand. My pregnant self transitioned pretty well to (the good) life in Mexico, too, though I was reminded the hard way that this baby I'm growing inside me WILL NOT STAND FOR ONIONS, dammit. (Yes, I sometimes still barf in my third trimester of pregnancy. Be warned: it could happen to you!)

The highlight was probably the fact that we befriended a very, very fit (and mysteriously tan) family from Vancouver, and I managed to let myself be seen by them in a bathing suit* without having a nervous breakdown.

* I went with my retro-styled one-piece with lots of ruching. Thank god once again for ruching.

Snowed In

It’s snowing in Seattle. Big, fat flakes for the third day in a row even though, as the woman at the table next to me at the doughnut shop just mused as she gazed out the window, “It’s not cold enough to snow.” It’s not cold enough to snow, but the sky keeps dumping the white stuff, trapping people in their homes and neighborhoods because the city of Seattle owns one snowplow, one shovel, and one bucketful of salt, and the airport has dibs.

Yesterday the two-year-old and I experienced our first “school is cancelled!” snow day, and let me tell you, it was a big bummer. I was not at all in the mood to be housebound for another day, and she was in no mood to hang out with her cranky mother all day. We got bundled up and went outside and I exhorted her to “Go have fun!” while I shoveled. After 20 or so minutes I said, all fake-cheery, “Did you have fun?”

“No.”

I felt like such an ass.

But I just wanted to do some work. And have some alone time. And get some shit—other than shoveling—done.

I’m feeling increasingly panicked about being home mostly full-time (but for occasional writing and teaching breaks) with not one but two children, and being literally trapped at home wasn’t helping matters.

I don’t want a full-time job away from my precious cargo, but twenty hours a week sounds pretty good. Or maybe 25… Anyone know of an employer looking to hire an essayist 25 hours a week? They’d barely have to pay me—just enough to cover a babysitter and maybe a few pens. Anyone? Anywhere? Helloooooooooooooooooo?

In the meantime, we head to Mexico tomorrow. Unless, that is, we get snowed in by the 14'' expected tonight even though it's not cold enough to snow.

Photo courtesy Ladyheart, morgueFile

Things Not to Do in Seattle in January When You’re Six Months Pregnant With Your Second Child:

1) Try on bathing suits.

Even the one you wore last time you were pregnant. Especially not the one you wore last time you were pregnant. No matter that you’re leaving later in the week for five days in Mexico—DO NOT DO IT. Do not tell your husband your old suits might not fit, either, because he might suggest swimming in one of his old t-shirts which will make you laugh and cry in equal measure until your lungs are choked with snot and phlegm. I don’t know what you should do instead, but don’t do what I did.

DO. NOT. DO. IT.

photo courtesy markemark, morgueFile

Clogs Can Be Sexy...Right?

I'm back from Chicago, where I basked in the company of two of my best friends, saw a comedy performance at Second City, had high tea at a fancy hotel, slept in a different fancy hotel, felt a bit vertiginous at the top of the John Hancock building, did a little window shopping, had my toenails painted a color called "Vanessa," ate too much delicious food, and had a tiny (but wildly disgusting and a little upsetting) relapse of "morning" sickness in the middle of one night. It turns out the baby-in-the-making isn't as big a fan of truffle oil as I am.

It also turns out that even a city as tidy as Chicago (and DAMN is that city litter-free—I saw ONE wadded-up kleenex on the ground the whole time I was there, and it may well have come from my own pocket)—even a tidy Midwestern city smells really gross when you're (I'm) pregnant. It wasn't as bad as, say, New Orleans, but it was considerably worse than, say, rural north Texas.

As I suspected, no one called the pregnant lady a MILF—which was probably all for the best but still a little disappointing. Even pregnant ladies want to feel wanted, you know? Even in our soft-knit plumpness-showing spandexy skirts and puffy coats that don't close and sensible clogs to keep our feet from aching—even we want someone to convince us we're still hot—or at least really, really, really warm.

photo courtesy kevinrosseel, morgueFile

Post-Vacation Vacation

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Things They Don't Tell You About (a Second) Pregnancy #348,958

Generally speaking, I do not weigh myself at home. I don't particularly want to know how much I weigh—unless I've just given birth to a baby and a placenta and a whole lot of fluid and suddenly weigh a hell of a lot less than I did mere days before. And when I'm pregnant I REALLY don't want to know how much I weigh, especially when that number starts approaching my husband's weight, as it did at the nine-month mark of my first pregnancy.

Are You There, Blog? It's Me, Wilson

So. It's been a while. I survived two weeks (plus an extra day—what was up with yesterday being a school holiday? Enough already!) without childcare help, a Texas Christmas, two long flights with a two-year-old, an overworked husband, and countless other things I blocked out. The toddler is back in school, and here I am, wondering what the hell I was thinking getting pregnant a SECOND TIME so I could start the waiting-until-he-or-she-is-old-enough-for-school process all over again. By day #8 I was contemplating a career in finance just so I could hire a full-time nanny rather than an occasional college student who goes HOME for winter break—the nerve! As lucky as I am to be able to stay home with my kid—well—I can't do it 24/7 and maintain my sanity. Especially while pregnant. In the dark, rainy winter. With a toddler who loves nothing more than to be six inches from my side AT ALL TIMES.

"Watch Mama pee-pee?"

"Actually, Mama would love just a moment of solitude."

"Mama poo-poo? Watch Mama poo-poo?"

"Actually, adults tend to like privacy when they go poo-poo. Would you mind maybe just giving me a moment here?"

"Mama wash hands? Help Mama? Help Mama wash hands?"

It's ADORABLE AS HELL, and it's driving me mad. Well it was. But now she's back in school, and I have to say I felt a little bereft after dropping her off—though nothing a doughnut didn't quickly cure.

photo courtesy ppdigital, morgueFile