Oy Tannenbaum

It's a funny thing, not posting for more than a week. It feels vaguely like owing a friend a return phone call. The longer you wait, the more you continue put it off as the events in your life accumulate and you never think you'll have enough time to adequately communicate everything on your mind. Of course by then your friend is annoyed with you. Or worries it was something she did. Or thinks you're just too caught up in your special life to make a time for old friends anymore who might just want a simple return phone call around the holidays thank you very much you stupid bitch.

It's good to be back.

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My ideal Christmas tree: It showcases a combination of beautiful glass ornaments amassed from post-holiday megasales at ABC Carpet, sentimental favorites from my childhood, and handmade pieces gathered from travels. I hang them evenly around the tree, with the ugliest ones in back (sorry, wooden dog kicking a soccer ball). A funky, glittery metrosexual-approved silver star crowns the top. White lights only. No tinsel: Shudder.

Nate's ideal Christmas tree: It showcases stupid joke ornaments hung three or four to a branch to make "stories," as he calls them. The hand-stuffed William Shakespeare humps the sugarplum fairy. The ballerina straddles the pen. The black angel babies from Target protectively surround the Washington Redskins logo. And the "Keep Abortion Legal" NARAL bumper sticker that somehow ended up in the regifting bag one year gets a prominent spot right in the front, in a passive-agressive display of rebellion aimed at his devout mother who's never even been within a 6 hour's drive of our tree.

"Not everything has to be about jokes!" I yell.

"Why not? It's my holiday anyway," he always shoots back.

"Your holiday? Your holiday? You don't believe in religion. You're the first person to remind anyone who will listen that Christmas is pagan and that Jesus was born in April."

"So? You're Jewish."

"So was Jesus."

There is no winner here. Except perhaps the dog who ends up getting into the Christmas cookies while we're busy reshuffling ornaments when the other's back is turned.

This year, we did not have a tree. Various events conspired to keep us from getting one until the Tuesday before Christmas. Divide the cost of a Union Square Greenmarket tree by the number of days we'd be here to enjoy it before heading out to see the family, it would come to roughly $137 a day. Eh, I'd rather spend it on Teuscher.

However we did make the time to make Christmas cookies--in the same spirit that we decorate the tree.

Perhaps you can even guess whose is whose?

An elegant star

A gingerbread man in goggles and swim trunks

A classic Christmas tree

A candle shaped like a penis with the word "penis" on it, just in case you missed it (Update: It's at the very bottom. Photobucket deleted the original pic the bastahds and this is the only other one I found.)

Various trees, stars, stockings, bells and candy canes

A gingerbread man with blue balls

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Also...here's a really nice thing to wake up to Christmas Eve day (besides the penis candle): "Sanctimommy" goes national. We're soooo ahead of the curve, blogworld, aren't we? Read about it in the New York Times. The original Mom-101 post referenced is here.

Christmas Comes Early

The results are in.

And they are good. Very very very very good.

(Here I squeal. And I'm not a squealer, not really. But if ever one was going to squeal in one's life, I think it would be now.)

I want to say that I knew it, I knew it all along. I felt it. I sensed it. Mother's instinct, don't you know? But I didn't. I needed a call from my doctor's office yesterday to confirm, as I clutched my cell phone breathlessly, that yes, this baby girl is healthy; that the wretched toxoplasmosis a couple of stray kittens bestowed upon me twenty weeks ago had never crossed the placenta; that all signs point to carry on, mama.

"The test is negative," said the voice. I didn't even ask another question. I just sobbed, "thank you. Thank you. Thank you so much. Oh, thank you, thank you," over and over again.

I hung up, clutched the phone to my chest for a brief moment, and exhaled the longest, most cathartic breath perhaps in my life.

I'm excited to get on with the business of being pregnant. To stop the self torment about what I might have done to deserve this hell, and get on with the complaining about the spreading ass, and the enormoboobs, and the sciatica and the God-awful maternity wardrobe. To freak out about college funds and childcare. To refuse to budge in the seemingly unresolvable battle over baby names that has already begun. To wring my hands about loving the second when the first has already staked her claim over the entirety of my heart.

In other words, I look forward to feeling like a regular old hormonal, bitchy, cynical, whiny, tired, and occasionally freaking-the-hell-out pregnant woman.

And while you will no doubt find me here in the coming weeks, complaining about each and every one of these things as if none of this heinousness ever hung over my head, I will never lose sight of just how lucky I am to be able to do so.

---

Overwhelm: 1. To give too much of a thing (to someone); inundate 2. Have a strong emotional effect on

I have to add, once again, thank you. I know it seems so cliche and mommybloggy and just a little....ick to keep thanking online friends and readers and friends I didn't even know I had as readers for the overwhelming (see above) support and good wishes. But tough. I have to believe that the collective goodwill had some small or not so small part in this all and for that I will be forever indebted.

In fact we'd name the baby after all of you if we could. Well, at least I would. Nate would nixe every one of them unless he came up with it himself.

A Few Gifts I Won't Be Buying Despite Online Marketers' Attempts to the Contrary

The shameless use of Christmas to plug pretty much any product or service under the sun has certainly reached a new high--or low?--this year. It seems there is no marketer that won't stoop to the "C'mon! It's Christmas!" tact as an effort to dig into your pockets. And when you hear it from me, you know it's an issue. Because I don't entirely mind the commercialization aspect of the holidays.

Sue me, I like shopping.

Starbucks makes a peppermint flavored mocha latte, fine. Dunkin' Donuts has some special transfat-laden treat with green and red sprinkles? Cool. But some of the suggestions I've gotten via email these past few weeks give me pause.

An Equifax 3-in-1 credit report
"Give your loved ones the gift of good credit" should probably have been written to read, "give the recent graduate in your family a passive-agressive message that he's been needlessly squandering his future savings on itunes downloads and Budweiser tall boys. Ho ho ho!" Besides, if your loved ones are really that worried about their credit ratings, don't you think they'd probably prefer a check?

A Lowes Holiday Gift Card
It's true, nothing does say Merry Christmas quite like $100 towards vinyl flooring.

Super Vi@grA for $1.99 a pill
Sorry, Beulah Mayes and Lorelei Nguyen and Harlene Natty and Clem Lamb and Silas Ortiz and Adela Honeycutt and Oconnell and Puff Peyton. We're good in that department. See also: My belly.

(Puff Peyton. Heh.)

Danny Schecter's new film, In Debt We Trust
I love you, media channel, but really? Seriously? The movie that's been described as a wake up call about the dangers of debt as the national deficit climbs and millions of Americans deal with the pain of higher interest coats, growing fees, higher mortgage expenses, rises in student loans, and a wave of foreclosures as the housing market dips downwards? Sounds...uplifting.

I guess the liberals are ruining Christmas after all.

Also?

Just because "Jesus" personally sent me an email, does not mean I'm buying name brand drugs from him at an 80% discount. Even if it is his birthday.

The Man I've Become

I used to be a dancer.

Not a great dancer, for sure, but good enough to expect front and center placement in high school productions. Good enough to lounge around the performing arts department during free periods in my leotard and flashdance-cut sweatshirt, feeling artsy and vaguely smug. Good enough for a former classmate at last month's reunion to have asked me right off the bat "so are you still dancing?"

"Are you still doing gymnastics?" I shot back.

Just before becoming pregnant with Thalia, I vowed to get back into shape with an intro dance class at my gym. "I hate aerobics," I used to complain, "after dancing for sooooo many years the classes are just sooooo repetitive. Yawn."

What I learned is that after not dancing for sooooo many years, I had no right to cop an attitude. The moves came right back. The body, however, did not.

Okay, I flat out sucked.

Not just sucked for me, but sucked compared with the 200 pound woman on one side of me, and the 60-something grandmother on the other side. My steps were awkward. I forgot to point my toes. I wasn't flexible enough to get my leg up on the low barre - the one I learned on when I was four - and when we sat with our legs straddled during warmup, I think I maxed out at about 30 degrees. My apparently atrophied muscles absolutely refused to cooperate during cross-the-floor tour jetes, landing me nearly on my head at least twice. It was inconceivably frustrating to find myself incapable of doing what I once did so well.

(To say nothing of how my ass looked in sweatpants.)

The very same feeling rushed back to me Friday as Nate packed for his four-day boy trip.

For the past several months, I've worked out of the house more frequently (a request from Nate that I both respect and resent), leaving him to master the day-to-day caretaking responsibilities. And as I watched him haul the overnight bag from the front hall closet to his dresser, I got panicky. It was as if the time away from the house has caused my maternal muscles to shrivel and be replaced with anxiety and doubt. Do I peel the apples first? Which video is she liking these days? How long does she usually nap in the mornings? You mean you didn't prepare four days worth of healthy and nutritious meals and label and color code them by daypart and line them up in the fridge? I'M DOOMED!

Saturday morning, after he left, I did not feel like the same woman who nursed an infant for six months and could have told you in my sleep (and often did) which boob came next. I found myself questioning every decision. Was 9:30 generally when Nate put her down for a nap? Is this the section Nate usually takes her in Barnes and Noble? Does Nate ever give her this many cookies to keep her happy?

It's a strange way to parent, this second-guessing business. It's a strange way for me to live altogether.

And that's when I realized: I felt like the daddy.

I don't mean to insult dads; some of my best friends are dads. But I've read far too many essays ranting about my stupid husband who tried to feed her peanut butter at 3 months. Or my bonehead husband who bought diapers fit for a six year old. Or my idiot husband who was playing video games while she charged towards the light socket with a fork in hand. And now I know why my first instinct is generally "oh, give the guy a break."

Only unlike the stupid husband, I'm the mommy. And mommies are supposed to know whether their babies like parmesan on their pasta or bubbles in their bath. Mommies are supposed to carry an extra pacifier in their purse at all times, and remember to grab a few board books on the way out the door. A mommy isn't supposed to turn to discover her child climbing dangerously out of her stroller after having neglected to buckle her in, just in time for a neighbor mommy to jump in and save the day.

We can't be stupid mommies. We just can't. Forget whatever detriment there might be to our children; our self-esteem can't handle it.

After a not particularly nutritious lunch, Thalia and walked up Atlantic Avenue into the crisp sunshine, past the smell of exotic herbs and hot, fresh falafel escaping from the open door of Sahadis, when a shriek pierced the steady hum of Saturday traffic. A car skidded out and seemed, just for a second, to be headed our way. And without thinking, I thrust Thalia's stroller with unimaginable force into the nearest protected doorway.

The car steadied and drove away. We were fine.

Me, I was better than fine.

The muscles had retained their memory. The instincts were sharp. There was no second-guessing what anyone else would do or not do in that situation. And I was the mommy again.

Good News and No News (Which We Can Only Hope is Good News)

I have been overwhelmed this week by your emails and ecards (I know! Ecards!) and supportive comments. And here I am, just another pregnant woman waiting for amnio results. I don't know what I've done to deserve this (and I'm not fishing for an answer to this either) but Nate and I are just so touched. So thank you a million times over. Your kindness has helped get me through this ass-sucking waiting period even more than the chocolate-covered pretzels from Fairway that I polished off this afternoon, and that's saying something.

The one downside to it all: I've never felt quite so obligated to return here with a big dramatic, crowd-pleasing post.

And yet, I'm afraid I will disappoint.

We found out late this afternoon that the genetic testing results were excellent. This is no small mattter, I know. A woman of my (ahem) advanced maternal age does face scarier odds than our twenty-something counterparts. So in what world would one refrain from doing a happy dance over good amnio results? In the world where the damn toxo results have not been processed by the lab. And for some nutty reason, me calling my doctor's office more frequently does not in fact speed up the testing process in California. Go figure.

I've lived with this for now going on three months. What's a few more days? A few more chocolate pretzel inhaling days? A few more anxiety-provoking, fingernail biting, crossing fingers and making deals with the universe days?

Once again: ARGGHHHHHHH.

But on the bright side:

Yesterday Nate told me that he'd cancel a long awaited boy trip this weekend if the results hadn't come in yet. I told him to do no such thing. He insisted. I insisted back.

He leaves tomorrow.

And I'm in love again.

ARGGHHHHHHH

So when they say "amnio results at the end of the week," does that mean Thursday could be the end of the week, like today, or does it mean THE end of the week, as in Friday, because if you talk about meeting someone at the beginning of the week, that could mean Tuesday too so if you look at it that way, then really Thursday could constitute the end of the week and I can only imagine it doesn't mean Saturday or Sunday - I think it's clear that "end of the week" really means "end of the work week" - but really it would be nice to know if today was possibly the day or really it's tomorrow, so I could at least put it out of my mind today instead of jumping every time the phone rings and if it's really tomorrow then can I call first thing, or is it the end of the day of the end of the week because I really want to know or at least know when I can know since, as maybe you can sort of tell, I'm prettymuchgoingoutofmymind and would really REALLY like to know because let alone what a big deal this is I'm just not much of a patient person in general...

Working it on the A Train

This morning, a fairly crowded subway pulled up to the platform where I stood waiting. I found myself, without thinking, pulling the knot in my scarf to the side. Unbuttoning my coat. Putting my hands on my hips as I thrust my belly out as far in front of me as possible. Then, I stepped onto the car and conjured up a sad, forlorn look in the direction of any seated passenger who would catch my eye.

The way I see it, between maternity clothes and chocolate croissant cravings, I'm putting thousands of dollars a year into the local economy. To say nothing of the number of grooming products it takes to look reasonably presentable these days. The least I deserve is a damn seat on the subway for nine months out of my life.

Not getting any response, I took matters into my own hands. I approached my least favorite type of subway rider - the one who believes her purse won't be as happy in her lap as it is in a seat of its own. In my opinion, she's even worse than the rider who spreads his legs and takes up two seats as a demonstration that his penis is too large for him to sit comfortably any other way. The former should know better. The latter is just an idiot.

"Could you move your bag so I could sit down?" I asked the woman. She averted her eyes.

"I'm PREGNANT and I'd really like to sit down," I said a little louder, drawing the attention of nearby passengers who were more than happy to give her the evil eye--less in defense of the poor standing pregnant lady and more in defense of their own seats.

She took her bag reluctantly into her lap and slid over two inches, hemming and hawing the whole time. I wriggled in next to her, smiled sweetly, and thanked her in a tone that was just a little too big to sound entirely sincere.

I can only assure you it was a happier ending than last week's commutation fun, when I twisted my ankle on a midtown platform and fell to the ground in pain, while men in business suits stepped over me. New York, New York, it's a hell of a town.

Damn Do-Gooders

This is the season that, your heart is legally required to grow three sizes at least. No matter what you do or don't celebrate this season, it's pretty hard not to get caught up in all the astoundingly cynicism-free cheer and benevolence.

Recently, there's been quite a bit of this do-gooding around the blogworld. Come to think of it, I don't think it's in the spirit of the season at all. I think there are just some awesome people out there who just make the world a little brighter any time they get a chance. Also, they put the rest of us to shame. Bastards.

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Kristen of Motherhood Uncensored and Julie of Mothergoosemouse have created "Her Bad Auction," a series of raffles to raise money for muscular distrophy research. The name of the event refers to awesome Canuck blogmistress and one of my favorite human beings on this planet, Catherine of Her Bad Mother, whose nephew Tanner, is living with the disease. And while I haven't met him yet, from what I know about him, I think he'd be one of my favorite human beings on this planet too.

For tickets as little as $1 or $5 you can enter to win truly wonderful items-- high-end diaper bags, a custom Christmas stocking, handmade kids tees, books and cds, a full blog makeover, and hello...an ipod shuffle. All just in time to make someone's Christmas.

Most of all, Tanner's.

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I'm pleased that the blogHer ad network, of which I'm a part of--you know, because I'm a filthy, capitalist money-grubbing ad whore who pimps my daughter out for the millions of dollars I earn from the 100 square pixel ad in my right sidebar--is doing something rather unmoney-grubbing like. They're partnering with TheFind.com to help raise up to $10,000 for Doctors Without Borders, one of the greatest charitable organizations ever in existence. And bleeding heart that I am (yes, a bleeding heart capitalist ad whore, shut up), I am equipped to make such a statement.

Here's what you do: Very little.

Just go to TheFind.com and search for a term including the word "red": Red wines under $20. Red Red Wine lyrics. Clifford the Big Red Dog book. Photo of George Bush in lacy red garters. For every day you do this, they'll donate a dollar to Doctors Without Borders. So if you do it ten days in a row...wham, ten more bucks in the coffers.

By the way, each dollar raised? Equals one vaccination against measles or meningitis. So this is tangible stuff here. It takes you about 4 seconds and it literally can save a life.

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I don't know anyone who hasn't been touched by the story of the Kims, who lost their heroic, amazing patriarch, James, this week. I've read a lot of eloquent essays about the tragedy, online and off, but the ones that really wrapped around my heart and bullied their way up through my tear ducts came from dads Dutch of Sweet Juniper and Henri of Rice Daddies. Once you read what they've said, you'll see why I have nothing here to add, though I wish I could.

Consider taking a moment and making a contribution to the James Kim Memorial Fund, or simply sending a short note of condolence to the families.

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Dutch is definitely racking up the karmic points this week. He's put together his 2006 Holiday Shopping Guide for the Indie Sonofabitch Parent, an unbelievable array of indie artists, small businesses and e-shops that can keep you out of the big scary stores this season, while supporting the little guy and gal.

The insanely comprehensive (does this guy ever sleep?) list includes quite a few of our faves from Cool Mom Picks, which I can personally vouch for.

You don't even have to be a sonofabitch parent to check it out. Or all that indie, come to think of it. Although I still stand behind Dutch and his indie sonofabitch right to make jabs at Walmart at any given time.

(Okay, so I can't get through the season with absolutely no cyncism. But still, I think I did pretty well here.)

Carry On My Wayward Googlers

It's been a while since I checked my sitemeter to learn what clueless new moms, what semi-literate teens, what fetish-loving freaks of nature had stumbled upon my blog recently--and exactly which search terms got them here.

Hard Proof You Don't Need a License to Procreate
Can any interesting thing happen during first trimester
No. Nothing.

When does a baby learn to speek
Just before learning to rite

How do you get through the first trimester?
Tragically, you may not. You may just be stuck there for years on end. Luck of the draw.

Worst times to drink when you're pregnant.
I'd say before breakfast isn't ideal.

Pregnancy 16.5 weeks
Because the advice for 17 week-ers is just not relevant?

How long do I have to wait to have sex after birth?
I waited 16 years. Some people wait longer. What's important is that you use protection and that you convince yourself that he loves you.

How can I make my husband understand pregnancy hormones
Get a copy of the Girlfriend's Guide to Pregnancy. Then beat him with it.

Can pregnant women eat soy sauce
No.

Can pregnant women eat corned beef
No.

25 weeks pregnant can I eat fries
No.

Bras for pregnant people
Not just women, mind you. All pregnant people.

8 week old baby and won't sleep in his crib
The nerve! If he's still refusing by 10 weeks I'd definitely take him back.

Smiling while pregnant
You must be one of those skinny ones.


Thanks To The Oedipal Set, I've Doubled My Readership
Pick-up lines for moms
"Hey baby, you're so fine, how about I come over and clean your house while you go get a pedicure."

Mom's nasty night pictures
Poo explosions. Three of them. You want black and white or color?

Pregnancy sex slaves
At least you know you'll be free after nine months.

Mom f*cked the babysitter
She paid her all in nickels again.

My mom got boobs
Will wonders never cease.

Where can I find big boobs?
Generally above the waist but below the chin. Occasionally below the waist though. And come to think of it, sometimes above the chin. I suppose it depends on the bra.

Pasties mom pic
Is this what you had in mind?


Now You Want to Talk Freak...
Like to mix honey nut cheerios regular cheerios
I think they have support groups for this kind of behavior.


Okay, But What Are You Really Looking For?
Innuendo spray
The much awaited product extension of Double-Entendre Mist.

Two a-holes
Try this site.

Small willy babysitter
I think it might be illegal to hire a childcare provider based on that criteria alone.

Sexy bangladeshi mom & hunt real by god
Um.

Tingly skin creatures
Eek.

Woman nose big pregnant girl
Huh?

Ingrown hair longest record image
Yep.

House house is a very very to be so
Okay.

Mrs foot smell
Is this like a new cartoon character?

It's my belly button and the mommy will touch it
Oy.

hippie blas
The precursor to the yuppie blas?

Fruitless cake
So much in life is.


Entirely Random
Symptoms of leaving a tampon in
Well first there's that string...

What does nanu mean?
That I'm old. I'm really, really old.

AARP membership
Not that old.

Woody Allen hates LA
I guess there's a certain appeal to New York, where you can be the only man in the room with a woman 1/3 your age.

101 words tell a boyfriend that they are just so great
Oh sweetie, you might want to do it in four or five. Their attention spans just aren't that long.

Propaghanda
Defn: The spread of misinformation by pacifists

Kenny Loggins souvenirs
Apparently, even Mrs. Loggins uses google


Only In America
Boys love farts
And sadly, so do the men they become.

Welthies guy in utah
And I'm sure you have a chance at him, dear.

Ann Coulter leggings
For some reason, this image makes me want to vomit

Hallmark poems for the dead
"Roses are red, and you're dead so why am I even sending you this"

Susan Dey so what are you so afraid of
Just a guess, but... this?


You Talkin' To Me?
http://mom-101.blogspot
You know, if you already know the url, you don't have to type it into google, right?

Getting Ready To Breathe

Two weeks ago, I woke up anxious, distracted. The way most women do the day of their amniocentises. The emotions were heightened by Nate's heinous cold which conspired to keep him from joining me.

I sat down with the genetics counselor for my pre-amnio chat, gearing up for the enormous needle that would puncture my belly, penetrating muscle and tissue, and draw two tubes full of amniotic fluid from me. I answered questions. I smiled. I made jokes. I was ready.

And then I was told to go home and come back in two weeks. The amnio could be performed at 16.5 weeks, but for the toxoplasmosis test I'd have to wait until the full 18.

Suddenly I felt like one of those underwater escape artists in the final few seconds before heading to the surface for that first gasp of O2. I was ready for the air. I needed the air. I could go no longer without it. The top of my head emerged from the water--and yet there was now this hand on it, holding me down, telling me, "just two more weeks, okay?"

I hadn't realized until then just how long I had been holding my breath, keeping my eye on the calendar for that blessed 16.5 week mark so that I could finally put to rest all fears of the toxo in particular, plus all the other general genetic worries that Women of Advanced Maternal Age are taught to lose sleep over. I had counted down those weeks, alternately anxious beyond belief and in a very comfortable state of denial. "It's just six more weeks," I told myself. "It's just four more weeks." "It's just three more days."

And now, my anxiety calendar had been reset back to "it's just two more weeks."

I was okay with it. Really I was. Until the geneticist herself, a woman who reminded me in equal parts of a beloved college professor and my own mother, looked at me with genuine sympathy and asked, "are you okay with this?"

And I responded by sobbing uncontrollably in this stranger's office.

"So we wait a little longer," Nate told me over the phone. "It's not like they're doing this to annoy you." Wrong answer.

His second answer was an improvement - a long hug and a handful of Kleenex with aloe when I walked in the door.

For all these months, while I laughed and socialized and worked and cleaned and wrote and ate too many cheese calzones, there has remained this nagging, horrible fear in the back of my mind that my diseased body was poisoning my baby. I have functioned fairly well in a comfortable state of denial, which I wasn't entirely aware of until this day. Mostly I've functioned by dehumanizing the fetus. (Not baby, you see? Fetus.) It sounds harsh, I know. But to get through this, I've behaved more as if I'm treating a condition than preparing for a baby.

I haven't dared to imagine its due date, its features, its gender. When friends suggest baby names I just smile and mentally sing the whatever bad song is stuck in my head that day to block it out. I can compare pregnancy complaints with friends (and fellow bloggers), but I don't allow myself to talk about "when the baby comes." I have yet to set aside Thalia's outgrown clothes. I have yet to think about nursery colors or cribs or even find a new OB in Los Angeles for the delivery. I'm an idiot, I know. But I just can't bring myself to take that step it until I know that everything is okay. To have to call her back and say, "you know that appointment we made? Yeah, cancel that..." well, that would just be too much to bear.

But then things happen over the last few weeks that foil my otherwise perfect plan. Like feeling the first kicks at 16 weeks. Or seeing the baby clearly on the sonogram monitor at my monthly exam, kicking and squirming, waving like it was hailing a cab on 5th Avenue in the rain. Or friends and family who point to my belly and tell Thalia, "there's a baby in there!" At which point, yeah, it's a little hard to avoid thinking about this as a baby instead of a rare and unusual parasite that makes my boobs grow and my gag reflex work overtime.

This system is not working well for me, not one bit. I am a Virgo. I'm anal. I need things to happen in the proper order: Find out baby is okay, see baby, feel baby, get excited about baby. But that's just not in the cards for me this time is around. Instead, we have moments of excitement, which we then have to temper with the potential reality of the situation. We make various "looking good so far" announcments to the family after OB checkups, but we have to follow each one with the now cliche disclaimer about waiting for the amnio results.

The results which were pushed off two long, arduous weeks.

Of course I know that none of this will matter if--when--the call comes announcing all is well, and let the baby naming debate begin. But for now, well, I've just been biding time.

Yesterday I lay on the table in the darkened hospital room as the doctor prepped me for the long-awaited procedure. He swabbed iodine over my belly and the tech then spread me with a coat of warm, gooey gel. I averted my eyes from the enormous needle, instead watching Thalia squirming in Nate's arms, pointing and exclaiming "baby! Baby!" at every photo on the wall. Her new favorite word of the many coming out of her mouth these days. And I thought yeah. Baby. There's a baby in there.

I saw it. I felt it. I feel it.

I was then surprised by the question, "do you want to know the gender right now?" I hadn't even considered this option would be available to us yesterday.

The correct answer: "No thank you. I'd rather wait to know everything is okay. I want to keep saying it. I want to keep saying fetus instead of baby. I can hold out another 9 days."

My answer: "Yes! Tell us! Oh my God, definitely!"

It's an odd thing, calling family with news when there's still the big news to come. But at least there's something to keep my mind off the final stretch of waiting...for the good news. Right? The good news. Definitely good news.

It better be. Because now I know.

It's a girl.

-------

Hellooooooo, Ta-Tas

The boobs now enter a room a full ten minutes before I do.

No, they do not have names. Names? Pfffft. They do not require names. They require their own zip code.

I have tried for as long as possible to continue wearing the nice new bras I bought just before finding myself knocked up again, the bras that are somehow able through a combination of magic and lyrra to keep the breastesses hiked an acceptable height above the navel region. But now at merely 18 weeks, as the old bastardized cliche goes, my cups runneth over.

I fear it's time to go shopping.

"Can't you dig out the bras you used last time," Nate asked? Oh, Nate. Poor, sweet, naiive Nate, thinking of the comfy cotton Bravados of my first pregnancy. He of all people should notice there is one huge (no pun intended) difference between this time and last time, and that is the elevation of said breasts in their natural state. First pregnancy? Gravity still on my side. Second pregnancy? Call in the heavy equipment. These things are not to be left to swing, sway, or otherwise be left unharnessed in a non-underwire environment.

Seriously, they could kill a man.

(Who's to say they haven't already?)

And so now I'm considering taking the walk of shame into the Upper West Side undergarment emporium where I still have a credit, past the sweet lacy A and B cups, right toward the dank, dark back corner frequented by generously proportioned grandmothers and sumo wrestlers. The selection here, for those of you lucky women in the normal boob size range--let's say D and under--is not comprised of those pretty little things you see in the windows of lingerie shops, on Christmas wish lists, or on the covers of the catalogs that your husbands deny bringing into the bathroom when you're not around. No, these technological marvels are kept "in the back room" where they won't scare away paying customers or unsuspecting small children. They are big. They are scary. They are not adorned with feminine flourishes like lace or bows or darling pink rosettes. (Surely the tatting on something that size would bring the cost to something inaccessible to all but those who can afford a surgical reduction in the first place.) No, these bras are all business.

And if it's not enough to be subjected to a selection of undergarments so heinous that you fear dying in one of them, the way children are taught to fear wearing dirty underwear in case of an accident--you must then face the back-of-the-store saleswomen.

You see, those lingerie stores, they know what they're doing. While the sexy young college coeds work in view of the storefront windows, those of us in the multi-D section are assisted by saleswomen with stern teutonic accents and icy, arthritic hands who examine our half-naked bodies under the cellulite-enhancing flourescents while insisting on bringing us "beeger, beeger."

It's a shopping experience not to be missed. If I disliked you enough, I'd insist you try it sometime.

Of course the frowning sales help will try and steer me towards the proper maternity bras, with admonisments about underwires and clogged milk ducts and who knows what absurd study they're spewing at pregnant women these days. But this time around, I refuse to wear some sad, saggy, cotton number that passes off its bvd-style undercup band as "support." That is not support. That is no more support to someone of my abundance as a motivational poster is to someone in need of Thorazine. Bravado bras? My old friends? I regret to inform you that your time has come and gone. The milk ducts will have to fend for themselves; I'm going for looks this time around.

My biggest fear may be the actual size of the bras I know I must come to terms with buying. I do not want to know how many consecutive Ds will appear on the label of the garment that requires two able women just to transport it from the back room to the register. I imagine it will read something like: 36DDDDDDD (cont'd on other side).

I don't know if I can handle that.

You self-proclaimed small breasted women, you only think you are jealous. You say you wish that you had my planet-sized knockers instead of your own mosquito bites (your words), but I can assure you that you do not. Let's just say the last time around, when people insisted that I was only four (five, six) months pregnant at 7 months, my OB explained it was because my enormous chest made my belly looked small in comparison. To say nothing of the discomfort. Or how these monstrous things affect my wardrobe--how Oxford shirts cannot be buttoned, how tees can't be too fitted, how sweaters only serve to double my size. Cute materni-tees? Out. Me hiding in my apartment for the next five months? Very, very in.

"Well at least it's winter," some say. "Hide behind your heavy winter clothes." "Ah yes," I reply. "Because pregnant women are always so cold. That will work nicely."

There is just no real solution except to grin through the lower back pain and bear it. Humor certainly helps. As does the comforting notion that my breast man sigOth has no issues with this whatsoever, even if he still does still gawp open-mouthed every night when I unleash the beasts.

Maybe when we move to LA we should consider the Valley after all. When your neighbors have names like Maxi Mounds and Tawny Peaks, something tells me you just don't feel so freakishly large.

And Once Again I Find Myself Apologizing For My Industry

Some marketing genius at GM has come up with the brilllllliant (feel free not to trill your l there if you're worried about being called a French sympathizer) idea to hire Sean Hannity as part of its "You're a Great American" campaign, where he'll feature new GM cars on his show.

I guess if by "great" they mean an unprincipled, bullying, pathologically lying, slandering, partisan nutjob, then yeah. He's great. I too tend to associate the word "great" with comments like "it doesn't say anywhere in this constitution this idea of the separation of church and state." And his notable response to a dissenter on his show, "is it that you hate George Bush or hate America?"

From the head of sales and marketing at GM:

GM is the biggest advertiser in America and to tell our story we advertise across a tremendously wide array of media trying to connect with all Americans irrespective of ethnic, religious or political affiliations.

The day Randy Rhodes, Bill Maher, or Keith Olbermann are also considered "great" Americans by GM, I might buy this.

Speaking of buying, we need two new cars this year when we move to LA. Hm.

November's Perfect Post

There are some things that are better to get done earlier than later in life: Filing for your tax refund, for example. Or preordering movie tickets for Christmas day in New York City, since pretty much that's where you'll find the city's entire non-Christian population. Well, there and eating Chinese food.

But writing a fantastic blog post early in the month? Not so good. Because the way I see it, the Perfect Post awards are essentially handed out by a bunch of procrastinators who, the night before the awards are due, quickly scan their brains for something they read in the past few days.

So this month, to compensate for my embarassing lack of participation in all things blog over the last two months, I had made a vow to start early. I would catalog everything wonderful I read all month long, not just in the final week. And boy, there was a lot of wonderful this month.



But wouldn't you know it, I settled on one of the very first things I read: Kelly Kelly's November 1 post, Writing is Like My 401K: I Wish I Had Started Earlier.

Whether you're a mom, a parent at all, a serious writer, or just a procrastinator (aren't we all), this clever little piece is going to stick with you like cinnamon apple oatmeal on a snowday.

You can track down the other winners at Petroville and Suburban Turmoil, cyberhomes of the two benevolent bloggers who started this exercise in democratic accolades. In fact, if you want to give an award next month, you're more than welcome. Just email them for the details.

If you want to win an award next month--well, let's just say good thing that NaBloPoMo thing is over. Less competition. And, selfishly, less I have nothing to write about today but I have to post something blah blah blah for me to weed through on my bloglines.

Phew

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And since you have nothing to do besides read blogs and look for holiday goodies at Cool Mom Picks this weekend, here are few other posts that I wish I could have awarded (because besides being a procrastinator, I am hugely indecisive):

*Redneck Mommy's Trust Me I'm Good, Now Give Me the Baby
*Rocking the Cradle's Mawiage
*Sweatpants Mom's Grandma Helen
*Pundit Mom's ChinaMom