no. 670 – Blog Tease

I'm moving.

You knew that, right?

From HERE to HERE!

And here's the feed for your bloglines or in case you like it the easy way:

As for you that like it the hard way, you are my kind of people.

I'll probably set up the automatic redirect late next week or earlier the following week. In the meantime, I don't plan on posting much here because that just means more junk to export/import.


So it’s no big secret that I’m pregnant through a fresh donor-egg cycle. However, it has been rather difficult for me to really talk about being pregnant. You know, all that survivor-guilt bullshit added to the idea that I’m might just be tempting the gods to rain their fury down on me.

But it’s due time for me to just dump it all out here.

I’ll be 33 weeks tomorrow, the 29th of May. I had an OB appt today and I’ve gained a respectable 26 pounds. Only couple more than I did with XBoy. Then again, I was probably 20 pounds lighter seven years ago. I feel like a lumbering cow, thank you. My friend told me that at least my face doesn’t look fat…she’s lucky I like her.

It’s been an unfortunate act of nature that my placenta is anterior. Movement from the baby is greatly reduced. I never feel Murdock’s movements when standing. I would also have to say I rarely ever get any kicking. Instead it’s rolling, or as Michelle described recently with her pregnancy, the baby seems to be practicing a lot of yoga poses.

I cannot bend over to pick up things. Hence the reason I feel like crying when I drop things, which is often. Last night I sat on the floor, legs stretched out in front of me and tried to reach my toes. I could barely touch my knees. According to books and websites, when purchasing maternity clothes, purchase your regular pre-pregnancy size. They are fucking liars. Or, let me put this less harshly: purchase your regular pre-pregnancy size for your first and maybe your second trimester, but kiss anything size Small to Medium good-bye in the third. No matter that you may have been a size 2 before pregnancy, you will be a large or x-large by the 8th month. I dare you size 2 girls to dispute this openly.

I will have another ultrasound in two weeks to check Murdock’s growth and to see what is going on with his/her kidneys, which were measuring a bit large on our last ultrasound. I try not to think about it, nor google it, since OB said it’s usually  nothing to worry about. I will probably also do a non-stress test as an added precaution since that is what showed us that I required extra monitoring when I was pregnant with XBoy.

My OB also was swayed into letting me schedule a c-section a day earlier than 39 weeks. He said that the problems that have surfaced regarding earlier c-sections have to do with women who really don’t know when their due dates are. You know? Those women who get pregnant without either the low-tech ovulation sticks, or high-tech ART? So the next time someone dares to say to me, “You’re  the reason the cost of healthcare is rising,” in response to my c-section announcement will not only get a size 7 (OK, size 8. Shoe sizes don’t remain the same, either) shoved squarely up their ass but an earful of how it’s couples who don’t know the difference between ovulation and ovation; or luteal phase and lunar phase, that may be to blame.

So there you have it. Me at a mind-numbing 33 weeks pregnant. Still with no boy’s name*. Still with only the baby clothes that Shanna sent me (Thank you, again!). And still using the doppler after Murdock refuses to be poked, shoved or sugared up to move after what I think is still too long of a time motionless, which may only be 30 minutes.

Housekeeping notes (I almost typed “Hosekeeping…”):

Currently, there appears to be only one feed for this blog:

I don’t know if I need to do something else, or if this is the only one that I will have. Someone will have to let me know. Update/Add as you see fit.

I know how difficult or uncomfortable it can be to ask for a password. I feel a little intrusive and self-conscious when I have to ask, so I get it. The password protected posts are there to protect me from co-workers who continue to feel morally compelled to get information about my pregnancies, IVFs, and miscarriages from my blog rather than myself; and to keep my husband’s family from putting a hit on me. If you have asked for the password and I have not responded, it’s not because I don’t want you to have it. It’s because I didn’t get your email or it dropped into the spam bucket. Just let me know if I’ve missed you. If you feel more comfortable getting the password from a blogger you recognize from here, I don’t have a problem with that, either, as long as you as the blogger giving it out can vouch for the requester.

* Seriously, we have no idea one way or another if Murdock is a boy or a girl. It’s just that I have a girl’s name ready, but no boy’s name. I’m starting to stress a bit about that.

no. 669 – Is It Wrong?

Is it wrong…

…that every time I drop something on the floor I simultaneously get vertigo and want to burst into tears?


Is it wrong…

…that every time I walk down an aisle or hallway, I feel as if I’ve been transported into an old-fashioned western movie (in which case I would say this all damn day)?


Is it wrong…

…that every time I look down at the keyboard, I recall the Seinfeld episode about Man Hands?


Yes, I’m bitching. I’m a hormonal, emotional mess. Venting keeps me from focusing on my fears. And I swear to you, I am more frightened now of something happening than I was during the first 14 weeks of this pregnancy. Countdown is (almost) official: exactly seven weeks from today is the latest we will have to go.

no. 668 – Curtain Call

I've started and deleted two posts today. I'm blocked.

So I thought I would just let you know now that I don't plan on keeping my TypePad account once it expires later in June.

Many of you already know about my other blog, recently renamed Punch Drunk. I've decided that it will be easier to update just one blog, while still having the advantage to password protect a handful of posts from the prying eyes of certain, unmentionable person(s).

I've hesitated in making the change because as a needy person in search of validation, the reality is that I know that's inevitable that some may not care to join me over there. On the other hand, I can read the writing on the wall and see that the trend had already started last summer.

I will probably still post here for the next couple of weeks, or at least until I can get everything I want from here to there. After that, I'll set up a redirect. I honestly don't know what TypePad's policy is for blogs that are not renewed, if they just stay in limbo or if they delete them…

I guess we'll find out together, won't we?

no. 667 (minus one) – Face Plants Are Kind Of Funny, After The Fact

Today I thought I'd share some of the more humorous moments from XBoy's introduction of his face to the metal gym bleachers. The first thing on my agenda was to clarify what had actually happened. I had been told that he ran the scooter into the bleachers. Of course, I immediately thought of this kind of scooter:


Sure, I wondered what the heck they were doing with a scooter like this in a gym, but hell, as long as it wasn't the motorized scooter that belonged to the neighbor, I hardly gave it a thought.

Then I found out it was THIS kind of scooter:


Ok, I'm sorry since this is wrong on so many levels, but this was the closest image of the kind of scooter he was on (which should sound off warning bells in your head already), but if you are over the age of 20 and you had to participate in P.E. during elementary school, then you will know exactly of what kind of scooter I refer to. Come on now, think back 15, 20, 25 years ago. Wooden gym floors, jump ropes and red or blue vinyl covered plywood boards with four non-steerable wheels bolted to them. The kind that you would kneel on and no matter how many fucking times you ran over your own damn fingers from pushing yourself around (they didn't come with those nifty hand "shoes"), you would be the first to shove that wussy kid out of the way to get the first one out of storage the next time around.

If you have no idea of what I'm talking about, then you have not lived.

I don't know why it makes any difference since I'm sure one's face could just as easily be plowed into a solid vertical object with one kind of scooter as is the next.

As for the dental clinic, there was one caveat: I finally got to meet the new dentist. The young, hot, male dentist. However, his hotness and youngness did only one thing for me and that was to remind me that not only am I now of cougar qualifications, I know that I could never have Young, Hot, Male Dentist ever be my dentist. Is there anything less attractive than the inside of someone's mouth? All that saliva and teeth and tongue bumps and weird tissue tags and uvulas? Yuck. So I'm pretty sure I'll just maintain an aura of mystery and keep my mouth shut.

Coincidently, I had been meaning to blog about XBoy's teeth for some time now, ever since he lost his first two teeth some time ago. A chance for me to lament about his po' widdle bitty teef. I'm over that.

Instead, it just now reminds me of my own traumatic dental experiences.

First of all, no one I've met yet enjoys hearing about my own family's tradition in ridding one of us of a perfectly good loose tooth. You may have all had the strings and taffy and jaw breakers and whatnot to speed the actual tooth-pulling. You then, are a puss. You know what we had? We had a pair of pliers and if we were lucky, a paper towel. Actually, Dad had the pliers and Mom would try to cushion our tooth (or godalmightyforbid – teeth) from the pliers with the strategically folded paper towel. Dad would sit on our chest. Mom would hold our heads. Dad would take the pliers from the ever present location, a pliers holder on his belt, the same one he probably pulled a tick from the dog's ear not five minutes before, and wrap it around the loose tooth.

Oh, yes. He did.

We did also see a dentist once a year. Since my teeth have never been my best asset, the visits almost always included a magic carpet ride.

What? You don't know what a magic carpet ride is?

It's where they took the nasal mask and pumped nitrous oxide through it and then I would inhale deeply through my nose until I was left senseless, except for the absolute assuredly I had that I was flying about the tiny exam room on a magic carpet. I hated the dentist, but I really, really miss those precious moments. Almost enough to have snagged the nasal mask from XBoy's face for a hit. Unfortunately, the nurse with her fake tan and over-permed hair never left our sides.

And lastly, speaking of the nurse: I swear dental professionals must take a class in understanding the unique language of patients who are suffering through all kinds of oral injustices, whether it's cotton swabs, suction, dental dams, or like my son, refused to swallow the saliva for fear it was blood and preferred to drool the excess out.

I say this because prior to the actual extraction, XBoy is trying desperately to tell both Mr. DD and myself something. We just couldn't understand him. Instead we nodded and smiled as if we understood completely. After all was said and done, and he was hopped up on laughing gas and local anesthetic he was showing off his Iron Man sunglasses from Burger King to the nurse. Except he said, "Rar ga ees gashes fer Urgha Ig. Ay awr Arn Ma rungashes." And the nurse? She says, "You got those glasses from Burger King? And they're Iron Man sunglasses? That's so cool!"

I could have understood Swahili better than that marble-mouthed discussion.

I've also learned from this experience that just about everyone has their own horror story regarding a dental procedure. Feel free to share, because if you are like me, this stirred up all kinds of memories from the past (cue Wayne's World flashback sound – doo-dit-do, doo-dit-do, doo-dit-do – and waving hands). I'm pretty sure this one will be a story for XBoy to regale to his kids someday as well.