Darling Baby Whatshisname.

My kid is ten weeks old today.
And he has no idea what his name is.
Now, I know a ten-week-old baby isn't really supposed to know his name yet. But the problem is, my fear is, he never will.
Because I never, never, never call him by his name.
The irony behind this is how much slaving and arguing and begging and negotiating and waffling and soul searching goes into picking a name for your baby. It is a huge responsibility. It's daunting as hell. And, apparently, it's pointless.
Hubby and I hadn't told anyone what name we'd chosen for our son, partly because we liked having a little something just for us and mostly because I was pretty sure I would change my mind. So out he came, and named he was, and there was much fanfare and announcing. And that was that - the last time we addressed him formally.
Below, a woefully incomplete list of names I've used to address/describe/label/judge the little guy since laboring over, choosing, and christening him with the perfect name:
Baby.
(Original. Funny enough, this is still what he gets called most. Hopefully it'll never occur to him to mind, and no one will ever put him in a corner?)
Norbert.
(His grandparents gave him this one early on in the pregnancy. So there's a little insight into the genes he'll have to contend with.)
Little Man. 
Nugget. 
Noodle.
(He was almost 22 inches when he was pulled - and pulled, and pulled - from my midsection. Like giving birth to a garden hose.)
Chief Tiny Flying Fists.
The Nipple Hater. 
Love Bug. 
The Sphinx.
(This one will only resonate with those of you on my level of nerdiness. Remember The NeverEnding Story? Remember the sphinxes Bastian had to pass? Remember how they killed people with their eyes? Here's a refresher: Those caught between their gaze are frozen on the spot and doomed to remain until they solve every riddle in the world, or until they die. That is how I feel when his eyes begin to open and I don't know what he wants and I am afraid of him.)
Otter.
(There are two origins here, if that's possible. One is the movie I think helped me choose his name when I was a little girl. The other is the movie that my dad thinks helped me choose his name when I was a little girl.)
Bugga. 
(Short for Buggaboo.)
Lil brudder. 
Toots McGee.
Babaloo.
Whitey Bulger.
(There was an unfortunate hairline issue. We're getting past it. Slowly.)
Guppie. 
Freddie.
(As in Krueger. Those nails are deadly.)
Little Prince.
Antoine.
Shir Shits-a-Lot.
Cooper/Jason/Max/Oliver.
TBDBITL.
(The Best Damn Baby in the Land.)
Ninja Pants. 
Muppet. 
Moppet.
Munchin.
Monchichi.
Mohammed Ali.
(Those aren't speed bags, kid. Stop punching me.)
Hippo.
(As in Hungry Hungry.)

And on that note, its eyes are opening. It's hungry. Wish me luck.

Milestones.

Tomorrow, baby hits the three-week mark. It's been a busy three weeks. We've had a few setbacks - fickle kid hates having a dirty diaper only almost as much as he hates having his diaper changed. It's a conundrum. A really loud, shrieking conundrum. But we've also had some bona fide victories, and it's those I'd like to focus on now. You know, keep things positive and remind the world that I have the cutest damn baby pretty much of all time.

Days 0-21:
I have regrown ankle bones and veins in my feet. I know some of you may contend they were really there all along, but I'm telling you, there's no way. Those sausages were completely void of shape and contour. They were poppably puffy. Now, they look like my usual misshapen feet. (I know - it's a surprise that I'm celebrating the return of my feet. Let's not forget, it's these damn things that got me pregnant in the first place.)

I am no longer wearing Depends. This is probably more a victory for my husband than for me. Those things, while incomprehensibly big and undisputedly horrible, were wonderful. So much cheaper than Victoria's Secret, and never once did they sneak up into a crevice where they didn't belong. Something in my brain - and behind - completely rejected sexy drawers somewhere around month six of pregnancy. Literally, my crack actively rejected them. Kicked them straight out. Depends, on the other hand, were received like a warm, welcome hug from a beloved family member. I will miss them.

I can pull my knees straight up to my chest. I used to love curling up in a little ball. And reaching my calves when I shaved my legs. And tying my shoes. All those things went by the wayside when I had to start froglegging just to put pants on. But I'm back in alignment, and sometimes I just walk around in a half-march, because I can. I can.

I have recently uttered those seven words every A-cupper longs to say: "I think I need a bigger bra." Jay was so overcome with emotion he couldn't respond right away. I almost took advantage of the good mood and asked for another package of Depends. But I'm a really good wife so I just let it be about the boobs. Which leads me to...

...the God-given blessing known as the milk boob. They're so great. That's all I really even need to say about that.

(What? Sorry? Hold on a sec.)

Okay, I have just been informed that when people inquire about "milestones" and a baby, they actually mean the baby's milestones. Um, okay then. Whatever. Let's see how that goes.

This might make me sound like a really bad/selfish mom, but you guys, he's three weeks old. What exactly do you think he's accomplished at this point? Because I hate to disappoint you, but it's pretty much nothing.

His cord thing fell off. Which is great, for me, because that thing was disgusting, but he can hardly chalk it up as an accomplishment. Is that the kind of thing you're looking for?

He managed once to kick himself in the junk and cover his entire foot in his own mustard-seed shit, and twice to spit up in his own eye. Again, is that something he'll be bragging about in later years? Can we all collectively pray that's not on his list of proudest moments someday?

He naps like a narcolept, burps like a beer guzzler, toots so loud he startles the dog. Feel free to guess which of those (two first qualities) he gets from me, and which he gets from his dad.

So, he hasn't done much yet. He just keeps getting cuter and pudgier and more and more the center of my world. I'll take it.

40 weeks.

Today is my little boy's due date. It's safe to say he'll be a little late (I knew all along he would be - he's my kid, after all...), and safer still to say he'll be here soon. Very soon.

I have mixed emotions about it. A LOT of emotions. People keep asking if I'm just "so ready to be done," but truthfully, I'm not. I mean, I get it. He's coming, ready or not. But then I have to share him with the world. (My husband is quick to point out that there will be plenty of times to come when I want very much - nothing more than - to share him with the world. With perfect strangers, if that's my only option.) But right now, it's me and him. I kind of like that.

There's some stuff I'll miss about being pregnant. (From my last post, which got a bit... graphic... it might not seem like it. Hey. This being pregnant shit is real, and sometimes, it's messy.)

• It's a special little club, it really is. There's a smile, almost a smirk, you get when people glance down and see a whole globe of a world growing under your tee shirt. It's supportive, encouraging, compassionate - even when there are no words exchanged. It makes me feel better to know that everyone loves a baby mama.
• While I know it's as vain as it is bullshit, I love - LOVE - being told I'm "the cutest pregnant girl, like, ever." I don't know why people say it. I know it's not true, mostly because I've said it, to multiple people, so clearly it can't be true. I don't care. I love it just the same. I've never been the cutest anything before, and there's a super good chance I never will be again. I'm milking it.
• That might be it.

But right now I'm a little sad it's almost over. I just got the hang of it, this belly and all it means. So I'm trying to think of all the things I miss about not being pregnant. It's no joke of a list.

• I know, you think I'm going to say booze first. Duh. I cannot wait to have a glass of wine. A bottle of champagne. A keg or so of Summer Shandy. Can. Not. Wait. But no, even more than booze - I miss clothes. Real clothes that aren't stretchy. I can't wait to not have three pairs of pants and a couple of tank tops to choose from. I love my clothes. I miss my clothes. Sometimes I just sit in my closet and talk to them.
• Working from the bottom up, ankles. I miss my ankles. They were never thin, but for crying out loud at least they were there. The tops of my feet look poppable by the end of the day. It's so gross.
• Reaching my ankles. I was a gymnast when I was younger. I've done yoga for the past decade or so. I am unaccustomed to having parts of my body I can't reach, let alone see. The six year old has to help me put my socks on. And never mind that he can't tie his own shoes, he judges me for not being able to tie mine.
• Speaking of places I can't see, grooming. I miss grooming. We can probably leave that one at that.
• A waist. Another duh. I used to have a waist. And ab muscles that were at least strong enough that I could sit up on my own from laying down, without hubby having to give me a shove. It's humbling.
• My shiny new rings. On my fingers. I wear my wedding ring around my neck right now, which is charming and pretty, but that's not why I do it. I do it because I'm afraid that even if I could fit it over my swollen sausage of a knuckle, I wouldn't be able to get it back off and they'd have to cut me out of it at the hospital and hubby would be maaaaad.
• I miss being able to call people just to say hi or, you know, I love you, and not have them respond with thinly veiled disappointment. "Oh. Okay. Yeah, hi." Not confidence boosting. And by "people" I mean "my mom."
• Sex. Or more accurately, I miss missing sex. Because right now that just sounds awful. Horrible. Seriously. No way.
• Being just generally huge. Did I tell you guys about the time a few weeks ago when the sixer, catching a glimpse of me in a bathing suit, opened his horrified little eyes and wrapped his tiny little hands around my thighs, asking, "Why are your legs so big?!" "Well babe, that happens when you get pregnant. Everything just gets a little bigger." Staring some more. "Yeah... but why are they so big?" "I don't know, okay? I don't know why they're so big. I can't figure it out. Punk." "They are SO. Big."

I'm sure there's more. I'm sure many of you have your own you could add. I'm sure I'll find great relief in not being pregnant once I'm, you know, not pregnant. But for tonight, I think I'll not complain about baby boy baking a little longer than expected. I think I'll enjoy one more night of me and him. With my feet on three pillows and my orange juice-in-a-wine-glass cocktail.

Se7en.

Someone asked me today what it feels like to be seven months pregnant.

Clearly, I was in a mood, since I retorted, "Can't remember. I'm eight months pregnant." (Which I am, by exactly one day. So, chances are I could have remembered, you know, yesterday, if I'd really put my mind to it.)

Maybe it's because it was a boy asking, or maybe it was the mood, or it could have just been that one little word, but all I could come up with was this:

It's exactly like Se7ven. You remember that movie? Brad Pitt, Morgan Freeman, Gwynyth Paltrow's head in a box? (Spoiler. Oops. Sorry. I guess I should say 'spoiler' before I actually say the spoiler. Whatever. That movie is from like 1995. If you haven't seen it yet, that's your fault.)

It's exactly like that one particular scene in Se7en. If you haven't seen it (again, your fault), here's the gist: there's a guy killing people. (It's Kevin Spacey. I'm just being mean now.) He's going down the list of the seven deadly sins and picking on people he thinks are sinners. He gets to gluttony. He picks a big guy - like a really, really Big. Guy. - and makes him eat until he literally explodes from the inside out. It kind of feels like that.

Now I feel bad because I just googled "Se7en gluttony guy" and the images that came up are not an accurate reflection of this gorgeous growing baby inside me. I just feel a little... full.

There's my answer. Being seven months (and 31 days) pregnant feels full. Hope that helps.

I Should've Had a V8.

There’s a certain phenomenon in pending motherhood that I shall dub “fruiting.” I assume (which I know I should not do) that many of you are familiar with this long-running tradition, but for those of you who are not, it goes something like this.

As a means for measuring your tiny little nugget around something supposedly universal, someone somewhere decided to compare fetuses to fruits and veggies. When said fetus is quite small, it’s an adorable concept. “Awww, baby’s a poppy seed this week.” “Say hello to my little pine nut.” “Oh my gosh, I’m growing my own pomegranate seed.” Case in point: one of my dear friends first heard this idea when she was carrying her then-blueberry-sized poppet, and Blue became baby’s nickname until she came out. Now her name is Violet. How stinking cute is that?

Here’s the rub.

As fetuses get bigger and more distinct, so too must their comparative foods.

And while a floating blueberry is a charming image, a floating head of cauliflower is not.

Then there’s the shameful notion that I just don’t know my fruits and veggies well, which makes a lot of these comparisons a moot and meaningless point. But the person responsible for these assignments doesn’t seem to either – I’m pretty sure around month five I went from an ear of corn to a navel orange to an artichoke. What now? How is that helpful? Or linear?

Adding to the confusion is mamas-to-be like me who are signed up for about 76 different sources of information. What to Expect, that classic book-turned-iPad app, seems to be the original fruit source. Then things like The Bump come along and want to differentiate themselves. So baby on one site is a passion fruit, and on another he’s a scallion. Again, not helpful.

Last week, my baby was a rutabaga.

I have no visual for that. I have no idea what that is… except for a drinking game.

Yep, in my mind, last week my baby was named after a drinking game we used to play in college called, obviously, “Rutabaga, Rutabaga.” I don’t remember much of the specifics – which means it must’ve been a pretty good drinking game – I just remember that everyone in the circle had to go around and say a fruit/vegetable twice, without showing their teeth. Seriously. I think it must’ve been that whoever laughed first had to drink. I also spent the whole week walking around with my lips tucked in mumbling, “cumquat, cumquat” and “asparagus, asparagus.”

And that’s a little glimpse into the kinds of wisdom my baby eggplant can look forward to learning from his mama.    

This is not a story about feet.

So here’s a story for you.

As many of you know, I hate feet. Hate them in general, but really, really can’t stomach even the idea of someone touching mine. It’s unpleasant. I’ve been known to take a stiff drink along with me when a pedicure is no longer optional.

This past fall, early September I believe it was, I got good and drunk (no mom, not really) and hauled my cookies to an orthopedic surgeon’s office, to see what could be done about my dear little size sevens. They need a new shape, you see. They're shaped like Stone feet, which really only means something if you're intimately familiar with a Stone, but trust me, it's something to see. Even knowing they’d have to be x-rayed and gawked over and generally manhandled, it was worth it. They hurt. All checked out and all was well. All I needed to do before I could have a teeny tiny little surgery would be to come off the pill so my leg didn’t clot and kill me, and I would be ready to reward myself with a new pair of Louboutins before the snow melted.

So I did.

I came off that itty bitty little pill that I’ve taken habitually for… let’s just say for a while. Like, a long while.

And because I’m one of those damn blessed, lucky, everything-good-happens-to-her kind of people, I got myself immediately knocked up.

That’s right dear readers.

For those of you who’ve been wondering what I’ve been up to in my silence for the past year, now you know.

I’d decided (sort of, and sort of just let happen) to take a break from the blog. Maybe less randomly funny things were happening to me as I settled into Midwestern midlife? Maybe I just got lazy? Mostly I filled my spare time with a charming man, his charismatic five year old, and was generally too content and too tired to write much at the day’s end.

Welp, that’ll teach me.

 

A couple of you, upon hearing the good news, asked if I'd be blogging about it. And here I am, so I guess so. Because God knows how this is gonna go for me. Or the poor guy who gets to go it alongside of me. But He also knows (both of them): it's gonna be funny. I mean, seriously. Me. With a kid. That's got to be good for a story or two, no?

Stay tuned – nineteen and a half weeks till he gets here. Also known as “till all hell breaks loose.”